The Trials of Nikki Hill (14 page)

“Right,” Walden said without enthusiasm. “Anything else?”

Goodman said, “The bracelet found at the vic’s home.”

“The one that Ray told me had been given to the Gray woman by Deschamps,” Walden said, heavy on the sarcasm.

”According to the inscription,” Wise said defensively, “it was a gift from somebody with the initial ‘J.’ We had a suspect named Jamal. Hell, maybe he did give it to her. The fact she had it doesn’t necessarily mean it came from her killer.”

“I think it does,” Nikki said. “According to Arthur Lydon, Maddie’s assistant, she didn’t wear jewelry. He’d never seen the bracelet before. So the killer either gave it to her that night, or it was something she only wore for him.”

“Logical,” Walden admitted. “So what does that tell us?”

“That the killer’s a ‘J,’ ” Nikki said. “And the little lion hanging on the bracelet must have some significance. Leo the lion. Astrological sign. MGM Studios.”

“Do we have anything on the bracelet’s history?” Walden asked Goodman.

“We know it’s fourteen-karat and that it was handcrafted. We’ll show it to some local jewelers and see what they can tell us.”

The D.A. nodded. “What else have you got?”

“The files in Madeleine Gray’s special cabinet drawer,” Goodman said.

“If the killer pried the drawer open,” Walden said, “we can assume he got what he was after. The celebrities whose files were left behind are probably the only people in L.A. we can be reasonably certain did not kill Madeleine Gray.”

“Unless the killer missed what he was searching for,” Goodman said.

“All right, detective,” Walden said. “You’ve sold me. Here’s how it works. One man gets a look at the files and interviews the involved parties. That same man bears the full responsibility if any of the information they contain is leaked to the press. Guess who that one man is going to be.”

“Gonna eat that taco?” Morales asked, barely waiting for Goodman to say no before scooping it off of its cardboard plate. They were having lunch at the Tico Taco on Fairfax, standing up at a wooden counter at the rear of the fast-food hut. “Why don’cha buy a burrito so I can eat that, too,” the thick-chested detective said, wiping his fingers daintily on a small white paper napkin with red and green pepper borders.

“Huh, sure,” Goodman said, distracted.

“Hey, man, your mind’s been on vacation ever since Walden put you on the spot.”

“Sorry, amigo,” Goodman said. But it was Gwen, not Walden, who was occupying his thoughts.

The night before, he’d wound up at her place with takeout ribs. The cocktail of choice had been tequila shooters. A bunch of them and somehow their interest in the ribs had waned to the point where they were rolling around on the carpet, undoing buttons and belts and such.

He was enjoying himself pretty much for a near senior citizen when the phone rang. He was surprised when she pulled away to answer it, then annoyed when she turned her naked back to him and began to whisper into the receiver in a tone that could only be described as intimate.

He watched in silence from the floor as she replaced the receiver and began to put on her clothes. “Sorry, Ed,” she said, not able to meet his gaze. “I’ve gotta go.”

“It’s nearly midnight,” he said. “Your boyfriend just ditch his wife?”

“You don’t know anything about it,” she said tersely.

“I guess not,” he said, looking for his pants.

She gave him a sad smile. “You were the one who told me to go out and find somebody new, remember?”

“I was just mulling that dumb idea over,” he said.

She grabbed her purse and headed for the door. “Why don’t you stay here tonight? Sleep a little before getting behind the wheel.”

“Kind of you,” he said, though he had no intention of staying.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wouldn’t have started us up again if . . .” She let the thought drift away.

“I know,” he said, flopping onto the couch, holding his right shoe.

She left, closing the door quietly behind her.

“Ed Goodman, what an asshole thou art,” he said to the room.

He put on his shoe and reached for the tequila bottle on the coffee table. His hand hesitated, then picked up the phone instead. He punched the star key, then the six and the nine.

The combination triggered an immediate response—the dialing of the number of the last person to have called Gwen’s number. Goodman’s mouth felt dry as he listened to one ring. Then two. Then:

“TAA,” a male voice said. “This is security.”

Damn. A business number. With how many employees? “I’m sorry,” Goodman said, improvising, “I didn’t want security.”

“Switchboard’s closed for the night,” the man from security informed him. “Try again after eight-thirty tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks,” Goodman said, replacing the phone.

He tried to shake the wooziness from his head. What the hell was he thinking? Suppose Gwen’s lover boy had picked up the phone, what would he have done? Would he have asked the son of a bitch his intentions? Christ, he may not know the guy’s name, but he sure as hell knew his intentions: to get his ashes hauled whenever he wanted. Gwen obviously was happy to oblige. He, Goodman, was the odd man out in this triangle.

He stood unsteadily, grabbed his coat, and staggered from the apartment.

“What’s it gonna be,” Morales asked him as they headed from Tico Taco to their sedan, “jewelry stores or the ass-holes she was blackmailin’?”

“The assholes,” Goodman said as they got into the car.

“Checking out the ways other people tried to screw up their lives might be just what I need.”

Morales put the car in gear but didn’t step on the gas. He faced Goodman. “You bummin’ me out, man. You can’t let Walden get you down like this.”

“It’s not Walden and I’m not down. I’m fine. I’m high on life.”

“Yeah,” Morales said, nosing the sedan into traffic along Fairfax. “And I’m the fucking king of Spain.”

T
WENTY-TWO

I
’ll see if he’s in,” the very elegant, slightly anorexic black woman named Rae said into the telephone. She pressed the hold button and looked across the office at Jimmy Doyle, who was lying down on a brown nubby-weave couch reading the
Chicago Tribune.
On the floor beside the couch were discarded copies of the
Washington Post,
the
New York Times, USA Today,
the
L.A. Times,
and
High Society’s Celebrity Skin,
all of which she’d picked up that morning for him at Freddy’s Georgetown News.

“Jesse Fallon?” she asked.

He dropped the
Trib
and twisted on the couch to grab the phone on the table near his head.

“Yo, Jesse.”

“It’s official.” The lawyer’s voice was all business. “Jamal Deschamps is a free man. Or will be as soon as he’s able to leave the hospital. I assume this cancels my debt.”

“It’s marked paid in full,” Doyle said. “You do good work, Jesse.”

“Even when crucial information is kept from me.”

“What information?” Doyle asked.

“The ring. You didn’t tell me Deschamps was found with the dead woman’s ring in his pocket.”

“This is the first I’m hearing about a ring,” he told Fallon.

“What’s your interest in Deschamps, Jimmy?”

“I hate to see an innocent man get railroaded,” Doyle said. “Simple as that.”

“I hope to God you had nothing to do with the attempt on his life.”

“Why would I go to all the trouble of getting you to clear his name,” Doyle asked, “if I wanted him dead?”

“I don’t suppose I’ll ever know the real reason behind anything you do, Jimmy,” Fallon said. “And I’m not sure I want to know.”

They said their good-byes. Doyle reached back, pushed the plunger on the phone cradle, breaking that connection. Then he swung his body around until he was sitting up, sock feet on the thick carpet. He closed his eyes, summoned up a number, and hit the phone keys, a lot of them.

“L’Homme Magnifique,” a bored feminine voice informed him.

“Zorina?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“The fat fart from D.C.”

He could almost hear her smile. “Need another tie?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “My guess is I’ll be back in L.A. tomorrow. Let’s say your place at nine.”

“So your ‘big deal’ is on again, huh?” she said.

“With a little push from this end.”

“What is it you do, anyway?” she asked. “Politics? Show business?”

Doyle considered the question for a beat. “I sorta cover the waterfront,” he said.

T
WENTY-THREE

C
ome in,” Ray Wise said glumly. He was sitting perpendicular to his desk, slumped back, staring straight ahead at a blank wall. Nikki assumed that he’d spied her with peripheral vision, since he hadn’t turned his head when she appeared at his door.

“You left a message you wanted to see me?”

“Sure. Sit down.”

He took his time shifting his narrow body on the chair so that he could face her. She decided she preferred him when he was alert and arrogant, as opposed to his present state, which was almost civil and perplexed. “I...,” he began. He frowned and tried again. “We’re both in the same boat,” he said. “The same sinking boat.”

Nikki remained silent, waiting for him to make his point.

“Years ago, we faced an even more difficult crisis. We put aside our...differences for our common welfare.”

“And you hung around here, jollyin’ it up with fat-ass Gleason,” she said, “while I was bustin’ my hump in beautiful downtown Compton.”

His lip twitched in annoyance. “The point is, we both survived.”

“At different levels of survival, Mr. Head Deputy D.A.”

“Of course. You were the one who fucked up.”

“Well, which one of us is the fuckup this time, Raymond?”

He slumped back in his chair. “Point made,” he said. She thought it was probably the closest he’d come to admitting his fallibility.

“So what do you want from me?” she asked.

“Cooperation.”

She mentally poked at the word. “You want to parse that for me a little?”

“I want ...I would
appreciate
your consulting me before you make your reports to Walden.”

“Why should I go to all that trouble?”

“It’s as much to your advantage as it is to mine that our reports reflect a uniformity of opinion. It’ll make both our jobs easier.”

“And if our jive don’t jibe?”

He gave her a mirthless smile. “Then I suppose the final decision should be made by the person with seniority.”

“That’s what I figured,” she said, standing.

He waited until she was almost out the door before saying, “There would be a quid pro quo, of course.”

She turned, suspicious, but also curious.

“Assuming the LAPD ever arrests anybody else for the Gray murder,” he said, “I’ll see to it you’re a major part of the prosecution team.”

“Joe Walden already put that on my plate.”

He smiled again. “That’s what I mean about experience. You didn’t hear him use the word ‘major.’ He said you’d be part of the team. That could mean anything from flogging the clerks to making runs to In and Out Burger in the middle of the night.”

She looked at him.

“I’m offering you a seat at the table,” he said.

She tried not to show her surprise. “You don’t have that authority.”

“Let me amend my statement. I will recommend to Joe that you be my second chair. Considering the confidence he has in you, I don’t believe he’ll say no. Especially if your reports indicate we’re on the same wavelength.”

He was leaning forward, the tips of his fingers touching his desk as a form of delicate balance. She could feel his eagerness. He needed her support. She needed the career boost a high-profile trial would provide. Once again she would be getting into bed with the weasel, metaphorically speaking of course, thank the Lord. This time would be a little different. This time it was she who had the D.A.’s ear. This time she knew a good deal more about how the game was played.

“We’ll give it a try,” she said.

T
WENTY-FOUR

G
oodman moved along the antique brick walkway from the two-story house to the street. He double-timed it, ignoring the well-tended shrubbery and little islands of exotic, multihued plants. He could feel the eyes of Nita Morgan, the angry lady of the house, boring holes in his back. She’d called him a series of imaginatively obscene names and threatened to sue him, the LAPD, and every other law enforcement entity in Los Angeles, including the highway patrol and the FBI.

Adding to her intimidation quotient was Goodman’s memory of her as a terrifying vampire in a popular television series of the sixties. (Madeleine Gray’s folder had IDed her as “Batgal.”) He kept flashing on her in pale white makeup, hair a mass of black and white strands, inch-long fingernails the same color as the blood coating her vampire fangs.

He shivered, jerked the passenger door open, and lowered his weary bones into the sedan. His neck felt red and hot.

Batgal had been his third visit to a Madeleine Gray “client.”

The first two had been just as unpleasant and unproductive.

Morales hummed a little tune, smirking.

“Okay, damn it,” Goodman said. “Walden was right and you were right. This is not only a waste of time, it is a fucking
embarrassing
waste of time.”

“Maddie’s killer ain’t in those files,” Morales said, starting the car.

Goodman had no evidence to the contrary. Nor did he have the heart to rattle the cages of the rest of the people on the list. “Okay,” he said. “Screw this. Let’s go get the gold bracelet and visit some jewelers.”

It was a good suggestion, but they weren’t able to act on it. When they opened the box marked “Gray, Madeleine” in the evidence room, and spread out the assortment of items on the table, the gold bracelet was missing.

Goodman checked the evidence logs. There it was, neatly typed. “1 bracelet, gold, w. lion charm & inscription, ‘M. We’ll always have Paris. Love, J.’ ” The entry included the date and time the object was logged in. It had not been logged out.

The officer in charge of the evidence room was quick to note that only authorized personnel had access to the boxes. “If something’s missing, whoever took it was here on official business,” he told them defensively, indicating the visitor sign-in sheets.