by Paul Heald
“Oh god, I hope not,” he sighed, a black cloud descending.
“I’m sure I have,” she replied as she fetched his coffee and croissant. “I got it! You’re the guy representing that porn star, right?”
He looked at her bright young face and saw nothing but genuine excitement. “More or less.”
“That’s so cool!” She pushed his drink and pastry across the counter. “This is totally on the house.”
“That’s okay,” he replied and looked at her name tag. “You don’t have to do that, Glenna.”
“But it’s policy!” she exclaimed. “My manager says, like, celebrities eat free. He’s like: It’s good for business.” She nodded toward the jail house and grinned. “You’d be amazed at the people I’ve seen here. I’ve served Robert Downey, Jr., twice!”
He gave up trying to pay for the food and worried about the state of a country where criminals and their attorneys warranted such youthful admiration. The same country, he imagined, where the Girls Gone Wild tour bus can pull into any college town and find volunteers lining up to make out with their sorority sisters.
He took a booth in the corner of the cafe with his back turned toward the window and stared at his cell phone. He sipped his coffee and took a bite of the croissant but didn’t get much comfort from the treat or from spinning his cell phone on the polished table. He slapped down his hand on the whirling phone and swore under his breath. He simply could not leave Don alone in Janet’s hands. There was no way. He would not be able to live with himself.
There was some relief in finally making a decision. He wasn’t just floating around anymore, bumping into whatever came his way and calling it living. So, he took a sip from his coffee and pressed Janet’s number on his speed dial. From now on, he would keep her close by, not only to make sure that she wasn’t sabotaging the investigation, but to gather evidence of her possible guilt. In particular, the chance to look through her closet for a purple garment to match the office window fiber would be very welcome indeed.
* * *
Janet found Stanley in the corner of the coffee shop across from the courthouse, right where he said he would be. He had sounded tired on the phone, but the guy in front of her looked positively pasty. Usually, he wore a natty jacket, a bit dated by Los Angeles standards, but probably pretty cutting edge garb for the Midwest. Hunched over a cup of coffee and a plate full of crumbs, he looked like Peter Falk playing a suicidal Inspector Columbo. She sat down across from him and cheered him up with the story of Tiffany Imperial’s unanswered phone calls to Chance Geary on the night of the murder. For a moment, a glint of interest pierced his exhaustion.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” she asked. “You look totally wiped.” He reminded her a little bit of Don, who was prone to mini bouts of depression. “Can I get you something?” She gestured back to the pastry counter.
He shook his head. “Nah, I’m not hungry.” He moved the remains of his croissant around with his forefinger and squashed them into a little ball. “The president of the university saw us on the news yesterday and my department head called last night to let me know that I’ve been suspended indefinitely.” He looked up with a stoic smile. “Basically, I’m fired.”
She reached over and touched his wrist. “It wasn’t anything that I said to the reporters, was it?”
“No,” he replied, “you didn’t say anything wrong. I think this project was doomed from the beginning.”
“Don’t say that.” She tried to cheer him up. “The book idea is great, and you’ve got tons of interview material. And you’re a real hero for staying here to help Don!” She gave his hands an energetic squeeze. God, he was just like Don: high-minded and hot at the same time. It really wasn’t fair. She had to sculpt her body for hours on the evil Stairmaster for what these slobs could generate with a wistful smile and stylish pair of glasses. Society was to blame, or maybe it was just the forbidden fruit thing. She had wanted Don and couldn’t have him. He had been immune to her charms which made losing him to that bitch Jade all the more in-fucking-comprehensible. She wouldn’t make the same mistake with the handsome young professor. But there he sat, pushing back a shock of dark hair, just like Don always did, agonizing whether some decision was right or wrong.
She looked into his face. “You’re doing the right thing. Don’t let the bastards get you down.”
He looked at her like he was trying to figure out a particularly tricky crossword puzzle. “Well, they’ve already got me down.” He took a sip of coffee and made a face that told her it had gone cold. “The question is how to finish up the investigation and get some resolution. I left a message with McCaffrey a while ago asking for the names of Geary and Walker’s alibi witness. I figured we’d pay Deborah Spellerburg another visit while we’re waiting for him to call back. We also need to track down Miriam and see if she wants to talk about the fire yesterday.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“No,” he replied, “but I remember her last name is Wilhoit. It stuck in my head when we were introduced. I grew up with a bunch of Wilhoits down the street from me in Chicago.” They got up from the table and walked outside into the bright sunshine.
He suggested that they start off with another visit to the UCLA attorney, and she offered to drive. A light breeze blew off the ocean and she couldn’t help but notice the sharp-edged day glittering around them. It was a perfect afternoon in Los Angeles, cool and clear, with a slight tinge of salt in the air. She walked directly to the most eye-catching car on the street, the bright red Mini Cooper convertible with custom rims and a white leather interior, license plate 4PLAY.
She put the roof down with the push of a button and slipped on a pair of Armani sunglasses. In the coffee shop, she had been an unremarkable addition to the decor. Once in the car, it had taken nothing more than a flick of a finger through her hair and a sidelong glance in the review mirror to regain the glamour that had been temporarily hidden. Stanley seemed not to notice. Over the previous week, she had caught him (when he thought she wouldn’t notice) staring in frank appreciation of her figure. Now, he sat and stared straight ahead, wind whipping through his thick dark hair as they made their way back to Westwood.
As they drove to the law school, Stanley revealed that Don had invited Jade to his office during the party to offer her Spellerburg’s protective services.
“Did he say why he lied about the new script story earlier?” Normally Don was scrupulously truthful. “It doesn’t make much sense.”
The professor was silent for a moment. “Not really. Maybe he didn’t want anyone to know that she was the battered-woman type?” He shrugged. “It is a pretty pathetic story. Don said he couldn’t convince her to leave Geary.”
“He was worried about admitting failure?” That made sense in the context of a cocktail party but not a murder investigation where he was the target. “I don’t buy it.”
She wondered if her partner was telling her everything as they walked from the UCLA parking garage to the law school. He opened the front door of the building and let her in. Something smelled bad about the story. Then again, it was typical of Don not to think straight when Jade was involved. How could someone so rational act like such an idiot? It should have taken a woman with curves and brains to attract the philosopher king of porn, but one sleek brown body had been plenty. If that wasn’t a betrayal of his most precious principles, she didn’t know what was. “Do you think he’s telling the truth?”
He shrugged but said nothing more as they made their way to the legal aid clinic. When they arrived, they found Spellerburg wearing the same drab pantsuit as she had the day before. If she’s trying to live anywhere near Westwood on an academic salary, Janet thought, she’s lucky she can afford to buy any clothes at all.
“What can I do for you, Professor Hopkins?” The woman motioned for them to sit down.
“There were just a couple of questions that we forgot to ask you yesterday.” He pulled a chair closer to her desk. �
��Thanks for seeing us.”
She looked at her watch. “I’ve got about half an hour. What do you want to know?”
“Quite frankly, we’re curious why you didn’t take your information to the police. I mean, Don’s visit here seems pretty material to the investigation.” Stanley posed the question in an offhand way that minimized the risk the frumpy young attorney would take offense. “Surely you considered it?”
“I did,” she admitted immediately, “but I thought the police would show up and interview me. I figured that Mr. Johansson would bring it up as part of his defense and then I would be asked to describe our conversation. No one came, until you two.” She paused for a moment and polished her glasses while she formulated her thoughts. “And there was something else that I was trying to work through. Sometimes we have men come through here posing as friends of abused women. They’re trying to find out where our safe houses are, or they’re abusers getting some sort of creepy kick out of talking about what their girlfriends are going through. Quite frankly, I wondered whether Johansson might be one of those guys. He was acting kind of strange, and he said something that raised a red flag with me.”
“What was that?”
“Well, he said that he was a victim too. Believe it or not, a lot of abusers see themselves as victims, as victims of their girlfriends’ shortcomings or as victims of their girlfriends’ imaginary lovers. When he said he was a victim, I started to wonder whether he wasn’t one of these creeps that I told you about, especially in light of the eventual murder.”
“I think I understand,” he replied after thinking about her story for a moment. “You didn’t want to go to the police with an exculpatory story because it might get a potential abuser and murderer off the hook. On the other hand, you didn’t want to get someone in trouble on your intuition alone.”
“You see the problem,” she admitted. “And trust me, the police are not very good at parsing these fine sorts of distinctions.” She leaned back in her chair. “Working this job, I’m afraid, has done little to increase my respect for the Los Angeles County police department.”
“I’m not a big fan myself,” he replied with a smile that made Spellerburg beam. Damn, the little professor was getting pretty good at this. “When Don said he felt abused, did he mention anyone in particular?”
Janet watched the attorney closely and saw that she was tempted to answer. “If he really were a victim and had asked for my help with his own problem as opposed to someone else’s, then I couldn’t tell you. Attorney-client privilege attaches in that situation.” She stood up and apologized, but she had no more to say on the matter. Stanley thanked her again, and they left the clinic.
“What now?’ Janet’s question hung in the air as they walked back to the car. It was late afternoon and the campus was almost empty. The few students that she could see were heading home for the evening.
“Since we’re still waiting on McCaffrey, why don’t we try to track down Miriam Wilhoit’s address?” He sat down on a bench in front of the parking garage, and she lit a cigarette while he pulled out his phone and checked an online directory. “That would have been too easy,” he said. “Maybe we can find her son. She said they were tight for money, so they might be living together.”
“It’s worth a try,” she replied. “The only time I ever saw her smile was when she was talking about her kid.”
“Do you know his name or where he was going to college?”
“I have no clue. Definitely in LA, but there are dozens of schools he might be at.”
“Sounds like Google time to me. Do you have a laptop? We could find somewhere with WiFi.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” she said as she opened the door to the Mini. “Let’s swing by and pick up your car, then head back to my place and use my computer.”
XXV.
A STIFFIE
Janet lived in a small Spanish-style condominium complex several miles west of the UCLA campus. Her stucco townhouse was one of a dozen clustered around a spacious courtyard with a large sparkling fountain splashing warm, glazed tile and generously landscaped with bougainvillea and hibiscus. She opened the heavy, wrought iron gate at the main entrance with a magnetic key card and checked her mail while Stanley admired the view. “This is amazing.”
“It’s a lot nicer than my old place.”
“Do you rent or own?” The query was gauche, but he was curious and she seemed to take no offense.
“I own it. Most people lease, but between my website and some good luck investing, I was able to finally buy something.”
“Congratulations,” he replied. “It’s a lot more than just ‘something’.”
She led him to a corner unit that featured a small balcony on the second floor overlooking the courtyard. Two potted lemon trees stood in the arched entryway on either side of her door, and they added a gentle scent to the already fragrant space. When she waved him in, he could see more ceramic tile set among polished hardwood slats running through the ground floor.
Her heels clicked sharply as she walked into the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of white wine. She tilted it in his direction with a smile. “Would you like a glass?”
“Yes, please.” While she poured, he looked with envy at features in her kitchen that he would never be able to afford on a professor’s salary: solid cherry cabinets, a professional grade, six-burner stove, a huge double-doored stainless steel refrigerator, and thousands of dollars worth of copper pots and pans hanging from a wrought iron ring over a glossy quartz island in the center of the room. “You must love to cook.”
“I like to cook, but most of this stuff only gets used by caterers when I have a party.” She handed him the glass and led him down a hallway that began where the kitchen and dining room flowed into each other. A marble bathroom stood on one side with a large bedroom on the other. It seemed to be the only bedroom on the ground floor and he assumed it was hers. In the closet, perhaps, was a purple sweater whose fibers might match those found on Don’s office window by the police.
She entered a small room at the end of the hall and sat down in front of a teak desk. A large monitor and a keyboard were set on top, while the largest CPU he had ever seen sat on the floor next to it. She looked up from the keyboard and saw him checking out the computer. “Welcome to the home of laylaxxx.com. There’s my server, and if I bring up this window right here, it will tell us that . . . forty-two clients are currently logged on. We store about thirty thousand jpeg files and one hundred full length digital movies in the memory, all ready for download any time of day or night.”
Sitting down had forced her skirt high on her thighs, and from his vantage point over and behind her, he admired the view without being caught staring. The proximity of thousands of images of her in various states of undress, wearing who-knows-how-many styles of lingerie and bondage gear, having sex in every position described in the Kama Sutra and beyond caused an undeniable stirring. He flashed back to high school on warm spring days when the sexiest girls in his class squirmed and giggled in their halter tops and miniskirts. He scrambled for a safe image to cling to.
“Have you ever visited the website? There’s a free tour for non-members.” She clicked on the URL at the top of the screen and started typing. “It’s one of the slickest sites in the business.”
“No!” he fairly shouted. “I’ll check it out later.”
She turned and looked up at him. “Don’t worry, Stanley,” she said with an amused grin, “I’m just going to Google.” She finished typing and let him sit down in her seat. As he searched, she stood next to him and leaned down to see his results. She turned her face toward him, so close that he could feel her breath on his ear. “What’s your plan to find Miriam’s son?”
He could feel a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. A few more moments like this and he would not be able to stand up without acute embarrassment. He poured his concentration into the search for Don’s secretary. “Okay, let’s find an online list of American colleges
and universities.” He entered his search terms and found several websites providing comprehensive lists of institutions of higher education in the United States. After browsing through a couple that provided only alphabetical listings, he finally found one organized geographically. “I’ll cut and paste a list of all university and college URL’s in Los Angeles, and then search for “Wilhoit” in their student directories. There shouldn’t be all that many; it’s not a very common name. Then we can make some calls and track down the right one.”
“Sounds like a plan.” She stood up and watched as he pasted the initial set of web addresses into a spreadsheet. “While you’re doing that, why don’t I make us something to eat? It’s already past six.”
“Great. I’m starving.” He felt her hands give his shoulders a gentle squeeze as she wished him luck and left the room.
He waited a moment and then turned to watch her walk down the hall, but his gaze, for once, was not voyeuristic. He wanted to make sure that she would be completely out of sight when he slipped into her bedroom. He felt a twinge of guilt at planning a deliberate invasion of her privacy, but she had not been honest with him. She had been hiding the extent of her relationship with Don, and also her feelings about Jade. The weight of her deception more than offset the wrong of a quick peek in her closet.
He went through two student directories and paused. All he needed was two minutes to spot something purple hanging in her closet, grab a fiber and then sneak back to the desk.
The chair squeaked loudly when he got up, and he waited a moment to make sure the sound had not alerted her. Then, he crept silently down the hall, listening carefully for the reassuring sound of clattering pots as he slipped into her inner sanctum. A large, four-poster bed sat in the middle of the room, parallel to a large curtained window. The entrance to the master bath was located through the wall opposite the bed, next to an old fashioned wardrobe whose open doors revealed a large plasma screen television. On either side of the bed sat small end tables, one covered with books and another with a half-finished bottle of water, a pair of reading glasses and an alarm clock. Stanley saw the closet on his left, and he pushed the French doors open wide with a quick look back over his shoulder.