by Robert Ellis
“Where is he?”
“He belongs to a club. He goes there before work. He won’t be back until late tonight.”
There was something odd going on. The way they were sitting, the timid, even forced sound of the man’s voice. And the woman was patting Tremell’s son like a robot, her lifeless eyes stuck on the floor just below the screen door.
“Who are you?” Lena asked.
The man shrugged. “Eve’s parents.”
“Then you’re Justin Tremell’s father-in-law?”
He seemed to need time to think it over.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
He didn’t answer the question. Lena felt certain that they were frightened and made the decision to enter. But before she got halfway into the room, she stopped and thought that she knew what the problem was.
She could hear it. The sound of the couple’s daughter from the master bedroom. The sound of an a.m. fuck session filtering down to the kitchen from the second floor. It wasn’t hot and heavy, but it was there.
Lena thought about the contractor she didn’t see outside and looked back at the couple. It wasn’t fear in their eyes. It wasn’t even pain. It looked more like sadness. The kind that keeps you up at night and eats away at your soul.
Lena drew a business card from her pocket and set it down on the table. “I’d like to speak with your daughter.”
The man’s eyes skimmed over the card, his head remaining still.
“I’ll be waiting outside,” Lena said.
She stepped onto the porch, thought about lighting a smoke but decided against it. She could see the roofers eyeing her from the lawn. She could see them trying to get a read on her. Trying to figure out whether or not she got it and knew what was really going on.
She turned away, walking to the end of the porch and over to the fence. As she gazed at the horses, she thought about the way the couple had been dressed. They didn’t come from money. And they had to live with whatever hell their daughter was putting them through. It didn’t look easy.
She turned and leaned against the fence, gazing back at the house. She was at the far end, well out of the roofer’s line of vision. And she could see Justin Tremell’s young wife checking her out from a window on the second floor, her fuck session with the help apparently over. She hadn’t covered up and was holding her breasts in her arms. But Lena was surprised by her face. She appeared melancholy, even wounded, not arrogant. When she stepped away from the glass, Lena thought about the hollow look in her eyes and wondered if she wasn’t calling out for help in some way.
It was an uncomfortable feeling, and Lena tried to shake it off. Glancing at the pickup beside her car, she continued walking around the circular drive toward the pond. But as her view cleared the corner, she noticed a limo parked in front of the house, recognized the driver, and suddenly knew exactly what was going on. Justin Tremell’s young wife wasn’t doing the roofing contractor. Someone else was doing her.
It took a moment to settle in, then another few seconds to play back what she had seen in the kitchen and through the window. The images were raw and dirty, and she couldn’t help feeling stunned. When they finally died off, she approached the car and gave the driver a long look.
“Waiting for someone?” she said.
He couldn’t look back at her and squirmed in his seat. “Yes, ma’am. I expect so.”
“The man who writes the checks?”
“That sounds about right,” he said.
“Dean Tremell?”
He tipped his cap, still unable to make eye contact. “That’s right. Mr. Dean will be along any time now.”
“What’s your name?”
“Louis.”
“How often do you come out here, Louis?”
“I just drive, ma’am. It’s what Louis does. He drives and he keeps his eyes on the road. At the end of the week, he collects a paycheck and goes home.”
“I get it, Louis. But how often do you come out here?”
Dean Tremell cleared his throat from behind her. “Whenever I tell him to.”
She turned and watched Tremell getting into his suit jacket as he approached. He was moving quickly, eating up ground in meaty chunks like a feisty bull. It seemed like whatever he’d done to his daughter-in-law had put him in a good mood. Oddly enough, there wasn’t even a hint of embarrassment. Just a slight grin stretching across his weatherbeaten face, an ironic grin laced with curiosity.
“What are you doing out here?” he said.
“Looking for your son. How ’bout you?”
He paused to think it over, running his fingers through his white mane. When he was ready, he met her eyes, cocked his head, and lowered his voice.
“I’ve always believed that a man doesn’t choose his needs. His needs choose him. That’s why I’ve made it a practice to never apologize for who I am. What you see is what you get. Life’s simpler that way, don’t you think?”
“How’s your son feel about that?”
“I’m sure that he’d be upset if he knew. Who wouldn’t?”
“What about his wife?”
Tremell didn’t answer the question, and Lena instinctively took a step back. She was thinking about Justin Tremell’s exploits and what she had read on the Internet last night. It seemed clear that the kid had been home schooled: Justin Tremell had learned everything from his father.
Tremell cleared his throat again. “I had a long talk with the district attorney Saturday night. We spoke after you left. He gave me every assurance that he would take care of this.”
“Maybe you didn’t give him enough money.”
Tremell laughed. “It’s not what you think, Detective.”
“It isn’t?”
“Not by a long shot.”
Lena glanced at the house, then turned back and decided to take a chance.
“I know about the abortion,” she said.
“What abortion is that?”
“Jennifer McBride got pregnant.”
“The dead whore?”
A moment passed. Dark and sick and beyond the pale.
“Yeah,” Lena said. “The dead whore.”
Tremell leaned against the car. Who he was didn’t match what she saw in his eyes, and it bothered her.
“I’m sorry, Detective. I should’ve had more respect. It sounds like she lived a dangerous life on all counts. It’s always hard to watch when life bites back. Let me make it up to you.”
“How would you do that?”
“I know a place downtown. Actually, I own it. Let me buy you an early lunch.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Tremell grinned. “Come on, Detective. Meet an old man halfway. You’ve got your point of view, and I’ve got mine. They may not be as different as you think. Isn’t it worth talking about? Let’s have lunch. The chef’s the best in L.A.”
Lena looked back at him, offering a tentative nod. Then Tremell smiled and gave her the name of the restaurant. Although it didn’t ring a bell, she knew the street and block number, and agreed to meet him there in an hour. When he climbed into the limo and reached for his cell, she walked around the drive to her car. The roofers were back at work on top of the house. None of them were laughing anymore.
29
I hope you like squab,” Tremell said.
“I can’t say that I’ve ever had it before.”
Lena watched the sous-chef set down their plates. The roasted pigeons were served whole and appeared undercooked. Tremell thanked the man and watched him return to the kitchen as he sipped ice water from a crystal glass.
They were sitting at a table by the fireplace. And they were alone. The restaurant didn’t open for lunch. Lena counted only twenty tables when she first arrived, with two private rooms. The bar was small but elegant and carved out of solid walnut—an antique that had been meticulously restored and probably imported from the East Coast. The art on the walls was magnificent.
“It’s potluck around
here,” Tremell said. “There aren’t any menus, and if we were here for dinner and drinking, the wines would be preselected. Gérard makes one twelve-course meal for each seat in the house. You pay for your place, not the food. You pay for the privilege. The waiting list is six months long.”
Lena was listening, but considered herself immune. She had agreed to come for no other reason than the fact that Tremell had made the offer. It seemed clear that he made it for a reason. She thought that she knew what it was, but needed to be sure. Until then, she felt certain that she could take anything he tried to do to throw off her balance. This included the pigeon that she was about to eat.
She picked up the knife and made her first cut. The meat looked raw.
“It’s not chicken,” Tremell said. “It’s supposed to be served like that. If they were roasted any longer, the meat would taste like liver.”
She took a bite and had to admit that it tasted good. Maybe even better than that. And she could tell that Tremell enjoyed watching her. He seemed amused, even confident, that he was pulling off whatever he had caged up in his demented mind.
He started eating, attacking the small bird on his plate like a man with a big appetite.
“Now that we’re here,” he said, “why don’t you start by telling me exactly what you think my son did?”
“What would be the point when the DA has probably told you everything already.”
“As a matter of fact he has. But let’s face it, nothing Jimmy J. Higgins ever does will make the world a better place than it was before he got here. He’s a lawyer and a politician. That’s a pretty bad combination if what you want in life really needs to get done. You’re in charge, aren’t you? It’s your case, right?”
“The last time I checked.”
“Well I’d like to hear your version of the story. From the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”
Lena watched him take another swig of water. She wasn’t surprised that Higgins had talked to Tremell. She assumed as much from the things Chief Logan had said. Still, hearing Tremell talk about it so openly felt something like being part of the actual crime. Her revulsion was a reflexive move, an act of self-defense against a district attorney who had crossed the line tens times over and may have given their case away to the father of a suspect. It was more than dishonest. It was reckless.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Lena said. “Let’s start with the baby I saw in the kitchen. Why don’t you tell me who the real mother is?”
He lowered his fork and gave her a long look. She didn’t detect a change of mood—didn’t see any sign of anger on his face—and this surprised her, too.
Tremell reached for his napkin. “I thought you said the girl had an abortion.”
“I did. But things are still fluid and that’s not the question right now.”
“We’re talking about my grandson.”
“That’s right. Who’s the mother?”
“My son’s wife, of course. Eve.”
“Can you prove it?”
He picked up his fork and started eating again, his wheels still turning. “You’re a suspicious woman, aren’t you?”
Lena met his eyes but didn’t respond, waiting for his answer.
“I’ll save you some time,” he said. “But only because I don’t want to hear that you’ve been poking around. And I don’t want to see this turn into something it isn’t on television. You don’t either unless you want to meet my attorneys.”
“Save me some time.”
“Eve gave birth to Dean Jr. at UCLA Medical Center. It was an extended stay that cost a fortune. I’ll call my assistant. You’ll have copies of everything faxed to your office within the hour. Good enough?”
“Good enough.”
“Now tell me what you think my son did.”
Lena didn’t need to think it over. “He strayed and picked the wrong woman.”
“And you’re guessing that he knocked her up.”
“Maybe. But it wouldn’t really matter who the father was, would it. It’s the threat that counts. She knew who he was and what he was worth.”
Tremell understood and nodded as he sliced the meat away from the bird’s rib cage. “She would have known that he was trying to avoid the rag sheets. That his life had changed and he couldn’t afford to let the story get out. Higgins told me that you found fifty thousand in her bank account. You’re guessing that it wasn’t good enough. That she wanted more.”
Lena wasn’t about to follow the DA’s lead and talk about details. At the same time, what Tremell just said was obvious enough that it deserved an answer.
“Probably a lot more,” she said. “Enough that you might notice.”
“So, my son decides that the only way to get rid of his problem is to get rid of his problem.”
Lena didn’t respond and didn’t need to. Tremell was putting it together himself.
“Justin lures her out to that whorehouse,” he said. “The Cock-a-doodle what?”
“The Cock-a-doodle-do.”
“He lures her out to that place with the promise of another payday. Someone he knows or hired is waiting in the parking lot. Justin waits inside. She walks out. And the man hiding behind her car takes care of the details. Is that pretty much it?”
“There may or may not be other ways of looking at it,” she said. “But yes, I’d say that’s pretty much it.”
The sous-chef walked out to check on them. After eyeing their plates, he glanced at Tremell and disappeared into the bar. A few minutes later, he returned and set a glass down on the table. She watched Tremell reach for the drink and take a short first sip.
“Bourbon,” he said. “Would you like one?”
Lena shook her head. “No thanks.”
The sous-chef walked off and they were alone again.
“Do you hate rich people, Detective?”
“Not at all. Why?”
“But you hate the pharmaceutical companies,” he said. “I could tell on Saturday. You hate being bombarded by all those TV ads. You think that they’re stupid, maybe even dangerous because they encourage self-diagnosis. You hate all the talk about money, stock options and year-end bonuses that add up to hundreds of millions of dollars. I’ve been around long enough to know the rap. Fifty percent of the population makes less than thirty-five thousand dollars a year. Twelve million kids in the United States aren’t just hungry, they’re starving to death. Executive compensation isn’t related to performance. Companies stumble, lay off everybody, and then renege on billions of dollars in pension obligations. It takes one and a quarter years for the average salaried employee to earn what most CEOs make in a single day. You hate me because of what I stand for. And that’s the reason, isn’t it? That’s the real reason why you’re going after my son. You want to take the one thing away from me that I can’t buy. The one thing in my whole life that I truly love.”
Tremell’s voice trailed off. He pushed his plate away and took a longer pull on that glass of bourbon. Lena was glad that she had come. Glad that she understood what was motivating him—the reason he wanted to talk. Tremell was frightened that he might lose his only son. Talking to the district attorney wasn’t good enough because he couldn’t count on the man. Tremell would make his pitch to everyone involved. He would do whatever he could. Whatever it took.
“I don’t hate anyone, Mr. Tremell.”
“You’re a beautiful woman, you know that. And you look good in this room. You look good in black.”
A moment passed, the two of them staring at each other.
“No one’s going after your son,” she said finally. “A young woman was murdered. Like any other investigation, we’re following the evidence.”
“But I don’t want Justin to pay the price for who I am or who you might think I am. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“How much are you worth?”
“Eighteen billion, but the stock’s down. On a good day, twenty-three.”
A beat went by. The kind that follows
the word billion.
“Then why are you fucking his wife?” she said.
“I thought we already went through that.”
“You’ve got more money than a hundred people could spend in ten lifetimes. You could have half the women in Los Angeles on any terms you want no matter what their age. Why are you doing it?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“How complicated could it be? You said you love him. Why do you need to beat him? That’s what it’s really about, isn’t it? How hard is it to stay away from your son’s wife?”
“The situation isn’t what you think it is. And it would take too much time to explain. All you need to know is that my wife’s gone and my son is all I have left. That’s why I don’t want to see the progress he’s made over the past few years destroyed by accusations or innuendo. By the word of someone working at a whorehouse who thinks she saw this or that but really isn’t sure who she saw or even what day it was.”
Lena looked at her plate, then back at Tremell. “Have you been out there? Have you been talking to the girl?”
Tremell shook his head. “No. But in the grand scheme of things, how reliable is an eyewitness compared to circumstantial evidence? If you had to go to court, Detective, which would you rather build your case on?”
“The evidence.”
“Why?”
She gave him a look before answering. She could see the intelligence in his gray eyes and sensed that he was leading the conversation in the exact direction he wanted it to go.
“Because eyewitnesses make mistakes,” she said. “What they saw or thought they saw needs to be corroborated. In this case we’ve done that. Four people saw your son with Jennifer McBride on Wednesday night.”
“According to Higgins eight other employees say they didn’t see him at all. That leaves two busboys and another waitress, all with criminal records. The only real witness you’ve got is the part-time hooker, Natalie Wells.”
“Higgins ran background checks and gave you the information.”
He nodded and took another sip of his drink. “I don’t believe that my son was there. I don’t believe that he knew her. And even if he did, I don’t believe that he’d do the things you think he did. He’d have no reason to. You were right about the money I have. The well’s too deep to ever run dry. But the same thing goes for Justin because he’s my flesh and blood. He wouldn’t throw his life away—he wouldn’t take the risk—for something he could buy his way out of by writing a check. It wouldn’t have mattered how much Jennifer McBride wanted. He could have afforded any price and never looked back. Do you understand where I’m going?”