by Chill, David
His breathing grew more rapid and I thought I saw a few tears develop in his eyes. Looking down at Nina, holding the side of her face and watching intently, I decided a little more humiliation was in order. I forced him to punch his own mouth this time.
"Okay, okay," he whined. "I apologize. I didn't mean it. Okay? I didn't mean it! Could you let go of me already?"
I released his arm and he spilled onto the floor. After a few seconds of composing himself, he yelled something about seeing an attorney.
Reaching over, I helped Nina up. "Go ahead," I snarled. "And this young lady will charge assault and battery. Your attorney can go visit you at Folsom State Prison."
With the show over, the group began to disperse. Nina appeared shaken but insisted she was all right. While I offered to give her a ride home, she declined but agreed to let me follow her back to her condo in case Mel decided to show up. I trailed her in my Pathfinder as she slowly made her way. After what she had been through tonight, I didn't blame her a bit for driving as if a monster were hiding around every corner. When we entered her condo, she asked if I'd like a drink. The idea didn't sound half bad. I told her I'd take anything that was at least eighty proof. This case was doing wonders for my health.
She took out two tumblers, loaded them to the rim with ice chips from a plastic freezer bag and poured three fingers of Jack Daniels into one glass for me, and one part Jack to two parts Coke in the other for her. Bringing the glasses into the living room, she set the drinks atop coasters on the glass and chrome coffee table and sat primly down next to me.
"I really should be using some of this ice for my face," she said. "Mel really slapped me good and hard."
"Lover's quarrel?"
Her mouth grew taut. "Not on my part. Mel seemed to think differently."
"Judging by your final assessment of his abilities, the two of you had more going on than merely discussing political ideologies."
Nina drew in a breath and was silent for a moment. "I know I told you the other day that there was nothing going on between Mel and myself. I think I was just ashamed of it more than anything. Mel and I had a little fling. Big deal. I'm entitled. I just don't believe in letting the world know my business. There isn't anything wrong with that."
I took a good swallow of whiskey and allowed the stinging fluid to linger on the back of my mouth for a moment before letting it slide down my throat.
"In most cases," I started, "there's nothing at all wrong with keeping certain things to yourself. Your private life is just that."
"You're darned right."
"Except when somebody's murdered minutes after you leave them, and your business card is the first thing that's found, sitting smack dab in their lap. Then things become convoluted and personal issues you believe are nobody's business suddenly become crucial to the case. The only way to figure out what happened is if we have access to all the information."
"But how is my involvement with Mel relevant?" she asked.
I sighed. "Mel was a spurned lover, correct?"
She shifted uncomfortably and averted her eyes. "Correct," she said.
"And you were beginning something with Wayne. Therefore, if Mel by chance learned of this, don't you think the possibly exists that Mel could have shot Wayne in a jealous rage?"
She shrugged. "Maybe."
"Oh maybe, huh," I rolled back into the couch. "And maybe he could slap you around in public and make a big scene. This guy has a lot of hostility stuffed up inside of him. A lot of rage. I don't think it would have taken much to get him to blow his top."
"I suppose," she said. "You know, after you came by my office the other day, I called Mel and told him I didn't want to see him anymore, even as a friend. He couldn't believe it. His ego is so fragile that one little rejection sent him into a blue funk. He even accused me of going out with you. Which I wouldn't entirely mind."
Luscious as she might be, there were probably no two people more ill suited for one another. I took another gulp of Jack Daniels. "Maybe we could stick to business for a little while," I said awkwardly.
"What can I do?" she asked. "What is it you want to know?"
"Tell me about the night Wayne was killed. Everything."
She threw up her hands. "We went upstairs, we talked and then I left. There's not much more."
"I said everything. What are you leaving out?"
"Oh hell," she said. "We kissed a little. We embraced. And... oh this is going to sound weird."
"It's all right," I said. "Keep going."
"You probably know this already," she said, her eyes closed, "but Wayne carried a gun around with him for self-protection. It was strapped to his ankle. And I asked if I could play with it. He didn't want me to at first, but, well, I'm good at convincing people to do things. He finally took it out of the holster and I held it for a minute. It was such a rush, I couldn't believe it. I got this feeling of... power. Raw power. It was awesome!"
"Go on."
"Oh, you know, I played with it, pointed it at a few things on Wayne's desk. Then we heard a noise, like somebody else was there. Wayne didn't want anybody to see us together, so he told me to leave through the back entrance. The one that led into the alley."
"What did you do with Wayne's gun?"
"I just laid it down on the desk."
"Did Wayne pick it up?"
"Not that I remember," she said.
"Did you see who else was there?"
She shook her head. "I think someone was in the next office. If they were listening, they heard us kissing and playing around. Do you think Wayne was killed over what we were doing?"
"Maybe. Or maybe that's what they wanted everybody to think. One more question. Did you give Wayne your business card that night?"
"No. In fact, I don't think I ever did. That was another weird thing. Whoever did this must have had my card beforehand. I certainly didn't leave it there that night."
Chapter 16
It was nearly eleven by the time I pulled myself away from Nina Lovejoy's offer of one more glass of Jack. As flattering as it might have been to have a sexy, vibrant woman take the initiative, there was still the slight possibility she was the one who killed Wayne. Having sex with a murder suspect was not a good career move. Also, my mind was clearly elsewhere. And as old fashioned as it might be, my heart was elsewhere as well.
I arrived at DeLoia's restaurant and waited a few minutes for the Maitre D' to acknowledge my presence. The restaurant was doing an outstanding business; the tables were all full, and there were still some groups of patrons waiting to be seated. The decor was not unlike some of the newer places in the southland. Hip, sparse, and cool were descriptors that sprang to mind. There were high ceilings, minimalist artwork on the walls, tables barely big enough to contain two plates, and a young clientele that was nothing if not loud and boisterous.
"Buonsera Signore!" the Maitre D' finally exclaimed in an accent that was closer to Pittsburgh than Palermo. He was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and a black and gold checked tie. "Will that be a table for one?"
"Actually, I'd like to speak with an employee of yours. His name is Lenny Mast."
The Maitre D' peered into my eyes. "I do not believe we have such an employee."
I flashed my badge quickly. "I'm with the INS. I don't think you want to play games with me. Not unless you'd like your establishment closed down in five minutes."
He took a deep breath and looked around the room. Excusing himself, he walked back into the kitchen for a minute. If there was one thing restaurants in Los Angeles shared, it was the knowledge that illegal aliens were almost invariably employed in their business. The labor was cheap, the people worked hard, and they usually didn't cause trouble. The only point of concern was when a member of the Immigration and Naturalization Service came asking to look at green cards. You never saw workers scurry so fast.
The Maitre D' returned a minute later and said Lenny was on break, and would I care to have a bite to eat to make up fo
r the inconvenience of waiting? Not having partaken in the usual sandwiches at Second Chance, I gladly accepted.
The service I received was befitting a head of state and it was completely enjoyable to be pampered. Eckles was right about the bread being served with a plate of olive oil to dip in, and butter was quickly requested as a replacement. The linguine with clams and mussels arrived with the aroma of garlic wafting delicately from it, and a waiter stood at the ready with a block of parmesan cheese and a grater. A cappuccino and a pistachio cannoli rounded out the meal. When I inquired politely about the check, they said don't be silly. I was an important and distinguished guest.
After the final sip of coffee, I was ushered upstairs into what was likely the restaurateur's office where a nervous Lenny Mast sat hunched forward with his hands on his knees. He wore a white t-shirt, white pants, and a dark blue apron that didn't even come close to camouflaging that huge belly. The Maitre D' walked in with me and leaned up against the desk.
"This is a very confidential meeting," I turned to him. "I'll need complete privacy."
The Maitre D' hesitated momentarily, and finally agreed to leave. He shot Mustard a glance, as a reminder perhaps for him to watch what he said. As he closed the door, I turned to Mustard and smiled.
"Remember me?" I asked.
Mustard nodded. "You're with the Center," he said. "You're the guy who helped me get this job. I remembered what you said about being enthusiastic and it really worked. Don't tell me you're going to take it away from me now. You can't do that. I haven't done anything wrong."
"I don't think so either. But I need to ask you a few questions."
"I'm an American citizen. I may not have my birth certificate on me..."
I held up my hand. "I don't care about that. The INS deal was just a ruse so I could get in here and talk to you."
He frowned. "What for?"
"It's about Raff," I said. "I'm looking into the murders of Raff and Wayne Fairborn. And maybe you can help me."
"Why me?"
"Because there are only a couple of people who were identified as being on the scene at the time of Wayne Fairborn's murder. One was Raff, one was a woman named Nina Lovejoy, and the other was his wife who has a good alibi. I can't talk to Raff, but maybe he confided something in people he knew. You and Raff were pretty good friends, right?"
"I guess so. I mean, once I told him that I had done time in the can."
"Why was that important?"
"I don't know, but Raff, he kept calling me a political prisoner and insisted I was one of the under trodden, whatever the hell that was. Raff was a smart guy, but he had some goofy ideas about leading the poor masses in a revolt against the rich. I'm not saying I like the way the system has worked for me, but I ain't into plotting no revolution."
"Did Raff talk to you about that night Wayne was killed?"
Mustard shook his head. "You know, aside from political rants, Raff was a pretty quiet dude. He watched people a lot, took everything in, but he didn't offer up much. I saw him a couple days after that shooting, and he said nothing about it. I even asked him what he thought, but all he did was mumble about how the wealthy had it coming to them. He also told me how they was kicking him out of his room on account of his music was too loud. He didn't know where to go. I have a room, so he stored some of his things at my place."
A light bulb flickered on over my head, faint as it might be. "Do you still have his things?" I asked.
"Sure. I wrote a letter to Raff's mother, asking if she wanted any of his personal belongings, but if you wouldn't mind storing them, they're all yours."
"Great," I said, standing up. "I'll stick around until you're off duty. By the way, how do you like your new job?"
"I love it," he beamed. "I'll love it even more when I get my first paycheck."
"What do you do here?"
"Help out in the kitchen, mostly lugging boxes here and there. Sometimes they let me chop vegetables or help get things ready for the chef. They say in time, they'll let me start cooking a little."
"Terrific," I said, feeling good for the first time in a long while. "Stick it out and you'll get what you want. I mean it. I'm rooting for you."
We shook hands and I walked back out into the restaurant. A very nervous Maitre D' approached me as I walked towards the exit.
"Everything all right?" he asked, the Italian accent long since gone.
"You're in the clear. Mast is a good employee. I think you should be glad to have him. As far as anything illegal going on, well, I don't think you'll have any trouble from me."
"That's very reassuring," he said, visibly relieved.
"There is one thing you should be concerned about," I noted.
"What's that?"
"The olive oil just doesn't cut it," I advised. "Stay with butter."
*
I waited until Mustard got off work at one-thirty, gave him a ride to his room and picked up a duffle bag that had Raff's name stenciled in bold black letters. Mustard offered me a beer, but it had been a long evening already and I passed. On the way home I had to nearly prop my eyelids open with my fingers to keep from crossing into the lane of oncoming traffic. I was fortunate I only lived ten minutes from Mustard's apartment. I was even more fortunate that at this late hour, the roads were fairly empty.
Having had such a filing late supper, I skipped breakfast and took Raff's duffle bag to the office for an in-depth examination. I spread his belongings across the floor and wrinkled my nose at the scent of mildew. Amidst the soiled articles of clothing were a potpourri of books ranging from Karl Marx's 1844 Manuscripts to Mike Royko's Boss. There were ravaged copies of Mother Jones, a few birthday cards, some letters, and a DVD of Chinatown. This seemed to be the equivalent of going through someone's attic.
I was glancing through a letter from Raff's ex-girlfriend who sympathized with his losing his scholarship at UCLA, but no she hadn't changed her mind about sleeping with him and didn't think sex would be a proper salvation. As I got to the part where she suggested he seek therapy, the ringing of the phone interrupted my posthumous eavesdropping.
"Burnside, this is Dr. Leary," came the harried voice on the other end.
"Doctor."
"Listen, I don't have much time and my wife's in the next room. Violet has an appointment in a few hours with her personal trainer. I'll give you the address. You can set up your camcorder at the far end of his pool near the diving board. There's some bushes you can shoot discreetly from."
"Sounds like you've done a little snooping yourself."
"I've taken some exercise classes from him, yes, so I know the layout. He always has some young stuff walking around there."
"Doctor, are you sure this is worth it?"
"Damn it, Burnside. I've got to know if she's faithful. A marriage isn't worth much if you even suspect your wife is doing it with somebody else."
To that I agreed. I left Raff's things spread out across my office floor, opening a window to let in some fresh air. Sighing, I wondered if things wouldn't be best served by tossing them into the trash. Noticing some handwritten notes though, I decided it might be worth picking through them further just in case.
Violet Leary's personal trainer was named Randy Hyde and he worked out of a home in Malibu Canyon. Situated about four miles from the ocean, the house sat nestled in a peaceful oasis amidst lush green foliage and chirping birds. I parked my car in an unobtrusive grotto near the road and climbed a trail for a quarter of a mile until I reached the back end of the property. A weather beaten sign warning about trespassing lay withered and torn underneath a nearby tree.
I set up my trusty camcorder near the spot Dr. Leary had recommended. There were some bushes to secure my privacy, but enough room to catch everything that was going on inside of the grounds. A small wooden fence surrounded the perimeter of the property. I focused the zoom lens on a series of outdoor weightlifting benches. Some blue foam mats were laid out nearby, and the large pool and Jacuzzi shimmered invitin
gly.
It was a few minutes past ten when a muscular man in his early thirties emerged from the house, accompanied by the young Mrs. Leary. Violet was attired in a tight blue leotard that did little to hide her shapely physique. She had long slender legs and walked with the grace and confidence of an elegant dancer. Hyde was wearing a pair of black gym shorts and a loose green tank top that advertised a bar in Ensenada.
They spent the first fifteen minutes stretching and doing some calisthenics. I zoomed in for a few artistic close-ups that also served to establish exactly who the players were, but I occasionally took the liberty of panning the pool area and the bubbling Jacuzzi. Violet lifted a few weights and I was beginning to chalk up the whole adventure as a complete waste of time when the workout took on a new dimension.
As Violet did some arm curls with one of the twenty pound dumbbells, Hyde moved behind her and began to help her complete the last few repetitions. In so doing, he slipped his other arm around her waist and planted it there firmly. Violet seemed to concentrate on the weights, but when she finally placed it back on the ground, Hyde's arm stayed on her hip. He took her by the hand and they did a few pantomime curls before he began to kiss her neck. He placed the other arm around her waist and slowly embraced her torso from behind.
I had to zoom in close before I realized the expression on her face wasn't one of sublime ecstasy, but of a very real fear of being violated. The two struggled for a minute, but Hyde' strength prevailed and he threw her down onto a mat and climbed on top of her. She clawed at his face with her nails but he grabbed her wrists and began to grind his body against hers. Violet let out a primal scream that had nothing to do with sexual exhilaration and everything to do with forcible rape. At that point, my investigative work drew to a close. I jumped over the wood fence in one motion.
My legs ate up the thirty yards between the end of the property and the makeshift gym in a few seconds. The .38 bumped against my left ankle a few times but didn't hinder my movement. Timing my steps properly, I planted my left foot a few inches from the struggling couple and let fly with a vicious kick that caught Hyde full in the face. The force of the blow pushed enough of his body off of Violet, so she was able to squirm out from under him and race behind me. He lay there, partially propped up on one elbow, holding his nose. When he finally regained his senses, he looked up at me.