Cruz thought that Sherry Rollins looked about thirty, although it was getting harder to tell women’s ages in this town. She was wearing a floppy hat and a skinny black dress with white detailing; she looked like a young executive at one of the studios.
Both men shook hands with her, said their names, and the blond-haired woman moved her dog from a chair and invited them to sit down.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “The lobster salad is quite good.”
“Something to drink, maybe,” Del Rio said.
The waitress trotted over and took an order of beer for Del Rio, tea for Cruz. Then Cruz took the lead.
“Ms. Rollins.”
“Sherry,” she said.
“Sherry. We’re investigating the death of Shelby Cushman. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.”
“A break-in, wasn’t it? A burglar broke into the house and shot her.”
“Actually, that’s not right,” Del Rio said. “All the indications are that Shelby Cushman was murdered with premeditation. Nothing was taken. Not a thing.”
“That’s insane,” said the woman. “I’m sure I heard it was a robbery. Why else would someone kill Shelby?”
“How well did you know her?” Cruz asked.
“I’ve known her a few years,” she said. “I wouldn’t say I was a close friend.”
“But she used to work for you, didn’t she? She was one of your escorts.”
Sherry Rollins didn’t miss a beat. “Not since she got married. Last few months, she was working for someone else. That’s what I heard, anyway. I’m sorry—this is very upsetting.”
“It would really help if you’d tell us all about it,” said Cruz. “And don’t leave anything out. Try to hold in your grief.”
“I don’t know any more than what I’ve told you.”
“You do, Sherry,” said Del Rio, his voice all business, no kidding around now. “You know a lot more. And I’ll tell you what. Help us out here, and we won’t go to the police. We won’t tell them why we think you’re a suspect in Shelby Cushman’s murder.”
“Suspect? That is absurd. Why would I want to kill Shelby?”
“I don’t know why, but the police might like to question you about that—and any number of other things.”
The woman in the hat gave him an icy look, but he had her, and he knew it.
Sometimes Del Rio really liked his job.
So far, he was giving this day five stars.
Chapter 40
AT JUST AFTER FOUR, the sun was a dull white disk glowing in a pewter gray sky. The reservoir was covered with algae, and the trees were large humps, massed like woolly mammoths, making the whole place seem prehistoric.
If you squinted, you couldn’t see the city of Los Angeles at all. You could pretend the rush of traffic on Rowena was just a bitter wind.
Justine Smith’s heels sank into the ground as she walked down the slope toward the cordon of crime scene tape that stretched from tree to tree, a bright yellow ring in the smog and the gloom.
Lieutenant Nora Cronin lifted the tape for Justine, but instead of making a snarky remark, she just said hi. Something had changed, and Justine had an idea what it might be. Cronin now felt so desperate about the case, she would accept any help.
Even from Private. Even from Justine.
“Chief Fescoe has been looking for you,” Cronin said. “He’s here.”
Justine nodded, then continued on toward the scrum of cops huddled around the body. At six-foot-three, Mickey Fescoe stood a bit above the others. It was rare to see the chief of police at a crime scene, but she guessed that Fescoe too was feeling the heat.
Thirteen girls had died in just over two years. Fescoe had been promoted in the middle of this murder spree, but now the bad news had caught up with him and threatened to swamp him. The parents of the murdered girls had formed an action committee and were on the television news every night. The public was scared and inflamed.
Justine put her hand on the police chief’s arm.
Fescoe turned and said, “Justine. I’m glad you’re here. Take a look.” He handed her a pair of latex gloves. “It’s escalating, getting worse.”
Justine stooped beside the body of Marguerite Esperanza. There was an extension cord knotted into a noose and pulled tightly around the seventeen-year-old girl’s neck.
The loose end of the cord was taped to her left hand, which was positioned at an odd angle above her head. The really weird part was that the girl had been shot at least twice—in the chest and in the face.
The scene had been made to look as though the girl had hanged herself. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Once again, this felt like a different killer.
Justine asked, “Any witnesses? Any anything?”
“It looks like she was killed right here,” Fescoe told her. “The ground is all chewed up, like there was some kind of scuffle. We found blood on a pile of leaves. Hers or her killer’s. Maybe she managed to rake the scum with her fingernails. Let’s hope so. Give the good guys a break for a change.”
“What about her handbag? Was it found?”
“No, it’s gone, along with her shoes. So there’s your signature. A couple of kids found her and called it in. They said the place was empty when they got here almost an hour ago.”
Justine touched the girl’s cold cheek. Marguerite had been pretty, and more than that, she looked strong. There were bruises on her arms and face. She’d taken an awful beating before she’d gone down.
“The pose is obviously theatrical,” Justine said to Fescoe. “This MO is different than the other kills, which, unfortunately, is the hallmark of this string of killings. I wonder why was she killed so soon after Connie Yu? And why shoot her, then pose her as if she had been hanged?”
Chapter 41
SCYLLA’S LUXURY APARTMENT was on Burton Way. His building was one of four high-end residences in a row, each about six stories tall.
Jason’s place was on the top floor, with a wraparound terrace. It had a wide view of the hills. He had never had real friends, but the apartment helped to get him superficial ones and even dates.
Jason stood on the terrace now and watched the city lights merge seamlessly with the city sky and the whole of the universe. The view was the shits, but for once, its beauty failed to engage his sense of awe.
He went back inside, turned on the TV, watched the Boston Celtics get pounded by the Lakers. He didn’t give a damn who won the stupid game so adored by men without any imagination or flair in their humdrum lives.
Jason had a lot on his mind, but he was so high on painkillers, he doubted his ability to reason. He’d have to explain to his coworkers about the tape across his nose, the black eyes, his arm bandaged. He wondered what he was going to say, how he would spin it.
Meanwhile, Morbid was coming over to talk to him about a second chance. They’d texted back and forth, Morbid explaining to Scylla how embarrassed he was, since he was the one who’d recruited him.
There was an unspecified threat, but clearly an offer of redemption. As a favor to Scylla, Morbid had convinced Steem to agree to an unscheduled night on the town so that Scylla could erase the black mark against him.
Morbid had told him that they had a pretty little pigeon already picked out, and Scylla would have to take care of her this very night.
“So soon?” Jason had said.
“You have a problem with it?” Morbid asked.
“No. Tonight’s good.”
The doorbell rang, and Jason got up off the sofa. He hobbled to the foyer and pressed the intercom button.
“It’s me,” said Morbid. “And Steem.”
“Come on up.”
He was going to kill another girl—only this time it didn’t seem like such fun and games.
Chapter 42
SCYLLA OPENED HIS front door, and Steemcleena entered, Morbid right behind him. They seemed purposeful and serious, and Jason got the feeling that the two of them had been longtime buddies, maybe even outside
the game. Actually, it was cool that they were letting him in at all.
“How’s the nose?” Morbid asked, taking a leather lounge chair, sprawling in it, as Steem looked over the bookshelves.
“It’s okay. You guys want a beer?” Jason asked.
“Not for me, thanks. Nice place, Scylla. The view is great from here,” Steem said as he headed toward the sliding door that led out to the terrace.
“Let me get that,” Jason said, limping after him. He unlatched the door and pulled it open. “It’s the shits—like a thirty-mile view,” he said.
Steemcleena whistled. “Hey, Morbid. You should see this. Come out here, man. It’s like a movie. Cinematic.”
Jason moved aside the metal bistro chairs so that all three of them could line up at the terrace wall and share Los Angeles.
Steemcleena said to Jason, “See that?” He pointed to a van across the street, the one with the Comcast logo. “That’s redemption for you, partner. Tonight’s ride. You believe you’re getting a second chance?”
“Sure I do,” said Scylla.
“Well, you’re not, asshole. You’re tonight’s pigeon.”
Steemcleena bent quickly. He grabbed Scylla by the knees. At the same time, Morbid pushed his shoulders so that Jason was lying across the wall, head and chest over the sheer cliff of the terrace. Below him was sixty feet of air.
“Don’t,” Jason cried out. “Please, just put me down. Please?”
“Don’t whine, you little twerp. Just spread your wings and fly.”
Jason’s belly scraped concrete as he was shoved a few more inches over the wall. Cars sped by on the street below. Blood rushed to his brain, and his mind spun. What could he say? That this was the most incredible game of all?
Jason’s mind kicked off disconnected images. His father’s hand holding a pen. The priest who gave him first communion. The look on Marguerite Esperanza’s face while she fought for her life.
His own voice was loud inside his head.
I’m not supposed to die this way.
I’m not supposed to die at all.
He was too scared to scream as he dropped over the rail, and he clearly heard Steem yell, “Pigeon!”
Chapter 43
TO BE HONEST, my recurring dream was sometimes more real than reality. More focused, more magnified, and usually in high-definition color.
I ran across the broken landscape toward the back ramp of the CH-46. The powerful helicopter was actually the easiest for the Afghans to bring down—their heat-seeking missiles would rather lock on to its engines than the sun. Men screamed in pain, and the crump sound of mortars exploding rang in my ears. I stood at the lip of the ramp, felt horror as I looked inside and saw—
Jesus, I was ripped from the dream, from some kind of closure, by a loud humming noise.
My eyes flashed open, and I saw my cell phone vibrating less than two feet from my face.
I palmed the phone and stared at it, my heart still thudding. The time was 9:35. The caller ID read “R. Del Rio.”
I put the phone to my ear.
“Rick. I overslept. I never do that.”
“That’s all right. I have to tell you something, buddy. You’re not going to like it.”
I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My knees felt shaky, as if I’d really been running over rock and rubble. My mouth tasted like gunpowder.
“Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“It’s about Shelby,” Rick said. “She wasn’t exactly who you thought she was.”
Now I was wide fucking awake. “What does that mean? What did you find out? Let me have it, Rick.”
“She was a hooker,” Del Rio blurted. “More of a high-class party girl. Whatever. And Jack, she went back to work after she married Cushman.”
“That’s crazy. Who said that about Shelby?”
“Jack. Jack, calm down. I wouldn’t lie to you. Cruz and I talked to some credible sources. Get dressed. I’ll be out front of your house in fifteen minutes. We’ve got a witness to interview.”
Ten minutes later, I threw my briefcase into the backseat of one of the fleet cars, a Mercedes S class. Rick was at the wheel. He handed me a container of coffee.
“Shelby was not a hooker. I’m sure she wasn’t. That’s bullshit,” I said.
“You think I’m lying? Why would I lie to you, Jack?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Buckle up,” he said. “Let’s get to the bottom of this. Let’s find out who murdered her and why they did it.”
Del Rio drove the car through the smog-gray morning up into the hills. The neighborhood got richer as we climbed.
Mansions worth millions were set on lush grounds with staggering views. Del Rio slowed the car and pulled up to the high wrought-iron gates in front of one of the great houses in Beverly Hills.
Since the early 1940s, this mansion on Benedict Canyon Road had been owned by a notorious gossip columnist, an Oscar-winning film director, and a Saudi prince.
Now the sprawling Mediterranean-style villa was masquerading as “the Benedict Spa.”
But I knew, the LAPD knew, and men of means from all over the world knew it too—this cliff-hanging spread was a glorified whorehouse, currently occupied by Glenda Treat, madam to the stars and star makers. The landlord was none other than Ray Noccia.
I heard myself say to Rick, “You’re not telling me that Shelby worked here?”
Rick nodded once.
“Ms. Treat isn’t expecting us,” he said. “We have to ask her about Shelby, let it come from the horse’s mouth. I suggest you turn on that charm thing you do so well.”
“I don’t feel too charming this morning.”
“Just work it,” Del Rio said.
Chapter 44
THERE WAS AN unlocked gate maybe twenty yards down a hill from the so-called spa’s main entrance, and I opened it. With Del Rio behind me, I bushwhacked through Glenda Treat’s side yard, batting away branches as I made my way toward the pool in back.
I stopped at the edge of a flagstone terrace to let Rick catch up, and at the same time, I took in the scene.
An assortment of slender, very pretty young women lay in powder blue chaises, their feet pointing toward a circular swimming pool. I was reminded of an hors d’oeuvres platter. Chicks and dips.
“That’s her,” said Del Rio, jutting his chin toward a forty-something woman with a white-blond ponytail. The visor shading her eyes made her look like a dealer in Vegas.
The moment I fastened my eyes on Glenda Treat, she looked up and saw the two of us.
Ms. Treat had hardly aged since she’d been in the news as “the Don’s Madam” several years back. Arrested for pandering, she had threatened to open her little black book to the media: a long list of leading men, power brokers, and politicians. In the end, she had backed away from the tabloids and quietly done her five-year stretch. When she got out, the story goes, Ray Noccia had presented her with the keys to this place in appreciation for her stiff upper lip.
I tried to imagine Shelby with Ray Noccia and Glenda Treat, and it just didn’t compute. Shelby wasn’t hard and she wasn’t sleazy, not the Shelby I knew, anyway. The Shelby I knew had a funny line for every occasion and would give you the shirt off her back. So maybe that was the problem.
Glenda Treat uncurled gracefully from her lounge chair and came toward me and Rick, sizing us up—and I did the same to her. She obviously liked her cosmetic surgery: green eyes stretched tight, Hollywood thin, pillowy breasts. I wondered if she could actually swim in her pool, or if those artificial flotation devices kept her bobbing at the surface.
She smiled her famously winning smile, which had always seemed a little forlorn to me.
She thought we were johns, of course.
I introduced Rick and myself, then handed her my card.
“I’m not wearing my glasses,” she said.
I told her I was with Private. She knew the firm. Everybody does. She had even heard of me.
�
�What can I do for you gentlemen, then?” Glenda said. Her smile had lost some of its gleam. “Manicure? Seaweed wrap?”
“I need some information on Shelby Cushman.”
The remnants of her welcoming smile faded to a distant memory.
“I hear she’s dead,” said the madam. “Excuse me.”
She showed me her back and a long stretch of thigh as she bent at the waist to whisper into the ear of a twenty-something brunette at poolside. The brunette picked up a cell phone, then walked away to make the call.
Glenda returned to say, “I have to ask you to leave my property. It’s private as well.”
“Give me one minute, okay?” I said. “This is strictly personal for me. I’m working for Shelby’s husband. She was a friend of mine.”
“Mr. Morgan, Shelby was a fine masseuse. She could do four or five massages a day and make every one feel special. She started working here after her marriage. I recall that she said she was bored being home alone all day. About what happened to her? All I know is what I read in the LA Times. Of course, we all know what a rag that is.”
“Did anyone want to hurt Shelby?” I asked. “Anyone make any threats?”
“She was popular,” Glenda said. “Miss Congeniality. Everybody liked her, and she thought she was their friend.”
She addressed her last remark over my right shoulder. I turned to see three men coming through French doors out to the patio.
They were casually dressed, with bulges under their armpits. I recognized two of them from the night I met Ray Noccia in my driveway.
One of them, the guy in the lead, was wearing a black shirt, black pants, black jacket, no tie. He locked eyes with me, and I saw that he remembered me too.
“What are you doing here, Morgan? You have an appointment for a massage?”
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