A Death In Beverly Hills (2 page)

Chapter Three

The bell rang a little before ten. A burley man in brown khaki looked up at Steve from a paper-stuffed clipboard.

"You . . . Steven Janson?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I've got a delivery for you from . . . the law offices of Gregory Markham." The deliveryman peered past Steve into the apartment. "Where do you want it?"

"Put it in the living room. I'll figure it out later."

The driver made a little grunt and turned away. Two minutes later he returned with a hand-truck stacked with four cream-colored boxes. Block black letters were carefully stenciled on the narrow sides of each:

"FORENSIC REPORTS - I"

"WITNESS STATEMENTS A-J"

"MEDICAL REPORTS"

"WITNESS STATEMENTS K-R"

Without a word he wheeled the stack inside and deposited it next to the couch then headed down the hallway for another load, passing a second worker approaching with four more cartons. There were eleven in all by the time the deliverymen were done.

"Sign here," the driver ordered and shoved the clipboard into Janson's hands. Steve scrawled his name. As he handed the pad back he noticed a tattoo of a broken cross in faded blue ink beneath the deliveryman's right ear. An omen? A moment later the man was gone.

Steve stared at the three stacks of boxes and imagined the awful truths they contained. Five minutes later he was still staring as if his mind was stuck like a needle in an old record. According to the index the police reports had been packaged in chronological order. Deciding that he might as well start at the beginning. Steve extracted a packet of stapled pages.

On December 31
st
the year before last two detectives had visited Tom Travis' Beverly Hills home in response to a report that his step-daughter, Sarah, age three, and his wife, Marian Travis, eight and a half months pregnant, had both disappeared.

* * *

Simon Katz let his partner, Jack Furley, take the lead while Simon limped along behind. Margie had started her "See the doctor about your knee" mantra again this morning, driving him out of the house before he could finish his breakfast. Now at ten o'clock at night each step felt like a dull knife was sliding beneath his kneecap.

From the sidewalk Simon studied the wall surrounding Travis's mansion. Eight feet high, constructed of cemented field stones, it looked like something built to deflect a mob of angry villagers. A far cry from Simon's three bedroom ranch-style out in the Valley. Furley pressed a button and said "Los Angeles Police Detectives" into the microphone. A sharp click sounded and the carved teak gate slipped open. A hundred feet across the lawn a two and a half story beam and stucco house blotted out half the night sky.

What did the property taxes on something like this run, Simon wondered, eighty thousand, a hundred thousand a year? "Jack, slow down," Katz snapped. Furley was already thirty feet ahead on the winding slate walkway. Barren rhododendrons framed an arch over the double-wide front doors. Furley waited for Simon before ringing the bell. A stocky, mid-forties Hispanic woman in a tan maid's uniform appeared almost instantly.

"I'm Detective Furley. This is my partner, Detective Katz. We're here to see Mr. Travis."

"Yes, he is waiting for you," she said, her face a worried mask, and led the way deep into the house. Furley seemed fascinated by the marble statues and gilt-framed paintings. They passed one room containing a six foot high fountain in the form of a circular waterfall. Katz limped doggedly on.

They found Tom Travis in a leather massage chair in front of a 70 inch flat-screen. Some kind of gangster movie was playing, Pacino in
Scarface
or maybe the second
Godfather
film. Travis flicked the remote before Katz could figure out which.

"Guys, thanks for coming." Travis shook hands with Furley, giving him a big smile. "Get you anything, coffee, whatever?"

"No thanks," Katz said.

"You hungry? Delfina could fix you up a steak sandwich."

"Thanks, nothing," Katz snapped before Furley could accept. Travis shot Furley a questioning look and the young detective hesitated, then gave his head a quick shake.

Without asking, Katz lowered himself onto a leather couch. "You said there was a problem about your wife?" Furley took out his pad, ballpoint poised to take notes.

"Yes, maybe," Travis said, giving Katz a quick, embarrassed smile. "I hope not." Through the windows brief flashes of fireworks flickered across the distant sky. "I came home around six and she wasn't here." Travis paused. Katz just stared at him. "We were supposed to go somewhere, New Year's Eve, you know, and, well, she's not here and the house is dark."

"What about the maid?" Furley asked. Katz kept his face blank though in his head he was shouting, '
Shut up and let him talk!
'.

"She had the day off. When it got past seven and Marian still hadn't come home I called Delfina and asked her to come in."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you want the maid to come in?" Katz asked.

"In case I needed something." Katz and Furley stared as if Travis had been speaking in tongues. "Well, obviously, I had to stay home and wait for Marian so I would need someone to make dinner and then clean up."

Katz paused for a beat, then started again.

"Uhhuh. . . . Have you checked with your wife's friends, family?"

"Delfina handled that. . . . Delfina?"

The maid appeared in the study doorway. "Yes, Mr. Tom?"

"Delfina, the policemen want to know who you called about Mrs. Travis."

The maid looked back and forth between the two detectives, finally settling her gaze on Katz. "I call her father, her brother, her friend, Miss Leslie. No one has seen her."

"Is this unusual, Ms. Travis not being home for dinner?"

"She is very tired now, with the baby. She never stay out. She take naps."

"She has a baby?"

"Soon, soon. Maybe two weeks. She is gordo," Delfina made a gesture with two hands in front of her stomach, "Big. It makes her tired." Furley scribbled another note. "Besides, she never stay out this late with Sarah."

"Who's Sarah?"

"My step-daughter," Travis cut in, "Marian's daughter from her prior marriage."

"She is three. A beautiful child," Delfina added, half in tears.

Katz gave Furley a quick guarded look.

"What was your wife scheduled to do today?" Katz asked.

"Delfina," Travis held out his tumbler and rattled the half melted ice, "while you're up." The maid hurried over and took the glass. "Sure she can't get you guys something?"

"Maybe later," Katz said, muzzling Furley with a sharp glance. "About Mrs. Travis's plans for the day. . . ?"

"Uhhh, not sure. You know how it is," Travis said, turning to Furley. "The wife's always yakking at you. After a while you just say 'yes, dear' and go back to the game." Travis shrugged. "I don't know. Shopping, I guess. She loved to take Sarah shopping. The kid's got more shoes than the Dodgers starting line-up."

"Where were you today?"

"In the desert."

Confused, Katz looked at Furley, got a quick head shake, and turned back to Travis. "What were you doing in the desert?"

"I just got a new dune buggy. Christmas present to myself. This is the first chance I've had to take her out for a test drive."

"I'll need a time line for my report."

"Uhhh, sure. Okay, I hooked up the trailer to my Hummer and pulled out, oh, I don't know, maybe eight, eight-thirty this morning. I drove to Templeton in San Bernardino County. Got there around ten-thirty. Had an early lunch and hit the desert around noon. Quit about four and got back here around six. That's about it."

"Did anybody see you there?"

"Am I a suspect?"

"A suspect for what?"

"I don't know. It just sounds like you're asking me for an alibi or something."

"We're just getting all the details."

"Yeah, sure, I understand. Sorry. I guess I'm more upset than I want to admit. I should know better. I've played a cop ten, twenty times at least. I know how it works. Okay, well, sure, I saw some people but I don't know their names."

"Did you pay for anything with your credit card?"

"Just gas on the way back. Everything else I paid cash, but I always save my receipts." Travis handed Katz a plain envelope marked "Dune Buggy Research Expenses". Inside was the register tag for lunch at the El Jefe Restaurant, a receipt from the State of California Bureau of Parks and Recreation for the $20 entry fee to the Double Peaks Off-Road Vehicle Recreation Area, and an ARCO pump printout for nineteen gallons of premium gas.

"Why did you save these?"

"In my bracket you take every tax deduction you can get."

"This was business trip?"

"Research. I might play a dune buggy racer in my next film." Travis flashed another quick smile. "At least as far as the IRS is concerned, that's my story and I'm sticking to it."

Katz flicked his eyes and Furley hurriedly copied Travis's comment, word for word. They spent half an hour longer questioning Travis and the maid but learned nothing significant. Travis signed a consent for a trap on his phone, gave them his contact numbers and promised to call if he heard anything from his wife. A babble of noise erupted outside and red and white flashes lit the sky.

"Happy new year," Furley said in a flat tone.

"Hell of a way to spend New Year's Eve, Marian and Sarah missing like this. You think they're okay, don't you? It's probably just car trouble or something, right?" Travis looked expectantly at Furley then frowned and drained his glass.

Ten minutes later Katz and Furley were following the twisting walk back to the street. A few distant pops tattooed the night.

"Why didn't you let the maid fix us a sandwich?" Furley complained when they reached the gate. "I'm starving."

"Listen, you never take favors from a suspect. You're already on his turf. You don't make it worse by accepting his food."

"How many times has somebody given you a cup of coffee on the job?"

"A glass of water, a cup of coffee, a Coca Cola, okay, but you never break bread with a perp. You've gotta learn that, Jack."

"When did he become a perp?"

"Did he seem like a broken-hearted husband to you?"

"Not so much. "

"You ever had a millionaire just happen to save a cash register tape for a ten dollar lunch?"

"That could be for the IRS, like he said."

With a grunt Katz settled into the Crown Vic's passenger seat.

"Sure, and OJ was framed."

"I'm just saying--"

"Jack, listen to me. This is not going to end well. Running this case is going to be like slogging through twenty miles of rain-soaked shit and it isn't going to be pretty when we get to the end." Katz glared at the eight foot high wall. "Let's get the hell out of here. My knee's killing me."

* * *

Steve dropped the report and closed his eyes. Would he have been better off if Lynn had just disappeared, if her body had never been found, if he had never gone after the monster who had killed her? A vision of Alan Lee Fry's face filled his head.

Chapter Four

Somehow you expect the important events in your life to be highlighted with signs and portents like the scene in the movie where the cop notices the lipstick-stained cigarette next the body and the music swells. In that instant the hero knows who the killer is and that she's there, in the dark behind him with her pistol centered on his spine. But in real life our turning points slip past us unnoticed until it's too late for us to do anything but remark later on what we have lost.

It had been just such an ordinary day when Alan Lee Fry had showed up at Steve Janson's cubbyhole at the D.A.'s office. Janson was the paperwork monkey on the Headless Killer case, preparing the dozens of subpoenas and search warrants the detectives needed in order to narrow the list of suspects. Phone records, bank records, credit card purchases, auto repair invoices, DMV transfer forms, orders for the collection of DNA samples, the scud work that a lawyer has to do to keep a major case moving forward all fell on him. If he was lucky and the cops caught the guy, Steve's supervisor might let him second or third chair the trial. He might even get to cross examine a couple of witnesses.

At about eleven Steve was distracted by the beep of his phone. "Mr. Janson, there's a Mr. Alan Lee Fry here to see you."

"What's he want?"

"He says it's about the Headless Killer case."

"Does he look like a nut or a reporter?"

"I don't think so."

"Okay, send him back."

A few moments later a slender dark-skinned man about thirty years old appeared in Steve's doorway. "Mr. Janson?"

Steve gave the guy a brief glance -- dark gray sport coat, burgundy silk shirt, gray slacks, black shoes, Italian, expensive.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Alan Lee Fry." He said as if his name carried a deeper significance which was so self-evident that no further explanation was required -- I'm Alan Lee Fry, the richest man in the world, or I'm Alan Lee Fry, the President of the United States.

"Yes?"

Fry stepped into Janson's tiny office and plopped into the only chair. "You ordered the police to search my home," Fry said in an accusatory tone. Steve frowned. He didn't
order
the police to do anything. He had probably processed the paperwork that
facilitated
the search of Fry's home.

"The Superior Court ordered the search of your home, Mr. Fry." The unsaid words,
So What?
floated like smoke in the air.

"Then why is your name on the papers?"

How dare you inconvenience the incomparable Alan Lee Fry?
his tone seemed to demand.

Steve could have taken a deep breath, smiled and carefully explained that he was merely the Deputy D.A. who presented the cops' search warrant request to the Judge. That would have been the polite thing to do. But Fry's tone irritated Janson and challenged him in some unconscious, primal way. Unbidden, hormones dripped into Steve's blood and he found himself spoiling for a fight as if another, more violent man, had suddenly invaded his body.

"What's your problem Mr. Fry?" Steve snapped.

"Your police officers made a mess of my house!"

Steve bobbed his head in mock regret. "Sorry to hear that."
As if I care
.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"You can file a claim with the City Attorney's office for any damage."
For all the good that will do you
.

Fry glared and for a moment Steve wondered if he was going to get physical, then, in an instant Fry changed. His shoulders slumped, his head pulled back.

"So, there's nothing you can do?" he asked in a smarmy tone that, if anything, enraged Steve even more.

"Obviously the detectives thought you might have evidence that was relevant to their investigation. I processed their request for a warrant. The judge signed it. They did their search. That's pretty much how things work."
So, stop wasting my time.

"I understand," Fry said with a sudden, saccharin smile. "I'll handle this another way."

"You do that. Claim forms are on the Internet at the L.A. City Attorney's web page. The Board of Supervisors will have six months to rule on your claim. After they reject it, you can sue the County if you want to."
Good luck with that.

Fry's face went cold and flat. "Beautiful woman," he said, nodding at the photo on the corner of Steve's desk.

"What?"

"Your wife?" Fry pointed at the picture of Lynn standing under a tree in Griffith Park.

"Mr. Fry--"

"I noticed your ring." Fry gestured to Steve's plain gold band. "Any children?"

"I think you should . . . ." Steve began, rising.

"No, if you had children, you'd have pictures of them, a man like you."

"What do you mean, 'A man like me'?'"

Now it was Fry's turn to stand.

"You're very territorial, aren't you, Mr. Janson? You protect what's yours."

"You need to--"

"I understand that. I'm very territorial too. Of course, I don't have a beautiful wife, like you do. I've never been very lucky with women." Fry sighed. "No, for me, my work and my home are what I care about. I don't like having either of them violated, defiled by you and your cretinous thugs. I--"

"Get out of her, now!"

Fry paused a heartbeat, then smiled with all his teeth. "I understand how you feel, Mr. Janson. Unfortunately, I don't think you understand how I feel. But you will."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"The City Attorney's web site you said, for the claim forms? I'll make my claim, don't doubt that for a moment."

Fry gave Janson another smarmy smile and then walked out.

This was the point, Steve later decided, when a benevolent God would have tapped him on the shoulder and given him a wink or a nudge. But eerie music did not swell, no lightning bolts split the sky. Instead the sun still shined, the birds still chirped, and the phone was silent for the rest of the day.

No one from the DMV called and warned Janson that someone calling himself Lawrence Adams had claimed that Steve had dented his car in the Bloomingdale's parking lot. No one told him that they had given Mr. Adams Steve's home address. The manager of his apartment house didn't notice the well dressed man who knocked on Steve and Lynn's door. The technicians at the police crime lab didn't rush to process the items seized from Fry's home. If they had they would have discovered blood and tissue matches to evidence left on the first two of the Headless Killer's victims. But the sample sat in their overcrowded In-Tray.

So, Steve filled out his papers in nerve-deadening solitude, left a message on Lynn's cell saying that he would be late, and around nine finally returned to a home that after that night he would never set foot in again.