A Death In Beverly Hills (31 page)

Chapter Forty-Seven

Steve tried to sleep but made a mess of it and staggered back to consciousness around one a.m. For a while he lay there, awake behind his closed eyelids until he finally got up and checked the e-mail at a quarter to two. Nothing. He grabbed a paperback, Jack Vance's
The Book Of Dreams
, from the pile on his dresser and read until the type started to swim and he couldn't remember what the last sentence was about, then turned off the light. This time he was rewarded with a mish-mash of fevered dreams.

At first he was a kid, back home in his dad's garage working on something or other on dad's old table saw. No matter how hard he tried he just couldn't get the pieces to fit together and the old familiar hollow feeling poured into his gut. In a flash his father was there, staring at the crappy thing he had built, all the ends uneven and askew, shaking his head and frowning. Then his father looked up as if he had just noticed Steve. "Another piece of shit!" he said, smiling, and tossed the thing into the big green plastic can next to the bench. Steve watched it hit the top of the pile and shatter into a dozen pieces. He tried to catch them but they slipped from his grasp. When he turned around his father was gone and Steve noticed that all he was wearing was a pair of jockey shorts and that he was in a room was full of people, some kind of cocktail party. A couple of guys weren't wearing shirts and Steve felt a little better about being half naked, then the guys without shirts disappeared and people started to give him nervous sidelong glances.

"I'll take care of you," Lynn said and led him down a hallway. Then they were inside their bedroom and she was wearing her old beige slip and lying on the bed and Steve started looking around for a condom but he couldn't find one. He pulled out the night stand drawer and there was the box in there but when he tore it open it was empty.

"Steve," Lynn called but he kept ripping the box apart, looking, looking.

"Steve."

"Can't, can't," he whispered and when he turned back to the bed to show her the empty box she scowled and he knew she hated him and that he had let her down. He looked around the room and when he turned back the bed was empty and there was a terrible puddle of blood in the center and he knew why and he didn't want to look but--"

Ahhhhah
Steve groaned and lurched awake. His heart was pounding a slow sledgehammer beat, thudding so hard that he feared it might fail at any moment and that he would die in this shitty apartment in a puddle of sweat without Markham even knowing the secret he had discovered about Delfina's keys.

Steve closed his eyes and lay back against the plasterboard wall, the crappy bed too cheap to even have a headboard. He listened to the pounding of his heart, willing it slow to normal and let him live for another day. Finally, his breathing lost its rasping gasp and Steve squinted at the glowing digits on the dresser clock -- 4:17. He took a deep slow breath and closed his eyes. 4:53. In the distance he heard the muted rumble of the freeway. The monster was already coming alive. Screw it! He stripped off his shorts and t-shirt and staggered into the shower.

By the time he was dressed and had put water on for coffee the Foster Agency report was in his In-Box attached to a brief cover note. Most of it had come straight out of the Probation Department's pre-sentencing investigation in connection with McGee's drug charge.

The first interesting fact was that the actual charge that McGee had pleaded guilty to was "offering to furnish methamphetamine to a minor" instead of possession of methamphetamine for sale. That made the conviction a strike under California's "Three Strikes" law. Apparently the only way the D.A. would allow McGee to stay of state prison was for him to carry a strike for the crime.

Steve jumped to McGee's personal history section. Born in Golden, Colorado, his father was listed as rancher, his mother a homemaker. McGee dropped out of school at the age of sixteen following a fire that destroyed the family home, then he worked at various jobs, fast food clerk, Walmart Associate, carpet installer and the like for the next five or six years.

He was charged with an assault for a bar fight when he was twenty-one but the case was dismissed as a mutual altercation. He picked up another charge a year later for petty larceny from the auto parts store where he was employed but those charges were dropped when the store's records were destroyed in a fire.

The year after that McGee was arrested for attempted murder in a baseball bat attack on a bouncer in the parking lot behind a strip club. No wonder he didn't like cops. Those charges were dismissed when the victim refused to testify after his tricked-out Lincoln went up in a ball of flames one night while parked in his own driveway. That apparently really pissed off the cops and although they couldn't get him on the attempted murder charge, McGee ended up pleading guilty to arson for torching the car and did nine months in the county jail after time off for good behavior.
Portrait of a young sociopath
, Steve thought.

Even though his arson conviction was in another state and he didn't get state prison time, it was still a strike under California law. That made McGee's drug charge a second strike. After a look at this record, no wonder the D.A. insisted on him getting a strike for the speed. The D.A. set things up so that one more serious conviction would be a third strike that would put McGee away for twenty five years! Maybe he figured that would keep Barry on a short leash.

Once he got out of jail on the arson charge, McGee left Colorado for LA. Like a million other people he must have decided he was destined for a career in the movies, but he had better luck than most of them. He started as an extra and apparently discovered a talent for stunt work. Except for his drug conviction, for the last ten years McGee's record had been clean.

According to the probation report Barry had a younger sister, married and living in Denver. The report said they were 'estranged.' His father was dead. At the time of his arrest Barry's mother, Sheila Travis, had moved to California and worked in a beauty salon in the north end of the County. The Foster investigator had been thorough and had run her Social. According to her contribution records Sheila Travis had stopped work three months before Marian Travis disappeared. A Medical search revealed that she had suffered a massive stroke and had been confined to a long term care facility out in the Valley shortly thereafter. She had no current vehicles registered in her name but a back check revealed that at the time of Marian Travis's murder Sheila Travis was the registered owner of a 1997 Ford Windstar. The vehicle's color was not included in the DMV files.

The van was listed as having been sold in mid-January, two weeks after the murder, to a Lorraine Goodwin in Thousand Oaks. McGee's only vehicle was the '92 Camaro which was still registered in his name.

Uttering a silent prayer, Steve called information and asked for Lorraine Goodwin's number. After a ten second pause, the computer clicked in and offered to dial the number for him for a slight additional charge. The phone was picked up on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Goodwin?"

"Yes?"

"My name is Steven Janson. I'm working with Attorney Greg Markham on the Tom Travis murder case."

"Oh my goodness."

"Ms. Goodwin, did you purchase a Ford Windstar van about a year and a half ago?"

"Does it have something to do with that woman's murder?"

"It might. Did you purchase such a vehicle."

"Yes, I did."

"Ms. Goodwin, what color is it?"

"The van? It's black. Why?"

Yes
!

"Do you still have it?"

"It's in my garage right now."

Thank you God!

"Ms. Goodwin, your van may contain vital evidence in this case. Would you allow us to have it inspected? We'll pay for a replacement vehicle."

"When would you need it? I've got deliveries to make. I bake pies."

"I'll have Enterprise deliver a new van to your house by nine this morning."

"Are you sure this is necessary?"

"This may be our only chance to get Ms. Travis's killer. Please, Ms. Goodwin, I'm begging you."

She paused a second but couldn't miss the desperation plain in Steve's voice. "Well, I suppose I can do without it for a day or two."

"Thank you. Do you still have the paperwork from when you bought it?"

"It was a private sale, out of the
Times
want ads."

"Do you have the cancelled check?"

"It was a cashier's check, but I have the carbon copy in my file."

"Who did you make it out to?"

"Just a minute. Let me check."

Steve made a fresh pot of coffee with his left hand while he waited, growing more anxious with each passing minute.

"I'm sorry I took so long. I had to find the file. I made the check out to the owner's son. A . . . Barry McGee. . . . Hello?"

Jesus Christ, the son of a bitch actually did it! I was in Ensenada! Bullshit!

"Yes, I'm here. Please don't go anywhere. I'll be there in," Steve checked the clock. "Forty five minutes."

Steve hung up the phone before she could change her mind or he started babbling, whichever happened first, then began pounding his fist on the counter as he waited for Greg to answer his cell.

"I see you got the report."

"The son of a bitch did it!" Steve shouted into the phone.

"What?"

"That bastard, Barry McGee, did it! That prick, that son-of-a-bitch--"

"What a minute! Slow down. What--"

"He stole the maid's keys. That's how he got into the house."

"McGee stole her keys?"

"I talked to her last night. They went missing right after McGee and Travis had their little drink together."

"And nobody ever mentioned this before?"

"Tom didn't know. Delfina was afraid he'd be mad so Marian covered for her and got her a replacement set without telling him."

Markham shook his head in frustrated wonder. "Okay, that's good work but--"

"His mother owned a black van!" Steve shouted, unable to restrain himself.

"You've lost me."

"The only unidentified vehicle on the street that day was a black van. McGee's mother owned a black van. He sold it two weeks after Marian disappeared."

"We've got to find--"

"I already have. Get out your pen. Foster's people need to send a transport to take it to a forensic lab. The owner's giving us permission to search it and a copy of the cashier's check she gave to Barry McGee. If there are prints, hair, blood, anything belonging to Marian's or Sarah still in that van, we've got him!"

"It's been almost a year and a half."

"I've decided to think positively. All we need is one fingerprint. One lousy print! We'll need comparison DNA samples and full forensics team and a testing lab on standby."

"The D.A. has already typed Marian and Sarah's DNA. I'll have a copy by lunch."

"The owner said she got the van from an ad in the
Times
. We'll need somebody to run down their records to prove McGee placed the ad. And we'll need his mother's medical file or her doctor's testimony to prove she was incapable of driving a vehicle at the time of the murder." Markham was writing so fast even he could barely read his own scrawl.

"The van Travis's neighbor saw was supposed to be from a swimming pool company so I'd better talk to them and find out some way to prove the one the neighbor saw wasn't theirs."

"Get a picture of one of their vehicles and show it the witness."

"You need to have somebody call Enterprise and have them deliver a substitute van to the owner," Steve recited her name and address. "I'm on my over there to get her paperwork."

"Don't forget to get a picture of her van to show to the witness and the swimming pool people. I'll have Brian get a court order for the
Times'
want-ad records."

"Are we going to have enough time to get all this done? When I was with the D.A.'s office DNA tests usually took more than a month."

"I'll ask my questions real slow."

"I'm out of here."

"Steve . . . you did good."

"Hold on to the congratulations until we find out if this works."

Steve slurped half a cup of coffee and ran out the door.

Chapter Forty-Eight

The van witness was a Mrs. Eleanor Roberts who lived across the street and three houses down from Travis's mansion. Armed with a picture of Ms. Goodwin's Windstar Steve parked in front of the Roberts' house around ten-thirty. Unlike Travis's walled estate, the Roberts home had a large open front yard guarded only by a waist-high lattice fence, now almost completely hidden by roses in bloom. A new Bentley Continental Flying Spur, royal blue, was parked in the driveway and Steve paused for a moment to admire its sleek lines and a paint job so lustrous that he felt that if he tried to touch it his fingers would sink into the surface to the depth of at least half an inch.

"Do you like it?" a thin voice asked.

Steve turned to see a slender woman, well past seventy in spite of a mound of orange-russet hair. An old-fashioned rose tray hung from her left arm and inside lay half a dozen blooms in a rainbow of colors.

"It's beautiful," Steve told her. "How long have you had it?"

"About two months. I bought it as a present to myself, when my Walter died." A cloud passed over her face, then she smiled gamely. "I don't know what I was saving the money for. I never had a car I really enjoyed before this. It's all Mr. Leno's fault."

"Mr. Leno?"

"I read that he has hundreds of cars, buys them all the time. I was looking at my old car, Walter's car, really, and I wondered what it would be like to have fifty cars or ten cars or even two of them. How would you drive them all?"

"I understand that Leno drives a different one every day."

"Yes! That's what the paper said. Well, it started me thinking. I should get a car of my own, one that I liked. Once I had decided to buy a new one, I had no idea what kind I should get. I looked in the magazines but it was so confusing. I couldn't make head nor tail out of it. My grandson, he's at Cal Tech, told me to go on the Internet." Ms. Roberts laughed.

"How did you pick the Bentley?"

"I called Mr. Leno. One of Walter's friends is a something or other at NBC and he said to call and use his name."

"And Leno took your call?"

"Such a nice young man. He asked me all kinds of questions about what I wanted the car for and what I liked and didn't like and how much I could afford to spend. Well," Eleanor waved at her house, a ten million dollar property at least, "I don't care about the money. I just wanted to have a little fun. I don't have too many fun years left," she admitted with a little frown. "Mr. Leno told me to spend the money and enjoy life while I can, then he recommended the Bentley. They're owned by the Germans now, you know."

"Really," Steve said, involuntarily glancing back at the car.

"I picked out the color. They'll make in any color you like and they measure you for the seats. It's all custom built. I thought things like that were a lost art." Mrs. Roberts stared at the car with an expression akin to love.

"It's magnificent," Steve agreed.

"It's a V-12. It will go zero to sixty in five point four seconds," Eleanor added proudly. "Mr. Leno came over after I got it and he drove me down to his studio so that I could watch his show. Such a sweet man," she said with a beatific smile. They both stared at the car for a few seconds longer, then Eleanor turned back to Steve. "Are you here about my Bentley?"

"No." Steve handed her his card.

"Oh. I never thought Mr. Travis did it," she confided in a soft voice. "He's such a nice man. Never made any noise. And he was always
very
polite. Excellent manners, not like
some
of the people in this neighborhood." Ms. Roberts glanced toward the end of the block and frowned.

"According to the police, you said that you saw a strange van in the neighborhood on the day that Ms. Travis disappeared."

"Yes, I did. You can't trust the police to protect you, you know. You have to watch out for yourself these days, what with the gangs and the terrorists and all."

Steve couldn't picture a band a marauding gang bangers from East LA terrorizing this neighborhood, but kept that thought to himself.

"I couldn't agree with you more. Do you remember what the van looked like?"

"Of course. There's nothing wrong with my memory."

"No, ma'am." Steve stared at her politely.

"Oh, yes, the van." Eleanor closed her eyes. "It was black. Not blue, not brown. Black. I told that detective that. And it had a sign on the side. A black sign with white letters, Sunshine Pool Service, with a phone number. I don't remember the number."

"A black sign? The name wasn't painted on the van?"

"I said it was a sign. I know what I saw. It was one of those plastic signs about," she held up her hands about three feet apart, "that long and," her arms closed to indicate a two foot gap, "that high. You see them all the time on pickup trucks. Plastic things they glue on the door."

Steve was about to ask if she had told all this to the police but stopped. Obviously, she hadn't. Why not? Probably because they didn't ask. He had stopped at Kinko's on the way over and printed out a picture of the Ms. Goodwin's Windstar from the digital camera's memory card.

"Does this look like the van you saw, except for the sign on the side?" he asked removing the eight by ten photo from a manila envelope.

"Hmmm. Let me see." Ms. Roberts slipped on a pair of glasses from a chain around her neck. "Just for reading," She assured him. "My distance vision is fine. Want me to read that street sign at the end of the block?"

"No, Ms. Roberts. I'm sure your vision is excellent."

"Except for up close. Let me see . . . ." For a moment she stared at the picture then hummed, then looked back at Janson. "Yes, that's the van, but, as you said, without the sign."

Steve gave her a big smile. "That's great, Ms. Roberts. Wonderful. Just to be absolutely sure, this is the same type and color vehicle that you saw on the street here the day Marian Travis disappeared, New Year's Eve day, last year?"

"No."

"No? But . . . ."

"It's not the same type of vehicle. It is the very same vehicle I saw, without the sign," she said firmly.

"This is the same vehicle?" Steve asked, confused.

"Yes."

"The same actual, identical vehicle that was here on that day?"

"Isn't that what I just said? I'm not senile you know."

"No . . . I . . . how can you be sure it's the same one?"

Mrs. Roberts tapped the picture. "Well, just look at that."

Steve stared at the photo. Eleanor's ruby fingernail tapped the driver's side front bumper. Steve squinted at the picture. The bumper was dimpled to the depth of a small tea cup.

"The dent?"

"I noticed that the instant I saw that van. I remember thinking how those tradesmen drive those things every which way until it's worth your life to share the road with them. Just look at that dent in that bumper. And there it still is." Eleanor tapped the picture one more time for emphasis.

"Son-of . . . ." Steve bit his tongue. "Sorry."

"Gentlemen don't use that sort of language, Mr. Janson."

"I apologize, Ms. Roberts. I was just amazed and gratified by your keen powers of observation and your excellent memory."

Eleanor beamed. "Well, in that case, you're forgiven."

Steve gave her an appraising glance. "Have you ever testified in a murder trial?"

"Me? Gracious no."

"Would you be willing to tell the jury what you saw? Remember, a man's life is at stake."

"Would reporters be there?"

"Yes, they would. It will be very exciting. Unlike anything you've ever done before or ever will again. Can you stand a little excitement to save an innocent man's life?"

"Well," Eleanor said, considering the matter, "I suppose I shall have to, won't I?"

"We can send a limo to pick you up."

"Out of the question." Eleanor glanced at her Bentley, fluorescing a brilliant blue in the morning light. "If I must testify in court, I shall arrive in style."

Steve told her that someone would contact her with the details and shook her hand. She insisted on giving him a rose.