The Burning Plain (26 page)

“That’s all right,” I said. “I talked to her. Have you heard from any other reporters?”

“Just Channel Three,” he said. “Who told them?”

“Gaitan,” I said. “He’s trying to embarrass the DA who let you go this morning. She was already working on obtaining an arrest warrant. This will cinch it.”

“An arrest warrant? I didn’t do anything.”

“The eyewitness, the woman who said she saw you in the alley …”

“I wasn’t in the alley. I wasn’t driving the cab.”

“The judge they go to for the warrant won’t know that,” I said.

“Can’t you tell him?”

“Unfortunately, the way it works is you don’t get to challenge the warrant until after it’s been issued.” I paused. “I’m trying to tell you that you may be spending some time in jail until I can challenge the warrant.”

“Oh, man, this is a nightmare.”

“I’m going to call the DA and try to find out what’s happening over there,” I said. “If the cops come, call me at this number.” I gave him my private, unlisted home number. “And Bob, I threw out all the drugs I found in your bathroom. If you have any others, get rid of them. You don’t need a drug charge in addition to everything else. Has Donati called you?”

“No,” he said.

“He said he would.”

“I’ll call him,” he said.

“Good idea. Remember, if the cops show up, you call me, no matter how late it is. I’ll be in touch.”

I left messages for Serena everywhere I could think of, but by ten o’clock I had still not heard from her. I turned the TV on to Channel 3 and pressed mute. The two anchors, an elegant black woman and a white-haired, crinkly eyed white man, sat shuffling papers importantly, and then on the screen behind them a graphic appeared showing a male outline and the words
INVISIBLE MAN
. The male anchor began to speak. I clicked on the sound.

“… learned today that a suspect in the murders of three young men in West Hollywood last month was actually released from custody after he was arrested by order of the District Attorney handling the case. The suspect, thirty-three-year-old Robert Travis, was arrested this morning at the county jail, where he was reportedly identified by an eyewitness as the murderer but then released a few minutes later at the direction of assistant prosecutor Serena Dance. We go now to Kate Krishna, who’s at the Criminal Courts Building where the District Attorney has his offices. Kate.”

The camera cut to a beautiful Indian woman standing on the steps of the shuttered court building.

“That’s right, Larry. Apparently the police actually had their man this morning in these brutal killings, but then they were told to let him go by Serena Dance, the head of the Hate Crimes Unit in the DA’s office, and the prosecutor in charge of this investigation. I talked to Dance about an hour ago, as she was leaving the building on her way to a meeting about the case at the sheriff’s headquarters.”

The screen showed the reporter accosting Serena on the steps of the CCB. She looked exhausted. Her exhaustion changed to tight-lipped fury when Krishna asked her, “What do you say to the residents of West Hollywood when they wonder why you released this suspect back into their community?”

“This investigation is ongoing,” she seethed. “I have nothing to say about it at this time.”

“Can you confirm that Mr. Travis was arrested and then released?”

“I have no comment,” she replied, batting the reporter away.

“What is the purpose of this meeting you’re going to with the sheriff?”

“What part of ‘no comment’ don’t you understand?” she snapped, and stormed off.

“Attempts to reach Travis were unsuccessful, but his lawyer, Henry Rios, denied that his client was guilty. We’ll be following this story in the days to come. This is Kate Krishna at the Criminal Courts Building in downtown Los Angeles.”

“Kate,” the male anchor said, “before we lose you, is it true that the suspect was identified as the killer by an eyewitness just before the DA released him?”

Krishna frowned. “Well, not exactly, Larry. Apparently the suspect was identified by an eyewitness who reportedly saw him leaving the area where one of the bodies was found,” she said. “As far as we know, there were no eyewitnesses to the murders themselves.”

The camera went back to the anchor, who insisted, “But he was arrested for the murders.”

“Yes,” she said. “Of course, even someone who gets arrested still has to be convicted of the crime …”

He cut her off. “Which the DA made harder by releasing the killer,” he said. “A shocking, shocking story. We will keep you informed. Now, in other news …”

A few minutes after the broadcast ended, the office phone rang. It was Serena Dance.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” I said.

“I heard,” she replied. “I’ve been in a meeting.”

“I know. I saw you on the news. What’s going on, Serena?”

“Gaitan went to the media, I got screamed at by the DA and the sheriff, and your client is about to be arrested.”

“You don’t mean now?” I said. “It’s after eleven.”

“Judge Perez signed an arrest warrant and a search warrant twenty minutes ago,” she said. “I’d expect the cops are arriving at your client’s house right about now.”

“This is scapegoating, pure and simple.”

Wearily, she said, “Tell it to the judge, Henry. I’m going home.”

Chastened, I asked, “How bad was it for you?”

“Bad,” she said. “The sheriff accused me of giving preferential treatment to your client because you’re gay.”

“From Gaitan’s lips to the sheriff’s ear.”

“The old boys,” she sighed, then added, “You know, Henry, you’re a little bit of an old boy yourself.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You’ve patronized me since day one,” she said. “You assumed I didn’t know the reason I was in charge of the task force was to give the sheriff political cover with the gay community. You were wrong. I understood the score going in. I knew Gaitan was a cowboy. I knew he had the sheriff’s ear.”

“Then why did you take the job?”

“Because,” she said, in a wrung-out voice, “I want the killer to be caught.”

“So do I, Serena,” I replied. “I just don’t think it’s my client.”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, Henry, but since the sheriffs started focusing on your client, the killings
have
stopped.”

She hung up.

When no one picked up at Travis’s apartment, I pulled on a shirt and shoes and headed to West Hollywood. Friday-night traffic rendered the streets nearly impassable and I didn’t reach Flores Street until a quarter to twelve. I was immediately aware of the lights, the flashing blue and red of squad cars, the flickering red of an ambulance, the white glare of TV cameras following cops going in and out of Travis’s building. The cars created a cordon, so I pulled into a driveway and parked. A swarm of people on the sidewalk were being held back by sheriff’s deputies. I approached one of the cops.

“My name is Henry Rios,” I said. “I’m Bob Travis’s lawyer. I need to get into to see him.”

He gave me the cold cop stare, then called over his shoulder, “Hey, Detective, this guy says he’s Travis’s lawyer.”

A moment later, Gaitan materialized out of the darkness, smoking a cigarette. “Rios,” he said, grinning.

“I want to see my client.”

He flicked the cigarette to my feet. “No problem.”

The door to Travis’s apartment was open and people were spilling out into the hall—cops, paramedics, crime-lab types. When I recognized a woman from the medical examiner’s office, I got a bad feeling. Inside, two deputies were inspecting some of Travis’s gewgaws, one of them lisping mocking commentary to the other. A sandy-haired paramedic was standing at the doorway to the bathroom, looking in. Gaitan asked him to move aside and then stepped back so I could see what he’d been staring at.

Bob Travis knelt in front of the toilet, his head completely submerged in the bowl, water and vomit spilling down its sides.

“What happened?”

Gaitan chortled, “He drowned, man. In his own puke.”

Stunned, I turned away from the sight and met Gaitan’s eyes. They were amused and contemptuous.

“What do you mean he drowned?” I demanded.

He reached into his coat pocket and removed an evidence Baggie containing a brown prescription bottle. “Valium,” he said. “Found the bottle by his bed, empty, and an empty fifth of vodka in the kitchen. He got loaded, got sick and passed out while he was puking. It happens, Rios. Remember Lupe Velez?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Actress in the forties, the Mexican Spitfire,” he replied conversationally, as if the smell of vomit wasn’t oozing through the warm air. “She decides to kill herself, right, so she eats a big Mexican meal and downs a bottle of pills. She gets all dressed up and lays down on her bed to die, like it was a movie, but the food makes her sick to her stomach, and she runs to the john, puking all over the place. She passes out with her head in the toilet, like your
compadre
here, and that’s how they find her.”

“Mexican Spitfire?” I said incredulously. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You don’t look so good, Rios,” Gaitan said, following me out. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

I tumbled into a chair in the living room. “I wanted to be present when you arrested him.”

“Who told you we were going to arrest him?”

“The DA.”

He smirked. “Dance? I shoulda guessed. You people are tighter than the Jews. You queers.” He bit off the word, then smiled. “That’s right, isn’t it, Rios? Don’t you call yourselves ‘queers’?”

The two mocking deputies fell silent.

“Knock yourself out, Mac. Call me whatever you want, if it makes you feel like more of a man. You can use all the help you can get.”

In a single, swift motion he reached down, grabbed my jacket and pulled me to my feet. “What do you know about being a man? You stopped being a man the first time you let someone fuck you.”

“How do you know what I do in bed? Or is that an offer?” I smirked. “Sorry, Mac. I’m a top, but I could probably set you up with—”

He threw me against the wall. “You make me sick.”

“You might try therapy,” I said. “Now let go of me, you asshole.”

Rage flooded his face, rising in a red tide. He took half a step back, tightening his hands into fists. I got ready to swing back.

I heard Odell before I saw him. “What the hell is going on here?” He stepped between us. “This is a crime scene, not a schoolyard.”

“Hello, Sergeant,” I said.

“What are you doing here, Counsel?”

“I heard my client was going to be arrested. I wanted to make sure it was all aboveboard.”

Odell said, “I wouldn’t worry about it. The only place he’s going to is the morgue. Take off.”

I looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ll see to things here.”

I shrugged. “I’ll expect a thorough investigation into Bob’s death.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Odell said.

Outside on the street, the TV reporters were clustered around Serena Dance. I slipped past the cameras, disappearing into the crowd of spectators on the sidewalk, and looked for my car. Across the street was another knot of spectators. One of them broke loose and came toward me. Nick Donati. His expensive suit was wrinkled and he was tieless.

“Henry,” he said. “What the hell’s going on?”

I pulled him into the shadows. “What are you doing here, Nick?”

“I went to a screening this evening. When I got home, there was a hysterical message from Bob on my machine. I called him back and a policeman picked up the phone, so I came right down.”

“Bob’s dead.”

“Oh, Jesus,” he moaned. “How?”

“This isn’t the place to talk about it,” I said, indicating the press. “Didn’t you tell me you live in Laurel Canyon?”

Dazed, he said, “Yeah.”

I walked him to my car, unlocked the passenger door. “Get in,” I said.

“What about my car? I’m double-parked.”

“Worry about that later,” I said, pushing him into the car.

As I drove away, the paramedics came out with Bob Travis’s body on a stretcher.

I
BACKED OUT
of the driveway and drove to Sunset, then headed east to Laurel Canyon, the snaking road that connected the city to the valley. From Laurel Canyon, tributary roads forked into dark and wooded hills, where rustic bungalows elbowed million-dollar chateaux, and everyone locked up their pets at night to keep them from being carried off by coyotes. I turned off Laurel Canyon at Kirkwood. Donati directed me across a web of narrow, twisting streets to a cul-de-sac where his two-story house occupied the last lot, which backed up against the grove of eucalyptus trees. I pulled into the driveway. The fragrant trees perfumed the cool air and it was so still I could hear the rustle of small animals moving through the woods.

The ground floor of Donati’s pillbox-shaped house was a wall of un-painted concrete, pristine and stark, partly covered by a sheet of corrugated metal. The upper floor was a wall of greenish glass, brightly lit from within, but of such distorting thickness it was impossible to see in from the street. The front door was made of hammered copper and it bore a sign that warned the house was protected by an armed-guard service. The sign seemed extraneous; the house was obviously a bunker. It took Donati a good five minutes to shut off the security alarms and let us in. Of course, his hands were shaking.

From a small foyer paneled in dark marble, metal stairs twisted up to the second floor. I glimpsed an office and a bedroom off the foyer as I ascended behind him. The upper floor was a single big room, anchored on one end by an open kitchen and on the other by a fireplace. The kitchen gleamed, as if it had never been used. Neutral area carpets were scattered across the concrete floor. The room was sparsely furnished with leather club chairs, a matching sofa, a scattering of occasional tables. The walls were a snowy shade of white, dominated by an enormous black-and-white abstract painting that looked very much like a Franz Kline. Over the fireplace were two Mapplethorpe photographs of flowers. Between them was a small engraving. The contrast between Donati’s house and Travis’s apartment could not have been greater. Travis’s antique-cluttered apartment was pure camp. This room was as sour and penitential as a monk’s cell.