Love Kills

by Dianne Emley

  The driver in the Mercedes behind them flashed its high beams.

  “Asshole,” Vining said.

  Kissick peered into the rearview mirror. The driver was wearing a baseball cap over a hoodie and had on sunglasses in the dark. “Why the disguise? That driver looks like a woman.”

  “Didn’t we see an SUV like that parked at the Le Towne home?” Vining again turned around. The SUV was on their rear bumper. She got a glimpse of the driver before she was blinded by flashing high beams. She blinked away the effects of the bright lights. “It’s Sinclair LeFleur.”

  Kissick looked into his rearview mirror. “I think you’re right.” He yelped when she again flashed her high beams.

  Sinclair began honking the car horn.

  “What’s she doing here?” Vining asked.

  “Maybe she’s on a pilgrimage to Berryhill, like the rest of us. She probably could have taken a helicopter or at least had a driver.”

  “I thought she was in seclusion. She’s sure agitated.” Vining turned the rearview mirror so she could watch the car behind them. Between flashing the high beams and blasting the horn, Sinclair was raising her fists, pounding the steering wheel with both hands, and leaning out the open window to watch for a break in the oncoming traffic.

  “She’s going to hurt herself or somebody else,” Vining said. “The traffic’s moving so slowly, I can get out and ask her what’s going on.”

  “Be careful.” He stopped the car.

  In response, Sinclair leaned on the car horn.

  Just as Vining opened her door, Sinclair pulled into the opposing traffic, forcing an oncoming car to swerve, coming perilously close to the cliff.

  Vining shut the door. “That’s one way to cut through traffic.”

  Turning on the lights and siren, Kissick pulled out onto the Mercedes’ bumper.

  Cars in both directions tried to squeeze out of the way, creating a narrow path down the middle of the road.

  The unexpected police escort emboldened Sinclair. She turned on the Mercedes’ flashing emergency lights and kept up the pressure on the car’s horn.

  Vining gritted her teeth as Sinclair wove in and out, alternately speeding up and slamming on her brakes.

  Kissick kept up with her, navigating the obstacle course. Most drivers pulled as far to the sides as possible but some ignored the lights and siren.

  A road sign warned of a hairpin curve and recommended a reduced speed of fifteen miles per hour. Sinclair was doing close to fifty. As the Mercedes entered the curve, they briefly lost sight of all but the car’s rear end. The tires skidded, leaving marks on the asphalt, while an oncoming Honda Accord was forced onto the narrow shoulder.

  Ahead was the entrance to the Berryhill compound.

  An L.A. County Sheriff’s Department cruiser was parked across the broad driveway blocking the locked gates. A deputy in the street signaled drivers to keep moving. Another deputy in front of the gates was trying to manage the crowd.

  Sinclair slowed to make a left turn into the driveway when the deputy who was directing traffic moved in front of her car with his hand raised. He walked up to the driver’s window.

  Kissick pulled up behind Sinclair. Vining got out.

  “You can’t go in there, ma’am,” the deputy told Sinclair through the car window she’d rolled down. “Keep moving.”

  “I’m a friend of the family. I came to congratulate Georgia and Stefan on the birth of their baby. I’ll call Georgia and tell her to let me in.”

  Vining approached the deputy, shield in hand. She kept her eye on the paparazzi and reporters who hadn’t yet noticed the SUV driver’s identity. “Detective Nan Vining of the Pasadena police. I’ll take over from here.”

  Sinclair snapped at her. “What do you want? Leave me alone!”

  “You’re upset, Ms. LeFleur.” Vining remained calm. “Climb over into the passenger seat and I’ll drive you home. The reporters haven’t spotted you yet.”

  Sinclair looked at Vining as if she’d threatened to harm her. “Did he send you to follow me?” Her voice had a manic edge. “He sent you, didn’t he?”

  The altercation attracted the attention of the paparazzi. Somebody shouted, “It’s Sinclair!” A stampede started.

  Sinclair screamed, “He sent you!” She gunned the accelerator and took off, nearly clipping Vining’s toes.

  While some paparazzi ran for their vehicles, others swarmed Vining, peppering her with questions. “What was Sinclair LeFleur doing here?” “Is she all right?” “How did she look?”

  Vining shoved past them and ran to the Crown Vic. Kissick took off before she’d closed the door.

  The road leading away from Berryhill was clear, and Sinclair easily put distance between herself and the detectives. She also had a lead on the paparazzi, who’d lost time rushing to their cars, but a couple of guys on motorcycles were closing in.

  Kissick drove as fast as he dared, watching Sinclair’s taillights in front and the single headlights of the motorcycles in the rearview mirror. He shut off the light bar and siren.

  The Crown Vic’s tires squealed as Kissick took another hairpin turn at high speed just as Vining was putting on her seat belt. She held on to the dashboard as the car fishtailed. He cleared the curve in time to see a stretch of straight road and the Mercedes making a wild left turn onto an almost invisible lane.

  Kissick floored the accelerator, trying to hit the lane before the paparazzi saw him around the curve. The lane was unmarked, cut into a brushy hillside with no streetlamps nearby. He almost blew past it, slamming on his brakes at the last minute and again fishtailing, the car’s tires tearing through grass and mud alongside the narrow road.

  They saw only darkness on the lane ahead of them.

  Kissick again checked the rearview mirror. “I think we beat the photographers.”

  “Where the hell is she?” Vining frowned into the darkness beyond the headlights.

  “What did she have to say?”

  Vining recounted Sinclair’s words, adding, “She sounded on the edge.”

  Kissick slowed the car as they approached a wood-plank fence strung with barbed wire on top. The headlights illuminated a sign: PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING.

  A gate across the fence had been busted open. The frame was splintered, and the gate, smeared with cream-colored paint, was hanging by a single hinge.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Kissick stopped the car outside the broken gate and put it in park. “I think this is the back of the Berryhill property.”

  “Sinclair crashed through. She might be injured. We have to look for her.”

  He took out his cell phone and called the PPD watch commander. “Someone should know we’re here. I’ll ask whoever’s on the desk to give a heads-up to the Sheriff’s Lost Hills station.”

  While he made the call, she unfastened the strap that secured her Glock in her belt holster and tugged the gun butt, reassuring herself that she could draw it smoothly. She reached under her right pant leg and did the same with her backup Walther PPK, the gun that had saved her life more than once.

  Kissick pocketed his phone, put the car in drive, and crossed onto the property.

  The paved lane cut through a dense forest. There were no lights.

  They rolled down their windows, but all they heard were the sounds of a spring night in the chaparral: crickets, birds, coyotes.

  Vining squinted and whispered. “A car engine. Hear it?”

  He slowed. “Yeah. Straight ahead. Traveling fast.”

  “Sinclair apparently knows the lay of the land.”

  He started moving again, ramping up the speed.

  “Sinclair had that look in her eye,” Vining said. “Like she just had one foot in reality.”

  “And the other on a banana peel?” Kissick countered. “She didn’t seem exactly all there the other day either.”

  “Something sad about her. When you imagine that certain people have everything…”

  They came upon a
prefabricated warehouse. Pickup trucks and ATVs were parked in a concrete lot. The vehicles were painted white with the raspberry Berryhill logo. Motion lights kicked on as they drove past. The area looked deserted.

  Farther on, they passed cabins nestled among the trees. Paths off the main road meandered into the rolling hills, where ground lights lit the way. Larger cabins were on higher ground. It looked like a plush country resort. No lights were on in any windows. No cars were in the parking spaces.

  “Guess they told the guests to get the hell out,” Vining said. “Doesn’t jive with the Berryhill Mind/Body/Spirit, let’s gather round the campfire and sing ‘Kumbaya’ program.”

  “They locked this place down fast.”

  He stopped at a crossroads. “I don’t hear the car anymore.”

  “If my orientation is correct, the lake is over there and the offices and shops are on the other side.”

  He turned right.

  After they’d traveled a few hundred feet, they heard the unmistakable twisting metal sound of a vehicle colliding with a fixed object. It came from the other direction. The night sounds hushed.

  Kissick whipped the Crown Vic around, speeding as quickly as he safely could on the narrow dark road. They reached a T-intersection where a giant oak tree had yellow reflectors nailed along its trunk. Behind it, almost hidden in the bushes and small trees, were red taillights.

  “Holy crap.” Kissick stopped the car and jumped out.

  Vining grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment and followed him into the brush. She fought through thorny bushes, scratching her hands and face.

  Sinclair had missed the turn and gone off the road. The SUV’s headlights were still on, and its engine was running. The passenger side was crumpled. The driver’s side was relatively unscathed, with just a few scratches. The driver’s door was open. Sinclair was gone.

  Kissick reached inside and cut the ignition.

  The night sounds returned. Frogs croaked a short distance away.

  With the flashlight guiding her, Vining walked a few yards through thick brush. Kissick followed. They stepped into a clearing. The moonlit lake was in front of them. Nearby, ducks and swans nestled in coops, safe from coyotes.

  The vista of the lake let them better see the property’s layout. The main gate was diagonally across. The administration building and gift shop were a football-field length away.

  Everything looked closed and abandoned. They heard the low roar of traffic from Malibu Canyon Road, the crowd gathered there, and the angry voices of the deputies keeping it all under control. Headlights flickered through dense oleander bushes planted along the fence.

  They turned to look up at the ridge behind them and were surprised to see a large house high on the hill. The lights in its many windows were ablaze. The stately mansion was in stark contrast with the woodsy, pseudo-hippie design of the rest of the compound.

  “There’s the party,” Kissick said. “It must be Nirvana.”

  “It looks like the White House plunked in the middle of Woodstock Nation.”

  They ran back to their car.

  FORTY-FIVE

  The wide road to the hilltop manse was lined with white Corinthian columns lit by floodlights. An arch above locked gates had “Nirvana” written in lights.

  Kissick stopped at the gates as they took in the spectacle. A bright crescent of a new moon was rising in the dark sky behind the gleaming bright mansion.

  “It’s like a Disney animator’s idea of Heaven,” Kissick said.

  “All that’s missing are angels lounging around on clouds strumming harps.”

  Kissick looked at the keypad outside the driver’s door. “If Sinclair went in there, she has the gate code or knows a back entrance.”

  “The gate code to Nirvana. Key in GBSP. I found the code in Tink’s BlackBerry.”

  “Georgia and Stefan’s initials. No ego there.” He rolled down the window and punched in the code. The gates parted.

  “Sad that Tink loved being allowed in here,” Vining said.

  “All she needed was the right bank balance.”

  “She was no dummy. Maybe she just liked having the better-quality sheets and towels that I’m sure the rooms here have.”

  They drove past the colonnade, not seeing a soul. At the top, the driveway circled a large metal fountain forged into an abstract interpretation of the entwined nude bodies of a man and woman. Water spouted and flowed provocatively around the forms, splashing into a pool. Hundreds of coins had been tossed inside.

  Kissick turned the car so that it pointed back down the driveway. They got out and looked around. The only noises were the songs of night birds and a chorus of croaking frogs rising from the lake.

  Kissick sniffed the air. “Wood smoke. Fireplace.”

  A woman’s scream pierced the silence.

  Both turned to look into the dark grounds to the left of the mansion when they heard another scream.

  Guns out, they started running, one looking forward, and the other keeping an eye on the rear. They passed through a formal rose garden and darted around flower beds. At the edge of the garden, the ground lights disappeared and there was dark forest. They jogged along an unlit gravel path that twisted through the trees alongside a babbling creek. Lights through the trees came from a small log cabin. Smoke curled from its chimney.

  Vining held up her hand, signaling Kissick to stop. She cocked her head, listening.

  There was music coming from inside the cabin, Nancy Sinatra singing “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.” It was turned up loud and muffled the sounds of a party. There was another scream, followed by a woman’s laughter.

  There was a distinctive odor above that of the wood smoke. She sniffed and whispered, “Cigar.”

  Kissick pointed for her to go around one side and gestured that he’d take the other. As they were heading off, they heard footsteps crunching on the gravel path. Turning, guns out, they saw Kingsley Getty approaching. He had on a light suit and a golden tie and walked with the casual ease of a trust-fund scion welcoming houseguests to a weekend party at his country home.

  “Detectives Vining and Kissick. This is a pleasant surprise. Welcome to Nirvana.” He spread his arms.

  Vining and Kissick got closer but kept their distance.

  He stood smiling, his white teeth and silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. “To what do we owe—”

  “Cut the shit, Getty,” Vining said. “Or whoever you are. We heard a woman screaming inside that cabin.”

  “Hands behind your head,” Kissick said.

  “Detectives, this is ridiculous. There’s a private party going on. It’s a little boisterous.”

  “Hands behind your head,” Vining ordered. She wondered if Sinclair was in there or if he even knew she was in the compound.

  Getty complied with a put-out attitude. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  Not answering, Vining started patting him down. She took a handgun from a shoulder holster and handed it to Kissick, who put it into his jacket pocket.

  Getty stood calmly, as if he was patted down at gunpoint every day. “Didn’t you get my message that I couldn’t meet you?”

  An earphone and a curled wire leading from it disappeared beneath his collar. Vining removed his earphone and the transmitter inside his jacket. “Who’s on the other end of this?”

  “I strongly advise that you leave now,” Getty said.

  “Where’s your wallet, Getty?” Vining asked. “You go around without ID?”

  “Who’s in that cabin?” Kissick asked. “If it’s just a little party, what do you care if we take a look?”

  The amusement had left Getty’s eyes. “This is private property, and I want you out of here now.”

  “Are you the property owner?” Kissick asked.

  “I said now.”

  “We’re not leaving,” Vining said. “Call the sheriffs to have us removed. A couple of deputies are directing traffic outside the compound gates. They
’ll be here in no time.”

  Nancy Sinatra finished walkin’. There was a break in the music and they heard loud talking and party sounds from inside the cabin. A distinctive laugh rose above the noise: the Gig Giggle. They heard the familiar strains of the old cowboy standard “Back in the Saddle Again.”

  Vining and Kissick looked at the rustic front door. Beside it was a window with a lacy curtain.

  Kissick asked, “Is Gig Towne in there?” He made a move toward the cabin.

  Getty stepped in front of him.

  Kissick aimed his gun at Getty’s chest.

  “Detective Kissick, you are not going to shoot me,” Getty said, as if chiding a schoolboy.

  “Try me.”

  Vining bolted to the window and peeked through a break in the curtains. She’d expected something illicit since Getty was being so protective, but it took her a few seconds to process the sordid scene.

  “Nan…” Kissick called over his shoulder. “What’s up?”

  Gig Towne was nude except for cowboy boots, a toy holster and guns around his hips, and a comically gigantic cowboy hat on his head. He held leather reins attached to a harness with a bit in the mouth of a nude young woman who was on all fours on top of a bed, her rear end to him. He was thrusting into her and slapping her butt. Her neck was arched back by the harness.

  Gig shouted along to the song’s chorus, “Whoopie ti-yi-yay!”

  There were two other girls on their hands and knees similarly harnessed, pawing the bed with their hands as if they were horses. Gig pulled out of the first girl and went on to the next, who made a noise like a horse’s whinny when he jammed into her and then laughed when he flicked the reins and yelled, “Giddy up!”

  Stefan Pavel was observing from an easy chair across the room, nude beneath an open blue silk robe. Smoking a cigar, he seemed more interested in Gig’s antics than in the young woman on her knees in front of him, giving him a blow job, or the one standing behind him who was rubbing his shoulders.

  Vining stumbled as she moved away from the window and returned wide-eyed to where Kissick still held Getty at gunpoint. “Gig Towne and Stefan Pavel are having an orgy in there with a bunch of girls. Towne’s trussed up like some X-rated cowboy.”