The Trials of Nikki Hill (39 page)

“Then we’re in agreement?” Walden asked. “We investigate the previous marriage and keep our antennae tuned to every little change in the defense’s presentation.”

Nikki nodded.

“Good,” he said. “I assume you two will be working the rest of the day?”

“I’ve got the Rosten girl coming in later to go over her testimony,” Ray said. “I plan on starting with her on Monday morning.”

“Fine, but don’t forget the NAAL dinner. Tomorrow night. Hotel Balmoral. I expect all our tables to be filled.”

As they headed toward their respective offices, Wise mumbled, “I suppose I’ll be the token white.”

“What’d you say?” she asked.

“I said, at this damned NAAL dinner, I’ll probably be the token white.”
Good,
she thought. She was starting to hate him again, which meant all of her values hadn’t deserted her.

She spent the rest of the day listening to the message on Goodman’s answering machine, trying to convince herself that Dyana Cooper was indeed as guilty as sin and attempting to ignore the doubts she was feeling about Virgil. The remaining odd few minutes of each hour she used to prepare for her Monday afternoon in court with several of the Willinses’ staff, who were all expected to testify that the woman had not been in the domicile during the complete time frame the coroner had established for Madeleine Gray’s murder.

At a little after noon, a clerk interrupted her to drop off two tacos and a cola. She ate and drank with gusto, at the same time dialing her home number to access her messages. Nothing from Goodman or Virgil. But her friend Victoria Allard had called to inform her of the arrival of several new items of clothing in her size.

Victoria answered on the second ring, her usually upbeat saleswoman’s voice strangely subdued. “I’ve got a Ralph Lauren, a Calvin, and some Escada.”

“I really need a knockout evening dress,” Nikki said. “There’s this big shindig tomorrow night and that Halston I bought about a hundred years ago is definitely ready to retire.”

Victoria said she had a very slinky Donna Karan that shouldn’t require too much alteration, unless Nikki had been letting herself go.

She regarded the remaining few bites of taco guiltily and asked Victoria to set the Donna Karan aside for her. She was having dinner with Loreen. They’d both drop by at about seven-thirty.

“I have nothing for Loreen,” Victoria said with an odd anxiousness. “No reason for her to waste her time. You come, try on the dress, and then you can pick her up later.”

Nikki said she would.

Satisfied that she’d solved the problem of what to wear to Joe’s award dinner, she downed the remnants of the taco and dove back into her work.

At three, she was interrupted by the chirp of the phone. She answered it, hoping it would be Ed Goodman. Or Virgil. Instead, an operator asked if she’d accept a collect call.

“Figgered I’d catch you at work,” the familiar hoarse voice said. “Hot and heavy in the middle of the trial and all.”

“What’s up, Mace?”

“Scout is out,” he said.

“I don’t understand.”

“Scout is out,” he repeated. “You got people watchin’ you.”

“No kidding,” she said. “I’m dodging cameras every time I set foot outside.”

“I ain’t talkin’ about reporters and shit. I’m talkin’ about watchers. You know, spy boys, watchin’ what you do, reportin’ back to other people where you are. Like that.”

“Spy boys,” she said.

“Yeah, you know. Gang spy boys, notify the gang what’s happenin’ on the street.”

She felt a chill. She was going to have to pull the plug on Mace soon, she thought. Before his paranoia spread to her.

“Thanks for the report, Mace. Gotta go.”

“They come to Mace in the liberry. Wanted to know about my trial. About you.”

That caught her. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“Gangsta punks. Do a lot of braggin’. Say they got the scout out on you. Been follerin’ you aroun’. See, they think I hate your ass. They don’t know we friends.”

“We’re not friends, Mace.”

That earned her a wet chuckle. “Like you didn’t he’p me get my liberry job.”

“I didn’t.”

“You say so. Just you take care, huh. Mace can’t afford to lose a friend.”

She replaced the receiver. Take care? Damn right she was going to take care.

At a little after six, she put her notes and files in her briefcase and called it a day.

Sonny was in the waiting area reading a worn paperback. Nikki glanced at its title before he shoved it into his coat pocket:
The Healing Power of Prayer.

“You a religious man, Sonny?” she asked as their elevator descended to the parking level.

“I keep an open mind,” he said.

He instructed her to stay in the alcove while he surveyed the garage area. Then he led her to his Oldsmobile. As they bounced out of the underground garage, she turned to check out the sparse traffic in their wake. No spy boys that she could see, thank you very much, Mace.

S
EVENTY-FIVE

N
ice neighborhood,” Sonny said, later that night, as he drove Nikki and Loreen along a peaceful thoroughfare in the Malaga Hills section of the Palos Verdes Peninsula. In the twenties the area had been one huge estate. By the midthirties developers had split it up into good-sized lots, selling them with the slogan “Own your own dude ranch.”

Most of the homes still had that ranch motif—sprawling, built close to the ground and topped with shake roofs, with enough surrounding property to raise horses, if that was your idea of the good life.

“I prefer being a little closer in to the city, know what I mean,” Loreen said. She had decided to come along for the ride, even though Victoria had nothing for her. She sat in front, next to Sonny.

Nikki, in the rear, looked out at the family homes and said, “Works for Victoria.”

They’d grown up with Victoria Allard, whose last name had been Martin in those days. The all-pro basketball star Ken Allard had moved her from the old neighborhood into Malaga Hills. Moved her in, lived with her for five years and dumped her for some young tramp. Rather than give up her home, she’d transformed it into a clothing boutique.

“Not much crime out here,” Sonny said.

“That what turns you on? Crime?” Loreen asked him.

“Not exactly,” he answered. “But I’m ready to handle it if it comes my way.”

“I bet you are, Wesley. I just bet you are.” The moment Nikki had introduced them, Loreen had told Sonny he reminded her of the actor Wesley Snipes. Nikki, who saw no similarity, didn’t know if her friend was just being pleasant or if she was coming on to Sonny. Time would tell on that score. Loreen wasn’t what you’d call shy.

“I do my job,” Sonny said. “This the place?”

He’d stopped the Olds in front of a large ranch home with a healthy green lawn and several cars, including a BMW station wagon, parked in the drive.

“You did good, Wesley,” Loreen said, opening her door and struggling to get out.

“We won’t be more than fifteen or twenty minutes,” Nikki told him.

“My time is yours,” Sonny said without emotion.

“Man is sooo poetic,” Loreen said without a trace of sarcasm. Definitely coming on to him. “Sure you don’t want to come in,” she asked him, “have a pop?”

“I don’t drink on the job,” he said, his eyes patrolling the quiet street.

Nikki pulled her friend away from the car. “C’mon, Delilah. Samson’s not going anywhere.”

As they approached the front door, Loreen asked, “You ever wonder where Victoria gets her goods?”

Nikki pressed the doorbell. “She says she’s got contacts at the factories. Considering my measly little paycheck, I’m not about to press—”

Victoria’s front door was opened by someone Nikki had never seen before. He was very young. Handsome. Clean-cut. Dressed in an orange and black Nike tennis outfit too crisp to have ever been used in a game that showed off his muscular arms and legs to advantage. The only thing marring his college-net-star appearance was a thick scar that began at his left elbow and continued nearly to his wrist.

“Oh, two of you. Well, come on in, ladies,” he said. “My name is Rupert. I’ll take you back to the rooms. Victoria will be with you in a minute.”

As he led the way down an off-white hall toward the rear of the house, Loreen made obscene gestures behind his back until Nikki nearly burst with laughter.

Victoria had turned two large bedrooms into her display areas. Each was filled with racks of women’s clothes of all styles and colors, arranged according to size.

“Browse like always,” he said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or a Coke? Or something stronger?”

“I’ll have a Remy,” Loreen said.

“Victoria’s holding an evening dress for me,” Nikki told him.

“I’ll check,” Rupert said. “And a drink?”

She shook her head. When he’d gone, Loreen said, “Victoria’s sure got herself a fine-looking...assistant.” She laughed.

Smiling, Nikki moved on to the next room in search of her size.

She was examining a designer jacket marked down from $500 to $250 when she heard Loreen saying, in a surprisingly arch tone, “What the hell’s going on, Victoria?”

Curious, but not alarmed, she tried on the jacket. It felt all right, but she thought it might make her hips look a little too large. She walked to the mirror on the back wall.

“That’s too grandma for you.” The speaker was a young woman standing in the doorway. She was wearing a strange silver-colored wig, an orange T-shirt, and black tights patterned with orange question marks of varying sizes. Black running shoes with a splash of orange at the toe completed the ensemble. She held a leather case maybe two feet long and four inches across. She carried it like some women carry purses, clasped between arm and side with her hand holding it from underneath. “Get yourself something kickin’,” the girl said.

“You work for Victoria?” Nikki asked.

“Yeah, like I’m a salesgirl.” She took a step back into the other room and shouted, “She’s in here, trying on some industrial-looking old folks shit.”

Her call brought Rupert. He smiled at Nikki and said, “Let’s go see Victoria.”

“What?” Nikki asked, confused.

“Everybody’s waiting,” he said. “Come on. I got something to show you.”

“Hey, whip it out, boyfriend,” the girl said, giggling.

Rupert ignored her. “Come on,” he said to Nikki. “Let’s go.”

Nikki removed the coat she’d been trying on. It probably was too old for her.

They moved aside for her to precede them.

Victoria’s office was a space so immaculate it resembled Hollywood’s idea of a germ-free environment. White walls. White rug. White, glistening furniture. Even the computer was bone white. Two young men engulfed by orange and black gangsta garb, one short, one average, stood on either side of an anxious-looking Loreen. A third leaned against a wall.

Victoria sat at her white desk. Like Nikki, she’d been an awkward girl who’d improved considerably with age. She was wearing a casual pantsuit that looked like it had been made for her. She wouldn’t meet Nikki’s eyes.

“Guess my evening dress isn’t ready, huh, girlfriend?” Nikki said.

“This wasn’t my idea, Nikki,” Victoria said.

“It wasn’t you who called to get me here tonight?”

Victoria continued to look away.

“She’s cooperating with her number one supplier,” Rupert said. “Like we explained to her, we just want to pass along some information you can use. Thought it might be easier in a friendly atmosphere than out on the street.”

Suddenly, everybody had information for her. “This atmosphere’s getting less friendly by the second,” she told him. “Say what you have to and let us out of here.”

“Take a walk, just me and you.”

“Don’t go off with that punk, girl,” Loreen said. The short gangsta beside her reached deep into his pocket and withdrew a knife. He moved his wrist, making figure eights in the air with the blade, bringing it closer to Loreen, who watched it with alarm.

Nikki recognized that figure-eight gesture. “You bastards were in my house,” she said.

Unruffled, Rupert replied, “There you go. Was anybody hurt?”

She was seeing red. “You violate my home. You threaten me. Try to run over my dog. And now you brag on how nobody got hurt?”

“That dog thing was my li’l bro’. He don’t much care for dogs. Come on now. Let’s take that walk.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, little smart-ass turkey trying to act like a man.”

Rupert’s lips twitched. She cursed herself for losing her temper. The others were looking at their leader expectantly.

Even if he’d been sincere about his peaceful intentions, she’d forced his hand.

“We were told not to harm you,” he said to Nikki. “But your ugly friend is fair game.” The girl in the silver wig held out the long case. Rupert shook his head. He nodded to the boy with the knife. “Waste of a blade to cut on that face. The woman’s got nice hair. Scalp her.”

Nikki saw Loreen’s eyes widen. Her hands went to her hair protectively.

The police special was in Nikki’s purse, but she wasn’t exactly Jackie Brown when it came to guns. “Enough bullshit,” she said. “You got business with me, let’s finish it.”

“Now you’re talking,” Rupert said. He gestured to the door. Silver wig followed, but he stopped her. “This is private,” he told her. “Let’s give that scalping thing some further thought. It’s an amusing idea, right?”

Not even his gang knew how to answer.

Rupert walked Nikki down the hall to what appeared to be a guest bedroom. He gestured toward a chair beside a table. A Manila folder rested on the table, facedown.

“Let me get my reading glasses,” she said, starting to open her purse.

The boy grabbed the purse, tossed it away from them onto the bed. “Your eyesight’s fine.”

She sat down on the chair and looked at the folder. There was a brown smudge on its surface. “Is that dried blood?” she asked.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his knees close to hers. “Madeleine Gray’s,” he said.

“You kill her?”

“No. That’s the whole point here,” he said. “To get it straight who did. Go ahead. Open the folder.”

She reached out, but hesitated about touching it.