Hex on the Ex

by Rochelle Staab

  “Books I haven’t looked at in years, just some…I don’t know exactly.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know exactly? You didn’t open it when you got home?”

  “No.” I braced for another lecture.

  Oliver sat forward in the big leather chair, sweeping a hand through his mop of hair. “You…you’re kidding. What?” He sighed. “What if the killer dropped the murder weapon in the box on his way out? Oh boy, they must be having a party at the police lab. Commendation plaques are being ordered.”

  “Stop.” I held up my hands. “First of all, Carla Pratt isn’t ignorant, neither am I, and according to Kitty, neither are you. Carla had to know the contents of the box before she came to see me today. If the knife were inside, you and I would be talking from opposite sides of a table at the jail down the street instead of here in your office. Second, I’m not amused by the name game we just played. You’re the man I’m thinking about hiring to protect my freedom. My freedom is precious to me. I don’t know anything about you.”

  He pointed to the wall behind me. A JD degree hung above four framed commendations from the California State Bar Association.

  “I have a wife and two kids who eat too much,” he said. “I work too hard, I don’t sleep enough, and I’m impatient. What else can I tell you?”

  “Why did you opt to practice criminal law?”

  “Is this the character interview part? I love the interview part. You’re curious why I chose to defend criminals.”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite that way but—”

  “I like practicing law. I like seeing the justice system work. I like making the system work. I would rather read sports statistics than contracts. Divorcing couples are nastier than petty criminals. Probate and trusts would make me feel like a funeral director. Okay? So do I like working with criminals? Let me ask you this—did you become a psychologist because you like working with crazy people?”

  I smiled. Maybe I could appreciate Oliver Paul. “I like all kinds of people. Kitty told me—”

  “Gotta love old Kitty Kirkland, right? The gal’s got balls.”

  “I wasn’t finished,” I said.

  “Maybe you’re not, but I am. I like you. You’re thorough. I’ll take your case. We have work to do. We need information to move the spotlight off you. I want the lowdown on the other names on Pratt’s witness and suspect lists. I want to know what she knows. You haven’t been charged—I don’t have discovery to dig through. As I said before, I’ll have my private detective do some checking.”

  “He won’t have much time to investigate. How long can we stall Detective Pratt?”

  “She’ll have a hell of a time reaching me tomorrow. I’ll be in court. She knows she can’t talk to you without me present. Maybe I’ll take the family to Palm Springs tomorrow night for a weekend visit to my mother. Ma misses me. She called me twice this week for money.” Oliver rocked back in his chair. “But the longer we put off Pratt, the more ticked off and suspicious she’ll get.”

  “Who’s your detective?”

  “His name is Hank McCormick. Ex-LAPD. He’s been on disability since a rifle shot blew out his knee.”

  “I wonder if he knows my father and brother,” I said. “Dad is a retired homicide detective and Dave is RHD. They may be able to help him out.”

  “We’re not doing a potluck where everybody brings a dish.” Oliver pointed at me. “I want your word—no ‘helpful outsiders’ to muck up the investigation.”

  I had heard and ignored the same warning a few times before. My life, my potluck, and my decision. “Not outsiders—family.”

  Oliver squinted at me and then broke into a half grin. “It’s your neck, kid.”

  He opened his bottom desk drawer and took out a disposable cell phone encased in a large plastic shell. He ripped apart the packaging and dropped the phone, a battery, and the power cord onto the desk blotter. After he popped the battery into the phone and closed the casing, he plugged the phone into a charger then turned to his computer, typing furiously. Then he reached into another drawer, pulled out a card, scraped the back like a lottery ticket, and punched some numbers on the phone screen. “What’s your cell phone number?”

  I gave him my digits, he dialed, and my phone rang in my purse. I answered, amused and curious. “Hi, Oliver.”

  “See the number on the screen?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the number you call me at. Don’t give it to anybody, okay? Hear me? Don’t give it to anybody. Not to the police, not to your lover, not to your priest, family, or friends. Only you can call me on this phone. Did Pratt give you her business card?” I nodded, dug in my purse, and then slid her card across his desk. Oliver read the card and said, “Okay, good. I’ll e-mail her tonight. If she calls you, all you say is ‘Contact my lawyer’ and give her my regular office number. Got it?”

  “Sure,” I said. “But why the intrigue with the phone?”

  “There are people I want to talk to and people I don’t. You’re my client. I will always take your calls, but no one else needs to know how or when. After the case is over, you fire me, or I quit, this phone and the number disappears. That’s the deal. All right?”

  I liked his style.

  Chapter Fifteen

  On my way out of Oliver Paul’s office, I bumped into a mountain of a man in a turquoise warm-up suit. He backed up to open the hall door for me and I squeezed past with a polite grin, eyeing the outline of a gun stuck in the waistband under his jacket. Bet he had a secret phone number from Ollie, too.

  I dialed my parents from the lobby.

  “I’m glad you called,” Mom said. “Did you hear from Jarret today? He’s not answering my calls.”

  “His phone is probably off. Is Dad home?”

  “Your father is at the store picking up a can of creamed corn for me. I’m making my cornbread for dinner with salad and turkey chili. There’s enough food for an army. Would you like to come over?”

  Army? Perfect. “Can I bring Nick, Dave, and Robin? I need to talk to everyone about something important.”

  “Of course, but—”

  “What time do you want us there?”

  “Seven.” Mom hesitated. I could almost hear her brain whirring. “Elizabeth, what is going on? Did you and Nick get engaged? Is that what you’re coming over to tell us?”

  “No, Mom. We’re not engaged. I—”

  “You’re pregnant. I knew it. I told your father you were putting on weight.”

  Weight? I touched my belly. That did it. I’ll be hitting the gym every day for the rest of forever.

  “I’m not pregnant,” I said, crossing through the parking lot. “I’ll explain everything at dinner. I can’t talk now. I have to round up Dave and Nick.”

  Using the hem of my dress like a glove, I opened the scalding car door handle. I put the car windows down and cranked up the AC, then phoned Nick.

  “I need you. Can you pick me up at my place at six-thirty for dinner with Robin and Dave at my parents’ house?”

  “Sure. I thought your dad’s party was Saturday,” Nick said.

  “It is. I’m calling a summit tonight. Carla Pratt came up with a ridiculous theory of jealousy and revenge to accuse me of murdering Laycee. I have to prove she’s wrong.”

  “I’m in,” Nick said.

  I turned out of the bank lot onto Victory then made a right to Van Nuys Boulevard. While I crept along Auto Row in rush-hour traffic, I made my second call.

  “Sam Collins’ office. This is Robin.”

  “I need your help.”

  “You got it. What do you want me to do?”

  “Find Dave and be at my mom’s house at seven for dinner. Nick and I will meet you there.” I let out a frustrated sigh. “I just left a meeting with a lawyer.”

  “Well, I’m glad you took my advice,” Robin said.

  “A little too late. I’ll fill you in on the details tonight when we’re all together.”

  Nick and I
pulled into the driveway of my parents’ Encino ranch home at exactly seven P.M. He turned off the ignition and said to me, “I wonder what Viv’s reaction will be when she hears Jarret threw suspicion on you by telling the cops you hated Laycee.”

  “Me, too. I didn’t want to tell Mom on the phone and give her time to consult her tarot cards. She’ll find some way to rationalize his idiotic thinking. Possession, maybe?”

  “I’m with her if I can do the exorcism. I’d like to spin Jarret’s head around.”

  “I wouldn’t go in too cocky if I were you. Right now, Mom’s convinced we’re here to announce you got me pregnant.” As I got out of the car, Nick sat frozen behind the wheel, staring through the windshield. I leaned in and said, “Are you coming?”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  I shook my head. “Accused of murder. Disappointed?”

  “I need a drink.”

  Dave and Robin drove up in his white Ford Explorer and parked behind us. Dave hustled out of the car in a rumpled sport coat to open the passenger door. Robin exited as fresh as a spring bouquet in a silk rainbow sherbet sundress and heels.

  As Nick and Dave walked to the front door, she slowed her pace and said, “Dave’s suspicious. I wouldn’t tell him the reason you wanted us here. Better get this over with fast.”

  Decades ago, after my parents sent Dave and I off to college, Mom celebrated her independence from dirty uniforms, empty pop cans, and greasy pizza boxes by redecorating. She transformed the Gordon ranch house into a beige extravaganza, from the carpet to the walls to the bricks on the fireplace. Beige chairs and sofa in the living room, beige tiles and appliances in the kitchen. Dad joked that they were living in a carton of vanilla ice cream.

  Give Mom a reason to entertain and the beige becomes her canvas. Dave, Robin, Nick, and I were greeted by bright splashes of summer. Bright yellow daisies in red vases dotted every table in the living room. Dozens of sunflowers in a tin bucket adorned the center of a dining room table set with a festive rust-colored tablecloth, six green plates, brown napkins, and a tall pitcher of lemonade.

  Dave and Nick hung a left and joined Dad to watch SportsCenter on the flat screen in the living room. Robin and I headed to the kitchen, where we found Mom in a white linen tunic and tangerine capris, stirring a large pot of turkey chili. She tucked a strand of her white hair behind her ear and glanced knowingly at my stomach. I made a face and silently vowed to avoid the cornbread at dinner.

  “Everything is ready, girls. Liz, take the salad out of the refrigerator. Robin, bring the cornbread. Call the men in and let’s eat.”

  We took our seats around the dining room table. Mom, Dad, and Dave stared at me, then at Nick, then back to me.

  I spread a napkin across my lap and said, “I was at Jarret’s house yesterday morning before he found Laycee Huber’s body.”

  They listened in hushed silence, a Gordon family first, as I told my story over the salad. Robin huffed with sympathetic indignation while passing the cornbread. I glanced at Mom, waiting for her to interrupt in Jarret’s defense. She ate slowly without saying a word. Dad and Dave exchanged glances over Carla’s trumped-up allegation then each took second helpings of chili. When I finished my tale, Nick circled his hand on my back.

  “What did your lawyer say?” Dad said.

  “Oliver thinks Jarret and his lawyer are using me to create reasonable doubt.”

  “Damn lawyers pull that crap all the time,” Dave said between bites. “Carla leaned hard on Jarret so they turned suspicion on Liz. Makes sense.”

  Mom slapped her palm on the table. “Makes sense? Makes sense to accuse my daughter—your sister—of murder? To save Jarret Cooper? Not on my life. How dare that lowlife, miserable excuse of a man let someone use my daughter as his scapegoat.”

  Dad blinked in astonishment. Nick suspended his fork midair. Robin sat still. Dave shot me a who-is-this-woman look. I wanted to jump up and hug Mom for taking my side.

  “Who is this lawyer of yours?” she said. “How did you find him?”

  “His name is Oliver Paul,” I said. “Kitty recommended him. She thinks he’s incredible.”

  “He better be incredible. What is he going to do? Walter, how can we stop this? What—”

  “Viv, calm down,” Dad said. “Easy, easy.”

  “No. I will not take it easy. Absolutely not. We have to fix this. I want to know what Oliver Paul’s plan is and I want to know now,” Mom said.

  “He’s hiring a private investigator named Hank McCormick,” I said. “I—”

  “Private investigator? Another stranger?” She shook her head. “No. There are two men, excuse me, three men at this table who can investigate a murder case better than all of the police, all of the private detectives, and all the lowlife, finger-pointing lawyers in this city. Walter? David? Nick? Find out who killed Laycee Huber. If the evidence points to Jarret Cooper—fine. He can sit and rot in jail for the rest of his miserable life for all I care. Imagine, letting my daughter be accused of murder.”

  I clapped, proud and impressed. Dad, Nick, and Robin joined me.

  Dave leaned back, crossing his arms. “I can’t be involved. Internal aff—”

  “We’re all going to help Liz.” Dad turned to me. “When did Laycee get to town?”

  “I’m not sure. She was staying at the Sportsmen’s Lodge,” I said. “I first saw her at the gym Tuesday morning with Kyle Stanger and Billy Miles, the producer of Atlanta Wife Life. She went to the game with them that night.”

  “Nozzle, the bartender at Sportsmen’s Lodge, is an old buddy of mine,” Dad said. “Noz can find out the day and time she checked in, and tell me if she spent time at the bar with anyone. I need a photo of her.”

  “I think I saw one in the paper this morning. Give me a sec.” Robin reached for her purse and brought out her iPhone. She thumbed the keypad, scrolled, and then clicked some buttons until the phone clicked. “What’s your e-mail address, Walter? I’ll send you the screen shot.”

  Dad gave her the address then left the table, returning with his cell phone. He opened Robin’s e-mail. “You kids with your technology. How did you do this?”

  “It’s simple.” Robin demonstrated.

  “Great trick,” Dad said. “I’ll show Laycee’s photo to the bartender. Who else did she plan to see in L.A., Liz?”

  “Billy Miles, Kyle Stanger, and Jarret are the only people I know for certain,” I said.

  “A coordinator in the Atlanta Wife Life production office is a friend of mine. I’ll call her for the inside skinny on Billy Miles,” Robin said.

  “If Billy is at the gym in the morning, I’ll get his version of what happened between Kyle and Laycee at the stadium party,” I said. “Kyle is the only other person who knew Laycee was with Jarret.”

  Dad pointed across the table. “Dave, run a check on Kyle Stanger. Find out if he has a record.”

  “Kyle is up to something at the gym,” I said. “He takes short, closed-door office meetings with a stream of people who don’t belong to Game On and I’m fairly certain they aren’t vendors. I interrupted a meeting yesterday. He muttered out an excuse about membership.”

  “Do you see who he met with?” Dave said.

  “A kid, late teens, early twenties with overdeveloped muscles like a bodybuilder.” I said.

  Dave sat back, folding his arms. “Kyle may be buying or selling steroids. There’s a motive there if Laycee knew and threatened to tell Jarret.”

  Banned by Major League Baseball since the early 1990s, steroids were a hot topic in sports. Jarret, a purist when it came to his body and athleticism, adamantly opposed the hormone replacement therapy some athletes and bodybuilders took to build muscle mass.

  “A steroid scandal at Game On could cost Jarret his career and his endorsements,” Nick said.

  “Why would Kyle kill Laycee at Jarret’s house? And leave a symbol on her body?” I said.

  “I can’t comment on the symbol,” Dave said. “But let’s say Jarre
t knew or conspired with Kyle in selling the drugs—a felony. They would end up in jail if Laycee exposed them. Her knowledge may have gotten her killed by one or both of them.”

  Dad and Nick nodded agreement.

  “Speculation doesn’t help clear Liz,” Mom said. “What do we do about it?”

  “Build a scenario for reasonable doubt, Viv,” Dad said.

  “I’ll snoop around a little more at the gym,” I said.

  “Watch yourself,” Dave said. “If Kyle is dealing, he might be pushing anything—steroids, coke, Ecstasy, or worse.”

  Mom got paper and a pen from the kitchen, and made notes. “Liz, wasn’t Laycee married? What about the husband?”

  “Forrest was home in Atlanta,” I said. “He thought Laycee was visiting me in L.A.”

  “What makes you think he stayed in Atlanta?” Dad said. “What if he followed her to L.A. and caught Laycee at Jarret’s house?”

  “How would Forrest know where to find them? Jarret and Laycee left a sports bar and went to the house. Yesterday morning, Forrest called me, looking for her. I’m sure he was in Atlanta. I saw the area code on my—damn.” I buried my face.

  “Exactly,” Dave said. “His cell number would register Georgia if he called you from the moon. Stalking his wife from Dodger Stadium to a bar to a tryst at her lover’s house is nothing to a jealous husband. I’ve seen worse. I’ll check the airlines. Dad, ask the hotel bartender if he saw the husband and when.”

  I gave Dad a quick description of Forrest.

  “I have a question,” Robin said, raising her hand. “What are we looking for?”

  Dave and I answered in unison, “Lies.”

  “Shouldn’t we be discussing the devil worship symbol?” Mom said. “Isn’t that the most logical clue?”

  “Carla doesn’t think so,” I said. “There were no signs of a break-in at the scene. She has a crazy theory that, in order to mislead the investigation, I used a symbol I learned from Nick.”

  Robin laughed. “Witchcraft? She sure didn’t do her homework on you.”

  “Or she did. I know more about voodoo and Santeria than I care to.” I turned to Nick and grinned. “No offense, darling.”