Death in Daytime (15 page)

"I can do that," I said. "I remember all my conversations."

"We're going to have to try to figure out which one of them had a motive to kill Marcy," he explained, "and a motive to frame you, and
then
a reason to try to kill you now."

"And I can't go back home," I said. "The cops will be looking for me there. And the press . . ."

"Alex, I don't know if it's such a good idea to avoid the cops--"

"Look, screw them, Paul," I said. "Let them come and find me. I have to be out here trying to clear my name, not lying in the hospital like some poor, pathetic attempted suicide."

"Okay," Paul said, "okay. Well, let's start now. Later we can find a place for you to stay. You can stay with me. Bring Sarah and your mom."

"They'll look there."

"All right, then," he said, "we'll deal with that later. Right now let's start from the beginning and you tell me about the men you've talked to."

* * *

We sat there for a couple of hours and got a second pot of coffee. My headache came back and I wished I had some Tylenol or something, but I pushed through.

"You know," Paul said, when I was done, "I think I'd key on the daughter."

"Why?"

"It sounds to me like she had something she wanted to tell you. And then there's the husband. Husband or ex, he's usually the guilty party in a case like this. It makes more sense to me than some disgruntled actor from work killing her over some real or imagined slight in a soap script."

"You don't know how deeply invested these people are in their characters," I told him. "If you're not being written for at all or written for badly, that could make the difference between having a job on a soap or waiting tables. A simple change in a story line could mean a complete change in an actor's bank account and quality of life. I've seen it happen time and time again. And it's not fun. It could have and still could happen to me. How far would someone go to hold on to a modicum of celebrity and a substantial source of income? People have killed for far less, believe me."

"I guess you're right. So, I think our next move is to go talk to the husband and daughter again. If we're lucky you'll be able to get the daughter alone."

"Julia."

"What?"

"Her name is Julia."

"Okay," he said, "let's talk to Julia. You said they lived in Malibu?"

"Yes."

"Let's go, then."

I got up from the table slowly. I had the feeling if I got up too fast I'd pass out. My head had started pounding again.

"Are you sure you're up to this, Alex?" he asked, reaching out to support me.

"I'm up to it," I said, "but can we stop along the way for some Extra Strength Tylenol?"

The front gate was open. I might have thought something was wrong, except that it was open the last time I was there, too.

"I thought these people were fanatics about their privacy?" Paul said, driving through the gate and up the drive. "That's why they live here."

"I guess Henry Roswell is not that private a person," I said. We drove up to the front of the house, parked behind a black Lexus and got out. I tried the front door, just to see what would happen, but it was locked.

"We could go around the back and get in on the beach side," I said.

"I don't want to break and enter, Alex," Paul said.

"We just want to talk to the guy and his daughter."

"Fine," I said, trying to cover my nervousness,

"don't be any fun. See if I care."

The painkiller was working on my headache already, and I felt better. Paul rang the bell and we waited; then he rang it again.

"Can they hear this if they're out back?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said. "Certainly not if they're on the beach."

"Is that Lexus his car?"

"I don't know," I said. "I guess so, or it could be Julia's."

"Okay," he said, "let's go around back, but I still don't want to break in."

"Fine."

We walked around the house, taking the opportunity to peer into a window or two along the way, but nothing was moving.

When we got to the back I walked to the stairs and tried to see the beach, but it was out of view. We could see farther to the right and left, but not directly below us.

"Alex?"

I turned. Paul was standing in front of the sliding glass doors.

"They're open," he said.

"Would going in constitute breaking and entering?"

I asked.

"Well, maybe not in the strictest sense of the phrase," he said. "After all, we're not actually breaking--we're just entering. . . ."

I walked over and joined him in front of the door. On the way I saw something on the tiles outside. A spot--a red one, very smooth around the edges, about the size of a dime. I crouched down, studied it, then touched it with my finger. Tacky. It was blood.

"Paul?"

He walked over to me and looked down. I pointed to the spot. It was perfectly round. He stood next to me and studied it.

"Well, Mr. Forensics?" I asked. "Did somebody get killed out here so neatly that only one spot of blood fell?"

"It's round," he said. "It's more in line with a nosebleed--or like a spot of paint that simply dropped from a brush."

"It is blood, right?"

He crouched down, didn't touch it but examined it as closely as he could.

"It's blood, all right. Good catch, Alex."

He stood up.

"Let's go inside."

"Paul--"

"We can't call the police because we saw one drop of blood."

"I don't want to call the police at all."

"Well then, let's go inside and see if we can wake somebody up. But let's go carefully."

That was true enough. It wasn't noon yet, and some people did sleep that late. I'd heard about it on the news, but never got to experience it myself. Paul went first and I followed. He pursed his lips and gave a low whistle. I had been there before, so I knew the house was whistle worthy.

"Hello?" Paul called.

Nothing.

We moved farther into the house and he shouted,

"Anybody home?"

No answer.

"Should we split up?" I asked.

"No," he said, taking my hand, "I'm not letting you out of my sight."

I squeezed his hand, this time because I wanted to.

"Bedrooms must be upstairs," Paul said. "There's got to be a den or an office or something down here. Any ideas?"

"All I saw was the back, and then a walk-through," I said.

"Let's look around. I suggest we start upstairs so we don't get any surprises."

We went up and checked the bedrooms. They were empty, and the beds were made. There were no drops of blood anywhere. We checked closets and looked under the beds.

"Okay," Paul said, "nobody's up here, whether or not they belong. Let's check downstairs."

As we did I kept looking at the floor for more blood spots, but there were none. I hoped that was a good sign.

We peeked into a couple of rooms and found the one where Henry worked on his physique. The kind of stuff people who bought all those Something-flexes from the TV infomercials wished they could afford. And then we found what we were looking for at the end of a hallway. An office, complete with bookshelves, file cabinets and a desk.

"Okay," Paul said, "there's nobody home and the back door is wide-open. They've either gone for a swim or . . ."

"They didn't strike me as the kind of father/daughter who went for swims together."

"Then something's wrong." "Past experience tells me we should look under the desk."

"Good idea." He started forward, then stopped and looked at me. "Coming?"

As I dashed past him I said, "Coming. Of course I'm coming."

We moved forward slowly, eventually working our way around behind the desk. Bare legs and part of a bathrobe were the first things I saw. And a large pool of blood. Very large. It was Henry, all right, and he was dead.

Not again.

I bent down to get a closer look and Paul grabbed my arm, pulling me back.

"Stop, Alex! You don't want to compromise the crime scene!"

"I just wanted . . ."

"Try to control yourself. This isn't fun and games."

Paul had a point. I had to get past my innate curiosity about all things dead and focus on the big picture. This poor guy had been a living, breathing human being. A father, someone's son. Get a grip, Alex! Get your ass into therapy, maybe.

"Okay, so what do we do now?" I asked. I felt as if my feet were rooted to the floor.

"We call the police."

"The very people I'm trying to avoid."

"Do you want me to call them and tell them I found the body?"

"No," I said, shaking my head, "no, don't do that. We'll talk to them together."

He reached for his cell phone.

"Wait," I said.

"For what?"

"We have an opportunity here," I said. "You're the expert. You have a chance to examine the scene."

"Alex--"

"They're not going to let you do it, Paul," I said.

"They're going to kick us both out."

He frowned, looked at his phone, then put it away.

"Okay," he said, "a quick look."

We both crouched down to look at Henry.

"Is this how Marcy was when you found her?" he asked.

"Yes."

He reached out with one finger and probed the body.

"Still warm, no rigor."

"Like Marcy."

He nodded and we stood up. The top of the desk was a mess, as if someone had swept an arm across it. Some of the stuff was on the floor--a paperweight, pens and pencils. A laptop, which had been knocked askew, was perched precariously on the edge.

"Could've been a struggle," Paul said, falling into professional mode.

"What about a weapon?" I asked. "Marcy's Emmy was under the desk with her."

"There's no lamp on the desk," Paul said, pointing,

"but there is a round circle in the dust, here."

We crouched down again. There it was, underneath Henry, a lamp with a round iron base, the kind that extended and had a hinge so it could be adjusted. The kind that could have been picked up and swung.

"So there was a fight, and the killer picked up the lamp and hit him."

"Same as Marcy."

"Probably. Could be two different killers, though. Could be a coincidence that both exes were killed the same week."

"Could be," I asked, "but how likely is it?"

"Not very. Okay, let's get out of here into another room and call the cops."

"At least we know that everything is similar to what I saw in Marcy's office when I found her," I said as we left. "It's got to be the same killer."

"I agree."

"And I'd have no motive to kill her ex-husband," I said. "I didn't even know he existed until this week."

We left the room, careful not to touch anything. We left the door open, as we had found it. We walked through the house until we reached the kitchen, where he took out his cell phone again. He was about to pick it up when we heard something.

"What was that?" he asked.

"And where did it come from?"

We stood very still, and heard it again. It sounded like somebody crying.

"That door must lead to the garage," Paul said, pointing.

"That one might be a closet," I said, pointing the other way.

We each went to our chosen door and opened it. Mine was empty except for cleaning stuff--broom, mop, pail, rubber gloves, vacuum cleaner--plus an ironing board and shelves with closet stuff on them such as plastic drinking cups, cleaning fluids, detergents, towels and rags. I closed the door and turned around. Paul was coming back in from the garage.

"There's a nice silver Mercedes in there, but that's all."

We heard the crying again. This time we both looked at the marble-topped island that dominated the center of the room. There were doors underneath and we headed for it. When we opened the last one we found her, all curled up with her head down on her arms.

"Julia?"

She didn't move--just stayed there, sobbing.

"Julia, it's okay." I reached in and touched her arms.

"Come on, it's Alex. Come on out."

She unfolded, stuck her legs out and then scooted. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, no shoes. Paul helped her to her feet, and she fell against me, shivering and crying.

"She's scared stiff, Paul," I said. "You call the police while I try to calm her down. Maybe I can find out what happened."

"Right."

"Come on, sweetie," I said. "Let's go into the living room."

"No, no," she said, pulling away, "they might still be here."

"Who?" I asked. "Who might still be here?"

"I don't know," she said. "Whoever killed my dad."

"You know your dad is dead?"

She nodded.

"I--I heard them."

"Heard them killing him?"

Paul was talking into the phone and looking over at us.

"Julia, come with me," I said. "No one is here. We checked the whole house. It's safe."

I put my arm around her shoulders and led her from the kitchen to the living room, where we sat on a big sofa.

"Now Julia, tell me what you heard."

"My dad was arguing with somebody in his office," she said. "They were yelling. . . ."

"Could you hear anything they were saying?"

"N-no," she said. "No. I was . . . afraid. I don't . . . I don't like violence. It . . . scares me."

I wondered how this kid got to be her age and so skittish. The way the world was today, the way kids were, I was surprised. Most girls her age are already jaded.

"So you hid?"

"Yes," she said. "I didn't want them to find me."

"Do you know how many there were?"

She shook her head.

"I'm such a coward," she said. "I shoulda helped my dad."

"Julia," I asked, "you didn't see the person arrive? Didn't hear the bell?"

"I came in from outside," she said. "I was walking on the beach. When I got back the sliding glass doors were open, and when I came in I--I heard them yelling. I--I think I heard them fighting."

"Julia, how did you know your dad was dead?"

"I don't know," she said. "Somebody killed my mom, so I guess I just thought--"