The tears seemed to stop falling midstream and freeze on Emily’s pretty face.
“We believe she may have killed him.” Syd took out a color printout of the close-up of the Lady in Red from the security camera. She showed it to Emily. “Do you recognize this woman?”
Emily wiped away the tears, looked at the picture. She shook her head. “Who is she?”
“We don’t know, yet,” Ryan said. “But, with your help, we’re hoping to find out.”
Emily looked at the picture again. “Was she a client?”
“We don’t think so,” Syd said. Then gently, “They had sex, Mrs. Devlin. In a hotel suite. That’s where your husband’s body was found.” No reason to dump the mutilation on her right now, Syd decided. She’ll find out soon enough. “Are you sure you’ve never seen her before.”
Emily stared at the photo. “No, I’ve never seen her before.” Then a few gears meshed as Syd’s words sunk in. “My husband was having an affair?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Syd said.
Emily looked first at Syd, then at Ryan. Her brain was processing the information, the implications of Adam’s affair and death. “Where did you get this picture?”
Ryan answered. “It’s from a hotel security camera, taped last night at six twenty-two.”
“There is a video of them together?” Emily asked.
“Yes,” Syd answered.
“Do you have a copy of it with you?”
Ryan had asked security to burn them a DVD before they left the hotel. “We do,” Ryan said.
The Devlins had a screening room; video projector, Blue-Ray DVD player, and surround sound system provided by Sony. The six theatre chairs were supplied by La-Z-Boy; Orville Redenbacher’s company donated the popcorn maker, but the Devlins actually paid for the 15-foot Draper projection screen.
And it was on that giant screen that Emily Devlin watched her eager husband and the Lady in Red stroll toward the elevator.
“He looks happy,” Emily said icily. “And I see he’s got his favorite champagne, Cristal. Nothing but the best for Adam. Is she a hooker?”
“We don’t know,” Syd said.
“She looks like a hooker, don’t you think? Cheap, tawdry.”
Actually, Syd thought, the Lady in Red looks anything but cheap and tawdry. She looked classy, confident, and sexy as hell.
Then a horrifying realization dawned on Emily. “What are you going to do with this video?”
“Use it to find your husband’s killer,” Ryan said. “We’ve distributed it to all the news outlets. We’re hoping someone recognizes the Lady in Red and tells us who and where she is.”
Panic seized Emily. “But you can’t! You’ve got to get those videos back!”
Ryan threw a confused look to Syd. “It’s too late, Mrs. Devlin, I’m sorry. They’re already running.”
“Then stop them, immediately.”
“We can’t,” Syd said.
“But don’t you see, it’s so embarrassing! Everyone’s going to know Adam was cheating on me. I’ll be a laughing stock!”
Ryan caught Syd’s eye, clocked her surprise. People, Ryan thought. You just never knew how they’d react. “With all due respect, Mrs. Devlin, this is a murder investigation. We think this woman has killed three men and may kill more. Our first priority is to find her and stop her.”
Any trace of grief was gone. Humiliation and anger fueled her words. “Look, let’s be honest. I knew Adam had the occasional affair,” then with a defiant look to Ryan she added, “We both had affairs.”
Syd found it interesting Emily aimed that comment at Ryan. A fuck you to men or a provocative statement to flirt?
“But I have the decency to keep mine private,” Emily said. Then another realization rocked Emily. “Could this woman have been a girlfriend? Someone he’s been seeing for a long time?”
“We have no way of knowing that yet,” Ryan said.
“Motherfucker,” Emily said racing for the phone. “Shit, what’s his number?” she said to herself and then apparently remembered because she quickly dialed. “Thomas, its Emily Devlin… Adam’s dead… Yeah, yeah, me, too. Listen, has he made any changes to his will since we did the Trust papers… Oh, thank God… What… Murdered, it’s on TV apparently… yes, yes, let’s talk later.” She hung up. “I’m sorry,” she said to Ryan and Syd, “Where were we?”
Watching you make sure you’ll get to keep all of your husband’s money, Ryan thought. “We were trying to find your husband’s killer,” Ryan said. “Do you know Zachary Stone?”
“Who’s Zachary Stone?”
“He is, or was, a lawyer in Orange County.”
Emily thought about it and then shook her head. “No. The only people I know in Orange County are Adam’s parents. He makes air conditioning ducts, I think, and she’s a big muckity-muck at one of the banks.”
“Orange County,” Syd said, jumping on the connection. “Was your husband raised in Orange County?”
“Yes.” Emily saw the excited reaction from Ryan and Syd. “Why, is that important?”
“How about Colin Wood?” asked Syd. “Did your husband know Colin Wood.”
“Colin Wood, wasn’t he the actor that was killed yesterday?”
“Yes,” Ryan said. “Did your husband know him?”
Emily considered. “You know, I actually think I remember Adam mentioning Colin Wood a few months ago. He was in a movie we saw; Adam said he knew him.”
“How old was your husband?” Syd asked.
The rapid-fire questions were unsettling Emily. “Twenty-nine.”
Syd looked at Ryan. “Same age as Colin. And Kathy Tuttle’s lawyer said he heard rumors about trouble when Colin was in high school.”
Ryan looked at Emily. “Did your husband go to school with Colin Wood?”
“I don’t know.”
Then Ryan had a brainstorm. “I don’t suppose Adam kept any of his high school yearbooks?”
Adam Devlin’s office was a mahogany and leather delight. The room smelled of cigar smoke and floor-to-ceiling bookcases encircled a custom made Parnian desk.
It took a while to find the yearbooks. Ryan enjoyed the search because many of Adam Devlin’s books were first editions. There was a shelf of American classics by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Faulkner; Adam Devlin even had a signed first edition of Moby Dick by Melville.
Then there was a shelf of classic detective novels: The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler, The Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett, The Postman Always Rings Twice, by James M. Cain. Devlin owned scores of books from the world’s most renowned detective writers: Agatha Christie, John D. MacDonald, Rex Stout, Erle Stanley Gardner, Graham Greene, Cornell Woolrich, Ross Thomas, Ruth Rendell; even signed first editions from contemporary masters like Elmore Leonard, John Grisham, John Sanford, James Lee Burke and Michael Connelly.
Ryan loved books and always dreamed of collecting first editions. Of course, he never had the money to buy them or the library necessary to house them.
Until now.
As Ryan scoured through the books, a strange feeling took hold. Now he could buy any book he wanted. He could even buy Devlin’s entire library and it wouldn’t make a dent in his money.
For the first time Ryan really understood the magnitude of his Lotto winnings.
He could have a room like this.
He could have a house like this.
He could have all the toys.
He could have anything he wanted.
He had originally planned to give away all the money, but for the first time he reconsidered. Why did he have to give it all away? If he kept just ten percent, or twenty percent, even thirty percent would still leave tens of millions for the foundation.
“Got it,” Syd said, excited. “I found the yearbooks.”
Ryan and Emily joined Syd. She knelt in a far corner of the library, pulled out a yearbook from the bottom shelf. “Here’s the last one, his senior year.” She handed it to Ryan. He flipped through the seni
or pictures, found the one for Adam Devlin. He wore a yellow sweater and a warm, open smile.
“Hasn’t changed much,” Syd said.
Emily touched the picture with her finger. “He was wearing that sweater when I met him freshman year at USC,” Emily said, tearing up, suddenly nostalgic.
She’s going to go through a lot of emotions for the next few weeks, Ryan knew. Losing someone to murder, no matter how ambivalent you might feel toward them, was always a jolting experience.
He flipped through the alphabetical pages of photos until he got to the W’s. “Bingo,” Ryan said. Colin Wood’s picture was in the middle of the page. “Mrs. Devlin,” Ryan said. “Did Adam ever mention any trouble he might have had in high school?”
She thought about it. “No, not really. He told me his dad caught him with dope one time, and his mom walked in on him masturbating. I have too, by the way, but that’s another story.”
“I’ll bet the next victim’s in that book. Hell,” Syd said. “I’ll bet the Lady in Red’s in that book.”
“Can we borrow this,” Ryan asked Emily
“Of course.”
“We’ll also need access to your husband’s address book and computer.”
“They’re both there on his desk,” Emily said, looking at Ryan as if she was seeing him for the first time. “Detective, have we met before?”
Oh, shit, Ryan thought. Here it comes. “I don’t think so.”
“Are you an actor on the side or something?”
Syd knew where she was going, too. “No,” she said. “But you may have seen him on TV recently.”
Then it hit her. “You’re the Lotto winner, right. The cop who struck it rich.”
“That’s right,” Ryan said.
“How much did you win?”
“Thirty-four million.”
Emily’s eye’s dropped to Ryan’s ring finger. “I don’t see a wedding ring.”
“Oh, he’s single,” Syd said, enjoying Ryan’s discomfort.
“Well,” Emily said, a little of her old perkiness reemerging. “I’d be foolish not to mention I’m suddenly single.”
“This guy knows everybody in sports,” Syd said, thumbing through Adam Devlin’s address book. They were driving east on Olympic from Brentwood to Hollywood, suffering the fits and starts of rush hours. “Tiger Woods, Maria Sharapova, Tony Romo, Michael Phelps. And even most A list actors: George Clooney, Tom Cruise, Will Smith and, saving the best for last… Colin Wood.”
“He may not have been on Hollywood’s A-list, but he’s certainly on mine.”
“So, how’s this for a plan?” Syd asked. “I’ll check Colin Wood’s cell phone and phone book for Adam Devlin’s number; if it’s there, then I’ll cross reference all the names in both men’s phone books looking for matching names. Then I’ll cross reference any matches to the names in Adam Devlin’s high school yearbook. And if we get lucky, maybe, just maybe, we can get the names of a few more potential victims.”
Ryan looked at Syd, impressed. “Brilliant.”
“Look, I know you need to meet Anne to go over stuff for the Lotto tomorrow, so drop me at the station and I’ll call you if I find a match.”
“No,” Ryan said, instinctively. “Fuck the Lotto. This is too important. I’ll help.”
“Don’t be silly, Ryan, I can do this alone. And you don’t really mean that, do you? Fuck the Lotto?” Please say yes, Syd thought.
Ryan did feel guilty leaving Syd alone to work. All his adult life, work was priority one. But, at the same time, he was only a few hours from getting the Lotto money and surprisingly found himself focused on all the things that could go wrong. What if he loses the ticket? What if the tow truck driver shows up at the presentation? What if the 7-Eleven clerk is there and says Ryan didn’t buy the ticket? What if they find the video of the tow truck driver buying the ticket? What if he oversleeps? What if he has a car accident in the morning and misses the presentation? What if Anne steals the money from him?
What if? What if? What if?
The growing obsession should have been enough warning to Ryan that his life would probably be much better off if he didn’t take the money. If he never took the money.
But he was far too gone for that.
In spite of himself, Ryan was dreaming about first edition books and hand crafted desks. He’d noticed all the things in the Devlin house: the plush carpets, state of the art appliances, beautiful furniture. And the familiar smells of freshly polished furniture and fresh flowers. Sights, sounds and smells that all reminded Ryan of his father’s house.
Ryan may not have cared much about money growing up, but living in luxury sure leaves a mark. His childhood memories of that house were like comfort food for the brain. His bedroom was filled with toys as a boy, gadgets and the latest computers as a teenager. His meals were prepared by Vivian, their black housekeeper. And with the musical chair nature of his father’s wives, Vivian was the only constant female influence on young Ryan’s life. The house was always clean, the bathrooms spotless, windows and mirrors sparkled, and furniture glistened. Each new wife would want to redecorate, so the carpets, drapes, pictures and furniture changed as fast as his father’s wedding rings. But it was always home.
After his father lost all his money and went to jail, Ryan rejected that part of his life. It wouldn’t take much time on a shrink’s couch to find out how betrayed Ryan felt by his father’s fraud. His father putting money before everything, including Ryan. So Ryan enjoyed his monastic life of a small apartment and forty-year-old car. Money wasn’t an issue because he didn’t have any, didn’t make any, and didn’t want any.
But that was all a lie, Ryan realized. It had to be because Ryan found himself more and more obsessed with the Lotto ticket. How it could change his life, how it was going to change the life of so many of his friends and family.
So the answer to Syd’s simple question, You don’t really mean that, do you? Fuck the Lotto? was simple. “No, Syd, I don’t mean it. It’s become too important to too many people.”
Like your money grubbing ex-wife, Anne, thought Syd. And Tony Ramirez and his mother’s meatballs, Chen and his mother’s mortgage, Katz’s fishing boat, your fucking stepbrother’s horses and sadly, you too, my dear Ryan.
But Syd said none of this. What she did say was, “Exactly. So go to your meeting with Anne; I’ll call you if I come up with something. And I think I better sleep at home, tonight,” Syd said. “I promised Eleanor I’d meet her for dinner and it might go late.” Eleanor had been Syd’s partner at Vice, and they got together every couple of weeks.
“Okay,” Ryan said. “But I’ll miss you.”
“Me too, you.” But Syd wasn’t planning on meeting Eleanor for dinner. She had other plans for this evening.
Plans she hoped Ryan never found out about.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Blake Hunter rarely dated. There were much easier ways to get laid and he couldn’t stand the hassle of wining, dining and being charming just to get into some girls panties. Hookers were expensive, but as actor Charlie Sheen said, “I don’t pay them for sex, I pay them to leave.”
Blake hated being stuck with some girl in his bed all night, then having to be civil in the morning, giving them coffee or a muffin and, worst of all, driving them home.
He hadn’t had a real girlfriend since college and that was just fine. A long-term relationship wasn’t on his radar right now. And though plenty of young girls wanted to date him — he was, after all, the Prince of the paparazzi and therefore able to get ambitious actresses plenty of face time in the world’s most-read magazines — Blake decided it just wasn’t worth the effort. For a thousand bucks, he could do whatever he wanted to whatever flavor of luscious young lady he desired; professional women who were only there to satisfy their client with every sensual trick they knew, and having relieved him of all his precious bodily fluids, would happily leave.
So Blake’s deigning to have the blonde in the red bathing suit come back to
night was unusual. No doubt he could order up a girl just like her from Millie, his madam. But there was something intriguing about the girl, and it was always fun to actually seduce a woman. It was thrilling when a woman surrendered herself to you with genuine passion. Besides, the blonde was not only going to cook him dinner but she was driving herself over, so getting rid of her should be easy.
Blake worked at his computer, checking shots of Jennifer Lopez nipple slip while getting out of a swimming pool, when he noticed the time, six fifty-five. Shit, she was due at seven. He saved his work on Photoshop and hurried into the bedroom. He grabbed the remote, clicked on the TV and started changing clothes as the news wrapped up. He was in his closet slipping out of shorts and into a pair of khakis, sandals and a Grateful Dead tee shirt when his synapses plowed through the meaningless blah blah blah of the newscast and focused in on the words “…Adam Devlin’s murder…”
Blake stepped into the bedroom in time to see the surveillance video from the Bel Air Regent Hotel and hear: “Police say this woman is a suspect in not only Adam Devlin’s murder, but also the murder of Colin Wood two nights ago and Orange County attorney Zachary Stone earlier this week. If you know the identity or whereabouts of this Lady in Red, please call the number at the bottom of your screen.”
Blake hit the pause button, freezing the image on his DVR.
Adam Devlin was dead, too? Murdered just like Colin? Blake had spoken to Adam just six months ago. One of Adam’s clients, a beautiful ice skater with four Olympic Gold Medals and a squeaky-clean-girl-next-door rep that had netted her millions in endorsements had been photographed giving the finger to an obnoxious paparazzi, Joel, as a matter of fact, Blake’s number one shooter.
Adam called Blake, asked him to kill the picture as a favor. Blake always liked Adam; they had great times in high school. So Blake did his old friend a favor and killed the picture. Now Adam was dead, too. What the fuck was going on?
Blake studied the frozen image of the blonde on his TV and a cold chill ran through him. It looked like that girl he met this morning in the red bikini. Her hair was down in the video and pulled back in a ponytail today, but it sure looked like the same girl who washed up on his beach.
In Cold Blonde Page 18