The Trials of Nikki Hill (18 page)

Standing just a few yards away, his officious assistant flashed a triumphant smile.

“Then the ring does belong to one of your customers?” Goodman asked.

Petit grinned good-naturedly. “I don’t believe I said precisely that.”

Goodman was conscious of Morales shifting his feet impatiently beside him, and he was getting a little annoyed, himself. “We really didn’t come here to banter, Mr. Petit,” he said. “We’re investigating a murder and we feel you have information we need. Now, we can go into your office and have a chat and then be out of your hair in ten or fifteen minutes. Or we can insist you come down to where
we
work.”

Petit lost maybe a fraction of his charm and said, “I don’t imagine Mr. Halyard would expect me to abide by his policy if it meant breaking the law. So if you are legally empowered to request my assistance...”

“We are.”

“You have a warrant to peruse our files?”

Goodman sighed and turned to his partner.

The previous evening, when Morales had gone to Ray Wise with a request for a warrant, the head D.D.A. had shined him on. “Don’t worry. Halyard’s will cooperate.” Right. Well, he knew how to salvage the situation. “Hey, Wha’s yo’ problem, man?” he shouted at Petit, loud enough to be heard by every customer on the store’s ground level and possibly on the floor above, too. “You tryin’ to interfere in a murder investigation?”

Petit paled under his tan, but he stayed controlled. Facing the room, he calmly addressed his customers, “Just a little misunderstanding.”

To the detectives, he said, “Gentlemen, will you follow me?”

As they passed the somewhat shocked assistant manager, Morales puckered his lips and blew her a kiss.

Petit’s office was small but elegantly furnished, with a private display counter for special customers.

“You want to look at the ring again, Mr. Petit?” Goodman asked.

“I know the piece. It was commissioned through our store.”

“The work of Emilio Rodriguez, Jr., right?” Goodman said, and was immediately annoyed with himself for letting an asshole like Petit push him into showboating.

Not that the store manager was impressed by his knowledge. “Young Emilio created the ring,” he said.

“For Madeleine Gray?”

Petit’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “That’s the murder you’re investigating?”

“Not for Madeleine Gray, then,” Goodman said. He was definitely losing it, leaping to the wrong conclusion and telling this guy too much.

“Ms. Gray was a customer,” Petit said, apparently perplexed. “But that ring...I know of no connection...”

“Just tell us what you do know about the ring.”

Petit looked from Goodman to Morales, who was scratching his balls while studying a silver urn resting on black velvet. “The ring,” he said, a bit dazed, “was created for Mr. John Willins. He requested the band be both gold and platinum, symbolizing the recording industry’s highest accolades.”

“Willins makes records?” Goodman asked.

Petit nodded. “Mr. Willins owns Monitor Records.”

“Got an address for him?”

Some snootiness returned to Petit’s demeanor. “You’ve probably seen the building. It occupies a full block on Sunset with a huge monitor beacon at its top.”

Shit,
Goodman thought. That
Monitor Records.

“I meant a home address,” he said lamely.

“I’ll see.” Petit sat down at an antique desk that held a small black laptop computer. He touched a few buttons on the machine’s keyboard.

“Did this Willins guy say who the ring was for?”

“I assumed for his wife. It was sized for her. He gave it to Madeleine Gray?”

“We don’t know that,” Goodman said.

Petit shook his head in amazement. “The man’s married to Dyana Cooper and he’s buying a ring for Madeleine Gray?”

Dyana Cooper! Jesus.
Even Goodman, who hadn’t been to a movie in ten years or purchased a cassette in twenty, recognized the name. “We don’t know who he bought the ring for,” he repeated. The idea of a celebrity of Dyana Cooper’s international stature suddenly becoming part of the Gray investigation sent a chill down his spine.

Petit frowned at the computer monitor. “I’m afraid all we have is the billing address, which is his office on Sunset.” He stood up, shaking his head. “John Willins and Madeleine Gray,” he said, mainly to himself.

“Listen to me, Mr. Petit. We haven’t determined the significance of the ring, if any,” Goodman said. “So I’d stay off the phone to the
Enquirer
for a while.”

Petit straightened, and his handsome face showed just a hint of anger. Goodman thought that was about as much as it ever would show. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” the store manager asked.

“How much for this silver thing?” Morales asked, pointing at the urn.

“Nine thousand dollars,” Petit replied.

“Nine thou . . .” Morales’ face broke into a wide grin. “You’re shittin’ me, right?”

Petit solemnly assured the detective that he wasn’t shitting him.

Willins was gone for the weekend.

The receptionist, a spectacular blond wearing wraparound eyeglasses with frames that matched her neon lime jumpsuit, referred the two detectives to his personal assistant, a slightly more subdued though no less attractive African-American in an off-white power ensemble. She listened to their request and excused herself for a minute or two, returning with the news that Mr. Willins would be tied up until two, but would be expecting them at that time at his home in the Pacific Palisades. She even offered to draw them a map to help them find the place.

“Map? Doan need no stinking map,” Morales said, imitating one of his favorite movie characters.

“Ignore him,” Goodman said. “We’ll take all the help we can get.”

T
HIRTY-ONE

S
o you seeing this Virgil again tonight, huh?” Loreen

asked during their daily phone call. “Big Friday night date.”

“Uh huh.”

“Go for it, girl. Do not stop and think. You do entirely too much stopping and thinking.”

A clerk appeared at the door to Nikki’s office, waving a pink message slip. Detective Goodman wanted her to call him immediately. “Gotta run,” Nikki said to Loreen. “You sure you don’t mind dropping by the house tonight to feed Bird for me?”

“Anything in the name of love,” Loreen said. “I’m expecting a full report later about how things go. You know how I live for these secondhand turn-ons.”

When Nikki entered the Major Crimes bullpen at Parker Center, Virgil was the first person she saw. The outfit he was wearing was a far cry from his date attire—funky, baggy Levis and a sweat-stained black T-shirt. He was at the rear of the busy room, studying game-plan squiggles on a blackboard with a white detective with a mop of red hair who, judging by his similarly grimy duds, was probably his partner.

“Over here, Nikki,” Morales called from somewhere to her left. Reluctantly, she turned to him and Goodman. They had their sport coats on and looked anxious to be going.

“I got here as fast as I could,” she said, joining them.

“No problem,” Goodman said.

“I appreciate your asking me along,” she said as they started for the door.

“Glad to have you.”

“Is Dyana Cooper gonna be there?” she asked.

“That’ll be up to Willins,” Goodman said. “He knows we’re coming.”

At the door Nikki turned just as Virgil left the blackboard. Their eyes met. Then she heard Morales clear this throat. Unexpectedly, he’d been waiting for her to exit. He’d missed their eye play the way Michael Jordan misses a free throw.

“He’s too young for you, Nikki,” he said as they walked away down the hall. “An’ besides, he ain’t a nice guy like we are.”

“Oh?” she said, expecting him to elaborate.

Morales had said all he wanted to on the subject.

T
HIRTY-TWO

G
oodman felt his heart beating faster as their sedan stopped beside the gatehouse at 203 Bonham Road in the Pacific Palisades. The duty guard was expecting them. He glanced at Morales’s ID and waved them through. “The guy in blue’ll show you where to park,” he said.

A black man wearing powder-blue sweats and a communications headset appeared from behind the mansion, double-timing toward them. Goodman saw the heavy object outlined under the sweat jacket at the same time Morales observed, “Guy’s packin’.”

Arriving at their car, the man said, “We’d appreciate your parking in the lot, detectives. We like to keep this area free, in case of emergency.”

“You expectin’ an emergency?” Morales asked.

The man smiled. “Earthquake, flood, fire. Riot. This
is
Southern California, sir.”

Morales followed his instructions, parking beside a Lexus painted a deep purple color that Goodman didn’t think he’d ever seen before on a car.

The man in blue was waiting for them on the path. “This way, please.”

He led them to the mansion’s front door, which he opened with his left hand, continuing to face them. Not being suspicious, Goodman thought, merely prudent. A pro. Inside, just past the door, a young Latina in a maid’s uniform waited with a look of infinite patience on her placid, pretty face.
“Señorita. Señores. Por favor.”

They followed her through the tastefully decorated home to a bright, comfortable room with plaster walls and lots of windows. Dyana Cooper was seated on a couch, a small woman, buffed to an almost muscular finish. Her eyes, too emerald green to be natural, shifted from Morales to Goodman, and finally to Nikki, where they seemed to soften. Goodman decided he’d been wise to invite her.

A tall black man in a subdued Hawaiian sport shirt and tan silk slacks stood just to the left of the couch. Goodman sensed he was keeping his distance because he wasn’t clear on whether or not to shake hands with the police. “I’m John Willins,” he said. “This is my wife, Dyana. The gentleman by the sideboard is a friend of ours, James Doyle.”

As Goodman turned to the plump man who saluted them with a glass of brown liquid, he felt a strange sense of déjà vu with a decidedly negative twist. He filed it away and performed the introductions for his group. “Deputy District Attorney Nikki Hill, Detective Carlos Morales, and I’m Detective Ed Goodman.” He thought his name may have registered with the plump man.

“Sit,” Willins said. “Serena can bring you tea or a soft drink. Or... whatever.”

Celebrities were always difficult to deal with. The wealth and power generated by the entertainment industry had long ago turned Southern California into something of a monarchy with show business luminaries elevated to a royal status. Goodman had done his jester’s dance down hallowed halls in the past, and he did so once again. “Mr. Willins, could we speak with you alone?”

Willins looked genuinely surprised by the request. Then his eyes went not to his wife, but to Doyle. The plump man barely moved his head in a negative gesture, but Goodman caught it.

So did Nikki, apparently.

“Are you a lawyer, by any chance, Mr. Doyle?” she asked.

“Not by any chance,” Doyle said, adding, “though I have nothing but respect for the law and its minions and interpreters. Should Mr. Willins have a lawyer present?”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Nikki said.

“Since our questions are specifically for Mr. Willins,” Goodman said, “perhaps you and Mrs. Wi... Ms. Cooper might find them a bit on the boring side.”

“I’m interested in anything that has to do with my husband,” Dyana Cooper said.

Hell,
Goodman thought.
However this turns out—in criminal court or divorce court or both—they can’t say he didn’t provide the opportunity for discretion.
“Maybe I will have some tea,” he said.

They all sat down.

While Serena provided them with glasses of the amber liquid, Willins asked, “What’s this all about, detective?”

“We’ve come into possession of an object we think may belong to you.”

Willins raised his eyebrows. “You have it here?”

Goodman dug into his shirt pocket. He noticed that Nikki was staring at Doyle, studying him. Morales was gulping his iced tea, lost in the José Jimenez act he did so well it was impossible to tell when he was paying attention or when he wasn’t.

Goodman handed his host the baggie with the ring. Curiosity rarely got the better of him, but his skin was crawling, he was so anxious to see Willins’s reaction. Would he play dumb? Would he break down and confess?

What he did, after shaking the piece of jewelry onto his large palm, was grin. “It’s your ring,” he informed his wife.

“It sure is,” Dyana Cooper said, apparently delighted. She slipped it onto her finger.

Goodman turned to Doyle, who was watching the couple. Was the plump man bored? Vaguely interested? Bemused?

“You recognize the ring then, Ms. Cooper?” Nikki asked, for the record.

“Oh, yes. But please call me Dyana.” She had her hand in front of her face, studying the effects of the gold and platinum ring against her brown skin. “I’ve been looking all over... wherever did you find it?”

“You lost it when?” Nikki asked.

Dyana’s fine brow rumpled in thought. “Sometime last weekend is when I noticed it was gone. I don’t wear it every day. I looked for it in my jewelry box and it wasn’t there.”

“It’s pretty valuable, isn’t it?” Nikki asked.

Dyana shrugged. “I imagine it is.”

“Must be insured, huh?” Nikki wondered.

Dyana looked at her husband, who nodded.

“Then I suppose,” Nikki said, “that you’ve repor—”

“I guess when you have as much jewelry as Dyana,” Doyle interrupted, “it’s hard to realize that a piece may really be missing and not just misplaced.”

Goodman observed Doyle while he asked Dyana Cooper, “Then the insurance company hasn’t been notified that the ring was missing?”

“I wasn’t sure it
was
missing,” Dyana said.

Goodman turned to face the couple. “Did either of you know Madeleine Gray?”

“We both did,” Willins said. “Most people in our business did. A terrible thing.”

Morales began making sucking noises with the ice in his empty glass and Dyana got the message. She summoned Serena, who did her thing with the tea pitcher.