by Michael Nava
“Donati approached him about doing the job. When he balked, Asuras personally called him. They paid him a hundred thousand dollars. I’m working on arrest warrants for Donati and Asuras for conspiracy.”
“Have you run this past the DA?”
She bristled. “I don’t need his permission to file the case. I have hard evidence.”
“A co-conspirator’s statement isn’t admissible against another unless it’s corroborated by independent evidence,” I reminded her.
“I know what the law is,” she huffed. “This is enough to arrest them. Now I can go after them for the murders.”
I started to object, but thought better of it. “Great. I’m here if you need me.”
That was Wednesday, The arrests of Asuras and Donati made national news the next morning. By that evening, the charges had been dropped and the District Attorney had issued an abject apology to the two men. In her haste to arrest them, Serena had forgotten that the car they had allegedly conspired to destroy was leased to Samsara, a company Asuras owned. His lawyer claimed the explosion was an experiment in special-effects technology for an upcoming movie in development at Parnassus. He pointed out that the leasing company had been completely compensated for the car so, in effect, Asuras was being charged with conspiring to destroy his own property. He also distributed a sworn statement from James Harley retracting his earlier confession to the police on the grounds it had been coerced.
I called Serena at home as soon as the broadcast ended. The answering machine picked up.
“Serena, it’s Henry,” I began.
“Hi,” she said, wanly, picking up. “I’m screening.”
“I just finished watching the news.”
“You call to gloat?” she asked, bitterly. “You warned me.”
“I’m not gloating. It was pretty nervy strategy for Asuras. I don’t see how you could’ve anticipated it.”
“I’ve been fired, Henry.”
“What?”
“I have two weeks to get my cases in order and submit my resignation.”
“You have civil-service protection.”
“No,” she said. “I was a special hire to run the hate-crimes unit. I serve at the DA’s pleasure. He’s not pleased anymore.”
“What about Josey Walsh’s statement? What about Harley’s statement that he blew up the car because Alex wouldn’t return it to Asuras?”
“You saw the news,” she said. “Harley retracted his confession. Josey Walsh’s statement doesn’t mean anything unless you buy the whole package, and the DA’s not buying. We had a meeting with Asuras and his lawyers. When I tried to raise the Walsh statement, Jack shut me up.”
“He already knew about Walsh?”
“I laid everything out for him after Asuras was arrested. Everything, Henry,” she emphasized, “including my belief that he’s a murderer.”
“And the DA said what?”
“I swear I heard him piss his pants,” she replied, “but what he told me was to go slow and keep it out of the press. Later on, when he fired me, he told me he knew I was wrong about Asuras all along. He said if I indulged these fantasies publicly, he’d see I was disbarred.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“You thought I was grandstanding, didn’t you? You thought I wanted the credit for my personal glory. That wasn’t true, Henry. I needed to win a big case to keep the hate-crimes unit alive. Now Jack will probably disband it.”
“The DA knows Asuras is a murderer and he’s going to let him get away with it?”
“Incredible, isn’t it,” she said.
“What about the sheriff? Could he be interested?”
“I persuaded him to arrest Asuras and Donati. He’ll be grateful if they don’t sue him for false arrest.”
“Did Donati do the talking at the meeting with the DA?”
“Donati wasn’t there,” she said.
“What?”
“He wasn’t there,” she repeated. “That’s strange, isn’t it?”
“Maybe it’s more than just strange,” I said.
“Nick, it’s Rios, please pick up. I know you’re there because I tried your office and your secretary said you were working at home and she’d just got off the phone with you. Nick …”
“You never give up, do you?” Donati said thickly.
“I thought you might to want to talk to someone other than a bottle of scotch.”
“About what?”
“I heard when Duke met with the DA yesterday morning, you weren’t included. Either he’s about to throw you to the wolves or you’re finally sick of all the blood on your hands.”
After a long silence, he said, “What do you care, Henry, you’re not the cops.”
“I’m a defense lawyer, Nick. I think you could use my services.”
He cackled. “For what? I’ve just been exonerated by the District Attorney.”
“I can believe that Asuras is a sociopath who doesn’t feel any remorse for what he’s done, but you’re not. You drink like a man who’s having trouble sleeping, Nick. I know. I’ve been there.”
“What’s this, a twelve-step call? I told you, I’m in the clear.”
“So is Duke,” I said. “The cops will never catch him. What’s that going to do for his ego? He already thinks he’s above right and wrong. What’s his next trick? Who’s his next victim? Are you helping him with that cover-up, too?”
He hung up. A few minutes later, the fax machine spit out a fax from him. You’re phones are tapped. Come to my house tonight at 10. Careful you’re not followed. N.
I’d only been to Donati’s house once and when I tried to find it again, I got lost in Laurel Canyon’s dark, twisting roads. When I finally reached his fortress, I was an hour late, but at least I was certain I hadn’t been followed. Upstairs, the lights were on and there was a Land Rover in the driveway. The plates stopped me: PROUDJD. Where had I seen those plates before? Unable to remember, I continued to the house and rang the bell. I heard furious barking, followed by light footsteps, a muted voice quieting the dogs and then silence. A minute passed, then two, and finally the doorknob turned and he pulled the door back. I could smell the booze on him. His dogs snapped and growled behind him as if expressing the fear he had smothered with scotch.
“Quiet,” he commanded them. He was in jeans, a button-down shirt and loafers without socks. His hair was disheveled, his face darkened with stubble. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
“I got lost in the canyon.”
He smiled, displaying his supernally white teeth. “Like Dante. Come in. Watch me have a drink.”
Things were subtly amiss in the expensively austere upper floor; a spill of whisky on the burnished dining table, the Doré lithograph of the wood of the suicides jammed between the cushions on the couch and the stale smell of heavy drinking in the air.
He picked up a smudged, half-filled glass. “You mind?”
“No.”
He came toward me. “I can’t imagine you drunk, Henry. I can’t imagine you out of control.”
“Drinking is a sickness. It has nothing to do with self-control. If anything, I imagine getting drunk gives you what little control you have over your thoughts. I saw pictures of what Asuras did to Alex Amerian. That’s not something I’d want to see every time I closed my eyes.”
“Don’t be too sad for that little whore.”
“I know he tried to blackmail Asuras,” I replied. “He still didn’t deserve that kind of death. The other victims deserved it even less.”
He sprawled on the couch. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
I sat down across from him. “I believe you.”
“That’s a comfort,” he said, taking a slug from his drink.
“But you did help Asuras with the cover-up,” I said. “That makes you an accomplice with the same liability as his. Now’s the time to make a deal with the cops, Nick.”
He laughed. “The cops. The fucking cops were in on it, Henry. What’s his name? Ga
itan. How do you think he got to Bob?”
“What do you mean?”
He put his glass down with a drunk’s precision. “The cop and I planned it,” he said. “There would be enough evidence to put Bob on trial, but not enough to convict him. Things would disappear, witnesses would change their stories.” He grinned. “You would give an excellent summation.”
“How did you talk Bob into that?”
“I told him he could move in with me when it was all over.”
“If Bob agreed, why was he killed?”
“The fucking cop did that,” he said. “Duke’s orders.”
“Gaitan killed Bob Travis? Why?”
“When Bob realized he was actually going to be arrested and go to jail, he panicked. Duke was afraid he’d crack, so he told Gaitan to take care of him. I didn’t know, I swear.”
I remembered how distraught he’d been the night Travis died. “Asuras didn’t tell you because he was afraid you’d object.”
He nodded. “Bob didn’t have to die. I could’ve handled him.”
“Was that the only time Asuras double-crossed you?”
“I didn’t know about Schilling either,” he said.
“He’s a megalomaniac.”
“Duke? That’s like saying the sky is blue. Everyone at Duke’s level is a megalomaniac. Duke’s crossed the line.”
“What line?”
“The M’Naughten line,” he said, referring to the legal standard for insanity in criminal cases. “But since this is Hollywood, no one’s noticed. The Industry rewards ruthlessness and cruelty, and if you’re powerful enough, you can rob, cheat and steal and people look the other way. Not just people in the Industry, the police, prosecutors, judges. I was relieved when we were arrested. I thought it would finally be over, but even I underestimated Duke.”
“I need to know what your part was in the murders.”
“Why?”
“To figure out what kind of deal I can make for you.”
“You said it yourself, Henry, I’m as guilty as he is.”
“That depends. What happened, Nick?”
“I helped with … disposal.”
“Were you coerced?”
The drunken eyes focused. “Is that what you would tell a jury? I was afraid for my life so I followed orders because I wasn’t man enough to stand up for myself?”
“All I want to know is what happened.”
“I was a fifth-year associate at an entertainment firm, and I was going nowhere when I met Duke. He hired me to run the legal department at the studio because he said he saw the warrior in me. I was going to help him conquer Hollywood.”
“He knew you were gay,” I said.
“That’s why my career had stalled at the firm. The partners thought I was a little too light in the loafers for their celebrity clients. They didn’t think I’d be tough enough. They found out how tough I am when I negotiated with them for Parnassus.”
“Asuras didn’t care that you were gay, obviously.”
“Obviously? Duke doesn’t think he’s gay, if that’s what you mean.”
“Neither did John Wayne Gacy,” I replied. “But he couldn’t escape who he was, either, and when you start running from yourself, you end up in some pretty dark places.”
“Are you saying if Duke had come out, those men would still be alive? I don’t think so, Henry. I know Duke. The one thing he’s not is repressed.”
“If you knew that, why did you help him?”
“I was gradually sucked in,” he said. “I knew Amerian was trying to blackmail Duke, so I arranged the meeting and had Bob bring Amerian to Duke’s house. Using the cab was Duke’s idea. At the time, I wrote it off to paranoia. Later I realized he had planned all along to kill Alex and to incriminate Bob and me in the murder. But when he called me at three in the morning in a panic, I didn’t consider the possibility he was acting, especially after I got to his house. Amerian’s body was floating in the hot tub. Duke said he and Alex were doing an S&M scene that went too far. I told him to call the police.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he had a better idea.”
“Which was?”
“Make it look like Amerian had been murdered by gay-bashers.”
“Why didn’t you call the cops yourself?”
“I saw the knife wounds and I knew it wasn’t an accident. He had murdered the kid. If it was obvious to me, it would be obvious to the cops. Amerian was a blackmailing little whore. I didn’t owe him anything. That’s how I justified going along with Duke.”
“So what happened?”
“I got Bob back up to Duke’s house. Together we wrapped the body up, put it in the trunk of the car and drove down to West Hollywood, where we dumped it in the alley.”
“You helped dump the body?”
He nodded. “Afterwards, we went to a self-service car wash and cleaned the car from top to bottom.”
“Joanne Schilling was going to testify she saw Bob coming out of the alley by himself.”
“She wasn’t there,” he replied. “She was paid to say what we told her to say.”
“What about the second murder?”
“The same thing,” he said. “A call at two in the morning from Duke. I get to his house and find another body in the hot tub.”
“Jackie Baldwin,” I said. “Did Travis pick him up in the cab?”
He shook his head. “No, that was Duke free-lancing, but he used the cab to further incriminate Bob. We got rid of that body, too.”
“You didn’t say anything to Asuras? Like, stop.”
“Duke said he was afraid the police would suspect him in Alex’s murder unless another victim turned up to divert them. It made a certain amount of sense,” he said wearily, “but by then I was in so deep there wasn’t any way out. He said there would have to be a lot more victims before the police was convinced it was a serial killer. The best I could do was talk him down to one more.”
“Jellicoe,” I said. “Who picked him up?”
“Bob,” he said. “I told him it would be the last time.”
“Too bad for Bob it wasn’t,” I said. “Who killed Joanne Schilling?”
“Gaitan,” he said. “He seems to enjoy killing people almost as much as Duke.” He finished his drink, but when I looked into his eyes, I saw he was sober. “When I found out about her, I realized the killing would never stop.”
“If I were you, Nick, I’d be concerned about my safety.”
“You’re my insurance, Henry,” Donati said. He dug into his pants pocket and removed a key. “This key opens a locker in the international terminal at the airport. Inside you’ll find envelopes, addressed to the District Attorney, the police chief and you. Each of them contains my sworn affidavit laying out everything I told you tonight.”
“Why not just go to the police now, Nick?”
“There’s something I have to do,” he said. “The affidavits are my protection.”
“I know I could work out a deal for you with the DA in exchange for your testimony against Duke.”
“What kind of deal, Henry? Life in prison instead of death row? No, thanks.”
“This affidavit’s not going to be admissible if you disappear,” I said.
“I’ve taken care of its admissibility. The airport locker’s on a twenty-four-hour timer,” he said, glancing at his watch. “You have about an hour to get to them.”
“I’m coming back and we’re going to the cops.”
“You’re a rescuer, Henry, aren’t you? Fixer of broken lives.”
“Wait for me.”
He smiled. “I’ll be here.”
Chapter 22
LA CLENEGA WAS bumper-to-bumper from Sunset to the Santa Monica freeway. The pale faces of other drivers drifted by like images in a dream, floating heads entombed in the machinery of their cars. The street flashed around me: bursts of neon alternated with darkness; knots of people waited outside the restaurants on Restaurant Row for valets to retrieve th
eir cars; a homeless man was reflected in the window of a Jaguar dealership, pushing his shopping cart toward Beverly Hills. An enormous bronze sculpture of John Wayne presided over a desolate intersection of shuttered storefronts. Farther down, the freeway lurched above the street; a row of palm trees kept austere vigil over a neighborhood of the poor; in a vacant lot a sidewalk vendor displayed velvet paintings of Martin Luther King and Diana Ross. This was Duke Asuras’s city, a place of dark dreams and wastelands and the hovering presence of the angel of death. I kept my eye on the rearview mirror, spooked by the possibility I was being followed.
I parked illegally outside the Tom Bradley International Terminal, a monument to the mayor under whom the city had erupted into civil war. I hurried through the bright corridors until I found Donati’s locker near the gates for Aerolineas Argentinas. There was no timer on the locker. Inside I found three sealed envelopes. Attached to the one addressed to me was a handwritten postcard that contained Donati’s suicide note:
Dear Henry,
You will find in this envelope an affidavit under penalty of perjury that incriminates Duke Asuras in the murders. It incriminates me, too, but I couldn’t face the fall. I guess that makes me a coward, but you already knew that about me, so no surprises there. Listen, I cracked the law books for the first time in twenty years and this affidavit should be admissible either as a statement against penal interest or a dying declaration. You’re smart—you’ll get it in. Just remember, Henry, don’t underestimate Duke.
Later, Nick.
“Shit,” I said. The Doré engraving. The wood of the suicides. He’d been studying it before I arrived. The ruse with the timer on the locker was to get me out of his house. I stuffed his letter into my pocket, grabbed the envelopes and made a dash to my car, arriving just as it was being hitched to a tow truck.
The airport cop who’d called the tow was unimpressed by my story about preventing a suicide, but the truck driver let me ride with him to the yard, where I bailed my car out. It was well after midnight before I reached Donati’s street. I didn’t get far. Two police cars and a paramedic unit blocked the road. Curious neighbors huddled a few feet away. I pulled over and got out of my car.