Larger Than Lyfe (18 page)

“Yes,” Detective Fields answered.

“Please describe the murder scene when you arrived.”

“There was a 2005 silver Mercedes S500 parked on the third subterranean level of the parking structure at 300 South Grand. The driver’s side door was ajar. The victim inside the car was who we determined to be Mr. Phinnaeus Bernard III, a corporate attorney who worked within the building. He was already dead when we arrived at the crime scene. We determined the time of the murder to have occurred between one to two hours prior to our arrival at the crime scene. We believe that it was a professional hit. The shots were very precise, two shots to the chest and one to the head. The shots were
likely to have been fired from a gun equipped with a silencer because the caliber of the firearm used in the murder would definitely have been loud enough to be heard and draw immediate attention. Security surveillance tapes that could potentially incriminate the perpetrator or perpetrators of the murder were taken. Then there was the hacking and deletion of security surveillance files from the building’s computer system. The whole thing was clearly very carefully and professionally orchestrated.”

All the while that Detective Fields provided details of what he and other LAPD officers found upon arrival at the murder scene,
color slides of the murder scene were projected onto a large screen at the front of the courtroom. Jurors watched the changing frames of the murder scene with expressions of shock and discomfort. In a well-lit parking garage at an upscale office building in downtown Los Angeles’ business district, this prominent attorney had been snuffed off in cold blood. It was the stuff that blockbuster novels and movies were made of.

“What findings led you to identify the defendant, Mr. Richard Lawrence Tresvant, as a suspect in this murder?” the district attorney asked.

“There were substantial prints on the door handles and door frame of the car, as well as in the interior of the car. After completion of an analysis back at the crime lab, we determined that they were the prints of both Mr. Bernard as well as Richard Tresvant, the defendant.”

“After determining that Richard Tresvant’s fingerprints were at the murder scene, what did you do?”

“Because we were made aware that Mr. Tresvant was a client of the victim’s, Mr. Bernard, at Mr. Bernard’s law firm, and because we were also informed, by Mr. Bernard’s secretary, Ms. Hendershot, that Mr. Bernard and Mr. Tresvant had had lunch together that same day, the day of the murder, we contacted Mr. Tresvant to ask if he would come downtown to answer a few questions.”

“Did he agree to do so?” the district attorney asked.

“No,” Detective Fields responded. “He was completely uncooperative. He told us to…ahem… ’go and fuck ourselves.’ Mr. Tresvant and the Los Angeles Police Department have had a rather lengthy and certainly not the most civil history with one another.”

“Strike the expletive from the record,” Judge Bartholomew instructed the court stenographer.

“What did you do after Mr. Tresvant’s refusal to come downtown for questioning?”

“We secured a warrant to search Richard Tresvant’s primary residence and offices of business for the murder weapon.”

“What were your findings after securing the warrant?”

“We found the murder weapon.”

“Where did you
find the murder weapon?”

“At Mr. Tresvant’s primary residence on Bellagio Terrace in Bel Air, sir. Following ballistics report confirmation, we immediately placed Mr. Tresvant under arrest for the murder of Phinnaeus Bernard III.”

“No further questions, Detective Fields,” the district attorney said.

A
nyone observing Keshari’s life would have to wonder if and when she ever slept and how she was able to dedicate sufficient time to her new romance to sustain it with the almost inhumanly lengthy list of business-related activities and tasks that inundated her typical day. She’d been following Ricky’s murder trial as if she was a member of his legal defense team. She kept continuous contact with his attorney and while she was at her office during the day, she kept her television tuned to the local news, truTV, or CNN for regular updates on the trial, which raised a few eyebrows among LTL
staff.

Just two days before the launch of “Nationwide Search for a Star,” Keshari told Terrence to book her a flight to Palm Beach and have her house and car ready for her arrival in Palm Beach.

“What?!” Terrence said incredulously. “Keshari, it’s only two days before the L.A. auditions. You just got back from Jamaica. There is so much on your agenda and you’ve got a meeting scheduled with the accountants to be updated on the talent search project’s current expenses to make sure that it is staying within budget. This trip is a trip that you should absolutely postpone unless it’s a life and death emergency.”

“Just book the flight, T,” Keshari snapped irritably. “I’ve got business in Miami and it can’t be put off until another time.”

“Not a problem,” Terrence said quickly and left her office.

Terrence had heard the stories. There was no way that he could have worked with Keshari for as long as he had, as closely as he did, without being made aware of the industry rumors regarding who Keshari really was and her alleged high-ranking involvement in organized crime. Did Terrence believe the stories? In the beginning, he’d dismissed them entirely. In entertainment, the media and the so-called “industry insiders” who reported to the media, could take one, tiny tidbit of information, put a spin on it, and blow it entirely out of proportion. He’d seen it time and time again
with other entertainers with whom he’d worked or through associates who also worked for well-known figures in the entertainment industry. Over time, though, Terrence had begun to seriously question the validity of some of those rumors. The more time passed and the more closely he worked with his beautiful, mysterious boss, the more he wondered about some of the spur-of-the-moment trips she took, some of the meetings that she took, and some of the people that she knew.

Keshari’s flight to Palm Beach was uneventful. A chauffeured car picked her up at the airport and drove her to the exclusive Gulf Stream community of Palm Beach where Keshari owned a $16 million, six-bedroom, contemporary Mediterranean-style home.

Her cell phone rang as the chauffeur carried her bag into the house and set it down in the foyer.

“What are you doing in Palm Beach?” Mars asked.

The tone of his voice indicated clearly that he was irritated with Keshari for leaving town without telling him anything.

“I have an urgent business meeting in the morning,” Keshari said. “You know my life, Mars. It goes a mile-a-minute. There are often spur-of-the-moment business meetings on the other side of the country and I’m not always able to provide notification regarding my itinerary to everybody who seeks it.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Mars said. “Why are you so defensive? It’s me you’re talking to.”

“I’m not defensive, Mars. I’m tired. I just walked in from the airport and I need to get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow. I’m flying back into L.A. right after the meeting. Okay?”

Keshari hung up the phone and Mars sat, staring at the telephone receiver on his end, wondering what exactly was going on with her.

The next morning, as Keshari got ready to leave for her meeting with Enrico Santiago at his home on Jupiter Island, Mars arrived.

“Mars, what in all FUCK are you doing here?!” Keshari snapped.

“What is going on with you?” Mars demanded.

He set his garment bag down and looked around him at the absolutely unbelievable, two-story entry of Keshari’s oceanfront, Palm Beach home. It was the first time that he’d been there and it was unfortunate that his impromptu trip was not under better circumstances.

“Mars, you should NOT have come here. I told you that I would be back in L.A. right after my meeting. Why are you blowing a business trip of mine completely out of proportion?!”

Keshari looked amazing in her cream, Valentino pantsuit, but the vibe that came from her was all high stress and, if Mars didn’t know better, she seemed to be hiding something as well.

“Keshari, for the very last time, WHAT is going on with you? Why are you being so damned hostile and evasive about this sudden flight to Florida? Did something happen? Does it have anything to do with this meeting that you’re headed to? We’ve maintained a constant, open line of communication, and suddenly you’ve just shut down. We’re in a relationship. I’m concerned and I want to know what’s up with you.”

“Mars, I can’t do this now. I’ll be late. My housekeeper will help you get settled and I’ll see you when I get back.”

Her baby blue Bentley Continental GT convertible sped off up the palm tree-lined drive of her gated home and was gone.

Threaded discreetly among the palm trees and palatial, multimillion-dollar homes of the Florida coast dwells a darker element of power and money that few are cognizant of. This element does not consist of the hardened, profanity-spewing, cigarette-smoking thugs dressed in black as depicted on HBO’s
The Sopranos.
These are the polished, golf-playing, grandfatherly multi-millionaires who run reputable, legitimate business enterprises and are major contributors to the arts and long-respected, American charities… and who amass the bulk of their fortunes in organized crime, traf
ficking literally billions of dollars worth of cocaine, heroin, and other illegal narcotics annually around the U.S., sometimes with some assistance directly from U.S. government, and despite their seemingly harmless, genteel appearances, are far more dangerous than any of the hoods from
The Sopranos
. Keshari had done her research and could trust the legitimacy of the information that she had acquired underground about the man she was about to meet more than she could trust the news on the front page of the
Los Angeles Times
.