“Which one are you related to?”
Banfer turned scarlet. “Why would you assume that?”
“You seem unusually dedicated but sorry if I presumed.”
“Let me assure you, I’d do the same for any client, Lieutenant.” A beat. “But if you must know, Jack was married to my mother’s sister and then she died and he married Daisy. So technically, Daisy’s my step-aunt but I think of her as my full aunt, she’s dear to me, she’s a dear woman.”
“She seemed very nice.”
“Jack’s nice, too.”
“No doubt.”
“So do we have a deal?”
“That depends on what you have to offer.”
“I have the truth to offer, Lieutenant Sturgis—may I call you Milo?”
“Sure.”
“Milo, this can be extremely simple if we go the simplicity route. I give you information and you use it as you see fit in your criminal investigation but you don’t draw Jack and Daisy into it.”
“I have no desire to complicate their lives, Floyd, but I need to be up front with you. If they’ve got crucial information, it could find its way into the case file.”
“Not true,” snapped Banfer. “Just call them confidential informants and everything will go smooth as silk.”
“I can do that but I can’t promise that at some point a prosecutor’s not going to want to know their identity.”
“If that happens, you say no.”
“It doesn’t work that way, Floyd.”
“Then we … have a problem.”
“You may have all kinds of problems if Jack and Daisy don’t cooperate, Floyd. I don’t need to tell you about all the unpleasant legal maneuvers at the D.A.’s disposal.”
“I’ll fight each and every one.”
“That will toss Jack and Daisy right into the limelight.”
Banfer slanted forward, walked faster.
Milo said, “All this hassle just to make sure Premadonny doesn’t get mad at them?”
“It’s not a matter of mad,” said Banfer. “It’s a matter of excommunication. Do you know how powerful those two are?”
“A-list.”
“Oh, no, no, no.” Banfer’s hand arced above his head, like a kid playing airplane. “Miles above A-list. It’s like pissing off the queen of En gland.”
“Last I checked the queen hadn’t excommunicated anyone, Floyd.”
“Okay,” said the lawyer, “perhaps I engaged in a bit of hyperbole, but still. If word gets out that Jack somehow violated a confidence, the results could be professionally and financially devastating.”
“Jack and Daisy signed a gag clause.”
Banfer frowned. “Standard operating procedure when dealing with clients at that level.”
“Maybe so, but we already know Jack sent Adriana Betts to work at Premadonny’s compound and we’re fairly certain he did the same for a couple of other people who may be connected to Adriana Betts’s murder. Did you read today’s Times?”
“Of course,” said Banfer. “That’s why I called you.”
“The reporter’s itching for anything I can give her. I’ve been holding her off but that could change.”
“You’re threatening to leak my clients’ identities?”
“You called the meeting, Floyd. I’m letting you know how things stand.”
Banfer clicked his teeth. “Lieutenant Sturgis,” he said, as if hearing the title for the first time. “Do you by chance have legal training?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment though I’m not sure I should. The answer is just what I’ve learned on the job.”
“Well, you’re a wily man, Milo. Not what I’d expect. Because frankly most of the cops I encounter aren’t what you’d call intellectual giants.”
“You encounter a lot of cops?”
“I do my share of workers’ comp, have represented several of your compatriots, learned how they tick. Typically their long-term goals don’t stretch beyond a brand-new motorcycle and a Hawaiian vacation.”
“Oh, those crazy kids in blue.”
“It was meant as a compliment. You seem different, Milo. A careful planner.”
“Accepted and appreciated, Floyd. So what is it you’d like to tell me in the hope that Jack and Daisy remain bulletproof?”
Banfer stopped, took hold of the bulb at the end of his nose and twisted. His breath had grown ragged. He said, “Let’s sit down.”
CHAPTER
37
Beverly Hills park benches are complex creations, curvy and black and wrought iron with a center divider that makes it difficult for more than two people to sit. Milo motioned Banfer to the left. A flick of his head directed me to the right.
Leaving him on his feet, looming.
Another homeless man shambled by, eyes rolling, stumbling.
Banfer said, “That’s probably where they got the idea for that picture—Down and Out in Beverly Hills. They prettied it up, but that’s the Industry … okay, back to business: Jack and Daisy are—”
“Wonderful people. Acknowledged, Floyd.”
“Ethical people,” Banfer corrected. “Jack made some mistakes, granted, but the basic core is ethical so there’s no reason for you to worry about them.”
“Mistakes as in hiring Adriana Betts without vetting her.”
Banfer rubbed his temples. “Facts can only tell you so much when you’re dealing with human beings, Milo. Jack’s come to trust his instincts and Ms. Betts impressed him as a decent young woman.”
I said, “Plus it was an urgent situation.”
Banfer clicked his teeth again. “Allegedly.”
“You have your doubts?”
“The origin of that supposition was a call Jack received from another employee at the compound. Someone he’d placed a while back. She—there was an assertion that the clients needed additional child care as soon as possible, Jack was to come up with someone immediately. This individual knew someone who fit the bill perfectly—the right training and experience. Jack’s a people-pleaser, he got into the business to fill human need. It seemed like an ideal arrangement.”
Milo said, “Don’t see a big problem there, Floyd. If he had checked Adriana out he would’ve learned she was squeaky-clean.”
Banfer crossed his legs, tugged a sock up a hairless shin. “Well, that’s good to hear.”
“On the other hand, Floyd, if the employee who recommended her was Qeesha D’Embo, that complicates matters.”
“I’m not familiar with that name.”
“How about Charlene Chambers?”
“Nor that one.”
Milo produced the mug shot.
Banfer sagged.
“How do you know her, Floyd?”
“She represented herself to Jack and Daisy as Simone Chambord. That’s the name Jack and Daisy used to check her out and she came up spotless.”
“When was she hired?”
“Twenty-three months ago.”
Soon after leaving Boise.
I said, “What was she hired for?”
The question seemed to puzzle Banfer. “Child care, of course.” He tapped the photo. “After you showed that to Jack and he called me in a panic, I took a closer look at her. Specifically, I traced the Social Security number she’d used when she applied for the job. It matches a Simone Chambord, all right, but that person turns out to be an eighty-nine-year-old woman living in a rest home in New Orleans. I called over there and the director informed me Mrs. Chambord had advanced Alzheimer’s, had been that way for five years.”
“Jack and Daisy’s search didn’t pull that up?”
“They were focused on relevant criteria. Criminal record, poor credit.”
“Good point,” I said. “Advanced Alzheimer’s would sure inhibit criminality.”
Banfer shook his head. “The potential ramifications for Gold Standard are obvious but no harm was intended.”
Milo said, “Your clients provided a con artist as a nanny for movie stars’ k
ids, did the same for a woman who ended up dead. Yeah, I’d say those are ramifications.”
“That’s a tiny proportion of all the wonderful people Jack and Daisy have connected with wonderful clients.”
Recited with all the conviction of a gulag loyalty pledge.
I said, “Unfortunately, you’re only as good as your last picture.”
Banfer sighed. “I’ve advised Jack to sit tight, but obviously he’s on pins and needles. To make matters worse, Daisy knew nothing about any of this.”
Milo said, “Unhappy wife, unhappy life.”
“It’s a mess, all right. By the way, I did check out Ms. Betts’s Social Security and it comes back to her. Have I missed something? Because she and Chambord seem an unlikely pairing.”
Milo said, “Nothing crooked has turned up on Adriana.”
“That baby found at the park—those bones—what’s the connection?”
“Don’t know yet, Floyd. That’s why we wanted to talk to Jack and Daisy.”
“Well, they certainly can’t tell you anything about that.”
“Qeesha—Simone—was hired twenty-three months ago. What about Adriana?”
“Recently. Around three, four months ago according to Jack.”
“He can’t be more precise?”
Banfer stared straight ahead.
Milo said, “He destroyed the files?”
“I can’t get into that.”
“Your client got rid of potential evidence. If you advised him to do that you could be facing obstruction charges.”
“Same answer, I’m afraid.”
Banfer turned to Milo. Milo glared and Banfer faced forward again. “Let’s put this in context: I’ve been more forthcoming than I need to be, given the circumstances.”
“What circumstances are those, Floyd?”
“No charges have been filed against anyone, you’re at the supposition stage, fishing around, and neither I nor my client is obligated to talk to you about anything. However, we chose to cooperate volitionally because we’re not obstructionistic. And in terms of files, I’m unaware of any statute requiring a small businessman to cope with needless paper buildup.”
“Fair enough,” said Milo.
Sudden switch to an easy, amiable tone. Banfer risked another try at eye contact. Milo smiled.
“Well,” said the attorney, “it’s good to see we’ve reached a meeting of the minds.”
“I agree. Now how about we talk to Jack, directly.”
“You feel that’s necessary?”
“Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t, Floyd.”
Banfer sighed again, punched numbers on his cell phone. “Hey, it’s me … as well as can be expected … I told them that … they still want to talk to you … I’ll stay right here, not to worry … might as well, you’ve got nothing to hide … sooner’s better than later, Jack, let’s get it over with and move on … we’re on the parkway between Beverly and Camden … good idea.” Clicking off, he studied the traffic. “On his way.”
Jack Weathers wore a blue cashmere blazer, a white silk shirt, dove-colored slacks, blue suede loafers with gold buckles. If they recast Gilligan’s Island, he’d be great for Thurston Howell the Third. Except for the defeated, sagging shoulders, the bags under his eyes, the wrinkles that had deepened during the twenty-four hours since we’d last seen him.
The shuffling gait of an old, weary man.
I got up and vacated the space next to Banfer. Weathers hesitated.
Milo said, “Take a load off, Jack.”
Weathers’s jowls quivered. Pink capillaries laced the whites of his eyes. A couple of cuticles were rubbed raw, detracting from an otherwise perfect manicure.
He sat down heavily and Banfer filled him in on what we knew. When Banfer wanted to, he could be concise.
Jack Weathers laced his hands together, stared at his knees.
Milo said, “Tell me everything you remember about the woman who called herself Simone Chambord.”
“What’s her real name?” said Weathers.
“Why don’t you let me do the asking so you can do the answering.”
Weathers’s head snapped back.
Floyd Banfer said, “Let’s keep it streamlined, Jack, and they’ll be out of your hair.”
Weathers said nothing. The group of younger Persian women returned. His attention shifted to shapely rears, and that seemed to relax him.
He said, “Good-looking girl, black but lightish. I figured her for a wannabe actress.”
“Because of her looks.”
“That and she had a way about her.”
“What way was that, Jack?”
“Vivacious,” said Weathers. “Theatrically vivacious.”
“Like she was playing a role.”
“This town, everyone plays a role. What I’m getting at is everything was just a little bit exaggerated.” He studied Milo. “You’re kind of central-casting yourself.”
“So you figured Simone for a wannabe.”
“But she had the right credentials for the child-care job. Experience, letters of reference.”
“From who?”
“Previous employers.”
“How about some names?”
“Don’t recall,” said Weathers.
“How about checking the file?”
“No file.” Weathers colored. “We turn everything over regularly.”
“Paper buildup.”
Floyd Banfer rubbed one leg against the other.
Jack Weathers said, “Exactly.”
“Okay,” said Milo, “but when she applied you must’ve called her references. Any memories of who they were and what they told you?”
“Nah, I’ve got so many applications, nothing stands out.”
“Business is good.”
“Can be,” said Weathers. “All I can tell you is she checked out.”
“Wannabe actress,” said Milo. “Guess you see a lot of that.”
“I go in assuming the real agenda is advancing their careers. Or so they believe.”
Milo said, “Doesn’t work that way?”
“Works against them.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because once someone’s seen as being in a service position they tend to be … always seen that way.”
“They’re viewed as inferior?”
“Not inferior,” said Weathers. “Different.”
“Donny Rader started off as a golf caddie and houseboy for a producer.”
“That’s the official story.”
“Not true?”
Weathers sneered. “I don’t know what’s true, what’s not. I don’t know anyone’s narrative.”
Floyd Banfer said, “It’s all a matter of information control. We hear what they want us to hear.”
“Stars,” said Milo.
“Anyone in power.”
I said, “So you have no problem hiring wannabes.”
Jack Weathers said, “Not if they learn their proper place and do the damn job.”
“Did Simone Chambord learn?”
“Never heard about problems.”
“Far as you know, she’s still working for Premadonny.”
“I’d assume.”
“What else do you remember about her?”
“Good-looking,” said Weathers. “Extremely attractive. In that fresh way. Great figure … she could carry on a conversation, said she loved kids, showed me a child-development book she was reading.”
“She was hired as a nanny.”
“No,” said Weathers. “As a child-care assistant.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Pay scale, for starts. When the client insists on an official nanny, we hire British girls who take formal training at one of the schools they have over there. They’ve got the book learning but some of them can be a little uptight. Some clients like that. Others want something more relaxed.”
“Prema Moon and Donny Rader have a relaxed attitude.”
“I’d assume.
”
“How many other people have you sent to them?”
“Couldn’t say,” said Weathers.
Milo said, “Wild guess.”
Weathers looked at Banfer. Banfer nodded.
“Wild guess? I’d say half a dozen.”
“What jobs did you fill for them?”
“I believe there were a couple of domestics. Housekeepers. We don’t do that anymore, can’t compete with the domestic-specialty agencies, all those ads they run in the Spanish papers. But back then we did, so probably that’s it. Couple of domestics.”
He turned to Banfer. “This is okay?”
“So far, Jack.”
Milo said, “You’re worried about Premadonny’s gag clause?”
“Hell, yeah,” said Weathers. “We’re talking damn stringent.”
“As opposed to …”
Banfer said, “Clauses that are less stringent.” He smiled at his own obfuscation.
Milo said, “Educate me, Counselor.”
“It’s nothing complicated, Milo. Default is generally a ban on talking to the media, publishing a book, that kind of thing. This particular clause covers virtually every single syllable uttered about Premadonny to anyone on any topic. Is it legally binding? Probably not, but testing that theory would bring considerable anguish. In any event, Jack’s told you everything he knows about the Chambord woman and Ms. Betts.”
“Then on to the next topic,” said Milo, pulling out the enlargement of Melvin Jaron Wedd’s DMV photo.
Floyd Banfer’s face remained blank.
Jack Weathers said, “Oh, shit.”
CHAPTER
38
Floyd Banfer placed a hand on Jack Weathers’s cashmere sleeve. “He’s also one of yours?”
Milo said, “Who is he, Jack?”
Weathers wrung his hands. “A guy … M.J.”
Milo said, “Melvin Jaron Wedd. When did you place him at the compound?”
Weathers muttered something.
“Speak up, Jack.”
“Three years ago. Give or take.”
“What’s his job title?”
“Estate manager,” said Weathers. “I’d placed him before, similar thing.”
“Whose estate did he manage before?”
“Saudi family, gigantic place in Bel Air. Four, five years ago.”
“And before then?”
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