Self-Defense (53 page)

“It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “If Karen
had died accidentally, they could have left her on the grounds for someone else
to discover. Some bad publicity, but by then OD’s were no big deal, every week
another rock star was collapsing. There would have been nothing to connect the
body to them, no need to pay anyone off. I don’t buy it, Milo. We’re talking
nasty guys partying with a naive young woman. Graydon-Jones said she was a
virgin Friday night but not Saturday. He and App gave her drugs and it got out
of hand.”

“Maybe. But with the bone fragments we’ve
managed to pull up, you’ll never prove it—it
is
definitely her, by the
way. We found enough teeth to match, got confirmation from the odontologist
this morning.”

“Have you told Sherrell yet?”

“Yeah, I went over in person, early this
morning, to his food bank.”

“How’d he take it?”

“Like it had just been a matter of time.
Then he thanked me and went back to unpacking Rice-A-Roni.”

“Poor guy. I called his son this morning.
He started sobbing, then hung up.”

He ran his hand over his face.

“If it ever goes to trial,” I said, “App
and Graydon-Jones will make her sound like a whore.”

“It probably won’t, Alex. With everything
else going on, an accidental OD won’t prioritize.”

“What about two bona fide homicides,
Mellors and Felix Barnard?”

He took a bite of cruller and wiped his
lips. I could hear Leah Schwartz’s voice through her office door, rising in
pitch.

“Same problem,” said Milo. “Without some
sort of evidentiary chain linking Mellors and Barnard to Karen, all we’ve got
are two unrelated shootings. Only link to App is he owned the motel and half of
the insurance company that Graydon-Jones runs. So far neither of them are
talking.”

“Why not make them think you’ve got more
than you do, then try to wedge them apart?” I said. “After a year dealing with
Shwandt and his girls, they should be nondairy creamer for you.”

Leah Schwartz came out of her office,
flushed and hot-eyed. The three of us walked out into the hall.

“Politicians,” she said. “They should all
be drawn and quartered. We’ve got a couple of days to turn something up, or the
Best girl’s case goes to the bottom of the list. Meaning no indictments, and
the DEA gets to play Supermarket Sweep.”

Milo said, “Couple of days? We talking to
the hour?”

“I can probably wangle fifty hours if we
get on some kind of track.”

“Well.” He got up and stretched. “Rome was
built in two days, right?”

She laughed. Up to then, I’d never seen
her smile.

We were fifteen hours into that edict now.

Graydon-Jones still had his hand cupped
over his lawyer’s ear. He was in jail blues that nearly matched the hue of the
attorney’s suit. The lawyer was a lanky, prematurely white-haired handball
player named Jeff Stratton. Everyone knew about the handball because each time
he showed up at 8A.M.,he announced he’d just gotten off the courts and pulled
some kind of injury.

He pushed his chair away from
Graydon-Jones and waved a finger. “Ready.”

A microphone on our side of the mirror
amplified his voice.

Leah Schwartz put the bug back in her ear.
She and Milo went in and sat around the table, facing Stratton and
Graydon-Jones. I turned on my hand mike.

Leah Schwartz said, “So, Jeff.”

“We’ll hear what you have to say,” said
Stratton, “but we won’t respond.”

It had taken an hour to get that far.

Leah said, “Detective Sturgis?”

Milo said, “Mr. Graydon-Jones, from your resume,
you seem like an intelligent guy—”

“Hold on,” said Stratton amiably. “Is this
going to get personal?”

Leah said, “Of course, Jeff, doesn’t it
always?” She looked at her watch. “Listen, I’m really pressed. If we can’t plow
through this quickly, let’s just forget it and we’ll let your client take his
chance with not knowing what’s going on until pretrial discovery.”

“Mellow out, Lee,” said Stratton. Every
white hair was in place, flowing over his ears. His tie was printed with golf
clubs. He wore a wrist bandage. “No need for sarcasm or egregious
vituperativeness.”

Leah looked at Milo. “Try to watch your
vituperativeness, detective. For all our sakes.”

Milo frowned at her.

“Go on,” she said impatiently.

Stratton smiled. Graydon-Jones maintained
a deer-in-the-headlights expression.

“Okay,” said Milo, placing both hands on
the table. They covered a good part of it. Stratton tried not to stare at them.

“Okay... Mr.—um, Graydon-Jones, like I
said, you’ve got an impressive resume, people in the know say you’re a real
insurance demon. So we’re a little puzzled as to why you keep letting Curtis
App call the shots.”

Graydon-Jones glanced at Stratton.

Stratton shook his head.

Graydon-Jones said nothing.

Leah looked at her watch.

Graydon-Jones looked up at the ceiling.

I said, “Go for it,” into the mike.

Milo said, “He’s blaming
everything
on you, friend. Including the drugs. He says
you’re
the one got him into
dope.
You
were a big user during the seventies.
You
corrupted
him. He also says it was your idea to launder dope through Advent and
Enterprise and that you
interfaced
with narcotics dealers in England and
France and Holland and sold them insurance policies that helped them organize
their money laundering—”

“Bloody lies!” said Graydon-Jones. “That
was just a contract like any other, I had no idea who they were.
Curt
sent them—”

Stratton touched his hand, and he stopped
talking.

Milo said, “I’m just telling you what
App
says. He also claims he had nothing to do with Karen Best’s death, that he
wasn’t even present when she died, and that you and Terry Trafficant and
Joachim Spretzel strangled her—”

“Oh, bloody bullshit. Spretzel was a
faggot, and Trafficant wasn’t even—”

Another touch from Stratton.

“Trafficant wasn’t even there?” said Milo.

No answer.

“Okay, let me finish App’s story: He and
the three of you were partying with Karen, he left to urinate, and when he came
back she was dead in your arms and the rest of you confessed to killing her. He
says—hold on—” Pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket, he held it out of
everyone’s view. “Um, um, um—here we go: He says the only reason he got
involved in covering up her death was that he was worried someone had seen Karen
with him and that you threatened to expose his drug usage to his wife and to
tell her he’d been fooling around with Karen and some other young girls. He
panicked because he’d been doping and drinking and thought he’d be criminally
liable and when M. Bayard Lowell and Denton Mellors came in, shortly after,
unexpectedly, and Lowell said Karen should be buried and forgotten about, he
went along with it. He’s willing to plea-bargain to aiding and abetting and a
suspended sentence, in exchange for testifying against you in Karen Best’s
homicide. He’s also willing to trade information on your drug peddling in
return for reduction of
his
drug charges.”

He put the paper back in his pocket.

Graydon-Jones said, “Bullshit. He never
said any of that.”

“Call his lawyer,” said Milo. To Stratton:
“See if he takes your call.”

Stratton said, “Maybe I will.”

Leah looked at her watch.

“Bloody lies,” said Graydon-Jones.

“I have to say App’s story makes sense,
Mr. Graydon-Jones,” said Leah. “You
were
the one who drove up to Sanctum
with all those tools and garbage bags. You
were
the one who attempted to
murder three people so they wouldn’t excavate Karen Best’s grave. If you had
nothing to hide about Karen Best, why risk all that?”

“Because Curt
told
me—”

Stratton said, “My client has nothing
further to say.”

I whispered, “Let it ride.”

Milo yawned. Leah crossed her legs.

Graydon-Jones shook his head. Suddenly he
laughed. “All on me, lovely, lovely. So what now, counselor, do I
defend
myself or keep that low
profile
and allow these arseholes to railroad
me?”

Stratton said, “I need to conference with
my client.”

Leah looked at her watch and clucked.
“Last one,” she said, collecting her things.

Five minutes later, she and Milo were back
in the room.

Stratton nodded at Graydon-Jones. Graydon-Jones
was looking at Leah, not him.

Stratton said, “Chris?”

Graydon-Jones said, “First off, it’s all
bloody lies. I didn’t strangle her, no one did.”

“We’ve got bones,” said Milo. “Cervical
vertebrae that show evidence of—”

“I don’t care
what
the fuck you’ve
got, no one
strangled
her!
No
one! She was hit! He
hit
her. In the
jaw.”

Demonstrating an uppercut.

“In the bloody jaw,” he said.

“Who hit her?” said Milo.

“Curt, Curt.”

“Why?”

“Because she wouldn’t put
out
! He
wanted her, and she wouldn’t, so he slammed her under her jaw and she fell back
and hit her head and then he—did her. Then we couldn’t wake her up. I was
there! You won’t find me making up stories and denying that! We were
partying.
The
three
of us.”

“Which three?”

“Curt, me, and her. Trafficant was entertaining
his own fan club. Mellors was tagging after Lowell, as usual, bloody
sycophant.”

“What about Spretzel?”

“I don’t know; I told you he was a faggot.
Probably chasing boys.”

“Ah,” said Milo.

“Yes, I was with her, but I never hurt
her. I did nothing other than make a little time with her.”

“What kind of time?” said Leah.

“Kissy-kissy, grope-grope. She was on
my
lap, the old trousers rubadub.
I
was the one she liked, my mustache—I had
one back then—and my accent; she said it reminded her of Mick Jagger. She would
have put out for me. It made Curt jealous.”

Touching his mouth, he spoke through his
fingers.

“He was used to
tarts,
easy lays.
“Slip ’em the ’ludes and you can slip ’em anything else,’ he always said. She
wasn’t easy; she was a virgin, for God’s sake.” To Leah Schwartz: “Don’t look
at me like that. You want the truth, I’m giving it to you. That’s the way
things were back then—free love, no viruses, people doing their own thing.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Leah,
inspecting her nails.

That inflamed him. “What were
you
doing back then?”

She looked up from her nails and smiled.
“Going to school. Fourth grade.”

Graydon-Jones shut his mouth.

“Is that it?” said Milo. “That’s your
story?”

“It’s the
truth.
Curt got all
pissed
because she wouldn’t climb off my lap into his. When he tried to put
his tongue in her mouth, she turned her head and said “Yuck.’ Just like that.
“Yuck.’ Like she’d tasted something bad. So he bopped her and she fell back. It
all happened in one second. I’ll swear to it in court.”

“Chris,” said Stratton. To Leah: “I want
it clear that my client’s statement by no means represents a formal offer to
testify.”

Leah shrugged.

Milo leaned forward. “So that’s your
story.”

“That’s what my client just said,” said
Stratton.

“Then I’ll ask your client what I asked
Mr. App this morning: If you had nothing to do with killing Karen, why get
involved in the cover-up?”

Graydon-Jones chewed his lip. His hands
played with one another. A full minute passed, then another.

Milo sat back.

Leah looked at her watch and got up. To
Milo: “Win some, lose some.”

Graydon-Jones said, “I did it because Curt
supported
me.”

“Supported you how?” said Leah.

“Emotionally. Financially. The day before
that bloody party, he promised to buy six of my sculptures. And to commission a
huge atrium piece for his insurance company. I was a bleeding pauper. I hadn’t
sold anything since arriving from England. If you were an artist, you’d
understand. Curt offered to open up a whole new area of opportunity for me—I
thought he was a true patron. It wasn’t as if he
intended
to kill her.
She blew him off and he hit her—one of those
stupid
things. And nothing
I did would bring her back. I figured, why should he be ruined because of
something stupid like that?”