Dead Ex, page 23
“So you need a lawyer to get your money so you can pay your lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then.” I hung up, made espresso, found the Valentino and a pair of patent leather Chloe flats, then threw on the clothes I’d worn to Rex and Tricia’s cocktail party. What fueled me, along with the espresso, were fiscal considerations. A murder trial, if it came to it, would be murderously expensive, and not the place to economize. Not in L.A., where a star lawyer can mean the difference between spending the rest of your life in golfing attire and spending it in an orange jumpsuit.
I’d just found a clutch for Joey, a Fendi, when someone knocked on the door.
It was Detective Ike Born. With a search warrant.
While his minions fanned out around the house, Detective Born
chatted with me. No, Joey didn’t need to be here, he said; in fact, it was probably less stressful for her to avoid witnessing it. No, there was nothing I could do to help. The crew would make themselves at home. No, I didn’t need to know what particular thing they were looking for. Nothing interesting, his tone of voice suggested. He treated me courteously, and as if I were a little slow. I kept nodding while trying to determine my best course of action. I was interrupted by a ringing phone.
Should I answer it? Yes, because it might be Joey. I headed to the kitchen, only the phone wasn’t in its cradle. I dashed through the house, bumping into a cop in the dining room, but too late. The machine clicked on, then a voice.
“Joey. Charles. Look, this is crazy, what we’re doing. I’m thinking of talk—” I ran back to the machine and turned down the volume. Detective Born came into the kitchen and regarded me with raised eyebrows.
Well, let him wonder. I hovered, I lurked, I studied the search war-
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rant, which looked scary, I called Joey’s cell phone and got no answer.
When I ran out of ideas, I told him I was late for an important engagement, and he told me to go, that he’d lock up and leave the key under the mat.
I didn’t go. On TV, at least, cops didn’t get search warrants without probable cause, something sufficiently dramatic to get a judge to sign it, usually in the middle of the night in his pajamas. I wanted to know what it was. And I wanted to grab Ike George Washington Born by the lapels of his unremarkable sports jacket and shake him, telling him that he was barking up the wrong tree, suspecting Joey. But since I knew she was innocent, what did I fear they’d find?
Well, drugs. Pot, at least. Would they hold that against her? Arrest her? Was pot still illegal? God, why had I never taken a course in criminal justice?
And then, as abruptly as they’d begun, they were done.
They’d found something, but what? Laundry, from the looks of it, being put into paper bags. They wore latex gloves, which made it look sin-ister.
When they left, I checked the house. Things were stuffed back into closets and drawers, looking more or less like they always looked. The phone showed up in the bathroom. I took it back to the kitchen, replaced it in its cradle, and hit the replay button on Joey’s machine.
“Joey. Charles. Look, this is crazy, what we’re doing. I’m thinking of talking. The fallout’s going to be bad, but what’s the alternative? I think it’s better for you, but it’s your call. You could be screwed either way.
Hell. Call me.”
I’m an upbeat person, but there was no way to interpret that call in a positive light.
I locked up Solomonhaus and hit the road.
Th i r t y - e i g h t
T raffic was hideous. I felt myself going gray by the time I got off the 101. Joey’s Mercedes was parked in front of Vons. She hopped out and into the backseat of the Integra with her backpack, saying, “Give me a second to change.”
I’d moved my stuff into the trunk, anticipating this, but the car was not roomy. “I’m used to it,” Joey said. “Stage training. I went to the Emmys one year with six people in a van. Coming from a location shoot.
You could tell who’d been in theater—Max, David, and Clay changed into black tie in under ten minutes, in the backseat, and I got myself into a full-length Oscar de la Renta. But Rupert and Tricia made us stop at 7-Eleven so they could do it in the bathroom. Hey, Promethea, ” she said, discovering the comic books. “And Planetary? Pretty hip. Are these P.B.’s?”
“Yes. Apollo picked them out. The Caltech student Uncle Theo
adopted.” I looked in the rearview mirror. Joey had pulled off her shirt; underneath she had on a spandex tank top. “You’re wearing a jogging bra under the Valentino?”
Joey met my eyes in the mirror. “This camisole? It’s not for jogging, it’s . . .” She lifted one arm, revealing a hidden pocket, and pulled out a gun.
“Joey!” I yelled. “What kind of party are we going to?”
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“I’m not gonna use it, I just don’t want to lose it. It’s from Elliot. It’s got sentimental value.”
I found this ridiculous, but I couldn’t dissuade her. She was wearing a Glock to a French restaurant. She finished dressing and climbed up front to put on makeup.
I headed west to the 405, wondering which bad news to break first.
Joey took time with her face, covering the scar that ran down her cheek-bone. If there was a trial, would they let her wear makeup? Out on bail, yes. But in jail? Because she’d look a lot scarier with her scar and the haunted look she gets when she loses her appetite.
“Charles Zetrakis called again,” I said. “He says he’s thinking of talking.”
“Why is everyone so garrulous these days? Okay, I’ll call him later.”
“And the cops came to the house with a search warrant and took away some clothes.” I hadn’t meant it to come out that baldly, but how else to put it?
She froze. Then she went back to her makeup. “Okay. Nothing to
worry about. Probably they found David’s blood on my clothes. Everyone who took care of him got blood on them. He had IV tubes. That happens. So what?”
She was talking a good game, but she was scared. “Joey, I met a reporter today. Monica somebody. She wants to do a feature article on you, something favorable. Free PR is how she described it.”
Joey snorted. “That’s what they all say.”
“But it might be a good thing. Couldn’t you meet with her, and
see if—”
“I’d rather sunbathe on an anthill.”
“Okay, clearly there are creepy reporters, but there must be ethical ones too.”
“There are. But the times I’ve been burned? They’d have to kiss my ass for the next thirty-four years to even the score. I don’t see that happening.”
“I kind of liked this woman,” I said. “And she seemed to like you.”
“I’m sure she likes her grandfather, too,” Joey said. “But you think she wouldn’t sell him out for a good lead? Not even a whole story, just a good lead.”
D E A D E X 2 1 1
“Okay, so what about Charles Zetrakis?” I said. “Him talking—to the police, I assume—that’s good, right?”
She began moving stuff from her big purse into her clutch. “No. It’s premature.”
“Oh? When would be a good time?”
“After I talk to the person who shot David.”
“ You know who shot David?” I yelled.
“I’ve narrowed it down to two people. Maybe three. I’ve been trying to check it out.”
I forced myself to glance back at the road. “What’s that mean, check it out?”
She was quiet for a moment, then said, “Well, there’s the license plate I saw.”
“Yes,” I said. “But you can’t just look up a license plate like it’s a phone number. Do you know anyone with access to the license-plate database?”
“A cop, you mean? I know a lot of cops.”
“Yes, but will any of them help you?”
Joey was quiet again. Then: “I haven’t asked my brother. He’s out of the country. And he’ll say I have to tell the detectives, let them handle it.
He’s like that.”
“I’m like that too,” I said. “So you have this license number, but it’s no help. What’s Plan B? You walk up to the top three candidates and ask if they shot David?”
“Not ‘if.’ Why.”
“But why?”
“Why what?”
“Why ‘why’?” I honked my horn, blaming a poor bus for my frustration.
“Because.” Joey put down her lipstick. “David was shot. In one sense, it doesn’t matter what the intention behind that bullet was. It doesn’t matter to the cops; either way, it’s a crime. But it matters to the insurance company. And it matters to me. Because if David planned it, I want the shooter to get away with it.”
“Joey, this is just getting worse and worse—”
“It was David’s death, nobody else’s. Not the state of California’s. If he wanted it on his terms, a fast bullet rather than a slow eating away by
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cancer, okay by me. I couldn’t help him do it, and he wouldn’t ever ask me; he wouldn’t want it on my conscience. But I won’t turn in anyone who did.”
“You’ll stand trial instead?”
“It won’t come to a trial. I’ve thought it over. I had means, motive, and opportunity, but there’s no physical evidence.”
“His blood on your clothes? That’s not physical?”
She frowned but said, “I can’t start to panic over every little thing. It’s a game of chicken. They’re welcome to frame it any way they like; it’s still circumstantial.”
“And if it wasn’t assisted suicide?” I asked. “What if someone actually murdered David?”
“Then all bets are off. I’ll tell the cops everything I know.”
“But otherwise, LAPD will just have to fold up and go home?” I
asked.
“Yep. Unsolved case. Too bad.”
I kept my eyes on the traffic lights around me, eight lanes of freeway in the growing darkness of New Year’s Eve.
I had faith in the police, maybe naively. More faith than Joey did. But even I could see that if their minds were set on her, they might not waste time on their second-string theory, or their third, the one that might be the right one. Because they were human and how many hours were in a day, after all?
What I didn’t see them doing was throwing in the towel, if only because this was such a high-profile case. If Joey was their pick, I believed they’d take what they had and run with it, exploiting every detail that might work in their favor. “There’s one more thing to consider.” I swallowed. “According to this reporter today, there’s a toxicology report—
from the coroner, I guess—saying that Elliot had something in his body, that it wasn’t a simple drowning or heart attack. Maybe it’s just a rumor, but if his death looks suspicious, along with David’s—”
“Jesus Christ! Are you serious?” She stared at me in disbelief. “What an idiot! Stupid, risk-taking, thrill-seeking—” She pounded on the glove box, which fell open, and then on the passenger door of my previously owned Integra, punctuating her diatribe.
I flinched, thinking a flailing arm might fly into me or hit the steer-
D E A D E X 2 1 3
ing wheel. I also worried she’d break her hand. That would be bad. Unless she banged the door right open and went flying out onto the freeway. That would be worse.
I leaned forward to make sure she was wearing her seat belt and the next thing I knew, the whole freeway seemed to be honking. Okay, so maybe I was swerving a little.
I saw other cars swerve too, possibly in response to my swerves. Oh, dear. Oh, well. No harm done.
Except that when I looked in the rearview mirror, I saw the flashing lights of a police car.
Th i r t y - n i n e
M y arms turned to fettuccine. Everything I’d eaten somersaulted in my stomach.
“Joey,” I said. “There’s a cop behind us. What do I do?”
She turned in her seat. “Shit. You’ve got to pull over.”
“I know that. How?”
“A lane at a time. Not yet. After this car. Turn on your signal.”
It amazed me, how fast she pulled herself out of an emotional frenzy to help me through my driving crisis.
“You’re slowing down,” she said. “Don’t. It’s dangerous.” She turned to watch the flow of traffic behind us. “Now. Change lanes. Go, go, go.”
By the time I reached the shoulder of the 405, I could have gone another fifty yards and gotten off the freeway altogether. The Sunset exit ramp was right there. But I wasn’t sure what the protocol was; I’d never been stopped on the freeway, only on surface streets. Well, too late now.
I didn’t want to look like we were fleeing. I focused on slowing my breathing, and turned off the engine.
“Damn,” Joey said. “Damn. Damn, damn.” She was trying to reach
her right hand through the left armhole of the sleeveless Valentino, but the dress was too tightly fitted.
“What are you doing? What’s wrong?”
D E A D E X 2 1 5
She gave up on that and gathered the dress from the hemline and
pushed it up till it was bunched around her waist, trying to reach under it from the bottom. Valentino would have keeled over, watching this. “I should’ve rehearsed before wearing it. Damn.” She glanced behind her, then straightened up and pulled her dress back down. “Listen, Wollie. I don’t have a license to carry concealed. So you never saw this gun. Got it?”
“Okay, but—”
“Or they’ll haul us both in and—”
“Okay, but—”
And there was the cop.
He just materialized, on Joey’s side of the car. Had he heard her? Joey rolled down her window. The Integra was so old, the windows still rolled down manually.
“Hello, there,” I said. “Happy New Year.”
He aimed a flashlight at me, blinding me, which was probably in-
tentional, to throw me off my game. Not that I had a game. I was too distracted, thinking about Joey’s gun.
“Both of you put your hands on the dashboard.”
We did this. On Joey’s side, the glove box popped open. The flashlight went there and he said, “License and registration. Where are they?”
“The registration’s in the glove box there and the license is in my evening bag. Purse. Small purse,” I said, as though “evening bag” were an esoteric term.
“Keep your hands on the dash.” His light went to Joey. “You all right, miss?”
“Yes.”
“You seemed to be having a problem a few miles back.”
“No, that was me,” I said. “I was weaving. In and out of my lane, just a little bit. Weaving. The driving kind of weaving.” As opposed to hair weaving, I supposed.
“Are you high?” he asked Joey.
“No, sir.”
He shone the flashlight into the glove box, which held the usual assortment of vital minutiae, including nail polish, cuticle scissors, pens, index cards, Kleenex, coins, paper clips, magnified makeup mirror, hairbrush, hair spray, and registration.
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“Reach in there and pull out the registration,” he said.
“Are you talking to her or me?” I said. “I mean, me or her?”
“You.”
I complied. Stuff fell out in the process, which Joey and I crammed back in.
“Where’s your purse?” the officer asked.
“Trunk,” I said.
From what I could see, he was on the young side of thirty, in a sand-colored California Highway Patrol uniform, and not bad looking. Okay, he wasn’t good looking either. Not that it mattered. It’s not like I was going to turn on the charm, because honestly, whatever charm I possess has no on/off button.
“I’ll need to see ID for you too,” he said to Joey while looking at my registration.
“Okay,” she said. “But I don’t even know this chick. She was just nice enough to give me a ride.”
I stared at her, wondering what I was supposed to make of that.
He was writing now, still holding the registration. “You girls been drinking?”
“I had espresso,” I said. “An hour ago. A double.”
“I’ve been drinking, Officer,” Joey said. “In fact, I might need to throw up. Is it okay if I step outside the car to do that?”
He moved back, as if she might hurl all over him. “Hold on,” he said, and talked into his radio. “Requesting backup.”
Backup? Just how sick did he expect Joey to be?
He repeated his request, asking for a female officer to assist in a search of two female suspects. Then he told Joey to stay where she was, but to vomit out the window if necessary. He stepped back but kept talking to me from her side of the car. “This vehicle is registered to a ‘Thomas Flynn,’ ” he said, referring to the registration. “Who are you?”
“Wollie Shelley,” I said, my mind reeling from the prospect of getting searched. “Doc—Thomas Flynn—was my fiancé. By now I was supposed to be Mrs. Thomas Flynn, but it didn’t work out.”
“But he gave you the car?”
“Yes. He felt it was the least he could do.”
“Can he verify this?”
D E A D E X 2 1 7
“Yes, if you can find him. Certainly.”
“Where is he?”
“Asia.”
“For how long?”
“Five, six years. I have proof of insurance, though. In my purse.
Handbag.”
“All right, when you can safely exit the vehicle, do so, and open up the trunk.”
I glanced at Joey, who nodded at me and smiled almost imperceptibly.
How could she be so calm? Even a halfhearted frisk would reveal the gun under her arm. Then what?
I got out slowly, unnerved by the cars whizzing by, and walked to the back of the car slowly, as though I might grow more intelligent with time. The officer stood by the right rear fender and kept the flashlight on me while I sorted through trunk junk. Perhaps he thought I’d emerge with a submachine gun or a vicious dog. Probably that happened all the time in Los Angeles, the birthplace of road rage.
