The First Cut (35 page)

Lesley again held her eyes for a second. Could he read her mind? She hoped so.

He rubbed his hands together. “How can I be of assistance to the PPD today?”

“Do you have someplace where we can talk?” Her mind was in chaos but she managed the right words.

“Let’s go to my office.” Lesley started back the way he’d come.

She followed him as she had followed T. B. Mann in that house. She didn’t feel panicked. Rather, she felt cool and in control.

She heard Kissick’s solid footsteps behind her. He was there, silent and appearing bored, but ever watchful.

Lesley stopped and hooked a thumb toward the bar. “Can I get you anything?”

She said, “No thanks.”

They climbed the back stairs. At the top, they went through a door with a small window and entered a private lounge. The wall that overlooked the club was of floor-to-ceiling one-way glass. A long bar was on one end of the room. Scattered around were cocktail tables and chairs and conversation nooks of couches, armchairs, and coffee tables. The décor was several notches above that of the lower level but nothing to write home about. Just being let past the door was reward enough. The windows gave a bird’s-eye view of the goings-on below.

“Our VIP room,” Lesley explained.

Behind the bar, he slid open a pocket door camouflaged with wainscoting and wallpaper. A peephole was barely detectable. They entered an expansive and plush room. A desk, bookcases, and business equipment were on one side. The remainder was decorated like a living room with a small bar and a baby grand piano. The outer wall was the same floor-to-ceiling one-way glass.

To Vining, the undeniable theme was seduction. If he had brought Frankie here, it would have been after hours. He had hatched his plan early, kept it in his back pocket, just in case there was that perfect solar eclipse of the moon and the night went pitch black.

Lesley invited them to sit in austere chairs while he positioned himself in a leather chair behind a hefty walnut desk.

Kissick’s attention was distracted by a large portrait on the wall behind the desk of a voluptuous nude blonde in a provocative pose with a wooden chair.

The small hairs on the back of Vining’s neck stood up. She recognized the woman as Pamela Lesley from the DMV photo.

Noting the object of their attention, Lesley proudly announced, “My wife, Pussycat.”

“Pussycat?” Vining repeated.

“Her given name is Pamela, but Pussycat suits her better. You have to agree.” Lesley leaned back in the chair and laced his hands behind his head. The gesture caused the knit golf shirt he was wearing to hug his muscular physique.

His appearance wasn’t lost on Vining, nor was she taken in by it. She understood how he would be a sweet diversion for brokenhearted Frankie Lynde.

The wall was covered with photographs of John Lesley with luminaries. Some included his wife du jour. In a large black frame with regal navy blue matting was his award from the Pasadena Police Department and the photograph of him accepting it, shaking hands with the chief.

“So, how can I help you?” He waited, looking from one to the other, meeting Vining’s benign smile with his own.

She leaned across to place Frankie Lynde’s photograph on the desk in front of him. “Do you know her?”

Not changing his expression, he picked it up. “Attractive female. I might know her.”

“What does that mean?”

“Detective Vining, I own a nightclub. Six nights a week, five hundred people come through here. I’m an affable host.”

“She should look familiar because you were seen talking with her at the Huntington Hotel poolside café the afternoon of the awards luncheon.”

He looked again. “Oh yes. I remember now. The police officer. I was there having a beer and she came out to smoke a cigarette.”

“And then what?”

“We talked.”

“About what?”

“The weather.”

He returned the photo, his eyes inscrutable.

“A witness said the two of you looked like you were flirting.”

He chuckled. “Flirting? I’m a married man, Detective.”

“Anything happen on your way out of Pasadena that day?”

“One of your finest gave me a ticket because the windows on my Hummer were tinted too dark. I had that taken care of weeks ago.”

“You argued with the officer.”

“I had a few choice words for him. It was a bullshit ticket written by an overzealous cop.”

He said to Kissick with a wink, “Letting the little lady run things, huh?”

Vining was not deterred. “Where’s your wife?”

He gave a languid shrug. “Home or shopping or having her nails done…Whatever wives with plenty of money and time on their hands do.”

He looked over his shoulder at the portrait. “She’s my queen. As long as she’s happy, I’m happy.”

“Does she know about your past?”

“Would you care to be more specific?”

“Your first wife has a restraining order against you.”

“That nonsense. She did that to get her picture back in the gossip rags. She’s a publicity hound and has a hard time dealing with the cruel fact that she’s no longer the hottest woman in the room. What you don’t know is the judge who signed off on the restraining order is the friend of a friend of hers.”

“A year ago, you were sued for sexual harassment by two cocktail waitresses who worked for you.”

“Both settled out of court. They only did it for the money. Which they got.” He frowned at the desk as if thinking. “Wait a minute…That woman you’re asking about. The one I talked to by the pool that day. She’s the police officer who was murdered, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Cops.” Movement of his chest showed he was laughing, but he didn’t make a sound. “I got crosswise of a couple of women who had it in for me and someone accuses me of flirting with a police officer who got herself killed. That’s all it took to bring you all the way from Pasadena to my place of business and imply that I’m a rapist and a murderer. Maybe it’s just me, but don’t you think you’re making a stretch?”

Vining didn’t answer.

“All I can say is I feel sorry for that poor dead woman if I’m the best suspect you’ve come up with.”

He left an opening for them to respond but they remained silent.

He laughed aloud. “I’m a hero in Pasadena. There’s a picture of the chief shaking my hand.” He gestured toward the framed photograph. “First, I get a ticket on my way out of your fair city because of the dangerous crime of having my car windows too dark. A complete waste of my time and money. Now, you two show up. One thing’s for double damn sure, I’m not
ever
setting foot in Pasadena again.”

He gave them a questioning look. “Did Lieutenant Beltran approve this interview? If he doesn’t know about it, he will in about five minutes.”

He stood and they followed. “If there’s nothing more, Detectives, I have things to do. Would you mind seeing yourselves out?”

“Thank you for your time,” Vining said.

“The pleasure was all mine. Good luck on your investigation. In my humble opinion, you’re gonna need it.”

“S
MOOTH SON OF A BITCH,” KISSICK SAID. HE AND VINING WERE STANDING BESIDE
his car across the street. “What’s wrong with that picture?”

“We didn’t announce to the media that Frankie was raped.”

“Interesting choice of words he used to describe Frankie: The police officer who got herself killed.”

“Like it was her fault.” Vining looked at the sign on the club’s roof. “Cocky bastard. Reign. Thinks he’s the freaking king. Calling his wife ‘my queen.’ Did you catch that?”

She was pacing back and forth.

“Calm down, big girl. You’re breathing through your mouth.”

She inhaled deeply. “He did it, Jim. I feel it.”

“He’s definitely worth a closer look.”

“I’m telling you he murdered Frankie.” She spun on her heel and walked away. After a few steps, she returned. “I know, I know. There’s that little issue called probable cause.”

“I’ll try for warrants for his dental records, the nightclub, and his house.”

She stared across the street at the club, her hands planted on her hips. “There’s bound to be a gun in that joint. Arrest him on a violation of the stay away order while we get the warrants in place. Bet we could get one of his employees to cop to the presence of a gun. Send out a cute female undercover, get somebody talking.”

Kissick unlocked his car. “I’ll call Early about the warrants while we head out to the Valley to visit Mrs. Lesley.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Vining walked to her car. The trembling beneath her ribs would not subside.

T H I R T Y - O N E

P
USSYCAT OPENED HER EYES AND SAW SUNLIGHT FILTERING THROUGH
cracks around the plywood covering the windows. The clock on the nightstand said it was one p.m. She had slept for eleven hours. She felt a weight on her chest and looked down to see her dog lying there, watching her with shiny doll’s eyes.

At her mistress’s glance, Mignon leaped up and began licking Pussycat’s face.

“Hi, sweetie. Mommy slept late. I’m sorry. Did you go pee pee on the newspapers? I hope so. Daddy will kill you if you did it on the rug.”

Pussycat’s offhand comment gave her pause. She remembered Lisa Shipp and her stomach roiled. It wasn’t a bad dream. It was real.

She sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. The door that separated the bedroom from the sitting room was open. Her mind was still hazy, but she thought she’d closed it when she’d gone to bed.

She saw a tray on the console in the sitting room. On it was an insulated coffee carafe and a silver dome. A spray of small white roses was in a bud vase. She’d been so deeply asleep, she hadn’t awakened when he’d entered. She was certain her husband had brought the tray and not Lolly. The housekeeper would have been told not to go near Pussycat’s suite of rooms, and she would obey. Lolly wouldn’t even question it.

Pussycat pushed herself up in bed. The dog nudged her hand to be petted. Pussycat gave in.

“What would I do without you, Mignon? You’re my only friend.”

She threw back the bedcovers. Her hand flew to her mouth at what she saw there.

Laid out on the bed beside her was the shirt from Frankie Lynde’s uniform, buttoned to the neck, the brass shield and name badge still in place from the last time Frankie had worn it.

Pussycat scurried off the bed. The dog began sniffing the shirt and Pussycat lurched to grab her up into her arms. She had wondered what he had done with Frankie’s clothes. Cradling the dog against her with one hand, she circled the bed, stretched forward, grabbed the bedcovers, and flung them all the way back.

The uniform was presented as if Frankie were wearing it, complete with the equipment belt buckled around the waist. The gun was in the holster. Stuck beneath the belt buckle was a folded sheet of paper.

Pussycat set down the dog and tugged out the paper, not wanting to touch the uniform. It was a note from him written in longhand. She always had a hard time deciphering his spidery handwriting.

“Good morning, Sunshine. Hope you had a good rest. I miss seeing that beautiful smile I fell in love with. I brought you coffee and your favorite breakfast—eggs Benedict. Fresh strawberries, too. They were so beautiful at the farmer’s market, I had to buy them for you. And I spiked the coffee for you—the way you like it. I want you to eat, ma cherie. I worry about you.

“I’ll bring dinner from the club. Put on Frankie’s uniform and be waiting for me. The three of us will have a bite to eat and then we’ll party. I’ll bring Miss Tina, too. Whether you get to party with her has to do with how you behave today. Even if you don’t care what happens to you, I know you care about your sister and your little niece and nephew and, of course, our sweet Lisa.”

She opened her hands and the letter fluttered to the ground. She collapsed onto the bed and began to sob, her hands convulsively grabbing the bedcovers and the uniform. The dog began yipping, responding to her distress.

Pussycat writhed and moaned, the uniform crumpling beneath her. She felt something hard beneath her thigh, something cold and dense. She recoiled, realizing she was on top of Frankie’s gun.

Wiping tears from her face, she sat upright and tentatively touched it, wrapping her fingers around the butt. Her hand felt feverish against the soothing cool steel. She tugged. The holster securely held it in place. She took hold of the holster in her left hand and pulled with her right. The gun came free. It was lighter than she thought it would be.

Pussycat knew how to shoot guns. Her father was a hunter and gun collector. She’d been handling guns since she was ten. She looked inside the base. He’d taken out the clip of bullets. Of course he had.

She looked at the empty slot at the bottom of the handle and started to cry again. She put the gun to her head anyway. Suddenly, she pulled it away. She had to stop thinking that way. It was a blessing that he’d taken the bullets. What would killing herself accomplish? Who would save Lisa if she weren’t around? Who would tell the story about what happened to Frankie?

She spotted a framed photograph of him on the dresser across the room. He was the one she should direct her venom against. He was the source of her problems, including that monkey on her back, that bitch Miss Tina.

She took aim and squeezed the trigger.

The gun felt like it exploded in her hands when it went off, shattering the glass and hurling the photograph to the floor. The kick jerked the gun from her grasp.

She screamed and buried her head under her arms.

He’d taken out the clip, but hadn’t cleared the chamber.

She dared to peek at his shattered face. It was only a photograph, yet she was shaking.

She fell to her knees and prayed.

V
INING AND KISSICK DROVE TO THE LESLEY HOME IN ENCINO, BUT NO ONE ANSWERED
the gate. They were debating their next move when John Lesley drove up in his black Hummer.

“Hello again, Detectives. What part of, ‘I didn’t have anything to do with your dead cop’ don’t you understand?”

“Where’s your wife?” Kissick asked.