‘You can lose the insolent tone, Detective,’ Chief Brody snapped back. ‘Yes, it’s supposed to buy them something. It’s supposed to buy them this department’s time, and understanding and respect. These men aren’t criminals. They aren’t suspects in a crime. Nor is Dr Roberts, for that matter. Not yet.’
Johnson looked fit to explode. ‘They could be. They all could be. Roberts lied to us about her husband’s affair. Carter Berkeley deliberately wasted police time today, and lied during a murder investigation. And as for Baden, the guy didn’t so much as fart in his interview without checking with his lawyer first! If he’s not guilty of something, Chief, then I’m Shirley Temple.’
‘I don’t wanna hear it.’ Chief Brody held up a hand. ‘Stop pissing off donors, Johnson. And stop alienating witnesses. And you needn’t look so smug either, Goodman,’ he added caustically. ‘You better find this Grolsch kid’s body, or that missing accident report, or something that looks like evidence, or I’m taking you off this case. That goes for the both of youse.’
The two partners shuffled out. As soon as the door to the chief’s office closed behind them, Goodman quickened his pace, striding away from Johnson as if the older man were an unexploded bomb.
‘I meant what I said in there!’ Johnson shouted after him. ‘She’s got you totally blind to what’s happening. Ask her about her old man’s affair.’
Goodman kept walking, pushing open the double doors that led out to the parking lot.
‘Ask her!’ Johnson followed him. ‘You were with her last night, weren’t you?’
It was a guess, a try-your-luck shot across the bows. Goodman wasn’t stupid enough to answer it. Instead he climbed into his car.
‘She never said a word about the husband’s affair, did she? Not a word. She’s using you, man! She’s playing you. Open your eyes.’
Goodman sped away, with Johnson’s words ringing in his ears.
A few blocks from the station he pulled over and took three deep breaths.
Johnson’s revelations in Chief Brody’s office had unnerved him. For one thing, his own attraction to Nikki Roberts was clearly a lot more obvious than he’d thought.
Mick was right about one thing, though. He was getting too close to her, too close for his own good. But was that closeness clouding his judgment?
He tried to think dispassionately about Mick’s specific accusations. Namely, that Nikki knew her husband had been having an affair, and had somehow rigged his accident while he was with his mistress, then covered it up. And that she’d then gone on to mastermind the murders of Lisa Flannagan and Trey Raymond.
On the last point, Goodman had no doubts: Nikki didn’t kill Lisa or Trey. That much he knew. But as for murdering her husband and his lover … was it possible? He wanted to believe not. That Johnson was way off the mark on this, as on so much else. But right now there were too many missing pieces for Goodman to form a clear picture.
Who was Doug Roberts’ mistress?
Why had her name, and existence, been withheld from press reports on the accident?
What had happened to the official accident report?
And why had Nikki never brought this up, even when they’d discussed her marriage and her husband’s death? Even when she was opening up to him.
Johnson’s words haunted him now. ‘She’s playing you. Open your eyes.’
Was Nikki Roberts playing him?
Against his better judgment, Goodman dialed Nikki’s number.
In the dimmed lights of Disney Concert Hall, Nikki saw Detective Goodman’s personal cell number pop up on her phone screen. Tapping ‘decline’ she turned her phone off and slipped it back into her purse, a black satin clutch she’d bought especially for tonight. She’d also splashed out on the elegant, backless Balenciaga dress in floor-length black crepe that clung sensuously to her petite frame, earning her approving glances from many of the male concert-goers, and less approving ones from their wives.
Anne Bateman was coming to the end of the fourth movement of Stravinsky’s Violin Concerto in D, the finale of a two-hour-long medley of the composer’s works, and obviously the highlight. Nikki was no music buff, but even she had been blown away by the power of Anne’s playing, the sublime swell of emotion with which she interpreted each note and phrase, pulling the audience along with her.
The thought of a talent like that being wasted – of Anne returning to her jailer of a husband, locked in a gilded cage, never to perform again – was tragic. Scandalous. Nikki’s eyes welled with tears, although whether they were for Anne, or for the beauty of the music, or for her own life’s tragedies, she couldn’t say.
Last night had been a close call. With hindsight, she knew she’d been incredibly foolish. Reckless, even. She’d allowed herself to get drunk with one of the detectives in charge of the murder investigations. Worse, she’d come within a whisker of sleeping with Detective Goodman, battling a physical attraction stronger than anything she’d felt in a long time.
What’s wrong with me? she thought miserably. This isn’t me. I don’t do this. Get drunk. Almost sleep with a stranger. Put myself in danger.
Then again, in recent months Nikki had done all sorts of things she would never have done in her past life. Such as spending well over a thousand dollars on an outfit to impress a patient. A married, female patient. A patient she needed to detach from, badly, but whose presence in her life had helped her more than anything else to overcome her terrifying anger towards Doug.
Poor, dead Douglas. Gone, but not forgotten.
Nikki would never forget.
Anne lowered her bow, and with a flourish the conductor brought the concert to a close. After a split second’s silence, the crowd erupted in applause, rising to their feet and stamping and whistling their approval as the lights went up. Despite her hangover and the acute stabbing pain in her cranium brought on by the sudden noise and light, Nikki felt a warm rush of pride watching Anne stand to take her bow. She looked even tinier and more fragile than usual up on the stage, her pale skin like porcelain against the muted gray of her simple shift dress, a vision of grace and understatement. Like a child.
She needs my protection, Nikki thought. My professional support. I can’t let her down. I have to get a grip.
Flashing the pass Anne had sent her, Nikki slipped backstage while the encores continued. By the time Anne reached her dressing room, Nikki was already waiting.
‘Oh! Hello.’ Anne hugged her shyly, as if her presence were unexpected. Which was odd, and slightly irritating to Nikki after Anne had made such a big deal of asking her to come tonight and inviting her backstage. ‘You made it.’
‘Of course I made it.’ Nikki hugged her back. ‘I said I would, didn’t I?’
‘What did you think?’ Anne asked anxiously.
‘I thought it was incredible. You were incredible,’ Nikki replied truthfully. ‘I was blown away. The entire audience were.’
‘Really?’ Anne asked. ‘Was it truly OK?’
‘It was light years beyond OK,’ said Nikki.
Sometimes Nikki wondered whether Anne manipulated her, psychologically. Toyed with her, ‘playing’ the needy patient in order to feed Nikki’s ego. But in this case, Anne’s insecurity was obviously sincere. The standing ovation she’d just received wasn’t enough. She needed Nikki’s reassurance. It was flattering.
‘It’s such a rare thing, Anne, to have a talent like yours,’ Nikki told her. ‘If I had a fraction of your gifts I would die happy.’
Anne smiled. ‘Don’t be silly. I’ve never met anybody more accomplished than you. You look beautiful tonight, by the way.’
The compliment was unexpected. Ridiculously, Nikki felt her cheeks flush with pleasure. ‘Thank you. So do you.’
A knock on the door interrupted them. Being closer, Nikki opened it, her eyes widening as a young man staggered in, completely engulfed by the largest bouquet of white roses Nikki had ever seen. The thing must have weighed as much as him, with literally hundreds o
f stems bound together at the base in a satin bow as wide as two outstretched arms.
‘For you, Ms Bateman,’ the boy panted, resting the floral monster on the ground beside Anne’s dressing table as there was nowhere else to put it. He handed Anne the card. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Oh my goodness!’ Anne gasped. The bouquet was bigger than she was. ‘What on earth am I going to do with all these? Do you want any flowers?’ She turned back to Nikki. ‘Please, take some home with you. Or to the office, I can’t possibly …’
Her words tailed off as she opened the card and read the note inside. Nikki watched her reactions with a therapist’s trained eye. The fluttering hands, pressed against her chest. The nervous bite of her lower lip, followed by a smile that seemed to be full of both sadness and love.
Nikki felt her own chest tighten. ‘They’re from him, aren’t they?’
Anne nodded with a sigh. ‘They’re from my husband. He says he wishes he could be here. That he hears my music every day in his dreams, and carries it in his heart.’
Nikki rolled her eyes. ‘It’s a shame he didn’t “carry it in his heart” while he was keeping you prisoner in his house against your will and refusing to let you perform at all. For six years.’
‘I know,’ Anne admitted, still staring wistfully at the flowers. ‘But look. There’s a bloom for every day I’ve been gone. Ninety-six, he says here. You have to admit, it’s romantic.’
Nikki felt a rush of fury overwhelm her. How could women be so stupid? How could they allow men to manipulate and control them like this? To get away with it?
‘Romantic?’ she snapped. ‘For God’s sake, Anne, grow up! This isn’t some Harlequin romance. This is your future. Your life.’
Anne flushed, but this time it was with anger. She’d never lost her temper with Nikki before but her feelings came tumbling out now like water through a shattered dam.
‘You’re right, it is my life. Mine, not yours. So back off.’
‘I care about you, Anne,’ said Nikki, stung. ‘As your therapist—’
‘Oh, STOP IT!’ Anne shouted, the first time Nikki had ever heard her raise her voice. ‘This isn’t about you being my therapist and we both know it.’
Nikki stared back at her, stunned. An awkward silence fell, with neither woman knowing what to say or do next. In the end it was Anne who attempted to normalize the situation.
‘Look. I appreciate your advice. I do. And your support. You changed my life,’ she said. ‘But you don’t need to be so hateful about my husband all the time. Even when he does something nice, something kind.’
‘But it’s not kind. That’s the whole point. It’s controlling!’ Nikki couldn’t help herself. ‘It’s manipulative. And by the way, he’s your ex-husband. I’m sorry, Anne, but you have to ask yourself, just how blind are you willing to be?’
‘How blind am I willing to be? What about you?’ Anne snapped, fighting back tears. ‘How blind were you in your own marriage? Hm? Did you really not know about your husband’s affair?’
Nikki blanched. The world seemed muffled suddenly, as if she were having this conversation in a dream, or underwater. ‘How did you know about that?’ she asked Anne, her voice cracking. ‘Who told you?’
‘I think you should leave now.’ Anne’s voice was quiet but her resolve was clear. She wasn’t going to answer Nikki’s questions. A line had been crossed, and there was no coming back.
‘Fine.’ Nikki felt as if someone were pouring acid down her throat, right into her chest and then down to the pit of her stomach. ‘I’ll go.’
Turning at the door, she looked back at Anne.
‘He’ll kill you, you know. One day. If you go back to him. Men like that always do. It’s kill or be killed.’
Anne stifled a sob as the door slammed shut.
Driving through downtown, crawling towards the 10 freeway in gridlock traffic, Nikki felt sick to her stomach. It was that awful sour sickness, as if her veins were running with turned milk. Part self-pity, part shame, part anger, part regret.
She was right about Anne’s husband. He might be generous and charming, but he was also a bully, and bullies never changed. They both knew, deep down, that his ‘romantic gestures’ were really controlling gestures in a wafer-thin disguise. But Anne would no longer hear that from Nikki, because Nikki had stopped behaving like her doctor and started behaving like … what? Her friend? Her lover? Her stalker?
She was wrong to have spoken to Anne the way she did.
And now, finally, Anne had called her on it. Not just on her own inappropriate feelings – ‘This isn’t about you being my therapist and we both know it!’ – but on Doug’s affair. How on earth had Anne found out about that? Nikki had certainly never discussed it with her or alluded to it in any way. In fact, other than Gretchen, and Haddon Defoe, nobody close to her knew – or if they did, they were diplomatic enough never to speak of it.
The sick feeling intensified. Through her car window, Nikki saw four homeless men huddled together in a theater doorway. One looked up and right at her, with the wide, empty gaze of the hopelessly addicted. Nikki waited to feel something, the familiar stab of compassion she used to have when Doug was alive, before that Russian bitch destroyed everything Nikki held dear. But there was nothing. Something in Nikki’s heart, her soul if such a thing existed, had died. Or perhaps it hadn’t died so much as run out of gas. One day, maybe, her tanks of love and care and human feeling would be replenished and she’d be able to feel again?
Maybe.
Or maybe not.
At the freeway on-ramp, she noticed another desperate case, a middle-aged woman this time, like her, only this woman had the same revolting, scaly skin Nikki remembered from the boys at Haddon’s Venice clinic. Krokodil, he’d called it. The ‘new new thing’ that the cartels in LA were battling to control.
She’d felt sympathy back in Venice, for the two boys. But not now. Not tonight. Perhaps her shameful encounter with Anne Bateman had been the final straw, the last blow Nikki was capable of sustaining before total emotional shut-down.
She drove home, blind and unthinking. Two plainclothes policemen sat parked outside her gates, courtesy of Detective Goodman, who apparently wouldn’t take no for an answer.
‘You need protection,’ he’d told her last night in the car, his hand somewhere between her knee and upper thigh while she was pouring her heart out about grief. God, it felt good.
‘I don’t want protection.’
‘It’s not about what you want, Nikki. It’s my job to protect you.’
That felt even better.
‘And what if I refuse your protection, Detective?’ Nikki couldn’t remember where her own hand was at the time, but she suspected nowhere good.
‘Then I’ll ignore you, Doctor.’
Detective Johnson had used her title as an insult. With Goodman, it was a come on.
The cops’ presence proved he hadn’t simply been flirting. He’d meant it. Nikki smiled to see the officers in place now, as Goodman had promised they would be. Stubbornness was a trait she had always admired in men. Doug had had it in spades. Darling Doug. If only things hadn’t ended the way they had.
Tears stung the back of Nikki’s eyes but she blinked them away angrily and pulled into the driveway. Inside the house she switched off the alarm, kicked off her shoes and walked into the kitchen, dumping her new clutch bag on the counter. Still too hungover from last night to contemplate a real drink, she poured herself a large Virgin Mary instead from the ready-mixed bottle in the fridge and sat at the counter, flipping open her laptop for a last check of her emails.
That’s what she told herself anyway. In fact she just wanted to see if Anne had messaged.
She hadn’t.
But another email caught Nikki’s attention. Under the title ‘I saw you last night’ the anonymous sender had attached an image. Clicking it open, Nikki saw a shot of Dan Tana’s restaurant with a second image pasted over the top. It was a crudely photoshopped ph
otograph of Nikki’s face above a naked woman’s body. The woman was swinging from a cartoon noose. Beneath it was a two-word missive: ‘Die, bitch.’
Nikki sat back. She felt a moment’s shock. Then a brief fluttering of fear. Then nothing. Nothing at all.
Despite her emotional numbness, the intellectual part of her brain insisted she do something. This wasn’t a prank. This was a death threat. A specific death threat, from someone who knew her movements, who knew she’d been to Dan Tana’s last night, and presumably who she’d been with. She must tell the police immediately. She must tell Goodman.
And yet, she hesitated. Did she really want to give the handsome detective a reason to intrude even further into her life? To creep closer and closer, on the grounds of ‘protection’?
Part of her definitely did. But another, wiser, part knew that wasn’t the answer.
Goodman was a good man and he seemed to be trying his best to solve the case. But his partner, the odious detective Johnson, was the devil incarnate, and whether Nikki liked it or not, the two cops were a team. A team who seemed to be making grindingly slow progress catching Lisa and Trey’s killer, not to mention the maniac who’d tried to mow her down, and almost succeeded.
Meanwhile, her own life was in danger.
Nikki did need protection. But more than that she needed answers, not only about the murders, but about the one question that had haunted and poisoned and destroyed her since the moment she first learned of Doug’s betrayal.
Clicking open Google she typed in the search bar:
Private Detective, West Los Angeles.
It was time for Plan B.
PART TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘So, Andrea. What’s the definition of a bachelor?’
Derek Williams leaned forward over the Formica table at I-Hop and looked up at the waitress expectantly.
‘It’s seven in the morning, Derek,’ the exhausted young mother replied, refilling his coffee cup. ‘If this is another one of your dirty jokes, I ain’t in the mood.’
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