A Death In Beverly Hills (35 page)

"The report of the search of Mr. Travis's garage lists a yellow dirt bike, a small motorcycle."

"Small enough to fit into the back of Ms. Travis's Escalade?"

"I think so. We'll need to measure it to be sure."

"Your Honor, the defense requests a recess so that Mr. Hamilton and Detective Katz and myself can visit the Travis house, inspect the dirt bike for scratches, measure it, and take a paint sample for comparison by the police crime lab. We can report back tomorrow morning, hopefully with a stipulation as to what was found."

Burris frowned. He didn't like surprises this late in a trial. Still. . . .

"Very well," he said reluctantly, "Court's adjourned until nine-thirty tomorrow morning. Mr. Hamilton, you and Mr. Markham come up with a stipulation on what you find."

Katz walked back to the D.A.'s table.

"Are you out of your mind?" Hamilton demanded. "What the hell did you think you were doing going off on your own like that?"

"You don't get it, Ted. That motorcycle . . . ."

"Yeah?"

"It's no good without a key. If the jury believes that the killer rode the bike back to the house, then the only guy who could have done that is the one guy with a key. Tom Travis."

For the first time that afternoon, Ted Hamilton began to relax.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Greg had investigators from the Foster Agency sitting on Barry McGee to make sure that he didn't decide to skip the state. Steve wasn't worried. He figured McGee couldn't wait to get back on the stand and be the center of attention not to mention having another chance to twist the blade in Tom Travis's heart. Steve's only task tomorrow was getting Delfina to court and making sure she and McGee did not meet. Other than that he was at loose ends. Tonight he drank his beer in front of the TV watching an old episode of
Babylon V
.

He had just drained the bottle when a knock sounded on his front door. Steve checked the peephole and pulled it wide. Carlos Arriaga in a black t-shirt and jeans stood nervously in the hall.

"Carlos? Come on in. What's up?" Arriaga fiddled with a scrap of paper then shoved it into his pants. "You want a beer?"

Carlos nervously shook his head. "No thanks. . . I didn't have your phone," he said uneasily, pulling out the scrap of paper again, "just your address from the sign-up sheet." Steve took the easy chair and Carlos settled into the couch. "The league's cancelled Thursday's games, in respect, you know."

"In respect? What do you mean? What's happened?"

"You didn't hear?"

"Hear what?"

Carlos shifted uneasily. "It was Mike," he said and looked away.

"Mike Leahy? What happened?" Instantly Steve wondered if, overcome with alcohol or depression or both, Mike had eaten his gun.

"God damn bastards!" Carlos cursed and glared. "They shot him, they just shot him down like a dog!" His fist made a muffled THUMP against the sagging cushion.

"What happened?"

"It was a routine traffic stop. Mike was driving by and saw a Chippy had stopped a car full of gangbangers so he pulled over as backup. It wasn't even his collar. Then it all went to shit. Maybe they figured Mike was bringing a warrant or that he had recognized them, who knows what passes through their excuses for brains. Mike got out of his unit and when he was five feet from the bastards one of them pulled out a nine and went Dodge City. Mike's vest stopped most of the slugs but one round caught him in his neck and he bled out right there on the asphalt."

Carlos cleared his throat and looked away. After a few seconds he was able to continue. "The Chippy blew up two of them and the other two hit the deck. The son of a bitch who killed Mike is still sucking air in the jail ward at County. I'd like to go down there," Arriaga said with sudden heat, "and stick my piece up against that bastard's head . . . ." but when he saw the sick look on Steve's face he shut his mouth. "Sorry," Carlos said finally.

"Yeah."

Carlos sat there for another five or ten seconds, staring at this hands, then stood. "Anyway . . . ." he held out his hand. "The service is Saturday at ten at St. Marks."

"The guys won't mind if I . . . ."

"You're part of the family," Carlos said, gripping Steve's shoulder. "You took care of business when you had to."

"Don't say that!" Steve almost shouted, pulling back.

"I didn't mean . . . ." Carlos waved his hands.

"You don't know what it's like," Steve muttered, talking to himself as much as to Arriaga. "You think you do, but it's the stuff you don't expect. . . ." He looked up and saw only confusion on Arriaga's face. "You remember things, the sound the bullet makes when it goes through the bone, the smell of hot blood cooking off the lead, the little pieces of brain that stick to your shirt and you want to get rid of them but you don't want to touch them because you know what they are." Suddenly he grabbed Carlos's shoulder. "You think you're ending something, closing a door, but it's just the beginning of something worse. As much as you try to make the memories go away, they won't!"

Carlos looked into Janson's face and took a step back.

"You know the last thing Mike said to me? 'Anger and fear will do terrible things to a man. They'll burn him up from the inside out.'" Steve put his hand back on Arriaga's shoulder. "You've got to let it go, Carlos, before it makes you crazy."

"Yeah, sure," Arriaga said uneasily, stepping away and looking at his watch. "Well, I gotta go. I just wanted to make sure you knew, about Mike."

"Yeah," Steve agreed in an emotionless voice. "Thanks. Mike was a stand-up guy. . . . So, Saturday, St. Marks?"

"Right."

"I can't wear my uniform, you know, after . . . ."

"Yeah, that's okay. Mike won't mind." Awkwardly, they shook hands and a moment later Carlos was gone.

Steve sat on the couch and thought back to the last conversation he had had with Mike Leahy. What was it Mike had said? "Fear does awful things to a man. It makes him do things he shouldn't do and afraid to learn what he needs to know."

Steve glanced at the desk drawer, the repository of rubber bands and cellophane tape and three by five cards and an eight and a half by eleven manila envelope with Lynn's autopsy report inside. And the card Lynn had left for him on that terrible day. It would be so easy to just toss them both in the trash. Or, he could read them. Or, he could continue to do nothing.

What are you afraid of?
he heard Mike saying,
a tough guy like you
.

I'll make you deal
,
Mike
, a little voice inside Steve seemed to say,
If we get that bastard who murdered Marian, if we get Sarah back alive, I'll read the damn reportand the card both
.

Bargaining with a ghost
? Steve asked himself.
Negotiating with God? Trying to give yourself an excuse to stop living in fear? Or stop living a lie?

Thinking about it he had no clue which, if any of those reasons, were right.

Chapter Fifty-Five

On Tuesday morning Judge Burris called the court to order and looked expectantly at Greg Markham.

"Your Honor, the People and the Defense have a stipulation."

"Proceed."

"The parties stipulate as follows:

"That Mr. Travis's dirt bike's dimensions are such that it could be fitted into the back of Marian Travis's SUV;

"That the paint inside Marian Travis's vehicle matches the paint on Thomas Travis's dirt bike;

"That there is a corresponding scratch on the bike's fender;

"That if called as a witness, Thomas Travis would testify that to the best of his knowledge the dirt bike was never placed in Marian Travis's SUV and that he never placed it in her vehicle;

"That no fingerprints were found on the controls of the bike;

"That the bike is started with the use of a key;

"And that there are no scratches or other indications that the ignition lock of the bike was picked or that it was hot-wired or started in any other way except with a key."

"Mr. Hamilton," the Judge asked, turning to the Prosecutor, "is that correct?"

"That is the stipulation, Your Honor."

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury. You may accept what Mr. Markham has just told you as agreed facts to be considered by you in your deliberations to the extent you think them relevant. . . . Mr. Markham, call your next witness."

"The Defense calls Lucas Toomey."

Hamilton flipped through Markham's witness list looking for yet another unrecognized name. Toomey was sworn in and Markham quickly established his residence and occupation. Lucas Toomey was a locksmith.

"Did you install the locks and security system at the Travis home?"

"My company did, yes sir."

"What kind of locks are these?"

"Top-of-the-line deadbolts. The keys are all registered and numbered and cannot be duplicated except through an authorized manufacturer's representative, such as myself."

"So not just anybody can make a copy?"

"Impossible. These are special keys and no one has the blanks other than a small number of licensed dealers."

"You are one of those licensed dealers?"

"I am."

"And if I came to you with such a key, would you copy it for me?"

"No sir, not unless I personally knew you or you could prove to me that you were the owner of the house where the locks were installed. The company keeps careful records of the name and address where every lock is installed. We take the security of these locks very seriously."

"Yes, I can see you do. But tell me this, couldn't you just pick the lock?"

"Could I pick it?"

"Yes?"

Toomey sat quietly for several seconds considering the question. "Perhaps," he said finally.

"How long do you think it would take you?"

"If I wasn't disturbed, five or ten minutes, if I could to it at all. And the more I think about it, the more I think that I could not pick it."

"Assuming for the sake of argument that you as a master locksmith could pick this lock, could you pick it without leaving any evidence that you had done so, scratches and the like?"

Toomey laughed. "Impossible. No way."

"Impossible. I see. Well, did Mr. Travis ever have you make a new set of keys for his locks?"

"Mr. Travis? No. . . . But his wife did." Hamilton's head shot up and Markham smiled.
What was that? Did someone on the Titanic just mention icebergs?

"When did you copy the keys?"

Toomey opened a notebook and flipped to a page. "I have my order book here. It was a year ago December, on the 28
th
."

"That's three days before Marian Travis went missing?"

"Yes, sir."

I've got your attention now, Ted, don't I?
Markham thought.

"How were the new keys ordered?"

"Like I said, the owner has to appear in person."

"Mrs. Marian Travis personally came to your store?"

"Yes, sir. On the 28
th
. She had called on the phone and I explained that it was our policy that the owner had to appear in person, that it was for her own protection. So, she came."

"Did Mrs. Travis tell you why she wanted another set of keys?"

"Yes, sir. She said the maid lost hers."

"What was her attitude?"

"Friendly, happy. She was a very nice lady." Toomey paused for a moment. "She did ask that I not tell Mr. Travis."

"Did she say why?"

"She said that she didn't want him to get angry at the maid. She asked me to keep it our little secret."

"Did you?"

Toomey licked his lips and shifted uneasily. "Yes, I did."

"I see. Do you have a list of the keys you copied for Mrs. Travis?"

"Well, let's see." Toomey put on his reading glasses and peered at the invoice. "One house key. That's the deadbolt lock. We also use the same key for the gate and the front and back doors. Okay, one key for Mr. Travis's Humvee. That was a special order from the manufacturer. One key for Mrs. Travis's Escalade, another special order," Toomey said apologetically. "And one key to a 120 CC Kawasaki motorcycle."

"A dirt bike?"

Toomey studied the form. "Yes. I had to get the blank from the Kawasaki dealer's parts department so I needed the model number." Toomey read it off.

"Your Honor, I would ask the people to stipulate that the model number Mr. Toomey has just indicated is identical to the model number of the yellow dirt bike we examined yesterday afternoon."

"So stipulated," Hamilton muttered without looking up.

"Were you able to copy the house key right away?"

"Yes, I had the blanks for that and Mrs. Travis took it with her. The others had to be ordered from the auto manufacturers."

"Do you know why the maid had keys to Mr. and Mrs. Travis's vehicles and to Mr. Travis's dirt bike?"

"That's how Mr. Travis wanted it. He wanted a complete set of keys for himself, for his wife and for the maid. That way, if anyone lost their keys, there'd be two other sets. I think that he figured he might lose his keys and he wanted to be able to take the maid's for himself if that happened."

"When were you able to deliver these new keys?"

Toomey checked the invoice. "As I said, I made the maid a new house key right away. I had to wait for the others from the auto manufacturers. They have a microchip in them that's keyed to the car based on a code number I give them from the original keys. The maid picked up the other three keys on . . . January 6
th
."

"Mr. Toomey, did you ever tell the police that a set of keys to the Travis house was missing on the day of the murder?"

"No," Toomey said quietly.

"Why not?"

"They never asked me."

"Thank you, Mr. Toomey." Markham tried to hide his smile from the jury as he watched Ted Hamilton approach the witness.

He's like the captain of the Titanic, Markham
thought.
The radioman has just told him there are icebergs in the vicinity and now a lookout has spotted one in the distance. He's thinking they're a danger, sure, but nothing the Titanic can't handle. The Titanic is unsinkable. But he's starting to worry.

"Mr. Toomey," Hamilton began, "do you know of your own knowledge that the maid actually lost her keys?"

"No sir."

"And if she lost her keys, do you know of your own knowledge what happened to them?"

"No sir."

"For all you know Mr. Travis could have taken her keys himself, correct?"

"Why would he do that?"

"To--"

"Objection. Is there a question pending from the District Attorney?"

"Ask a question, Mr. Hamilton."

The Prosecutor took a deep breath, paused, then turned away. "No further questions, Your Honor."

"Mr. Markham?"

"The Defense calls Detective John Furley."

Completely lost, Hamilton stared quizzically at Furley who merely shrugged.

"Detective Furley, you are one of the primary homicide detectives on this case, correct?"

"Yes."

"Your partner is Detective Katz who was on the stand yesterday?"

"Yes sir."

"Before this trial, were you acquainted with the defendant, Tom Travis?"

Hamilton gave Furley a sharp look which the detective chose to ignore.

"Yes sir."

Hamilton couldn't hide his displeasure.

Oh, Furley didn't tell you about that, did he, Ted?

"You used to go to clubs with Mr. Travis while you were still in uniform?"

"Yes sir," Furley said stoically, staring straight ahead and ignoring the D.A.'s growing rage.

"We've heard testimony in this case from a man named Barry McGee. Did you meet Barry McGee at any time before this trial?"

"Yes sir," Furley said stoically as if assuring the emergency room doc that he could take the pain.

"In fact, you had arrested Barry McGee hadn't you?"

Hamilton came out of his chair, eyes blazing. "Objection. There's no foundation for this."

"I give the court my word of honor that I will absolutely show relevance," Markham said, turning to the judge, a pleading look in his eyes. Burris paused for five full seconds.

"See that you do. Overruled."

"Yes, I arrested him."

"Was your arrest based on a tip you received?"

"Yes."

"From whom?"

"From the defendant, Tom Travis."

Markham shot the judge a quick glance as if to say,
I told you I was going someplace with this
.

"Please recount the circumstances of that incident."

Hamilton started to rise, got a look at the judge's stern expression, and sat back down.

"Mr. Travis called me because he knew me personally. He said that someone on his movie set was selling drugs. He said he that the movie included lots of stunts, car chases, gun fights, explosions, that sort of thing, and that if any of the crew were messed up on drugs that someone could be hurt or killed. He said he was worried about the safety of the other people on the set. He identified the individual selling the drugs as Barry McGee."

"Why didn't he just call the studio and report Mr. McGee?"

"He said he didn't want to be known as a snitch but he couldn't ignore the risk to innocent people."

"So he asked you to investigate?"

"Yes."

"Did you go out to the movie set to check this out?"

"Yes with a Sheriff's Department Investigator, Robert Chiappari. We observed Mr. McGee's behavior and believed that he was distributing narcotics. We arrested Mr. McGee and discovered a substantial quantity of methamphetamine on his person and in his gym bag."

"When you arrested Mr. McGee, did he say anything that indicated that he knew who had turned him in?"

"He started shouting that Tom Travis had turned him in, that Mr. Travis was the one who was behind his arrest."

"What was his tone when he said this, calm, sad, upset . . . ?"

"He was screaming at the top of his lungs that it was all Travis's fault."

"Would the word 'angry' be an understatement?"

"Yes, I would say so."

"As one of the arresting officers, did you follow up on the case?"

"Yes."

"Did Mr. McGee end up pleading guilty to something?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Offering methamphetamine to a minor."

"Is that charge a 'strike' for the purposes of the three strikes law?"

"Yes, it is."

"Did you determine if Mr. McGee had any other strikes?"

"Objection. Relevance."

"I think Your Honor sees the relevance," Markham said, silently praying.

"Overruled," Burris snapped. Markham glanced at the bench and saw something in the Judge's face he had not expected, curiosity, interest, perhaps even suspicion. The Old Man was hooked. He wanted to find out what really had happened. Who would have thought?

"Yes, he did."

"What for?"

"Arson."

"Arson? Where was this?"

"In Colorado."

"So, with this drug conviction, Mr. McGee had two strikes?"

"Yes."

"If Mr. McGee were to have one more conviction for any serious charge, a third strike, a
burglary
, for example," Markham said, loudly emphasizing the word, "what would have happened to him?"