by Al Roker
“A fellow detective?”
“No. He writes books. Ever heard of a crime novel called The Manicurist?”
“Of course,” I said. It had been a bestseller. The story of a tough L.A. homicide detective on the trail of a serial killer who murdered hookers and then painted their fingernails pale green. “Wait a minute. Don’t tell me …?”
His grin turned sheepish. “Yeah. He kinda based his fictional story on my investigation and capture of a whackjob the media named The Hairdresser. I don’t know if there was much about that case on the East Coast, but out here it was a big deal. Anyway, he’s writing a sequel. And since I’ve got Pete now, in the new book his detective is becoming a single father, too. He says it’ll make the character more unique and more human.”
“So your son living here is a recent development?”
“A few months,” he said. “But I didn’t ask you up here to talk about me.”
He took a slow sip of beer.
“If it’s about the whirring sound I heard before the explosion,” I said, “I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
“That was helpful info, and I’ll pass it along to the techs who are trying to identify the device and its triggering mechanism. But that’s not why I asked you here, either. Something’s come up I didn’t want to get into on the phone.”
“Yeah?”
He stared at me for a beat, as if he were contemplating several approaches to the something that had come up. He settled on: “Charbonnet wants a sit-down with you.”
I think I showed great restraint by not doing a classic spit take. Instead, I asked, “Why?”
“His attorney, Malcolm Darrow, who’s pretty damn sharp, by the way, said he didn’t know why. He was just passing along his client’s request.”
I placed the beer bottle on the floor and stood up. “Tell Mr. Darrow I’m sorry, but I’ve had more than enough meetings with his client.”
“Sit down, Blessing. Finish your beer and hear me out. Please.”
Reluctantly, I sat down. I said, “It’s not hard to figure out why you’d want me to meet with Roger. You’re hoping he’ll blow up and do something stupid, like cave in my head with a chair.”
“Maybe not that, exactly,” he said. “There’s no chance of him harming you. In fact, I can’t see a downside to your meeting with him. But it could result in him spilling something that will help our case.”
“Don’t you have enough evidence now to put him away?” I asked.
“You never have enough,” he said. “The ghost of the O.J. trial will be haunting us for a long time.”
“This won’t be anything like the O.J. trial,” I said.
“Oh, really? Let me bring you up-to-date. The lovely Miss Zeena Zataran has now definitely remembered, without a doubt, that she’d made a date with Charbonnet that night for eight o’clock and failed to notify him about her conflicting vodka party commitment. So he’ll say he was expecting her. Ergo, the ‘I was at home’ alibi is looking better.
“And she’s positive he called her from his home at nine-thirty. She even recalls a chime going off from the clock in his living room.”
“What about all the junk you recovered from his place?”
“That’s the O.J. touch,” Brueghel said. “There’s a rumor going around that one of the investigating offers may have had a hidden agenda that drove him to plant that ‘evidence.’ ”
I leaned back in the chair. “The officer being you,” I said. “And the hidden agenda being your previous failure to nail Roger with the death of Tiffany Arden.”
“You got it. Before little Pete became a part of my life, this kind of crap would have driven me nuts. Now I just look for other ways of getting the job done. Will you talk to him, Blessing?”
“Let me sleep on it,” I said.
If the BMW followed me out to Malibu, I didn’t notice it.
Chapter
THIRTY
I woke shortly before ten a.m. the next morning. The villa had seemed sinister and intimidating the previous night, but now, under a blue, cloudless sky with a balmy breeze wafting from the ocean, all was right with the world.
Except for the messages that had been collecting in my voice mailbox.
The first call I’d ignored when I turned off my phone last evening was from the defense attorney Brueghel had mentioned, Malcolm Darrow. His voice was confident, no-nonsense. A deep-timbre voice worthy of another, more famous Darrow, named Clarence. I wondered if the name had influenced his choice of profession or if the profession had influenced his choice of name. In either case, he’d left his number at five-fifty-seven p.m.
Two hours later, at roughly eleven p.m. Manhattan time, Cassandra had provided a report on the status quo of the Bistro that, minus the snark, seemed satisfactory, especially since she’d not requested a return call.
Stew’s daughter, Dani, had left a voice mail at ten-oh-five p.m., requesting a callback.
Malcolm Darrow had left his second message a couple of hours before I awoke.
Shortly thereafter, Amelia St. Laurent had left word that she would be showing the estate today. She said she’d canceled yesterday’s tours “out of respect for Mr. O’Day’s untimely passing.” To alter the late comedian Fred Allen’s line: You can fit all the integrity in Hollywood into a gnat’s navel and still have room for a kumquat and a real estate agent’s heart.
At precisely nine, Whisper had called to remind me that rehearsal for tonight’s show would be at two p.m. She’d added, with a hint of wonder, that the overnight ratings had been good enough, especially in the key eighteen-to-forty-five-year-old demographic, for Gibby to remain on as host for this week and possibly even the next. She suggested I ignore some of the hypercritical comments on the Internet.
No problem there.
I had no intention of phoning the lawyer and, though mildly curious about why Dani had called, felt I could let that slide for a while. The fact is, suddenly I was feeling glum, and I knew why. Though I hadn’t really expected Vida to call, the fact that she hadn’t dimmed the day a little.
Well, as we all know, there’s nothing like a big breakfast to lift one’s spirits.
Thanks to a trip to the nearby supermarket, that dream was to be fulfilled. I brewed an extra-strong pot of French roast coffee, toasted four pieces of sourdough bread, which I buttered while still hot, and fried a rasher of bacon, resting the resulting strips on a paper towel to dry and crisp. I then performed a bit of stovetop magic with four eggs (but using only two of the yolks: See, I can be healthy), several hunks of jack cheese, and minced mushroom. Veggies, healthier, still.
I loaded a tray with the finished omelet, the sides, and a jar of homemade raspberry preserves, and carried it out to a table on the deck. There I sat, facing the Pacific, allowing myself to be mesmerized by the gentle surf while enjoying the fruits of my stovetop labor.
I was having a third cup of coffee, amusing myself with the fantasy of the liquid somehow dissolving the breakfast cholesterol and calories, when my eyes were drawn to a familiar tall feminine figure in a familiar white bikini, running full-out along the waterline in my direction.
When she saw me, Dani Kirkendahl made a right-angle turn and, slowing to a jog, crossed the sand toward the deck. She’d been running long enough for her skin to be glistening, but she wasn’t even breathing hard. “Billy,” she said, as I rose to greet her, “I didn’t think you were … I called you last night.”
“Can I get you some coffee?” I asked, as she took a chair. “Or water?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“I apologize for not getting back to you. I slept in this morning, and—”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I understand. I know you must be … I mean, after that horrible night. I hate to bother you, but it’s important.”
“Is it about your dad?” I asked.
“Dad? No. He’s … fine. It’s about Roger.”
I suppose my face must’ve reflected my thoughts.
“Oh. I don’t
blame you,” she said. “I mean, he certainly has … anger issues. And he’s told me you guys have a long history.”
“Did he mention any details about that history?”
She hesitated, then broke eye contact, looking off down the beach. “Some.” She turned back to me. “I’ll say to you what I said to him. Whatever happened is between the two of you. Leave me out of it.”
“So you guys are still an item?”
“An item? You mean like boyfriend-girlfriend? Eeewwww. Billy, the man’s ancient. He’s Dad’s age. Well, maybe a few years younger, but still …”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just assumed … Well, what is your relationship?”
“We’re friends. Platonic friends. There are such things, you know.”
“Really? And what are your thoughts on unicorns? Or Bigfoot? Or, God help me, vampires?”
“You’re being cynical.”
“It’s not cynicism,” I said. “I’m sure you think your relationship is platonic. But what about Roger?”
“He feels the same. Women know when a man is coming on to them.” She smiled and added, “When you and I first met and you helped me to my towel, you were sending out a vibe. But it went away when Daddy appeared. Right?”
An interesting question.
I’ve never put much faith in platonic relationships, probably because I am convinced that, barring conditions such as premature sainthood, narcolepsy, or debilitation, anyone is capable of being seduced by anyone they perceive as sexually alluring. When I first laid eyes on Dani, I was wide open to that possibility. Did that change when I learned she was Stew’s twenty-two-year-old daughter? Looking at her now, sitting across from me in her white bikini, I doubted it. I have to admit, though not with pride, I was even considering the possibility that she was fishing to find out if I was interested.
She was, therefore, mistaking the myth of platonic relationship for the reality of a little thing called self-control. If she hadn’t discovered the difference by now, I was not about to bring it to her attention, by word or deed. Instead, I made a lateral shift in the conversation.
“I don’t suppose you came over here to discuss platonic relationships,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Roger wants you to meet with him.”
“Old news,” I said.
“Oh. His lawyer talked to you?”
“No, but not for lack of trying. Did Roger happen to mention why he wants a sit-down with me, of all people?”
“They haven’t let me talk to him. It was the lawyer who asked me to ask you. He said Roger needs your help.”
“Then we must be talking about some other Roger. The actor Roger Moore, maybe. Or Roger Rabbit. Some Roger I’d actually want to help.”
“Don’t be that way, Billy. He’s my friend. And he’s not a murderer.”
“Not a murderer. Got it.”
“Please talk to him,” she said.
“Why? How could I help him, even if I were so inclined?”
She shrugged. “All I know is he believes you can.”
“How long have you known him?”
“He says we met a long time ago, when I was just a kid, having brunch with my parents in one of his restaurants. I don’t remember that. The first time I can recall was at Santa Anita maybe two years ago. I was with Wilt, my ex, and Mom and her boyfriend of the moment. Roger stopped at our box to say hello to Mom. He was very charming. He gave us a tip on a race that actually paid off. I didn’t see him again until just after my divorce.”
“That was this year?”
“About six months ago. I was really down, and Mom took me out on a shopping binge. We had lunch at Bagatelle, Roger’s place off Rodeo Drive. He joined us for dessert, and when Mom got one of her right-now-or-never calls from a prospect, he offered to drive me back here. Since then, we’ve spent a little time together.”
“But you’ve really only known him for six months,” I said.
“We talk, Billy,” she said. “I know more about him than I know about Dad. You asked how much he’s told me about his history with you. I know about the murder at Chez Anisette and that you think he killed that woman. He said he didn’t, and I believe him.”
“That’s the thing about sociopaths. They may be crazier than hell, but they can still be believable.”
“Roger’s not crazy,” she said.
“Okay, let’s assume for the moment that he didn’t kill Tiffany Arden. Or set off an explosion that took the life of Des O’Day. How sane can he be if he’ll break into somebody’s house to cook a rat in their oven?”
She blinked. “R-roger did that? Well, he … probably meant it as a joke. You guys were still in your twenties …”
“This happened just days ago, right after he attacked me at your dad’s party.”
“Here?” she asked, looking at the villa.
I nodded.
“Well … just because you found a … This property had been vacant for a while, and the whole area is a haven for rats. Even the Colony. We have to set traps all the time. One may have crawled into the house and—”
“And hopped into a pan, surrounded itself with carrots and potatoes, turned on the oven, and cooked itself? With a cherry tomato in its mouth?”
“What makes you think Roger did it?”
“Who else? And he happened to be here at Malibu Sands at the time. Visiting you. He could have done it before or after the visit.”
She looked disheartened. “It still sounds like a joke,” she said. “And it doesn’t mean he killed anybody. In fact, it might mean just the opposite.” The thought excited her. “He knew how easy it was to break into your house. If he’d wanted to kill you, he could have put his dumb bomb right here under your bed. Why would he have gone to all the effort of sneaking into a studio full of people?”
“That would be a valid question,” I said, “if Roger were rational.”
“You’re the one being irrational.”
I really wasn’t up to reminding her about the damning evidence that the police had found at Roger’s. I stood up and began placing my breakfast dishes onto the tray. “The day is slipping away,” I said. “And there are things I have to do.”
“I guess meeting with Roger won’t be one of them.”
“I didn’t say that,” I told her. I might have, if it hadn’t been for that damn white bikini she was wearing.
Chapter
THIRTY-ONE
Brueghel’s pitch the night before, about the evidence losing its luster, had spooked me. Of late, the odds were at least two to one against an L.A. jury convicting a celebrity murderer suspect. If my sitting down with Roger could in some way help to balance those judicial scales, how could I refuse? And let’s face it, I was more than a little curious about what he could possibly have to say to me.
As soon as I’d sent Dani on her way, I called the detective and asked him to start the ball rolling. I explained that I’d be tied up after two p.m. that day but would be free the following morning.
Less than an hour later, while I was amusing myself watching Amelia St. Laurent lead a straw-thin, shaggy-bearded fiftysomething member of British rock royalty and his actress wife around the property, Brueghel called back. Could I make it to Men’s Central Jail on Bauchet Street in downtown L.A. in forty-five minutes?
“You tell me,” I said. “I’m out at Malibu.”
“Drive fast,” he said.
The MCJ, maintained by the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department, is said to be the world’s largest jail. For one or two very personal reasons, even the world’s smallest jail would be near the top of my avoid-at-all-cost list. So it was not with eager anticipation that I deposited the Lexus in a public lot on the corner of Vignes and Bauchet and walked toward the lobby of the twin towers.
Brueghel was waiting just past the door with a man whom he introduced as Malcolm Darrow. Though I had mused on the lawyer’s surname, I was not expecting him to look quite so similar to the legendary Clarence. He couldn’t have been mo
re than forty, but the image he conveyed was of an older man. His three-piece suit, though no doubt expensive, might as well have been off-the-rack department-store material, the way it was wrapped around his ample frame. He wore a vest pocket chain, the likes of which I’d seen only in black-and-white movies, and a starched collar/narrow bow tie combo that went back even further in history.
His receding hair had strands of both white and black, and a hank of it flopped down on his very high forehead in a manner that resembled Clarence’s. And come to think of it, Oliver Hardy’s. His shiny pink face was strengthened by high cheekbones and a slightly jutting jaw. Thin brows, arched in arrow points, gave him an air of permanent awareness. His eyes were as pale blue as a frozen pond. And my guess, about as deceptively treacherous.
“A pleasure, Mr. Blessing,” he said, staring at me unblinkingly, as if I were a beetle on a pin. He shifted a battered cordovan leather briefcase from his right hand to his left so we could shake. “Good of you to come.”
That point was debatable.
“We’d better get to it,” I said. “I have to leave in about an hour.”
“Then I’ll be heading back to the office,” Brueghel said.
“You’re not joining us?” I asked.
The detective glanced briefly at Darrow. “Wouldn’t want to intrude,” he said. He nodded to us both and walked away.
The lawyer’s pale eyes followed him to and through the exit, then turned my way. “Shall we?” he said.
There were three chairs and a table in the meeting room, all industrial gray metal. The single door was metal, too, painted a pale green like the walls. An old-fashioned buzzer was attached to the door frame at chest level. Except for the door, the walls were solid and went straight to the white ceiling without benefit of decorative molding. There was no two-way mirror behind which bored cops might observe our conversation.
In this age of technological miracles, I suppose there may have been a hidden camera or microphone. But I couldn’t see any, and Darrow struck me as the sort of barrister who’d bring the house down if such a device were discovered.
