A Death In Beverly Hills (30 page)

"I wanted to talk to you about those names I gave you."

"Uh-huh."

Fontaine's gaze grew shifty and he backed away from the table. "That was probably a mistake." Steve just looked at him. "I don't think I should have let you intimidate me that way. I don't think that's right." Riley gave Steve a defiant stare.

"Uh-huh." Ten seconds passed.

"Leslie Wahlberg called my dad. She told him you had talked to her about Marian. She told him that I gave you her name." Another long pause.

"And?"

"And," Riley continued as if talking to a child, "that made it look like I was helping you get dirt on Marian, and that's not right." Riley fiddled with his watchband. "I don't want any of that stuff she told you about Marian coming out in court."

"You mean the stuff about Marian being pregnant with another man's baby and her cheating on Tom Travis? That stuff?"

Fontaine's expression grew petulant, like a child working up to a pout. "Marian is the victim here and you're trying to make her into something dirty."

Remembering what a jerk he had been to Travis only an hour ago, Steve choked back a smart remark and reminded himself that the kid had point. Steve gently pulled Riley out of the stream of bargain hunters into a quiet spot near the chain link fence.

"Riley, you're right. Marian was a decent person who didn't deserve what happened to her. She is a victim. But Tom Travis is a victim too."

"But if you tell people--"

"We all do what we do. Marian wasn't ashamed of her actions, even if everyone else was. She was honest with Tom, honest with her lover, honest with everybody. If everyone were as honest and decent as your sister, this would be a much better world than it is." Riley frowned as if Steve's words had been delivered in a frequency beyond Fontaine's ability to detect. "I don't have any control over what the lawyers do."

"I could ask the judge not to let any of that stuff in. You got it out of me under duress," he pronounced the word carefully as if he had just learned it that afternoon.

"Riley, it's the D.A. who's going to bring all that testimony out, not me."

"The D.A.?"

"He thinks it gives Tom a motive for killing Marian."

Fontaine's face grew longer and he scuffed his foot on the asphalt. "This is going to kill my dad. He thought Marian was perfect."

"Nobody's perfect."

"Marian was, to dad. I was the screw-up. She was the one who counted."

Steve studied Riley's face, twenty-eight going on seventeen, somebody who watched the world spin past, not understanding much of any of it and not knowing why, and he felt sorry for the kid.

"Look, Riley, I talked to your dad. He's a very sharp guy. He understands people. He's the one who gave me your address. Do you think that your helping me was a surprise to him? Do you think that anything Marian did would be a surprise to him? He understood her better than anybody. Do you know what he'll say when he hears what Marian did?" Riley gave him a blank stare. "He'll say, 'Yeah, that's Marian all right. That's exactly what she would do.' And then he'll laugh because she would laugh at anybody who looked down their nose at her. From everything I've learned about her, Marian didn't care what anybody thought. All she cared about was doing what she thought was the right thing. Nothing's going to change that."

"But people are going to think . . . ." his voice slowed and died away.

"'To Hell with what people think,' that's what Marian would have said."

Riley looked back at the boxes of records. "It's going broke."

"Your store?"

"I'm such a loser."

"At running a store."

"What else am I going to do?"

"What would Marian tell you to do?"

"She always said I should find something I was good at."

"There you go."

"I'm not good at anything."

"Look harder."

"I have."

"A friend of mine told me that we have to look hardest in the places that we're most afraid to see," Steve said, remembering his conversation with Iron Mike. It wasn't all that different from the kinds of things Lynn used to say to him in the early days, before things had gotten so . . . tense.

"What?"

"Sometimes the things were afraid to see are the most important things of all."

"I don't understand."

"Understanding is overrated. Sometimes you have to just do it and figure it all out later."

"You're not making any sense."

"Actually," Steve said unable to avoid a flood of painful memories, "I am."

More confused than ever Riley wandered back to the record bins but only stared blindly at the labels and left without buying a single one.

Chapter Forty-Six

Steve called Markham from his car. "What's the latest from Foster about McGee's records?"

"I got the duty judge to sign a production order based on the D.A.'s last minute addition to his witness list. Foster's guy should be serving it on the Probation Department right about now. The rest of the stuff they'll have to get from the credit databases and their Internet contacts. They'll email each of us a copy of their report before court starts tomorrow."

"I'll check my email at six tomorrow morning. When's Hamilton going to rest?"

"He'll finish up with Sampson, Marian's divorce lawyer, tomorrow morning, and put McGee on in the afternoon. Thursday he'll call his tech guy to testify that the lamp cord is similar to the cord on the other lamps in the living room. He'll have a couple of other loose ends to tie up and I figure he'll rest sometime on Friday." Steve took a left on a yellow and ignored the glare from a guy in a Lexus 430 coming the other way.

"Can you stall starting your case until Monday?"

"I can try."

"Don't cross examine McGee right away. Put it off and reserve the right to recall him next week in case Foster turns up something useful."

"I hate to let his testimony sit there unanswered."

"Give me more time to get you something that will hurt him."

Markham paused then finally agreed. "All right, but I don't want McGee on the stand any longer than necessary. He a liar and he hates Tom. God knows what stories he'll make up if I give him an opening."

"Just have the judge order him back to court next week. You don't have to put him on the stand for long if Foster doesn't come up with something. Who else do you have?"

"My tech guy will testify that the lamp cord was generic and could have come from anyplace and I've got the people from the dune buggy trip subpoenaed to say that Travis didn't act like a guy who had just murdered his wife. I'm also going to call the maid to testify that Tom and Marian got along well. And, of course, Garsen will say that everybody had reached an amicable settlement on the domestic front. I'll probably put Garsen on Monday morning, as soon after McGee as I can to try to neutralize his story. That's it."

"You're not putting Tom on the stand?"

"Right after I shave my head and join the Hari Krishnas."

Steve pulled into his building and cut the engine. "I need more time. Can you stall?"

"With what?"

"I'll go through the reports and fax you a list of everybody who was reported on Travis's property in the two weeks before the murder, the pizza delivery guy, the gardener, the cable TV guy, the neighbors, everybody. You included them all on your original witness list didn't you?"

"Are you kidding? I've got half of Beverly Hills on my list. You always include everybody whose name shows up in the police reports just in case. Hell, I've even got the locksmith who installed the security system. Just out curiosity, what am I supposed to ask them?"

"'Were you in the house? Who else was there? Did you have a key to the house? Did you see anyone new in the neighborhood? How were Tom and Marian getting along when you were there?' Just keep them on the stand as long as you can. The more time I have the better. Who knows, maybe one of them will suddenly remember some stranger dressed in a black trench coat and sporting prison tattoos peering through a hole in the fence."

"That would be nice."

Steve turned the lock on his front door. "I'll fax you the list."

An hour later he lay sprawled amidst a sea of police reports, at his elbow was a yellow pad with eight names, the maid, Delfina Angelinez, Barry McGee, and six more, one of whom was the mailman who had appeared at the front door a few days before the murder just long enough to get Delfina's signature on a certified letter from Travis's tax attorney. Steve gave the page one final check then stuck it in the fax machine, one copy to Greg, a second one to the Foster Agency so that they could get their guys out serving the subpoenas.

Steve collected all the loose reports into a pile and put them back into chronological order. The next folder in the carton was the forensic report on Travis's house. It was one of the first documents he had examined. Steve glanced at the clock. A quarter to six. There was a frozen something or other in the freezer. The thought alone killed his appetite. He pulled out the folder and laid down on the couch.

There had been a few unidentified prints but Tom had had a catered Christmas party a few days before so the only unusual thing would have been if no prints had been discovered. Steve checked the list of identified prints. Nothing on Barry McGee. McGee was in the system so the prints from his drink with Tom must have been cleaned up before the day of the murder. Well, Delfina was a full-time maid.

Nothing except the lamp seemed to be missing from the house. The photos showed paintings, sculpture, electronic equipment, lots of expensive stuff lying around. Steve was ready to bet that Tom had at least one pair of ten thousand dollar diamond cuff links in his bedroom. Steve checked the file. There is was: "HO confirms that no jewelry or personal articles missing." No a robbery for sure.

A Luminol test had found no traces of blood or semen in any of the downstairs rooms. That Delfina was some maid. A faint trace of gasoline or some other hydrocarbon was found on the family room rug in a narrow line about ten inches long. Steve flipped through the report. No other traces of hydrocarbon spills anywhere in the house. No explanation for this one. Spot remover? Lighter fluid? It could be anything.

Steve closed the file, went to the kitchen and got a bowl of corn flakes. How could it be lighter fluid? Nobody used lighter fluid anymore. All lighters these days were butane. Spot remover in the family room? Delfina was neat-freak. Steve couldn't picture her spilling spot remover on a white carpet and not cleaning it up. Sure as hell Tom Travis wasn't removing any spots. The mystery tore at him like an unscratched mosquito bite. Steve finished his cereal then tracked down Delfina Angelinez's number.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Angelinez? This is Steve Janson. I'm working with Mr. Markham, Tom Travis's lawyer."

"Yes?" she said cautiously.

"Ms. Angelinez, can I talk with you for a couple of minutes?"

"You are helping Mr. Tom?"

"Yes, I'm working for Tom's lawyer."

"He did not do this thing. He would not hurt Missy Marian," she insisted in a pleading tone.

"I know he's innocent, Ms. Angelinez. I'm trying to prove it. I was reading the police reports--"

"They are wrong! It is not true. Mr. Tom is a good man."

"I know. Ms. Angelinez. That's why I'm calling. The report said the police found traces of gasoline or something like that on the family room rug. Do you know anything about that?"

"Gasoline? In the family room? It is not possible. I told you they were wrong."

"So you didn't use any charcoal lighter fluid--"

"No charcoal. We use propane, big grill in back. Mr. Tom likes to barbeque." Steve could hear the smile in her voice as she pictured Travis turning steaks on the grill.

"Did you use any spot remover or anything like that?"

"Impossible. The police are wrong. I tried to tell them. Mr. Tom didn't hurt anyone but they would not listen to me. Will he be all right?"

What am I supposed to tell her?
Steve wondered. "We're doing our best." Was there anything else he needed from her? Steve paused. "Ms. Angelinez, you came back to work the night Ms. Travis disappeared. . . ."

"Mr. Tom was alone. I came to help."

"How did he seem?"

"He was upset."

"Upset?"

"He tried to hide it, but he was worried when Missy Marian and Sarah did not come home. . . ."

Not necessarily helpful. People might interpret Travis's nervousness as evidence of guilt. Well, it had been worth a shot.

". . . he almost could not open the door for me."

"Open the door for you? When you came back that night?"

"The lock, it is . . . deadbolt. You need a key even when you are inside. He almost couldn't make it work. That's how I know he was upset."

What?
"Didn't you have your own set of keys?"

"The new key didn't work very good. It kept sticking."

"You had a new key?"

"Yes. New. Missy Marian got it for me but it did not work right. It always stick."

"What happened to your old keys?"

There was a long pause, then, embarrassed, Delfina finally said "Lost."

"Lost? When? How?"

"I don't know," Delfina said, clearly frustrated. "I always left them in the same place, then they were gone."

"Where? What place?"

There was crash and a long muffled pause and then Delfina came back on the line. "No, hijo! . . . My grandson is making a mess. Can you call me later?"

Steve felt an odd shiver down his spine. "No, this is important, very important. Please."

"Important for Mr. Tom?"

"Yes, very, very important for Mr. Tom."

There was another pause and a faint, "Edwardo, calmate! Estoy hablando en el telephono . . . Okay, what did you want to ask me?"

"Where did you usually keep your keys?" Steve struggled to keep himself from shouting.

"Where? In the back door, in the lock. That way, if I had to go outside I could just turn the key. It was a deadbolt. All of them were deadbolts, like I told you."

"So you usually left your keys in the back door deadbolt lock?"

"Yes."

"And when you went home at night?"

"I lived in the house."

"But when you did go out, did you take your keys?"

"If I went out alone, grocery shopping, then I would take my keys."

"If you didn't go out alone . . . ?"

"If I go out with Missy Marian, then she take her keys and I leave mine in the back door, so I will know where they are."

"Had you gone shopping with Ms. Marian the day you couldn't find your keys?"

"Yes, she want to go to the Beverly Center. I don't like the Beverly Center. Too big and crowded. The Grove is much nicer," Delfina volunteered in a low voice. "But Missy like it."

"So you left your keys in the back door when you went to the Beverly Center and when you came back, you couldn't find them? Is that right?'

"Yes. I look everywhere."

"Had anyone been in the house while you were gone?"

"While we were gone? No, just the man with Mr. Tom."

The man with Mr. Tom?

"What man was that?" Janson demanded in too loud a voice.

"His friend from the movies. He come in when we go out."

Shit! Shit! Shit!

"What did this friend look like?" Steve asked in as level a tone and he could manage though his heart was racing.

"He look like a cowboy, from the movies. His nose was funny."

"Funny? Like it had been broken?"

"Yes, like that. Is this important?"

"Yes, this is very important."

"Mr. Tom didn't know I lost the keys," she confessed in a rush.

"What?"

"He would be very upset if he knew I lost my keys. He was very worried about safety. Missy Marian got the new keys for me. She said not to tell Mr. Tom. Are you going to tell him?" she asked in a worried tone.

"Don't worry. This is good news."

"Good news? I help Mr. Tom?"

"More than you know."

"Okay. You say hello to Mr. Tom for me?"

"Yes I will. Thank you." Steve had began to put down the phone when he heard Delfina say something.

"Hello?"

"I remembered something else about that man."

"What?"

"Mr. Tom called him, 'Barry.'"

"Thank you, Delfina, more than I can tell you."

Steve set down the receiver and stared at the stacks of evidence boxes scattered around the room.

Damn! So that's how McGee got into the house! Damn
!