Windhall

by Ava Barry

  “That’s not an option,” Brian said, cutting in. “Alexa, I’ve given Hailey notice. He’s going to finish any stories that he’s working on, but he’ll be gone in two weeks.”

  Alexa didn’t even look over at him. “No.”

  Brian laughed. “Sorry, no to what?”

  “Max isn’t fired,” she said. “If he has information on Theodore Langley, it’s an incredible lead. It would be incredibly shortsighted to let that lead go.”

  “I’ve already terminated his contract.”

  “So draft another one.” She met his gaze with cool eyes. Brian’s face had turned red, but he finally backed down.

  “Hailey’s a great reporter, Bri,” Ford murmured.

  “Whatever, Dad.”

  Alexa turned to me. “You’re also interested in writing about the dead girls?”

  “No,” I said. “I think I can prove that Theo killed Eleanor. That’s the story I’m interested in.”

  Brian snorted. “I doubt that, my friend. Also, I haven’t given you permission to write the story.”

  “You don’t know anything about Leland, or Theo,” I said. “Petra’s been doing your research for you.”

  “Leland’s dad defended Theo at his first criminal trial,” Brian said. “I know that much. And, yes, Petra has been helping me, but it would be stupid not to use all the resources available.”

  The color rose to my face. “Ms. Levine, with all due respect, this is my story,” I said. “I’m not going to relinquish my contacts or my information so that Brian can write it.”

  “It’s not your decision,” Brian said. He leaned back in his chair and grinned. “I’m the editor in chief.”

  “You’re not,” Alexa corrected him. “I’m taking over that position. You’re an editor, but you’re not the top editor.”

  “That’s fine,” Brian said. “I’m still writing the story on Theo.”

  “Actually, Brian, I think it’s best if you let us finish this conversation privately.”

  Brian shot to his feet. “Dad!”

  “She’s right, Bri,” Ford said. “I’ll talk to you afterward.”

  Brian gave me a filthy look, then stalked across the office and paused at the door. “This is my office, you know,” he said. “You’re the ones who should be leaving, not me.”

  Alexa fixed her eyes on him and said nothing. Brian stood there, wavering, and then left the office, slamming the door behind him.

  “Now,” Alexa said, turning her gaze to me, “I’d like to know what information you have. Is Theo back in Los Angeles?”

  “I think so, but I don’t have any definitive proof yet.”

  “Max, I’m going to level with you,” she said. “Theo had nothing to do with the murders of those two young women. It’s the work of a copycat, there’s no doubt about that.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I’ve seen this before,” she said. “Besides, Theo’s too old to inflict this kind of damage. He’s in his nineties.”

  “Ninety-three,” I said quietly.

  “There you go. What’s your angle?”

  “I want to know why he did it.”

  “I want you to be completely honest with me,” she said. “How do you know that Theo is back in town?”

  “I went to Windhall,” I said, then hesitated. “I broke in, and I found Leland’s phone. I took the phone and went through it. There was an email from Theo.”

  Ford bit back a smile, and I couldn’t read Alexa’s expression.

  “There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” I said. “We could get a retrial.”

  “He was acquitted,” Ford said. “You can’t be tried again if you’re acquitted.”

  “He wasn’t acquitted, the case was dropped,” I said. “The prosecution team never got enough evidence together to launch a new case. Shortly thereafter, a new district attorney was appointed, and the case eventually got swept under the rug. If we were able to produce enough evidence to pull together another trial, that would be huge.”

  “Hailey, Hailey,” Ford said. “Let’s not go gallivanting off too quickly. None of us have law degrees, and even if we did, how would you go about gathering evidence?”

  “Isn’t Lapin going to law school?”

  Lapin was Ford’s boyfriend, and also a law student at UCLA.

  “He’s in his first year,” Ford said. “Besides, he’s studying antitrust, not criminal law. Lapin’s out.”

  Alexa leaned back in her chair. “You’re a skilled journalist,” she said. “I’ve had some time to look at your portfolio. You’re not the first one to try to prove Theo’s guilt, however, and so far, nobody’s proven anything.”

  “The entire Los Angeles prosecution team couldn’t come up with anything,” Ford added. “They had warrants.”

  “I’ve known a few people who have tried in the past,” Alexa said. “Theo’s the holy grail of true crime. Wasn’t there a reward offered for a while?”

  “Reuben Engel was offering fifty thousand dollars for a while,” I said. “But that’s over, since he’s dead.”

  “Remind me who Reuben Engel is.”

  “He was the producer for Last Train to Avalon,” I said. I debated telling them I had gotten a phone call from Engel’s daughter the night before, but decided that I should see what Alexa wanted before I mentioned her name. “Theo’s last movie, the one that never got finished. Reuben lost a ton of money after Eleanor died.”

  “You have a backward way of doing things, but I miss that spark of yours,” Ford said. “You’re one tough bastard, you know that, Hailey?”

  I couldn’t resist my next comment. “I think it was a mistake to hire Brian, Ford. He doesn’t have the same eye for a story.”

  Ford and Alexa exchanged a look, and neither one of them said anything. I wondered if I had put my foot in my mouth.

  “Look, Hailey, I don’t want this information to get spread around,” Ford said. “So don’t tell anyone else. There’s a reason I stepped down.”

  “Okay, you can trust me.”

  “I had some tests done,” he said. “I kept getting these awful headaches. Turns out I have some aggressive form of cancer in a part of my body I don’t think you need to know about.”

  “Come on.”

  He was smiling, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You were always my best reporter,” he said.

  “Ford, you’re not serious,” I said. “Are you really sick?”

  “Afraid so, old chap.” He tried another smile. “That’s why I brought Alexa in. I taught her everything I know, once upon a time.”

  I could see that he was getting emotional, and it embarrassed me. Without saying anything, Alexa rose from her chair and exited the room, so that we were alone together. There was an awkward moment, and then Alexa returned, carrying a glass of orange juice. She went over and sat next to Ford on the couch, handing him the glass.

  He accepted it with shaking hands, and Alexa squeezed his shoulder. She sat there for a moment, until some of the color returned to Ford’s face, and then she returned to her chair.

  “I’ll level with you, Max,” Alexa said. “I think you’re overreaching by trying to get an interview with Theo.”

  I waited.

  “It’s a story I’d love to see, but right now, Brian has a better angle,” she went on. “He has leads. He’s talking to the families of the dead girls, and that’s the hot topic. It’ll sell ad space.”

  “Ad space.” I failed to hide my disgust.

  “Haven’t you heard? The Lens is coming back from bankruptcy.”

  I saw a flash of annoyance across her face.

  “So you don’t want my story,” I said. “That’s what you’re saying.”

  “I’m saying that if you can’t prove that you’ve got a lead, I’m going to run with Brian’s story,” she said. “And then your story will probably be redundant. I’ll give you both until the end of the week before I decide which one to go with. Thanks for coming in today.”
>
  She turned her attention to some papers in front of her. It seemed clear to me that the conversation was over, so I left the room.

  * * *

  It had been almost twenty-four hours, and Leland hadn’t taken the bait on my Connie message. I only had one last option, and before I could talk myself out of it, I climbed into my car and headed south, toward the city.

  I knew that I was playing with fire by going back to Windhall, when Leland and Ben had both warned me not to, but I had to give it one last shot. If Brian went ahead with his story about the dead girls, it was only a matter of time before Windhall became the center of a shitstorm. I didn’t want all that extra attention directed at the house before I’d had one last go at it.

  I got my first surprise when I reached the edge of the property and saw that the gate was open. Something inside me warned that it was a bad sign, but I pushed the feeling aside and slipped past the heavy iron barrier. Leland was probably at the house, that was all; he had forgotten to close the gate. It hadn’t yet occurred to me that they might be expecting a visit.

  As I walked up the cracked, overgrown driveway, I saw that there were lights on in the house. The windows weren’t completely illuminated; the light seemed to emit a hollow glow, a feeble beating heart within the walls. Lanterns, then, or maybe a strong flashlight.

  I approached the front door and lifted the heavy knocker, then banged it against the door three times.

  A small eternity passed before I heard a noise from within the house. A voice, and then a reply. I couldn’t make out the age or sex of who had spoken, but at least I knew that someone was there.

  The door finally swung open, and Leland stood before me.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said. “I thought you were smart enough to stay away from here.”

  “I want to talk to Theo.”

  He took his phone out of his pocket and waved it at me. “A homeless man found this near a diner on Sunset. Anything you want to add?”

  I shrugged. “Some people have integrity.”

  “I’m going to give you about thirty seconds to vacate the property before I call the police—”

  “I want to talk about Connie.”

  Leland was quiet. He still held the phone in the air, but I could see that I had caught him off guard. Recovering, he tucked the phone back in his pocket, then smiled.

  “Connie,” he said. “I don’t think I know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do,” I said. “Theo and Connie were at Lucy’s together. Didn’t you get my text message?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to Theo.”

  “Why would I agree to that?”

  “I’ll sit on the story about Connie,” I said. “We’re prepared to run it this weekend, but we’ll hold it, if you agree to let Theo meet up with me.”

  “One interview?”

  “Two,” I said. I was gambling, here, but I wasn’t about to go all in unless I knew that I could get something solid from Theo.

  “I’m calling your bluff. Run an article, if you like. You might have some information, but it’s equally possible that you’ve just come across a lucky piece of memorabilia and you don’t actually have a story. I’d be willing to bet the latter.”

  “I thought you might say that,” I said. “And if that’s how you feel, I’ll have to go ahead and run the article without your input.”

  “As you wish.”

  “But you should know,” I went on. “I know about Ben. I know why he doesn’t want me to come back to Windhall.”

  This comment was followed by a steep silence. “All right, Mr. Hailey,” Leland said. “I’ll hear your terms, and see what I can do about them.”

  “I want to see the inside of the house,” I said. “Every room of it.”

  “I thought you already had.”

  “I’d like a personal tour.”

  “We’ll see about that. Next?”

  “I want two interviews,” I said. “One won’t be enough.”

  He was quiet for a long moment. “I can get you a meeting with Theo. I can’t promise two. It’ll have to be here, though, I don’t want him walking into some kind of media ambush.”

  “That’s fine.” I was afraid I might burst into song if I kept talking.

  “Thursday. I’ll send someone to your house to pick you up.”

  “I don’t mind driving over.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll send a driver to pick you up at two.”

  “Okay, let me give you my address.”

  “I know where you live, Mr. Hailey.”

  A chill ran down my spine, and I tried to sound casual. “Great,” I said. “I’ll see you Thursday, then.”

  “See you then.”

  I was practically skipping as I made my way down the driveway. When I hit the curve in the driveway, I turned to look at the house before it disappeared from view. There was a light on in the library, which had tall windows overlooking the yard. A figure stood in the window, watching me. It was a slightly stooped figure, tall enough, I could see that even from that distance.

  Could it be Theo?

  As I stood there wondering, the figure turned and retreated, and then the light vanished.

  * * *

  The next morning, I woke up bright and early, then went to my computer and compiled a list of notes for my meeting with Heather. I didn’t know what she’d want to talk about, but I wanted to be prepared. I scanned back through the articles that I had already read about her, boning up on information about her social circle and possible business acquaintances.

  Afterward, I headed over to Los Feliz. Madeleine’s favorite café, an old brick fire station that had been converted into a coffee shop, was located two blocks from her house. There were always lines out the door.

  I resented the artisanal coffee culture that had taken over Los Angeles in the last few years, since I had always been a shameless devotee of instant espresso. If I had been the type to hole up in a café for a few hours, though, I would have chosen to work at Sparks. With the high, round open doors and the vines swarming all over the brick, it was a hospitable place to get work done.

  I picked up two cappuccinos, then headed over to Madeleine’s house.

  “You’re too early,” she said by way of greeting when she opened the door.

  “It’s ten o’clock. We’re supposed to be in Pasadena at eleven.”

  She stared at me. “It’s the middle of the day,” she said. “We won’t have to worry about traffic.”

  “I got you coffee. I’ll give you ten minutes to get dressed, and then I’m leaving without you.”

  “Jesus,” she said, swiping the coffee. She wandered toward her bedroom.

  “I’m serious!” I called after her. “You’ve got ten minutes!”

  Madeleine’s house was one of my favorite houses in Los Angeles. In some ways, it was in worse shape than my house was, but it had a lot of charm. The three-room cottage had sloping ceilings and holes in the walls, and Madeleine hid the worst of the damage to the floorboards with some creatively placed rugs. The door leading out to the back garden didn’t open, so whenever we wanted a bit of fresh air, we’d climb out through the kitchen window. Once a year, a developer tried to talk Madeleine into selling for the land value alone, but she refused on principle, because the house had a lot of history.

  The rambling little cottage was a former Raymond Chandler residence, and Madeleine had it on good authority that he had written at least three chapters of Farewell, My Lovely while half-tanked in the back bedroom. Living in a Raymond Chandler house isn’t a huge claim to fame in Los Angeles, because Ray and his wife were fairly transient, but I had always been a Philip Marlowe fan, and I got a small thrill every time I came to visit Madeleine.

  Madeleine finally reemerged, rubbing her eyes.

  “How do I look?”

  “Great,” I said. “Let’s go. You can navigate.”

  * * *

  We got on
the I-5 North, which drove past Griffith Park. It was a splendid morning, with only a few benign cumulus clouds pinned above the horizon. Baked summers and mountain haze could make you question why you lived in Los Angeles, but a blue sky and early-morning outing could sort everything out again.

  “You want to go to the York for lunch this afternoon? My treat,” I offered.

  “I could kill a burger,” she said. “You’re on.”

  I got on the CA-134 East, toward Pasadena. The San Gabriel Mountains were pristine in the morning light, and once again, I felt filled with optimism.

  “Why does Heather want the reel?” Madeleine asked.

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Take the next exit,” Madeleine said, looking at her phone.

  “You sure?”

  “That’s what my phone says,” Madeleine read. “I think there’s an accident up ahead.”

  I turned off the freeway and wound through a shady, tree-lined street. The oak trees created a thick canopy of leaves, and the houses stood behind long, sloping lawns. The houses were friendly, Craftsman-style mansions, fringed with geraniums and pine trees. Practical houses, intellectual houses. There were no frivolous Swiss chalets or Moroccan temples, no spindly turrets with sugar glass windows.

  “Sausalito Avenue’s going to be in two rights,” Madeleine said. “Also, my phone would like to know whether you’re carrying any weapons, and if you have the right to breathe the air in this part of the city?”

  “Laurel Canyon isn’t exactly a slum, thank you very much,” I said.

  “Compared to this neighborhood, everywhere is a slum.”

  Madeleine was right; we had left Los Angeles behind. The Craftsman houses had given way to luxurious, imposing estates, some as big as museums. On the left sat a house so big that it looked like it might have been a hotel, its upper terrace supported by thick Ionic columns. The next house resembled a French palace, complete with flowing gardens and fountains in the front yard.

  “Here we are,” I said, as we pulled up in front of Heather’s house. I recognized the house from my earlier Google stalking.

  We had reached a smooth, white wall. I pulled up to the gate, which was fitted out with an imposing security system. A decorative sand strip fringed with native California plants stood between the street and the edge of Heather’s property.