Cut to the Quick (6 page)

Kissick asked, “How much of the firm did Mercer own?”

Scoville’s eyes darkened and he laughed without amusement. “Too much.”

“Half? More than half?”

“It’s a privately held company.” Scoville leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “We don’t have to open our books.”

“We’ve heard that you and Mercer had been arguing a lot lately,” Vining said. “What can you tell us about that?”

Scoville raised a shoulder in a gesture that bordered on juvenile. “We were having a disagreement over the direction the company should take.”

“Tell me more.”

Scoville widened his eyes and spoke slowly, as if it
were necessary for them to understand. “Like I said, Marquis is privately held, and our affairs are nobody’s business. Except the IRS.”

Nobody laughed at the lame joke.

Vining leaned toward Scoville. “Mark, your business partner and his girlfriend were brutally murdered. We’re going to find out what you and Oliver were arguing about. I bet a lot of people know. Your secretary, your chief financial officer, your golf-club buddies … Oliver probably talked to his people about it. Since we’re going to find out anyway, you can save us a lot of time by telling us now. Frankly, it’s making you look like you have something to hide.”

Scoville ran his hand over his receding hairline and then gestured toward himself. “Hey, I don’t have anything to hide. I already told you that. I want it understood that I had nothing,
nothing
to do with those murders. You want to know what Oliver and I were fighting about? Here it is. He had cooked up this deal with the CEO of an outdoor advertising firm in Vegas that wants to break into Southern California. The firm’s name is Drive By Media. They’re big in Vegas, which is an outdoor advertising mecca. I can’t go into details. Doesn’t mean I’m
hiding
anything. Just means there’s a deal on the table and it’s confidential.”

Kissick pressed. “You still haven’t told us what you and Mercer were arguing about. Mercer’s housekeeper said one day you and he looked like you were about to come to blows.”

“His housekeeper.” Scoville sneered. “Rosie.… By the way, you probably don’t know that he was bonking her as well as half the other women in his vast social circle. All those private clubs and boardrooms, the museum, the philharmonic, the Playhouse, the endless fundraisers, riding on the coattails of his family money
and name. Oliver was laying pipe all over Pasadena. He’d fuck a snake if you could hold it still.”

The detectives let him wallow there, waiting to see if he’d add anything else.

He glared at the table and stewed.

After a minute, Vining ventured, “What about Dena?”

Scoville bristled. “What about Dena?”

“Did Oliver make a pass at her, or more?”

“Everyone makes passes at Dena. That’s nothing new. When you’re married to a woman like Dena, you learn to live with it.”

“Does she flirt back?”

“When she wants to piss me off.”

Vining pressed, “Does it go any further than flirting?”

“I’m pretty confident it doesn’t.”

“Why is that?”

“Because Dena’s too ambitious. One of the big networks is courting her for a national morning show. She wouldn’t tarnish her all-American image for a roll in the hay with Oliver Mercer, or anyone else.” Scoville sniffed. “My point is, you should take what Consuela tells you with a grain of salt.”

The derisive way he dismissed the housekeeper got to Vining. “Rosie Cordova.”

“Whatever.”

Kissick leaned back. “So Mark, I’ll ask one more time. What were you and Mercer so heated about?”

Scoville sighed, tiring of the questions. “The deal with Drive By was bad—long story short. Oliver thought he was an astute businessman, but he didn’t know his ass from his elbow. He was a spoiled brat who’d gotten his way his entire life and hated to be told no.”

“But you said you’d brought him into the firm for his … business acumen, I believe were the words you used.”

Scoville leveled a gaze at Kissick. “I don’t like your tone, and I don’t like the direction this conversation is taking. I came down here on the pretense that we were going to talk about Oliver Mercer and his girlfriend and where they went and who they knew and things like that. Now I’m feeling under attack. You think I had something to do with those murders. I’m thinking it was a big mistake to talk to you without my lawyer.”

Kissick appeared hurt and surprised by Scoville’s outburst. “Mark, I apologize if I came on too strong. Like Detective Vining said, these are routine questions. It’s just procedure.”

“Procedure my ass. I know how you cops operate. The fact that you’re coming after me shows you don’t have shit. You’re grasping at straws. You’d be happy to hang this thing on me and call it a day.”

Scoville wagged his index finger at Kissick and turned it on Vining to show that she was included. “I want you to understand one thing very clearly. I had
nothing
to do with those murders. And any insinuation that I did is simply ridiculous. It’s more than ridiculous. It’s stupid. You know what? I’ll take a lie-detector test right now. You think I’m hiding something? I have nothing to hide.” He crooked his fingers. “Bring it on.”

“Mark, you’re being so cooperative. Thank you.” Vining gave him her best gap-toothed smile, which she knew helped her look guileless. “I apologize for my overzealous partner.” She shot a you-bad-boy glare at Kissick, who took on a hangdog look. “I mean, we bust in on you while you were having a nice afternoon with your family. Thanks for helping us out.”

“I’m sorry I got so heated,” Scoville said. “This has been a bad day.”

“Yes, it has,” Vining agreed. “So let’s see about setting up that polygraph.” She looked at Kissick.

“I’ll do that.” Kissick left the room.

Alone with Scoville, Vining sensed that he was traveling to a dark place. She milked it. “These murders … my God.”

He blinked at her. “It was bad?”

“Worst I’ve seen, and I’ve been at this a while.”

“What happened to them?”

“Can’t talk about details, Mark. Let’s just say it was nightmare stuff.” She chewed her lip. “Both of them in the prime of their lives. Everything to live for.…”

“Oliver and I weren’t best friends, but live and let live. I’m sure he’d say the same about me. It’s awful. I still can’t believe it.”

“Your mind can’t help but go to their final moments on earth. The horror.”

Her suggestion seemed to implant scary images in Scoville’s mind. Shaking his head slightly, he fell quiet and frowned at his hands.

She went on. “And their loved ones getting that knock on the door that everyone dreads. Praying that it’s all a bad dream. Then the realization that there’s no waking up from this nightmare.”

Still shaking his head, he murmured a small, agonizing sound.

Kissick returned. “Polygraph is set up for tomorrow at nine.”

Slightly dazed, Scoville asked, “Here?”

“Yes. Go to the information desk in the lobby and ask for Detective Vining or myself.”

“All right.” Scoville started to get up.

Vining put out her hand. “Mark, just one last question.… Is there anyone you know who might want to harm Oliver or Lauren?”

Halfway out of his seat, he again sat, following the direction that Vining moved her hand. “No. No one.”

“Anyone who might want to harm you or your family?”

Scoville thoughtfully shook his head.

“Any clients, suppliers, competitors.…”

Scoville continued shaking his head.

“Husbands of women Mercer was involved with … women who Mercer spurned … men Lauren was involved with.…”

“No.”

“Anyone with a grudge, who felt Mercer or you did them wrong.…”

Scoville suddenly frowned and pulled himself straight. He stared at the table.

Vining and Kissick exchanged a glance.

Kissick asked, “Mark, did you think of something?”

Still frowning, Scoville wouldn’t look at them.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, Mark,” Vining said. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I … I just remembered that I promised to take my son somewhere. I’m late. I’ve gotta go. To answer your question, I don’t know anybody like that.” He stood. “Looks like we’re through.”

“Sure,” Kissick said. “We’d like to spend a few minutes chatting with your wife, if that’s okay.”

He avoided their eyes. “I just told you. We’ve gotta go.”

Vining began, “What if Detective Kissick drives you home and I’ll take your wife back to Hancock Park later?”

“What’s so important about talking to her? She barely knew Oliver and Lauren.”

“Again, it’s routine investigative procedure,” Vining said. “No one here has anything to hide, right?”

Scoville rubbed his hands together and shoved them into his pockets. “Right.”

Kissick came around the table closer to Scoville. “Mark, what’s troubling you?”

“I told you. My son’s waiting.”

“Where are you taking him?” Vining asked.

“You know, I’ve had enough. I’m outta here. But go ahead. Talk to Dena. Bring her home later. That’s great.”

“Good deal,” Kissick said. “ ’Cause it’s no problem for us.”

Scoville held up his hands as if to smooth everything out. “No problem for me either. No problem at all.”

FIVE

A
fter Kissick
left with Scoville, Vining walked Hale to the interview room, passing Detective Tony Ruiz and newly minted Detective Alex Caspers.

Caspers’s eyes bulged as he watched Hale pass by in a snug baby-blue velour jogging suit, his focus laser-like as he followed the rear view.

Shortly afterward, Vining came out to get Hale something to drink.

“Caspers, your mouth is hanging open.” She playfully pushed up the chin of the oversexed young detective.

“Damn,” he said as if in pain. “Let me say it one more time.
Damn
.”

Ruiz was less enthused. “Who’s she?” Hostility was Ruiz’s typical M.O. when it came to things Vining. They had a long history. His station moniker was Picachu, as he resembled the bald, rotund cartoon character. He had
briefly trumped her, having assumed her desk in Homicide while she was absent for nearly a year taking Injured on Duty leave. Their boss, Sergeant Kendra Early, had since moved him to Assaults, where the energetic Caspers ran circles around him. And Vining was back at her old desk.

With the Mercer/Richards murders, Sergeant Early had brought in detectives from other desks under her control to assist Kissick and Vining, who were the only full-time homicide detectives. Vining would again have the pleasure of extended face time with Ruiz and Caspers. Vining found alpha male Caspers, who didn’t appreciate how wet behind the ears he was, easier to work with than Ruiz. What you saw was what you got. Ruiz, a nineteen-year veteran, was smoke and mirrors.

Vining said, “That’s Dena Hale, wife of Mercer’s business partner, Mark Scoville.”

“Isn’t she on TV?” Caspers looked at the wall of the interview room in which Hale was ensconced as if wishing he could see through it. The two-way glass was on an interior wall.

“Yeah? What show?” Ruiz asked with renewed interest. The fringe of hair around his bald pate still managed to litter his shoulders with dandruff.

“Hell in L.A.,”
Vining joked.

Caspers scrunched his face and then grinned. “It’s
Hello L.A
. You’re bad.”

“Meow,” Ruiz said.

Vining
was
being catty. It was invigorating. “She looks good … for her age. She’s forty-three.”

Caspers’s eyes widened. “Forty-three? No way.”

At twenty-eight, he had myopia concerning females past thirty. With several colleges in Pasadena, a major hospital, innumerable shops, restaurants, and museums, and a vibrant night scene that drew young people from
all over, there was no shortage of opportunities for Caspers and his buddies on the PPD to meet women. Caspers had not even been above dating crime victims, witnesses, E.R. room nurses, and, on at least one occasion, a woman he’d arrested. He protested that he’d collared her for petty theft, it was her first offense, and
she
had called
him
.

“Old enough to be your mother,” Vining taunted. It was a stretch, but let him do the math.

Ruiz snorted. “Caspers, like you would turn that down, if she gave you the time of day.”

“Like my father says, I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating crackers.”

“Who’s that?” Vining took stock of a man sitting in the conference room.

He appeared to be in his thirties. His head was shaved. He wore glasses with heavy black frames, the color stark against his pallid skin. His fresh white dress shirt was tucked into beige slacks. His long neck protruded ostrich-like above his shirt collar. He was sitting erect in the chair, his hands flat on top of the table. Even though his appearance tended toward nerdish, he was tall and broad-shouldered and could be physically intimidating. He was staring into space, his lips set into a line beneath a dark brown toothbrush mustache.

“You mean Adolph,” Caspers joked, referring to Hitler’s infamous mustache.

“That’s Dillon Somerset,” Ruiz said. “The guy who was stalking Lauren Richards. Works as a computer consultant. A few months ago, he did a project for the museum where Lauren worked. Went out for lunch with her and the other office employees a couple of times. The museum’s director said he did a good job. Was always polite and on time. No problems.

“Lauren’s mother said he asked Lauren out once but
she turned him down, saying she didn’t date because of her kids. Her mom said Somerset gave Lauren the willies because he was always staring at her. He’d leave little gifts on her desk. Wildflowers. Rocks. He’s big into backpacking in the wilderness. Once he brought her a chrome part from a car engine because he liked the shape of it. After he finished the job with the museum, he started hanging around Lauren’s house. He’d stand across the street, just watching. Leave things on her doorstep. When Lauren would head home after work, he’d be standing near her car.”

“Would he say anything to her?” Vining asked.