A Death In Beverly Hills (14 page)

"Oh, there's a movie in it, all right" Steve agreed. "I'm just worried right now about how it's all going to end."

Chapter Twenty-Two

Steve checked again with Glenn Malvo's office. 'Maybe he'll be back by the end of the week' was the best they could do. The in-tray on his fax machine was still empty. Apparently he was going to have to bounce Riley Fontaine's head off his cash register to get that list of Marian's girlfriends. He thought about trying to shake some answers out of Tom Travis, starting with 'Who's your old friend, the stuntman, and where can I find him?' and ending with 'Did Santana Sinn give you AIDS?' Sure, that would work. Steve was convinced that Travis was incapable of giving anyone a straight answer that might make him look bad. Who else had been close to Tom Travis who might be able to suggest a motive or a suspect? Steve could think of one person, Kaitlen Berdue. According to the police report, Kaitlen worked at the All About You Spa & Wellness Center in Westwood.

Steve knew he was in trouble the instant he walked in the door.

"Help you?" the clerk, a hunky Black kid, asked in a disinterested tone. Steven glanced in the mirror behind the counter and did a quick mental check: gray flannel pants, fly zipped, black Burberry sport coat, white shirt, black wing tips, black socks, yes, he had shaved and combed his hair.

Steve pulled out a card, one of the new ones that said "Law Offices Of Gregory Markham, Steven Janson, Senior Associate" and slid it across the counter. The kid glanced at it for a millisecond and flicked it back with the snap of a perfectly trimmed nail.

"I wonder if I could talk with Kaitlen Berdue."

"We don't allow visitors during working hours," the kid, Marcus, according to his name tag, said with a frown.

"I'll only need--"

"I guess you didn't hear me." Marcus straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest like some movie version of a mobster's bodyguard. "She's doesn't see anyone but customers during working hours."

"Fine, I'm a customer. Sign me up."

Marcus's lips twisted in an evil grin. "Sure, that'll be one-twenty-five for an introductory membership. That entitles you to up to four hours of yoga training per week for the first month."

What a rip
! But, Steve consoled himself with the fact that it was Tom Travis's money.

"We take VISA," Marcus prompted, holding out his hand.

"So, I can get a lesson with Kaitlen as soon as I sign up?"

"All our lessons are conducted by licensed Yoga instructors."

"I want to see Kaitlen Berdue."

"You can have any instructor who's on duty and who has room in her class. Card please."

"Is Kaitlen on duty now and does she have room in her class now?"

"We don't work that way," the kid said in a flat voice. Steve put his wallet back into his pocket. "Sir, this is private property. If you're not a member, I'll have to ask you to leave."

"And if I don't? You want the cops in here dragging me away in time to make the six o'clock news?"

"Sir," Marcus said, smiling and flexing his muscles, no doubt envisioning himself as a younger, blacker, Arnold, "I don't need any help from the police."

Steve just looked at him, struggling not to laugh. "Marcus," he said in a lighthearted tone, "you've been watching way too many movies. Why don't you . . . ." from the corner of his eye Steve caught a glimpse of lustrous black hair, red pouty lips, prominent breasts, all stuffed into a pink leotard, and he immediately headed across the room.

"Excuse me, Miss Berdue," he began before Marcus could get out from behind the counter. "I work for Tom Travis's attorney. I'm helping with Mr. Travis's defense. I was hoping that I could talk with you for a few minutes." Steve held out another of his cards.

For a moment, Kaitlen gave him a confused look, then, tentatively, accepted the card.

"I'm sorry, Kaitlen," Marcus said, grabbing Steve's shoulder. "Ill get rid of this guy."

"Please take your hand off my shoulder," Steve asked with exquisite politeness. Marcus grabbed tighter and began to pull him toward the door. Steve gave a little mental shrug, turned, grabbed Marcus's wrist, twisted, and swept the kid's foot out from under him. In about a quarter of a second Marcus was face down on the sweat stained carpet, his right hand locked against the base of his skull.

"Look, kid, I was on the LAPD for nine years and in that job I had to deal with
real
bad guys. I don't want to hurt you, so I'm going to let you up and you're going to go behind that counter and we're going to pretend this didn't happen. Okay?" Steve released the kid's wrist and stepped back. Marcus slowly got to his feet and, scowling, stomped back to the cash register. "Now he's going to call the cops and make an even bigger fool of himself," Steve told Kaitlen in a stage whisper. Marcus scowled some more, apparently his favorite expression next to his macho man act, and angrily punched the buttons on the phone.

"Marcus," Kaitlen called, and when she had his attention, shook her head.

"This guy can't--"

"Marcus, it's fine, really. Please don't call the police. It will only get in the papers and make things worse for me."

Marcus paused for a second. "Fine!" he snapped and slammed down the phone. "I'm going on break," he announced to no one in particular.

"My friends get a little protective," she told Steve, giving him a little girl smile that almost melted his heart.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause any trouble. I just need a couple minutes of your time and I'll be out of your hair."

"My lawyer told me not to talk with anyone. She said it might compromise my testimony."

"I understand, but I'm not here to interview you for the tabloids or get a product endorsement. I can guess how you feel about Tom Travis but whatever he's done, he didn't kill his wife. I don't blame you if you hate him--"

"I don't hate him. He hurt me, that's all. It's not the first time but . . . this one was really bad. All those terrible stories in the paper and the things the reporters shout at me. . . ." Her eyes glistened with the first hint of tears.

"I'm on your side, Ms. Berdue, really I am. But that doesn't mean I can't be on Tom Travis's side too. You gave the police hours and hours of your time to help them get evidence to convict Tom. Can't you give me three minutes to help me get evidence to prove that he's innocent?"

Those big gray eyes turned up, studying Steve as if he were Indiana Jones promising that he would save her from the merciless villains who were pursuing her, if only she would trust him, and now, with the Nazi killers' footsteps pounding up the stairs behind them, she had to decide if she would.
Jesus
, Steve thought,
now I understand why Tom Travis was crazy in love with her
. You just wanted to fold her in your arms and protect her.

"Give me a couple of minutes," she said in that soft, innocent, breathy voice, and, the picture of grace and sensuality in one pink package, she disappeared into the hallway at the far end of the lounge. Steve looked around the deserted room and took a seat in front of the muted big screen that was showing a college basketball game on ESPN2. Five minutes passed, ten. What the hell? Had she slipped out the back? Steve checked the corridor. The only doors led to the men's and women's locker rooms and a fire exit to the parking lot.

Well, if she was gone she was gone. If not, she was in the women's locker room and he wasn't going in there. He decided to wait another five minutes before giving it up as a bad job all the around. Four minutes later the front door opened and the Beast walked in.

Five feet one inches tall without enough meat on her bones to keep a hungry poodle alive over a long weekend, Margo Mansell stormed into view. Newsweek had once called her 'The Angriest Woman In America.' Steve had seen seasoned prosecutors shrink away and bow their heads when she passed through the bar to address the court.

Today she wore a leprechaun green wool top and matching skirt with polished gold buttons, gold necklace, earrings and bracelet, her white blond hair poofed out to the size of a basketball in vivid contract to her muddy, latte-colored skin and cinder black eyes. Steve noticed her shoes and, unbidden, the image of her pounding one of those green three-inch spiked heels into his heart filled his brain.

"Steven Janson?" she demanded staring down at him, too close for him to stand without knocking her over, which, Steve decided, would not be a good idea. Steve held out his hand. It might as well have been a stick covered in ants. "What the Hell do you think you're doing trying to interview my client outside of my presence?"

"Miss Berdue is not an adverse party to any litigation, Ms. . . ?" Steve asked just to piss her off.

The Beast gave him a smile as icy as Siberia. "Margo Mansell. I represent Kaitlen Berdue. All communications with Ms. Berdue goes through me."

"So, if I want to ask her to, oh, pass the salt or hold the elevator or maybe give me the time, I have to pass that through you?"

"Now you're getting it," Mansell agreed, her teeth bared in a yawning wolf's grin.

"We can do this the hard way," Steve replied evenly, "subpoena her, sit her in a room for a day or two answering questions."

"Sounds peachy."

"Fine, we'll do it the hard way."

"I love the hard way."

"Of course, we'll have to pay extra to tape it, but I guess Tom Travis can afford the cost."

Mansell's eyes blazed.
No
, Steve thought,
you don't want your meal ticket on any video tape you don't own. No freebies for Sixty Minutes.

"We'll get a protective order."

"Be my guest. Get two. This is still a murder case and she's still a central witness and the defense has the right to take her video taped deposition." Mansell's normally puffy lips grew thin. "Of course, your protective order evaporates once the trial is over. But that's okay with you, isn't it? Your client just wants to help the judicial process, right?"

Margo shot him another dagger of pure hate, then took the opposite seat, gave him a brief, humorless smile and pulled a packet of folded pages from her emerald purse.

"Steven Janson," she began reading, "Uniformed officer with the LAPD for nine years," she paused and looked up, "what's the matter, couldn't pass the detective's exam?"

"Addicted to donuts and high speed car chases. What can I say?"

Margo scowled and turned back to her Internet printout. "Attended night school at the UCLA extension law school, went straight into the D.A.'s office where you eventually rose to a mid-level position trying undistinguished cases--"

"Does it really say 'undistinguished cases' or was that your editorial contribution?"

Margo gave him a 'you're not as funny as you think' grimace and continued, ". . . until your wife of three years, Lynn Burris, daughter of the Honorable Malcolm Burris, was murdered by a serial killer you had interviewed and let go." The Beast's eyes flicked up accusingly. "It's believed that you followed the alleged suspect to Havana where you murdered him in cold blood. Thereafter you were charged with acts of moral turpitude and, in a case of gross misconduct, that's me editorializing, you were only suspended from the practice of law for two years instead of being disbarred. As of now, you've got a little less than a year left on your suspension."

"Congratulations, you can both type my name into Google and print the result."

"Steven Janson, Senior Associate," Margo recited.

"And you can read too? You're a triple threat."

"And you're practicing law without a license."

"Does my card say, 'Steven Janson, Attorney At Law'? Did I miss the 'Attorney At Law' part?"

"Come on, Janson, everybody knows that 'associate' means a lawyer who's not a partner."

"Do they? Gee, then there must be a lot of lawyers working at Walmart because they're all Sales
Associates
, and at Computer World, because I'm sure I bought a printer last week from a guy whose card said 'Junior
Associate
'. You want to look up 'Associate' in Black's Law Dictionary and see if it says, 'Associate is a synonym for Attorney'?"

"We'll see if you're so smart when I haul you in front of the Bar Association."

"And we'll see if you're so smart when I sue you for defamation, tortious interference with contract, and invasion of privacy. I bet you've got a lot more money than I do. And there are all those wonderful punitive damages. Do you think I could find, oh, I don't know, twenty or thirty people who would testify that you harassed them and made their lives a living hell without good cause? A common plan, scheme and design as lawyers like to say. So, how about it, you want to be a defendant for a change or do you want to stop all this bullshit and get down to business?"

The Beast stared at him for a full second, then gave him her most frightening expression yet, a smile of true pleasure.

"You think that now that you've waved your legal penis in my face that I'll get all 'Let's be reasonable and work this out'? Dream on! You want to sue me? Do it! I'd love it! I will grind you up into a little paste and piss you into the gutter. I don't care how long it takes, five years, ten, twenty. I will keep you in court for the rest of your miserable life and then I'll tie up your estate for twenty years more after you're dead. You want to depose Kaitlen? Go ahead and try. Try to get your order. Try to serve it. Try to enforce it. Then try to get her to answer any questions. Then try to defeat my motion to quash. Then you can fight my appeal."