by Nero Blanc
“You just want to get me into bed,” Belle said with a small chuckle. For the first time since their conversation had begun, her tone was not only relaxed but relieved.
“Did I say that?” He glanced around the room as if looking for a nonexistent witness to support his claim. “I never said that.”
“It’s all in the translation.” She chortled again, then rose and began turning down the bed. “I miss home.”
“You miss Kit, that’s what you miss … and having to fight for space in your own bed. Thank goodness we only have one dog, that’s all I can say.”
“It’s her bed, too, Rosco, in case she hasn’t made that abundantly clear.”
Rosco smiled. “I imagine Kitty believes that she’s allowing us to sleep on her bed.” Then his smile turned serious. “It’s only a week, Belle. It’ll be over before you know it, so let’s try to make it fun.”
“I know.”
“And we’re in this together.”
“I know that, too.” Belle walked back toward him, but before she could put her arms around his neck, the phone rang. Rosco reflexively reached for the receiver.
“Polycrates,” he said as he looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was twenty past ten.
Two minutes ensued during which time Rosco remained mostly silent, mumbling “Uh-huh,” a few times while a male voice on the other end of the line did nearly all the talking. Belle, standing close, could hear the man’s staccato and persistent tone, but couldn’t make sense of the words.
As soon as Rosco hung up, she asked, “Who’s calling at this late hour?”
“Jillian Mawbry.”
“Who?”
“Debra Marcollo’s defense attorney. He’d like to have a word with me.”
CHAPTER 21
Rosco had never been a morning person, but 7:30 A.M. panned out to be the only time he had available for Jillian Mawbry. And since he was still rolling along on East Coast time, it wasn’t all that bad; the rest of the day would be spent with Sara on the Anatomy set. Because of the early hour, Mawbry’s offices in Westwood were not yet open, so they’d agreed to meet at his home on Paula Avenue, just over the Burbank line in Glendale. Rosco had little trouble locating the house. It was a nicely maintained three bedroom ranch-style home with a decent-size lawn, but the neighborhood was wedged between the meeting point of the number 5 Freeway and the 134. The noise from the cars, trucks, and Harley-Davidsons was close to deafening.
Rosco parked the Mustang behind a black-and-gold pickup truck and debated whether to raise the convertible’s top as he studied the less-than-quiescent scene. Two laborers spoke in Spanish while trimming the bushes in front of Mawbry’s house while another man stood on the property’s side walkway staring into a green box that Rosco guessed was a sprinkler control panel. All three looked like honest men, so Rosco opted to leave the top down. He stepped from the car, glanced at the words painted on the truck’s door, and smiled. MARQUIS DE SOD LANDSCAPING—LET ME WHIP YOUR LAWN INTO SHAPE!
Rosco walked up the brick path toward the front door but was stopped by the man near the sprinkler box.
“He’s out back. It’s easier to go around the side.”
“Thanks,” Rosco said, then added an affable: “You’re working early.”
“I take advantage of the mornings and evenings; when the sun’s hot and high, I take a siesta. It’s the only way to keep from frying your brains.”
Rosco nodded toward the pickup truck. “Great name … Are you the ‘Marquis’?”
He nodded. “What can I say, people notice it. A name like that … You’d be surprised how many people hire me just because they like the sound of it.” He extended his hand to Rosco. “I’m Max, Max Chugorro … You’re not a producer, are you?”
Rosco laughed. “No, ’fraid not. In fact, I don’t know the first thing about the movie business.” He glanced down at his trousers and shoes. “Do I look like a producer?”
“Come to think of it, no. You’re a little too rumpled … maybe a little too casual … I’d say you looked more like ‘talent’ than a ‘suit.’”
“‘A suit’?”
“A studio exec … That’s what I like call producers and business-types like that. A suit’s what distinguishes them from us working stiffs.”
“I see.”
“Actually, I do a little screenwriting on the side, so I try not to let any opportunity pass me by, just in case you were in on the production end. You guys from the East Coast have a different way of dressing.”
Rosco didn’t bother to ask how Max Chugorro had pegged him as an outsider; the flat “A” of a his Massachusetts accent was hard to mistake.
The landscaper/screenwriter cocked his thumb over his shoulder. “Mr. Mawbry’s in the back on the terrace … All that brickwork’s mine.” Max handed Rosco a business card. “Let me know if you need anything done. I’ve got dynamite references. If you’re not into home hardscaping or landscaping, pass the card along. In fact, if you don’t live here, pass it along to someone who does.”
“Will do.”
Rosco strolled down the walkway to the rear of the house. There was a substantial stretch of lawn out back as well, along with a ten-by-twenty-foot brick patio surrounded by a low wall covered with molded concrete planters. Jillian Mawbry sat in a metal chair in front of a matching table. A pot of hot coffee, two cups, and a plate of rolls and bagels were before him. He was speaking on a cordless telephone and waved for Rosco to join him and help himself to coffee.
The attorney was younger than Rosco had expected; possibly Belle’s age, which was thirty-one, but his reddish-brown hair had already begun to thin, and his skin was a greenish and unhealthy white. Although as tall as Rosco, his pale pink Ralph Lauren polo shirt hung slackly from his shoulders, and his arms had no more muscle definition than copper tubing. After a moment, Mawbry disconnected his call and offered Rosco a surprisingly flaccid and indifferent hand. For a moment, Rosco wondered whether the man was ailing.
“Sorry … My sister’s getting a divorce. Second one in as many years. I wish she’d have the good sense to find richer husbands if she’s going to dump them so quick.”
Rosco wasn’t sure if he should laugh, smile, or look sympathetic, so he remained poker-faced and said nothing.
“I appreciate you driving all the way over to the Valley. I would have come to Santa Monica, but I had ‘The Marquis’ scheduled to do some sprinkler work, and he needed to get into the house and my breaker box. And Max has not been an easy man to book lately. Ya gotta grab him when you can.”
“Not a problem,” Rosco said, raising his voice above the freeway din. “I’ve got a nice rental car. I like to drive, see new places.”
“I know, I know, the noise here is enough to make you crazy. I’m putting the house on the market in the spring. Moving to the other side of the hill. I was nuts to buy this place … Anyway, let’s get to it, shall we? What do you know about Debra Marcollo?”
Rosco shrugged. “Nothing really … She’s been arrested for murdering Chick Darlessen … And you’re her lawyer. That’s about it.”
“Let me step back a bit. Why do you think I’ve taken on this case? And it’s not for the bucks; Debra Marcollo doesn’t have a plugged nickel, so scratch any big fat fee.”
“I don’t suppose altruism would be the answer you’re looking for?” Rosco smiled for the first time. Mawbry didn’t, so Rosco pushed on. “It’s no different in New England … This case has notoriety. So my guess is you probably had to pull a few strings in order to be retained … The big guns with their mugs in the papers couldn’t have been far behind.”
Mawbry laughed. “Darlessen’s murder is small potatoes for heavy-duty trial lawyers, but you’re right on one count: I had to pull a few strings. A case like this could put me on the map. Right up there with your notorious ‘big guns.’”
“And you want me to do some investigative work.”
It was a statement, not a question, but Mawbry responded with a
surprisingly decisive, “Right.”
“I’m not licensed to work in California; I assume you’re aware of that? Why not get a local P.I.?”
Jillian Mawbry laughed, but the sound had a hollow ring as if the man were practicing human vocal responses. “A license doesn’t mean jack as far as I’m concerned. What’s a license signify? That you get to carry a gun, right? You won’t need a weapon, legal or not, to help me out … And, as far as a local investigator’s concerned? Forget it; you’re already here. You’re on the Anatomy set. You’re part of the furniture, for pete’s sake … Look. A new guy snooping around only puts people on edge. You? You’re a tourist. Your wife’s under contract for the show. You and the old lady are under contract, too, which makes you just another curious dude asking a few innocent questions.”
Rosco didn’t ask how Mawbry had learned about his or Belle’s or Sara’s studio contracts. L.A. was clearly a smaller and tighter-knit community than he’d originally believed. Instead, he poured himself a second cup of coffee. “What exactly are you looking for, Mr. Mawbry?”
“Jillian, please.”
“Jillian.”
“The answer to that question is anything. All I need is something that I can use to plant a strong reasonable doubt into the minds of a jury.”
“From what I’ve been hearing, it sounds like the cops have Debra Marcollo dead to rights … fingerprints on the gun and a confession to the lifeguard.”
“So, Polycrates, you do know quite a bit, after all.”
“The news was all over the radio on my way here.” Rosco took a sip of coffee and added. “I gather you feel Debra’s innocent?”
“Who cares? What’s that got to do with the price of eggs? The trick is to drag out the trial as long as possible … Work the press … Get my name out there. But if it makes you feel any better, yeah I think there is reasonable doubt, and I don’t intend to lose the case.”
“But she confessed …”
Jillian Mawbry opened a leather case that was sitting on the table. He removed a sheet of yellow legal paper. “Here’s exactly what she said when she ran into that off-duty lifeguard on the beach Sunday night. I’m quoting from the guard’s statement. ‘He’s dead, he’s dead. I don’t know how it happened. The gun … just went off. I don’t know. I don’t know why I did it.’ You can give those words any reading you want, Rosco, but unless, you were there, it’s impossible to determine intent because you didn’t hear Debra’s voice and tone. The only stickler is the sentence, ‘I don’t know why I did it.’, and she maintains she was referring to leaving the house. In other words, she’s claiming she didn’t know why she ran from the house.”
“And the fingerprints on the gun?”
“Darlessen had taken her out a few days earlier to give her a lesson in shooting. That’s why her prints are there.”
“And she has witnesses to that?”
“No.”
“You mean there was no one else present at the shooting range when she took her practice shots?”
“What shooting range? They fired the gun into the Pacific Ocean.”
Rosco raised his eyebrows. “And no neighbors came out when they heard the shots?”
“In Malibu? What are you, crazy? If they heard anything at all, they probably jumped under their beds and waited for the sun to come up. Look, Polycrates, everything the cops have is circumstantial, as far as I’m concerned. Their case can be picked apart, but I need some alternative scenarios. I need some other motives. Maybe even some other suspects. I have nothing against framing someone else if it means getting my girl off.”
Rosco drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, then said. “Like who? If Debra didn’t kill Chick, who did?”
Mawbry lifted his hands in the air and said facetiously, “I bet it was Max Chugorro, my landscape guy … Yeesh, how the hell do I know who killed the poor sap? That’s why I’m asking you to help me out here. The folks who knew Darlessen work on that Anatomy set. All I’m suggesting is that you nose around a little … undercover of course. I don’t have to tell you that. If anyone realizes you’re working for me, they’ll clam up pronto.”
Both men were silent for a minute, then Mawbry added, “Listen Rosco, I need your help here. I can’t get in to talk to those people. I never met Darlessen, but he was a screenwriter, and a successful one. There must have been plenty of people who wanted him dead. Maybe he stole the script from someone. Happens all the time out here.”
Again Rosco drummed his fingers. “I don’t know how it works in California, but in some states the Bar Association doesn’t look favorably on members who hire unlicensed P.I.s. It can become a real ethics issue, and bound to catch up to you later on.”
“Ethics?” Mawbry shrugged. “I’ll be putting you on as a consultant. You’ll be giving me advice, that’s all.” He smiled; this time there was nothing forced about the expression, although it remained curiously devoid of either warmth or levity. “There’s a way around everything.”
Rosco glanced at his watch, downed what was left of his coffee, and stood. “I’m going to have to think about your proposal, Mr. Mawbry.”
“What? Money? Is that it? I’ll be taking care of you personally. Don’t let Debra’s bank account frighten you off. What’s your quote? Because whatever you get in Massachusetts, I’ll double it. How’s that?” Mawbry pulled a checkbook from his leather case and scribbled a check for two thousand dollars quicker than most people can write their signature.
Rosco raised his hand. “Save it. I’ll let you know by tomorrow afternoon. And to be frank with you, Mr. Mawbry—”
“Jillian, please.”
“Jillian … I’m not about to dig up dirt to get a guilty person off the hook. That’s not how I work.”
“Well, why don’t we just say that Debra’s innocent until proven guilty. I think that’s how the law reads.”
“Right. It reads the same way in Massachusetts. I’ll give it some serious thought and get back to you tomorrow.”
“I’ve got time. Not too much, though.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
Rosco walked back down the side of the house toward his car. Max was still working on the sprinkler control box. He had five or six multicolored wires stripped at the ends and was alternately touching them to a “hot” terminal, then watching to see which sprinkler heads popped up and shot water across the front lawn. Rosco stopped and observed him working for a minute.
“It’s a microcosm,” Max said without turning to face his visitor, “and I play God. This lawn lives or dies depending on when, and how much, water I give it. If I do it right, it’ll live forever; but if I lose control, it’ll start dying off piece by piece. The situation’s all about control. If someone else mucks around with my box, things begin to die a slow death.” He looked at Rosco. “That’s a nice Mustang. What’d she set you back?”
“It’s a rental.”
“I thought so. So if you’re not a producer, what are you?”
Rosco thought for a second, then realized, What the heck, this is L.A., I can be anything I want to be. “I play second base for the Red Sox,” he said, then ambled over to the Mustang without waiting to see Max Chugorro’s reaction.
CHAPTER 22
Belle and Rosco didn’t have a single moment alone together throughout the remainder of the day. Immediately following his interview with Jillian Mawbry, Rosco had returned to Santa Monica, picked up Sara and Belle, and driven them to Culver City. The moment they arrived at the studio, the production crew swallowed them like barracudas after minnows. After wardrobe and makeup, a half dozen of Sara’s scenes were shot; episodes involving Shay, Quint, Carol, Dan, Ginger, and Andy Hofren. The work had necessitated so many takes, retakes, and set and costume changes that both morning and afternoon had been consumed without Rosco ever being able to fully explain to his wife what Mawbry had wanted. It wasn’t until the close of the shooting day, when Sara was being entertained at dinner by Dean Ivald, before husband and wi
fe found time to confer. They decided a little distance would be necessary to catch their breath and have a serious, uninterrupted conversation.
The beach in Malibu was the place they chose. A long stretch of sand and the steady thump of waves breaking on the shore had always featured in their weightier discussions; and although California wasn’t coastal Massachusetts, it would do in a pinch. Especially in the dark of early evening, when the lights spreading oceanside might be mistaken as emanating from weathered New England shingle cottages and not from modern hot tub-equipped decks.
“What do you say we swing by Darlessen’s house?” Rosco suggested as they made a left from the P.C.H. onto Malibu Cove.
“We won’t be able to go in, will we?” Belle asked. “What I mean is, Mawbry didn’t give you a heads-up on investigating the place, did he? Or keys?”
“I only told him I’d consider his request, Belle. Nothing more. Meaning: No keys. The police will have cordoned off the bungalow, but no one’s going to stop us from taking a stroll on the beach below it. And since this is L.A., maybe we’ll pick up some vibes.”
“Sounds good to me—I think,” Belle answered, then she released a small and rueful chuckle. “The scene of the crime. What a charming place for a date.”
“Lucky we’re already married.”
Belle chortled briefly again. “And that you’re such a romantic guy.”
“Dude.”
“What?”
“Dude. That’s what I am out here. From what I’ve been able to pick up from Jillian Mawbry and others, no male is simply a guy. He’s gotta be ‘big guy.’ Or he’s a dude, a hunk, a bod—”
“A bod? Dream on, honey lamb.”
“Thank you for your expression of support.”
“Don’t mention it. Don’t worry, if I had any problems with your bod, you would have heard about it a long time ago.”
This lighthearted moment ended abruptly as Chick Darlessen’s and Debra Marcollo’s home came into view. Yellow crime-scene tape festooned the cedar walls making the place look like a giant gift box wrapped in yard upon yard of a particularly garish ribbon. Rosco passed the house and parked farther along the sandy lane. Then he and Belle sat in silence before stepping onto the roadway.