The First Cut (34 page)

Vining took the photographs of John and Pussycat Lesley from her portfolio. “You recognize these people?”

Sharon scrutinized them and shook her head. “Sorry. Who are they?”

“People who might know something. Call me if you think of anything.” Vining put the photos away. “So what are you going to do with this place?”

“I might move in. It’s closer to work and my boyfriend. We’re talking marriage already.”

“Congratulations.”

“Neither of us can believe it. We’re pretty in love. We get along good. But I’m not cohabitating until we get married. I don’t need that kind of aggravation.”

“I heard that. What does he do?”

“He’s a cop, what else? Deputy sheriff over in Malibu. Freaking cushy job. Hey, I know it looks harsh, Frankie’s not even buried yet and I have a guy here measuring for paint. I called Gerardo last night, thinking it would be a week before he’d have time to come by. He had a cancellation and was able to fit me in this morning. I had Frankie’s keys, so what the hell. Knowing Frankie, she’d tell me to get on with it. Now I have to decide what to do with all this stuff.”

She swatted at the clothing, then crouched down, spying something at the rear of the closet. “Ah-ha!”

She pushed clothes out of the way and dragged out a cardboard box. Kneeling on the carpet, she raised the lid to reveal vinyl record albums crammed inside. She pulled out a dog-eared Monkees album followed by a Beach Boys album. She flipped it over and read the back.

“Good. Found it. ‘California Girls.’ Frankie wanted that played at the service and she wanted it played off
this
album. These were her mother’s albums and that was her mother’s favorite song. Frankie wasn’t sentimental about anything except when it came to her mother.”

Vining was looking at the photographs on the dresser. Still stuck beneath the mirror frame was the toothy school photo of Frankie that she’d noticed the first time she’d visited Frankie’s home.

Vining pulled it out. There was handwriting on the back in a feminine script. “Says Frances Ann 11 years.”

“That’s the year her mother was murdered. See? I told you she was sentimental about her mother.”

“May I keep this?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

Vining slipped the photograph into her jacket pocket.

Gerardo called for Hernandez from the other room.

“I’ve gotta get out of here and take off for my other job. Let me finish with him.”

Alone, Vining looked around for the last time. She picked up the wig from the dresser. The head form was molded into a rudimentary face, blank and white. She touched the synthetic hair.

I am you. I am not you. Wear the pearls. Frankie, if you are really talking to me, why don’t you give me something I can use to arrest him?

Semis traveling the 101 freeway that ran behind the building rumbled the ground.

It’s just voices in my head, isn’t it? I’m following instructions from voices in my head. Me and Son of Sam.

She spoke out loud. “Stress. Stress is a killer. But I’m in charge now. Everything’s good.”

She returned the silver wig to the shelf and rolled the closet door closed.

Before she left the complex, she knocked on the door opposite Frankie’s unit where Mrs. Bodek lived. She showed her the photographs of the Lesleys.

“That gal, she could be the one who was here that day. She had the hat and sunglasses and all, but it could be her. Can’t say for sure.”

It was a common affliction. No one could say anything for sure.

Sitting in her car, she called Kissick.

“I’m confident the dental crown isn’t Moore’s. He confirmed Frankie had an abortion not long before she met John Lesley.”

“She met Lesley?”

“Yeah. Found a waitress at the Huntington Hotel who saw them talking and smoking on the patio. Flirting. Good witness. Clear memory of it because she was ticked off at Frankie for moving in on Lesley before she could.”

“Let’s go have a talk with Mr. Lesley.”

Vining feigned a shocked tone. “But he’s our citizen hero. Hands off.”

“We’re just personally delivering Lieutenant Beltran’s greetings.”

“I’ll meet you in West Hollywood at Lesley’s club,” she said.

“I’ll be there in a bit. I need to get a tattoo and my eyebrow pierced first.”

T H I R T Y

K
ISSICK HATED WEST HOLLYWOOD. TOO MUCH TRAFFIC AND TOO
self-conscious. There was a shortage of ordinary people going about their business, not thinking about how they looked every five seconds or where they were going to dine now that the fabulous chef with the hyphenated name had left for Orange County. Orange County! And what was with the gunk that the men put in their hair to make it stand up? Gel heads, he called them. Caspers was into the male personal products. Must be a generational thing. Kissick wasn’t quite forty, but he was feeling the trends passing him by. He’d already caught himself talking about the way things were when he was young. He was turning into his father. Maybe that was the real reason he hated West Hollywood. He didn’t get it. It made him feel old and out of step.

He’d found a parking spot across the street from John Lesley’s club, Reign. The art deco building had zigzag plaster friezes descending each side and was painted lighter and darker shades of chocolate brown. A silver awning extended from the front door. A shiny silver sign high on the façade had the club name in script within an oval.

He was willing to follow Vining this far, to West Hollywood to talk to a wealthy gel head who had flirted with Frankie Lynde, according to the hazy memory of a waitress, and who had verbally and physically abused his ex-wife. He wasn’t in a position to discount any angle.

He’d seen Vining instinctively work a case. Latch onto something that no one else thought was important, finding the pony in the manure pile. He’d seen it backfire on her, too. Not often, but it had. Lieutenant Bill Gavigan had saved her bacon a couple of times. Kissick didn’t think Sergeant Early would let Vining twist in the wind, but Lieutenant Beltran would if it benefited him. Kissick had observed Beltran becoming more political over the years. The lieutenant had always been mindful of appearances. Now it seemed he filtered every action through a lens to assess the impact upon his upward mobility. Kissick had gotten a load of Beltran’s venom that morning. He knew it was all about Beltran having mud on his face because the Thorne security DVD had been leaked.

He saw Vining drive past and turn onto a side street. He crossed the street and waited for her. A Latino worker was power washing the sidewalk in front of the nightclub.

He watched Nan walk toward him. She had a long, determined stride. She was a tall woman but did not compensate by hunching. The tight line of her jaw softened when she saw him, which made him soften.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi. Thanks for coming out.”

“Have you eaten yet?”

“I have but I could eat again after we’re done here.”

“That’s my girl.”

“I know what you want.”

He smiled crookedly. “Yeah…”

“Don’t start. You’re the one who’s saying how we maybe can’t work together. I’m not the one who went to that place.”

“I was thinking about a Pink’s chili dog. What are you thinking about?”

She gave him a close-lipped smile.

“And an order of chili fries.”

“And Zantac on the side. Advancing age…Gives a whole new meaning to doing drugs with your friends.”

“Indigestion will at least distract the hound dog in me.” He pinched her arm.

She held up her index finger. “I warned you.”

“You love it.”

She did, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

“So, Corporal Vining, how do you want to handle John Lesley?”

“I’ll do the talking, if that’s okay.”

“See if he has issues with women.”

“
All
men have issues with women.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That’s a sweeping comment.”

“It’s that womb thing.”

“If you say so.”

“I know so.”

“Oh-kay. You’re in charge.”

“I like being in charge.”

“Ooh…Yes, you do. I’ve never forgotten that.”

“Easy, big stallion.”

“See? You do love it.” He stepped over a soapy puddle and reached for the door.

She gave him a coy look over her shoulder as she walked inside.

They were both temporarily blinded when walking into the poorly lit place. The June gloom hadn’t yet burned off and the sunlight reflecting off the haze magnified the brightness outdoors.

Vining didn’t like the joint. It put her on edge.

“Can I help you?”

After blinking a few times, Vining located the source of the voice. He was in his twenties with a beard that looked like a Brillo pad stuck to his chin. He was unloading a case of Bohemia beer into a refrigerated case.

She and Kissick badged him. “Pasadena Police. I’m Detective Nan Vining and this is Detective Jim Kissick.”

He didn’t give the credentials a second glance, making Vining wonder if detectives were a common occurrence there.

“What’s your name?”

“Aaron Black.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Over a year.”

“What hours do you work?”

“Depends. Five to three. Noon to ten. Four nights a week. What’s going on?”

From her portfolio, she pulled out a photograph of Frankie Lynde in street clothes at a family barbecue. She had selected that shot from Frank Lynde’s collection as it had not been broadcast around the globe. “Ever see her here?”

Aaron took it from her and scrutinized it. He raised a shoulder. “Lots of women come through here. I don’t remember her specifically.”

Vining put the photo away. “John Lesley around?”

“Yeah, John’s here.” Turning his back to them, Aaron picked up a phone behind the bar, punched at the keypad, and had a quick conversation.

“He’ll be right down.”

“Thanks, Aaron.”

“No problem.”

Vining crabbily corrected him. “You’re welcome.”

“Huh?”

“It goes, thank you, you’re welcome. Not thank you, no problem.”

“Nhn.” His raised eyebrows conveyed he was humoring her. He resumed working.

She grimaced and turned away.

“You’re in rare form,” Kissick observed.

“Somebody’s gotta tell this generation how to behave. I thought our generation was bad, raised by hippies. This new one was brought up by computers and Xboxes. They’d have been better off raised by wolves.”

He didn’t respond but his body language communicated that he was keeping his distance.

This place
had
gotten under her skin. Bitchiness was her smoke screen.

They strolled around. Dim overhead lights revealed stains in the carpet, nicks in the furniture, and scratches on the bar and dance floor.

“Caspers claims this dump is the peachy keen joint in town,” Vining commented.

“Seeing a nightclub during the day is like picking up a woman you thought was beautiful and the next morning realizing it was all makeup.”

“Common occurrence for you?”

“Hardly ever. Two, three times a week. I’ve cut back.”

She shot him a glance.

He surveyed the aquariums lining the walls. “No fish?” he asked Aaron.

“Not the kind with gills,” the bartender responded.

“Female humans, according to Caspers. Surgically enhanced, I bet.” Vining patted Kissick on the sleeve. “You ought to get John Lesley to put you on the guest list. You’d have new standing with Caspers and the younger guys. I can see it. You and Beltran at the bar, knockin’ ’em back.”

“Bar, hell. VIP room. I suspect Lesley’s a guy who knows how to treat law enforcement. Good for business.”

A rectangle of light shone as the front door opened. The fresh air seemed like an alien intruder. Silhouetted in the doorway was the workman from outside. He lugged in the power washer and rolled it to a storeroom.

Aaron tossed an empty box into a pile and ripped open a case of Sam Adams.

The lights in the aquariums went on, bathing the room in blue. The water sloshed as the workman cleaned the inside of the glass with a long-handled squeegee.

A door at the top of the stairs in back opened and a man descended. He had a confident bearing, moving quickly but not hurriedly, as if he wouldn’t rush for anyone or anything. He crossed the dance floor that was cast in a blue patchwork from the aquariums. He almost looked submerged underwater, rising toward the surface as he drew near.

Vining thought of the fragmented, indistinct image of a man she’d seen that day in the conference room while peering into Frankie’s aquamarine gemstone. With each step that Lesley took, the facets of the image in her mind shifted as the bits of colored glass in the kaleidoscope turned and turned, taking form, becoming clearer.

He was upon her. Lesley’s image clicked into place.

A chill tingled her spine.

“Hello, I’m John Lesley.”

He offered them both a disarming smile but beamed at her a beat longer. It was the subtle flirtation of a skilled seducer, who knew a hint of heightened interest was more powerful than overt flirting.

She swallowed drily, briefly at a loss for words. The fluttering beneath her ribs unsettled her. “I’m Detective Nanette Vining and this is Detective Jim Kissick from the Pasadena Police Department.”

“Aaron told me. Welcome. I’m an avid booster of the PPD. Lieutenant George Beltran and I are friends. Maybe you know that. We just played golf last week. Great guy. A real asset to your organization.”

“I understand you’re one of our citizen heroes,” Vining said.

“Oh, that.” He raised his hands in a what-else-could-I-do gesture. “Right place, right time. It was terrific for the PPD to honor me, but I only did what anyone would have. At least, I hope anyone would have.”

“Chase down and tackle a man who had robbed an elderly couple? I think not.”

“Guess I’ve always been a bit of a daredevil.”

“Have you?”

He was flirting with her. And she flirted back. Being with John Lesley made her tremble deep within, yet it was titillating. She recalled T. B. Mann’s arm around her waist, tightly pulling her against him so he could feel the blood draining from her. Now, she completely understood. In just the same way, she craved John Lesley’s death.