The First Cut

by Dianne Emley

He returned the photo, his eyes inscrutable.

  “A witness said the two of you looked like you were flirting.”

  He chuckled. “Flirting? I’m a married man, Detective.”

  “Anything happen on your way out of Pasadena that day?”

  “One of your finest gave me a ticket because the windows on my Hummer were tinted too dark. I had that taken care of weeks ago.”

  “You argued with the officer.”

  “I had a few choice words for him. It was a bullshit ticket written by an overzealous cop.”

  He said to Kissick with a wink, “Letting the little lady run things, huh?”

  Vining was not deterred. “Where’s your wife?”

  He gave a languid shrug. “Home or shopping or having her nails done…Whatever wives with plenty of money and time on their hands do.”

  He looked over his shoulder at the portrait. “She’s my queen. As long as she’s happy, I’m happy.”

  “Does she know about your past?”

  “Would you care to be more specific?”

  “Your first wife has a restraining order against you.”

  “That nonsense. She did that to get her picture back in the gossip rags. She’s a publicity hound and has a hard time dealing with the cruel fact that she’s no longer the hottest woman in the room. What you don’t know is the judge who signed off on the restraining order is the friend of a friend of hers.”

  “A year ago, you were sued for sexual harassment by two cocktail waitresses who worked for you.”

  “Both settled out of court. They only did it for the money. Which they got.” He frowned at the desk as if thinking. “Wait a minute…That woman you’re asking about. The one I talked to by the pool that day. She’s the police officer who was murdered, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Cops.” Movement of his chest showed he was laughing, but he didn’t make a sound. “I got crosswise of a couple of women who had it in for me and someone accuses me of flirting with a police officer who got herself killed. That’s all it took to bring you all the way from Pasadena to my place of business and imply that I’m a rapist and a murderer. Maybe it’s just me, but don’t you think you’re making a stretch?”

  Vining didn’t answer.

  “All I can say is I feel sorry for that poor dead woman if I’m the best suspect you’ve come up with.”

  He left an opening for them to respond but they remained silent.

  He laughed aloud. “I’m a hero in Pasadena. There’s a picture of the chief shaking my hand.” He gestured toward the framed photograph. “First, I get a ticket on my way out of your fair city because of the dangerous crime of having my car windows too dark. A complete waste of my time and money. Now, you two show up. One thing’s for double damn sure, I’m not ever setting foot in Pasadena again.”

  He gave them a questioning look. “Did Lieutenant Beltran approve this interview? If he doesn’t know about it, he will in about five minutes.”

  He stood and they followed. “If there’s nothing more, Detectives, I have things to do. Would you mind seeing yourselves out?”

  “Thank you for your time,” Vining said.

  “The pleasure was all mine. Good luck on your investigation. In my humble opinion, you’re gonna need it.”

  “SMOOTH SON OF A BITCH,” KISSICK SAID. HE AND VINING WERE STANDING BESIDE his car across the street. “What’s wrong with that picture?”

  “We didn’t announce to the media that Frankie was raped.”

  “Interesting choice of words he used to describe Frankie: The police officer who got herself killed.”

  “Like it was her fault.” Vining looked at the sign on the club’s roof. “Cocky bastard. Reign. Thinks he’s the freaking king. Calling his wife ‘my queen.’ Did you catch that?”

  She was pacing back and forth.

  “Calm down, big girl. You’re breathing through your mouth.”

  She inhaled deeply. “He did it, Jim. I feel it.”

  “He’s definitely worth a closer look.”

  “I’m telling you he murdered Frankie.” She spun on her heel and walked away. After a few steps, she returned. “I know, I know. There’s that little issue called probable cause.”

  “I’ll try for warrants for his dental records, the nightclub, and his house.”

  She stared across the street at the club, her hands planted on her hips. “There’s bound to be a gun in that joint. Arrest him on a violation of the stay away order while we get the warrants in place. Bet we could get one of his employees to cop to the presence of a gun. Send out a cute female undercover, get somebody talking.”

  Kissick unlocked his car. “I’ll call Early about the warrants while we head out to the Valley to visit Mrs. Lesley.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  Vining walked to her car. The trembling beneath her ribs would not subside.

  T H I R T Y - O N E

  P USSYCAT OPENED HER EYES AND SAW SUNLIGHT FILTERING THROUGH cracks around the plywood covering the windows. The clock on the nightstand said it was one p.m. She had slept for eleven hours. She felt a weight on her chest and looked down to see her dog lying there, watching her with shiny doll’s eyes.

  At her mistress’s glance, Mignon leaped up and began licking Pussycat’s face.

  “Hi, sweetie. Mommy slept late. I’m sorry. Did you go pee pee on the newspapers? I hope so. Daddy will kill you if you did it on the rug.”

  Pussycat’s offhand comment gave her pause. She remembered Lisa Shipp and her stomach roiled. It wasn’t a bad dream. It was real.

  She sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. The door that separated the bedroom from the sitting room was open. Her mind was still hazy, but she thought she’d closed it when she’d gone to bed.

  She saw a tray on the console in the sitting room. On it was an insulated coffee carafe and a silver dome. A spray of small white roses was in a bud vase. She’d been so deeply asleep, she hadn’t awakened when he’d entered. She was certain her husband had brought the tray and not Lolly. The housekeeper would have been told not to go near Pussycat’s suite of rooms, and she would obey. Lolly wouldn’t even question it.

  Pussycat pushed herself up in bed. The dog nudged her hand to be petted. Pussycat gave in.

  “What would I do without you, Mignon? You’re my only friend.”

  She threw back the bedcovers. Her hand flew to her mouth at what she saw there.

  Laid out on the bed beside her was the shirt from Frankie Lynde’s uniform, buttoned to the neck, the brass shield and name badge still in place from the last time Frankie had worn it.

  Pussycat scurried off the bed. The dog began sniffing the shirt and Pussycat lurched to grab her up into her arms. She had wondered what he had done with Frankie’s clothes. Cradling the dog against her with one hand, she circled the bed, stretched forward, grabbed the bedcovers, and flung them all the way back.

  The uniform was presented as if Frankie were wearing it, complete with the equipment belt buckled around the waist. The gun was in the holster. Stuck beneath the belt buckle was a folded sheet of paper.

  Pussycat set down the dog and tugged out the paper, not wanting to touch the uniform. It was a note from him written in longhand. She always had a hard time deciphering his spidery handwriting.

  “Good morning, Sunshine. Hope you had a good rest. I miss seeing that beautiful smile I fell in love with. I brought you coffee and your favorite breakfast—eggs Benedict. Fresh strawberries, too. They were so beautiful at the farmer’s market, I had to buy them for you. And I spiked the coffee for you—the way you like it. I want you to eat, ma cherie. I worry about you.

  “I’ll bring dinner from the club. Put on Frankie’s uniform and be waiting for me. The three of us will have a bite to eat and then we’ll party. I’ll bring Miss Tina, too. Whether you get to party with her has to do with how you behave today. Even if you don’t care what happens to you, I know you care about your sister and your little niece and nephew and, of c
ourse, our sweet Lisa.”

  She opened her hands and the letter fluttered to the ground. She collapsed onto the bed and began to sob, her hands convulsively grabbing the bedcovers and the uniform. The dog began yipping, responding to her distress.

  Pussycat writhed and moaned, the uniform crumpling beneath her. She felt something hard beneath her thigh, something cold and dense. She recoiled, realizing she was on top of Frankie’s gun.

  Wiping tears from her face, she sat upright and tentatively touched it, wrapping her fingers around the butt. Her hand felt feverish against the soothing cool steel. She tugged. The holster securely held it in place. She took hold of the holster in her left hand and pulled with her right. The gun came free. It was lighter than she thought it would be.

  Pussycat knew how to shoot guns. Her father was a hunter and gun collector. She’d been handling guns since she was ten. She looked inside the base. He’d taken out the clip of bullets. Of course he had.

  She looked at the empty slot at the bottom of the handle and started to cry again. She put the gun to her head anyway. Suddenly, she pulled it away. She had to stop thinking that way. It was a blessing that he’d taken the bullets. What would killing herself accomplish? Who would save Lisa if she weren’t around? Who would tell the story about what happened to Frankie?

  She spotted a framed photograph of him on the dresser across the room. He was the one she should direct her venom against. He was the source of her problems, including that monkey on her back, that bitch Miss Tina.

  She took aim and squeezed the trigger.

  The gun felt like it exploded in her hands when it went off, shattering the glass and hurling the photograph to the floor. The kick jerked the gun from her grasp.

  She screamed and buried her head under her arms.

  He’d taken out the clip, but hadn’t cleared the chamber.

  She dared to peek at his shattered face. It was only a photograph, yet she was shaking.

  She fell to her knees and prayed.

  VINING AND KISSICK DROVE TO THE LESLEY HOME IN ENCINO, BUT NO ONE ANSWERED the gate. They were debating their next move when John Lesley drove up in his black Hummer.

  “Hello again, Detectives. What part of, ‘I didn’t have anything to do with your dead cop’ don’t you understand?”

  “Where’s your wife?” Kissick asked.

  Lesley put his hand to his ear. “I believe I hear Lieutenant Beltran calling you home. Back to sweet, stupid Pasadena. Home to the Rose Parade, the Rose Bowl, and a police department that doesn’t know their rosy asses from their elbows.”

  “You finished?” Kissick asked. “Get it all out? Feel better?”

  “Where’s your wife?” Vining asked.

  “I told you she is not well.”

  “You told us she was shopping or having her nails done,” Vining said.

  “Whatever.”

  “Why don’t we go inside and talk?” Kissick said.

  “Where’s your warrant?” Lesley smirked.

  Vining sidled closer to him. She detected his scent. The way it made her heart beat faster both disgusted and encouraged her. “Why won’t you let us inside just to talk, John? There are no secrets. There’s nothing to hide. We don’t know our asses from our elbows anyway, so what difference does it make?”

  “You’re on my property and I’d like you to leave before I call the real cops. And oh, by the way, I have friends there, too.”

  KISSICK AND SERGEANT EARLY BRIEFED CASPERS AND JILL HENDRICKS, A VICE detective, who would go undercover to Reign that night to attempt to learn whether Lesley possessed firearms. Two officers were dispatched undercover to surveil Lesley’s home. If any of them saw Pussycat Lesley, they would take her into custody for questioning. Same thing went for Lesley’s domestic help.

  Vining and Ruiz would drive to Pomona to talk with Pussycat Lesley’s family.

  Making a quick stop by her desk, Vining glanced at memos that had landed there in her absence. She retrieved Frankie’s grade school photo from her pocket and was looking at it when Ruiz came by.

  “Ready?” His lips were set in a line.

  Vining didn’t know if it was the trip to Pomona in traffic or the amount of time he’d be confined in a car with her that had ticked him off. Probably both.

  She stuck Frankie’s photo on top of Emily’s school portrait and left to join Ruiz, who was already standing by the elevators.

  Vining didn’t want to make the two-hour round-trip drive in stony silence. She offered to drive and that slightly defrosted Ruiz. The freeway traffic was light, which helped, too.

  “Tony, how did you make out tracking down Frankie’s arrests?”

  “Other than those two guys Caspers talked about who had alibis, everyone’s either in jail, dead, moved out of state, or are honest taxpaying family men who got caught soliciting prostitution.”

  “It’s the only time I’ve ever done this, Officer.” She affected a distraught voice. “My wife has cancer—”

  “My wife left me.”

  “My wife had a sex change operation.”

  They laughed.

  “Then you call up their rap sheet and see this is the twentieth time they’ve gone down for solicitation.”

  “But you live for this, Vining.”

  “I do. You grind through hundreds of hours of bullshit living for the day when those cuffs go click. It’s like childbirth. You forget the pain the moment they put that little baby in your arms.”

  “That’s beautiful, Nan.”

  “Didn’t know I had a poetic side, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “How’s Caspers doing?”

  “Pretty good, as long as he can keep his dick in his pants.”

  “I heard he dated a couple of girls he arrested.”

  Ruiz imitated Caspers. “I pinched them for misdemeanors. Nothing big.”

  “Glad to know he has his standards. It’s not just about having two legs and a hole.” Vining shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t care if they have two legs.”

  Ruiz chortled. “There was this time we were all at Manny Wilson’s retirement party. Caspers was all over Wilson’s daughter. Wilson got pissed and Chase and a couple of guys had to separate them. Course, we’d all had plenty to drink by then.”

  “Did she have two legs?”

  “Who? Wilson’s daughter?” Ruiz guffawed. “Yeah. She did.”

  “Speaking of John Chase, you ever roll with him?”

  “The Chaser. Yeah. A couple of times.”

  “I was his FTO. I haven’t ridden with him since. Does he still carry a micro recorder on the street?”

  “Hell yeah. He’s the CYA man.”

  “Sure would like to know if he got John Lesley arguing with him on tape. Heard Chase is in Cabo until Monday. No cell service where he is.”

  “Call him at his hotel.”

  “I don’t know where he’s staying.”

  “I bet Caspers knows. He runs with that group.”

  Ruiz called Caspers on his cell phone. John Chase was staying at the El Conquistador. Caspers offered to give Chase a call.

  PUSSYCAT’S PARENTS AND TWO YOUNGER BROTHERS LIVED IN A MODEST, NEAT home in a nice area of Claremont. Her mother was petite and had likely been pretty but had aged early and not well. Her father was overweight with slicked-back hair and a beard. He volunteered that he was on disability from an accident at his job as a warehouse foreman. He spent his time restoring and showing classic Chevrolets and was delighted to show Ruiz the cars in his garage workshop. Her brothers seemed typical good high school kids growing up in difficult circumstances. Vining knew something about that.

  “You call her Pamela, not Pussycat?” Ruiz asked.

  The mother became grim. “That’s her stage name. She’s Pam to us.”

  The family hadn’t noticed anything unusual about Pam over the past weeks. But then she called a couple of days ago.

  “She seemed upset,” her mother confided.

  Her father
waved off the comment. “She was fine. You’re always looking for trouble. John Lesley was the best thing that happened to Pam. He gives her everything. She’s living large. Have you seen that house? The land alone is worth a mint.”

  He frowned and shook his head as if it was too much to comprehend.

  Vining looked around at the high-end electronic equipment and noted the new cars in the driveway.

  “Does Pam help you out financially?” Vining asked.

  All her father would admit to was, “It’s happened.”

  ON THE WAY BACK TO PASADENA, THEY STOPPED AT PUSSYCAT’S SISTER’S HOUSE in West Covina. Rosemary was three years younger than Pussycat and similar physically, but not as pretty. They didn’t need to press her for opinions.

  “Something is very wrong with Pam, but she wouldn’t tell me what it was when I had lunch with her last week. She was teary. She said her dog was sick, losing weight, and not eating, and the vet can’t figure out why. I told her I didn’t believe her. That there was something going on with her, not the dog. I asked, ‘Is he hitting you?’ I know he tries to keep her from seeing me.”

  “What did she say?” Vining took notes.

  “She said, ‘Oh no. John would never do that. John’s great to me.’” Rosemary showed her disgust.

  “When did you last talk to her?”

  “Day before yesterday. She called. Sounded like she’d been crying again. Said she had a cold.”

  “Why did she call?”

  “To say hi. To let me know she was okay.”

  “Did she normally call just to let you know she’s okay?”

  “Not really. There’s usually more to the conversation. What are you doing? I’m doing this. When do you want to get together? You know, like that. It was strange. She definitely didn’t sound right.”

  “Could you call her for us? Just sound normal without mentioning that we’re here?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Umm…Sure.”

  Rosemary tried both Pussycat’s private line and cell phone. She left messages.

  “See, that’s what’s weird. Pam lives by her cell phone. She always has it with her and leaves it on.”