The new telephone felt strange in the apartment, and not entirely welcome.
Yet within minutes of discovering the photos missing, I used it to call Templeton.
I reached her at home, and the conversation was brisk and businesslike.
I gave her Jin Jai-Sik’s name, birth date, and the only address I had for him. She promised to run them through criminal records before we met later that day to attend the memorial service for Billy Lusk.
I also gave her my new phone number, and before we hung up, she offered a quick rundown of her progress on the Masterman story.
She told me she was getting excellent access to the senator’s campaign staff, piecing together a detailed anatomy of one week’s well-organized effort to generate votes. Masterman’s schedule had included a late-night speech on Monday before the local machinists union, launched about the time Billy Lusk was ordering his whiskey sour at The Out Crowd.
Templeton expected to finish up her background research by early afternoon and conduct her core interviews Sunday or Monday. I suggested she assign a
Sun
photographer to get pictures of all the principals, and she told me she’d already taken care of that.
Neither of us mentioned the personal exchanges we’d shared the previous night.
My next call was to Paca Albundo. Her father picked up, speaking accented English in a tight, troubled voice.
When he left the phone to get his daughter, I could hear a woman wailing in the background. It didn’t stop when Paca came to the phone, so I assumed the hysterical woman was her mother.
“You seem to have good timing, Mr. Justice.”
She sounded numb, her emotions remote.
“What’s going on?”
“Gonzalo was raped last night. They called us from the jail hospital this morning. Our priest is here, mainly for my mother. We still haven’t told the old ones.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“A guard heard Gonzalo crying. They found him facedown on the floor of a dormitory cell. He’d been beaten, and his pants were soaked with blood. He refused medical treatment, tried to fight them off. It took several guards to get him to the hospital ward. They had to hold him down so the doctor could examine him. The doctor told my father Gonzalo was raped by several men.”
“Where is he now?”
“In a hospital bed, in restraints. On what they call a suicide watch.”
I thought about HIV, but kept it to myself. The Albundo family had enough to deal with for now.
When I tried to offer my sympathy, Paca cut me off, almost coldly.
“There’s something else, Mr. Justice. The doctor told us Gonzalo had two tattoos scratched on his right arm. They were very crude, and both were infected. The doctor said they were made in the last day or two.”
“Is Gonzalo right-or left-handed?”
“Left.”
“You think he made those tattoos himself,” I said.
“Yes.”
“But if he was in a gang, why didn’t they do it for him, cleanly?”
“They know how to do that, Mr. Justice, but Gonzalo doesn’t.”
“And if he’d had the protection of a gang, no one would have raped him.”
“It seems reasonable, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it seems reasonable.”
The hardness suddenly went out of her voice.
“He’s safe for now, Mr. Justice. But for how long? Please, help us.”
I wanted to tell her I couldn’t help anyone; I didn’t even know how to help myself. I wanted to tell her I’d been running from involvement most of my life, letting people down when they needed me most.
“I remember the kind of stories you used to write…before you had your problems,” she said. “You were a good reporter. You know how to find things out.”
I could hear the tears she was holding back, and the next words she spoke stabbed at my heart.
“I’m begging you, Mr. Justice. For Gonzalo and for our family. Please find out who killed Mr. Lusk before Gonzalo dies in that horrible place.”
I drove to Laguna Beach with the top lowered, shooting down the 405 at eighty with an eye out for the highway patrol.
The heat beat down from a cloudless sky, cut by a pleasant breeze, a perfect summer day I couldn’t enjoy.
While certain pornographic images, even sadistic ones, appealed to the nether regions of my psyche, the vision of Gonzalo Albundo being raped on a filthy floor in County Jail wasn’t one of them. Yet it was all I could think about as I headed south with the weekend traffic.
That, and what Samantha Eliason might be able to tell me about the murder of Billy Lusk.
I turned off at Laguna Canyon Road and wound my way west toward the ocean.
A stream of visitors stretched out ahead of me for miles, many of them gay men who’d be spending the weekend in the clubs, motels, and hillside party houses that catered to trim men with nice tans and a certain attitude. With weather like this, I thought, the drugstores in Laguna Beach would be selling condoms like penny candy, the way merchants in other resorts move them so briskly to heterosexual college kids during spring break.
I hung a left as soon as arching volleyballs and the glittering Pacific Ocean were in sight, working my way through narrow side streets to avoid the gridlock at the intersection with Pacific Coast Highway.
A few blocks later, I swung back toward the highway and nosed the Mustang into the traffic creeping south, past galleries and cafes spilling over with sunburned tourists who looked grimly determined to have a good time.
The address Kevin had given me was a mile beyond the main business district, on the ocean side of the inclining highway.
As I got close, I encountered two surfers pulling out in their van, and cut off a station wagon filled with kids and beach balls that tried to get to the parking space before I did.
The hotel I was looking for wasn’t hard to find.
It was stately and expansive, located on the grounds of a turn-of-the-century French-châteauesque estate. The three-story main house, its corners distinguished by small turrets, was perched near the edge of a rocky cliff a hundred feet above a small cove.
A seven-foot security fence extended around the sides and rear of the property, camouflaged from public view by blooming passion-flower vines. The entrance was located on the north side, near the top of a public stairway that led to the beach. A locked security gate, equipped with an electronic camera and intercom, barred unwanted visitors.
I joined the herd making its way down the steep steps to the white sand beach, where hundreds of others were already spread out, tanning, playing volleyball, or tossing Frisbees down by the water while wet dogs leaped about, barking happily.
Ten stories above, the windows of the resort’s main residence faced out to sea. A deck and paths ran the length of the property, and the rooftops of individual cottages could be glimpsed nestled on the grounds in a heavy growth of foliage.
There seemed to be no comfortable way in but through the proper front entrance.
I trudged back up the stairs, rummaged through the backseat of the Mustang, found a large used envelope in the assorted trash, and filled it with junk mail to give it some heft.
Moments later, I stood in front of the inn’s security gate. I pushed the intercom button and a friendly male voice crackled through the speaker.
“Welcome to Cliffside. May we help you?”
I held the envelope up for the camera and told him I had a delivery for Samantha Eliason. I mentioned Queenie Cochran’s public relations firm and smiled amiably.
He buzzed me in.
I followed a brick path toward the sound of splashing water, past two middle-aged men in matching swimsuits who kissed affectionately but without much passion, in the manner of older couples. A mixed group of men and women splashed each other in the pool. Around it, another dozen guests stretched out in the sun, half of them naked or topless, some sipping champagne with their late brunch.
I surveyed the female faces. Samantha Eliason’s was not among them.
“I’ll be happy to take that for you.”
It was the friendly voice I’d heard over the intercom. It belonged to a wisp of a man in a colorful Hawaiian shirt whose forehead bore the weblike scars of a serious bout with shingles.
“My instructions are to deliver it to Sam personally.” With a smile, I added, “We call her Sam at the agency.”
“Take the path to your left. You’ll find her in the third cottage down.”
The door of the first cottage was half open; Streisand show tunes could be heard playing inside. In front of the second cottage, a fortyish man with a powerful torso and Mediterranean looks sat in an Adirondack chair reading a copy of Walter Mosley’s
Black Betty
from behind dark glasses. The third cottage was open but protected by a screen door.
I stepped up to the porch and looked in.
I saw a child’s playpen in the living room and cuddly toys strewn about, along with enough adult athletic gear to stock a small sporting goods store.
When I’d gotten a good look, I rang the bell.
Samantha Eliason appeared from the kitchen, wearing shorts and a halter top, her dark hair just long enough and just curly enough to qualify as conventionally feminine.
As a tennis player, she’d never been as great a champion as Martina Navratilova, nor as open about her personal life, but they shared the lean, efficient musculature and powerful stride that only comes from years of dedicated training. If Eliason hadn’t won as many titles as Navratilova, she certainly had made millions of dollars more in product endorsements by carefully guarding her sexual orientation from public exposure, as Derek Brunheim had so colorfully pointed out the first time I’d interviewed him.
Queenie Cochran had gone so far as to plant false leads in the press linking her client to heterosexual romances that didn’t exist. They always went out to a select list of columnists, some of whom were closeted themselves. Those who cooperated got lavish gifts from Queenie, with the price tags and receipts attached for easy cash exchange.
“Yes?”
Samantha Eliason came to the door with the guarded manner that many celebrities develop like a second skin. I noticed immediately that she’d put on weight and was more full-breasted than she’d looked in any of her televised matches.
“My name is Benjamin Justice. I’m doing some research for the
Los Angeles Sun
.”
“How did you get in here?”
Her voice was deep enough to pass as a man’s, with a commanding strength that would serve her well behind a microphone.
“I’m a skillful liar,” I said. “Don’t blame the man at the desk.”
She glanced past me in the direction of the footpath.
“Please leave.”
“It’s about Billy Lusk. I know you were close friends.”
“I haven’t seen Billy for some time.”
“I just have a few questions.”
Her eyes darted back and forth from me to the footpath like a spectator watching one of her fast-paced tennis matches.
“I really don’t want to discuss this right now.”
“You know he was murdered.”
“Of course.” Then, as if she needed to explain: “Billy’s roommate, Derek Brunheim, called me.”
Laughter reached us from two cottages away. Two men emerged sharing a joint, on their way out with towels and beach chairs.
The barrel-chested occupant of the adjacent cottage had risen from his Adirondack chair to watch us intently.
“Could I come in? It might be more private.”
“My public relations agency arranges all interviews, Mr. Justice.”
“I can’t wait for that. There’s a boy in jail being held for Billy’s murder. He was raped last night by several inmates. He won’t survive in there for very long.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“You and Billy had a falling out in the past year. Your arguments have escalated recently.”
“I’m calling the front desk, Mr. Justice, and asking them to escort you out.”
She took a step back and picked up a phone just inside the door.
“I also know that you’ve been sending him large amounts of cash.”
She paused with her finger still on the button.
I thought I saw fear cross her face. She managed to quickly hide it with the considerable skill she’d developed over the years in hiding so much of her life.
“If you’ll be honest with me, Samantha, it’s possible none of this ever has to get into print. But if you don’t deal straight with me, I’ll consider any and every aspect of your personal life fair game.”
“That sounds like coercion to me.”
“Not at all. You’ve used the media to promote yourself to the public as heterosexual. That leaves your private life open to scrutiny, especially if there’s evidence you were deliberately deceptive.”
She put the phone back on its cradle and glanced in the direction of a clock.
She said quickly, “I can only talk for a moment.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Billy had some problems. Specifically, coke. He had debts. I helped him pay them off so that he could get a fresh start. Something any close friend might do.”
“And the arguments?”
“Naturally, I tried to get him to stop using. Billy was in total denial about how the drug was affecting his life. You know how cokeheads can be.”
“When did you see him last?”
“Months ago. February, I think.”
“When you returned from Europe?”
Her husky voice tightened, giving her away.
“How did you know about that?”
“I have sources.”
She stiffened, and answered reluctantly.
“Yes. About that time.”
“Where were you Tuesday morning, shortly after midnight?”
“At home. In Brentwood.”
“Alone?”
“I was with someone.”
“Would that person be willing to verify your alibi?”
“I believe that’s a question the police should ask, if it comes to that.”
“The police have signed off on this case, and I think you know it. But I haven’t.”
“It’s not someone I wish to bring into this.”
“I take it it’s a woman.”
“I didn’t say that.”
I didn’t enjoy watching Samantha Eliason squirm, but I reminded myself that she lived in a prison of her own making. She had weighed the price to be paid for mainstream acceptance and corporate marketing deals, and now she was paying it.
Any other time, I would have left her alone. At the moment, however, Gonzalo Albundo’s survival seemed more important than Samantha Eliason’s comfortable place in the closet.
“Was Billy Lusk blackmailing you, Samantha?”
“I really can’t talk to you any longer.”
She reached for the door.
“Just a couple more questions…”
She twisted the handle of the screen door, thrust it open, and stepped out right into my face.
“Get away from me!” she screamed. “Leave me alone! Stay out of my life!”
Her fury, fueled by a fear I didn’t yet understand, was formidable; she literally trembled with it.
The man next door threw down his book and started toward us. I realized then that he was probably her bodyguard, instructed to keep a low profile unless action was absolutely necessary.
Before he reached us, I said to her, “If you have anything to add, I’d appreciate it if you’d call me.”
I pushed a slip of paper into her hand with my name and home number on it.
By then, the bodyguard had me by the arm and was dragging me roughly down the steps. I shook him off, just as roughly. He was professional enough to want to avoid trouble, and allowed me to walk ahead of him on my own.
He followed me back down the brick path and stood watching until I was out the gate, listening to it lock behind me. I took a minute to think over what had just transpired and why, making mental notes as I worked my way through possible scenarios.
Then I started up the hill toward the highway.
I hadn’t climbed more than fifty feet when I faced a young woman pushing a baby stroller in my direction.
She was a fresh-faced redhead with a trim, athletic look and freckles everywhere. I glanced into the stroller and saw a child of five or six months. Soft, golden hair curled from under the baby’s blue denim cap.
Then I saw the tiny, upturned nose.
It was an unmistakable copy of the nose in every photograph I’d ever seen of Billy Lusk.
“Beautiful baby,” I said.
“Isn’t he?”
She paused to let me have a better look, smiling radiantly from an honest, open face.
“What do you call him?”
“William,” she said. “After his father.”
I asked her if she was staying at Cliffside, and she nodded.
“Isn’t it great?”
“We love it,” she said.