Loren D. Estleman - Valentino 02 - Alone

by Loren D. Estleman

  “Something tells me you could to the penny, if you felt so inclined.”

  A spark of mutual understanding flashed between the two, and they sat. The lawyer took in the posters and stills framed in rows, shelves of bobble-head Charlie Chaplins and W.C. Fieldses, stacks of shooting scripts bound with brads, jumbles of VHS tapes, DVDs, and laser discs, and books on motion picture history leaning drunkenly against one another and spilling to the floor, bloated with colored slips of paper marking pages and passages for further study. “I like this space,” he said. “I’m junior to the other Adams, who has a policy of office uniformity. All chrome and glass and black leather and nothing on the walls that doesn’t meet his approval. It’s like sitting in an airport waiting room.”

  “Why does a junior partner represent Matthew Rankin?”

  “I brought him into the firm. That’s how I made partner.” Nothing in Adams’ demeanor showed that the conversation had shifted gears. He was obviously trained for the courtroom, where a flicker of reaction from the defense could sway a jury the wrong way. “As you may know, Mr. Rankin was released from custody this morning. He’s at home, recuperating from his ordeal.”

  “I hope he’s well. I’m sure he wouldn’t have spent more than two hours in custody if he’d been arrested on a weekday.”

  “Thank you for that compliment. I did manage to interrupt one judge’s softball game to obtain a writ of habeas corpus, but the police in Beverly Hills were determined to charge my client with manslaughter. A lot of people who learned our legal system from gangster movies think habeas is a get-out-of-jail-free card, but that’s only when the authorities have no evidence to detain the suspect. In this case they had Roger Akers and the weapon that killed him.”

  “This is the second time this morning I’ve been obliged to defend the movies, Mr. Adams. If people want to know how the courts work, they should read a book on the subject. Thomas Edison, one of the inventors of the motion-picture process, considered it a toy. Movies are supposed to be fun, not educational.”

  Adams waited politely through this address, then resumed as if there had been no interruption. “By this morning, of course, the prosecutor knew the absurdity of his case and made no objection to Mr. Rankins’ release. Of course, the firm will file a suit against the city for false arrest, unlawful incarceration, defamation of character, and emotional stress as soon as the charges are dropped.”

  “You’re certain they will be?” Valentino wondered if the firm had a spy in the police department. But the lawyer was discreet.

  “It’s prima facie, and a foregone conclusion. There is no evidence against my client’s statement, because he’s innocent. An individual who believes his life is in danger in his own home is entitled to employ deadly force in the defense of his person, even in California.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t come here, braving the ladies and gentlemen of the Fourth Estate swarming downstairs, to deliver a lecture on elementary law. What’s your mission?”

  Again, the attorney appeared intractable. “Mr. Rankin asked me to invite you to his home this evening at seven, for cocktails and dinner. He wants to thank you for your defense of his character throughout this heinous episode.”

  “That’s not necessary. I merely told the police the truth as I saw it.”

  “You say ‘merely,’ as if it’s a minor thing. You’d be surprised how rare truth becomes when justice thunders. I’m the messenger in this situation because the prosecution may interpret even so humble an invitation as evidence of payment for collusion. Attorney-client privilege entitles me to proffer it without submitting to interrogation should the police catch wind of it.”

  Valentino said, “I must look more pathetic than I am, if they think I’d perjure myself for a lamb chop and a glass of merlot.”

  The lawyer let his pearlies blaze. “Poached salmon, I’m informed, and a riesling reputed to be irreproachable. He also asked me to employ all my powers of persuasion to ensure that you bring Ms. Johansen with you. Apparently he found her quite charming. Will you accept?”

  “It’s short notice. I’ll have to check with her, and then there’s the problem of shaking the press, unless he wants to set places for them at the table. I don’t have any experience at that. Wouldn’t he rather do it another night, after they lose interest?”

  “Mr. Rankin has all the experience required—and the security—to keep the jackals at bay. He’s been a private man a very long time.” Before the other could respond he added, “There is in addition a matter of unfinished business he wishes to discuss with you, regarding—” He paused to flick through his mental BlackBerry. “—How Not to Dress. Did I get that right? I know nothing of the significance of the allusion.”

  Valentino’s pulse rate spiked. His life had become so crowded over the space of a few days that he’d almost forgotten Rankin’s offer of the film in return for his cooperation in the counter-blackmail scheme. He’d assumed it had expired with Roger Akers. Including Harriet in the invitation suggested that this time there were no extralegal strings attached; however, Rankin had clearly intended him to reach that conclusion. He’d hardly had time to be charmed by Harriet between laying eyes on her for the first time and fainting dead away.

  He proceeded with caution. “Will you be at the dinner?”

  “No. I know less about the retail business than I do about movies, so I’m afraid I’m a boring companion for him socially.”

  “Seven o’clock,” Valentino said, encouraged by this information. “Thank you, Mr. Adams.”

  The lawyer rose. “I’d try a piece of steak on that eye.”

  “I’m in the middle of a construction project. Tofu, maybe?”

  After Adams left, chuckling politely, Valentino tried to reach Harriet at police headquarters, but the person he got said she was at a crime scene and would be answering her cell only for official business. He left a message for her to call back.

  His day resumed at its normal pace. He set up his Moviola and cranked through footage of turn-of-the-twentieth-century L.A. for the public library, a contract job, noting and numbering frames needing restoration by the technicians in the lab. The work was time-consuming, but intensely interesting, and he pursued it straight through lunch. He was rewinding the reel, preparing to leave, when Ruth put through a call from Harriet.

  “Domestic murder,” she said when he asked how her day went. “Those amateurs sure make a mess. Hey, I got a dressing-down from my team captain. Apparently I treated with the enemy when I told you what we’d learned from the Garbo letter.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I ignored him. Want to hear the latest?”

  He paused. He’d been about to mention the invitation from Matthew Rankin. “Not if it gets you fired.”

  “This place would fall apart without me. I’m the only one on the detail who can operate a spectograph and brew a decent pot of decaffeinated.”

  “In that case, go ahead.”

  “We took your advice and put in a request with the Swedish Military Archives for copies of samples of Greta Garbo’s handwriting to compare with the fake love letter. If you remember, we had to confirm similarity before we tackled the problem of where Akers obtained a specimen extensive enough to scan into his computer and make it plausible.”

  “I remember.” He sat up straighter. He sensed something coming his way.

  “The curator got back to us an hour later. He was so uptight he kept forgetting his English. The last time anyone looked at the documents was a year ago last March, when an independent researcher checked them out and then checked them back in. Sometime between then and this morning, two long letters and two postcards were removed. No one knows what happened to them.”

  10

  “VAL, ARE YOU there?”

  He’d been silent a second longer than needed to take in the information she’d given him. In a flash, he’d remembered something Lieutenant Padilla had said, and had almost blurted it out, but vetoed the urge because it
looked as bad for Matthew Rankin as it did for Roger Akers—possibly worse—and in any case if the police didn’t want Harriet talking to Valentino about the investigation he wasn’t disposed to tell them anything they could find out for themselves. He didn’t like Ray Padilla; the man could wage his personal crusade against the upper class by himself.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I was in deep shock. Garbo accepted their security, and she didn’t place her faith lightly. Do they have any idea what happened?”

  “Not yet. They’re rattled, too. But for us it opens up a whole new line of speculation. Akers needed to gain access to that material, and it goes missing just about the time he started making substantial monthly deposits in his savings account. If we can establish how it got from a locked file in Sweden to a mansion in Beverly Hills, we can drop the lid on the case. Any ideas?”

  “None whatsoever,” he lied.

  “And you call yourself a film detective.”

  He decided to derail that train of thought. “Are the archives going public with this discovery?”

  “Not yet. They’ve asked us to keep it from the press until they can come up with some kind of strategy. My opinion? They’ll offer a fat reward for the documents’ return, to steer attention away from a colossal blunder. If I were the curator I’d just wait for them to show up on eBay.”

  “Whoever was smart enough to sneak them out from under armed guard is probably smart enough not to try to peddle them publicly.”

  She spoke to someone on her end. “Tom, who broke that Picasso case?”

  Valentino heard a murmuring in the background. It sounded like “Danielle.”

  “Right. Thanks.” She spoke into the receiver. “Danielle Cox works Wire Fraud. Last year four men broke into a house in Bel-Air, walked around a high-tech security system with five backups, and left with one-point-two million in Picasso drawings from a private collection. They posted them on eBay. Danielle traced them to the robbers in forty-five minutes. No one’s smart all the way around third base.”

  “How much of this is confidential?”

  “The Picasso perps are public record, and guests of the state for the next fifteen to twenty. And the whole department knows about the other thing. Stockholm must know it’s going to be a race between its media team and whoever leaks it to the press on this end.”

  “You’re leaking it to me.”

  “You’re not the press. How are you two getting along, by the way?”

  “So far it’s First Amendment, one, Valentino, zero. Don’t be alarmed next time you see me. You’ve heard about someone getting a black eye in the newspapers?” He told her about his encounter with the microphone.

  Her tone softened. “Why don’t you come to my place tonight and I’ll put a compress on it? Ancient Danish recipe, guaranteed to reduce swelling, cure the grippe, and repel vampires.”

  “Actually, I was just about to ask you if you’re free tonight. We’re invited to dinner at Rankin’s.”

  “That might be a conflict of interest on my part,” she said after a moment. “He’s still under suspicion.”

  “The invitation came from his attorney. He seemed confident the prosecution will drop charges. So does Lieutenant Padilla, your nemesis.” He decided not to mention Padilla’s personal interest in the case. He was sorry he’d mentioned him at all. He didn’t want to spend quality time with Harriet discussing the man. He hoped she wouldn’t pursue the subject.

  “Are you there?” he asked after a moment.

  “I was just wondering what I should wear. He’s seen the Garbo outfit.”

  He said he was sure she’d think of something and arranged to call for her at six-fifteen.

  When he locked his office Ruth was at her desk, lacquering her nails a stoplight red, to match her lips. As a rule, not many demands were made upon their department, so she kept her own personal cosmetics counter in the drawers of her desk with which to while away the hours. Her nails were fully an inch and a half long, apparently homegrown, and filed to bayonet points. How she managed to type with them as fast as she did and without making errors was too deep a mystery for a mere film detective to solve.

  “I’m glad things slowed down finally,” she said without looking up from the operation. “If things kept up the way they did this morning I would’ve had to put in for a raise. I don’t know what to do with the money I make now.”

  “I didn’t realize the university was so generous to its clerical staff.”

  “It pays less than Taco Bell. When you’ve been around this burg as long as I have, you’ve bought everything worth having and seen everything worth looking at. After that you’re just treading water till death.”

  “How would you like to invest in a theater restoration project that will bring glory to our fair city for decades to come?”

  She blew on her nails. He swore he saw a wisp of flame. “I said I didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t say I was looking for a furnace to shovel it into. Go shake your cup on Sunset. Sell maps to the movie stars’ homes. There are still some people who think they live in the United States.”

  “There’s always travel. When was the last time you took a vacation?”

  “Whenever it was, I found someone sitting at my desk when I got back. That weirdo son of a bitch Howard Hughes never wasted a minute replacing a female employee who wouldn’t put out. And not only female. But you can pay to read my autobiography when it hits the stores, just like everyone else.”

  He hoped for the sake of his adopted hometown she never published it. The city might survive the Big One, but not that.

  Harriet Johansen’s otherworldly resemblance to Greta Garbo had vanished with the costume, replaced by a beauty that was hers entirely. Her short, smoky blonde hair clung to a head that seemed to have been shaped specifically not to be concealed beneath heavy tresses, and the slightly Far Eastern tilt of her eyes, which suggested a bloodline other than Scandinavian, compelled Valentino as he drove to make remarks that required her to turn her head his way to respond.

  “Are you admiring me again?” she said.

  “Guilty.”

  “Well, stop it. I’m self-conscious enough. I know I’m dressed all wrong.” She was wearing a blue cocktail dress that brought out the color in her eyes.

  “You look elegant. I, on the other hand, look like the guest of honor at a lynching. I can’t remember the last time I wore a necktie.”

  “You should more often. You’re too old to pass for the drummer in a grunge band.”

  “Says you. I’ve still got one of my baby teeth. You lose the habit of duding up when you spend as much time as I do rummaging through the dusty back rooms of junk shops looking for Charlie Chan Carries On.”

  “You’re better equipped for that than you are to interrogate suspects in homicides.”

  “That again. There’s no law against being curious.” He’d confided his idea to her, and had regretted it almost immediately. It was easy to forget, once she’d hung up her green work smock, that she was basically a cop.

  “There is when it involves obstruction of justice. This beef with Padilla’s going to land you in the pokey.”

  “Do they still call it that?”

  “Don’t try going off topic with me. My powers of concentration are my livelihood.”

  “I’m responding to a social invitation. I didn’t even know about the missing letters when I accepted. If the subject comes up—”

  “It will. You’ll make sure of that.”

  “If it does,” he pressed on, “I have the right to ask a question or two. But I’m looking forward to a pleasant evening. I admire our host. After the weekend he’s had, the fact that he’d rather entertain you and me than turn in early and try to forget it is flattering.”

  “The last time he invited you to his home it was to bribe you to commit a felony.”

  “He had an agenda then, I admit. But he’s as good as free and clear now. His secret is out, or soon will be; you said yourself the police can’t
plug all the leaks, and anyway it’s a lie. And his claim of self-defense is holding. All he wants us to do for him is enjoy the poached salmon.”

  “I hope he doesn’t serve it with the head still on.”

  “You’re funny. You dissect dead people all day but you can’t eat a fish when it’s staring at you.”

  “I don’t eat the people either.”

  Recluse though he was, and notwithstanding the experience of the past few days, Matthew Rankin proved a charming host. He greeted them in a large quiet living room with a full-length portrait of his late wife hanging above a massive fireplace of marble and brushed steel, served cocktails from an elaborate bar, and told Harriet she must never again impersonate anyone else and let others aspire instead to her loveliness.

  “I said almost the same thing,” Valentino said. “Maybe she’ll believe it coming from you.”

  “Maybe if you expressed yourself as well.” She sipped at her martini.

  Rankin wore a midnight blue suit that fit him like a sheath, with a liquid-silk necktie that made Valentino feel as under-dressed as Ray Padilla. Apart from a slight puffiness beneath his eyes, the department-store magnate looked as rested as if he’d spent the weekend in the country. He’d steered aside words of sympathy, showing more concern for Valentino’s embattled face. His brow darkened when he heard the explanation.

  “Did the pests follow you here? I pay a private security company to throw people like that into the street.”

  “That won’t be necessary tonight. Campus police escorted me to my car and I was able to leave the stragglers behind in city traffic. One of the advantages of earning an archivist’s salary is I drive a car that doesn’t stick out.”