A Death In Beverly Hills, page 6
"Welcome to Meth Country," Furley said glancing at the deserted highway and manzanita choked hills. "What do you think we'd find if we kicked in the door to that trailer?"
"I wouldn't want to be lightning any matches around it."
As Furley and Katz stepped from the Crown Vic a swirling gust pelted them with dust and broken leaves. Furley squinted and hurried for the door. Katz's limp was worse and in spite of not wanting to give his wife the satisfaction of having told him so, he had finally called the doctor a week ago. He was supposed to see the Sports Medicine specialist on Friday. Shit!, Katz thought, Sports Medicine! It used to be the 'bone doctor', then it was the 'orthopedic surgeon', but people got frightened by the 'surgeon' part so now they called themselves 'Sports Medicine Specialists'. Katz frowned against the ache in his knee and hobbled after Furley to the door.
There was no bell. Furley pounded on the jam with the side of his fist but the wind muffled the blows against the background of the plastic rattle of the oak tree's leaves.
"Mr. Berdue, LA Police Detectives!" Furley shouted, then pounded again. An icy gust cut through Katz's shirt. A tangle of gray clouds rapidly scudded east against an approaching wall of blue-black thunder heads blown in off the sea. Studded with tufts of mosquito grass, the rutted earth in front of the cottage flaked off at the touch of the wind. If they weren't out of here before the rain hit, Katz knew that the mud would be an inch deep up the sides of their shoes. Katz glanced at his black wingtips. Fifty bucks at Shoe World and it had taken him three weeks to break them in. Shit!
Scowling, Katz twisted the knob and pushed inside. "Police!" he shouted and angled forward to where he could see into the kitchen at the back of the house. A young Caucasian man sat at a dented, white-painted table, a can of beer in front of him.
"Mr. Berdue?" Katz called, watching the man's hands.
"Who wants to know?" Bobby asked then took a long swallow.
"LAPD. Didn't you hear us knocking?"
"Was that you? Thought it was the wind. What do you want?"
Furley and Katz carefully paced toward the kitchen, both keeping a careful watch left and right.
"You alone here?" Furley asked, his hand hovering nervously near his gun.
"You see anybody?"
"Are you alone here, sir?" he demanded, the 'sir' sounding like a curse.
"Sure." Berdue laughed and took another swig. "You want one?" He held up a gaily painted can, 'Milwaukee's Pride, Premium Lager.' Furley had seen the brand on sale at Costco at a case price that worked out to thirty-eight cents apiece.
"Thanks, but we're on the job."
Berdue took a final swallow, crushed it against the scared table, then grabbed fresh one from the fridge. Foam spurted onto the worn linoleum when he popped the tab.
"This about that Travis woman?" he asked then dipped his head to slurp the foam.
"Mind if we sit down?"
"Help yourself."
Furley and Katz grabbed chrome bent-pipe chairs and arranged them facing Bobby Berdue.
"Your sister told us she'd been seeing Tom Travis before his wife went missing. Did you ever meet Travis?"
"Why would he want to meet me? It's my sister he's poking." A sour grin twisted Berdue's lips.
"So, you never met him?"
"You playin' a game with me?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Let's cut the crap. My sister's one of the 'good people.' When we were kids, it was always 'Don't do this, Bobby.' 'Don't do that, Bobby.'" Berdue's voice assumed a falsetto tone. "So, if you asked her if I ever met Tom Travis, she's told you that I did, once, when she was showing off her movie star boyfriend. You cops!"
Katz gave him a quizzical stare.
"You and your fucking games, always trying to get on top of people, catch them in something."
"Look, Bobby, is it okay if I call you 'Bobby'?"
Berdue shrugged.
"I think we got off on the wrong foot here," Katz continued. "Maybe me coming inside like I did was a mistake. We saw your truck and then when nobody answered the door, I got suspicious. Sorry. Occupational hazard. This is your house and I shouldn't have come in like that without an invitation. But we're here because your sister has been very helpful to us, and we're following up on what she told us. We're not looking at you for anything but we need some help on this lady's disappearance. Okay?"
Berdue stared at Katz for heartbeat, then shrugged. "Yeah, sure, sorry. Like you said, I was a little pissed off, you coming in here like that." Berdue glanced at Furley then seemed to relax. "Let's forget it. Hey, you want that beer now, for real?"
"No--"
"Sure," Katz agreed. "It's a hell of a long way out here from LA." Katz nodded at Furley. "He's driving. I'm not." Berdue popped a fresh can and Katz took a swallow. "That hits the spot. Thanks." Simon put the can down and opened his notepad, paused, then flipped it closed. "What's your take on this guy, Travis?" Katz gave Berdue his 'just between us guys' stare.
"You want to know what I think of Tom Travis?" Katz shrugged. "Okay, okay, since you're asking, I think he's a prick!" Katz smiled broadly. "What?"
"Nothing, just that you and my partner here," Katz dipped his head in Furley's direction, "have the same opinion. That's just what Jack called him the first time he came in for an interview. A prick." Katz took a small sip of his beer. "Go on. I'm interested in what you've got to say."
Berdue gave Katz a quick smile then held up a finger and got himself another beer. "Thirsty work," he said. Katz smiled and took another pull from his own can. "Okay," Bobby continued, "Tom Travis. First off, my sister's a decent person. Sure, maybe she's not an Einstein, but she's got a good heart. Too soft-hearted, really. I've told her a million times, 'Katey, don't let people take advantage of you' but she never listens. She's always picking up strays and feeding them until they bite her. Then she meets Travis. Did she tell you how?"
Katz and Furley just stared.
"His wife comes into Katey's studio to sign up for a yoga class. One day Travis comes in for something or other, the wife forgot her sunglasses, whatever. While he's waiting for the class to be over he gets a look at Katey in that Spandex thing she wears at work -- well, Hell, you've seen her, right? Katey walks by and guys jump out of cars, fall out of trees. Next thing you know, he's coming by almost every day with one excuse or another. Then one day it's: 'My wife lost her cell, did she leave it here?' and he moves in for the kill. He thanks her for all the fine work she's doing for his wife and invites her out for a 'thank you' lunch. That's what he calls it. Takes her to La Belle in Beverly Hills. Then he walks her around the room. 'Oh, there's Anthony Hopkins. Hi, Tony. There's Julia Roberts. There's George Clooney. How's it goin', Georgie?' On the way back he gives her the story about his wife being gay. Give me a fucking break!"
"Did you tell her Travis's wife wasn't a lesbian?"
"How do I know which way she swings?"
"But if you thought he was using her. . . ."
Berdue gave a little shrug. "Truth is, I didn't find out about them goin' out until two or three months after it started. By then it was too late to try to break them up, not unless I had a good reason, which I didn't, no proof or nothing. I'm no private dick." Bobby took another swig of beer.
"And maybe you didn't want to break them up?" Katz asked softly.
Berdue frowned, then nodded. "Yeah, if we're bein' truthful here, maybe I didn't. I mean, the guy's a big star, lots of connections. Maybe he can do Katey some good. Get her a job at a studio or modeling stuff. I figure he's at least good for a nice birthday gift or something for her. Maybe he even falls for her, dumps his wife and marries her. She moves into the big time. Hey, it happens. At least that's what I thought before I got to know the jerk better." Angrily, Berdue finished his beer and rang the empty against the table.
"You know what the asshole gave her for Christmas? A purse! A fucking $200 leather purse from Macy's! Katey hates leather. She feels sorry for the fuckin' cows for God's sake! That's the kind of person she is, somebody who feels sorry for cows. Jeeze!" Berdue staggered to his feet, muttered, "Gotta see a man about a horse" and teetered from the room. Furley continued scribbling notes. A minute later a flush sounded and, walking more steadily, Berdue got himself another beer and slumped back into his chair.
"Sounds like a real tightwad," Katz said. "If I was a movie star and I was dating your sister I'd do a whole lot better than a purse." Berdue raised his beer in salute and pointed it at Katz's chest. "What's a thousand or two to a guy like Tom Travis?" Katz continued.
"You've got that right! Shit, with his money, he should've given her something good, you know, a diamond necklace or a Beemer or something. A fucking purse!" Berdue's head weaved in a small circle and he put down his beer.
"What did you talk about when you met Travis?"
"What a phony!" Berdue said and took another drink.
"In what way?"
"Look, you guys checked my record, right? You know I've seen the inside of a cell a few times, this and that. We're having dinner together, Katey, me and Travis, and he starts off, first thing, asks me what jail is like. Katey is all 'Tommy! What are doing?' but he just ignores her, like, 'Quiet, woman, we're talking man to man here.'"
"How'd he know about your record? Did Kaitlen tell him?"
"No way! She's in love with the guy. Last thing she's going to do is tell him her brother's a jail bird. I figure he had some detective check her out and then check me out."
"Was he upset that you had a record?"
"He thought it was cool, like a guy who fights bulls or races sports cars. What a load of crap. You ever know anybody who thought being locked up was cool?"
"What else did he say?
"He wanted to know what it was like, being in jail. Did I know any really bad guys? He said he might want to interview some hard guys to get tips for a movie, how to play a killer, how to play a cop who deals with killers. Then he asks me: 'If you wanted to hire a hit man, how would you do it? How much does it cost to get a guy knocked off?' All kinds a crap like that. It pissed me off, let me tell you. Here I am, sitting with my little sister and he's making me out to be some low-life scum. I mean, who does that to a guy he's just met?"
"What did you say?"
Berdue waved his hands. "What could I say? I wanted to punch his lights out, but Katey's sitting there so I went along with it. You gotta understand, he'd had a few drinks and I'd had a few drinks and I knew that if I said what I was thinking, we were gonna rock and roll right there, so, for Katey's sake, I kept it together, just went along with his shit, smiled and told him what he wanted to hear. Cheap bastard."
"He didn't pick up the bill?"
"Oh, sure, he picked up the bill. My steak was like fifteen bucks."
"So, it wasn't Spago's?"
"Marco's Rib House in Burbank. Mr. Movie Star."
"Did you ever talk to him again after that?"
Bobby paused and stared out the window at the gathering storm.
"Yeah, once," he said finally, his voice beginning to slur. A couple of rain drops spattered the glass. "It was around Thanksgiving and, bam, out of the blue he calls me. I guess Katey gave him my number. He's all friendly and says he's getting ready to do a cop movie or something and he really needs to talk to a hit man for background on his role. So I ask him, 'A real hit man?' and he says 'Yeah, a real stone cold killer, somebody with notches on his gun.' Notches on his gun? Man, who talks like that?"
"What'd you do?"
"What'd I do? I told him I'd ask around and get back to him."
"Did you?"
"Are you nuts? You think I want to tell some psycho killer that I'm going to give his name and phone number to a guy who's making a movie? That's not healthy conversation to have with those kinds of people. Shit, I learned that much in the joint."
"Did he ever call back?"
"Once. He left a message on my cell asking me to call him. I erased it. Then his wife went missing. I didn't hear from him again and he didn't get any calls from me."
"So, you never gave him any names of guys who'd do the Big Job?"
"No fucking way!"
"When his wife went missing, did you think he did it?"
"Two plus two still makes four, right?"
"You think that's what he wanted the hit man for?"
"What do you think?"
Katz and Furley glanced at each other then slid back their chairs. Katz extended his hand. "Thanks for your help, Mr. Berdue. We'll give you a call if we have any other questions."
"Yeah, sure," Bobby said, taking a second or two before he was able to connect with Simon's hand. He let go and reached for his beer, accidently knocked it over and frowned. The detectives had just reached the door when they halted at a shout from behind.
"Hey, can you guys call the San Diego D.A. for me? They've got some hummer beef they're after me on. Maybe you could tell them I've been cooperating with you guys?"
"One hand washes the other," Katz said.
"Huh?"
"If the LA D.A. asks you, are you going to testify about Travis looking for a hit man?"
"What? Oh, yeah, sure. No problem."
"You've got my card. Leave the San Diego deputy D.A.'s name on my voice mail. I'll give him a jingle."
Behind them, Katz heard the tab snap on another can of beer. Furley beeped the remote and they jogged to the Crown Vic through the growing rain. Katz's knee throbbed harder with every step.
Chapter Twelve
Steve was just putting his dinner plate into the dishwasher when the phone rang. He peered at the receiver as if it were a coiled snake. Had Cynthia told anyone he was working for Tom Travis? The phone trilled a second time. Jesus, if the media found out about him being involved, all the crap about Lynn would come up again. His own voice filled the room: "Hi, this is Steve. Leave a message."
"Steve, it's Greg. Pick up."
For a second Steve froze, then, reluctantly, grabbed the phone.
"You got any plans for nine tomorrow morning?" Markham asked.
"I'm still going through the files."
"Meet me at the main jail. Tom wants to talk to you."
Steve frowned. "I don't know enough to know what questions to ask him."
"I didn't say you needed to talk to him. I said he wants to talk to you."
"Look, I've got a million things to do here . . . ." Steve stared at the stacks of boxes he not yet opened.
"We're in the service business. This is part of the service."
"Okay," Steve reluctantly agreed.
* * *
As a VIP defendant, Tom Travis had his own cell, isolated from the rest of the prison population. Freshly showered and shaved, his thinning hair neatly combed, Travis was escorted into the jail's tiny conference room. A square stainless table was bolted to the floor. Four metal stools like steel petals extending from an oversize metallic flower sprang from the central post. Steve took the seat opposite Travis.
"Steve," Tom gave Janson a weak smile and extended his hand to limit of the chain securing it to his waist. "Sorry we have to meet under these circumstances." A grimace marked his glance around the barren room. "A little different from La Paloma, I guess."
"Yeah, " Steve agreed, "a little bit."
"Listen, guy, I didn't get the chance to say it before, but I'm really sorry about--"
"Sure, I know. I'm trying to put that behind me."
"She was special lady."
"Yes, she was." Travis seemed genuinely sad, both for Lynn and for his own situation. Tom had lost weight since their dinner together. Now, clothed in a baggy orange jumpsuit, he seemed only a shadow of the man he once had been. In spite of his personal dislike for the actor, Steve felt the beginning of a small sympathetic ache.
"Hell of a thing for us to have in common," Tom said. Markham's face paled. "Both of us, I mean, having our wives murdered by lunatics."
Steve thought about leaping over the table and burying his fist in Travis's face, but found he couldn't move, as if rage and pain battled each other for dominance and only succeeded in locking his muscles in place. Travis seemed to sense he had said something wrong and pulled back but he didn't seem to know quite what or why. People have been smiling and kissing his ass so long, Steve decided, the guy no longer has a clue how he pisses people off.
"Hell of a thing," Markham said and glanced at his watch. That was one gesture Travis understood.
"Well, anyway, thanks for coming. I was really pleased when Greg told me you were going to help me. God knows I can use all the help I can get. Nothing against the last detective, McGarrey, but the guy never believed me. I could tell his heart wasn't in it. But I know you won't let me down, Steve. We go way back, this guy and me," Tom said to Markham.
"Tom, you know I've only started going through the files, but since we're here, maybe I can ask you a few questions?"
"Why not? Everybody else has had their shot at me."
Steve paused while a passing guard peered through the Plexiglas window, then opened his yellow pad. "Kaitlen Berdue's brother, Bobby, told the police that you asked him for a referral to a hit man. Something about a movie you were going to do. According to your interview with the police a few weeks after Marian disappeared the movie you were shooting was a horror film called The Boneyard, which doesn't sound like it has any hit men in it. Was Berdue making that up?"
"Not exactly, I mean I said something about needing to research role as a hit man, but just as, you know, casual dinner conversation." Steve pretended that was the most reasonable answer in the world and after a brief pause, Travis continued. "There was this book, Hard Contract, that was really hot. Eastwood, Ridley Scott, and some other guys, all of them were bidding on it. The main character is this aging hit man hired by a rich guy to find and kill the person who murdered his wife. The twist is that the killer was a woman and the deeper the hit man gets into it, the more it looks like the rich guy hired her to kill the wife and now he wants the hit man to kill her to clean up the loose ends. Of course, my character starts to fall in love with the target. Hell of role."
