“Thanks. And, Tom, someone’s coming here to meet me. Her name is Olivia Wayne and she’s—”
“I know who she is.” His warm smile vanished. “I’ll send her in.”
After eleven o’clock at night the detectives’ squad room was nearly deserted. A boyish man in his early thirties, unshaven, wearing a sleeveless sweatshirt and a shoulder holster, sat typing at a computer in a far corner of the room. He didn’t look up when I came in.
A man and a woman at facing desks against the wall and nearest the table with the coffeemaker on it had their heads bent over stacks of file folders. The man appeared to be in his sixties, and looked vaguely familiar. Then I realized I’d met him five years ago, when Mack and I gave a Christmas party at our house for his detective colleagues. He shot me a quizzical look, gave a quick nod of recognition, and went back to concentrating on the files. I’d never seen the woman before. She seemed young enough to be his daughter, but judging from the holstered weapon hanging over the dark jacket on the back of her chair she must be his partner. She gave me a brief glance, didn’t seem to find anything about me of interest, and returned to reading a file. I had the thought that when I was a bride, most of the police officers and detectives I met were older than I. Now half of them looked too young to carry a badge.
The pair of desks against the wall on the opposite side of the room had been John and Mack’s. John still sat there because I could see the framed photo of his wife, Shannon, and their daughter, Eileen. I supposed that Hugh Weaver had the facing desk, but there were no pictures on it. I’d heard Weaver had been married and divorced more than once, but I knew him to be essentially a loner. John was probably his closest friend. Maybe his only one. In spite of Weaver’s dyspeptic personality and his former habit of grinding out his cigarette butts in the grass on my front lawn, I’d become fond of him. No one would ever describe Weaver as charming, but in his work he was smart and, whatever his personal feelings about a suspect, he could be fair.
I chose an empty desk in the center of the room, and settled in the chair that faced the entrance.
It didn’t take long to write my statement because I kept it strictly to the immediate facts: I’d arrived at Redding’s door at approximately nine twenty PM, found it open, went inside, and discovered Redding lying facedown on the floor of his photographic studio with blood on the back of his head and an overturned stool nearby with what looked like bloodstains on its edge. Nicholas D’Martino had arrived shortly before I did. Nicholas checked for a pulse to be sure that Alec Redding was dead, but neither of us touched anything else in the room and backed out of it immediately. I added that we were about to dial nine-one-one when we heard a patrol car’s siren. Officers Downey and Willis arrived. We gave them our names and contact information and told them how we happened to discover the body.
The statement was true, as far as it went.
The only possible wobbler was my saying Nicholas had arrived “shortly” before me. Had he got there one minute earlier? Or ten? Or . . . ? To myself, I had to admit that I didn’t know. But however much longer he was there in the house, I refused to believe he had killed Redding. I wished I’d thought to feel the hood of his car when I arrived. If it had still been warm . . . But I’d been in too much of a hurry to think to do that.
I’d just finished reading the statement over, dating it, and signing my name at the bottom of the page, when I heard footsteps and looked up to see Olivia Wayne coming into the squad room. A head-turning blonde with long legs, she may have been good-looking enough to be on the cover of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, but she radiated an attitude so intimidating that I would have bet muggers crossed the street to avoid her. Nicholas had referred to her once as “Xena, the warrior princess.” Except that she didn’t have dark hair, didn’t wear leather and metal, and didn’t brandish a sword, I thought it was a pretty accurate comparison.
Olivia closed the distance between us in a few strides, pulled a chair from the nearest empty desk, and sat down close to me.
Indicating the sheet of paper in my hand, she said, “Your statement?”
“Yes.”
Olivia took it, read it, folded it into quarters, and slipped the page into her handbag.
“No statement until I hear everything. Start with how well you and Nick knew Alec Redding, and why you went to his house tonight.”
I glanced about and saw that the unshaven young man at the computer was still typing, but the man and woman were watching us.
“Forget them,” Olivia said. “Give me the story, but keep your voice down.”
I started by telling her that Nicholas had an eighteen-year-old daughter.
Her eyebrows rose and a slight smile flickered at the corner of her lips. “That studly Sicilian is full of surprises.”
I repeated what Nicholas had told me about his divorce, and told her about my meeting Celeste, Celeste’s later meeting Alec Redding, his offering to shoot photos of her for her acting portfolio, and the resulting seminude shot with the pie that had enraged her mother and Nicholas.
“How do you know the mother?”
“She came to my house and accused me of being responsible for Celeste meeting Redding, when actually Celeste and I met Redding at the same time—at the Film Society luncheon.”
“Was she mad enough to commit murder?”
“I can’t give you an opinion on that because I’ve only met her once. She was upset because she thinks that picture of Celeste, if it gets into print or on the Internet, will harm her plan to marry a man with a title and a conservative family.”
“What kind of title? CEO or Duke of Windsor?”
“Prince. According to Celeste, he’s descended from a princess of Bavaria.”
Olivia shrugged dismissively. “Sounds like Eurotrash. So, O’Hara thinks Nick killed Redding to get the picture of his daughter?”
I shook my head. “John doesn’t know about the photo. I didn’t tell him, and Nicholas certainly won’t. If John has interviewed the wife—Roxanne Redding—she might have told him about it, but she was so upset, or seemed to be, that John wasn’t sure he’d be able to talk to her tonight.”
“Do you think Nick is acting like he is, deliberately throwing suspicion on himself, in order to protect his ex?”
“No, I think it’s to protect Celeste. He might be afraid that Celeste killed Redding.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. From the expression on her face in that picture she certainly wasn’t posing for it reluctantly. And, I think the way she posed, with a chef’s apron barely covering her, and holding a pie—of all things—that she was mocking me.”
“Because you’re Daddy’s main squeeze?”
“I sure I’m his only squeeze,” I said.
“Don’t get prickly, Della. Since he’s been with you, he seems to have lost his playboy ways. The first time I met you, I saw something nice in his eyes I’d never seen before, so whatever you’re doing, you’re doing it best.”
At that moment, a man appeared at the entrance to the squad room and came toward us. He was alone.
I whispered, “That’s John O’Hara.” I felt my stomach muscles clench with apprehension. Where’s Nicholas?
Olivia and I stood up to face John. She handed him her card. “I’m Olivia Wayne, representing Nicholas D’Martino. Where is my client?”
14
“How did you get here so fast?” John asked.
“On the wings of justice,” Olivia Wayne said.
John ignored that and focused on me. “Did you finish your statement?”
Olivia said, “Della’s my client, too. No statements until I’ve been allowed to confer with both of my clients.”
“Look, Ms. Wayne. I’m investigating a murder—”
“And I’m sure you’re doing it brilliantly,” she said. “Have you booked D’Martino?”
“Not yet. Depending on the case we put together, it’s possible he could soon be charged with murder, but right now he’s
been brought in for questioning. Unless he starts cooperating, we’ll put him under arrest for obstruction of justice. At the moment he’s even refusing to confirm his name and tell us his address.”
“And you couldn’t beat it out of him? A great big, strong man like you?”
“Cut the crap! We don’t do that.” I saw the effort John was making to control his temper.
“Of course you don’t.” She softened her tone. “Look, Detective O’Hara, it’s late and I interrupted a very pleasant evening to come rushing down here. When I’ve had the opportunity to speak to my clients, I’m sure we can find a way to protect their rights and also be helpful to your investigation. So, let’s play nice, shall we? Let me talk to D’Martino alone first, and then we’ll have a conference. Deal?”
At ten minutes to midnight, the detective partners had reduced the pile of files they were going over by two-thirds, and the young man who had been typing at the computer had finished whatever he was doing and departed.
While I was alert for John and Olivia to come through the door, I’d read every one of the “Wanted” circulars tacked up on the big cork Announcements Board between the front windows, had gone through a two-page recruiting flyer, and was now trying to concentrate on a slickly printed brochure about joint community and police department activities and opportunities for volunteerism.
Just as I was on the last page, reading the name of the printing company that had produced the pamphlet, John came to the entrance to the squad room and gestured for me to follow him.
Escorting me down a hallway, John said, “Liddy called you.”
“Here?”
“On your cell. I answered. She’d heard about Redding on the eleven o’clock news. I asked her why she was calling you about it. She told me she took you and D’Martino’s daughter to a Hollywood luncheon where you two met Redding. Apparently she doesn’t know anything else.”
“Didn’t she ask why you were answering my phone?”
“That was the first thing out of her mouth when she heard my voice. She wanted to know if you were all right. I told her you were, that you were giving me some background information. I said you’d call her tomorrow.”
“Did your tech person look through my phone log?”
“I did. I saw your calls to D’Martino. And you got a call from his cell at seven forty-one tonight. No message.”
“I was on the air.”
“Yesterday afternoon you dialed Alec Redding’s number. The duration was too short for you to have talked to him, or left a message. Why did you call him?”
I felt my cheeks grow hot and hoped that John couldn’t see that in the ugly fluorescent lighting in the hallway. “I was thinking about having some professional pictures taken,” I said. “Now, may I have my phone back?”
He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. I was sure he knew I wasn’t telling the truth. He didn’t say anything, but until the murder of Alec Redding was solved, my fib was going to lie between us like an unexploded bomb.
John fished my cell phone out of his jacket pocket and handed it to me.
Hoping to distract him by going on the offensive, I said, “You could have asked me for it, instead of demanding I turn it over.”
“Would you have given it to me?” he asked.
“Certainly.”
“Would D’Martino have?”
I couldn’t answer that. And I didn’t have to because we’d reached the first of the interrogation rooms. He opened the door and ushered me inside.
Nicholas was sitting at a rectangular wooden table that would have been no thing of beauty when it was new several decades ago, and had since aged badly.
Olivia and Nicholas sat together on one long side, with Hugh Weaver at the far end, next to Nicholas. I was relieved to see that Nicholas wasn’t handcuffed.
John indicated that I sit opposite Weaver, and near Olivia. He placed himself across from Nicholas and Olivia.
My chair was hard and uncomfortable, and I felt a sharp splinter stabbing the back of my right knee. I reached down, broke it off, and placed it on the tabletop.
Indicating the splinter, I said, “I’m going to report this seating to Amnesty International.”
Silence greeted my attempt at humor.
I smiled at Nicholas, who nodded in response. He looked tired.
In front of Olivia was a sheet of paper with handwriting on it. Next to that sheet was the page she had taken from me. I recognized it immediately because of the creases where she had folded it into quarters.
“Your two statements match,” Olivia said. “At least from the time you discovered Redding’s body.”
Weaver said, “D’Martino says he got to the vic’s house two minutes before you came in. Prior to that, he claims he was at home with his daughter. We haven’t been able to reach the daughter for confirmation.” Weaver’s tone dripped with sarcasm.
“She’s eighteen, probably out with her friends,” Olivia said lightly. “You can ask her tomorrow, in my presence.”
“Eighteen’s old enough she doesn’t need a babysitter to talk to us,” Weaver said.
“She will be discussing my client. You interview her with me, or we’ll let a judge decide, and that will likely delay your interview by several days. That’s my offer.”
Scowling, John said, “I want her here at nine AM.”
“You’re not going to question her here at all,” Olivia said. “I’m not going to subject an innocent young girl to the intimidation of being questioned in a police station. You can talk to her tomorrow, in my office. Noon. The address is on the card I gave you, Detective O’Hara.”
“To make sure he doesn’t coach the girl, D’Martino can stay here tonight, as the guest of the city of Los Angeles,” John said.
“No way, Jose. My client is not under arrest.”
“That can change,” Weaver said.
I felt like a spectator at a tennis match, my attention swinging from one speaker to the other. But I kept silent in order to remain in the room.
Olivia ignored Weaver’s implied threat and spoke directly to John. “I have another arrangement in mind. My client can stay in my guest room tonight. I will guarantee that he has no contact with his daughter, or with anyone except myself, before you talk to the girl tomorrow.”
Nicholas sat up straight, his face animated for the first time since I’d come into the room. “No,” he said. “If I don’t come home Celeste will wonder about what’s happened to me. And I don’t want her staying in the apartment alone.”
“She can stay with me,” I said.
“No!” John and Weaver barked at me simultaneously.
“Come on, fellas,” Olivia said. “She’s old enough to vote, join the army, get married without parental consent, so she’s old enough to stay by herself tonight. I will phone her later, introduce myself, and make arrangements to pick her up tomorrow. You have my guarantee as an officer of the court that I won’t tell her what D’Martino said, and father and daughter will not have a private conversation before you interview her. Good enough?”
In the end, they agreed that it had to be good enough. John didn’t look happy about it, and I saw Weaver patting his jacket pockets for the cigarettes he no longer carried.
A few minutes later I climbed into my Jeep and fired up the motor. With Eileen looking after Tuffy and Emma, I knew I didn’t have to go home immediately.
I drove to the next block and then worked my way north to Wilshire Boulevard. At Wilshire, I turned east, toward the Olympia Grand Hotel.
Where Nicholas’s ex-wife and her hemophiliac prince were staying.
And where, I suspected, I would find Celeste.
15
Guessing that she probably called herself by her maiden name, Tanis Fontaine, I gave the clerk at the reception desk my name and asked him to connect me to her suite. At first, he balked, citing the late hour. I assured him it was important. He looked doubtful, but phoned upstairs, apologized, and recited what I had told him. Presu
mably he was granted permission because I was put through.
The voice that answered on the first ring was male.
“And vat does your call at this hour concern?”
His voice was light—pale, if I were to assign a shade to it—and with a slight German accent.
Aware that the reception clerk was trying to listen, I moved as far away as the telephone cord would allow, turned my back on him, and kept my voice low.
“I am sorry to have disturbed you tonight—”
“To be precise, it is now morning.”
I visualized a man in a gray military uniform asking for my “papers,” but pushed the image aside. “Last night now, a photographer named Alec Redding was killed.”
“Ah.” Then silence.
“I believe it would be helpful to Ms. Fontaine, her daughter, and perhaps yourself if I could speak to you before you’re questioned by the police.”
Another silence, but a brief one.
“Come up. The Presidential Suite. Take the private elevator.”
“Yes, I will.”
I remembered where the private elevator was: on the far side of the public elevators, separated from them by a potted tree. When the hotel’s previous owner lived here, it was the way up to his apartment. I guessed that the space had been renamed “The Presidential Suite.”
The inside of the elevator was as I remembered it: polished brass, a mirrored back wall, and a bench padded in dark red velvet for anyone who needed to sit down during the fifteen-floor ride.
When the elevator stopped, it opened onto a corridor painted in a shade I would call Pippin apple green and lighted with a succession of small brass and crystal chandeliers. Across the hallway, directly facing the elevator, were a pair of polished oak double doors with “Presidential Suite” in brass letters affixed to them. To my left, perhaps fifty feet down the corridor, I saw another pair of double doors. Probably another suite, but before I had time to speculate further, a door to the Presidential Suite opened.
I was greeted by a man in his sixties, with close-cropped silver hair, gray eyebrows over dark eyes, and a soft pink complexion. He was incongruously—for the late hour—dressed in a black frock coat and gray trousers. The prince was considerably older than I had imagined.
Pie A La Murder Page 9