“Friend of yours live here, ma’am?” Baskind asked.
“My best friend.”
“I’m sure she’s okay.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you had talked to her.”
He nodded but said nothing in reply.
She paced the sidewalk while he watched her every move, likely aware that she was a suspect in a murder. That much had probably been communicated to him by the detectives during the drive over. And now more cops were on the way. She had wanted to leave her cell free during the drive in case Mona called back, but now she wondered if it was time to make the call to a lawyer.
She pulled her cell from her pocket and hesitated briefly to see if Baskind would stop her. When he didn’t, she hit a number on speed dial.
“I’m at Mona’s,” she said when Mike Capalletti answered. “I think something’s happened.” She paused, but before he could respond, she added, “I need you here as my lawyer.”
The blood trail stopped briefly at the foot of a broad stairwell, but Swafford spotted it again on a step about halfway up. “Someone’s trying to stop the blood flow, but it’s not working too well,” he said. “It did slow down some, though.”
Sure enough, the blood trail was thicker and more distinct farther up the stairs. Whatever happened had happened up there.
“Ms. Hirsch?” he called. “Police, Ms. Hirsch. Are you up there? You okay?”
Silence.
Nichols joined him at the top of the stairs, while Stillman squatted on the steps behind them, studying the blood splatter.
“You think this movie star killed that guy up the highway?” Swafford asked.
“I don’t know. I hope not.”
“You think she did something to her partner?”
“I don’t know. I hope not.”
“Is that all you can say? ‘I don’t know. I hope not.’?”
“I don’t fucking know. I fucking hope not.”
Swafford smiled. “Okay. Just wanted to make sure you Chippies don’t have limited vocabularies.”
Nichols smiled back. “Well, now you know I know at least one twosyllable word.”
“And one three-syllable word, if you count ‘syllable.’”
Then, as if someone had flipped a switch, they turned grim as they followed the blood trail down the hallway. Stillman hustled to catch up, taking the steps two at a time and staying close to the side so as not to step in the trail. At the top, he looked back down.
“Blood on the banister,” he said.
Nichols and Swafford turned and looked. Sure enough, a slick of blood ran down the top of the banister for a length of about 18 inches.
“Someone leaned on it for balance,” Stillman said. “Might be able to find some prints.”
“That only matters if it’s not Hirsch,” Swafford said.
“I know.”
“And if it’s not Hirsch, that probably means we’re not going to like what we find up here.”
“I know.”
Swafford turned to Nichols. “Did he forget how to say ‘don’t,’ or is he just your opposite?”
“I don’t know.”
Swafford took a deep breath and wiped his smile away. “All right, damn it, let’s keep going.”
He led the way to the end of the hallway and turned the corner, with the two CHP detectives close behind. “Here’s where it happened,” he said.
When the others had joined him, they saw what he meant. They faced a closed door with a triangle of holes in it, about chest high. A small pool of blood had collected on the floor just outside the door, clearly the spot where the trail originated.
“Whatever we’re going to find, we’re going to find on the other side of that door,” Stillman said.
With Swafford leading, the three men inched toward the door, then paused again. Weapon in front, Swafford slowly pushed the door open with his free hand. The first thing to get their attention was blood-soaked carpet directly in front of the open door, littered with tiny shards of wood. Lying on the edge of it was a BB pistol.
“Looks like someone might have got off a shot or two with that,” Swafford said. “It would explain the blood trail down the stairs.”
But the next thing to get their attention was a much broader blood trail that led around the edge of the bed to a foot just visible on the side nearest the wall. Swafford stepped over the BB pistol and looked into the face of Mona Hirsch.
Her eyes were open, her lips moving as if trying to speak. He holstered his weapon, squatted down beside her, and leaned close to hear.
“Help me.”
CHAPTER 30
Teri heard sirens then saw Detective Stillman exit Mona’s house and head toward her. She rushed to him, just as he waved the occupants of an arriving ambulance to hurry. Officer Baskind followed close behind.
“Crime Scene’s on its way,” Baskind said to Stillman.
“Good.”
“Who called an ambulance?” Teri asked. “Is she okay?”
“She’s in pretty bad shape, but she’s alive,” Stillman said. “She’s been
shot.”
Teri froze. “Shot?”
“Looks like someone was trying to get into her bedroom and she
blocked the door. Whoever it was shot right through it.” Teri tried to move past him, but Stillman grabbed her arm and stopped her. “I can’t let you go in there. It’s a crime scene.”
“She’s my friend.”
“I know she is, but let’s let the paramedics do their job and get her to the hospital.”
As he spoke, two paramedics, hands full of gear, moved across the front yard toward them. “Upstairs, back bedroom,” Stillman said.
“Teri.”
She and Stillman looked to the curb, where Mike had just arrived. He looked as if he had just come from the country club, wearing creased khakis and a polo shirt.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“It’s Mona. She’s been shot.”
The words seemed to have very little effect on Mike. His face was impassive as he looked at Stillman. “Who are you?”
“Detective Stillman. CHP.”
“You don’t have any jurisdiction. This is Beverly Hills.”
“Mike, nobody gives a damn about jurisdiction,” Teri said. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Mona’s been shot.”
“I’m just looking out for you. I am a lawyer, you know.”
“Is he the lawyer you were going to call?” Stillman asked.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Mike said. “What’s CHP doing here?”
“They were at my house,” Teri said. “Then, when Mona called, we came here.”
“Look, I don’t mean to seem obtuse,” Mike said, “but all you said when you called was that something was wrong at Mona’s and you needed a lawyer. Now I get here and find out you’ve had state cops at your house, and I don’t have a clue why.”
“They’re here about Leland Crowell.”
“What about him? He’s dead.”
“Yes, sir, he is,” Stillman said. “But the question we’re trying to answer is when he died.”
“Two years ago.”
“Or maybe it was last night.”
While the news of Mona’s shooting had little impact, those words seemed to shake Mike. He looked sharply at Teri then looked away, as if he’d been caught in front of the computer with porn on the screen.
“Maybe you’d better start at the beginning,” Mike said to Stillman, an edge to his voice. “And go slow. I’m a little dull-witted sometimes.”
“I can see that,” Stillman said.
“You—”
“Not now, Mike,” Teri said. “All I care about right now is Mona.”
The words seem to soften Mike a bit. “How is she?”
“Paramedics are with her right now,” Stillman said. “She lost a lot of blood, but she was conscious when we got here.”
“Please let me see her,” Teri said.
“I’m s
orry, Ms. Squire, but I can’t. I’ll find out what hospital they’re taking her to, though, so you can meet the ambulance there.”
The dam that had been holding back Teri’s tears burst. Mike pulled her close, wrapped his arms around her, and held her as she sobbed.
Teri hated hospitals. Always had, always would. Some people thought of hospitals as places people went for healing; Teri thought of them as places people went to suffer and die. Both of her grandparents had. Her best friend back home, Suzette, had. And her brother Adam had. Was her new best friend, Mona, also going to die? Right then, thoughts of movies, screenplays, and Leland Crowells didn’t matter. All that mattered was Mona.
As she paced in the Emergency Room waiting area, Mike sat on a small couch across from the two CHP detectives. He watched them with steely eyes, as if taking their measure. They, on the other hand, talked to each other and steadfastly ignored his stare. It was as if, to them, he didn’t exist.
The elevator bell sounded its tone. The doors opened and Doug Bozarth stepped off, impeccably dressed in a tailored, gray pin-striped suit, with a pale blue dress shirt open at the collar and no tie. Casual day for him, obviously. Close by his side was Bob Keene with his bow-legged stride, wearing creased designer jeans, a tan camp shirt, deck shoes, and no socks, an outfit designed to look thrown-together but that screamed calculated, as usual.
They approached Mike, not Teri, something that the detectives seemed to take note of as they watched, then signaled to each other with glances.
“What’s going on?” Bob asked.
“Cops,” Mike said, nodding toward Stillman and Nichols. “Is there some place we can talk?” Bozarth asked. His tone was
strictly professional, his words generic in the presence of the police. “Cafeteria is downstairs,” Mike said.
“Let’s go.”
Teri continued to pace.
“Teri,” Mike said. “We’re going to the cafeteria.”
“I’ll be here.”
“You need to come with us.”
“I need to be here if the doctors come out.”
“I’m sure CHP will get a message to you,” Mike said. “Won’t you,
officers?”
“Actually, we’d prefer that she stay here,” Stillman said. “I’m her attorney,” Bozarth said. Teri cut him a sharp look. That was
news to her.
“I thought Mr. Capalletti was,” Nichols said.
“Great country, the United States,” Bozarth said. “They let you have
as many lawyers as you want.”
“Or need.”
“So you’ll understand if we’d prefer to talk in confidence,” Bozarth
continued.
“Just don’t leave the hospital,” Stillman said. “We still have more
questions for Ms. Squire.”
“Is she under arrest?” Bozarth asked.
“No.”
“They’re CHP, not local,” Mike said.
“Is that so? Well, then it seems that their jurisdiction ended at the
freeway.”
“Common mistake,” Nichols said. “Mr. Capelletti made it earlier, as
well. Actually the California Highway Patrol acts as the state police and
has jurisdiction to enforce all state laws anywhere in the state. But I’m
sure you didn’t come here for a civics lesson.”
“But speaking of civics lessons,” Stillman said. “Are you a licensed
attorney in the state of California, Mr. Bozarth?”
“So you know who I am.”
“I’ve seen your picture in the papers. And I know you’re not from
here. Pennsylvania, right?”
“I live here now.”
“But you haven’t answered my question: Are you licensed to practice
law in California?”
“Information easily enough found,” Bozarth said. “I’d suggest you
check with the California Bar Association. But for now, my client and I
need privacy to talk. You have my word that we won’t leave the hospital.” Dismissing the detectives, he turned and walked to the elevator. Bob
followed close behind, with Mike and Teri at the rear. They found a
corner table in the hospital’s basement cafeteria. Mike got coffee for all of
them and then sat next to Teri.
“Now tell me very carefully just what in the hell is going on here,”
Bozarth said.
“Someone broke into Mona’s house and shot her,” Teri said. “Back up a bit. We’ll get to that, but I want the full narrative. You
met with this imposter last night at the diner, right?”
“They’re saying I killed him.”
“That’s just plain crazy,” Mike said.
“What have you told them?” Bozarth asked.
“Nothing. Just that Leland Crowell died a long time ago and that I
never met him.”
“The report I get is that they’ve got witnesses who say you and
someone else argued at the diner last night.”
“How do you know that?” Teri asked.
“I’ve got my sources.”
“You were supposed to have your people there last night. What do
they say?”
“The same thing the police say. That you and Leland argued.” “So they were there,” she said, more of a question than a statement. “Of course. Just as I said they would be. They also said the man you
argued with got in a late model SUV, same color as yours, and left.” “But not mine. I had already left.”
No response from Bozarth.
“Did they see that?” Teri asked. “Did they see me leave?” “What about your gun?” Bozarth asked.
“Answer my question. Did your people see me leave ahead of Leland,
or whoever he is?”
“Was,” Bozarth said.
“Whatever. Did they see me leave?”
She held Bozarth’s eyes for a long moment, her personal lie detector
at work. He met her gaze evenly, spoke deliberately. “They say he got in
your car and left with you.”
“That’s bullshit!”
“They have no reason to lie.”
“Unless they’re setting me up.”
“And they have no reason to do that. We don’t need the scrutiny.”
He paused then added, “I don’t need the scrutiny.”
Teri’s alarms starting going off again. He had a good point, but it was
hardly one that could be raised at this stage. We didn’t kill anyone because
we’re committing fraud, so we want to fly under the radar.
“What about the other people at the diner?” Bozarth asked. “They
also say he got in your car. Why would they lie?”
“I’m not saying they’re lying; I’m saying they’re mistaken. I had
already left, but there was another car there, just like mine. That’s the car
he got in, not mine.”
“How do you know?” Mike asked.
“Because I came back. I saw the other SUV in the parking lot, and he
got in it.”
“Driving?” Bozarth asked.
“Passenger side.”
“Did anyone see you leave?”
“How should I know?”
“Why did you come back?” Mike asked.
“I don’t know. Just a hunch, I guess. I wanted to see if anyone came
to meet him. That’s when I saw them leaving, going the other way. So I
followed them.”
“Goddamn!” Bob said. “You followed them? Are we going to find out
other witnesses saw you in the vicinity of the murder?”
“I don’t know what we’re going to find, Bob,” Teri said. She’d had as
much of him as she could tolerate over the past couple of years, and if ever
there was a time to a
ssert herself with him, it was now. Besides, did it
really matter if she pissed him off? The way things were going, he was the
least of her worries. Prison was more at the forefront of her mind.
Someone was setting her up, and they were doing a damn good job of it. “Did you see what happened?” Bozarth asked.
“Once they got up north, past San Simeon, I turned around and came
home. I don’t know what happened after that.”
“It’s a shame you didn’t go just a few miles farther. You might have
found out how the dead guy got dead.”
“Yeah, maybe next time.”
The group lapsed into a silence for a few minutes, mulling over what
they knew and fretting over what they didn’t.
Bozarth broke the silence. “Back to my earlier question about your
gun. My sources tell me the dead guy had a twenty-two bullet in his back.
You own a twenty-two. Where’s your gun?”
“Why do we keep calling him ‘the dead guy’?” Mike asked. “Because he’s the dead guy.”
“How do you know I have a twenty-two?” Teri asked.
“The question is whether the police have it and whether it matches
the bullet.”
“I don’t know where it is,” Teri said. “They asked me for it, but it
wasn’t where it was supposed to be.”
“Let’s just hope they don’t find it. If someone’s setting you up, I’d
bet my last dollar the bullet will match.”
“So they can’t ever prove anything without the gun, right?” Bob
asked. “And in the meantime, it’s just more publicity for the movie.” “Haven’t you been listening?” Bozarth said. “It’s publicity that’ll call
into question whether Teri ever rightfully owned the script in the first
place. And if the dead guy really is the writer, she didn’t inherit from him
if he didn’t die before, and she can’t inherit from him now if she killed
him.”
“I didn’t kill him.” She glanced at Mike then turned her attention
back to Bozarth. “Are you a criminal lawyer?”
“I’m whatever I need to be.”
“Why don’t I feel reassured?”
“Look, even just an arrest will throw the bequest into question. A
conviction will invalidate it. That much criminal law, I do know. So you
see, Ms. Squire, I am highly motivated to do whatever it takes to see to it
The Bequest Page 13