by Dianne Emley
Kissick spoke into the metal grate. “Detectives Kissick and Vining from the Pasadena police here. We’d like to have a few words with Mr. Towne and Ms. LeFleur.”
“Stand by the pedestrian gate and I’ll escort you inside.”
Tucked among the vines next to the driveway was a wooden pedestrian gate. They heard locks being released on the inside. It cracked opened to reveal a familiar face.
“Officer Chase,” Kissick said with surprise.
Pasadena Police Department officer John Chase stepped outside and used his body to block the opened door while Kissick and Vining hurried in. “Step back from the door.” He pushed a guy away while strobe flashes from cameras blinded him. “I’m just the security guy. You don’t want my picture.”
He backed inside and slammed the door closed with Kissick’s help. He turned a steel bolt lock and shoved into place an iron crossbar that looked as if it had been forged early in the last century, securing it inside a bracket affixed to the opposite post.
“Detectives Kissick and Vining.” Chase wiped his right hand against his jeans before offering it to Vining and then Kissick. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“We’re surprised to see you, too, Chase,” she said.
The young officer was in street clothes. The cuffs were rolled up on his white cotton shirt, which was tucked into blue jeans. A handgun was in a holster on his belt, where there were also pouches with handcuffs and pepper spray.
Chase was a good friend of Detective Alex Caspers. The two of them ran with a group of young male PPD cops who were single and who had started with the PPD around the same time. Vining caught wind of their fishing trips to Cabo, gambling junkets to Vegas, and other shenanigans involving booze and women when she couldn’t help but overhear Caspers’s telephone conversations through the thin walls in the Detective Section cubicles.
Chase had a well-earned nickname of “The Chaser” from his reputation for pursuing on foot—and catching—suspects who ran from him. Among his buddies, the nickname had an additional connotation, meaning the women he chased and often caught. He was tall and athletic and had all-American blond-haired, blue-eyed good looks. He also presented himself well and seemed like a nice guy. Vining suspected that if he’d set his sights on a woman, he wouldn’t have to chase her too hard.
“I do off-duty policing for Gig and Sinclair.” Chase winced as if in pain and again nervously rubbed a hand against his jeans. “I live here, on the property, a couple of days a week.”
Vining knew of other PPD officers who had moonlighted as private security for celebrities.
Cognizant of the paparazzi, whom they could hear just beyond the wall, he held out his hand. “Hop in.”
He got into a John Deere utility vehicle that had two front seats. It would have been imprudent for Vining to sit on Kissick’s lap, so he gestured for her to take the seat and he climbed onto the small cargo area in back, his legs dangling. Chase drove slowly down a cobblestone driveway that cut through a grove of citrus and avocado trees.
“Are you here because of Trendi?” Chase asked Vining over the engine noise.
“No. A woman who lives off San Rafael was found dead this morning in her backyard pool. She was friends with Towne and LeFleur.”
“I didn’t hear about that, but I’ve been here for the past couple of days.”
They neared the end of the grove, where Vining saw a two-story Spanish-style house. The exterior was simple, with plaster walls painted the color of adobe. Above a bright blue front door, a striped cloth awning was stretched between iron spears that jutted from the façade. The second floor had two sets of windows covered with decorative black iron grills and had shutters in the same distinctive blue as the front door. The setting sun had descended past the tile roof, turning the shadows purple.
“How long have you been moonlighting here?” Vining asked.
“A couple of months. It’s good. Been good.” Chase seemed rattled. He again winced.
The driveway circled a large cement fountain. The tiered scalloped bowls were planted with miniature succulents. Pots of rosemary blooming with tiny blue flowers were set inside the tile pool around the fountain’s base.
Chase stopped in front of the house.
“The dead Pasadena woman was named Catherine Engleford.” Vining handed Chase her photo. “She went by the nickname Tink. Did you ever see her here?”
Kissick hopped off the back of the small vehicle.
Chase frowned at the photo, pressing his fingertips against his head in front of his right ear. “I don’t remember seeing her.”
“John, are you okay?” Vining asked.
“I’ve just got a headache.” He agitatedly pointed toward his head and shrugged. “Been a long day.”
She pocketed the photo he returned to her. “Would you like an aspirin?”
“Thanks. I took something. It should kick in soon. Two Ds from LAPD are here now, talking to Gig. You probably heard about Vince Madrigal and a woman getting offed in Eagle Rock. The woman was Sinclair’s assistant, Trendi Talbot. Looks like they killed each other.”
“We heard,” Kissick said. “Did Gig Towne or Sinclair LeFleur have a relationship with Madrigal?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have any idea what Ms. Talbot was doing with Madrigal?” Vining asked.
“No clue,” Chase said.
Kissick asked, “Is Ms. LeFleur here?”
Chase seemed pensive. “She’s resting. She’s really upset over what happened to Trendi.”
“You must have known Ms. Talbot,” Vining said. “What was she like?”
Chase sucked in his bottom lip and made a small movement with his hands as if he didn’t know where to begin. “She was nice. Fun. Sinclair liked her a lot.”
Vining took out the photo of Cheyenne Leon, Trendi Talbot, and the other girl. “John, have you ever seen these two girls who are with Mrs. Talbot?”
He couldn’t hide the surprise in his eyes. “I couldn’t say.”
She wouldn’t let him off the hook. “Meaning you can’t or you won’t?”
He hovered as if trying to decide how to respond.
“What’s going on, John?” Kissick took a step closer to Chase, entering his space. “You’re not being straight with us.”
Chase stepped back and let out a long breath. “Look. I can’t talk about what goes on here. I had to sign a confidentiality agreement. Everyone who works here has to sign one. It’s got me bound so tight…” He held up his hands as if he was helpless.
Kissick and Vining both stared at him, unimpressed.
Chase stammered. “I’m sure Gig will tell you everything you want to know. If you have further questions, then come and ask me. Will that work?”
Vining leveled her eyes at Chase, her jaw rigid.
Kissick replied with a clipped, “Sure. Let’s talk to your employer.”
Chase grimaced as he took that in. He turned and started walking. “I’ll show you in.”
SIXTEEN
Chase mounted the two steps to the front door and turned an iron latch that served as a doorknob. He pushed the door open and gestured for the detectives to enter.
Kissick waited for Vining and then followed, stepping onto a fired tile floor in a two-story foyer.
Chase closed the door, and the latch clanked as soundly as a jail cell door slamming shut. The vast entry with its arches, wrought iron, and tile felt as warm as a medieval dungeon. A black iron chandelier circled with dozens of electric candles was suspended from the two-story ceiling. Curved staircases ascended each side of the foyer and met at a second-floor balcony. The railings were of twisted wrought iron, the balustrades studded with iron spheres. Exposed ceiling beams were stenciled.
“This way.” Chase crossed the foyer and turned down a long corridor. The walls were decorated with antique tapestries. Spotlighted cubbyholes displayed stone or metal statues of horses and warriors in armor. The air was chilly.
“You can wait
in the sunroom and I’ll see if Gig is available.”
He led them to a room off the back of the house that was furnished with rattan couches and chairs. The outside windows were set into arches and had small panes of glass framed in iron. Through the windows they could see the U-shaped Spanish style of the house, the three wings facing a courtyard with a rectangular pool, a grass lawn, and a well-tended rose garden. A tented cabaña was at the far end.
Chase started to leave, then turned back. “Would you like something to drink?”
“I could use some water,” Vining said. “Tap water’s fine.”
“How about you, Detective Kissick?”
Kissick turned from where he’d been admiring the view. “Water would be great. Thanks.”
Chase started to leave when Kissick called after him. “Say, John, does Gig Towne know about Catherine Engleford’s death?”
“I don’t think so. Once we found out about Trendi, we’ve been dealing with that.”
“Let us tell him.”
“Will do.”
When Chase had left, Kissick returned to gazing at the pool and the garden. The landscape lights had turned on with the setting sun. “Nice.”
Vining moved to stand beside him. “The grounds are beautiful, but this house feels like a hotel to me and is about as warm.”
“I wouldn’t have imagined Gig Towne living in a house like this. I’d have thought he’d live in a modern place. You know, lots of glass and stainless steel, in Malibu Colony or someplace like that. A traditional house in staid Flintridge. Who knew?”
“The People article said Sinclair LeFleur grew up in this town.”
“Nice setup Chase has got for himself, especially for a single guy,” Kissick said. “Wonder what he gets paid.”
“Enough to make it worthwhile for him to keep his mouth shut about what goes on here. I don’t believe he’s afraid of being sued. If his lifestyle’s like Alex Caspers’s, he rents an apartment, and the only thing to his name is his car and some clothes.”
They turned at the tinkling sound of ice against glass. A statuesque older woman walked down the steps carrying a silver tray. Her short hair was dyed orange and was gelled into spikes. She said, “Good evening, Detectives,” as she walked the tray to a wooden coffee table. Her smile was friendly, but her bearing was aloof. “I’m Paula Lowestoft, Gig’s assistant.”
She wore a long straight skirt and a short-sleeved blouse in a brown, black, and gold geometric print. Her large crystal-and-jade earrings jangled when she bent to set down the tray.
She picked up two coasters from a stack and set glasses of sparkling water on each. “Here’s lime if you like.” She set out a small glass bowl of lime wedges. “Gig apologizes for making you wait. He’s outside, making a statement to the media. Hopefully, they’ll leave after that.”
Vining gaped at Paula’s eyes, which were a dark amber color, like a cat’s. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” She left, her flat sandals retorting softly against the tile floor.
Vining squeezed lime into her water, raised the glass to her lips, and looked at Kissick over the rim.
He raised his eyebrows and punched his wrist from his sleeve to look at his watch. Picking up his glass, he began pacing the length of the room.
Vining sat in an armchair, falling into it more heavily than she’d intended when it proved to be softer than she’d thought. She took her cell phone from the holder on her belt and began typing with her thumbs.
“I’m texting Em. See if she can get a ride home with a classmate after her photography workshop.” She grimaced. “I hate having some kid who just got a license driving her.”
“Can’t your mother and grandmother pick her up?”
“After that six-pack of chardonnay my mother bought?”
“Sorry I brought it up.”
Vining’s cell phone buzzed. “Em says her girlfriend’s mother can take her home. Good.” She typed a response.
John Chase returned. “Gig can see you now in his office. You can leave the glasses there.”
They returned to the corridor and ascended a staircase.
“Is the LAPD gone?” Kissick asked.
“Yes.” At the top of the stairs, Chase rapped on a heavy door that was slightly ajar. Its iron hinges creaked with his knocking.
They heard a familiar voice sing in an operatic tenor, “Come innn…”
Chase pushed the door all the way open.
Gig Towne stood up at the head of a massive table. The chair he’d vacated, upholstered in red velvet and with wood carvings on the back and arms, looked like a throne. Medieval-looking straight-backed chairs lined the table. Two smaller versions of the chandelier in the entry were suspended from a crossbeam of the pitched ceiling. Bookcases and display cases filled the wall space between arched windows with small panes of glass like those in the sunroom. There was also a fireplace with a gray marble mantel.
“Detectives, please approach,” Towne said in a booming voice out of a cartoon, which reverberated in the large room. He stiffly held out his right hand and robotically crooked his fingers to summon them. His rubbery face formed a stern mask with eyebrows angled up and his mouth making a perfect upside-down U, like a Kabuki actor.
Vining and Kissick remained just inside the doorway, neither one taking a step forward, needing a moment to take it all in.
Chase muttered something about being back later and slipped away, closing the door behind him. The metal latch clicked.
Towne suddenly dropped the pose, letting his shoulders and limbs go limp as if made of taffy. After a few seconds, he swatted the air and grinned in a way that was more normal, yet still exaggerated. “I apologize, Detectives. I shouldn’t mess with you. Just a little humor. My twisted way of dealing with a sad situation.”
He started toward them. Vining and Kissick met him midway.
She reached him first. “I’m Detective Nan Vining with the Pasadena Police Department and this is my partner, Detective Jim Kissick.”
His handshake was firm and his palm was dry. His narrow eyes were bright blue and clear, and his gaze was direct. He was shorter and thinner than Vining had thought he’d be, but looked fit. He wore a Kelly-green short-sleeved golf shirt in a light cool-weave fabric tucked into tailored black slacks. His black leather belt had a Gucci logo buckle.
Vining glanced at Kissick and saw that he was starstruck.
“What an honor to meet you, Mr. Towne. I’m a big fan and so are my two boys.”
“Thank you very much, Detective Kissick. Please call me Gig. How old are your boys?”
“Seventeen and thirteen. My thirteen-year-old…He can do the Gig giggle perfectly. I mean, he has it down.”
“You mean this giggle?” Towne took a breath and belted out a blend of braying and hiccupping.
“That’s it!” Kissick laughed. “Cal…He’s my thirteen-year-old. He can do it just like that.”
“Maybe your sons would like an autographed action figure.” Towne walked to a cabinet stocked with boxes of foot-tall replicas of him costumed in his different movie roles. He opened the glass door and took out a box. “Maybe one of me as the Mad Hatter.”
“Thank you, Gig, but I can’t accept that. But I know my boys would like an autograph.”
“How about the twenty-year-anniversary edition of Stupid Is that’s just out on DVD? They’re almost worthless.”
Kissick laughed at what he took to be a joke. “That would be great.”
Towne opened the glass door of a cabinet and took two DVDs from a pile stacked inside. “We did a good job with this DVD. Lots of bonus features.” He turned to Vining. “What about you, Detective? Would you like a signed DVD?”
Vining had been looking inside the glass cabinets. The shelves were packed with vintage lunchboxes, toys, action figures, bound scripts from Towne’s movies, and other memorabilia from Towne’s career. “Thank you. Maybe for my fifteen-year-old daughter. Her name’s Emily.”
“Traditio
nal spelling?” Towne asked.
“Yes.” She was face-to-face with a life-sized mannequin dressed like Bozo the Clown that stood in a corner.
“Your sons’ names, Detective Kissick?”
Kissick told him.
Towne sat at his grand chair and began signing the paper inserts inside the DVD cases. He commented to Vining, “That costume was one of the originals worn by Larry Harmon himself.”
“Huh.” Vining moved to look inside another cabinet. “Crayons?”
“Unopened original Crayola crayon boxes.” Towne handed Kissick the signed DVDs and walked to hand Vining hers. They thanked him. “Those boxes have discontinued crayon colors like ‘flesh.’”
He opened the case and took out a box. “This is a rare, unopened sixty-four-color set, with sharpener. There are only a few known ones in existence. A box like this is in the Smithsonian.”
“You learn something new every day,” Vining said.
“I like having toys from my childhood around. I’m just a kid at heart.” Towne again mugged, making his rubbery face and body mimic a goofy young boy’s.
“Your house is spectacular,” Kissick said.
“Thank you,” Towne shot back.
“What’s the architecture?” Kissick had put much love and countless hours into restoring his turn-of-the-century Craftsman bungalow in Altadena, the city north of Pasadena.
“Spanish Revival,” Towne said. “With Majorcan influences. It was built in nineteen twenty-nine. Let’s have a seat and talk.”
Vining was glad to get started.
The detectives followed him to the end of the table, taking opposite sides to face each other.
Towne sat at the head and closed the lid of a laptop computer that was the only thing on the giant table.
Vining got a closer look at Towne’s thronelike chair. The wood across the back was carved in the shape of opened draperies rising to a replica of a crown that was suspended above Towne’s head. Above each shoulder were the heads of roaring lions with full manes. The ends of the arms were finished with giant feline paws, claws extended.
She was sure the chair had a history, but she didn’t want to give Towne another opportunity to stroke his tremendous ego, wasting time while her daughter was home alone.