“I left,” John said.
“Where’d you go?”
“For a walk, to cool off. I stayed on the hotel grounds because my wife and daughter are here. I came back inside when I saw cops arriving.”
“You’re going to have to give a formal statement,” Weaver said.
John nodded. “Of course. You’ll have it in the morning.”
Long’s expression was set on sneer. “O’Hara said he went for a walk. That means he doesn’t have an alibi.”
Weaver sneered right back at Long. “You watch too many TV cop shows.” He glanced around and wrinkled his nose in distaste. “What’s that smell?”
“The last whiffs from the smoke bomb and burned food,” I said. “Most of the cooks abandoned their stoves when the chaos started.”
John’s partner had registered my presence with a brief nod when he arrived, but now he focused his attention on me. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m one of the cook-off judges.”
“Did you see who killed Ingram?”
“No. I was watching an actor who was juggling. Then somebody set off a smoke bomb-”
“Save it,” Weaver said. He was looking at the entrance to the ballroom. I followed his gaze and saw the arrival of a man and a woman wearing Windbreakers that identified them as members of the police Scientific Investigation Division. I’d never seen those two before, but I recognized the woman who came in with them: Dr. Sidney Carver, LA’s new medical examiner. Her nod at Weaver was perfunctory, but she smiled warmly at John.
In a wry tone, she said, “This better be worth my missing the NCIS marathon. So, what have you got for me, Big John?”
“He’s not on the job tonight,” Weaver said.
“John O’Hara is a suspect,” Long announced.
Dr. Carver cocked her head and lifted one eyebrow. “This promises to be an interesting case.”
I’d first met her a few months earlier, at the scene of another brutal murder, when I’d had the misfortune to be the person who discovered the victim. Dr. Carver’s pewter gray hair was cut short and shaggy, she wore glasses with outsized red frames, her clothes reeked of cigarette smoke, and her manner with everyone except John was as stinging as peroxide on a fresh cut. It was clear that she liked John, but I’d yet to see her smile at anyone else. I knew John liked her, too, because he told me it was a pleasure to work with a medical examiner that was so good at what she did.
Not long after she was hired, Nicholas had interviewed her for an article in the Chronicle. He told me he’d commented that her gray hair was an anomaly with her younger-looking face, and asked her age. She’d replied that it was none of his “f***ing business,” but if he insisted on printing something, then he could quote her as saying she was “somewhere between fifty and death.” He’d followed that question by asking if she was married, or had a significant other. Nicholas said she’d looked at him as though deciding where to cut and replied, “When I meet a man of the appropriate age, education, and income, it’s usually in my professional capacity.”
Dr. Carver drew on a pair of latex gloves and knelt to examine Ingram’s body as SID techs photographed the scene.
Weaver moved back a few steps. “John, go stand with Shannon and Eileen. Long, take a seat somewhere out of the way. I’ll talk to you in a few minutes.”
Without a word, John did as Weaver instructed.
Long grumbled. He, too, obeyed, but instead of finding a place in the crowd to await his turn for questioning, Long strode to the stage. He picked up the microphone and made that annoying tap-tap-tap noise to be sure it was live.
“Hello, everyone. I’m afraid that this hasn’t turned out to be the event we signed up for. It’s a very sad night with the loss of one of the titans of the world of food criticism, and now we must remain here for a while as the police do their work. To make your waiting time a little easier, I’m going to instruct our staff to bring you all anything you’d like to eat or drink-on the house. Anything our kitchen can make or pour.”
Scattered applause greeted that announcement. Long smiled, but held up his hand for quiet. “That’s not all. Tonight was supposed to bring the charity of our winning star’s choice a check for one hundred thousand dollars. Obviously, the contest can’t be completed, so I’m going to send to the charity chosen by each of our twenty competing celebrities a check for ten thousand dollars-”
Much louder applause interrupted him. Long smiled at that, but after a moment held up his hand to stop it.
“Thank you, but that’s not all. Each of you who came to watch the cook-off donated five hundred dollars to the Healthy Life Fund to be here. Well, to show our appreciation for your patience, we’re going to match every one of those five-hundred-dollar donations with my own personal check to that fund. We’ll work from the guest list, and be sure that each donation will be in your individual names, so remember to deduct the additional five hundred when tax time comes around.” Long’s face assumed a somber expression. “There’s been a tragic death in our midst tonight, but we’re going to make sure some good comes out of it.”
In a wry tone, Roland Gray said, “Did you notice that he’s using the ‘royal we’? ‘We’re going to match’ and ‘we’re going to make sure’ and so forth. My guess is that he’s intending to run for public office in the next few years. Probably for governor.”
“You could be right,” I said.
Roland Gray’s speculation made me think. If Eugene Long did intend to enter politics, I wondered what he thought about the prospect of having Keith Ingram as a son-in-law. I’d learned about Ingram’s bad character easily. Surely Long must know the nature of the man his daughter had fallen for.
***
After Weaver instructed the uniforms on scene to collect names and contact information from everyone in the ballroom, I watched the SID techs as they processed the area. From where I stood I had a good view, and knew that they hadn’t-or hadn’t yet-found the knife someone had plunged into Keith Ingram’s neck.
Weaver took my arm and steered me around to the end of Roland Gray’s stove until we were as alone as it was possible to be in a room full of formally attired, bejeweled, irritated people muttering their displeasure at not being allowed to leave the ballroom.
“When the brass find out John slugged the victim, he won’t be allowed anywhere near this case. As his partner I’ll likely be thrown off it, too. This may be my only chance to talk to anybody here, so I’ll start with you. Tell me what you saw. Exactly.”
I did, as quickly and as thoroughly as I could, while Weaver took notes. When I got to the part about Yvette Dupree screaming, Weaver said, “This Dupree woman saw the body first? Where is she?”
“Eugene Long’s daughter became hysterical. He asked Yvette to take the girl to his suite.”
“Nobody should’a left here! You know better than that.”
“What could I have done? I don’t have any authority.”
He calmed down. “Oh, yeah. For a minute I forgot you’re just a cop’s wife-widow.”
Hugh Weaver’s tactlessness didn’t bother me; I was used to it. In conversation, he may have been as clumsy as someone trying to dance while wearing snowshoes, but according to John, he was a good detective. Weaver could say any stupid thing he wanted to as long as he was trying to save John. If John were arrested, the emotional trauma might send Shannon into a relapse, and Eileen would be devastated by guilt because of what her ill-fated romance with Keith Ingram had done to her family.
Weaver and I saw that Sidney Carver had finished her preliminary examination of Ingram’s body and was stripping off her latex gloves. That was Weaver’s cue to join her. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was clear that she was leaving.
Weaver came back to me. “The SID techs will be working the area for quite a while yet, but soon the body’s going to be removed to Carver’s office for autopsy. I can’t wait any longer.” Weaver punched a number into his cell. When he reached his captain at
the West Bureau Station on Butler Avenue, he reported the unusual situation: that John O’Hara had been in the vicinity of a homicide, and that he’d also had a hostile encounter with the deceased before the murder.
I liked that “hostile encounter” bit. It sounded a lot better than saying John had physically attacked Ingram.
Weaver scowled at whatever his captain was saying. When their brief conversation was over, he snapped his cell shut and nodded unhappily.
“Just like I thought. They’re dispatching another detective to take over the case. But I’m here now, and I’ll keep going until I’m eighty-sixed.”
With me close behind him, Weaver began collecting information from the celebrities in Sector Four, and those attending the gala who had been in our area when the smoke bomb went off. No one saw-or at least no one admitted to seeing-anything helpful.
Weaver had filled a dozen pages in his notebook when I saw another man enter the ballroom. While I didn’t know his name, from his sports jacket, slacks, and the stern expression on his face, I was certain he was a West Bureau detective.
Weaver muttered a curse. “Bad news just walked through the door. That’s Manny Hatch. He hates John’s guts as bad as I hate perverts.”
“Why?”
“A few years ago-remember the murder of that big music guy in Bel Air?”
“Yes. John caught the killer.”
“It started out as Hatch’s case. From the get-go, Hatch figured it was the wife and wasn’t looking at anybody else. John kept digging and found evidence that it was the victim’s stepson. Hatch was embarrassed. Ever since, he’s blamed John for his not getting the promotion he thinks he deserves. With Hatch on the job, John’s chance of getting out of this clean just fell through the hole in the outhouse.”
12
From the sour expression on his face, LAPD detective second grade Manfred (Manny) Hatch came into the Elysian Room with a chip on his shoulder so big I saw it half a ballroom away, just from observing his arrogant manner with the hotel’s uniformed employees. He glowered at them as though he was the head of the INS and they-even the blond Norwegian waiter and the African American security guard-were illegal aliens he’d like to ship back across California ’s southern border.
Detective Hatch behaved only marginally better to the prosperous guests in the ballroom, but he had enough sense of self-preservation not to go too far in trying to intimidate them. Hatch’s type was by far a minority in the LAPD, but I’d seen such behavior before. John called them “little Napoleons,” even though, like Hatch, some of them were close to six feet tall.
Hatch’s manner improved when Eugene Long approached him. Unlike Hugh Weaver, Hatch must have recognized Long, and realized that Long’s immense wealth could be a more powerful cudgel than was Hatch’s badge. Hatch’s facial expression relaxed from a scowl into something approximating a collegial smile. But I imagined that secretly he’d be one happy detective if he found Long-or one of LA’s other power brokers-standing over a murder victim with the weapon in his hand.
My attention was diverted to a man at the entrance to the ballroom, standing beside the police officer guarding the door. Dressed casually, in a brown tweed jacket over a moss green turtleneck sweater and tan slacks, he had a ruddy complexion and light, curly hair, cut short. I noticed him because he was waving in my direction, but he wasn’t anyone I knew. Then I realized that the man was signaling to Roland Gray, who was standing next to me.
“A man at the door is trying to get your attention,” I said.
Gray glanced toward the entrance and gave the stranger an answering wave.
“That’s Will Parker,” Gray said. “He drove me here tonight.”
“Your chauffeur?”
“My assistant, actually. Helps with research, but he drives me occasionally. I’d better go tell him we’ll be a while.”
I watched Gray cross the room, speak first to the police officer and then to Parker. Gray’s assistant was shorter than his employer, and seemed to be a few years younger. He reminded me of someone… As I was turning away, I realized who it was-the British actor, Trevor Howard, when he was about forty and starred in the classic ill-fated romance that played often on cable: Brief Encounter.
The “encounter” between Gray and Parker was brief, too. Parker turned away from the entrance and Gray started back in my direction.
“The officer at the door has no idea when we’ll be released, so I told Will to go get himself some dinner and come back.” Gesturing toward the police, Gray asked, “Anything happening?”
“It looks like Detective Hatch has finished talking to Eugene Long. Now he’s heading toward Hugh Weaver.”
As we watched, John joined Weaver and Hatch. The three detectives spoke quietly to each other. Even though I couldn’t hear the words, it seemed from their body language that it wasn’t a pleasant chat. John’s posture stiffened and I saw his jaw muscles tighten. Down at his side, Weaver’s hands balled into fists. Weaver must have been told to turn over his notes, because one hand uncurled enough for him to reach into his jacket pocket to retrieve his investigator’s notebook. Clearly fuming, he shoved it at Hatch.
***
Finally, the last of us present during the time of the murder were told we could go home, but admonished to keep ourselves available for further interviews.
Eileen left her mother and father standing with Liddy and Bill and hurried over to me. She was trembling. “What are we going to do? I’ve never been so scared.”
“Honey, stay calm. Don’t panic.”
She took a breath and steadied her voice. “Daddy doesn’t know what Keith was using to blackmail me, but that’s bound to come out as soon as the police search Keith’s house and find the tape. Daddy’ll never be able to prove he didn’t know about it. I don’t care for myself anymore, but what Keith did to me could make them charge Daddy with murder-and it’s all my fault.”
“It is not your fault. I have an idea, but I’m going to need you thinking clearly. First, what else in the house might link you to Ingram?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are there pictures of the two of you together?”
“No. We never went out in public, except sometimes to an out-of-the-way restaurant. Keith said we should be discreet, so people wouldn’t think he’d praised our fudge business because of…” She blushed.
“Forget about that, honey. Think hard now. Did you leave clothing at his place? Jewelry? Anything at all that could be traced back to you?”
“No. Not a thing. There’s just that that awful video. Why are you asking?”
“I’m going to keep you out of this, but I need your help.”
I saw a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “What can I do?”
On the corner of a display table to my left there was a pile of program sheets, listing the celebrity contestants and the location of each of their stoves. I picked one up, turned it over to the blank side, and handed it and the pen from the top of my clipboard to Eileen.
“Go into the bathroom and lock yourself in a stall. Sketch out a floor plan of Ingram’s house. As many details as you can remember. And where the doors and windows are in the back.”
“What are you-?”
I shook my head to silence her. “If you don’t know you won’t have to lie. Does Ingram’s house have an alarm system?”
“Yes.”
It would have been too good to be true, but I asked the next question anyway. “Do you know the code?”
“No. I was never in the house when he wasn’t there.”
“Do you know if his alarm system has interior motion detectors?”
“It did have, but he told me he got rid of them because his maid kept setting them off accidentally.”
Bless that maid, I thought.
I saw Liddy heading toward me and gave Eileen a nudge. “Go. Put down every detail you can remember.”
Liddy came over to where I was standing by the door.
“Eileen’s going to stay
at John and Shannon ’s house tonight,” Liddy said. “John’s going to take them home. Why don’t you stay over with Bill and me?”
“No, thank you. I can’t leave Tuffy alone all night. Just drop me off at home.”
“We’ll pick Tuffy up, and get a change of clothes for you.”
“I can’t.” I drew Liddy a few feet away from the person nearest to us and lowered my voice. “Ingram had something that I can’t let anyone find. The police are going to be searching his house for clues to his murder, probably as soon as tomorrow morning, so I’ve got to go there tonight.”
Liddy’s eyes widened with excitement. “If you’re going to break into somebody’s house, I’m not letting you go alone.”
***
The first thing I did when I got home, after greeting Tuffy and Emma, and assuring Tuffy that we’d go for a walk shortly, was to take off my once-beautiful gown and get a good look at the damage.
It was awful. While I was wearing it, I could tell that it was bad, but studying it on the hanger I knew that it was hopeless. Beyond even the best dry cleaner’s art. The stains on the front of the delicate peach chiffon fabric had hardened, and turned from the vivid red of fresh blood to a dull shade of old rust.
Even though he was a disgusting human being, the fact was that a man had died a violent death tonight; that was far more serious than the loss of a designer gown. I wasn’t sure Phil Logan would see it that way. I dreaded calling him, but I knew that I had to. After putting on a sweater and slacks, I sat down on the edge of my bed and picked up the receiver.
Instead of dialing Phil’s cell phone, which I knew he answered twenty-four hours a day, I did the cowardly thing and punched in his office number, to get his voice mail.
One ring.
“Hello,” Phil said.
Ooops. “What are you doing at the office so late, Phil?”
“Working. I heard about Ingram’s murder.”
“How did you know? It couldn’t have been on the news yet.”
The Proof is in the Pudding Page 7