A Death In Beverly Hills, page 29
"I know you didn't do it, Tom, but I need evidence to prove it. If I had another suspect--"
"McGee hates my guts. Maybe you're right. Maybe he did it. He's got a record."
Steve gave his shoulders a little shake. "He claims there are credit card records proving he was in Mexico."
"Did he show them to you?"
"No."
"Then he's lying. He's a bullshitter from way back.
"I'll see if we can track down the VISA charges, but that could take some time." Steve frowned.
"What?"
"The problem is that McGee's no master criminal. You had a good security system. Good locks. He couldn't have gotten in without breaking something and there was no evidence of a forced entry."
"We left the alarm off during the day when we were home."
"But he would still have needed a key to get through the gate."
"Maybe Marian let him in."
Steve shook his head. "Tom, you don't park a red Camaro in front of a mansion in Beverly Hills, ring the bell, walk in, murder someone, load them in your back seat and drive away in broad daylight without people noticing. Nobody plans a crime that way, not even a guy like McGee. That's amateur hour."
"Greg?" Travis pleaded.
"How could McGee have gotten into your house without anyone seeing him? That Camaro of his wouldn't have gone unnoticed."
"So he borrowed another car. Is that so hard?"
"And he climbed the wall? Then what? I don't see him picking those locks. And for what? Do you think he went to your house with a plan to murder your wife and blame it on you? That's just plain nuts. How did he know she'd be home and you wouldn't? How do you plan something like that? And how could he be sure the cops would tag you for it? He's not a Mission Impossible kind of guy and that's what it would take to pull off a plan like that."
"Okay, then who was it?"
"Jesus, Tom, that's what we've been asking you for weeks. Is there anybody else who you haven't told us about?"
"No, I swear to God."
Markham sighed. "Then were back to one of Bobby Berdue's friends. Are you sure you didn't piss one of them off?"
"I told you I didn't."
"Did you have anything going with any mafia people? Borrow any money, hit on some mob guy's girlfriend? Get into some deal--"
"I've told you a dozen times, no! Shit, we've been through this!"
"Tom, it's just--"
"God damn it, Tom!" Steve cut in. "We've been asking you for weeks who might have had it in for you and the name Barry McGee never passed your lips. It's only after I break my butt chasing down every lead I can find that I discover Barry McGee and then all of a sudden you tell us, 'Oh, yeah, he hates my guts. Sorry, I was hoping nobody would find out about him but now that the cops have called him as a witness, gee, maybe it was him. No? Well, gee, then I don't have a clue.' Well, Fuck You Very Much, that doesn't cut it!"
"Steve . . . ." Markham put his hand on Janson's arm but Steve pulled away and paced the room.
"Jesus H. Christ, Tom. You didn't tell us about Barry McGee because you were afraid he would tells us some embarrassing stuff about you? What else haven't you told us?"
"I didn't tell you because none of that stuff has anything to do with the case and because I didn't want you to drive McGee into the hands of the cops or the tabloids, which is exactly what you did!"
"We're on your side for God's sake! What else didn't you tell us?"
"Nothing!" Travis shouted. "That's it."
"That's it? Really? That's it? How about the fact that you were buddies with Jack Furley and got him to bust McGee for dealing drugs? How about the fact that you and Furley, one of the lead detectives who built the case against you, used to hit the clubs together? How about the fact that you and McGee used to take on the girls two at a time but McGee fucked them while you just watched?" Travis's glare wilted and his head dropped to the table. "Jesus Christ, Tom, what else haven't you told us!" Janson shouted.
At first Markham counted the cinder blocks in the wall then, as the silence stretched, he opened his file and pretended to read.
His face flushed, heart pounding, Steve paced the floor looking anywhere but at Tom Travis whose head remained slumped over the steel table. Finally, Travis looked up and awkwardly wiped tears from his eyes,.
"You're right, Steve," he said softly, all of his defiance finally gone. "I didn't want people I liked to know I've been living a lie. I didn't want people I respected to find out that I'm not a real man. So, okay, you've found out all my secrets. There's nothing left. The truth is, I don't know who my friends or my enemies are. Everybody lies to you in this town. Fuck, I thought you were my friend." Travis gave his head a sad shake. "All I can tell you is that I didn't kill Marian and I don't know who did. You say Barry wasn't smart enough to have pulled it off," another shrug, "Okay. I just don't know. You want this Garsen guy to testify, fine. I'll do whatever you tell me."
Steve looked at Travis's pathetic, defeated face, maybe for the first time the true face of the sensitive painter trapped in the body of a macho, narcissistic phony, and Janson had never felt like more of a bastard. He started to apologize then stopped. Anything he said would just make it worse. Son of a bitch! Never in his wildest dreams did Steve think he could be a bigger jerk than Tom Travis. Itjust goes to show you, he chided himself, people will surprise you.
Chapter Forty-Five
One of Ted Hamilton's assistants handed Markham an envelope on the way out of the jail.
"There's been an addition to the D.A.'s witness list," Markham announced. "Barry McGee."
"You'll object, right?"
"For all the good it will do. I can hardly claim surprise when they know you've interviewed him twice. I've got to call my office."
"You're still going to put Garsen on the stand?"
"I'll have somebody serve him with a subpoena this afternoon. I can add him to our list as a rebuttal witness to McGee." Markham paused in thought. "You think there's any way McGee might be the guy?" he asked finally.
Steve gave him a dubious glance. "He's no professional burglar or hit man and that's what this would have taken. He a small timer, but we've got to be thorough. I've told the guys at the Foster Agency do a rush check on him. If he spent a year in jail the County will have his pedigree in the probation report -- date and place of birth, social, any prior charges or convictions. I told Foster to go full bore, to check the court records in every state in the country, not just California. Maybe they'll pull up a felony conviction someplace that you can use to impeach him on the stand." Markham nodded and pulled out his cell. "And," Steve continued, "I told them to get all his arrest records, anything he was ever charged with even if it didn't stick. Plus, names and addresses of any of McGee's relatives who were alive when Marian was killed. Who knows, maybe he had a brother who was a hit man or something or maybe he had cell mate who was in the big leagues. That could explain everything. I told them to get his life story from the day he was born. Tom's money's not going to do him much good on Death Row. Maybe they can find something that makes it look like McGee might have done it. At least it will give you another suspect to wave at the jury."
"You know Burris won't let me do that."
"Malcolm Burris is your problem, not mine." Steve shrugged. "At least you'll have another ground for appeal. I'm grasping at straws here."
"What are you going to do?"
A cell began to ring and Steve looked at Greg who held up his phone. "Not me."
Steve patted his pockets and glanced at the display. "I guess I'm going to be talking to Riley Fontaine," he announced.
Once he'd jammed his Mercedes into the flow of L.A. midday traffic Janson navigated on autopilot and let his mind drift, hoping that his subconscious would come up with some clue he had missed. Instead, it dredged up the memory of his last encounter with his former father-in-law, Malcolm Burris.
* * *
Steve had fled Cuba as fast as he could grab a flight off the island. The plane landed in Cancun and Steve immediately boarded another one headed for L.A. Within hours Steve was in the cracker-box apartment he had rented in a daze the evening after he had discovered Lynn's headless body.
Now what? Alan Lee Fry was dead, nothing more than a pile leaking meat. In spite of his exhaustion questions spun through Janson's brain. Had the Havana police found the body? Were they already on his tail? Would he end his days in a Cuban prison? Would he ever be able to get some sleep? His worries finally chased him into a leaden sleep until, chirping like a maddened cricket the phone gradually dragged him back to consciousness. He woke up holding the receiver and in the midst of a disjointed conversation.
"So, you'd better get down here," the voice said.
"Sorry, I'm . . . I just woke up. Could you repeat that."
"This is Steve Janson, right?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm Steve Janson. Who's this?"
"Mr. Janson, are you okay? Do you need a doctor or something?"
"No, I'm . . ." Steve shook his head and forced his eyes open. "I was just dead asleep. Who are you?"
"I told you," the man whispered. "I'm one of the deputies down at the Superior Court."
"What did you say your name was?"
"It's not important. Jeeze, just listen to me, okay!"
"Yeah, okay, what's this about?"
"Look," the deputy continued his voice gone soft, "Judge Burris is meeting with the Civil Duty Judge in twenty minutes--"
"Civil Duty Judge? I don't--"
"Do you want to hear this or not?"
"Sorry. Go ahead."
"Judge Burris," the deputy continued, frustration clear in his voice, "is going to present an Ex Parte Order appointing him the Special Administrator of your wife's estate with full power to marshal the assets. If you don't want him grabbing everything you and your wife owned, you had better get down to Department 17."
"I don't understand--"
"If what the morning news is saying about you is true, a lot of people think you're a stand-up guy. You don't deserve to get screwed this way. You never got this call. Good luck." The line went dead. No shower, no shave, a wet comb through his hair, somehow Steve made it to Judge Rodney Walters' courtroom only two minutes behind Malcolm Burris.
A thin Asian lady sat hunched over a pile of forms in the cubicle outside the Judge's door. Meticulously, she printed microscopic characters in a tiny box, then looked up. No tie, wearing a wrinkled blue shirt under a sport coat of some indeterminate shade between dark gray and chocolate brown, Steve's hurried wardrobe did not impress her. A slight expectant frown creased her brow.
"Im here for the hearing on the Lynn Janson Estate," Steve volunteered.
Lips pressed together she gave him a long stare then wordlessly knocked on the chamber door and sat back down.
Half a second later Steve heard a muffled, "Come in."
The room was dim, the flanking walls covered floor to ceiling in with bookshelves. Walters peered at Steve as he entered the spill of light from the window behind the judge's desk.
"Judge Walters, I'm Steven Janson. I understand that Judge Burris," Steve nodded toward the leather wing chair holding Malcolm Burris's stumpy frame, "is requesting an Ex Parte Order concerning my wife's estate."
Walters eyebrows arched slightly. "I was given to understand," Walters said, glancing uncertainly at Burris, "that you were out of the country for an indefinite period."
"I'm sorry someone gave you inaccurate information, Your Honor. I did take a very brief vacation to the Caribbean but I returned last night. Can you explain what this is all about?"
"A vacation you say? The morning news intimated something to the contrary." Tall and slender with a neatly clipped russet mustache, Walters gave Steve his best patrician stare as if to say, 'I'm a man of the world, Mr. Janson. You can't slip anything past me.'
"I haven't caught the news today, Your Honor."
"Best that you do at your first opportunity," he suggest dryly, again giving Steve a long, hard stare. Janson stared right back. "Moving on," he continued in a brisk tone, "have you had the chance to review the proposed order?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Judge. I just got an anonymous message about half an hour ago that Judge Burris was presenting some kind of proposed order to you. Naturally, I came down here as quickly as I could."
"An anonymous message? How very . . . intriguing." Walters frowned and flipped through Burris's declaration. "It says here," Walters said, turning to Judge Burris, "that you left messages on Mr. Janson's voice mail and that you delivered copies of the proposed order to his apartment. Did you do that personally, Malcolm?"
Burris fidgeted, wiggling his rump in Walters' worn leather chair. "Not personally, no," he said, fixing his gaze on a crystal rose-shaped paperweight on the corner of the Judge's desk. "I asked one of my clerks to take care of it."
"And you say you never received any such notice, Mr. Janson?"
"That's correct, Your Honor."
"Hmmmm. Well," Walters continued, flashing Steve a weak smile, "you're here now which is all that really matters. Let's proceed." Leaning forward he extended a stiff set of papers in Steve's direction. Stripped of all the procedural mumbo-jumbo, they constituted a request by Malcolm Burris to be appointed as the personal representative of Lynn Janson's estate on an emergency basis on the grounds that her husband, Steven Janson, had left the country for an indefinite period and that prompt and efficient administration of Lynn's property required the immediate appointment of a representative.
"Rod, it's obvious--" Burris began but Walters held up his hand.
"I've read your petition, Malcolm. Mr. Janson, your response?"
"Firstly, Your Honor, the alleged reason for the emergency action, namely that I'm out of the United States for an indefinite period is obviously. . . ." Steve started to say 'false' but swallowed the word, ". . . inaccurate. --"
"From what I hear, you're going to be in prison by the end of the day, so--"
"Please, Malcolm, you'll get your chance. Mr. Janson."
Steve smothered his anger and taking an audible breath, continued. "Secondly, I've filed Lynn's will with the Clerk of the Probate Department and we have a hearing for the issuance of Letters Testamentary set for the seventh. Thirdly, since I am the sole beneficiary of her estate--"
"That's yet to be determined!" Burris snapped.
Again, Walters raised his eyebrows. "Who is named in the will as the personal representative of the estate?" he asked, looking at Burris. The judge frowned then looked away. "Malcolm?"
"The so-called will he submitted," Burris said giving Steve an poisonous glare, "names him as the Executor, but--"
"And does this so-called will also name Mr. Janson as the sole beneficiary?"
"In theory."
"Uh huh. Malcolm, do you have any evidence that the will was forged or coerced or was the product of undue influence?"
"God knows what a man like that did to my daughter to get her to sign that travesty."
"I'll take that as a 'no'." Walters gave his head a mournful shake and grabbed his pen. "Since there are no longer any grounds for an emergency Ex Parte order and since the sole beneficiary opposes the request, I have no option but to deny the motion." Walters focused his gaze on a spot on the wall between the two men. With a flourish he wrote 'Motion Denied' across the front of the petition and appended his initials and the date. Next he drew an oversize 'X' across the proposed order followed by the words 'denied with prejudice.' "I'll have my clerk put these in the probate department's file for the information of the next judge who hears this matter." Walters looked pointedly at the door. "Gentlemen."
As if his joints had become corroded, Burris painfully rose to his feet and marched stiffly out the door. Janson nodded at Walters and followed several paces behind. His cheeks red, eyes squinted and burning Burris turned on Steve. "You're not getting away with this, you son-of-a-bitch!"
"Malcolm, what do you think--"
"You don't get to call me 'Malcolm' or 'dad' or anything else. It's Judge Burris to you." Burris paused to take a deep breath which only seemed to fuel his rage. "You bastard! You got my daughter killed! Big man, antagonizing that killer. And who paid the price? Who! My little girl, that's who! Now you think you're going to get her money too? You worthless, bastard . . . ." Burris's voice faltered and slowly his face crumbled and collapsed into a sea of tears. Tentatively, Steve reached out to comfort him and reeled back at a ringing slap across his face.
"Don't you dare touch me! You will never get a cent of Lynn's money. And I'm giving you fair warning; I will move heaven and earth to see you disbarred, and arrested and that you spend the rest of your miserable life in prison, you . . . . you . . ." breaking down again, Burris turned and scurried from the room. Her forms forgotten, open-mouthed the Clerk stared after him. Steve gave her a polite nod and slipped away.
Over the succeeding months Judge Burris did his best to convert his threats to fact. It was Burris's constant urging, cajoling, and complaining that fueled Ted Hamilton's ill-fated attempt to have Steve charged with Alan Fry's murder. Burris tied up Lynn's estate for almost seven months before his meritless objections were finally dismissed. And then he appealed. The matter had only ended a few months before when the Court of Appeal affirmed the dismissal of Burris's charges and awarded Steve attorney's fees because of the frivolous nature of the Judge's complaint and appeal, a judgment that Burris vowed he would never pay.
All empathy for a father's sorrow now burned away, Steve sent the Sheriff to tow away Mrs. Burris's BMW 740 IL and three hours later the judgment was paid in full by certified check.
* * *
With a start Janson came out of his funk and realized that he had reached his destination. Fontaine had asked Steve to meet him at a parking lot on Pico that had been turned into a flea market for the day. Steve paid five dollars to be let through the gate. Once inside he found Fontaine flipping through boxes of vinyl LPs at the end of a row of folding tables.
"Is this where you get your inventory?" Steve asked from behind. Riley flinched and the albums tumbled forward.
