by Anna Burke
“Jessica, he was scared shitless, still is. You saw that. He already had a track record back then, so it’s not clear how seriously his claims would have been taken if he had come forward. He would have had to explain why he was hanging around out there in the dark behind a bunch of dumpsters. Chet Davis was a coward. I don’t condone it, but I do get it.” Dick Tatum was doing his best for his client, but that didn’t wash with Jessica or the detective. Art picked up where Dick Tatum left off.
“It sounds like there’s reason to believe some of what he says. I have to point out, however, that his track record isn’t any better now than it was back then. It’s worse, in fact. He’s got us all going, but it is still possible that he has cooked up this tall tale to get out of the serious trouble he’s in. I don’t deny that he saw something that night involving the death of your friend, Jessica. His description of the way her body looked fits with the photos taken at the crime scene. We don’t have a single bit of evidence to corroborate anything other than the fact that he found her dead and failed to report it. He may have witnessed somebody run her down, but right now all we have is his word for it that the car hit her on purpose. The stuff about a Mr. P or Mr. B and the doc sounds kind of screwy to me.”
“So what does this mean about reopening the case?” Jessica asked, her irritation with Art Greenwald stirring again.
“I’ve already said that we’ll go back through everything again. I’m taking his story on face value for the moment. But there’s no way this will go anywhere unless we have more to go on. Who are we going to charge? Some mystery man with long hair, driving a dark sedan, nearly fifteen years ago, who may have a name that starts with p or b? I don’t think the D.A. is going to cut Chester Davis much slack with that kind of info, either. But, what do I know? We’re up to our eyeballs in lowlifes, no place to put them all, and as far as lowlifes go, your Mr. Davis is less offensive than some. Heck, the biggest risk he poses is to himself. It costs a lot less to put the guy back out on the street than it does to put him up in jail for the rest of his miserable life. That was the main point behind Prop 36.”
“That may well be true. I’d like to see him get another go at treatment if I can get the D.A. to agree. Where there’s life there’s hope. I’m sure Jessica would have preferred to have her friend alive, even if she was in bad shape like Chet.” Jessica had to agree that was probably true. But the thought of her beautiful childhood friend looking anything like Chester Davis after years of being ravaged by drugs filled her with despair. She was ready to end this.
“You need to go through the file yourself, Jessica. Some of it’s pretty hard to take. I’ll warn you, the crime scene photos and autopsy report are graphic. If you read through the case file, you can see why the police stopped pursuing the matter when they stalled out. As far as they could tell, it was pretty clear what happened. Despite the fact that your friend was a lovely young thing, it’s not such an unprecedented situation: an addict, who has been on a bender for a few days, is looking for a place to shoot up, gets spooked and runs out in front of a car. Some drunk hits her and instead of stopping to help or call it in, runs for it. That’s a crime, but it’s not murder. Chester Davis could well have recognized your friend from bumping into her on one of his previous deliveries. There were track marks on her arms and a loaded hypodermic at the scene with her prints on it. A tox screen said she had a lot of drugs in her system, including heroin. If she had used what was in that needle, she would have turned up dead that night, anyway.”
Jessica was aghast. “That can’t be true. Kelly hated needles. She actually fainted at the sight of a needle getting shots at school one year. I don’t believe it.”
“Come on, Jessica, you may not like the idea, but have a look for yourself. The evidence is pretty clear and a drug binge would explain why she was missing in action at work for a couple days. It’s hard to face facts, but when you get to be as old as I am, you realize you just don’t always know people the way you think you do. Let’s say it was murder and not an accident, you’d still have to admit your friend must have had a number of secrets if somebody wanted her dead. She wouldn’t be the first pretty young girl involved in a dispute about drugs that got her killed.”
“Check please!” Jessica hollered to the nearest waiter. She was getting that urge again to put her fork to use in a bad way. “I may not be as old as you, Art, but trust me, I do get it. I agree that you don’t always know people, even those closest to you. Kelly Fontana obviously had secrets. I just don’t happen to be convinced that she was an IV drug user.” She stared directly at him until he looked away; her hand fiddled with that fork.
“I am glad that you’re willing to do more investigating, Detective. I have some resources that I can put to work on that front, too. We’ll just try to keep an open mind about all of this for now. It’s clear to me that we have a ton of work to do to convince ourselves, or anyone else, that my friend was murdered. Finding her killer is an even longer shot, but I intend to give it a try.”
CHAPTER 13
The walk back to the Sherriff’s Department building and to the detention center where she and Dick Tatum parted company was quick and pretty quiet. Art and Dick chatted about office politics. Recent problems in the public defender’s office had garnered unfortunate attention for the county. Jessica did not care enough to pay attention to their grousing. Art thanked her for lunch, but had to engage in one last act of aggravation before he left.
“I know I don’t have to tell you not to overreach with the investigating you plan to do. Poking around in other people’s problems can be harmful to your health. That’s especially true if we are talking about problems that a long-haired Mr. P or Mr. B thought were best solved by murder.”
“Where’s that fork when you really need it?” Jessica asked herself. It was like déjà vu listening to another detective warn her about the dangers of snooping into the murder of a friend. She was chastened by her experience with Roger Stone’s murder investigation. Jessica had taken her licks for stepping into the middle of that free-for-all. That crime had still been underway, in a manner of speaking, when she got caught up in the maelstrom. But Kelly’s murder was old news. What was it about her that irked detectives?
“I promise. I’ll be careful. Whatever happened to Kelly happened a long time ago, Detective. Heck, for all we know, the long-haired Mr. P or Mr. B is now a balding senior citizen in a Sun City somewhere, driving a golf cart rather than a big pricey sedan. Or he might even be dead. If I learn anything of value I’ll pass it along. I trust you’ll do the same and will keep us updated?”
“Sure. Dick is a fixture around here. He knows how to find me, and if he’s trying to get information relevant to a client’s case, he does not mind being annoying in the least.”
“He’s not the only one,” Jessica countered, with her mind but not her lips. She looked at Dick Tatum, who was actually grinning at being told how annoying he could be. Okay, so maybe that was just the way it would be. Let them annoy the hell out of her and each other if that’s what it took to get justice for Kelly Fontana.
“Whatever it takes to get to the truth, I guess. Thanks for all your help today, Art. I may have some questions after I go through the file. I’ll get back to you both, if that’s okay?”
“Sure,” Art said with a little ambiguous shrug. Jessica bristled at the unintelligible body language, focusing instead on the one syllable response. Her brow was furrowed, though, her lips pursed.
“If you have questions you can call me anytime,” Dick said, speaking loudly to the detective’s back as he walked away. He was still grinning as he continued to speak to Jessica. Maybe he liked it that she and the detective were obviously antagonistic toward each other, a misery-loves-company kind of thing. Or perhaps he was glad not to be the good detective’s only target.
“Art’s on board, Jessica. He mostly means well, and he’s already paid you a couple compliments. I don’t see that happen too often, so you can assume he’s impress
ed. So am I. You’re a good friend, Jessica Huntington, and Chester Davis is a lucky client to have you backing him up. A luckier client, I should say, since he already had me on his team.” He reached out to shake hands.
“It was nice meeting you, Dick,” Jessica said as she shook his hand.
“I’m going to go back on Monday morning and chat up the prosecutor, sort of sound him out about his willingness to get Chet into drug treatment while we sort this out. A new investigation is going to take some time. It’s a shame to have him just cooling his heels in jail when he could be getting help. At least he’ll continue to get a chance to detox while he’s locked up. I’ll try to make sure they keep an eye on him so he gets some medical help if he needs it. Maybe we can keep him in the old wing for now. How about we touch base Monday afternoon?”
“Okay, Dick, I’ll call you late afternoon. Have a nice Fourth of July.” She turned, stepped off the curb, and opened the driver side door. “Dick,” she called out, causing the rumpled lawyer to pause for a moment, “thanks for giving a damn—about your client and about what happened to Kelly.”
He smiled broadly, then turned and waved as he walked away.
Jessica drove the few blocks to the Mission Inn, deep in thought. She parked and rolled her bag across the street and around the corner into the lobby of the historic old hotel complex. A place that started out in the late nineteenth century as a 12-room adobe boarding house had become an obsession of sorts for Frank Miller, son of the original proprietor, until he died in 1935. The first wing, built in the mission-revival style and opened in 1903, was reminiscent of the Spanish missions located throughout California. Frank Miller added three more wings by 1931, with a rather idiosyncratic strategy for integrating the wings as they were added.
An extensive traveler and compulsive collector with exotic and eclectic taste, he bought things. Lots of things he bought ended up being installed in one area or another of the hotel. The place was a favorite of celebrities as diverse as Will Rogers and Paul Newman, but had a near miss with the wrecking ball when it fell on hard times after changing hands a number of times. It was rescued by being placed on the National Historic Registry, and by the current owners, who reopened it in 1992 after several years of renovation and extensive upgrades. Over the years, the Mission Inn had hosted ten U.S. presidents, including Richard Nixon and his wife Pat, who were wed there.
Portraits of the presidents who had visited the inn stared down at Jessica from the wall in the Presidential Lounge as she wheeled her bag past them to the check in desk. In no time, she was in her room, even though she had arrived well before the normal 3:00 check-in time. The reservation Frank Fontana made for her was in a stretch of rooms on the third floor called “Author’s Row”. The name of an author who had stayed at the hotel was written above each door. Her room, the Carrie Jacobs-Bond room, was a welcome sight.
Jessica kicked off her shoes, and stripped out of her dress and Wolford pantyhose. A robe hung in the closet where she stashed her bag and hung up her dress. In less than two minutes, Jessica had thrown herself down onto the comfortable bed, torn between crying and pitching a fit. She punched the pillow, but it was way too plush to feel like she had accomplished anything. Instead, she shoved her face into the pillow and screamed. It was really more like a growl or groan. At the same time, she kicked her feet like a child.
She couldn’t decide who made her more upset. The antagonistic Detective Greenwald was high on the list. Not far behind was the weasel of a drug addict who might be putting them all through this hell just to get back out on the street. If Chester Davis was telling some version of the truth, a long-haired bastard was roaming around, free as a bird, after having mowed her friend down before her life had really begun. Of course, Kelly was on the list, too. She had finally gotten into more trouble than she could get out of on her own. Instead of asking Jessica for help, she had picked a fight that last night they were together on New Year’s Eve. A horrible fight that left Jessica feeling at least as angry with herself as she was with anyone else on her list.
What a nightmare! She needed this like she needed a hole in her head. She should be home right now reviewing the latest material she could find on estate planning. That included refreshing her knowledge of wills, health care proxies, trusts and a dozen related topics stored away in her brain, all shrouded by cobwebs. Jessica punched the pillow a couple more times.
She rolled on her back and stared at the ceiling in the hotel room. She really was jumping the gun, since she hadn’t even officially been given the go-ahead by Paul or the Van der Woerts to start working on their behalf. Once she did get the signal to begin, she needed much more information about their financial situation and future goals before putting the elements of a plan together. The firm probably used some kind of nifty tool for collecting information from clients like the Van der Woerts. She would ask Paul about that the minute she got the word from him. As Dr. Nicholas Van der Woert the Third was no stranger to the use of health proxies and the like, not just a will, but a lot of other pieces were probably already in place and just needed to be updated. She had some time. Paul probably would not get back to her until early next week. Amy Klein, the office manager could help her locate whatever background information was on file about the Van der Woerts. Paul was waiting in the wings to mentor her, just like Dick Tatum had her back with Chester Davis. It would be fine. It had to be fine.
Jessica felt herself calming down as she lay there recovering from the events of the day. The day wasn’t over yet. Frank Fontana had left a message confirming that he was meeting her at the Mission Inn for dinner at six. Jessica had agreed to dinner with the understanding that he let her pick up the tab. A single father with two near-teens did not need to be buying her dinner. And he had saved her money on her room, getting the manager to give her a great discount.
Jessica had made reservations for dinner at Duane’s, a high-end steak house on site at the hotel. It was a place she thought Frank would enjoy, but would never indulge in on his own. The cost of their meal would be equivalent to a down payment on the fee for Evie’s braces. Tomorrow night, dinner at his house in nearby Perris would be on him, with a little help from his mother, of course.
The restaurant also had a decent wine cellar, and she hoped a glass or two of good wine would soften the blow from the story she had to tell him about Kelly. A drug addict, could that possibly be true? Did Uncle Don know that back in ’99 when Kelly was found dead? Had the police told Kelly’s parents? What about Tommy, did somebody tell Tommy she was an addict? Or would Jessica have be the one to tell Tommy that his beautiful sister was shooting herself full of drugs before she was run down by some long-haired maniac?
“Oh shit, shit, shit!” The thought of Tommy suddenly reminded her. She had taken Bernadette’s advice and invited the cat pack to her house Friday night for dinner, but had not called the caterer. It was nearly 4:00 on the Wednesday before the 4th of July. Why hadn’t she called the caterer on Monday? How stupid and thoughtless could she be? She jumped off the bed and flew into action.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Jessica muttered, as she dug out her phone and flipped through her contacts. Her breathing took off, keeping pace with her escalating heart rate. No number for the caterer. She was feeling a little dizzy and was going to need a paper bag to control her breathing any second now. All of the day’s stress suddenly crystallized around the urgent search for one phone number.
She was struck by how often she handled things this way. Slid over and around the big problems in her life. Then, one small mishap would send her over the edge.
“It’s okay, it’ll all be okay. We can just eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,” she said aloud in the empty hotel room. She sat down on the bed and counted out the time between breaths. The exhales were the most important, according to her shrink. It wasn’t just the big cleansing breaths that mattered. Fully exhaling expelled a backlog of toxins the human body was designed to get rid of. That is, if she hadn’t l
ost the ability to do the most basic thing properly—breathe! A little giggle escaped as Jessica imagined serving her friends a huge tray of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with a case of cold beer. Brien would be in heaven. Even the vegan giant Peter March would be okay.
Not ten breaths later—a minute more—Jessica remembered the caterer was on her phone under the owner’s name. In less than twenty minutes, it was all arranged. They would have a belated Fourth of July celebration on Friday, with a tiki twist, in honor of their recent return from the islands. Complete with grilled satay tempeh skewers, a minted fava bean salad, vegan double chocolate cookies, and pineapple-coconut sorbet, sure to be palatable to vegan and non-vegan alike. Kalua pig for the carnivores among them, along with Hawaiian sweet bread, rice, purple sweet potatoes, and braised cabbage. She smiled as she thought of the ever-hungry Brien feasting until he could no longer move.
Jessica reflected on the buoyancy brought on by planning that feast for her friends. It wasn’t the food. Well, not just the food. Living well was the best revenge for all the agony life had to offer. An extravaganza, entertaining those nearest and dearest to her, was a tried and true strategy for countering every form of darkness known to humankind.
How could Kelly have so misconstrued Jessica’s efforts on that New Year’s Eve so long ago? That celebration was classic Jessica Huntington. Her effort to face down the terror of what a new year might hold for her and her friends as fledgling adults. After Kelly’s previous attack on Jessica’s largesse when they were all still in high school, she and Kelly and Laura had all talked about it.
“I know I spend a lot of money, because I can. It makes me feel better when I’m freaked out about something. And it makes me feel better about myself if I think other people are having a good time because of me.”