The crowd twittered.
“I mean, you have a pro-gun, ol’ boy Texan and a cultured, intellectual New Yorker. Do you think they’d process the stimuli the same way?”
Loaded question, I thought, amusing myself.
But someone was not amused. A conservatively dressed guy in the front row, the only one wearing a tie in the whole room, stood up and shouted, “You are so full of yourself!”
Lea stopped short and spun to face the man. Audience heads turned.
“Why don’t you tell them about the lawsuit?” The man waved his hands. “Why don’t you tell them you’re being sued for being a fraud?”
Then voices rose: “Shut up! Sit down! Get him out of here.”
“Tell ’em about all the guilty people who are walking the streets right now because of you!”
“Sir—” Lea started to say.
“Does the name Will Stockdale mean anything to you? Does it?”
One very large attorney, who looked like an ex-biker, stood up in the second row and started for the man in the suit.
“Tell them!”
The man saw the big attorney and immediately made for the side door. Just before he went out he flipped off the entire room.
A stunned silence clamped down on the room.
“Well,” Lea Edwards said. “What do you expect from a deputy D.A.?”
The place erupted in laughter.
“Now, where was I? Oh yes, the filter of our core values. There is something I’d like you to do. Write down what our friend was wearing. Describe his face, hair, clothing. And write down exactly what he said. I’ll give you a couple of minutes. And no talking to each other. This is a test!”
After a few minutes of eager scribbling, Lea called everyone back to order. “And allow me to introduce to you a friend of mine, Bart Holland.”
The side door opened and Lea’s accuser came back in, smiling. He joined Lea on the stage.
“Don’t throw anything,” Lea said. “Bart is an actor. In fact, he’s in a play right now at Theater East you should all go to see. But I want you to look at him. How many of you described his tie as something other than blue?”
Several hands went sheepishly up.
“How many of you got the hair right?”
Several hands.
“So the rest of you got it wrong. How about the coat? Who got that?”
Hands.
“Bart, read your lines again.”
Bart repeated his diatribe. Then Lea said, “How many of you got every word substantially correct?”
Only a small number raised their hands.
“How many of you correctly got the name Will Stockdale?”
Only three hands this time.
“How many of you three know that Will Stockdale is the name of the character in the movie No Time for Sergeants?”
The hands went down.
“Finally, how many of you think that my crack about Bart here being a deputy D.A. may have put you in a contentious mindset? Don’t bother raising your hands. I know it’s most of you. So remember. Know the eyewitness inside and out. Especially inside. Get the dope on the person’s life from the cradle. It will lead you through the haze of their memory and show you where you can attack.”
59
LEA MET ME in the Biltmore’s oak-paneled Gallery Bar. With the golden chandeliers and fancy carved wood ceilings, it had an elegant 1920s feel. Like that bar where Jack Nicholson decides to kill his family in The Shining. We took a table near the back, next to a framed picture of the Biltmore from 1930. The Biltmore must have been something in her prime. Like Lea, who ordered a manhattan, was now. I had a Pellegrino.
“Do you know the name Elizabeth Short?” Lea asked.
“Sure. The Black Dahlia. I saw the movie.”
“They say this is the place she had her last drink the night she was murdered.”
“Imagine that. And here we are.”
“You believe in omens?”
“No.”
“Good. Neither do I. Not rational.” She smiled.
“I thought I could use a brush-up on eyewitness testimony,” I said.
“What did you think of my little demonstration?”
“It was good. I couldn’t have picked up all the stuff on the guy.”
“And that’s the point, isn’t it?”
A waitress in black served our drinks. Lea lifted her glass. It had a cherry in the amber liquid. She said, “To victory.”
I clinked my glass on hers and we drank.
“And it will be victory, won’t it?” she said.
“I’m going to do everything I can.”
“I’m glad.”
“Can I ask you a couple of questions?”
“Personal or business?”
“Business of course.”
“It can be personal too, if you want. I’m in your hands.”
“Mackee was involved in a case before Claudia Blumberg. A guy named David Townsend who accused a priest of molesting him when he was a kid. Do you remember that case?”
“What was the name again?”
“David Townsend.”
She took a contemplative sip of her drink. “And he was Kendra’s client?”
“According to the priest.”
“You talked to a priest?”
“He contacted me, actually. He wanted me to know about this, thought it might be relevant.”
“And is it?”
“It might be, depending. How about the name Lorimar?”
“Isn’t that a film company or something?”
“It was a name the priest says Townsend used. I thought it might be another doctor or something, that maybe you knew this person.”
She shook her head.
“If anything occurs to you, call me. It might be good to have you interview Townsend.”
“That might be sticky. What Mackee does is a form of brainwashing. Her clients become extremely loyal, like little vampires are to Dracula.”
“Now that’s an image we can use in closing argument.”
Lea laughed. Her red lips parted like flower petals opening to the sun. I could understand why some very powerful men had orbited around her.
A threesome of suited men at a nearby table broke out into too loud laughter, the sort that indicates a dirty joke filtered through vodka and Red Bull. One slapped his knee repeatedly. He snorted like a pig, sending his friends into another laughing jag.
I felt Lea’s hand on mine. I turned around.
She said, “You realize, of course, that we’re going to have an affair.”
60
ON THE OLD Honeymooners show with Jackie Gleason, that ancient black-and-white series you can get on DVD, Gleason portrays Ralph Cramden, a bumbling, blowhard bus driver always trying to get ahead. And never does.
Sometimes he gets into an embarrassing situation. When he does, his eyes bug out and he tries to speak, but the only sound that comes out is Habba habba habba habba . . .
That’s the sound I almost made when Lea Edwards dropped that little item across the table.
Lea kept her hand right where it was. “Didn’t expect to hear that, did you?”
Habba. “Um, no.”
She squeezed my hand, then removed it. “Have you ever read Atlas Shrugged?”
“Ayn Rand.”
“Have you?”
“Never got around to Atlas Shrugged. Thought I’d read the Los Angeles telephone book instead. Shorter.”
“It’s an intellectual masterpiece. I don’t know how much you know about Rand, but you ought to look into it. She was the most dazzling mind of the twentieth century. And she had this theory about love being an exchange of values, not chemistry. Love makes sense only when it’s rational. And that’s why you and I will end up together when the time is right.”
I took a long sip of Pellegrino. The bubbles kicked the back of my throat.
“I know the time is not now,” she said. “You’ve been through a personal tragedy. But
that doesn’t mean life stops for you. If we allow tragedies to stop us, then we’re doomed. And I, for one, am not ready to be doomed.”
She finished her manhattan. “What I want is another drink and some talk about things other than this stupid lawsuit and then we’ll part until the next time.”
61
WEDNESDAY NIGHT AT eight I showed up at the address Channing had given me. It was one of those nice high-rise apartment buildings on La Cienega. It was, in fact, Channing Westerbrook’s apartment building. There was a fancy security guard, blue coat and gold shield and everything, sitting at a console in the very formal lobby.
I gave my name, and he picked up a phone, announcing me. He asked me to wait. I sat in a chair next to a large fern.
A few minutes later Channing, dressed in a pure white coat and black pants, greeted me. She looked like she was going out, even had a gold chain with a pearl pendant. Her hair was back and pretty, and she wore a perfume that was very nice.
In another life, I would have gone for her at the drop of a name.
“Thanks for coming all this way.” She shook my hand.
“It didn’t seem like I had a choice.”
“Oh, let’s not be all tangled about it. You’re here. Come on up and let’s get down to business.”
The security guard looked at me like he had some idea of what the business was.
62
CHANNING’S PLACE HAD a wide open living room you had to walk down a step to get to. The room was a perfect square with a thick white carpet and cream-colored furniture with dark wood trim. A coffee table with a glass top framed by polished wood had, not surprisingly, a coffee table book on it. It said New York, and I figured it was the book that went with the Ric Burns documentary.
The recessed lighting gave the room a pleasant illumination. From speakers I couldn’t see, cool jazz was being piped in. On the walls were some prints or paintings—I couldn’t tell which—of some current art school or other. They didn’t seem to represent reality. There was a surrealism about them. I’m no art critic, but these were probably worth having because everything else in the apartment seemed perfect.
“A little intimate, isn’t it?” I said.
“Thought you should see how the other half lives.”
“Other half?”
“TV reporters. We make up half the world now.”
“I figured you live pretty nice.”
“And what do you think? Fit the image?”
“Perfect.”
“May I pour us some wine?” Channing said. “There’s a little winery in Los Olivos that I love, and their cab is out of this world.”
“Is this a business or social call?” I said.
“It’s a little bit of both. Why can’t two people who are working together enjoy some wine and good conversation along with everything else?”
“Sold,” I said.
While she uncorked the bottle, I thumbed through the book on New York. It looked crowded. A bunched up group of gawkers on top of the Empire State Building put me in mind of Gershwin.
She came back and sat next to me on the sofa, handing me a glass while clinging to her own.
I took a sip. “Hmmm . . . conversational without being verbose.”
She laughed. “So you’re a wine critic.”
I held the glass up to the lights in the ceiling. “Playful, without overstaying its welcome.”
“Keep going.”
I looked at her. “Ambitious, with the hint of ongoing mystery.”
She sat back, propping her head on one hand. “You’ve got my number, eh?”
“You’ve got mine and you keep calling it. Why is it you wanted to see me?”
“I don’t want the story to get away from us. I need to find out what’s going on in your life. How you’re dealing with the day-to-day.”
My day-to-day was not a subject I was anxious to revisit. “I get up each day, and I see what I have to do, and I go do it.”
“Come on,” she said, pointing to her chest. “In here.”
For a second I considered telling her about my house. That would certainly qualify as a little item for her book. But instead I said, “What about me? What have you got for me?”
She smiled coyly. “You might be surprised.”
“Surprise me now.”
“Whoa.”
“I want to know what you know about Barocas and Triunfo.”
She ran her index finger around the rim of the wineglass. “I do have other things I’m working on.”
“But you know something.”
“Wanna trade?”
“Yes. You start.”
Crossing her legs and leaning back, relaxed, Channing Westerbrook looked like someone in complete control of her life and circumstances and of all who orbited around her, like me. “I know it’s been looked at by some law enforcement agencies, because anytime you’re a success like that you’re going to get some scrutiny. But they’re clean. Nothing’s stuck. Barocas is one of these Teflon guys. But he has help.”
“What kind of help?”
“Downtown help. You know about Leland Rich?”
“Just that he’s a county supervisor and gave Barocas’s book a blurb.”
“Well, Rich is really investing a lot in Barocas for political reasons and kind of protects him. Everybody knows Rich wants to be mayor, and for that he needs the Latinos. But he’s about as non-Latino-looking as you can get. You ever hear him try to speak Spanish?”
I shook my head.
“Hilarious. He made a speech in East L.A. once and tried to say something nice in Spanish, but it translated as “I love the bodies of your people.” So he’s not going to make that mistake again, and Barocas is one of his tickets to the mayor’s office.”
“Has anybody ever accused Barocas of being in league with drug dealers or running things from Mexico?”
“No doubt. He works with gangs, and there’s some speculation about that. But he’s had a lot of success turning gang kids around.”
“What about—”
“Hey,” she said, putting up a hand. “My turn.”
“Just one more—”
“Trade, remember? I want you to tell me what’s going on inside you.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I’m not Dr. Phil. What am I supposed to say?”
She took a lingering sip of wine as her eyes hovered over the glass, looking at me.
“Tell me a little about her,” she said. “About Jacqueline.”
That was a subject I did not want to revisit with anyone. It was a private section and I had a No Entry sign on it. “Is that really relevant?”
“Oh stop sounding like a lawyer. I want to know about the person. Would it help if I asked you questions?”
“No.”
“Okay. When did you first meet?”
“Channing—”
“Love at first sight?”
“Maybe.” I figured I could use terse answers like a good witness on cross, never offering more than the question demands. She’d get the message sooner or later.
“You met her where?”
“Mexican restaurant.”
“And?”
“That’s where we met.”
She pursed her lips and looked away, and I felt bad about that. She had gone out of her way for me. I’d been the one who tracked her down in the first place.
“All right,” I said. “We met that night and I was attracted to her, but really fell for her when I got to know her. She just had this inner life that pulled me in.”
“Soul mate?”
“If you believe that sort of thing, then yeah.”
She took another sip of wine. I had barely touched mine. She got up and went to the kitchen, came back with the bottle. Without asking she poured a little more for me and for her.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For being vulnerable.”
I shrugged.
“What was one thing ab
out her you really loved?”
“Just one?”
“Mm.”
“Her honesty. She didn’t have a hypocritical bone in her body.”
Channing nodded. “That’s nice. What about you? What was something about you she loved?”
A faint, twisting pain was starting to grow in me. “I don’t know.”
“Just one.”
“She liked my drumming.”
“What’s that?”
“I used to drum. She really liked it when I did that.”
“Now that,” Channing said, “is the sort of detail that will make this book come alive. Like the pro bono work you did for those illegals last year.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Hello! Reporter! So why’d you take that up? What was it? Ten people in a one-room apartment?”
“Nine.”
“Against a slum lord. Now you didn’t have to do that. Why—”
“Maybe that’s enough for now.”
“Ty—”
“Listen.”
The music was Larry Carlton. We drank some wine and listened to the music.
“Would you show me sometime?” Channing said.
“Show you?”
“Drumming. I’d like to hear you.”
“I don’t really do it anymore.”
She leaned a little toward me. “You’ll want to again. I know it.”
Physiology marches to its own drummer, and right then mine started playing Wipe Out. Had this been any other night and any life of mine where Jacqueline Dwyer had not existed, I would have been all over Channing Westerbrook. And I knew she wanted it that way.
Which made me put the wine down and stand up and walk to the window. Because if I didn’t, I thought I might do something stupid like cry or curse or throw the wineglass across the room.
It was a nice view at least. Any view of L.A. at night, if you’re up high enough, has romance about it. Flickering lights are inviting when you look down on them, less so when you’re on the street looking up. It was nice to be up high.
Next thing I knew Channing had her lips on mine.
63
WITH NO TIME to think I let the kiss happen, let her deepen it. It was as surreal as the paintings on a wall. This wasn’t really happening.
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