Pie A La Murder (29 page)

“A reporter for the
Los Angeles Chronicle
has been found dead in Westwood.”

Those words struck me like a blow to my chest. “Nicholas . . .”

Liddy cried, “Oh, no!”

Gripping the wheel hard to keep my hands from shaking, I pulled over to the side of Ventura Boulevard and cut the engine. In those few seconds my heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the news reader’s next few words. I began to hear the report again as she said, “. . . was found at approximately nine o’clock this evening by two restaurant busboys who went outdoors to smoke.”

What restaurant?

“The name of the deceased has not been released pending notification of next of kin, but according to an anonymous source close to the investigation, an identity card in the victim’s wallet indicates employment by the
Los Angeles Chronicle
. Also, according to our source, it appears that the victim died from head injuries. Anyone in the vicinity of the alley behind the Olympia Grand Hotel between seven and nine PM this evening is asked to call the West Los Angeles Police Department at 555-1600. Stay tuned to KABC-AM 790 for news on the hour, the half hour, or when it breaks.”

The reporter went to a story about the discovery of a meth lab in Van Nuys.

As I reached to turn off the radio I realized that Liddy was gripping my arm.

“Oh, dear Lord,” she whispered.

A lump in my throat felt so huge I wasn’t sure I could speak, but I gently pried Liddy’s fingers away, pulled the cell phone out of my bag, and pressed the speed dial number for John O’Hara.

He answered on the second ring. “Del?”

“On the radio . . . I just heard . . . John, that murdered
Chronicle
reporter—it’s Nicholas, isn’t it?”

“D’Martino? No. It’s a woman.”

“A woman . . . ?” The news hit me like another physical blow. Praying I was wrong, I asked, “The reporter—is her name Gretchen Tully?”

“How did you know that?”

“I met her. . . . Oh, John, I’m afraid this could be my fault—I encouraged her to investigate the Redding murder.”

“That’s just great.” I heard anger and exasperation in his voice. “This wasn’t our case, but it’s linked to ours now. Where are you?”

“In the valley, coming from the studio.”

“Get to the station as quick as you can. I was on my way home but I’ll meet you there.”

On the way to my house, where Liddy had parked her car, I filled her in about my visit from Gretchen Tully the previous week.

“Gosh,” she said. “This is terrible.”

When we got to Eleventh Street, Liddy said, “Since we walked Tuffy at the studio, I’ll use my key and put him in the house so you can get right to John.”

I thanked her and told her I’d call her in the morning.

John was waiting for me by the front desk when I entered the West Los Angeles police station on Butler Avenue.

“I called Detective Keller, who got the Tully case. He’s waiting for you inside.”

The detectives’ squad room was livelier than it had been late Sunday afternoon when I’d gone to report Galen Light’s attack on me. At close to midnight, three detectives were at their desks. Separately, one man and one woman were taking reports from aggrieved Los Angelinos. Another detective, a male, was working at his computer.

A man was perched on the edge of John’s desk, but stood when he saw us come in. He was thin, with sharp features, frizzy blond hair, pale eyes, pale skin. A head shorter than John, he looked to be in his thirties and had probably been hired when the LAPD lowered its height requirement in an attempt to inject diversity into the force. He wore the standard attire of detectives on duty: jacket and slacks, shirt and tie, although his clothes appeared to be more expensive than most.

“Della, this is Detective Keller. Val—Della Carmichael.”

Detective Val Keller extended his hand and I took it. His grip was appropriately firm; what surprised me were the calluses I felt on his palm. He dressed like an upper-income business executive, but his hands were those of someone who did manual labor.

John got a chair for me from a neighboring empty desk.

He took his accustomed place and Keller moved over to Weaver’s, shoved some of the clutter aside, and parked his rear on the edge of that desk. I was an inch or two taller than Keller, but in our new positions, he towered over me. Up close, I noticed that while his teeth were unnaturally white, his fingers bore the discoloration typical of a heavy smoker. His jacket reeked of cigarettes.

“O’Hara tells me you knew Gretchen Tully,” Keller said. “How well?”

“I met her for the only time last Friday, when she came to my house to interview me.”

“Interview you? What for?”

“A feature article in the paper. It was arranged by the publicist for my TV show,
In the Kitchen with Della
. I thought she wanted to talk about the bake sales for charity contest our network is promoting, but she came to see me six days early and all she only wanted to talk about was Alec Redding’s murder.”

“Why would she want to talk to
you
about that?”

I glanced at John, but he had his poker face on. I had no clue what he’d told Keller, so I said, “She brought it up because Nicholas D’Martino and I discovered Redding’s body.”

“Correction,” John said. “D’Martino discovered the body. Della got there later.”

“Only a few minutes later,” I said firmly. “Anyway, Gretchen Tully said she wanted to move on to hard news stories—not stay stuck in women’s features—so she asked me what I thought about the murder.”

That wasn’t strictly true—she had wanted to know why I thought
Nicholas
killed Redding, but I wasn’t going to reveal that. Before Keller could ask, I said, “We discussed the fact that a murder investigation was a great opportunity for a reporter. She was excited about the possibility of discovering information that could lead to her getting an exclusive.”

“You talked her into trying to find the killer?” he said.

“Yes, I did,” I said softly. I felt tears beginning to well in my eyes and fought them back. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re
sorry
?” Keller’s tone rang with contempt. “Fat lot of good your being sorry is going to do Tully’s family.”

“That’s enough, Val.” John stood up. “The young woman was an ambitious reporter after a story. She couldn’t have been talked into something she didn’t want to do.”

Keller’s pale face flushed an angry red. He faced John like a furious terrier challenging a mastiff. “Yeah, well, what we don’t need is private citizens thinking they can work a case better than the cops!”

“We’re on the same team, Keller,” John said calmly.

“Maybe.”

The other people in the squad room were looking at us as though expecting someone to start swinging. After a moment of highly charged silence, Keller focused on me again. “Who was Tully planning to talk to?”

“I have no idea.”

“Why was she outside the back of the Olympia Grand?”

“I don’t know,” I said. The only positive thing about his hostility was that it had squelched my impulse to cry.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“I told you—on Friday. After she left my house I never heard from her, talked to her, or saw her again.”

“And you’ve told us everything you know?”

“Yes,” I said.
Everything I know about Gretchen Tully.

Keller turned to John. “I talked to the captain. Since our two cases have turned into one case, we’re stuck with each other.”

“I’ll let Weaver know,” John said. “Where’s your partner?”

“Still questioning the hotel’s kitchen help. I’d be there if you hadn’t called to tell me about this . . . person. What a wasted trip. I’m going back to my crime scene.”

We watched Detective Keller stalk out of the squad room. There was a moment of awkward silence.

“John, I feel terrible about this.”

“Don’t blame yourself too much—you couldn’t know she’d get close enough to the perp to get herself killed.”

“When did Gretchen die?”

“We don’t have a TOD yet. It appears she was killed somewhere else and her body hidden behind the hotel’s Dumpster sometime after seven tonight, when a load of kitchen trash was emptied, and before nine o’clock when two of the busboys went outside to take a smoke and discovered her.”

“John, if Gretchen Tully was found in the back of the Olympia Grand, isn’t it likely she’d been investigating the group in the Presidential Suite?”

“Or someone put her there to make us think that,” he said. “In any case, first thing tomorrow, we’ll be talking to Prince Charming and his future princess again. And to D’Martino and his daughter.”

“And Roxanne Redding,” I said.

“Speaking of the widow, there’s something I meant to tell you. Those photos of the unknown man? Mrs. Redding said she and her husband took the shots of each other. Because of the style, there’s no doubt that he took the pictures of her, but according to the medical examiner, the limb and hand measurements of the man don’t match her husband’s.”

Even though it was a few minutes after one Wednesday morning, as soon as I got into my Jeep I dialed Olivia Wayne.

“I’m sorry to call so late,” I said.

“I just got home. What’s the problem?”

“John O’Hara plans to question Nicholas and Celeste again. I thought you should have a heads-up.” I told her about the murder of
Chronicle
reporter Gretchen Tully sometime Tuesday evening. “Or maybe yesterday afternoon. There’s no official time of death yet. John told me they don’t think she was killed in back of the Olympia Grand, but elsewhere, and then her body was dumped there between seven and nine last night.”

“Other than working on the same paper, does Nick have some kind of relationship with Tully?”

“Not that I know of. He’s never mentioned her.” I told Olivia how I met Gretchen, and the horrible feeling that I had sent her on the trail that led to her death.

Olivia’s reply was instantaneous and sharp. “Don’t be ridiculous. Reporters go after stories. Often there’s risk involved. But don’t go around telling people you feel responsible or we might have another lawsuit on our hands. She could have litigious relatives.”

Litigation
. . .
I’d almost forgotten about Galen Light’s accusation against me.

“Is Light still in the hospital?” I asked.

“They released him Sunday evening, right after that detective, Weaver, left. I’ve been negotiating with Wylie York.”

“How’s that going?”

“One of my most useful qualities is the ability to frighten the other side. Old Wile E. Coyote can’t carry my briefcase as a lawyer, but he doesn’t scare easily.”

“What do you think is going to happen?”

“I don’t speculate, I act,” she said. “I want to talk to Nicholas. Is he there with you?”

“No. Try him at home.”