The Trials of Nikki Hill (6 page)

Maybe she
was
getting a little obsessive about the damned hot dog. It was not exactly a “Get Out of Jail” card. It didn’t prove anything, really.

But what they’d done had been wrong, and she found herself unable to refuse Durant’s subsequent calls. The best she could do was to keep her end of the conversation as chilly and noncommittal as possible. Durant didn’t seem to mind. She listened to him, and that was apparently enough.

She heard from him five or six times that first year and less each year thereafter. But he never stopped calling.

“Yo, Nikki. It’s me.”

“I caught that right away, Mace,” she said. She’d just stepped back into her office for a minute, to put on a pair of panty hose she’d purchased on the run from Deschamps’s interrogation.

“You okay?” he asked with concern. “You sound a little stressed.”

Lordy! Was he seeing a shrink?
“This’ll have to be a quickie, Mace,” she said, tearing open the package. “I’m on my way out.”

“Busy, huh?”

“Yep. Busy is the word I’d use,” she said, holding the phone in place with her shoulder while she pulled on the hosiery. “What’s on your mind?”

“I need some he’p with somethin’.”

“What is it this time?”

“I been here at Fo’som more’n three years now,” he said, “and I doan know as I can last much longer. See, the WABs got this idea I stuck this boy, Gerry P. On’y it wasn’t me done it.” Durant’s persecution by inmate members of the White Aryan Brotherhood had become a familiar tune on his turntable.

“Like I’ve said before,” she told him, smoothing down her dress, “if somebody’s on your case, I need a name.”

“I can’t do that,” he said. “I don’t flip off nobody, not even pale pig meat.”

“Gotta go, Mace.”

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to hang you up with my problems,” he said. “Guess you got more impo’tant things on yo’ mind.”

Why did she continue to accept his calls, she wondered? She knew that answer, of course. Still, her guilt was not overwhelming. “Good-bye, Mace,” she said.

S
EVEN

J
immy Doyle had had a rough morning. The flight from D.C. had been crowded and noisy and the damned pilot had hit every air pocket the good Lord had placed in their way. Getting clear of LAX had been like treading through knee-high glue. The final indignity had been the bloody twisting and turning little streets and drives and avenues in the godforsaken Pacific Palisades. None of them seemed to be on the bloody map he’d been given to the Willins home. By the time his rented Lexus finally entered the gate at 203 Bon-ham Road, the stocky man was about ready to explode.

When a guard seated in the wooden gatehouse requested his name, Doyle tried to keep his annoyance in check. It was time to lighten up, time to meet his new clients.

The guard was wearing some kind of space-age intercom headset. He muttered a few words into the mouthpiece, then gave Doyle the once-over before sending him down the drive. “Somebody’ll be waiting for you at the main house, sir.”

Somebody damn well better,
Doyle thought. What he said was, “Thank you.”

At the end of the drive, a young black man in a powder-blue jumpsuit hovered in front of the huge, yellow stone home. He was wearing the same sort of Star Wars headset as the gatehouse guard. Doyle supposed that with his ears full of plastic and rubber the man probably wasn’t enjoying the crash of breakers and the squawks of seagulls in the near distance. He was too busy with other things, anyway, like directing visitors to park on a paved area just to the left of the house.

Doyle eased the Lexus into an empty slot near a gray Mercedes sedan with a vanity plate that read “HOBO1.” That made it the property of Hobart Adler, the man who’d shaken his tree at six that morning, D.C. time.

Doyle stepped from the car, straightened to his full five feet nine, and suddenly was struck by the realization of what Southern California was all about. The sun. The cool, salt-tinted breeze wafting toward him from the Pacific Ocean. Colorful, fragrant flowers growing in abundance. And a house and property worth upwards of ten mil.

Just beyond the house he could see an emerald lawn and, past it, the ocean. On the lawn a chubby little black boy pedaled a tricycle furiously while a flustered young woman chased after him, shouting, “John Junior, you slow down, immediately.” She pronounced it “ee-mee-jit-ly,” which fit in with her dark blue dress with white collar, pale porcelain skin, and fine blond hair. A proper British nanny.

“Mr. Doyle?” The powder-blue jumpsuit was suddenly at his elbow. There was a bulge at the man’s right side that Doyle assumed was a weapon of some sort. Maybe a space pistol. “Mr. and Mrs. Willins are waiting for you, sir.” It was a polite enough command. “Go right into the house. Somebody will take you to the salon.”

The “somebody” turned out to be Hobie Adler, the president of the Adler Agency, or TAA, as it was known in and

out of Hollywood circles. His lithe, six-foot-three frame was neatly wrapped in a subdued dark blue British-cut suit that made him look more distinguished and wealthier than most of his clients, at least four of whom were among the twenty richest people in the world.

What always amazed Doyle about the superagent was that although he was handsomer than you and taller and certainly better dressed and more at ease with himself, and though he was as deadly as an anaconda, you still had to like the son of a gun. He shook hands with Doyle warmly. “I appreciate your coming here so quickly, Jimmy. I wouldn’t have wanted to settle for second best. John and Dyana are eager to meet you.”

As the agent led him down a marbled hall, Doyle’s quick brown eyes evaluated the rich tapestries hanging from the walls. “The police have arrested someone,” Hobie Adler said. “Good news, I think.”

Doyle gave him a sideways glance. He couldn’t remember having seen the elegant agent so much as frown before. This morning he was sweating a little.

John Willins and his wife were seated in the salon, an airy room with lots of window space and antiqued walls and a floor of pale green tiles that Doyle guessed had been imported from Spain or Italy. Willins was a big, strapping guy with black curly hair and a face so dark he appeared to be angry even when he wasn’t. He was wearing black slacks and a black silk shirt buttoned to the neck. Doyle was guessing when he mentally placed his age in the mid-thirties. He could have been five years off either way. The fact that the man was CEO of a successful music company offered no hints. It didn’t take a lifetime of work to make it to the top in that field. Not when your wife was Dyana Cooper.

She was not at all the waiflike creature he’d been expecting, possibly because he hadn’t seen the action movie for which she’d literally changed the contours of her body, adding both muscle and a firm roundness. She was definitely something to see, a few steps beyond beautiful, with smooth chocolate skin and startling sea-green eyes. Not to mention cheekbones and ripe lips that had sold more silicone than Pamela Anderson’s breasts. Her fitted jacket had a collar that reminded Doyle of those Nehrus that used to be hanging at the back of his closet. Her slacks were a matching peach color, snug enough to show off her supertoned body.

Willins rose from the soft, dark green sofa to shake Doyle’s hand. Dyana Cooper nodded to him. Both were showing the tension they were under, but it looked better on her. Anything would. Even worry lines.

“Honey, maybe Mr. Doyle would like a drink,” Dyana said.

“Not just yet,” Doyle said.

Her gaze was unrelenting. He wondered what she thought she was seeing. Physically, he was nothing special. A thick-bodied guy with a round cherubic face under a full head of well-groomed hair. His clothes were expensive enough. He was clean cut. A redhead in D.C. whom he sometimes slept with once told him he had the pampered appearance of an overindulged child. He didn’t mind that image. Mother love could be quite enjoyable. In any case, it wasn’t his looks that impressed the paying clientele.

“We better get to it,” he said.

“Hobie says you’ve... helped people out of this kind of difficulty before,” Dyana said. Her voice was so mellifluous and sultry, she turned ordinary conversation into song.

“I’ve salvaged a reputation or two,” Doyle said.

Willins said, “Hobie, maybe we’re getting worked up over nothing. According to the TV, they picked up some young guy.”

“Jimmy’s here as...added insurance,” Adler said. “Just in case.”

Doyle lowered himself warily onto a soft plump chair near the woman. “Hobie has filled me in on the problem, but I’m not crazy about secondhand information. I’d appreciate it if you could indulge me by going through it all again.”

Dyana told him of a meeting she’d had at Madeleine Gray’s home on the day of the murder. Maddie had threatened her with blackmail. Angry words had ensued, followed by a brief struggle. Dyana had left, with Maddie shouting after her like a fishwife.

The tale took eleven minutes by Doyle’s watch. When Dyana was finished, he asked several questions, ending with, “So, to your knowledge, the only thing connecting you to the late Maddie Gray is a Manila file containing material you’d just as soon not wind up on the cover of the
Globe
?”

She nodded.

Doyle turned to Adler.

“Being taken care of,” the agent said.

“Good,” Doyle said. “I’ll have that drink now.”

Dyana took their orders. She returned with an inch of bourbon in a glass for Doyle, a Perrier for Hobie, and iced teas for her husband and herself.

Doyle raised his glass. “To the State of California,” he said. “May it find the poor bugger they’ve arrested guilty as charged.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Hobie added.

Doyle downed his whiskey, enjoying the way it burned his throat, beating a molten path to his chest. He smiled at Dyana Cooper Willins and idly wondered what part of the story she had just told him, if any, had been the truth.

E
IGHT

T
here was considerable LAPD activity in front of Madeleine Gray’s canyon home as Nikki Hill drove up. She was showing her credentials to the cop at the door when Morales arrived behind her.

“Let this beautiful woman in,” he told the cop. “She just happens to be the special assistant to our illustrious district attorney.” This last was said with heavy sarcasm.

Inside the building, Nikki said, “You got some problem with me, Carlos?”

“No way,
chica.
” He seemed genuinely surprised.

“Then what’s with all the cutie-pie stuff at the door?”

“It’s your boss I doan like.”

“Why?”

He cocked his head to one side. “I got my reasons.”

“Fine,” she said, “but dislike him on your own time and keep me out of it.”

He regarded her with such rare seriousness she almost didn’t recognize him. Then he grinned and said, “Fair enough. Le’s go see what my partner’s been up to.”

They found Goodman in some sort of trophy room. One wall was filled with certificates of honor and awards. On another hung glossy photos in uniform black frames—the late TV newswoman with a vast array of major celebrities and world figures, including the president and first lady, taken in the Oval Office.

“Maddie must have had a sense of humor,” Goodman said. “She put this one of her and Clinton right next to this one of her and Saddam Hussein.” He turned to Morales. “Find anything interesting at Jamal’s?”

“
Nada,
’cept the
pendejo
lives like a pig. Cock-a-roaches playin’ soccer in the shower. Dirty sheets on the bed. Moldy dishes in the sink.”

“But nothing in all that dirt to indicate he’s our man,” Goodman said.

“They still goin’ over the place, but you don’t need no microscope to know he didn’t beat nobody up there lately.”

Nikki was confused. “Wasn’t the murder committed here?” she asked.

“That’s one of the problems with body dumps,” Goodman said. “Takes a while to find the crime scene. This may be the place, but the techs aren’t sure.”

Morales pointed to the wall of photos. “Jamal’s got Maddie’s photo on
his
wall, autographed.”

“Well that’s sort of interesting,” Goodman said. “Any other pictures?”

Morales looked dejected. “The friggin’ wall is just like that one. Covered with showbiz pictures. Mainly women, but some men. Even got a signed photo of Selena.”

“We know he’s not guilty of that one,” Nikki said. One of the framed items on the awards wall caught her eye. Madeleine Penniston Gray had won a special certificate of honor for her work at the Florida State campus radio station fourteen years before. From Florida State to the White House to the county morgue, in less than fifteen years. Fast traveling, but going nowhere.

“Mind giving me a quick tour of this place, detective?” she asked Goodman.

“If my knees can stand it,” he said. “Lots of stairs.”

He led them through the oddly designed building, waiting every now and then while Nikki poked around. He saved the possible murder scene for last. In the pale green room, he pointed out the metal orb that might have been the death weapon. Then he showed them the gold bracelet.

Nikki examined it, noted the inscription, and passed it to Morales, who studied it for a few seconds and said, with enthusiasm, “Aw’right. Now we got the
vago
.”

“What’re you talking about?” Goodman asked.

“Right here,” Morales said, wiggling the baggie with the bracelet. “ ‘M. We’ll always have Paris. Love, J.’ ‘J’ for Jamal.”

Goodman shook his head. “That boy look like somebody who’d be rememberin’ Paris with Maddie Gray?”

“Hey, amigo, we both been aroun’ long enough to know these loco showbiz broads get a taste for somethin’ different every now and then.”

“Does Jamal strike you as the kind of dude who’d buy a little gold knickknack and put a tender inscription like that on it?” Goodman asked.

“You know, Eddie, you startin’ to think too damn much. It’s an old fart’s habit—thinkin’ ’stead of doin’.”

Nikki saw color come to Goodman’s cheeks. “Well, this old fart doesn’t believe in tossing a guy in jail just to be doing something.”