Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
“The main cowboy.”
“Totally. He put her on the horse and they did a lip-lock. She was hot.”
I said, “Was Jack playing guitar in the background?”
“Huh? Oh, no, he was like into trumpets or something. In a TV band.”
“One of those late-night shows?”
Blank look. If I was a network head I’d be worried about longevity.
Milo said, “So what kind of business do Daisy and Jack run upstairs?”
“I dunno.”
“What kind of mail do they get?”
“Dunno that either.”
He smiled. “You never look?”
“Mail comes in the morning,” she said. “I get here at noon. Why don’t you just go up and talk to them if you’re so interested?”
“They’re in?”
“Dunno.”
“Okay, thanks, Cheyenne.”
“So maybe they’re in trouble, huh?”
Stairs carpeted in cheap blue low-pile polyester led to a windowless foyer rimmed by five slab doors. No sound from behind any of them. Gold Standard Professionals’ neighbors offered electrolysis, bookbinding, tax preparation, and gift counseling.
Milo said, “Gift counseling? What the hell does that mean?”
I said, “Maybe they tell you who’s been naughty or nice.”
“Next there’ll be laxative counseling. ‘We open new channels of communication.’ Okay, here goes nothing.” He rapped on Gold Standard’s door. A male voice said, “Who’s there?”
“Police.”
“What?”
“Police. Please open up.”
Another
“What?”
but the door cracked.
Jack Weathers had added a clipped white mustache and some wrinkles since his
Clarion
interview. He was tall, well built, seventy to seventy-five, wore a white polo shirt under a sea-green cashmere V-neck, taupe linen slacks, calfskin loafers sans socks. His skin was shiny and spray-bronzed, his eyes a deeper tan. A wedding band crusted with pavé diamonds circled his left ring finger. One pinkie hosted a white-gold emerald ring, the other a rose-gold creation dominated by a massive amethyst. The gold chain around his neck was curiously delicate.
He said, “Police? I don’t understand.”
Milo flashed the badge. “Could we come in, please, Mr. Weathers?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Of course, sir.”
A female voice said, “Jack? What’s going on?” Before Weathers could answer, a woman came up behind him and shoved the door wide open.
A foot shorter than her husband, Daisy Weathers had on a black jacquard silk top, cream gabardine slacks, red stilettos that advertised a virtuoso pedicure. Serious bling glinted at all the predictable spots. The white in her hair verged on silver-plate. The style was some cosmetologist’s ode to meringue. Her eyes were glacier-blue, oddly innocent. Small bones and a sweet face had kept her cute well beyond the expiration date.
Jack Weathers said, “They’re the police.”
Daisy Weathers said, “Hi, boys. Collecting for the law enforcement ball? We give every year.” Sultry voice. She winked.
Milo said, “Not exactly, ma’am.”
Jack Weathers said, “They don’t send guys in suits for the ball, Daze. They send kids—scouts, cadets, whatever you call ’em.”
Daisy Weathers said, “Cute kids, they’re making ’em bigger nowadays. What can we do for you boys?”
Milo said, “We’d like to talk about Adriana Betts.”
She looked puzzled. “Well, I can’t say I know who that is.”
Jack Weathers’s face darkened. A fist punched a palm. “
Knew
it—it was one of you who called earlier, right? If you’d left a number, I’d have called you back.”
I said, “Got cut off, couldn’t get through after that.”
His eyes danced to the right. “Well, I don’t know about that. Our phones are working fine.”
Daisy said, “Jack, what’s going on?”
“All they had to do was call, this really isn’t necessary.”
“He says he did.”
“Well, all he had to do was try again.” Maybe Weathers was usually truthful, because lying didn’t sit well with him. I counted at least three tells in as many seconds: lip-gnaw, brow-twitch, foot-tap. Then his eyes got jumpy.
“Anyway,” I said, “we’re here, so no harm, no foul.”
Milo moved toward the doorway. Jack Weathers considered his options and stepped aside.
Daisy Weathers said, “What was that name, boys?”
Milo said, “Adriana Betts.”
“Is that someone I’m supposed to know, Jack?”
The eyes turned into pinballs.
She touched his wrist. He jerked reflexively.
“Jackie? What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing, baby.”
I said, “So she did work for you.”
“No one works
for
us,” said Jack Weathers. “We’re facilitators.”
“Ja-ack-ee?” said his wife. “Again?”
Weathers looked away.
“Jack!”
“No big deal, Daze.”
“Obviously it is a big deal if the police are here.”
He cursed under his breath.
She said, “You boys better come in and straighten this out.”
The single-room office was furnished with two cheap desks and three hard-plastic chairs. The walls were hospital-beige and bare. A lone window half covered by warped plastic blinds looked out to an alley and the brick wall of the neighboring building. One desk was set up with a multi-line phone, a modem, a computer, a printer, and a fax machine. The other held a collection of bisque figurines—slender, white-wigged court figures engaged in spirited nonsense. Daisy Weathers took a seat behind the porcelain and lifted a lute-playing lady in a ball gown. One of her six rings clinked against the doll. Her husband winced.
Then he slipped behind the bank of business machines and eased his long body as low as he could manage.
Milo said, “Tell us about Adriana Betts.”
Daisy said, “Yes, do, dear.”
Jack said, “She came with good recommendations.”
“Did you do the screening, Jackie?”
“It was an urgent one, Daze.”
She slapped her forehead. “Bending rules. What a shock.” To us: “My sweetie pie, here, has a heart softer than a ripe persimmon.” That sounded like a line from a movie.
Jack said, “Someone comes to me in need, I try to help.”
“He really does, boys. I wish I could get mad at him but you need to know him, he’s a people-pleaser.”
Milo said, “What kind of screening do you usually do?”
“Comprehensive screening,” said Jack. “Just what you do.”
“What we do?”
“Er … what I’m sure you do when you hire police officers.” Weathers’s smile was a pathetic grope for rapport. “To ensure the best fit, right? Everyone knows BHPD’s the best.”
“I’ll pass that along to them,” said Milo. “Actually, I’m LAPD.”
“Oh,” said Jack Weathers. “Well, I’m sure the same applies to you,
we used to live in Los Angeles. Hancock Park, lovely, we had a gorgeous Colonial with a half-acre garden, the police were always helpful.”
“Great to hear that, sir. So with Adriana Betts you decided to forgo the usual screening.”
Daisy let out a prolonged sigh. Jack shot her a look that could’ve been a warning. Or fear.
“As I said, there was urgency.”
I said, “Someone was in need.”
“That’s what we do,” said Jack. “We fill needs.”
“In Ms. Betts’s case, child-care needs?”
He didn’t answer.
Daisy said, “No matter who you are, finding the right people is always a challenge.”
I faced Jack. “Meaning someone important. Who’d you send Adriana to?”
He shook his head.
Milo said, “Sir?”
Jack Weathers said, “What exactly are you claiming happened? Because I absolutely refuse to believe it was anything serious. I pride myself on being an excellent judge of character and that young lady had obviously fine character. She was
religious
, had a letter from her pastor.”
Milo pulled out one of Qeesha’s mug shots. “What about this young lady?”
Daisy blurted, “Her?”
Jack tried to hiss her silent.
She said, “I’m really at sea over this. Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”
Jack folded his arms across his chest.
Milo said, “You’d placed Qeesha D’Embo where you sent Adriana.”
Silence.
I said, “Qeesha vouched for Adriana. That’s why you didn’t feel the need to screen her.”
Daisy said, “Normally, we’d still screen. But if it was urgent—”
“They
get
it,” said her husband.
She pouted. “Jackie?”
“We’re not saying anything more, gentlemen. Not without advice of counsel.”
Milo said, “You want a lawyer to answer routine questions?”
“You bet.”
Daisy put the figurine down. No visible tremor but the base rattled on the desktop.
Milo said, “You’re not being accused of any crime, Mr. Weathers.”
“Even so,” said Jack.
“You didn’t screen Adriana but you did screen Qeesha.”
Daisy said, “I’ve never heard of Qeesha, we knew her by another name—what was it again, Jackie?”
Weathers shook his head, drew his finger across his lip.
“She’s a beautiful girl,” said Daisy. “The way those black girls can be with their big dark eyes. What
was
her name … something with an ‘S,’ I believe, I’d have to check the—”
“Shut
up
, Daze!”
Daisy Weathers stared at her husband. One hand bounced on her desktop. The other rose to her face, pinched cheek-skin, twisted. Her eyes turned wet.
Jack Weathers said, “Oh, baby.”
Daisy sniffled.
He turned to us. “Now look what you’ve done—I need you to leave.”
Standing, he pointed to the door.
Milo said, “Suit yourself, Mr. Weathers,” and got up. “But here’s what puzzles me. You run a business based on the ability to judge character. You said before that whatever happened to Adriana wasn’t a big deal because she was a woman of good character. But from what I can tell, you’re only batting five hundred, sir. Good for baseball, not so good for job placement.”
“What are you
talking
about?”
“You were right about one thing, wrong about the other. Yes, Adriana seems to have been a woman of excellent character. But what happened was a really big deal.”
“What happened?” Weathers demanded.
“Your lawyer can tell you. After we return with your friends at BHPD armed with a search warrant for all of your records.”
“That’s impossible!” Weathers shouted.
“Jack?” said Daisy.
“It’s not only possible,” said Milo, “it’s probable.”
“You’re not making sense!” said Weathers. “Adriana had excellent character but she still committed some kind of … bad deed?”
“She didn’t do anything, Mr. Weathers. Something was done
to
her.”
“She’s hurt?” said Daisy.
“She’s dead, ma’am. Someone murdered her.”
“Oh, no!”
“I’m afraid yes, Mrs. Weathers.”
“I never even knew her, Jack hired her. Poor thing.” She cried. It seemed genuine, but who could be sure about anything on the Westside of L.A.
Her husband remained dry-eyed.
Milo said, “Care to fill us in, sir?”
“Not on your life,” said Jack Weathers. “Not on one blessed second of your blessed life.”
W
e lingered outside the door Jack Weathers had just shut. Conversational noise began filtering through the wood: Daisy Weathers’s higher-pitched voice, plaintive, then demanding. No response from Jack. Daisy, again, louder. A bark from her husband that silenced her.
Several seconds later his voice resumed, softer, less staccato. A long string of sentences.
Milo whispered, “On the phone, now it’s a lawyer game.”
We left the building.
Milo drove a block, U-turned, found the farthest spot that afforded a view of the marble-clad building. Red zone but until a B.H. parking Nazi showed up, the perfect vantage point.
I said, “Waiting for Jack to leave?”
“Maybe I stirred up enough for him to meet with legal counsel. I tail him, find out who I’ll be dealing with. Without that I can’t approach him.”
“No warrant party with BHPD?”
“Yeah, right. On what grounds?”
“Jack’s demeanor.”
“He got agitated? To a psychologist, that’s grounds. To a judge, you know what it is.” He stretched, knuckled an eyelid. “Any way it shakes out, he’s toast. Runs a business based on image and trust and hires one woman with a police record, another who ends up getting killed. And who was referred by the bad girl. Screening my ass.”
I said, “Maybe it goes beyond that. Weathers bills himself as a Hollywood insider so maybe he also placed Wedd. At the same client who employed Qeesha and Adriana. Someone powerful enough to shelter income in the Caymans and to scare Weathers straight to legal counsel.”
“CAPD,” he said.
“Let’s try to find out who they are.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Maybe not.”
I pulled out my cell, punched my #1 preset.
Robin said, “Hi, hon, what’s up?”
“Got a spare minute for some research?”
“About what?”
“Ever hear of CAPD?”
“Nope.”
“Who would you call if you needed info on a big-time showbiztype?”
“What’s this about, Alex?”
I told her.
She said, “Interesting. I’ll see what I can do.”
Most of Robin’s guitars and mandolins are commissioned by professional musicians and collectors who play seriously. A few end up stashed in the vaults of rich men seeking trophies—lucky-sperm recipients, real estate tycoons, Aspergian algorithmers, movie stars.
Plus the lampreys who get rich off movie stars. I rarely think of my girl as a Hollywood type but she’s the one who gets invited to all the parties we seldom attend.
Six minutes later, that paid off. “Got what you need.”
“That was quick.”
“I looped in Brent Dorf.”
Dorf was a luminary at a major talent agency. I’d met him last year when he picked up a replica of an eighteenth-century parlor guitar that would end up hanging on a wall. When he found out what I did for a living, he reminisced about being a psych major at Yale, regretted that he hadn’t pursued it because his “primary passion” was helping people. My experience is people who talk about being passionate seldom are.