A Death In Beverly Hills (15 page)

Margo's eyes became glowing coals and little drops of spittle clung to the corners of her lips. Her nostrils distended and her mouth opened wide, showing pulsing purple-pink gums. "You want to fight with me? Bring it on! I will make you sorry you ever saw me, ever heard my name!" A drop of spit landed on Steve's lapel and he raised his hand to ward off the spray. "You want to hit me? Go ahead, you bastard, I dare you! Go ahead!" A cylindrical canister suddenly appeared in her hand.

"If you press that button," Steve said in as calm a voice as he could muster, "I promise that I will punch you right between your eyes as hard as I possibly can, in self defense, of course." The canister wavered in a small circle. "Before you press that button think about what I'm supposed to have done to Alan Lee Fry and ask yourself what I'm capable of."

For three seconds longer Margo glared at him, then suddenly gave Steve a vicious smile, dropped the tear gas container and took two steps toward the door. "If I ever catch you talking to Kaitlen Berdue," Mansell told him with icy certainty, "I will put a bullet in your brain. In self defense, of course." Glaring, she strode from the room.

Shit! Steve thought, his shirt soaked with sweat. If I didn't know before why they called her The Beast, I do now. His next thought was to wonder whether the police had included Kaitlen Berdue's home address in their report.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The club was about half full, not bad, Edwin Bleaker thought, for a Monday night. Red, blue and yellow spots roved the place giving it the appearance of a festive concentration camp just before a mass escape. Bleaker leaned against the bar and scanned the faces, elbows, shoulders and breasts that popped briefly into view in the dancing lights. About a third of the people he recognized with greater or lesser degrees of familiarity. A couple of times he had chatted up the girl with the pale blue lipstick that fluoresced glowed gunmetal gray under the UV glow.

He dismissed her as a small town girl in a big city body. He remembered the way she had frowned at his beefy torso and bulging waist when she thought he wasn't looking. He figured that deep down she imagined that if she came here two or three nights a week that it would be only a month and a half, two tops, before some Prince Charming carried her away in his S500. Until then she worked as the assistant manager of a Starbucks on Wilshire.

Bleaker rattled his glass and the bartender, built like a Greek God and as queer as the proverbial three dollar bill, splashed in four ounces of watered down Sprite. It was too early to start on the booze. Bleaker pushed a five across the bar.

He scanned the dance floor again, methodically working a grid pattern, but she wasn't there, hadn't been there since the trial began. He had tried a few subtle probes at work, offering to buy her dinner or a cup of coffee but she always turned him down. He figured that if he managed to run into Kaitlen in a place like this that she might loosen up, give him a chance, especially now that that asshole Tom Travis was out of the picture.

He caught a flicker of long dark hair and pale skin, then the golden beam moved on and the face returned to the shadows. Bleaker took half a step in her direction then she turned. Early twenties, Hispanic, large on top, but Bleaker noticed her thick wrists and solid neck. She'd run to fat and bloat up like Kirstie Alley by the time she was thirty. Not like Kaitlen Berdue. Kaitlen would never get fat and if she did, she'd still be beautiful, fat and all. But Kaitlen wasn't here, maybe never would be here. Time to start thinking about cutting one of them out of the herd.

The brunette with the white blouse tied just below her tits, gold necklace and painted on red pants looked like a good prospect. She was heading toward thirty, a lot of mileage for most of the girls in this place. He'd have to split her off from her friend, the blond with the big hips. Bleaker glanced at Clark and gave him a subtle nod. Knowing eyes flicked back. Clark would make sure the brunette's drinks had some kick in them. The music slowed as the DJ changed the mood. Bleaker took a step forward and suddenly a big guy was standing in front of him.

"Ed Bleaker?" Steve half shouted over the swelling music.

Bleaker frowned and caught a glimpse of the girl already swinging to the rising beat with a new partner. Well, okay, in five minutes she'd be even thirstier.

"Who are you?"

"Steve Janson. Can I talk to you for a minute?" Bleaker gave the brunette another glance, marking her spot in the crowd.

"Okay," he said, "but keep it brief. I'm meeting someone." Edwin gestured to the hallway to the right of the bar. A moment later the music had been reduced to background roar pounding up through the soles of their feet.

"I work for Tom Travis's lawyer and--"

"And you want some dirt on Kaitlen Berdue," Bleaker said, half turning away.

"No, not at all. I talked with Ms. Berdue earlier today--"

"You talked to her? Where?"

"At her job."

"My studio. I don't like people bothering my employees at work."

"She seems to be a very nice young lady," Steve said, trying to get the conversation back on track.

Bleaker glanced at the dance floor then looked back at Steve.

"Look, you've got me all wrong. I'm just talking to everyone who knew Tom Travis and his wife, trying to find leads to somebody who might have wanted to hurt either of them. I'm sure Ms. Berdue is a fine, decent person. I just want to find out if she, or you, or anyone else can point me in the direction of somebody who's not so nice, somebody who might have wanted to hurt Tom Travis or his wife."

Bleaker thought that over while he listened to the music behind him. He knew this cut. It was going to be another four or five minutes before the next break.

"I met Travis a couple of times when he came in to my place. I thought he was a jerk. And that line of crap he gave Kaitlen . . . ." Bleaker's lips bowed as if he had tasted bitter fruit. "Anyway, I don't know anyone who disliked him enough to want to hurt him."

"What about Kaitlen?"

"Too good for the likes of him. There are a lot of sleazeballs in this town who'll take advantage of a sweet girl like Kaitlen. You want to tell her what a guy's like, that he's just using her, but, what are you gonna do? People never want to hear it."

"I'm guessing that Kaitlen was different from most of your employees."

Bleaker paused, his expression distant, wistful. "I won't disagree," he replied a moment later.

"How so?"

"She was. . . ." Bleaker paused again, gathering his thoughts. ". . . She was special. . . ." he continued, his voice barely audible over the drumming beat. ". . . innocent, not stupid, not naive. More like . . . untainted. Most of these girls who come to me," Bleaker snorted, "they're half a step away from turning tricks, except the guy's got to take them someplace hot, maybe give them a little blow or weed, and, bam, they put out like bunnies as long as he's got a Porsche instead of a Toyota. They don't see it as hooking, but that's what it is, the pay's just different."

"But not Kaitlen?"

"Are you kidding? You could offer her five grand and she'd just slap your face. If she liked a guy it didn't matter if he had a Maybach or a Mazda. Sometimes I thought she was like those old ladies bringing home wounded animals. She always seemed to attract the strays." Bleaker sighed. "That's why I couldn't figure her with Tom Travis. Sure, he was a bullshit artist, but he wasn't any lost lamb with a thorn in his hoof."

Steve ignored the mixed metaphor and nodded for Bleaker to continue.

"She must have seen something needy in him, though." Edwin shook his head. "Once it all came out about his wife, I told her to forget him, move on, find herself a decent guy for a change. . . ."

Like you
, Steve thought.

". . . but it was like she was stuck. I don't know. Sometimes people just don't know what's good for them."

"What about the guy before Travis. What was he like?"

"Typical loser."

"Did he dump her or did she dump him?"

"Who'd be crazy enough to dump her?"

"So she dumped her old boyfriend for Travis?"

"I guess."

"Maybe he wanted her back but Travis was in the way. Maybe he figured that if he got rid of Travis, he'd have another shot at Kaitlen."

Bleaker shrugged.

"What was his name?"

"Carl, no Carey . . . like two letters of the alphabet . . .EB, yeah, Ebbe, that's it. He was some kind of auto mechanic. More than that. . . ." Another shrug.

Another name, another interview. A month wouldn't be enough time. What did he have left? Seven days? Ten? Steve looked into Bleaker's eyes as a roving beam painted his face.

"You like her," Steve said flatly.

"Yeah, I like her a lot. She's special, not like these . . . ." Bleaker gestured toward the gyrating mob behind them. The music began to swell. "Well, what can you to do?"

"One more thing--"

"I've got nothing else to tell you."

"I need her address. I've got to talk to her."

"Sorry." Bleaker began to turn away but Steve grabbed his arm.

"Look, I don't want to camp out in your spa or in your parking lot. If I do that and the press gets wind of it . . . ." Steve shrugged.

"Sounds good to me. Free publicity."

"Maybe Kaitlen doesn't want any free publicity. Maybe she'll quit to avoid it. I just want to ask her about anyone who might have wanted to hurt Tom Travis." Bleaker looked down at Steve's hand. Steve let go. "You don't want something to happen that makes her quit, do you? Five minutes is all I need."

Bleaker stared at Steve for a couple of seconds, then scribbled an address on a scrap of paper. "Don't tell her where you got that."

"Right. Thanks." Steve slipped the note into his pocket.

"Don't thank me." Now Bleaker grabbed Steve's arm in a crushing grip. "If you hurt her, I'm going to put you in the hospital. You see if I don't."

Steve looked into Edwin's blazing eyes and nodded. "I believe you. And I won't." Bleaker's hand slipped free and he turned back to the dance floor. Five minutes later he was at the bar with the brunette at his side. The lights spilling through the bottles sent vague colored shadows rippling across her face.

"I'm Ed," Bleaker said, handing her a tall glass.

"Kathy." the woman held up her drink in mock salute.

More like thirty-two, maybe thirty-five, Bleaker decided, catching a patch of tiny wrinkles at the corner of her lips.

"You're in great shape. Do you have a health club?"

"Tiger's on Doheny," Kathy shouted over the din.

"I own the It's All About You Spa in Westwood. Would you like to stop by sometime as my guest?"

"Gee, Ed, that would be great."

Yeah, thirty-five, Bleaker decided, motioning Clark for another round.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Kaitlen Berdue lived in a two story stucco building in the hills above Sunset, in daylight a landscape of pale blues and beige, ivory and soft green with a few faded flamingo bungalows scattered here and there for good measure. After dark the moonlight reflected faintly off the pastel walls, tinting everything in muted tans and grays. A flight of twenty steps led from the sidewalk up the side of the hill, stands of century plants and rhododendrons flanking the bricks.

At the top Steve paused and glanced at the city spread out below him. A school of red and white lights streamed down Sunset. The highway was dotted with the reds and greens of the traffic signals and the store windows' neon blaze. In the background white and salmon street lights disappeared into the distance. A cool breeze brought with it the muted sounds of tires on asphalt, humming engines, a dog's bark, a solitary horn and carried the scent of night-blooming star jasmine. Janson felt as if he had stepped into a fairyland populated by a mysterious and exotic offshoot of humanity.

The walkway led beneath a twelve foot arch and into an interior courtyard where swings and a teeter-totter dominated a rectangular patch of late spring grass. Four apartments faced the courtyard on each side of the ground floor with four more on each second floor above. Guarding the back end of the lawn was a little fountain with an imp holding a terra cotta vase from which a thin stream of water splashed into a shallow pond.

Kaitlen Berdue's apartment was the last one on the right. Steve checked his watch. It was a little after ten. The shade behind Kaitlen's eight-paned window emitted a yellow glow. Softly, as if he were summoning an elderly priest to early mass, Steve tapped on her door. The pinprick of the spyhole briefly flickered then the door opened to the limit of the security chain. A gray eye and a sliver of Kaitlen's face appeared in the gap.

"Margo said I shouldn't talk to you," Kaitlen said in an uncertain tone.

"Margo just wants to keep you under her control so that nothing messes up her marketing plans."

"She's trying to protect me."

"She's going to sell you like a new flavor of chewing gum. Which is fine, if that's what you want, as long as an innocent man doesn't get sent to death row because of it."

"Do you really think Tom is innocent?" Kaitlen asked in the same sort of voice Steve's niece might have asked, "Uncle Steve, do you think there really is a Santa Claus?"

Steve looked nervously around as if afraid that the Beast might appear at any moment from behind the hedge of crimson bougainvillea.

"Could we talk inside, please?"

Kaitlen gave him another long stare then closed the door. Steve held his breath. The spyhole flickered again, as if she were checking to see if he had changed his mind and gone home. Five seconds later the chain rattled and the door pulled back. Steve entered and the panel snapped closed behind him. Kaitlen stood back as if afraid that Steve was about to become violent.

"May I sit down?" he asked politely.

"Sure." The room was about fifteen feet wide with a couch against one wall, two upholstered chairs and a TV against the other with a coffee table in between. Steve settled into the couch and Kaitlen took the chair next to the TV. Beneath her blue chenille robe she wore a pair of ivory silk pajamas. Hardly an outfit from Victoria's Secret. The table lamp's thick yellow light seemed to heighten the highlights in her hair and the creamy perfection of her skin. Unconsciously, she tightened the robe, pulling the lapels closed almost to her neck.

"You asked me if I thought Tom Travis was innocent," Steve began. "I could give you a lawyer's answer, that all defendants are presumed innocent until proven guilty and that I've seen no evidence that convinces me that Tom is guilty. But I won't do that." Tom paused under Kaitlen's intense gaze. "The truth is that when I was a Deputy District Attorney I learned that killers don't look like killers, they don't sound like killers, that people can fool you. Having said that, from everything I know about Tom Travis, everything I've learned about him, my gut tells me that he doesn't have a killer's heart. There's a certain toughness you need to have to kill someone in cold blood, and that's just not in him."

"Are you sure?"

Steve ran his hand through his hair. "No," he said finally. "I don't know how anybody can be absolutely sure about something like that."

"But you know what it's like to kill someone?"

"Some people think I do." Steve looked away.

"In cold blood?"

"Yes. In cold blood," Steve said, studying the grain of the scared coffee table. Finally he looked up to find Kaitlen staring at him as if he were some rare beast on display at the zoo.

"What do you want to know?"

"Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Tom or his wife?"

"He never talked about her."

"Never?"

"I would ask him, sometimes, how her custody thing was going but he never wanted to talk about it."

"Did he say anything at all?"

"Just that everything was going fine and that he'd be free by June, last June," she added hurriedly.

"Is that the language he used, that he'd be 'free' or did he say that the divorce would be over by June?"

Kaitlen furrowed her brow. "Both, I guess. Sometimes he said 'free' and sometimes he said she would file for divorce in the Spring and that it would be all over by June."

"How did he seem, emotionally, when he said that?"

"Seem? I don't know. It was different almost every time. Sometimes he seemed sort of sad about it, then he'd laugh and say he was getting rid of the 'ball and chain.' He said they didn't love each other, you know, the gay thing, but I sort of thought it hurt him that she was so anxious to get rid of him. I told myself that it was an ego thing, you know."

"What about Sarah?"

"Sarah?"

"Marian's daughter. Did he ever talk about her? Was he going to miss her?"

"He never, ever talked about her. I asked once, because, I mean he said Marian was doing this to keep custody of her so I knew that Marian keeping Sarah was a big part of their . . . well, what he told me was their deal."

"What happened?"

"Tom got really, really upset. He said he didn't want to talk about Sarah. When I pushed him he grabbed a vase off the table and smashed it against the wall and stormed out. He didn't call me for two days, then it was like nothing happened. I never asked about her again. From then on, he acted like she, Sarah, didn't exist. Tom's like that, he doesn't like to think about anything that hurts him or upsets him. He says it only creates negative energy."

Kaitlen folded her arms and looked down, and the silence stretched out, one of those unplanned lulls when you suddenly become aware of the wind rustling through the trees and the creaks and groans of a weathered house. Steve glanced around. To his left was a small kitchen and dining alcove with a counter between them. To the right a doorway led to the bathroom and a small bedroom directly behind the opposite wall. Had Travis turned off the money spigot when Kaitlen's treachery hit the papers?

"I like your place," Steve said to cover his roving eyes. "It's quiet and the view out front is terrific. Have you lived here long?"

"A couple of years, just after I met Tom," Kaitlen replied, fiddling with the cord on her robe.

So, Tom wasn't playing sugar daddy. It sounded like she had met Tom, dumped her old boyfriend and moved in here all on her own.

"Ms. Berdue, you're obviously a beautiful woman. I assume you had a male friend around the time you met Tom. How did your old boyfriend take it when you and Tom started going out?"

Kaitlen wiggled her shoulders and hunched down in her chair. "Carey was upset. It's never easy when someone breaks up with you." Steve wondered if Kaitlen had ever been the dumpee instead of the dumpor, and figured the odds at a million to one. "But it was over. He didn't want to see that, but it was."

"Did he blame Tom?"

Kaitlen's eyes flicked down. "I . . . I let him blame Tom. I didn't want to tell him that it was him, I mean that, well, the feelings weren't there for him any more, so I just let him think that Tom had, you know, swept me off my feet or something."

"So, maybe he thought that if Tom were out of the picture, he might have another chance?"

"I guess."

"Did you hear from Carey after Tom was arrested?"

Kaitlen hugged herself more tightly and focused on a spot on the wall next to Steve's shoulder. "He called a couple of times but I told him that too much had happened, that you can't, you know, go back, that you have to move forward."

"How'd he take it?"

"He was pretty upset. He said a lot of stuff about what we had been through together, that Tom had tricked me, stuff like that. I told him that it was impossible to change the past. I read that in one of those relationship books and it's true. He just had to understand that."

"You said his name was Carey . . . Carey what?"

"Ebbe," Kaitlen said after a little pause. "You don't think he had anything to do with Tom's wife's . . . you know?"

It was Steve's turn to shrug. "I don't think anything. It's just another name to go on my list of things to check out. Where can I get in touch with him?"

Kaitlen closed her eyes.

"If he had nothing to do with this, then there's nothing for me to find. I just want to check out where he was when Marian went missing."

Kaitlen's lids slowly opened and she stood and headed for the kitchen. A minute later she returned with a scrap of paper with the name 'Performance Cycle & Auto' and an address on the edge of East L.A. Steve copied the info and gave it back to her.

"Do you have to tell him you talked to me?" she asked in that soft little voice.

"No. I'll tell him I got his name from one of your friends and that I tracked him down through a skip trace service." Kaitlen's face relaxed, almost invisible worry lines slipping away. "Did he ever hit you?" Steve asked with an intensity he hadn't planned.

"Sometimes Carey gets upset and loses control."

"Does he know where you live?"

"I don't know. He only had my number from work, but he could have followed me like you did."

Steve briefly turned away to hide his embarrassment. "If he, or anyone, tries to hurt you, call me." Steve scribbled his home number on the back of his card. "Day or night. I won't let anyone hurt you."

Kaitlen took the card without expression, doubtless a speech she had heard a hundred times before from a hundred different men and Steve wondered how many of them had ended up hurting her themselves. She laid her head against the chair's pale green fabric, worn shinny from the passage of the years, and seemed more than ever like some innocent child prematurely thrust into a grown-up's world.

"Thank you, Kaitlen," Steve said, standing and extending his hand. "I appreciate how uncomfortable all this is for you." Listlessly, she walked him to the door. "I meant what I said, about helping you."

"I know you did," Kaitlen said wearily. "You men always do."

Slowly the door swung closed leaving Janson alone in the dark, the thick scent of jasmine filling the air.