Love Kills

by Dianne Emley

  “Delighted to meet you, Detective.” His head still bowed, he looked up into her eyes.

  She sensed Kissick struggling to hide his amusement.

  “Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Getty.” She pulled her hand free and dropped it to her side, resisting the impulse to wipe off his kiss against her slacks.

  As he straightened, his gaze flitted across the long scar on the left side of her neck that started behind her ear and disappeared beneath the collar of her shirt.

  She again thought about the stash of clippings beside his bed and felt like squirming.

  Getty was still smiling as if he was at a cocktail party. “You are much too pretty to be a homicide detective.”

  She didn’t care for that comment. Her eyes were frosty as she met his. She didn’t respond.

  Getty moved on. “I was horrified to hear the news about Tink. Please tell me what happened.” The sadness that dimmed his dark gray eyes seemed genuine.

  His lustrous eyes looked to Vining like a clear, cold pond. He had a slight accent that she couldn’t place. A whiff British but not quite. A gold ring set with a big diamond glittered on his pinkie finger. Everything about him seemed clean, except his motives.

  “Let’s discuss it upstairs.” Kissick held out his arm.

  Getty inclined his head.

  Vining led the way to the elevator.

  Getty looked around. “This is a gorgeous building for a police station. So fitting with the Spanish and Mission architecture in Pasadena. When was it built?”

  “Nineteen eighty-nine,” Kissick replied.

  The elevator doors opened. They stepped back to let two uniformed female officers exit. Vining and Kissick gave them quick nods. They nodded back, gave Getty a glance, and then, as if choreographed, did double takes.

  He smiled with closed lips. “Good morning, ladies.”

  They replied, “Good morning.”

  Kissick again looked amused, to Vining’s irritation. Both men waited for her to enter first, so she did.

  “Dear Tink.” Getty clasped his hands behind his back. “She loved showing me around Pasadena. Such a beautiful city. We shared lovely meals at the Valley Hunt Club and at Annandale,” he said, dropping the names of the city’s exclusive private clubs. He emitted a small moan. “My gosh…It’s still sinking in. Poor Tinker Bell.”

  Vining couldn’t tell whether he was lying, which troubled her.

  The elevator doors opened. Getty swooped out his arm as if to keep the dangerous door from injuring Vining, provoking an angled smile from her.

  She led the way into the Detectives Section, crossing the small waiting room where Getty garnered the attention of the two female staff assistants at desks there.

  Getty never let an opportunity pass. “Good morning, ladies.”

  Passing the Detective Sergeants’ office, she saw Sergeant Early spot them from her desk through the large window there that overlooked the suite.

  Kissick had Getty wait while Vining made sure the interview room was empty. By the time she’d returned, Getty was asking Kissick about the organizational structure of the Detectives Section, listening with rapt interest whether he was in fact interested or not.

  “Mr. Getty, please.” Inside the interview room, Vining held up her hand, signaling Getty to take a chair.

  “Call me King.” He uttered the ridiculous statement with complete sincerity. He pinched his pant legs and sat, crossing his legs, looking as comfortable as if he were waiting for his favorite waiter at a club to bring his cigar and snifter of brandy on a silver tray.

  Still standing, Vining said, “Would you like some coffee…King? Water? Soft drink?”

  “A cup of coffee would be great, Detective Vining. Thank you. Cream and a little sugar, the real stuff, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all.” She ducked into the adjacent observation room and made sure the video recording system was on. Through the one-way glass, she saw Getty again chatting with Kissick, who’d sat across from him.

  She went to her desk, where she grabbed her coffee mug and the file folder with Tink’s strange drawings.

  In the coffee room, she ran into Sergeant Early, who asked, “Kingsley Getty?”

  Vining dumped an unhealthy dose of sugar into a Styrofoam cup she’d filled with coffee. “His friends call him King.”

  “He’s not hard on the eyes.”

  “And doesn’t he know it.” Vining poured coffee for herself as Early took out one of the yogurt smoothies she kept in the refrigerator, shaking it as she left the room.

  When Vining placed the coffee in front of Getty, he said, “You’re too kind, Detective Vining.”

  “You’re welcome.” She set down the file folder and her coffee mug on the same side of the table as Getty but with a chair between them. “For the record, this interview is being videotaped.” She announced the date, time, and people present. “Please continue.”

  “I was explaining my family background to Detective Kissick. I’m a distant nephew of J. Paul Getty. My father is Reginald Getty, a bastard half-brother. In those days, especially in England, an illegitimate child was scandalous. My mother was sent away to live with her grandparents at Lake Windermere, and that’s where I grew up. But the Getty family stepped up and made sure Reggie was taken care of.”

  He picked up the coffee and sipped, half-closing his eyes and opening them to smile at Vining. “Perfect. Thank you, Detective Vining. Good brew, too. I attended Eton, of course. Where all our family went.” He lazily turned the cup on the table. “I began at Oxford, but was lured away by a fetching Française. Ended up spending a couple of years and most of my tuition in Cap d’Antibes, which did not make my father too happy.” He pronounced Cap so that it sounded like a clipped-off “cop.”

  “But, through connections I made in Cap, I invested the money I had left in a newly discovered South African diamond mine. This was decades before DeBeers had cornered the market. In fact, our little syndicate sold our interests to DeBeers. Was able to pay my father back the tuition I’d borrowed.” He winked. “And then some.”

  “You made your own money on top of your family fortune,” Vining said.

  He turned to her. “My side of the Getty clan never had what I would call a fortune, although I’m sure some would. We lived comfortably. I went to good schools. But there really wasn’t enough to properly support me. I had to make my own way.”

  Getty reached toward Vining’s “I love you, Mom” coffee mug with its five-year-old photo of her and Em on it. “Hello, Beauty. Is this your daughter, Detective?”

  Vining protectively pulled the mug toward her and turned the side with the photo away from him. She felt foolish for bringing such a personal item into an interview and ignored his question. “So you’ve done all right for yourself.”

  Getty tilted his head back and peered at her. “That’s a fair statement.”

  “So, King, help me understand something,” Vining began. “Why are you living in the Countess de Castellane’s apartment? Why don’t you have your own place?”

  He laughed, giving her a full view of his rugged jaw and white teeth. “Detective Vining, do you think I’m a gigolo, preying on lonely rich women?”

  “I’d like you to answer my question.”

  “You are correct, Detective, that the Wilshire Boulevard apartment belongs to Marisa. It sits vacant most of the year. The countess also has an apartment in London and a villa in Portofino. I have an apartment in Paris and a place in Majorca, both of which I rarely use. I’ve known the countess for years, since my Cap d’Antibes days, and we’ve traded properties for years. The countess is staying at my Majorca villa now. Would you like to talk to her?”

  He reached into his jacket pocket, took out an iPhone, and held it up.

  Vining said, “Sure.”

  Getty found the number and held the phone to his ear. After a moment, he said with a big smile, “Buona sera, Contessa.”

  He carried on in Italian, fluen
tly to Vining’s ears. After a while, he returned his gaze to the detectives and switched to English. “Marisa, guess where I am? In Pasadena, California.” He chuckled. “No, bella, the Rose Parade takes place on New Year’s Day. I’m at the police department.” He laughed again. “No, no. It’s not what you think. I’m being interviewed by two detectives. Sad news. A dear friend of mine was found dead. No, no one you know. The detectives are doing God’s work in trying to find out what happened. One of them is an attractive young woman named Detective Vining, and she’d like to talk to you. Well, she wants to ask you about me, of course. Grazie, Marisa. Here she is.”

  Vining took the phone and said, “This is Detective Nan Vining.”

  A woman with a sultry voice trilled, “Oh, Detective, please tell me. What has that bad boy King gotten into now?” She followed with throaty laughter.

  Vining carried the phone into the observation room and shut the door. She asked the countess how long she’d known King, about their relationship, his finances, his background, and so forth, trying to corroborate what Getty had told them.

  The countess punctuated her speech with robust laughter. She said she and Getty had been lovers long ago, but were like brother and sister now. Her answers jibed with Getty’s. Vining ended the call and returned to the interview room.

  Getty took the phone from her and slipped it back inside his pocket. “So, you see, Detective, I really am just a pussycat.”

  Vining took her seat and gave Kissick a look.

  He picked up her cue and took over. “King, when and where did you meet Catherine Engleford?”

  “Last New Year’s Eve. She was spending a few days alone at Berryhill and so was I. Instead of engaging in forced gaiety or staying home alone, we both went there instead to nourish our spirits and bodies. We bonded immediately.”

  “And when was the last time you saw her?”

  His fingers went to his chin. “I left for Dubai on Saturday. Tink and I had dinner at the Parkway Grill the night before I left. That must have been Friday night.”

  “Was it just the two of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened after dinner?”

  “I drove her home around nine o’clock. I had an early flight the next morning, so we made it an early evening. I saw Tink inside her house, gave her a good-night kiss, and drove home.”

  “Did you have a sexual relationship with her?” Kissick asked.

  “No.” Getty’s eye contact with Kissick didn’t waver.

  “You never had sexual intercourse with Catherine Engleford?”

  “There are still a few gentlemen left in the world, Detective. I was fond of Tink. Our relationship might have become intimate one day, but both of us were content to have fun. To share big events and quiet moments. Tink was a sweet, dear person with a troubled soul. I felt that she kept herself so busy to try to keep from feeling lonely. She was lucky to have a few true friends, but they had busy lives, too.”

  Kissick asked, “What was Cheyenne Leon’s relationship with Mrs. Engleford?”

  “Cheyenne?” Getty stared off as he thought. “Cheyenne and Tink were fond of each other. Cheyenne had a troubled past and Tink helped her. Do you know where Cheyenne is?”

  “Is she missing?”

  Kissick’s question threw Getty for a second. “I…I wouldn’t know whether she’s missing. I assume she’s not allowed to stay in Tink’s house while the investigation is going on. I’m wondering where she might be.”

  “What’s your relationship with Cheyenne?” Vining asked.

  “Friendly. Paternal.”

  Vining rested her hands on the table and tapped her fingertips together. “I can understand Mrs. Engleford being generous with her time and money in helping others, but wasn’t letting someone with Cheyenne’s background live in her house a risk? Why did Mrs. Engleford do that?”

  “Tink was generous, as you said.”

  Vining opened her hands toward Getty. “You said that Cheyenne was fond of Mrs. Engleford. That wasn’t my take. She was disrespectful and even hateful about Mrs. Engleford.”

  Getty widened his eyes in surprise followed by a knowing smile. “That’s Cheyenne.” He shook his head with amusement. “Her modus operandi is ‘the best defense is a good offense.’ Façade as tough as nails. Core of marshmallow. No doubt she is deeply upset by Tink’s death.”

  Kissick asked, “Do you know where Cheyenne met Mrs. Engleford?”

  Getty didn’t answer right away. Vining wondered if he was trying to remember or measuring his response. “I don’t know exactly. Possibly at Berryhill.”

  “Cheyenne was able to afford retreats at Berryhill?”

  “Georgia and Stefan are generous with people who want to participate in The Method, but who may not have the financial means.”

  Vining took out the photo of Cheyenne, Trendi, and Fallon. She placed it in front of Getty.

  He picked it up.

  Vining observed his jaw tighten for a fraction of a second.

  “Cheyenne must have been a teenager here. Even then a raven-haired beauty.” Getty turned over the photo and read the handwriting on the back. “Me, Trendi, and Fallon.” He looked the photo over again. He slid it in front of Vining.

  “Do you know who those other two girls are?” she asked.

  He met her eyes. “No, I don’t.”

  She held up the photo. “Are you sure?”

  He didn’t look at it again. “I’m sure.”

  “This girl, in the middle…” Vining tapped the image with her other hand. “Her name is Trendi Talbot. Did you ever see her at Mrs. Engleford’s house?”

  “No. Do you consider Cheyenne and those other two girls suspects in what happened to Tink? Is it your opinion that Tink met with foul play?”

  “We have to consider all possibilities,” Kissick said. “The Berryhill Method and the Berryhill compound were a large part of Tink’s life. Help us understand that.”

  “The Method and the Berryhill compound gave Tink a modicum of tranquillity. It’s a holistic, healing environment. Georgia and Stefan are generous in spirit and heart.” He widened his eyes. “Do they know about Tink?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Kissick said.

  Getty grimaced. “They’ll be crushed. What about Gig and Sinclair? Have they heard about Tink?”

  “Yes,” Kissick said. “We paid them a visit.”

  Getty stared at the glass wall. After a few seconds, he returned his attention to them. “Forgive me. It’s still sinking in. Poor Tink.”

  Vining took out the photocopies of the papers with the strange symbols and placed them in front of Getty. “Do you know what these are?”

  Getty cocked his head as if to make sense of the drawings. “No. Are they some sort of hieroglyphics?”

  “Did you ever see Tink drawing anything like this or talking about any such thing?”

  “No. Did you find these at Tink’s house?”

  Vining put the symbols away and drummed her fingers against the file. She was dying to ask Getty about his file of clippings about her. Instead, she asked, “Have you ever heard my name before today?”

  “No, I have not. My apologies, but is there some reason I should have?”

  They stared at each other, neither wanting to look away first. She knew he was lying.

  Vining gave a careless shrug. “No reason.” She looked at Kissick and raised an eyebrow, signaling that she was finished.

  Kissick pushed back from the table and stood. “King, thank you for coming in today. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Getty stood as well. “It was my pleasure.” He anticipated Kissick’s next comment. “If I think of anything else, I will call you.”

  “Excellent.” Kissick took a card from his jacket pocket and handed it to him.

  Getty reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced a silver business card holder. He flipped it open and peeled off two cards.

  “Are you planning on staying in town?” Kissick opened the in
terview room door.

  “Yes, I am.” Getty walked out ahead of Kissick. “All my contact numbers are on my business card. Please keep me in the loop if you learn anything about what happened to Tink.”

  Vining carried her coffee mug with the photo on it turned against her slacks. She didn’t offer her hand. “Detective Kissick will see you out.”

  Kissick returned to find Vining at her desk typing up a report of the interview on her computer.

  “King Getty…” she sneered. “Uses names like a salesman. That shameless flattering. What a bullshit artist.”

  “He’s smooth. That upper-crust, prep-school, lockjaw way of talking. Hail-fellow-well-met. I can see why Tink found him attractive. He is charming. Polite. Good conversationalist. He’d mix easily in her world. She could bring him to a dinner party and he’d know the fish knife from the butter knife.”

  “As long as you don’t scratch the surface, everything is beautiful,” Vining said. “But maybe that’s what Tink did, and it got her drowned.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Vining parked in front of her mother’s town house complex. A black SUV at the curb was tricked out with windows that were tinted too dark and wide chrome wheel rims. Magnetic signs on both front doors said:

  SPOOK NOOK

  SECURITY AND SURVEILLANCE EXPERTS

  CALL FOR FREE CONSULTATION

  Vining walked up to the driver’s window, which was part-way down, and tapped on it, startling a man in his late thirties behind the wheel, who was dozing.

  “Sir, your windows are illegally too dark. I’m going to have to cite you.”

  His hand moved to his waist as if instinctively reaching for a firearm. His jolt of surprise turned into a warm smile. “Hey, Nan Vining.”

  She grinned. “Hey yourself, Chad Preston.”

  He got out of the car. There was an awkward moment as if he didn’t know whether to shake her hand or reach for a hug.

  She helped by opening her arms.

  He squeezed her, a little tightly, smashing her breasts against his chest.

  Stepping back, she saw a partial tattoo beneath his open shirt collar—two twiglike shapes that she knew were the legs of a black widow spider inked onto his chest. He leaned against the car, his posture relaxed and flirtatious.