A Dead Sister (Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery) (33 page)

They talked about where the practice of law was heading, at the firm and elsewhere. In particular, issues that firms like theirs faced
handling high profile cases while dealing with the peculiarities of the entertainment industry, especially Hollywood celebrities.

“Tell m
e about it. I’m getting a lesson of my own in the peculiarities of Hollywood celebrities courtesy of my ex-husband and his glamour girl.” He tried to make her feel better by telling her about some of the more outrageous antics they had dealt with at the firm. In no time, he had her laughing, convincing her that Jim had better get used to it, now that he was linked to a Hollywood diva.

“The claim to an artistic temperament is cover for a lot of thin
gs that are mean and stupid. Throw in a gigantic dose of narcissism, and you’ve got a recipe for a wall full of mug shots to go with all those glamour-girl shots.” He knew all about the latest episode in the sad saga. Jim’s succubus had been arrested, and a defiant mug shot was now being broadcast on the entertainment news channels.

“At least she’s got herself a lawyer,” Jessica added, ruefully. Other than their discussion about Jim and the she-beast, she thoroughly enjoyed the evening. When Paul dropped her back at the firm’s lot, he got out of their limo and sent it on its way. As he walked her to the door of her loaner car, she suddenly realized it was the first time in hours that she
had thought about the distressing events of the previous day. Paul’s kindness had staved off thoughts about Kelly, and her horrible death. No thoughts about Mr. P, the doc, or that fight with Frank. No fretting about where the investigation, or her relationship with Frank, might be heading.

Saying good bye, Paul thanked her for a lovely evening and very debonairly kissed he
r hand. Maybe it was the joy he exuded by doing such a nice thing for her father or the pleasant conversation. She found herself looking forward to their movie night. She told him that, pulling him toward her and stepping on her tiptoes to place a kiss on his cheek. He pressed her to him as he said goodnight. The tautness in the muscles of his arms gave way as he released her, leaving Jessica a little breathless. He opened her car door, waiting as she shut herself in and locked the door. As he sidled back to his car, he whistled a happy little tune.

“Amber and bergamot,” she said to herself, finally recognizing the scent that tantalized in this man’s arms. Jessica drove home a little perplexed by the fact that, in the matter of a week, she had nearly been swept off her feet by two men. Could she offset becoming too involved with one man by seeing another? Was such a thing possible, and was it fair? They were both decent men, neither of whi
ch deserved to have their hearts trampled.

Jessica hadn’t ever really dated. Dating was an archaic notion in college. She had a group of friends with whom she did a lot of studying, but fun things too. Some paired off at the end of an evening
, or after several outings with the larger group. Once that happened, it was generally assumed you had “hooked up” and were having sex. That’s when things got tricky. A kind of ‘one man at a time’ rule prevailed against the old conventions of dating several men.

Casual sexual liaisons had the potential to wreak havoc on your life and reputation,
at least for her women friends. Returning home in the same party clothes you wore the night before was risky business. Being seen taking that “walk of shame,” as some called it, one too many times, with one too many men could earn you the slut label. Hook-ups and booty calls also took another toll on many of the young women she knew. They were sometimes deeply disappointed when casual sex didn’t lead to something more.

Their male friends, however, seemed to suffer much less. Less invested in sex as a pathway to relationship-building, and she wasn’t even sure there was a male counterpart to the term slut. “Player” was about the closest thing that came to mind. That moniker was the kiss of death, as far as Jessica wa
s concerned, and no guy meriting that label would have remained on her list of friends for long.

Neither Frank nor Paul seemed remotely inclined toward “player.” Jessica worried more about “playing” them by getting too involved, too soon, or leading them on in some way. There were all those questions hanging out there: why hadn’t Paul ever married, and why had Frank’s marriage ended in divorce? She now had short answers to both, but there was more to learn.

Hell, she still couldn’t answer the question about why her own marriage had turned out to be such a disaster. She owed it to herself and the two new men in her life to get a better understanding of her own situation, as well as theirs. It was those damn hugs causing all the trouble, with Frank and now Paul, too. That had to stop.

As Jessica neared her father’s house, alone and in the dark, her uneasiness grew. Was it the unwelcome third man, occupying center stage in her life, who called to mind the male-as-player motif? For the time being, the tantrum-throwing Mr. P had passed up Jim Harper as the most detestable man in her life. Of course, she had not yet come face to face with the prescription-wielding doc, who had sashayed into the Pure Platinum Music Group’s building yesterday. Had she done enough to forestall such a meeting?

CHAPTER
28

Wednesday morning, Jessica
awoke feeling challenged by the prospects for the day. She had to face Dick Tatum and whatever new revelations he might have obtained about the demise of Chester Davis. There was no longer any doubt in her mind that the attention-seeking Mr. P and the elusive doc were involved in Kelly’s death. Frank’s concerns for her safety reflected that he shared her conviction.

Despite sinking deeper and deeper into the muck and mire that surrounded the
two despicable men, they had nothing to link either man to Kelly’s death. Nothing, that is, other than the eyewitness testimony of a now dead drug addict. Dick Tatum had recorded their interviews with Chester Davis, but she wasn’t sure they would be of much value or even admissible as evidence. Surely, not enough to get an indictment of either man even with the work she and her cat pack buddies had done to corroborate parts of his story.

Tommy and Jerry were still digging up as much background information as they could about both men. Jessica considered calling and telling them to back off. There was so little to go on anyway, in particular when it came to searching for the doc. No name and no history, other than his tentative association with Mr. P. It was hard to believe some lurid tale had not surfac
ed somewhere about the unsightly character hanging around Mr. P.

“Good grief,” Jessica muttered, “the man stood out, even in a crowd!” The women in housekeeping had attested to that. Surely, some sensation-seeking member of the paparazzi had glimpsed him. Wandering in or out of Mr. P’s workplace, as he had done Monday, should have provoked a curious-minded Hollywood reporter to inquire about his connection to Mr. P or the studio. Where was the scintillating scuttlebutt about the doc?

Given his propensity to write prescriptions for Mr. P’s friends and associates with apparent abandon, it was also impossible to believe he had avoided legal trouble. To track him down, they needed a name. Perhaps some link to the doc could be discovered by a more careful review of Mr. P’s legal troubles. Jessica put more digging into Mr. P’s legal dealings on her own to-do list, not wanting to encourage Tommy or Jerry to get in any deeper than they already were.

After swimming, tanking up on caffeine and eating breakfast, Jessica decided to track her father down. Paul Worthington’s surprise was a ray of su
nshine in the growing storminess surrounding the investigation into Kelly’s death, punctuated by that bolt of lightning signaling the end to Chester Davis’ pitiful life. She was bursting with pride and happiness for her father, and wanted to congratulate him. After several attempts to locate him, Jessica gave up. Voice mails and a text message would suffice for now.

She was
disappointed that there was no message from Frank. Didn’t he feel some remorse about how he handled that last conversation? Jessica certainly did. So why didn’t she call and leave a message communicating that to him? The answer was simple. She was as stubborn and prideful as Frank Fontana.

There was nothing from Dick Tatum, either. That was odd. H
e was, no doubt, as upset as she was about Chet Davis’ demise and their stymied investigation. “He doesn’t know the half of it,” she thought. They had a lot of ground to cover at their lunch meeting. Perhaps, when he heard all that she and her cat pack friends had discovered, he would come up with a fresh angle they might pursue. Or maybe he’d ward her off too, and lay the matter to rest along with his now dead client.

By ten o’clock, Jessica was pulling out of the driveway leading from her dad’s estate to the street. As the gates closed behind
her, Jessica inched forward, checking to see that the street was clear of traffic. Suddenly, something caught Jessica’s eye. She gasped in disgust. A large doll lay in the street, its head on the curb, horribly contorted. The doll had long auburn hair and wore a top that might have fit a real three-or four-year-old, and no panties.

A wave of nausea grabbed her as she called security. In less than three minutes, a team arrived at the house. The two men initially looked at her like she was a crazy woman when she pointed out the source of her concern. That reaction was the main reason she had called them, and not the LAPD. The shortest way to get her point across was to pull out that awful photo of Kelly, as she explained. The cold case she was working on was no longer quite so cold.

That did the trick. Jessica asked them to take photos at the curb, then go through the house and grounds making sure the culprits had not left similar mementoes elsewhere. She also asked them to review every bit of surveillance footage from the night before, and pass along information about any vehicle that had stopped nearby or passed the house more than once.

“Call in extra help if you need to. I’ll pay you triple your usual hourly rate if you turn around a report in 24 hours. The bill goes to me, not my father, okay?”

The team on site called in her request to management. They were having the same sort of trouble explaining the problem at the house until Jessica had the guys on the scene send a photo of the doll and the crime scene photo of Kelly to the manager at the home office. All the arrangements were made quickly after that.

Jessica
also called the concierge service, and in minutes, Roberta Palmer pulled into the driveway. She stopped only long enough to check out the scene at the curb, to speak to Jessica and glimpse that photo of Kelly. Roberta Palmer paled ever so slightly before continuing up the drive and entering the estate through the gates. Roberta Palmer, more than any of the security guards, would know if something was awry anywhere on the property. Jessica also asked Ms. Palmer to bill her directly for a day’s work, at triple her usual rate, as security had agreed to do.

The whole situation took much less time to mana
ge than any police report would have taken. Jessica asked Roberta Palmer to report the incident to the LAPD once she and security had completed their own inspection. She did not expect the police officers to find any evidence linking the doll back to her tormentor, but the incident would be on the record. Jessica advised them to give the police her name and number, too, so they could speak to her directly about the incident later.

Less than a half hour had transpired before Jessica was on the highway leading from LA to Riverside. Jittery as she sped along, Jessica pushed up against the posted limits when she could. Traffic and road work made it impossible to sustain anything close to the speed limit at times. Congestion also made it difficult to determine if anyone was following her. With wall-to-wall cars stretched across several lanes, all jockeying for position, who could tell who was stalking whom?
She felt sure Mr. P had someone tracking her. How else could they have known where, and when, to leave that horrible doll?

S
he remained vigilant until she spotted the exit to downtown Riverside and the Mission Inn, an hour or so later. As she moved into the right lane to take the exit ramp, a check engine light came on. “Are you kidding me?” Jessica said, as the engine missed.

S
he pulled off the road, onto the shoulder of the exit ramp, as the engine seized up and the car coasted to a stop. “Shit, shit, shit!” No way was she going to get to that lunch meeting with Dick Tatum now. She pounded the steering wheel a couple times before trying to restart the car. No luck.

As she was preparing to make a round of ph
one calls for assistance, a low rider taking the exit to downtown Riverside slowed. The two young men in the car leered at Jessica as they passed. One of them flashed a toothy grin, loaded with the bejeweled grill so popular among rappers and their followers. The car hopped up and down a couple times, seemingly in sync with booming music being played from speakers that shook the ground. Jessica was preparing to dial 911 when they moved on.

She carefully got out of the car, raised the hood, and set out a flare she found in the trunk. Satisfied her actions would keep her from getting hit
by a passing motorist, Jessica called the BMW dealer. Roadside service was dispatched immediately from the location closest to her in Riverside. They apologized profusely that the nearly new loaner had malfunctioned. She could ride to the dealer with the tow truck driver and pick up another car, or the driver would drop her somewhere else, if she preferred. Jessica wasn’t sure what she wanted to do until she spoke to Dick Tatum, and told them as much.

“No problem,” they assured her. “Just tell the tow truck driver what you want to do when he arrives.”

Next she called Dick Tatum, who picked up, this time on the first ring. “Dick, I’m so glad to get you on the phone. I tried to reach you a couple times last night about our lunch today. You’re not going to believe this, but my car died. I’m sitting on the exit ramp to downtown, waiting for a tow. Actually, it’s not
my
car. My car was trashed Monday while I was at my office in Palm Desert. The one I’m sitting in right now is a loaner.”

“I believe you, Jessica. I’ve had some car trouble of my own. I didn’t get your voice mail
s until I picked up a new phone a little while ago. My phone was in my car last night when somebody torched it.”

“
Somebody set your car on fire?”

“Yeah, that’s right. This guy in a hoodie and sunglasses lobbed a Molotov cocktail into the window of my car. I was talking to a colleague in the parking lot at Applebee’s after dinner. If I hadn’t walked away from my car to take a look at my friend’s latest pictures of his kids, I don’t know what would have happened.”

“Oh my God, Dick, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“It took me hours to file the police report, make a claim with my insurance company, and pick up the rental car I’m driving. I got a license plate number for the car the perp was driving. That didn’t do much good since the car had been reported st
olen. They found it torched, too, late last night. When I picked up your messages I figured I’d just meet you at the Mission Inn and explain it all. I’m only a few minutes away. Why don’t I come pick you up?”

“Okay, Dick, if you don’t mind fighting the lunch hour traffic. That would be great. I’ve already called the dealer, and they’ve got a tow truck on the way. They have my cell phone number if they need to find me later. Maybe after we talk, you can take
me to the rental place you used. I’ll see if I have better luck in something other than a BMW.”

“No problem. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Stay put.”

“Ha ha! You can count on that.” Jessica tried to be as good a sport as Dick Tatum, but the number of traumas was mounting rapidly. Frank’s words were pounding in her ears. She called the dealer to tell them a friend was picking her up, and that the keys would be under the mat on the driver’s side of the car. They seemed fine with that. It wasn’t as if anyone could drive off in the car. The flatbed truck was already en route. Jessica leaned back, grateful that it was barely ninety degrees in Riverside. The battery on the BMW wasn’t dead yet, so she lowered the windows to get a cross breeze in the car.

It had not been more than a couple minutes when Jessica felt, even before she heard, the beat of oversized speakers. She looked in
her rear view mirror. The low rider had pulled off the road maybe ten feet behind her with the top down on the vintage Chevy Impala. The passenger with the mouth jewelry was climbing out of the car without opening the passenger side door. She didn’t see anything resembling a Molotov cocktail in his hand, but he was wearing a hoodie and sunglasses. With only ten feet separating the two cars, he wasn’t likely to do anything to blemish the sunburst paint job or the polished chrome on the well-cared for low rider.

That didn’t mean this was going to go well. Jessica punched 911 into her cell phone and prepared to hit send, calculating in her mind how long it might take for police to respond. She also reached into her purse for a can of police grade pepper spray
, A definite upgrade since her last murder investigation when she had gone into a tough situation with nothing but hairspray and a hat pin. By then, she had already acquired experience using everyday objects as defensive weapons.

“Hey yummy mummy, you need some help?” the slouching young man asked, as he approached with some caution. Perhaps he was trying to figure out whether or not she was armed. He slid the sunglasses up onto the top of his head as he took another step closer, and peered at her.

Was she safer staying in the car with the doors locked and the windows rolled up? Could she get them rolled up before the guy decided to make a move? Or, should she get out of the car and spray the bastard? Stalling for time, she shouted out a reply to his question.

“No thanks. Help is on the way.” From the rearview mirror she could see the driver jack the low rider up and then down again. The ground was rumbling from the booming speakers.

“We got something for ya, Jessica.” She caught a glint off the grillwork in his mouth as he smiled and grabbed his crotch at the same time. Several things occurred to her. First, she had waited too long to make that 911 call. No way would the police reach her before the punk ambling toward her did. Second, she did not want to find out what he had for her. Third, he had called her by name. Her name had rolled off that tongue and those lips that had been who knows where!