“Even so, if there’s anything I can do . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“I didn’t give it, but it’s Maribelle Openheim. And I’ll try to pay more attention to Meph, okay? Now leave me alone.”
“Sure,” I said softly. “But obviously you have something on your mind. If there’s anything I can do to help . . .”
“There is. Get your foot out of my door.”
I did, and she closed that door firmly in my face.
I SQUEEZED LEXIE in an extra-loving hug later after retrieving her from her daily delights at Darryl’s and driving her home with me. Then I deposited her gently back on the floor. “I won’t be long, I promise,” I vowed as I prepared to abandon her for a couple of hours at our garage-top home while I joined Judge Baird Roehmann at a restaurant.
Near the door, my adorable tricolor Cavalier cocked her head and regarded me solemnly as if attempting to assess my veracity.
“We’ll get together with Odin afterward, okay?”
As if understanding and agreeing, she wagged her tail.
I had to hustle from our hilltop abode down the sloped street toward Cahuenga Boulevard. After further discussion with Baird, I’d selected one of my favorite neighborhood bistros, one that served both great food and delightful wine.
On the way, my cell phone sang. Amanda. Of course. “I have everything all set up at my office tomorrow,” she said.
“Good. See you then.”
“And you’ll figure out who killed Leon?”
“I’ll try.”
“Well, succeed!” she exploded. “We have a contract now, and that damned Detective Noralles won’t leave me alone. He just called again. All those questions and insinuations, and—”
“That’s his job, Amanda,” I interjected irritably. Not that I enjoyed defending Ned.
“Well, yours is to fix things for me. Fast.” Before I had a chance to shove some reality toward her, she hung up.
I considered calling back and telling her exactly where to go—like, to court and to prison, sans my investigative assistance. But I absorbed my anger instead—this time.
That didn’t leave me in the best of moods to meet Baird.
The tall, silver-haired jurist waited for me in a wooden-backed booth, a small candle glimmering in a multifaceted glass on the table. He stood as I joined him . . . and shook my hand.
Shook my hand? And immediately released it? This from the judge who’d always given me the once-over, his look lingering on my bust, every time we met outside a courtroom?
Something was obviously up with him. Since he’d invited me to dinner, I suspected I’d soon find out what it was.
I slid into the booth, then allowed Baird to order a bottle of wine. He was the smooth sort, and although I’d seldom allowed him to treat me to meals, the few times we’d eaten together I’d been impressed by his expertise in vintages.
I’d not been impressed by his assumption that plying females with wine led to bedroom gymnastics later. That was one reason I clothed myself conservatively that night: a sexless beige shirt with a high collar that skimmed my chin, and loose navy slacks.
“So how are you, Baird?” I inquired after our server, a nice young man surely too homely to be one of L.A.’s usual wannabe movie stars, had served our wine, taken our orders, and obsequiously sailed toward the kitchen.
“I’ve been better, Kendra.” Although his voice held the peal he’d practiced to allow its resonance through any courtroom, it lacked its usual verve.
Knowing a cue when I heard one, I asked, “What’s wrong?”
He sighed, staring with solemn brown eyes over his slightly misshapen nose. Rumor had it that he’d broken it while boxing as an undergrad, but I’d never confirmed if that was myth and part of his mystique, or an actual occurrence. “I asked you to join me tonight since I knew you’d understand. Daisy is gone.”
Daisy. A recent lover who had succumbed to the judge’s charms? A particularly skilled court clerk who’d grown tired of Baird’s lustfulness and left?
“I’m sorry. But I didn’t know Daisy.” And wasn’t sure I should have.
“She was so beautiful. So loving. And I simply don’t know what I’ll do without her.” He gulped down a goblet of Merlot, then filled his glass again.
Okay, he’d handed me a hint with the word “loving.” That surely couldn’t apply to an assistant. Had Baird been married all this time? If so, Daisy’s defection, with all the sexual harassment Baird foisted on females on and off the job, didn’t seem a stretch. Or was she a longtime, long-suffering lover?
“I’m sorry,” I repeated, then, still searching for a clue, said, “Tell me about her.”
“You never met her?” He glared as if I’d insulted him, but then his expression mellowed. “I guess not. We’ve known each other more professionally than personally, haven’t we?” I nodded, and he continued, “Well, Daisy was the most beautiful damned Dalmatian you could ever imagine.”
Oh, so that was Daisy’s pedigree!
For the next forty minutes, over appetizers, salads, and entrées, Baird all but bawled on my shoulder about his dear, departed dog. And I absolutely sympathized with him, which mellowed my post-Amanda mood.
His mourning didn’t appear to injure his appetite. Or maybe it was the tastiness of the excellent French cuisine that kept him eating. In any event, over coffee, he finally ended his extolling of Daisy’s virtues.
“I’m really sorry, Baird,” I said yet again. “I know how hard it is to lose a pet you really care about.”
Poor Daisy’s problem had been simply growing old. And I honestly did share Baird’s pain. I’d had pets before Lexie that I’d lost, and each time I’d felt I’d never get over it.
That thought triggered a suggestion. “Have you considered adopting another dog?”
He glared as if I’d told him to dine on Daisy’s remains. “No. How could I? It would feel . . . disloyal.”
This from a judge who hopped from one willing female to the next without compunction, flirting shamelessly with unwilling ones in between.
“I understand. There’s no way to replace her. But having another pet might help to ease your pain.”
“I’m lonely Kendra,” he asserted, then appeared aghast at the revelation. He inhaled a final swig of wine, then shook his silver mane. “I know what you’re thinking. A man as well-liked as I am, who never lacks for female company . . . how could I possibly feel lonely? Well, if I had one woman I really cared about, one who’d be good company every night, then it might not feel so bad to go home without Daisy to greet me.”
“Sure, Baird.” Surely he wasn’t suggesting that I could be that sole eternal female. Was he?
No, thank heavens. “If you’ve any lady friends that you think might be worth introducing me to, ones with looks and brains”—I noticed which he’d fed out first—“please introduce me. Meantime, I’ll consider adopting another dog. I still can’t get over the fact you decided not to return to your rightful place as one of this city’s premier litigators to join Borden Yurick’s firm and stay a pet-sitter, too. That’s why I thought you might understand about Daisy.”
“I do, Baird. I’ll think about who to introduce you to.”
“And if you have any ideas about another dog . . . well, give me a little time, but I’ll want to hear your suggestions.”
Which was one heck of a first. Baird Roehmann agreeing to listen instead of grope?
Not that he totally disabused me of my recollections of his penchants for pinches. When we eventually said goodbye beneath the lights outside the restaurant, he enveloped me in a judicial bear hug—followed by an unambiguous feeling up of my butt.
THAT NIGHT, I elected to take the offensive. Instead of waiting for Jeff to call after the pups and I had prepared for bed, I phoned him. “Have you spoken with Amanda today?” I asked.
“Yes, and she says you drive a hard bargain, Kendra.”
“Well, you’re the P.I. If you want, you can investigate Leon’s murder on her behalf, instead of me. That way she won’t be contractually obligated to remove herself from your life.” And perhaps she would stop provoking me . . . please!
“I was serious when I chose you over her, Kendra,” Jeff said. “None of us could have foreseen Leon’s murder, and I appreciate your trying to help her. And I apologize for yelling at you for
not
helping her. Once this is behind us, I really will insist that she stay out of my life. Okay?”
“Yes, but—”
“I’m lying here in the nude now, thinking about you . . . and how things’ll be when I’m back home tomorrow night.”
Which was exactly what I thought about as I attempted to drop off to sleep after we hung up. Only . . . I realized I was far from sure about how I wanted things to unfold after Jeff ’s return home.
Chapter Ten
I’D HAVE OVERSLEPT the next morning, the clock radio’s crooning notwithstanding, if Lexie and Odin hadn’t leapt onto my bed and let me know it was time to eat and walk, not necessarily in that exact order.
I obeyed their instructions, then gave Rachel a call from my cell phone to ensure she was on duty that day. She assured me she was, although she issued a warning that she’d need to go to some readings and rehearsals next week.
With luck, I’d have a backup assistant figured out by then.
Odin appeared so sad when Lexie and I started to depart that I decided to provide him with a special treat. It meant I’d need to return to Jeff’s in the evening, but, especially after his speech last night that I nearly believed, I had assured myself I could handle seeing him again if I happened to be there dropping Odin off when he appeared.
“It’s been awhile since you’ve visited Darryl’s,” I told Odin. “How about a doggy resort for today?”
He exuberantly wagged the enthusiastic, fuzzy tail curled over his back, and the decision was made.
I couldn’t spend much time at Darryl’s though.
“Busy day planned?” my lanky friend asked from his front desk after greeting the pups and me.
“Absolutely.” I listed the rundown: Amanda’s office, a visit to the potential defendant vet, and a pet-sitters’ conclave. “Not to mention the usual.”
“Pet-sitting and playing lawyer,” he finished for me. “No wonder these two can’t keep up with you.” He bent to stroke Lexie and Odin, whom I hadn’t let loose yet, despite their fascinated observation of the doggy resort’s multiple pup-play areas.
I accomplished the items Darryl had delineated first. Borden also appeared amused at my many irons in my well-stoked fire that day, as did receptionist Mignon and a couple of the senior-citizen attorneys who lingered around as I explained them all.
Then I was off to Amanda’s office.
The address she’d given was on Third Street near Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. There were lots of doctors’ offices in several nearby buildings, many served by the same overstuffed parking lots. Nevertheless, the Beamer and I found a spot, and I hurried inside and up an elevator to the designated suite.
The reception area was decorated with a plethora of original paintings—big surprise after Amanda’s description of her doctor’s patients. What was unexpected was that few were seascapes. Apparently Amanda’s affinity was not everyone else’s.
When I gave my name, an efficient-looking Asian lady behind a big, glass window scanned a sheet of paper. “Which doctor are you here to see? I don’t find you on the appointment list.”
“I’m here to see one of their assistants, Amanda Hubbard.”
Was it my imagination, or did the woman’s expression morph a mite into irritation? In any event, she was too much of a pro to say anything, nasty or nice. “I’ll let her know you’re here.”
“You’re Kendra Ballantyne?” asked a voice from behind me.
I turned to see a moderate-height man in a yellow button-down shirt standing behind me, holding a large black briefcase in his left hand. “I’m Mitch Severin,” he said. “Amanda’s attorney.”
“Good to meet you, Mitch.” We shook hands and assessed one another, as opposition attorneys often do. Except we were, at least nominally, on the same side. Perhaps only I assumed so.
He was maybe mid-thirties, like me, with a wide mouth that dominated his facial features. His pale brown hair grew sparse both on his head and in thinnish brows over oddly inexpressive eyes. He must have practiced the latter as part of his litigator repertoire, at least when he interviewed witnesses.
“Come over here a second,” he said, gesturing with a wide shoulder toward a window between a still life and a portrait of children at play. I joined him obediently, curious as to what he intended to impart at this end of the reception area where no other patients awaited their examinations.
“Look,” he said sternly. “It’s one thing for you to want to help Amanda, but to make it a media event—well, that’s not in her best interests, and I really must insist that you stop.”
“Media event? What are you talking about?” But I had a sinking suspicion I already knew.
“This, of course.” He lifted his briefcase to lay one edge along the windowsill while he popped the clasp and opened it. He extracted a newspaper: this morning’s edition of the
Los Angeles Times
. The second page included a teaser leading to an article further inside, about the ongoing murder investigation of an alleged stalker named Leon Lucero.