“Bellows can stick it up his ass. Nobody tells me who I can talk to. Look, Ace, you have twenty minutes to pull yourself together because I’m coming over and we’re going for a ride.”
39
Approximately thirty minutes after Davie ended the call with Bear, she watched from her front window as her father’s black Chevy Silverado pickup pulled up to Alex Camden’s security gate. She locked the door to the guesthouse and walked down the driveway to meet him.
Bear wouldn’t tell her where they were going, but in case the destination required professional attire she had put on one of her black polyester pantsuits. She punched a security code on the keypad and the gates parted. Bear nudged open the pickup’s passenger door and she climbed inside.
“You going to tell me where we’re headed?”
“I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
Bear maneuvered the serpentine streets of Bel Air until he reached Santa Monica Boulevard and then headed east. As soon as he turned into Century City she knew their destination and she wasn’t happy about it.
“Please tell me you’re not taking me to see Robbie.”
“Your brother’s a lawyer.”
“He’s an entertainment attorney. What are you thinking? He can sell my story to Disney?”
“I’m thinking he can give you free legal advice, which you need right now.”
“I don’t need advice from him, and I don’t appreciate you putting me in this situation.”
“Look, Ace, if you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for me. Okay?”
As soon as Bear pulled into a parking slot, Davie got out of the truck and slammed the door. She headed for the nearest escalator, skipping two risers at a time to get to the top. She had just reached street level when Bear caught up with her. He was out of breath.
“Look, I know you’re pissed, so I’m going to let you get it out of your system before we get to Robbie’s.”
She wanted to lash out at Bear, to tell him she understood her situation and didn’t need him to explain the trouble she was in, but she knew he was just trying to help.
Davie hadn’t seen her brother since her grandfather’s funeral a year ago. She had never been to his office but she knew the firm was located in one of the Century Plaza Towers, which were patterned after the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York. After 9/11, she’d heard that security at the L.A. Towers had been ratcheted up. Davie never associated those buildings with the New York counterparts. To her, the only twin towers in L.A. were the Twin Towers Correctional Facility.
Darkness had descended and the air had turned from crisp to cold as the Alaskan front continued to hold the city hostage. As Davie approached the south tower, she felt a strong wind funneling through the space between the triangular-shaped buildings. She remembered studying the Venturi Effect in a college physics class. As she recalled, it was something about how the velocity of fluid or air increases when it passes through a constricted area. She buttoned her jacket to keep the cold at bay. As she did, her hand brushed against her waist, a reminder that she was no longer authorized to carry a badge or a gun.
Once in the building, she and Bear had to clear two checkpoints before they were allowed into the elevator. They exited on the fifteenth floor and made their way to a set of double doors with brass letters that read Golden & Associates, LLC. Davie stepped inside a foyer with décor that was sleek and modern. The minimalist leather couches looked expensive but uncomfortable. Covering one wall was a large abstract painting that looked like Superman in a blender.
The receptionist was a woman in her twenties with opaque black hair accented with a shock of white on one side. She wore a black and white yin yang patterned dress that made her a ringer for Cruella de Vil from 101 Dalmatians.
The receptionist’s nostrils flared disapproval as she eyed Bear’s faded jeans and worn leather jacket. Davie figured a woman who looked like a cartoon character had no right to judge.
“We’re here to see Robert Cross,” Bear said.
Davie noticed her father’s jaw muscles twitch as he said the name, a reminder that Robbie had sided with his mother in the divorce and now used his stepfather’s name. That move had devastated Bear, especially since Cross was the man who had destroyed his marriage.
The receptionist made a call and a few minutes later, Robbie sauntered into the area sporting a photo-op smile. Her brother hadn’t inherited the recessive red hair gene as she had. His hair was a thick and glossy toasted brown with subtle blond highlights that could only have been achieved by a salon colorist.
Robbie was a flawless freak of nature who had decided early in life that good looks meant nothing more was required of him, so nothing was offered. Their mother’s fawning had turned him into a narcissist who considered himself gifted even though Davie attributed much of his success to connections and dumb luck.
Robbie gave Bear a convivial slap on the back. “Welcome to my world.” Then he moved toward Davie, arms outstretched, aiming to hug her. She stepped back, avoiding contact.
He smiled, amused by her snub. “I’ve booked the conference room so we’ll have some privacy.”
“I guess they haven’t given you an office yet,” she said.
Robbie winked. “I’m on a waiting list.”
Slim, immaculately dressed in a designer suit and a Maui tan, Robbie looked ready for a power lunch or, as it turned out, a lowbrow meeting with his estranged sister. He gestured for them to follow him down a long hallway.
Davie guessed that “privacy” was his attempt at humor, because when they reached the conference room she saw that it was enclosed on all sides by floor-to-ceiling glass. Inside were leather chairs and a polished wood table. Davie figured the furniture cost more than the sum of all her possessions.
“Can I get you something to drink? Cappuccino? Perrier?”
Davie declined but Bear paused to think it over. “You got Diet Coke?”
Robbie flashed another high-beam smile. “It’s the house specialty.”
“No ice,” Bear added.
Her brother picked up the phone and placed the order. Then he gestured for them to sit. Davie sank onto a leather chair, facing a spectacular evening view of West Los Angeles. Bear sat beside her. Robbie took up the other side of the table, facing the hallway.
“So, what’s up?” Robbie said. “Dad said you were in some kind of trouble.”
Robbie’s tone was casual. Davie felt a slow burn on her cheeks, angry at Bear for bringing her here. The last thing she wanted to do was share her humiliation with her brother. It was bad enough that her fellow detectives knew. Telling Robbie the gory details about being relieved of duty was something she couldn’t do, even in exchange for free legal advice. She didn’t trust him. Maybe Bear had forgiven his betrayal, but her pardon had yet to be earned.
“No trouble that I can’t handle on my own.”
Bear shot her the stink eye.
There was a tap on wood and the door opened. It was Ms. de Vil, bearing a tray with a can of Diet Coke and a crystal glass.
Robbie gestured toward Bear. The woman teetered forward on five-inch platform shoes. She placed two napkins on the glossy wood table in front of Bear, one for the glass and one for the can. After fulfilling her waitress duties, Ms. de Vil stood near the exit, waiting for further instructions.
“Thanks.” Robbie lowered his eyelids, giving everybody a clear view of his long lashes. It was a gesture that had sent several women in search of wedding planners. Robbie looked up and smiled. “Please close the door on your way out.”
Davie felt a draft from the hallway as the door opened. When Ms. de Vil left the room, the door closed with a quiet click.
She rose from her chair. “Sounds like good advice. Maybe I’ll take it.”
Bear’s fists clenched. “Knock it off, Ace. You’re acting like a two-year-old on a ca
r trip. Robbie, we need your legal opinion. Davie is being railroaded over some trumped-up charge that she falsified a police report. That’s crap. If her name was anything other than Richards, the Police Commission would have signed off on her OIS case and moved on to something important.”
“Aren’t these issues usually handled within the department? I’m sure your Board of Rights rep can give you advice.”
“She can’t trust the department. If I know Harrington, he’ll try to get the DA’s office to file a case in criminal court and the command staff won’t do shit to stop him.”
“File? On what grounds?”
Bear caught the tab on the Coke can with his fingernail and flipped it back. “Who knows? Maybe murder charges. I wouldn’t put it past him. The victim’s wife has probably already filed a civil suit against the city. She’ll say Davie killed her husband for no reason at all.”
Bear and her brother had turned her into a spectator at a tennis match, watching them lobbing comments back and forth across the table. She crossed her hands in a T, like a basketball coach signaling for a timeout.
“Excuse me,” she said. Both of them ignored her.
“Sounds like the widow is hoping for a big payday,” Robbie said.
Bear poured the Coke into the glass. “Of course she is. That doesn’t mean she won’t be rewarded for her efforts. Meanwhile, Davie’s career goes down the toilet.”
“If that’s the case,” Davie said, “I need a criminal defense attorney, not somebody who negotiates the catering contract for Die Hard 23.”
After a moment of silence, Robbie said, “I’m not sure if you remember, Davie, but in law school I interned at the DA’s office. I still have friends there.”
“I didn’t see much of you back then. Your choice, not mine.”
“That’s ancient history.”
“Yeah, like your job at the DA’s office.”
He shrugged off her comment and continued his pitch. “Back then, I became friends with one of the filing deputies. She and I stayed in touch over the years. Her son just graduated from film school at USC. I got him a job at Sony. A few months back, she was elected L.A. County District Attorney. I donated to her campaign. If you’d like, I can call her, see if Harrington has played his hand. I know she’ll take my call.”
Bear’s smile said, See? I knew Robbie would come through for you.
“That’s great,” Bear said. “When can you call?”
“As soon as Davie gives the okay. What do you say, Sis?”
She felt the skin on the back of her neck bristle as she heard the hissing of that S sound, like a snake preparing to strike. On the surface, his question seemed to be a polite request for permission, but she knew her brother. He had felt the power shift and was taking full advantage. What he really wanted was for her to beg.
Behind her, she heard men’s voices in conversation as they walked past the conference room. Once they were gone, the room was dead silent. She glanced at Bear. His head was bent over. He seemed to be watching the bubbles in his glass. Davie studied her brother. They were different in every way. While she had inherited the square jaw and high forehead of her father, Robbie favored their mother. His aquiline nose and full lips made him look like a Greek god. Those genes also blunted many of life’s disappointments.
Her gaze glided past her brother toward the window. In the distance she saw flickering taillights on the 405. Her lungs ached as she breathed in, watching the city she had sworn to protect and to serve.
She had no doubt that Robbie’s relationship with the DA was solid. He was a narcissist, not a liar. She also knew this was a war and the person with the most information won. The more Davie knew about Harrington’s battle plan and his vulnerabilities, the better off she would be. In the distance, the flashing light of an emergency vehicle caught her eye and she felt a power shift of her own.
“Thanks,” she said, “but I can handle this myself.”
40
Neither she nor Bear spoke on the drive back to Bel Air. Once inside her house, she spent the rest of Friday night and the following Saturday morning trolling for information on Malcolm Harrington. By mid morning the following day, the person she most wanted to speak with—Maria Luna—had not answered the three messages she’d left on her machine. She vowed to keep trying.
After living through Bear’s legal troubles, she could imagine what would happen if Harrington filed criminal charges against her. She could lose everything, even her freedom. After a quick swim to clear her head, she sat on a deck chair near Alex’s pool, huddled under a blanket, waiting for news.
Her cell phone rang. It was Cal Rogers.
“I called the station,” he said. “Left a bunch of messages. Finally got some guy named Detective Vaughn. I didn’t expect him to give me your lat-long coordinates but something in his tone made me worry about you. Good thing you gave me your cell number.”
Davie didn’t want Rogers to know she’d been relieved of duty. She hoped her partner had covered for her, said she was out in the field, a cop euphemism for nobody’s going to tell you anything so don’t bother asking. Rogers would understand that code.
“What can I do for you?” It sounded unnecessarily formal, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“I just wanted you to know I showed your girl’s picture to everybody who works the front desk. Nobody remembers seeing her before last Saturday night.”
Davie appreciated that he was trying to help, but he was no longer a sworn officer and any information he had learned from a third party would be considered hearsay in court. Pacific Homicide detectives would have to re-interview all potential witnesses.
“Heard any intel on Satine?” she said.
“No, but my boss finally got permission from corporate to release the surveillance footage without a warrant. I can bring the disk to you at the station.”
She couldn’t meet Rogers at the station. She wouldn’t be allowed inside. The photos she needed were already on her cell phone, and accepting the disk might cause chain of custody issues later on.
“Drop it by the front desk,” she said. “Tell the officer on duty to give it to my boss, Frank Giordano.”
“Okay,” he said, stretching out the word, “but I was hoping to see you. What about lunch? I know you’re busy, but you have to eat.”
At first, she hesitated, but she had nothing else to do. Maybe the distraction would be good for her. “Lunch could work.”
Davie didn’t want to run into people she knew, so she suggested meeting at a beachfront restaurant on Pacific Coast Highway near Sunset. She changed into jeans, a sweater, and her red Converse high-tops.
Just before noon, she parked the Camaro in the public lot adjacent to the restaurant. As she waited for Rogers to arrive, she thought about his name. You didn’t hear Cal much these days, probably short for Calvin. She guessed he was named after his grandfather, the one with the vintage Olds. She imagined him as a farmer, living in Iowa, growing wheat or corn.
A few minutes into her fiction, Rogers arrived carrying a backpack slung across one shoulder. He stopped for a moment to study her hair. On duty she usually wore it twisted into a bun on the nape of her neck. That left nothing for a suspect to pull and no windblown hair blocking her vision. She wasn’t on duty now, so she had unleashed her red mop to find its own path.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Rogers said, holding out the backpack. “I picked up some food. Thought we could have a picnic on the beach.”
The air was cold but the sun was shining. They took off their shoes and hiked barefoot through the sand. They were alone except for a half dozen surfers in wetsuits braving the winter waves. Davie watched as Rogers spread a plaid wool blanket on the sand. He pulled plastic utensils and containers of food from the backpack in practiced moves. He poured chardonnay into two disposable glasses but she declined hers.
> “You’ve done this before,” she said.
“I like to eat outside. Everything tastes better.” He studied her for a moment as he drank the wine. “You look stressed. What gives?”
Her dark glasses were still on because the sun was bright and she didn’t want Rogers to see the vulnerability in her eyes. It felt so close to the surface she was sure he could touch it if she directed his hand.
“When you’re standing alone in the victim’s shoes searching for justice, the responsibility weighs on you,” she said, hoping he’d buy that lofty response and leave it at that.
“How’s the investigation going? Any suspects?”
She could tell by his expression he wasn’t just making conversation. He wanted to know. Her lips parted to spill the truth about Harrington, the sharp creases in Lieutenant Bellows’s uniform pants when he relieved her of duty, how close she felt to finding Anya’s killer but was now sidelined while somebody else made the arrest.
Pride, or maybe duty, kept her from speaking the words. Good Homicide detectives didn’t discuss an open case with anyone outside the department even if that person had once been in law enforcement. She wondered if Rogers’s Grandpa Cal had ever taught him that old war slogan, “Loose lips sink ships.” But Rogers’s grandpa probably wasn’t named Cal and in her gut she knew the reason for her silence lay in her own issues about trust.
“Still chasing leads,” she said.
Rogers turned toward the water. The surface looked like an animated Monet painting, brush strokes of color that shimmered and moved. The sun had cast a shadow across his face, so she couldn’t read his expression.
“These cases are always complicated,” he said.
The mood lifted after that. Lunch was a salad and barbequed tofu that tasted like chicken. They watched the surfers paddle out on their boards to catch wave after wave. He didn’t bring up Anya Nosova again. She was glad.
Rogers shared some memories about playing high school football. Davie glossed over stories about her dysfunctional family, preferring to tell him about her grandmother and how she had always been the stabilizing force in her life. She told him about a trip they were planning to Victoria, British Columbia, so Grammy could see the Butchart Gardens while she still had some vision left. For a time they stared at the water, saying nothing.
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