“So, where to now?” Maslin asked.
I checked the notes on my phone. “Terra Sushi.”
“Well, that works. It’s time for lunch anyway.”
* * *
Maslin hadn’t been kidding about this stretch of Ventura Boulevard in Studio City being Sushi Row. We must have passed five Japanese restaurants within a four-block range before reaching Terra Sushi, and that didn’t include the unfortunately named Todai. Maslin swung the jeep into the minuscule parking lot, and a valet popped out from beneath the awning in front of the door. Nobody came rushing up with an umbrella—Maslin and I didn’t rate like Jeff.
We made a dash through the rain; my boots and pants were soaked by the time we got to the door. Then we were into the wood-paneled, soft-lit interior of the restaurant. The pungent scent of wasabi hit the back of my nose, and beneath it was the salty promise of the sea. The sushi chefs behind the bar grinned when they saw Maslin.
“Hey, cowboy, how are you?” the older one called. He was short and round and had a sweatband around his bald head just above his eyebrows.
A lovely Japanese hostess led us to a table behind little wooden walls that separated the walkway from the sushi bar but didn’t impede anyone’s view. She seemed to glide rather than walk, and I was fascinated with the way she had twisted up her black hair and secured it with a pair of jade sticks. I wondered if I could do that with my hair and almost immediately rejected the idea. My hair was baby fine and so straight it looked like it had been ironed. I’d be shedding jade sticks like a tree sheds leaves in the autumn.
“You want your usual?
“Yeah, and bring my friend a chilled pear saki.”
“Oh, no, I don’t drink at—”
“Are you a cop?” Maslin asked me.
“No.”
“Are you in a courtroom?”
“No, but I’m still technically working,” I said.
“But not as a lawyer.” His eyes gleamed as he worked up his Hollywood scenario. “You’re the spunky girl reporter working with the hard-bitten case who leads you into trouble.”
The journalist then leered at me, and I burst out laughing because it was like being propositioned by a cherub. He looked hurt. I stifled my giggles and gave in. “Okay, I’ll have a saki, and since you’re obviously a regular why don’t you order for us.”
The gleam in his eye was speculative as he studied me. “And your firm is footing the bill?”
“Absolutely.
“All right, then.”
And he proceeded to order a massive amount of sushi. I requested extra ginger, and we happily ate our way through the famous Terra sushi roll (tempura on the outside, all yum on the inside), a California roll, several kinds of tuna, and salmon, eel and octopus. It was delicious. I gave up long before Maslin.
Once we were down to the green tea ice cream he called over the hostess whose name was Kiyumi and asked her about the day Kerrinan had come in for lunch. I didn’t figure we’d get lucky twice in a day, but Kiyumi was the owner’s daughter—the owner was the rotund man behind the bar—so with an eye roll toward her father she said, “Oh, no, I was here. I. Work. All. The. Time.” Her father just gave her an indulgent smile and a jaunty little wave with a wicked sharp little knife.
“Anything unusual happen?” I asked.
She shook her head. “We had that gang of agents in. They weren’t their usual rowdy selves. It was a pretty serious conversation.”
“With an Álfar, right?” I pressed.
“Yes. He seemed very old and stately.”
“And he and Kerrinan spoke.” It felt strange to be asking such leading questions, but the girl wasn’t terribly forthcoming. Probably an asset when you ran a popular restaurant frequented by famous people who value their privacy. She scrunched her face up, and Maslin jumped in.
“Look, Kiyumi, she’s a lawyer trying to help Kerrinan. And I’m not on a story right now. I’ve been hired to help her investigate.”
“But you will write something,” the Japanese girl said.
“Yes. Eventually, but right now I give you my word you aren’t going to see it on the front page.”
“Okay, well, it really wasn’t all that much. There was just a little accident after the old … man said he liked Kerrinan’s work. I think the old one was a little unsteady on his feet. He bumped into the table, and the teapot and cup fell off and broke. They were both scrambling to pick up the pieces—I told them to leave it, I would get it—but they didn’t listen and Kerrinan cut his palm on a shard of china”
It wasn’t much. “And Kerrinan didn’t seem agitated or upset, or like he was on anything?” Maslin asked.
“No. He read a book while he ate.”
“What book?” Maslin asked.
“Why? How is that important to what happened later?” Kiyumi asked.
“It’s not. It’s just interesting,” he answered. “What does an Álfar read? Potboilers? Dickens? Austin? A mystery?”
“It had a spaceship on the cover,” Kiyumi offered. “If there is nothing else…?”
Maslin looked at me. I shrugged. “No, just the check,” he said.
She went off to get our bill. Maslin shook his head. “Science fiction. That’s just a head trip. Ellllves in Spaaaaace,” he intoned in a takeoff on the old Muppet riff of Pigs in Space.
“I guess everybody needs their fantasy,” I said as I looked at the bill and blanched a bit. I dug out my corporate credit card, and a few minutes later we were paying the valet and heading to the next stop.
* * *
It was a short drive down Ventura Boulevard to the driving range on Whitsett. The range backed up against the LA River, which was a giant concrete ditch filled with roaring, muddy water heading toward the Pacific. As Maslin and I watched, a hapless bicycle went bobbing past; it was sucked under by the raging water and disappeared. Maslin reacted to my expression.
“Eleven months of the year it’s basically bone-dry. There’s a tiny six-inch channel down at the very bottom that most of the year has a small amount of water trickling through it. Film crews shoot in the ditch all the time. Remember Terminator 2?”
I nodded and we went through the gate and into the confines of Weddington Golf and Tennis. The entire property was lined with extremely tall green netting designed to keep errant balls from braining runners, walkers, or bikers who might be using the path along the river’s edge or the occasional pedestrian out on Whitsett. Despite the rain there was the sharp swish-crack of golf clubs connecting with golf balls. I did notice that nobody was on the tennis courts. The concrete was probably too slippery.
We headed into the office. The man behind the counter was a fit and handsome fifty-something with a deep tan, smile wrinkles around his eyes, and a mane of silver-streaked hair. Introductions were made, and this time Maslin gave me a tiny nod and then hung back. I smiled and got back a blazingly white smile. It looked like Mr. Jim Dann had been taking advantage of all the tooth-whitening salons along Ventura.
“I’m working with the defense team for Kerrinan Ta Shena. We understand he was here on the day of the murder. I was wondering, hoping you might talk to us about that day.”
Dann shrugged. “Sure. Can’t hurt. I mean the guy’s in a world of hurt right now, isn’t he? So what do you want to know?”
“How was his demeanor that day?” I asked.
“Fine. Well, he was a little pissed off.”
“Why?”
“His play was definitely off. He’s a really good golfer, but he was slicing like mad. Makes a guy … well, mad.”
“Any reason for the problem?” Maslin asked.
“He had cut his hand at lunch. It affected his grip.”
“Ah,” I said stupidly. The three of us stood and contemplated each other for a few seconds. Then I said, “I understand there was an altercation as he was leaving.”
“Yeah, those dickheads from Human First. I called the cops. I wanted ’em run off, but the cops told me they had a right to be
there as long as they stayed on the sidewalk. Public property, they said. Your tax dollars at work.” The concluding snort gave me all the information I needed about how much Dann thought of that idea.
“Why all the animosity?” Maslin asked.
“Are you from around here?” Dann asked.
“Born and raised,” Maslin said.
“Then you know. California used to be the land of milk and honey, California dreamin’, everybody wants to be a California girl. Then we went broke and became a banana republic.”
“The confrontation. What, exactly, happened?” I stepped in before the conversation could become solely about the deficiencies of life in California between two lifetime residents.
“This guy literally got in Kerrinan’s face and slammed a Bible into his chest. I call that assault. He was ranting about abominations and being contrary to God’s law. I got to hand it to Kerrinan; he kept his cool. He just stepped back out of range—they’re so quick those elves. He even smiled at the man and thanked him for his comments. There were seven or eight of these nut jobs, and they were all yelling about God and the Bible. That’s when Kerrinan’s groupies got in on the act. They formed a flying wedge between Kerrinan and the crazies and escorted him to his car. One of the girls, Liesl, got a kiss for her trouble. Then he drove away.”
Maslin asked a few more follow-up questions, but we learned nothing more. Then, after a bit more conversation between the two residents about how California had become unlivable, we tied it up and headed back out to the car. The rain had slowed to a mere mizzle.
Maslin rested his elbows on the bottom of the steering wheel and shot me a glance. “So, what have you learned?”
“I don’t think you kill your wife because you sliced your drive,” I said.
“I agree. So what’s left?”
“The photo shoot.”
“Onward and upward,” he said.
But that didn’t happen because the photographer had gone to Big Bear for a photo shoot of a hot new rock star who, despite her grunge look and reputation, wanted to be photographed against a backdrop of nature. We tried to track down the ancillary crew who had worked the day of the Kerrinan shoot, but the GQ offices in New York had closed. We admitted defeat.
“So, you want to have dinner?” Maslin asked with forced casualness.
“Actually, may I have a rain check? We’re resuming the arbitration tomorrow, and I need to go over the files.”
“Sure. Look, I may just boom on up to Big Bear and find the guy tonight. I’m feeling restless,” Maslin said.
I looked at him with admiration, since I felt like a limp rag. “That would be great.”
14
Pizer gave me the less then happy news when I arrived at the office: David wasn’t going to be in today, so I got to preside. Which raised the question: why? It wasn’t like vampires took sick days.
“Is he in LA?” I asked Pizer.
“I believe not,” was the cautious response.
I didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out what that meant. David had been called back to the New York office to report. Since we were maybe halfway through the arbitration, that could only mean one thing. He was reporting about me and my latest adventure. Which meant I was once more under scrutiny from the senior partners. So you better do a kick ass job today, came the unwelcome thought.
Since I had to do David’s job, I figured I could use David’s office. This was nothing against Merlin, but if I was going to play judge for the first time in my life and the partners were turning their attention to me, I wanted time to gather my wits and confidence, and that was a process better done in private.
Two cups of coffee later, and Junie let me know the parties had assembled. I gathered up the files, a legal pad, and several pens and headed to the conference room. Jeff was in his usual position, seated in a chair against the wall. There were shadows under his eyes, and he seemed smaller and thinner, as if the events on the Warner lot had diminished him physically as well as emotionally. We didn’t speak, and he even looked away as I passed. Trying to avoid any hint of impropriety? Or was I just a painful reminder. I know how seeing him affected me. I shook off the memories of that day and settled at the head of the table. Sheila LeBlanc stood and gave a small tug to straighten her gray jacket. There was a large, somewhat abstract pin of a jaguar pinned to her lapel. The way it was placed made it appear it was about to savage her left breast.
“Before we start with evidence I want to bring to your attention a disturbing discovery.” Her eyes shifted to where Jeff sat in his usual position against the wall.
“Very well,” I said.
“We have learned that Mrs. Montolbano—Kate Billingham—is a member of a cult religion known as the Phase Change Center, based on Álfar beliefs. We wish to determine if Mr. Montolbano is also a member of this cult. If so, it might explain his sudden and unwarranted intervention, some could even say intrusion, into this case. These are important issues, and they should have been heard before a court of law, not in an arbitration.”
Jeff’s spine stiffed as if he’d been hit with a cattle prod. The reaction did not make me happy. Generally that meant something had hit a nerve. I noticed that Qwendar on the other side of the room shot Jeff a look that was hard to interpret.
“It seems an odd time to be raising this issue, Ms. LeBlanc,” I said.
“This information just came to our attention,” was the smooth reply.
I looked over at the attorney for the Álfar. “Well, Ms. Gabaldon, have you anything to add?”
“This has taken me as much by surprise as it has you, Your Honor.”
My stomach gave an odd little flip as I heard those words. It wasn’t correct. I wasn’t a judge. I was an arbitrator. A baby arbitrator who actually hadn’t arbitrated yet, and I had a nasty problem staring me in the face.
Stalling for time I picked up one of my pens, balanced it between two fingers, and beat out a tattoo on the table. “When in doubt punt or bunt, depending on which sport you favor.” My vampire foster father’s nasal tones and merry smile floated up out of my chaotic, whirling thoughts.
“Given the suddenness of this objection, I think it only fair that we recess until two this afternoon to give all the parties time to gather evidence and testimony.”
LeBlanc looked sour, Gabaldon looked relieved, Brubaker looked inscrutable, and Gordon McPhee gave a purse-lipped smile and a tiny nod. I clung to what I perceived as approval like a shipwreck victim to a floating spar. Gathering up my materials I swept out of the room. Well, as much as I could sweep given my height.
This time I did head to the broom closet. Merlin looked up as I blew through the door. “My brother thinks you’re cute,” he said, then he stammered to a stop at my expression. “I take it my brother didn’t impress—”
“Nothing to do with Maslin.” And I outlined the problem. “So you’re supposed to be the research monkey. Get researching.”
“Aren’t they supposed to bring you supporting or exculpatory evidence?” he asked.
“Yeah, but I want to know who’s playing hide the football. LeBlanc is definitely playing games, and Jeff certainly reacted.”
“Good point,” and he turned to his computer.
I squeezed past him to sit at my desk and started typing. I checked my watch: 9:23. Four and a half hours to take this beyond the superficiality of a Google search. If LeBlanc’s assertions were true it was going to call into question Jeff’s reasons for forcing the case into arbitration. If it went back to court I would get to go home to New York, but I wanted to find out what was going on. The next few hours would determine if that happened or not.
* * *
In the intervening months since John had been trapped in Fey I had made it a point to learn everything I could about the Álfar. In terms of being closemouthed the Álfar made the vampires look like let-it-all-hang-out guests on a Jerry Springer show. The practical result of that secrecy meant that I had read a lot of bat-shit crazy s
tuff about Álfar powers. Their secret goal to rule the world. The nature of Fey—depending on who you read, it was either an alternate reality, the past, or another planet. Which meant they were really aliens. There were essays about their government structure—libertarian, communist, green, utopian. (Since I’d met Qwendar I now knew they had a council.) There were the people who believed the Álfar were the real humans and we were evil Morlock conquerors. Others postulated they were the gnomes of Zurich and they manipulated world finance. That they had no gods. That they worshiped many gods. No, actually they were gods. In short nobody knew nothin’. Serious, credible information was hard to come by, and what there was could fill a thimble.
What I’d been able to glean was that the basis of Álfar religion was mutability. The idea of something being unchanging was anathema to them, so they had one god, but he/she/it changed form, name, and function constantly. It made the Trinity look simple.
Naturally humans had tried to join this bandwagon. In my reading I discovered that the Álfar did not proselytize, and they were horrified that humans were adopting their practices. Since the Álfar were so tight-lipped we didn’t actually know what they called their faith. Nellie Winston, the first convert and founder of the first center, took a page from science, awkwardly bolted it onto the concept of change and transformation, and called it Phase Change. Water is an example of things that go through Phase Change. Water can be a solid—ice. It can be a liquid—water. And it can be a gas—steam. But at its core it’s all the same substance—H2O. I guess what was worshiped in a Phase Change Center was God2O.
Point was that, fairly or unfairly, when I ever bothered to think about Phase Change, I’d filed it under “loony cult” or “elfology,” which probably wasn’t fair since it was practiced by an entire race who had as much right to their respective looniness as the rest of us.
There weren’t a lot of phase centers because it was at heart an alien religion and it was confusing. The centers also seemed to be more prevalent where there was a lot of interaction between humans and Álfar. Which mean they tended to cluster in big cosmopolitan areas and in countries where religion wasn’t taken too seriously.
Box Office Poison (Linnet Ellery) Page 16
