A Death In Beverly Hills, page 20
"Okay, fine. At least you can run him through your system and NCIC. Maybe he got a parking ticket in Beverly Hills that day or maybe--"
"Or maybe they nailed him for running a red light in Thousand Oaks? If you're feeling that lucky, maybe you should give me a set of lottery numbers while you're at it."
"Jesus, it's just a wants and warrants check. If nothing comes up, nothing comes up. You know Tom Travis is no killer."
"Yeah, how do I know that?"
"You busted him way back when, didn't you? You talked to the guy, got to know him a little. Half the reason he talked to you guys is that he thought you were his friend." Steve lips twisted in a sour expression and he squinted at a gull swooping down on a trash can halfway across the plaza. Finally, he turned back to Furley. "He doesn't have it in him to kill a pregnant woman in cold blood and bury her in the desert. You know he doesn't."
"What I know is that you never know what people are really capable of," Furley snapped, remembering when he was fourteen and he had sat up all night with a crowbar under his blanket and waited for his old man to creep down the hallway to his little sister's room. "Thanks for the lunch." Furley crumpled the aluminum foil and shoved it into the empty bag.
"I talked to the psychic," Janson said suddenly.
"What?" Furley paused, about to apply a one-handed crush to the Coke can.
"She said that Sarah's still alive, that the doer sold her to some guy in Mexico who runs an adoption mill for yuppies who can't qualify to get a kid the regular way."
"Oh, that's different. I'll just go out and pick her up in that case." The can made a metallic crumpling noise and disappeared into the bag.
"She told me it wasn't Travis."
"The psychic told you that Travis is innocent?"
"She saw the guy taking Sarah to Mexico. She told me that it wasn't Tom," Steve said in a defeated tone.
"And the vision of some psychic out in the Valley is supposed to convince me we got the wrong guy?"
"I'm just asking you to run wants and warrants on Terry Monroe for the day of the murder."
"They could put me back in the bag for something like that."
"Fine, she's not worth your job. Go back and get a new notch on your belt when they put Travis away. To Hell with the kid, she's nothing to you, right?"
Red-faced, Furley smashed the bag into a small white ball and stormed across the plaza.
Steve watched a jay fight a gull for a scrap of bread then closed his eyes against the pounding in his head. Five minutes later he headed back to his apartment where he spent the rest of the afternoon tracking down Marian Travis's friends then pouring through the forensic reports for some shred of evidence that might be inconsistent with Tom Travis's guilt and intermittently calling Glenn Malvo's office to see if the big-shot producer had returned from his travels. Finally, around four-thirty, his persistence was rewarded.
Malvo had just returned and would give him ten minutes tomorrow morning. Steve was feeling reasonably pleased with himself until he got a call from Greg Markham. The judge was feeling better too. The trial would resume in one week.
"We're running out of time, Steve," Markham reminded him unnecessarily. "Do you have anything that looks like it might do us some good?"
"A little smoke, no fire, but I've still got a few places to look for new leads."
"Do you need some help, another body?"
"If you get nine pregnant women together can they deliver the baby in only one month?"
"Just asking. Call me if you need anything."
Steve hung up just as the clock ticked past five. Finally he could have his daily beer. He had just grabbed the icy bottle when then the phone trilled. He stared at it, almost tasting the beer sliding down his throat. He grabbed the receiver on the fourth ring, the bottle still clenched in his other hand.
"Janson."
"No arrests in your time frame," Furley almost shouted. In the background Steve heard traffic and pedestrians swirling past a payphone someplace downtown. "But on the day she went missing a uniform in San Pedro filed an FI on Monroe and his bike. Suspicious circs, possible drug dealing, but they didn't find his stash so they kicked him loose."
"What time?"
"Around eleven. No way he was in San Pedro making a crank delivery in the middle of pulling off a murder-kidnap."
"Thanks, I. . . ." Steve began but the line had already gone dead.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Steve drowsed on the couch, a pile of police reports sliding off his lap when the phone dragged him back to consciousness.
"How are you doing, Steve," Cynthia Allard asked as soon as he said 'hello.'
"Uhh, okay. How are you?" What's happened to Tom Travis now? was the only thought that entered his head.
"Lonely and bored. I need a laugh or two."
"So you called me?" Smooth, Janson, very smooth.
"I've got two tickets for the nine o'clock show at The Stand-Up."
Steve glanced at the kitchen clock -- seven forty-five. Dinner had been a can of chili an hour ago, Hearty Ranchhand Style, according to the label. He'd washed it down with a second beer, then fallen asleep on the couch. He was living the high life now for sure.
"I don't think I'd be very good company."
"Greg Markham working you too hard?"
"What?"
"Oh, come on, Steve. I've got one of your new business cards. Senior Associate?"
"How did you--"
"This is my job, Steve. People tell me things."She wants something. She thinks I know something, the little voice in his head muttered. God, I wish I did.
"I can't comment on the case."
"I'm not asking you to comment. I'm asking you to join me for couple of cocktails and a few laughs. . . . strictly off the record."
Steve looked at the disarranged piles of boxes, stacks of manila folders, the worn couch, the dish-filled sink, the painting he and Lynn had bought from their honeymoon in the south of France, a landscape of a flower strewn meadow, and suddenly felt as rootless and lost as if, dazed, he had wandered on stage in some play without knowing any of his lines.
"Strictly social?" Does she mean it? Is this really a date?
"Completely off the record."
Steve glanced back at the kitchen counter and the empty chili can, Ranchhand Style. "Where are you?"
"I'll pick you up," Cynthia said and hung up before he could change his mind.
* * *
In the early sixties The Stand Up would have been The Mystic Eye or The Purple Dahlia and would have featured pale women strumming guitars and singing about Peace and Love to the accompaniment of an espresso machine. In the seventies it would have sported one or more mirrored balls and lasers pulsing to a disco beat. Having morphed through several more identities over the years, it now boasted about twenty scarred tables, a hefty cover charge and five dollar beers. Comedians performed sets that ranged from fifteen to forty minutes each that, together with breaks for refreshments, ran to about two hours per show.
Cynthia handed the keys to her five series Beemer to a nineteen year old aspiring comedian working his way up from parking lot valet. Her tickets and an Andrew Jackson disappeared into the pocket of a young woman who looked like she had just missed the cut for one of the featured roles in the re-make of Charlies Angels.
"You think she's pretty?" Cynthia asked once the girl had hurried off to seat the next party.
"Her?"
"I saw the way you looked at her."
"I was just wondering if she was old enough to work in a place that serves liquor."
"So, you don't think she's pretty?"
"I guess," Steve said, trying to sound uncertain. "She's a little . . . pneumatic for my tastes."
"Pneumatic?" Cynthia repeated, laughing. "Where'd you get that?"
"Brave New World. Wasn't that the book where all the women's chest sizes were described in inflatable terms?"
"I'll have to check that out." Cynthia smiled and squeezed Steve's hand. "You ever been here before?"
"Not for years. Last time I was here Drew Carey showed up to try out some new material. Bumped the regular kid out of his spot."
"Who was that?"
"Warren Zweigel," Steve said, throwing up his hands. "It was Drew Carey. Who remembers?"
"I bet Warren Zweigel remembers."
"Sure, when he's not asking people, 'Do you want to supersize that?'"
Cynthia laughed again and caressed Steve's shoulder. "You're terrible!" Steve found himself smiling. Even casually dressed in black jeans and a simple burgundy blouse Steve found his eyes being drawn to her, watching the tilt of her head, the way her eyes seemed to notice everything around them without staring, the tapered elegance of her hands. How long had it been since he had just spent time with a woman, relaxed, shared a laugh, noticed the twinkle in her eyes when she looked at him? He tried to remember what he and Lynn had talked about the last time they were together, the day before that, and the one before that. It was all a blur -- I may be late -- Will you pick up the cleaning -- Hanson is such a jerk -- Mom and dad want us to come over for dinner -- Ted's promised me second chair on the Sanchez kidnapping. . . . . The arguments, We can't afford a kid . . . . The unasked question,Are you she gaining weight?. . . .
"What?"
"What what?" Steve asked, his eyes snapping into focus on one of Cynthia's earrings.
"For a moment there you looked like you were a thousand miles away."
Are you gaining weight?. Could he manage a smile. "Uhh, nothing, sorry, just thinking about Tom Travis." Steve waved his hand as if dispelling a cloud. "All done. Work over." Steve gave her a quick grin.
"I think you're a man who needs a drink." Cynthia signaled one of the jeans-clad waiters.
"You must be psychic."
"What can I get you folks?" The girl asked, pulling out some kind of electronic device.
"White wine," Cynthia said then looked at Steve.
"Scotch over."
The girl tapped a plastic stick twice against the plastic screen and disappeared.
"This place is just full of pneumatic girls," Cynthia said, her eyes following the waitress through the crowd.
"You're never going to let that go, are you?"
"Not a chance." Cynthia squeezed his hand then rubbed her fingertips across his knuckles before letting go.
Steve smiled but inside his head was spinning. Do I want to do this? It's been a long time. Then What about Lynn?as if she were still alive. When their drinks arrived Steve took a long swallow but the whiskey contained no answers. It never did. Then the house lights dimmed.
The first comedian was a late twenties white guy with a southwestern accent. For twenty minutes he babbled on about rednecks and pickup trucks, hound dogs, small town diners and women with big hair named Peggy Mary Lou. Steve laughed politely and was more than ready for a refill by the end of the set.
The second performer was an energetic young black kid. Maybe it was the second scotch or not having to think about anything, but Steve felt as if some spring inside his chest was slowing uncoiling. He found himself laughing at the kid's riffs about the life of young black people in L.A. from techniques for dealing with Driving While Black traffic stops to the difficulties faced by African-American kids who didn't fit the stereotype and wanted to play professional chess or become CPAs. He went ten minutes over his time limit to wild applause.
"I think I've created a Frankenstein," Cynthia joked when Steve finally stopped clapping.
"I can't have a good time?"
"You can, and should." Cynthia reached for his hand and this time didn't let it go. "I wish we had done this a long time ago." Steve just gave a little shrug and squeezed her hand back. "No, I mean . . . I'm sorry, Steve. I should have called you before, when you really needed a friend. I guess I was so busy trying to survive in the media jungle . . . You have no idea what people will do get a job on TV."
"Even cable?" Steve joked.
"Especially cable." Another squeeze, then she let Steve's hand slip away when the waitress brought their next round. Cynthia slipped her a twenty.
"You should let me get that."
"My treat. I asked you."
"You pick me up, get the tickets, buy the drinks. A guy could get used to this. This is a side of dating I've never seen before."
"You ain't seen nothin' yet," Cynthia said, patting his hand just before the lights went down for the final performer, a slumped guy in his forties, world-weary and exuding frustration like a fog.
"Hi everybody, I'm Chip Stein. ChipStein. Hell of a name for a Jew. It's like my parents were hoping for something else. 'Let's call him Chip and when he grows up maybe he'll have blond hair and blue eyes and he'll be a world champion surfer.' So, what do you think? Do I look like a 'Chip'? Hey, it could have been worse. My mother was holding out for 'Troy.' That would have worked. Even the Hasidic kids would have beaten me up. 'It's not Saturday so let's make Troy cry.' POW.
"I knew when I said it could have been worse, some of you people were going, 'Oh, he's one of those 'the glass is half' full kind of guys. No. The glass isn't half full. The glass isn't half empty. The glass is just badly designed.
"Stupid people -- I hate stupid people. Not retarded people. They're doing the best they can with what they've got. I hate the people who are stupid because they're just too damn lazy to think. You know who you are.
"'Yeah, I know there's a smarter way to test my brakes than racing my car down a steep hill covered with ice with a big concrete wall studded with steel spikes at the bottom but I'm just too damn lazy to figure out what that might be.' WHAM!
"You see, if I ran the world -- do you ever think like that -- If I ran the world, oh boy, there'd be some changes made! Hey, we'd do things right if Iran the world. Give me a break. You know damn well that if you ran the world you'd fuck it up in about twelve seconds. Now, as I was saying, if I ran the world -- hey, I'm a lot smarter than you are -- things would be done right. For example? Is that what someone said?
"Okay, for example, I would institute a stupid person eradication program. Every year every adult would have to undergo a 'Too Stupid To Live' test. No, no, this would be a very scientific test. See, we would put people on random floors of a tall building and tell them that to pass the test they'd have to find the elevator and take it up two floors. Okay, here's our stupid candidate in front of the elevator on the eighteenth floor. The doors open. DING -- A big arrow pointing up flashes a brilliant red. If the candidate looks at the guy inside the car and says, "Is this elevator going up?" BANG, we shoot the son-of-a-bitch dead right then and there. Too fucking stupid to live! Scientific!" Stein tapped his skull.
Half an hour later Stein went into his "You've been a great audience. I'm Chip Stein. Thanks everybody" spiel and escaped the stage to thunderous applause.
The lights came up and Steve felt a little unsteady as they threaded their way through the tables, but he put that down to having being stuck in a hard chair in the dark for two hours. When they got outside the crisp air hit him like a slap in the face.
"Great car," Steve said when the valet pulled up.
"Don't get any ideas. You're riding shotgun."
Steve fumbled with the shoulder belt then relaxed into the seat. The car was still new enough to perfume the air with the smell of fresh leather. Steve took a deep breath. "Great car."
"If you're a good boy, maybe I'll let you drive it sometime."
"I'm always a good boy."
Cynthia didn't reply, choosing instead to take a quick left and accelerate through a yellow.
"Steve, can I tell you something?"
"I'm all ears. No, wait, I'm not. I'd look really funny if I were all ears. Ears on my elbows, ears on my knees," Steve mumbled in a sing-song voice and started to laugh.
"You know, we agreed that this evening was off-the-record, strictly personal, right?"
"Strictly personal."
"Okay, then I've got something to tell you, off-the-record, okay?"
"Okay," Steve agreed, a cold tendril beginning to caress his heart.
"I told you that I hear lots of rumors. Well, I heard one today about Tom Travis. I'm not saying it's true, just letting you know in case it is."
"In case it is?" Steve asked trying to figure out what came next. In case it is, then . . . . what?
"If this rumor is true, Greg Markham will need to prepare for it, so the D.A. doesn't blind side him when the trial starts up next week."
"Oh, sure, in case it's true. Okay," Steve agreed, the warm scotch glow rapidly fading away.
"Word is that Kaitlen Berdue got pregnant with Tom Travis's child. He told her he didn't want any kids and forced her to have an abortion. The D.A.'s implication will be that Tom didn't want the child his wife was pregnant either but that she refused to have an abortion and that was one of the reasons he killed her."
"Has Kaitlen Berdue confirmed this?"
Cynthia shook her head. "It's just a rumor. Did Tom ever say anything about Kaitlen having an abortion?"
Steve felt as if an icicle had been shoved into his belly. Is this why he was here? Was the whole point of this . . . date . . . to get him relaxed enough, drunk enough, stupid enough that he'd confirm this abortion rumor for her next broadcast? Sucker!
"I feel sick."
"Are you all right?"
"Pull over."
Steve fumbled with the belt release and staggered a couple of feet into an alley next to an abandoned auto parts store. A minute later, his face gray and his stomach empty, he got back into the car but this time the fragrance of the leather seats was overpowered by the cloying smell of vomit coating his nose and throat. He glanced at Cynthia then closed his eyes.
"Can you drop me off at my place?" The dead air in the cabin sucked up his words like stones dropped down a dry well.
"Sure."
A moment later some innocuous classical music filled the car and only another moment after that Cynthia was shaking his shoulder. "Steve, we're here. Do you need any help getting inside?"
