Love Kills

by Dianne Emley

  The cabbie was a tanned and blond young man wearing sunglasses who looked as if he should be surfing. He made a sharp turn, tires squealing, onto the street in the direction the Escalade had gone.

  They reached a red light. Getty knew the cabbie would have run it, dodging cross-traffic, but he told him to stop.

  “The Escalade’s gone,” Getty said.

  FORTY

  Sergeant Early’s Homicide/Assault detectives were having a briefing with their boss in the Detective Section conference room. Doug Sproul and Louis Jones were going over their progress on the Crown City nightclub shooting when Alex Caspers, whom Early had sent home, blew in. He was excited about his visit with Donna White, a toxicologist he was friendly with at the L.A. County Crime Lab.

  “I told Donna how Chase had this tinnitus, this ringing in his ears all the time.” Caspers was holding a bottle of Berryhill Headache Handler. “So Donna opened one of the gel caps, put the powder in a test tube, and then put in this liquid called Trinder’s reagent. She shook it and it turned purple, indicating the presence of salicylates.”

  He paused for effect, opened his hands, and said, “Like in aspirin.”

  “Aspirin?” Early asked.

  “It can aggravate tinnitus,” Caspers said. “Donna said it would take more tests to determine the exact dosage, but she thought the capsules held much more aspirin than you get in an over-the-counter tablet.”

  Vining reached for the Headache Handler bottle. “This doesn’t say anything about having aspirin in it. Chamomile, lemon balm, ancient Chinese herbs.”

  “Is aspirin an ancient Chinese herb?” Kissick asked.

  Early rubbed her eyes. “Alex, you’re saying that somebody spiked Chase’s vitamins with aspirin? Why?”

  “Gig Towne did it to fuck Chase up,” Caspers said. “To make him behave strangely, to stress him out so that this murder/suicide wouldn’t look like it came out of nowhere. Chase wouldn’t say much about what went on at Gig’s place, but he did say the dude was obsessed with security. Gig could have spied on Chase and overheard him on a phone call with his doctor.”

  “Why would Gig Towne do such a thing to one of his own security staff?” Sproul asked.

  “Well, the way Chase talked about Sinclair LeFleur, it was like he had a crush on her,” Caspers said. “It wasn’t like John to kiss and tell, but I don’t think they were really involved. The whole enchilada, if you get my drift. He told me that Sinclair used to talk about how much she depended on him. I think he got off on being her knight in shining armor.

  “I thought she might have been playing him. Getting off on him looking at her a certain way. Why be a movie star if you don’t crave attention? I thought he was nuts, with her being all pregnant with Gig Towne’s kid. But then, she did call him last night at our poker game.”

  “Anyone follow up on that?” Early looked at Kissick.

  “I tried to reach Sinclair today,” Kissick said. “Spoke to Gig’s assistant, that creepy Paula Lowestoft. The Le Towne estate is on lockdown, and Sinclair’s in seclusion after the death of her baby.

  “Why would Sinclair need to depend on Chase?” Vining asked. “Was she afraid?”

  She recalled the only time she’d seen Sinclair in person on the balcony inside the Le Towne mansion, looking like an ethereal apparition that might fade away if one stared too hard.

  “I wonder what happened with her baby,” Early said. “I know babies die at birth sometimes, but you’d think that people like Gig and Sinclair would have turned over heaven and earth to save theirs. They certainly had the resources.”

  “I have a friend who’s a sergeant with the sheriff’s department out of the Crescenta Valley Station, which has jurisdiction over La Cañada Flintridge,” Vining said. “Sinclair’s doctor, a Dr. Janus, signed the death certificate. Cause of death suffocation. But that’s all she was able to find out. The lid on that story is down tight.”

  “They didn’t call nine-one-one,” Jones said. “Even people at Michael Jackson’s house called nine-one-one.”

  “They had their own medical team there and their own hospital setup right on the property,” Vining said. “All in accordance with The Method.”

  “Chase told me about that,” Caspers said. “Le Towne called it the birthing room. It was in the basement, near the gym.”

  They shook their heads at the foibles of the megarich.

  “For people who are so into this Berryhill wellness method, the folks over there aren’t too healthy,” Sergeant Early said. “There’s Trendi, Chase, and now Sinclair LeFleur’s baby.”

  “And Tink Engleford,” Vining said. “And Vince Madrigal. We don’t know how he’s involved.”

  “Who’s killing and why?” Kissick asked. “I don’t see Gig Towne being good for all this. How does King Getty figure in?”

  “He lied about being out of the country during the time Tink was murdered,” Vining said. “I can almost guarantee that he isn’t related to J. Paul Getty.”

  “Our undercover team got his water glass after he had lunch at a Beverly Hills café,” Kissick said. “We got good fingerprints off it.”

  “And?” Early sat straighter.

  “Nothing came up in any of the criminal databases,” Kissick said. “We have his DNA from saliva.”

  Early put up her hand. “Let’s hold off. No budget for that unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  Caspers stood and began pacing. “I’d love to get a search warrant for the Le Towne home. Send a SWAT team in there. Haul Gig Towne’s behind onto the street and toss that place.”

  “We have nothing that incriminates Gig Towne,” Vining said. “No one forced Chase to take those supplements. He might have put aspirin into those gel caps himself.”

  “Alex, I know you’re worked up over what happened to John,” Sergeant Early said softly. “But you can’t get a search warrant because you think people or their lifestyles are strange. If you can come up with evidence of something criminal going on at the Le Towne property, then we can talk.”

  Early again began rubbing her eyes with the fingertips of both hands and started talking before she was finished. “We need to rethink this investigation. Our communications with the LAPD investigators have been informal. We now see the extent to which our interests overlap. Glendale P.D. has the John Chase incident.”

  She took her fingers from her eyes, which looked redder than before. “The Berryhill compound and the Le Towne home are both in the L.A. County Sheriff’s jurisdiction. Rather than everyone flying off in different directions, it’s time to form a multiagency task force and gather around a table.”

  “I agree,” Kissick said.

  “Alex, please sit down,” Early said. “You’re rattling my nerves.”

  The young detective pulled out a chair a few seats away from the rest of them. “I have an idea. We know that Gig Towne likes to hire cops. He’s got a job opening.” He gestured toward himself.

  Kissick took notes. “Georgia Berryhill takes in these young women who are on the skids. We could send in an undercover officer who fits the profile.”

  They all turned when one of the staff assistants leaned into the doorway. “Georgia Berryhill was just shot. It’s on the news.”

  Caspers leaped up and grabbed the remote control for the TV in the room. The Berryhill shooting was on the first network station he clicked. A female reporter that the detectives recognized from news conferences at the PPD was broadcasting in front of the closed gates of the Berryhill compound, where a crowd had gathered. Behind her, people were weeping.

  The reporter said, “Georgia Berryhill was rushed not to a hospital, but back here to the secluded Berryhill compound in Malibu Canyon. Fans and Berryhill Method advocates have traveled here, and are anxiously waiting for news about Georgia Berryhill and her baby’s condition. As you can see, some people are praying and singing.”

  The crowd noise dropped to an anxious murmur. The reporter peered through the gates. “Here comes Georgia’s husb
and, Stefan Pavel. Let’s hope he has good news.”

  Vining frowned at the screen. “King Getty’s with him.” She looked at Kissick, who raised his eyebrows.

  Getty opened the gate and stepped out ahead of Pavel, clearing the crowd.

  Bookish Pavel wore his trademark bow tie and round tortoiseshell glasses. He was dressed as if he’d walked out of a Brooks Brothers catalog, wearing a pink shirt, maroon sweater vest, camel sport jacket, navy-blue slacks, and a bow tie. In spite of his power clothes, he looked wan and shaken.

  While he unfolded a sheet of paper, the reporters jockeyed for position.

  Pavel began. “I’m going to make a brief statement. My dear wife, Georgia, was not shot.”

  The fans let out an audible sigh of relief.

  Pavel repeated, “Georgia was not shot. However, she is in labor and we expect the birth of our baby soon.”

  The fans whooped and clapped. Many stood weeping, clasping their hands or one another.

  “Georgia is under the care of her personal physician, Dr. Janus.”

  Vining shot a look at Kissick. “That’s Sinclair’s doctor.”

  “Georgia and I are so grateful for the outpouring of love and support we’ve received from the friends of Berryhill and The Method,” Pavel said. “Your love permeates the compound and lifts us up. We will make a statement as soon as our baby is born. Thank you.”

  He turned on his heel and headed back inside the gates.

  Getty staved off the surging reporters and groupies, saying, “No questions.”

  “Getty and the Berryhills are supposedly good friends,” Vining said, “but he’s surveilling the crowd like a trained bodyguard.”

  “Even has the wraparound sunglasses,” Kissick commented. “Is he on their payroll?”

  “Look at this,” Early said.

  The television was broadcasting a video of the shooting. The paparazzo who’d been lucky enough to have recorded it was jostled during the chaos, but there was decent footage of Getty covering Georgia with his body and hustling her into the car, and a close-up of the shooter’s getaway. As the Escalade sped off, the camera caught Getty standing in the driveway in front of the hotel, his gun aimed at the fleeing car.

  “I’ll call the TV station and ask for a copy of that video,” Kissick said.

  A reporter commented that the unidentified shooter was still at large. Witnesses were able to provide a partial license-plate number. The TV broadcast a still photo from the video showing a close-up of the disguised shooter.

  “Am I seeing things or does the shooter have a kick-ass manicure?” Early asked.

  Vining had noticed the same thing. The shooter’s nails were polished in a dark grape color with glittery gold and silver vertical stripes. “I’ve seen those nails before. It’s Cheyenne Leon. She went gunning for the Berryhills.”

  Kissick came closer to the TV. “Don’t mess with Cheyenne. Well, she was really worked up last night after you told her what Georgia and Stefan had said about her and her friends.”

  “We need to tell Beverly Hills PD that we have a person of interest in the Berryhill shooting,” Vining said.

  “People, we’ll pick up this meeting later,” Early said.

  Vining called Beverly Hills PD and told them she was confident that Cheyenne Leon was their shooter at the Beverly Hills Hotel. They thanked her and said they’d put out a BOLO—Be On the Lookout—right away.

  She’d just hung up when her cell phone rang. It was a number she didn’t recognize. “Detective Vining.”

  “Detective, King Getty here. You’ve been asking questions about Georgia’s Girls. I strongly suggest that you stop.”

  “Stop?” Vining asked with a chuckle in her voice.

  “Look. I have an important reason for asking you that. Come meet me in Malibu Canyon and I’ll tell you everything.”

  That surprised her into silence.

  Before she could formulate a response, he said, “Don’t come to the compound. There’s a lookout point about a quarter mile north. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

  “All right.”

  He hung up.

  She was officially off the case, but nothing was going to stop her from meeting Getty. She was again considering going rogue, like she had when she’d pursued the creep who’d stabbed her. She was still holding her phone when Kissick came to her cubicle.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  He knew her too well. He saw in her face that something was wrong. She told him what had happened.

  “You’re not thinking of going out there alone, are you?”

  “I was.”

  “No, you’re not. I’ll get my jacket.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Sinclair LeFleur lay in bed in her bedroom suite, curled into a fetal position and wearing a white cotton nightgown decorated with handmade lace. Her lush dark hair was the only color in the sea of white bedding. Her complexion was paler than ever. The TV was tuned to a cable movie station that had no commercials and, more important, no breaking news broadcasts. The volume was turned down low. She wasn’t aware of it, but the Julia Roberts romantic comedy she’d tried to watch had ended. Now, a slasher bloodfest was on. Bursts of screaming rose like the caws of a flock of enraged crows.

  She’d managed to hold it together during her parents’ and her best friends’ visit. She’d put on makeup and fixed her hair. She knew how to look good on the outside. She’d dragged herself out of bed and they’d sat on the loggia off her suite for the tea with scones, homemade kumquat jam, and finger sandwiches the chef had prepared. She’d allowed some of the flowers that she and Gig had received to be set around the room. She’d cried. They all did. It was expected, but her despair was much deeper than her loved ones could ever imagine. She’d bucked up and carried on while glancing at the clock and waiting for the time when she could crawl back beneath the covers of her bed.

  Gig had stopped in and visited with the group for a while, then claimed to have an appointment. He knew that her parents and girlfriends had never approved of their marriage. Didn’t think he was right for Sinclair. Were suspicious of The Method and his conversion of impressionable Sinclair into its practices.

  Sinclair remembered her enthusiastic declarations to her parents after her first Mind/Body/Spirit Tune-Up. “I’ve never felt more centered. More alive. I’m present in the world in a way I never was before.”

  She also remembered her father’s penetrating and disapproving stare. He was a physicist at the nearby Jet Propulsion Laboratory—a genuine rocket scientist—and distrustful of things that he couldn’t see, measure, and quantify. She recalled her surge of anger at being subjected to that stare yet again, like she was still an adolescent. She’d smiled and hugged and kissed him, even though the two words he’d spoken had cut her as much as if he’d whipped a lash at her judgment: “Be careful.”

  During the visit, she’d made sparse and rehearsed statements about what had happened the night the baby was born. How the baby wouldn’t breathe. Dr. Janus had tried everything. There was nothing to be done. How she’d never heard her infant daughter cry. This line made her burst into tears. It provided good theatrics for the story, but whenever she said it, she heard her baby’s cry ringing in her ears. Gig, Dr. Janus, and Paula insisted that it was all her imagination. Maybe it was, but the sound seemed so real, like an actual memory.

  Gig’s version of the story was the same, almost word for word. Her parents asked probing questions, but they’d stuck to their story. Sinclair had been a fixture on the Hollywood gossip circuit for long enough to know that if she didn’t deviate and if she, Gig, and their people remained on-message, no one could prove that the truth was something different. The truth would leak out only if someone broke ranks.

  After her guests left, she’d ordered the flowers removed. Their cloying odor and insipient gaiety sickened her. She knew they were intended to cheer her up, but she saw them as another representation of young death, the blooms snipped from the plant,
severed from that which had given them life.

  She’d wiped off her makeup, ostensibly to keep from soiling her snow-white bedding. Secretly, she wanted to look into the mirror and see her unadulterated ghostly complexion and vacant eyes. Even as muddled as her mind was now, she saw some things more clearly than before. Her mind wasn’t foggy. She’d refused the herbal aids that Gig and Paula had tried to foist on her, even if taking something might help her nightmares.

  Once, during a particularly hellish dream, she’d run from the room, only to be grabbed by Paula, who was keeping watch outside her door. Sinclair had fully awakened to find Paula holding her. Sinclair would have gone over the balcony banister if Paula hadn’t stopped her.

  Sinclair had looked down at the tile floor many yards below. She knew it was bad thinking, but part of her wished she’d flown headfirst over the railing. She envisioned her body lying on the tiles—white nightgown, black hair, red blood. It would be a fitting legacy. Her fans had always liked her depictions of the tragic heroines the best. Her life would be defined by her tragic death just like Elvis, Marilyn, and Michael. No one would see her grow old. She would be young and beautiful and sad forever.

  She lay in bed with her eyes closed, afraid to drift to sleep lest the bad dreams come. She heard a light knocking at the door. It was too soon for Paula to come in and help her pump her breast milk. She fluttered her eyes open just enough to see Gig entering, carrying a bed tray.

  He spoke softly. “Sinclair…Funny face…You awake?”

  She opened her eyes halfway and looked at him as if she hated him.

  He set the tray on the bed. On it were glasses of orange juice and milk and two silver domes covering dishes. “Come on. Let’s sit up. You need to eat something.”

  He started to slide his arm beneath her, but she shoved him away and pushed herself up.

  “Let me fluff your pillows.”

  She gave in, leaning forward. After he’d finished, she’d leaned back against the pillows and tried to comb her tangled hair with her fingers before giving up. She didn’t protest when he set the tray over her legs.