by Dianne Emley
Vining blinked when she saw her mother take a wad of twenties from her wallet.
TWELVE
Carrying bags of groceries, Patsy led the way across the broad front porch of Granny’s modest clapboard house in Alhambra, a city on Pasadena’s southern border. Granny’s baby-blue Delta 88 was parked in the cracked cement driveway.
The yard was in decent shape, as Granny’s eldest child, Vernon Jr., paid for a weekly gardening service. Dozens of plants in mismatched pots were crammed onto the wooden porch railing, mostly hearty succulents and geraniums, sprouted from clippings and planted in plain dirt from the yard.
“Something has to be done about that peeling paint.” Vining stopped on the walkway before going up the steps to look at the white trim on the pitched porch roof of the yellow house. “Around the windows, too.”
“I can paint it.” Kissick stood behind her, holding a plastic grocery bag in one hand and the cardboard carrier with the bottles of chardonnay in the other.
“That’s kind of you to offer, Jim, but I’ll speak to my uncle and aunt about it. They need to stay involved. They do, but I have to nudge them.”
“What do they do and where do they live?”
“Uncle Vernon, the oldest, is a production manager at a corrugated cardboard box manufacturing plant outside Wenatchee, Washington. His wife’s a part-time school nurse. They’re both about to retire. The youngest is Marie, who’s a high school history teacher outside San Diego.”
“I’m the middle child.” Patsy kept her thumb on the doorbell as she pressed her face against the panes of glass in the door, covered on the inside with lacy curtains. She’d set her two grocery bags at her feet. “Couldn’t you guess?”
“My aunt and uncle have talked about moving Granny closer to one of them,” Vining said, “but I’d hate to move her from the home where she’s lived for sixty years until we absolutely had to.”
Kissick raised his hand with the shopping bag he was holding and pointed at Patsy behind her back.
Vining leaned to speak into his ear. “Exactly. She lives paycheck to paycheck, and here’s my grandmother living alone in this house and she needs help.” The words spilled out faster as her anger rose. “My mother might spend a second thinking about someone other than—”
“I know what you two are whispering about,” Patsy said without turning. “Finally!” she exclaimed when Granny opened the front door.
“What are you all doing here?” Granny’s silver-blue hair was teased and shaped into a French twist in the back and pinned into three coils down the front. “Are you okay?”
“Granny, I called you a few minutes ago,” Vining said. “Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, that’s right.” Granny’s heavy gold bangle bracelets on her arm jangled when she swatted the air. “Well, come in, come in.”
Vining gave Patsy a stern look to make sure she saw the evidence of Granny’s failing memory.
Patsy stepped across the threshold and went into the house.
“Your hair looks nice, Granny.” Kissick leaned to give her a kiss on the cheek, the bottles in the carrier clanking together.
“It’s Monday,” Granny said in response to his compliment. “I always have my hair done on Monday morning. Every two weeks on Wednesday at two, I get my nails done.”
“Does Hilda still do your hair?” Patsy asked.
“Hilda? She’s been dead for years. I’ve got a new gal. Hard to find anyone who can do a set and comb-out anymore.”
Patsy whispered to Vining, “I’m amazed she can find anyone who can do those turd curls for her.”
Vining made a face at her mother at the word Patsy always used to describe the three long, round curls in Granny’s hair that lay vertically across the top of her head. She looked around at the doily-draped furnishings that had barely changed since she’d been a child. Curio shelves on the walls held dusty porcelain Hummel figures and china teacups and saucers that she and her sister had been forbidden to touch. All the windows were tightly closed on this fine spring day. The place smelled musty and, she hated to admit, like an old lady.
Granny stood in the entry to the dining room. “Why do you have so many groceries? And that liquor…”
“I’m spending the night.” Patsy ducked around her mother.
Granny scurried after her. “Just leave the bags on the dining room table. I’ll put everything away.”
“Mom, there’s the mailman.” Patsy jerked her head in the direction of the front door and was rewarded when Granny left to retrieve her mail.
Patsy returned from setting her bags in the kitchen. “I need a pit stop.” She headed toward the one bathroom in the house.
Kissick walked into the tiny kitchen and deposited the groceries on top of a vintage Formica-and-chrome dinette table. Nearly everything in the kitchen was vintage—from the O’Keefe and Merritt stove to the Frigidaire refrigerator—and, his trained eye discerned, highly collectible. What weren’t vintage were the cockroaches that dashed across the sink and down the drain from where they’d been feasting in remnants of food among a pile of dirty plates and glasses.
Vining, following him, stood frozen at the sight.
Kissick made a face as his nostrils detected a foul odor. He moved aside dingy floral-print curtains and unlocked a double-hung window over the sink, careful to avoid a scurrying cockroach. He slammed his hand up against the wooden window frame and finally got it open.
He took Vining’s bags from her and set them on the table.
She finally found words. “I don’t believe this.”
“You didn’t know?”
“No. I haven’t been inside the house for…a while. Granny drives to my house. When I follow her home, she wants me to leave her at the front door. She doesn’t want me to come inside. Now I know why.”
She opened the refrigerator. A rank odor spilled out. She caught a glimpse of something black inside before slamming the door shut.
“I think Granny can live on her own,” Kissick said. “She needs some help, that’s all. We had to hire somebody to help my grandparents with the day-to-day stuff. It’s worked out great.”
“A stranger cleaning Granny’s house? Not gonna happen.” Vining pulled out a kitchen chair and sat with her legs sprawled. “And listen to them.” She held her hand in the direction of the front room, where Granny and Patsy were rehashing a decades-old argument. “They are so different but so similar. One always was a child and the other is turning into one.”
He stood beside her, put his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her against him. “I’ll help you, honey. We’ll get through this together.”
Vining knew she could do this on her own but it felt great to know that, for once, she didn’t have to. The weight felt less like a crushing burden and more like a problem to be solved, maybe more emotionally trying than others, but only a problem. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Kissick took his iPhone from his pocket and put it to his ear when it vibrated with an incoming call. He saw that it was from Alex Caspers.
“I talked to Cheyenne’s friends in Ventura and I’m heading back,” Caspers said.
Kissick looked at his watch. “Already?” He didn’t need to ask how fast Caspers had driven.
“Traffic was light. I got there in half an hour. Cheyenne’s alibi checks out. Other than the friends she hung with, she stayed in the apartment of this guy named Silas Linden. Located him at his job at a local coffee and bagel place. At first, he wouldn’t talk to me. I told him I’d ask his boss my questions. I didn’t drive all the way up there not to talk to anybody. So then he opened up a little. Said he and Cheyenne met in Narcotics Anonymous. Cheyenne came up on Friday and she left Monday morning. He claims they were together the whole time. Confessed that he didn’t know the exact time she left this morning because he had to be at work at six and she was still asleep.”
“What did he have to say about Cheyenne’s relationship with her boss, Catherine Engleford?”
&
nbsp; “They got along great,” Caspers said with a laugh in his voice.
“Hmm. He have a criminal record?”
“Not a long one. Misdemeanor drug- and alcohol-related stuff.”
“Thanks, Alex.” He ended the call when he saw one incoming from attorney Carmen Vidal. “Carmen, I’ve missed you,” he crooned, looking at Vining with eyebrows raised. “You’re on your way to Pasadena? We’ll see you soon.”
THIRTEEN
In the PPD interview room, Cheyenne didn’t stand when Vining and Kissick entered, but fiddled with an unlit cigarette as she eyed them from her chair at the table.
Her attorney, Carmen Vidal, greeted them warmly and shook their hands.
The detectives knew Vidal from when she’d represented the troubled son of a wealthy executive. The young man, a suspect in a Pasadena murder, was not the sort of high-profile, newsworthy client that she’d built her public profile on, but the father’s money was solid. Vidal always looked as if she was ready for a TV appearance on short notice. Her head was big for her petite body, a physiological stroke of luck, as the combination was perfect for the small screen. She was wearing another version of one of her many jewel-toned, collarless suits with the jacket buttoned up and a bold necklace at the base of her neck. Today, twisted strands of gold beads complemented her amethyst suit.
For all Cheyenne’s bluster when they first saw her at Tink’s, she seemed reticent, staring at the table.
Vidal handed Kissick a manila envelope. “Detectives, I assume you’ve already verified with Cheyenne’s friends that she was in Ventura, like she told you.”
“Her friend from N.A., Silas Linden, said he left her sleeping when he went to work before six,” Vining said. “Cheyenne reported finding Mrs. Engleford’s body at nine. Cheyenne had plenty of time to drive to Pasadena.”
“Cheyenne told me that, judging by the condition of Mrs. Engleford’s body, it was clear that she’d been dead for much longer than a couple of hours,” Vidal said. “Cheyenne’s friends and her credit card receipts verify that she was in Ventura from midafternoon Saturday until early Monday morning.”
“That still leaves plenty of time this morning for Cheyenne to arrive home, get rid of books and documents, and remove Mrs. Engleford’s laptop computer,” Vining said.
Vidal’s face revealed nothing. “Also in that envelope are records of the checks Cheyenne deposited into her account from Catherine Engleford for payment for her services as a personal assistant. There are also keys to Mrs. Engleford’s house and cars that she gave Cheyenne. We can provide affidavits from numerous reputable business associates of Mrs. Engleford who will verify that Cheyenne was her trusted employee. Mrs. Engleford’s longtime housekeeper will confirm that Cheyenne was living in her home.”
“Cheyenne, where’s Tink’s laptop?” Kissick asked.
Cheyenne pursed her lips and remained silent.
“Files and books are missing from Tink’s office,” Kissick went on. “Where did they go?”
Vidal folded her hands on the table. “Detectives, Cheyenne is only guilty of doing the right thing and calling the police as soon as she found Mrs. Engleford’s body. Your allegation that Cheyenne broke into Mrs. Engleford’s home is bullshit, and you know it. Let’s stop wasting everyone’s time.”
Vining studied Cheyenne, who frowned at her and then looked away. “Cheyenne, you seem different from this morning. If you want to get something off your chest, we can talk.”
Vidal shot a glance at Cheyenne, as if worried that she might start talking. When Cheyenne started playing with her hair, Vidal’s face softened with relief.
“Carmen, who’s paying you to represent Cheyenne?” Vining asked.
Vidal raised her hands. “Is Cheyenne free to leave?”
Kissick stood. “Where can we find her?”
“Just call me and we’ll make arrangements,” Vidal said. “You have my word.”
Walking to her desk, Vining passed the windows of the Detective Sergeants’ office and saw that Sergeant Kendra Early wasn’t at her desk. She was glad, as she was certain that the next time she saw Early, the sergeant would pull her off the Tink Engleford case.
On Vining’s desk was the information about King Getty prepared by the staff assistant. Kissick moved a chair into her cubicle and they went over it.
Vining looked at the copy of Getty’s driver’s license and handed it to him. “Handsome. Looks like an old-time movie star.”
“Six foot one. One hundred seventy-five pounds. Gray hair. Gray eyes.”
Vining read aloud from the materials. “He’s fifty-five. No criminal record. Looks like he’s been at that Wilshire Boulevard address for about eight months. Has a Florida driver’s license with a Boca Raton address. Had two moving violations in the past three years. Got a speeding ticket six months ago on Malibu Canyon Road. Has a new Mercedes S six-hundred sedan registered to King G Associates in Boca Raton, Florida. Must have paid cash for it because there’s no lien-holder listed.”
“That’s about a hundred and fifty grand,” Kissick said.
“His only prior address is that one in Boca Raton, then the trail disappears. Odd for someone his age and presumably a Getty. Credit check shows an American Express black card registered to King G Associates, and a Visa, also registered to King G. Balances are current. Average balance is ten grand a month. High balance was in December. Get this…A hundred and seventy-five grand.”
“We’ll need warrants to see his credit card bills,” Kissick said. “How old are those cards?”
“Barely two years. This place where he’s living on Wilshire is owned by someone named Marisa de Castellane.”
Vining looked at Kissick. “Here’s a guy going around claiming to be a nephew of J. Paul Getty but he has no past and owns no property. He shows up in L.A. and finds a well-heeled Pasadena matron to sweep off her feet.”
“Maybe literally, into the drink.” Kissick looked over her shoulder. “King G Associates has a Website. Look it up.”
Vining brought up a browser and typed in the address. “Movie and television production. Not much of a Website. A single page with information about how to send them a script.”
They both looked up when Sergeant Early paused by Vining’s cubicle long enough to say, “Can I see both of you in my office, please?”
They’d barely sat in chairs facing Early’s desk when she began. “The Catherine Engleford case. Nan, you have a personal relationship with the victim, and your mother was a close friend. I can’t let you continue to work this case.”
Early was in uniform, probably coming from or heading to a luncheon or community event. She was African American, barely 5’4", and her waistline, a victim of middle age, was nearly as round as her hips. She never wore a scrap of makeup, and the perennially dark circles beneath her eyes didn’t help her careworn demeanor. While she wasn’t much older than Kissick and Vining, she treated her detectives with motherly warmth and affection. But those who mistook her nurturing side for weakness could be in for a surprising wake-up call.
“Sarge, I haven’t talked to the victim in years. Yes, she was my mother’s friend, but I can work this case the way it needs to be worked.”
Kissick added, “While Nan’s mother, Patsy, can be considered a suspect in the broad scheme of things, she’s not a suspect.”
“Both of your points are well-taken,” Early said. “But if it turns out that Mrs. Engleford was a victim of foul play and there’s an arrest, the case would be blown because of one of the investigators’ personal relationship with the victim and the people close to her.”
Kissick privately reflected that he also had a relationship with Patsy, through Nan, which Early didn’t know about. His and Nan’s personal relationship was making their professional lives ever more complicated and tenuous. They were both jeopardizing their careers. They’d been floating in a la-la land, but they needed to make some decisions before decisions were made for them.
Early looked at them with her
typical tired eyes. “Caspers is in court and he might be there for a couple of days. Sproul and Jones are tied up with the nightclub shooting. What did you have planned next?”
Vining answered. “Going to West L.A. to see if we can talk to Kingsley Getty, a man Catherine Engleford was dating. Understand he’s a real ladies’ man.” She was the only female detective in Homicide/Assault and a better choice to get information from Getty than were any of the men.
Early’s phone rang. “Yes. Okay. Be right there.” She stood. “Go and interview this Getty and we’ll talk later.”
FOURTEEN
Kingsley Getty lived in a thirty-story tower just east of Westwood. The pricey apartments and condominiums along this stretch of Wilshire Boulevard were not trendy addresses, like ones in the converted industrial buildings in eastern downtown L.A., or West Hollywood, or even in Pasadena these days. The blocky seventies- and eighties-era buildings were the sort of places where a movie star in his or her twilight years might move after unloading the Malibu Colony beachfront house. Or where an attorney at a big firm or a plastic surgeon who’d been turned out of the family Holmby Hills manse during a divorce might live until the settlement.
Kissick parked in the loading zone in front of the building. They walked to the glass double doors, where Vining pressed a buzzer. Immediately, a buzzer responded and the doors unlocked.
On the far end of a sterile lobby stood a well-dressed man behind a semicircular desk.
“Yes, Officers. How can I help you?” He wore a well-tailored dark gray suit with a black shirt and patterned gray tie. A brass name tag said: M. Rahimi. His black wavy hair was combed back from his forehead and dusted with silver at the temples. A sapphire stud earring pierced his left lobe.
Vining handed him her card. “I’m Detective Nan Vining and this is Detective Jim Kissick from the Pasadena Police. We’d like to speak with one of your residents, Kingsley Getty.”
“I’m happy to help you, Detectives.” He thumbed a stack of business cards in a chrome holder on the desk and handed them each one, revealing a gold watch on his wrist when his sleeve rose.