A Death In Beverly Hills, page 8
"I've heard some rumors," Berdue said finally.
"Rumors are good. I like rumors."
Bobby scratched his lip. "Well, did Travis tell you he was into prescription drugs?"
"That sort of slipped his mind. Tell me more."
"Well, okay," Bobby leaned across the table, "when the three of us had dinner and Katey went to the ladies room, Travis leans over to me and says, 'Bobby, I need your help with something,' real secret like. So, I ask him what, and he says he needs a source for some special drugs. I ask him what, crank, X, smack, what's he talkin' about? And he says, 'Prescription drugs, the real thing, not the junk you get on the Internet.' So I'm thinking, 'What the hell's goin' on here? The guy's loaded. There must be twenty Beverly Hills doctors he can get to write him a scrip for whatever he wants. Hell, Elvis didn't have any problems in that department, why should Tom Travis?"
"Did you ask him what he wanted, specifically."
"Sure, but he wouldn't tell me. 'It's confidential,' is all he'd say, that and that he needed to keep it off his medical records. He said that in Hollywood the reporters paid nurses and janitors to steal the medical records on guys like him, that they even hacked into the drug stores' computers. He said that he couldn't take the chance of getting a prescription from his doctor, that somebody might find out and put it in the papers."
"Why not just get the stuff in Mexico?"
"I asked him. 'Who's not going to recognize me?' he says. 'Besides, what if its counterfeit?' So, he gets in may face: Do I know a guy who can hook him up with honest to God real prescription drugs with no bullshit Chinese copies or don't I?"
"And?"
Berdue shrugged. "And I gave him a name."
"You ever find out if he called the guy?'
"Yeah, right!" Bobby laughed.
"I say something funny?"
"Who do you think these guys are? You ask them any questions about their business, they'll gut you like a pig. It's like that Army thing, 'Don't ask, don't tell.'" Bobby laughed and poured another beer.
"Did he ever mention it again, ever give you any clue what it was he wanted?"
"Not a word. Me, I figured it was Hillbilly Heroin. Fancy guys like him are scared of needles. They want something they can chop up in their hundred dollar electric coffee grinders and then put up their nose."
"So, what's this got to do with somebody killing his wife?"
"Like I said, these are dangerous people. What if he disrespected the guy? What if he opened his mouth and it got back to the guy? What if he shorted him on a payment? You think the dealer's gonna hire a lawyer and sue Travis for the money? These are two strike people. One more conviction and they're gone for life. They don't fuck around with anybody. Movie star? They don't give a crap. If Travis even looks like he's gonna cause them any trouble at all, it's TCB baby."
TCB was a patch sometimes embroidered on a gang member's jacket -- Took Care of Business. For an instant Steve imagined those letters burned into his own chest.
"So?"
"So, you asked if I could think of anybody who Travis might know who could have knocked off a pregnant woman. That's all I've got."
"And if I offered you a thousand for another name?"
"Hey, I'll give you all the names you want, John Smith, Bill Jones, but they'd all be bullshit. I gave you what I had, there ain't no more."
"You didn't give me the guy's name."
"Hah!" Berdue barked. "You keep your money and I'll keep my life."
"Where were you the day Marian Travis disappeared?"
"You think I'd off a pregnant woman just to get even with Travis for screwing over my sister?"
"No, but maybe you'd kill a pregnant woman so your sister would have a clear shot at marrying Travis and movin' on up to the big time, like the song says."
Berdue just snorted and drained his glass. "That's not my act, man. I've done some stuff, no good lying about it, but murder a pregnant woman? I don't have no TCB on my arm." Steve just stared at him. "Okay," Berdue continued ten seconds later, "I was in jail, the main jail in San Diego. The Sheriff grabbed me on a bogus beef the day after Christmas. Some cowboy deputy said I'd sold him half an o-z of speed. Give me a fucking break. You think I'd sell half an o-z to somebody I didn't know? Please! Anyway, I didn't get out until January fifth."
"You made bail?"
"Katey got me out."
"She get the money from Travis?"
Berdue gave him an embarrassed smile. "Yeah, I guess she wheedled it out of him. She was always a good sister." Berdue looked down at his empty glass. Steve stared at him for a long moment, then started counting out his payment.
"Shit!" Bobby hissed and put his hand over the bills. "Don't show that kind of money in here unless you want to end up dead by the side of the road." Berdue crushed the pile in his fist and pulled it out of sight.
"You owe anybody any money, Bobby?"
"What's that to you?"
"I'm just wondering if you might be motivated to help me out some more, earn some more cash, easy money too."
"I guess I have a few bills."
"Anything big and pressing? Is there anybody about ten minutes away from putting you in the hospital, or worse? Do you need to disappear for a while in order to stay healthy?"
"I don't give people any shit and they leave me alone."
"What about that Prince Charming you were talking to a little while ago?"
"Business, just business," Bobby muttered, his voice tight and low.
"So, nobody's got you on the short list for a tune-up?"
"Man, you watch too much television." Bobby turned his back to the bar and quickly counted the money, then shoved the bills down into his shorts. "What else you need me to do?"
"Write down your cell number. I'm Steve Janson. You make sure you pick up when I call." Maybe it was the speed with which Berdue scribbled his number or the anxious smile he gave Steve when he handed back the card, but someplace in Janson's head an alarm was ringing. "You sure you're not in some deep shit with your buddies?"
"Crap! Who are you, my mother? What's my life to you, anyway?"
Steve leaned over the table until Bobby's face was only six inches away. "I was just thinking, Bobby, that if you maybe got yourself into a really big hole, a fatal kind of hole, that there was only one thing you could sell that might get you out."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"Tom Travis is crazy in love with Kaitlen, still, today, even after all the shit she's done to him. If you owed the wrong guys a lot of money they could either kill you, which gets them only a little satisfaction, or they could take the long view -- get Marian Travis out of the way and wait for you and Kaitlen to climb on the gravy train -- all aboard!"
"Great plan, Einstein, except that Travis is goin' to the slammer for the rest of his life and Katey and I got nothin'. If the wife was killed as part of this big plan for us to cash in, how'd we end up here?"
"Once you start with the idea of killing somebody," Steve said, his gaze slipping back into a vacant stare, "things can get fucked up real fast in ways you never, ever imagined." A kaleidoscope of memories raced through Steve's brain, all in smears of black and red. A moment later his eyes snapped back into focus. He glanced briefly at Berdue's confused face, tipped over his empty glass, and headed out into the night.
Chapter Fourteen
It was now full dark and Steve picked his way through the forest of chrome and dented steel clogging the Pilgrim lot. In the shadows of a massive redwood tree he could just make out the dim glimmer of the Merc's door handles. As he ducked through the gap between a Silverado's front bumper and the corner of the building something came at him out of the dark. Steve sensed a flicker of movement and dropped straight down. A baseball bat whooshed through the space previously occupied by his skull. A fraction of a second before his attacker could chop down, Steve rolled into his assailant's legs. For an instant the guy teetered, then fell straight back, the bat extended up above his head. Steve scurried up the man's legs and slammed a short punch into his groin.
He was rewarded with a grunt and the hollow clunk as the bat hit the paving. Steve scrambled to his feet and saw the blur of a pale face rising off the ground. The bat was moving too, still clasped in the attacker's right hand. Steve kicked and caught the guy in the ear. This time the bat clattered free. Steve kicked the man a second time then grabbed the bat.
The thug was groaning now, half for show Steve figured, and rolling to his left, trying to get his arms under him so he could rise to a fighting crouch. Steve whacked him in the head with the bat, more a bloop single swing rather than a home run. This time the cry of pain was real and the guy collapsed. Steve stood a foot behind his shoulders and pressed the top of the bat against the man's forehead, pinning his skull to the ground. The attacker's legs made little twisting motions while his hands cupped his groin. All the while little groans, Emmmmm, Emmmm, Emmmm, spilled from his lips.
"You stop moving around or I'm going to turn into Barry Bonds." Steve pressed down hard and after half a second the man held still. "Okay, now we have a basis for discussion. That okay with you? Do you want to talk or do you want me to practice my swing?"
"Talk," the man wheezed.
"Good. What's your name."
"Fuck you."
"Fuck You. Interesting name." Steve leaned on the bat forcing pieces of gravel into the back of the guy's scalp. "How about I just give you a concussion, take your wallet, get your name from your ID, and then grab your keys and take your ride on my way out of town? That sound like a plan, Mr. Fuck You?" Steve leaned forward even harder.
"Son of a bitch! Terry Monroe. Fuck, all right!"
"Ding! Okay Terry, you've now advanced to the next level. What the Hell is this crap all about?"
Terry wheezed and closed his eyes and if too injured to continue. "Shit! Now I'll just have to kill him," Steve muttered, pressing harder.
"You think you can come up here and do business without talking to me?" Terry demanded, his eyes flying open. "I own this town. Nobody moves a flake of product here without it going through me!" Monroe squirmed and tried to roll free. Steve lifted the bat an inch and brought it down on Monroe's nose, then moved it back to center of his forehead.
"Next time I'll break our head like a kid's piggy bank. Listen, asshole, I'm not into crank or any of the other shit you've got going."
"So what are you doin' here?" Monroe growled, spitting blood.
"None of your fucking business. What do you think you're gonna do, whack every guy who buys a beer in this place?"
"If he buys one for Bobby Berdue, yeah."
"That bartender your main squeeze or are you just stringing him along?"
"You're a dead man, you just don't know it yet."
"So, my telling you that I'm not interested in drugs isn't going to do any good?"
"Tell me the one about the three bears."
"Look, Berdue's sister's all over the news, you know that, right?"
"Yeah, so?"
Steve sighed at the persistence of stupidity. "So, she's news. Her story's worth money but she won't talk. I tracked down her brother, figured I'd get a story about Tom Travis and his sister out of him. I paid him five hundred bucks for the inside scoop on Travis."
"You ain't no reporter," Monroe said, his tone slipping into uncertainty.
"I used to be a cop. This pays better." For a moment Steve considered asking Monroe if he'd ever sold prescription drugs to Travis, then changed his mind. He couldn't believe a word that came out of Monroe's mouth and just asking the question was likely to get Bobby Berdue killed. Easier to ask Travis himself. "So, how do you want to end this?"
"I see you in this town again, you're a dead man."
"And if you don't?"
"I don't have time to waste on you."
"Sounds like a plan. Roll over."
"What?"
"I'm the shy type. On your stomach."
Reluctantly, Monroe complied. Steve instantly swung a glancing blow off the back of his head. Terry groaned and his hands made little flapping motions. Steve went through his pockets and grabbed Monroe's driver's license and his keys. Thirty seconds later he was on the highway heading back to LA. Ten miles down the road the bat, wiped free of prints, disappeared in the brush along with Monroe's keys. Steve kept the driver's license with Monroe's address on it, just in case.
Chapter Fifteen
Steve started making lists, organizing what he knew and didn't know and what he wanted to find out. He only did that when things were going down the dumper and he couldn't figure out what else to do. Lynn's shrink friend, Irwin Shapiro, had told him once that it was a manifestation of his need to feel as if he were in control of his environment instead of the other way around. Physician, heal thyself, Steve thought.
Steve got a fresh sheet of paper and drew an inverted "V" on it. At the bottom of one leg he drew a box and inside printed "Travis Did It" and then a second box with "Travis Innocent" inside. From this second choice he drew four lines, whose ends he labeled "Travis Real Target - Wife Killed By Mistake - Travis Framed"; "Wife Real Target - Travis Framed"; "Wife Killed Specifically To Frame Travis"; and "Random Killing." Steve considered the "Travis Framed" sections then put down the pencil. It was impossible that by pure coincidence the body was found two miles from where Travis had been driving his dune buggy.
Was there anybody other than Tom Travis who might have wanted Marian Travis dead? Steve made a note to review the police interviews with her family and friends to see if any of them had let slip some clue.
Did anyone hate Tom Travis enough to want him dead or framed for murder? The guy was a jerk but this was Hollywood. If having a bloated ego was a sufficient motive for murder the town would have more dead people than 1983 Cambodia. Could Terry Monroe or some other drug dealer have been after him? It didn't feel right. Those guys were about as subtle as a pair of brass knuckles. If they had wanted Travis hurt or dead he'd have been found floating face down in his pool with is balls cut off. Which didn't mean that Travis hadn't pissed off somebody badly enough for them to want to ruin his life.
Steve tapped his pencil on the "Random Killing" box, Tom Travis's favorite explanation next to a kidnap plot gone wrong. The idea of a serial killer happening to pick a movie star's house, getting past the alarm systems, doing the crime and then framing Travis for it was almost laughable. A kidnap plot gone wrong? Please! Where was the ransom note for Sarah? Even if she was dead, the location of her body would still be worth big money to the tabloids.
Assuming Travis was innocent that left only three meaningful possibilities: Someone else wanted Marian dead; Someone wanted Travis dead, was surprised by Marian and settled for killing her and framing Tom, or someone wanted Travis locked up for the rest of his life and decided that murdering a pregnant woman was a good way to get that done. Yeah, that must be it.
Could Marian Travis have been the target all along? What kind of person was she? Steve checked the file index and found an interview the cops' had done with Delfina Angelinez three days after Marian's disappearance. Katz and Furley had concentrated on strangers in the house, hang up phone calls, unknown cars in the neighborhood, and other suspicious behavior. At the end of the interview Delfina had slipped a bit off track and described a shopping trip she, Marian and Sarah had taken a few days before Christmas.
* * *
"I'm getting too fat for this," Marian said, struggling reach the petals with the seat retracted far enough for her stomach to clear the wheel.
"I could drive for you, Missy Marian," Delfina volunteered from the back seat.
"If I let you drive and we had an accident, Tom would have a heart attack."
"I am a good driver."
"I know you are, Delfina, but Mr. Travis doesn't want anyone but me driving the car."
An empty space appeared but at the last instant a Boxster chirped its tires and dove in ahead of them.
"He take your space!" Delfina snapped and lowered her window. A thirtyish man in a black suit, open necked black shirt, gold Rolex knock-off and gold necklace unbent himself from the Boxster's cabin.
"You take our space!" Delfina shouted out the window. The man gave her a quick, bleached smile, hit the remote on his key fob and sauntered away.
"It's all right, Delfina. His karma will catch up with him." Marian pulled the Escalade into a spot three rows farther back.
"It is not right you should have to walk so far," Delfina complained as they headed into The Grove.
"Life's too short to worry about small things. I refuse to let myself get upset."
Barely a minute after they entered the complex Sarah pulled free from Delfina's hand and raced for a Jack Russell Terrier attired in a green and blue sweater.
"No, Chica," Delfina called, hurrying after her. "Sarah, stop. Don't touch him. He might bite you."
The dog's owner gave Delfina a sour glare.
"Doggie!" Sarah called, running her hand over the terrier's rump. Stoically, the dog allowed himself to be petted until Delfina pulled the child away. "Doggie!"
"Sweetheart, you shouldn't pet someone else's dog without their permission," Marian told Sarah when she caught up. "It's not polite. . . . Hello," Marian said to the owner, a jewelry-encrusted Caucasian woman in her late fifties. "Would it be all right if my daughter pet your dog?"
"He's rather uncomfortable with strange children," the woman answered stiffly.
"I understand. Thank you. . . . Come on, Sweetie, we have to buy Grandpa's present before I get too tired." Marian took Sarah's hand and gently pulled her in the direction of the Sharper Image.
"When are you due?" the lady asked before Marian could turn away.
"A little over three weeks. I can't wait."
"I remember when I was pregnant with my Gerald." A wistful expression briefly clouded the woman's face then fled. She turned to Sarah. "If you are very gentle, you can pet Regis. Will you be gentle?"
