by Anna Burke
Paul had been listening carefully while scurrying around, turning out the lights in his office, and closing and locking the door. He scribbled a note for Gloria, leaving it on her desk. “That would be a very nice thing to do. That sort of personal touch really would put them at ease, Jessica, and build trust. There is definitely a problem with the daughter, but they should tell you about it rather than hearing it from me.” He stepped closer and smiled down at her. “You’re the antidote to the grief their daughter is giving them. Just about the same age, but the daughter they deserved, not the one they got.”
He shook his head, thinking about whatever it was they were going through. “All ready for your surprise?”
“I guess so.”
“Can you walk a few blocks in those shoes?” he asked, looking admiringly at more than her shoes. She was wearing the red Max Mara dress and black Jimmy Choo pumps with sensible 2-inch heels.
“No problem, Paul. Let’s go!”
Paul took her by the elbow and steered her from the outer office, locking the door behind them. They ran the gauntlet of inquiring eyes and friendly hellos as they made their way to the front desk and elevators to the ground floor. In that time, in addition to the exchange of salutations, Paul took a call and placed a call on his cell.
Along the way, “hey Jessica” was tossed at her from people she had met during the whirlwind of introductions on her previous visit. She acknowledged their greetings, but could not respond in kind by using their name. Names and faces were still such a blur. Once they were outside the building, she confessed her inability to recall the names of those who greeted her.
Paul set off down the sidewalk as he addressed her concern. “You should be able to recognize the more senior people, Jessica, if you bump into one of them. Our website can help you with that. Amy is planning a kind of open house at the Palm Desert office in the fall. We’ll coordinate that event with our annual meeting, probably after Thanksgiving. That will give you a chance to mingle and meet more of the members of the firm. We’re talking about a couple hundred lawyers, Jessica, and twice that many legal assistants, interns and support staff. Give yourself a break.”
He was moving at a pretty good clip. The LA streets were bustling with foot traffic, as well as the constant stream of cars. Rush hour was building to a pitch. Jessica hustled to keep up, chatting a bit more about the ground she had covered with the Van der Woerts. When they had travelled several blocks, making a turn or two, Jessica was lost until a recognizable storefront came into view. The A & D, the Architecture and Design museum, she knew, of course. Her father had taken her there on more than one occasion since it opened in 2001. As they reached the front door, Paul held it open for her.
“In you go,” he said. Once inside, they met up with a middle-aged man, casually attired in an arty mix of nerd and hip. “This is Jessica Huntington, Jeff. Jessica, Jeffrey Stark is working on an exhibit that will open the end of July, and there are a few things you just have to see while you’re in town.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Jessica. Follow me.” He was smiling pleasantly as he led them through a maze of space in the process of transformation. “Watch your step,” he cautioned, “and your head!” he added, ducking through a doorway with a half hung banner slumping in the door opening.
“Here we are,” their escort announced. The three of them came to a halt in front of a long glass enclosed display case. In the case were architectural renderings and blueprints. There was something familiar about the artist’s drawings and the graphic designs set out side-by-side in the case. The soaring lines and bold angles were classic mid-century modern but infused with the love of the outdoors, and something fanciful or romantic. It suddenly hit her. She knew where she had seen them, or something similar.
“Dad’s, these are Dad’s designs. Oh my God, Paul, how did you find these?” Jessica was fascinated as she peered at the items in the case. There, on one of the prints, was her father’s signature. It was Jeff who answered her question.
“The exhibit is going to be called “Never Built,” Jessica. It will pay homage to the Los Angeles imagined but never realized by artists and architects like your father. We’ll mount an enlarged image of one of his designs on the wall behind this display case, and there will be a brief bio and photos of the things he has done in LA and elsewhere. That will include your family home in the desert, by the way.” He walked her down to one of the last exhibits at the far end of the display case. There was an exquisite rendering of the house in Mission Hills. A drawing just like that, penned in ink by her father, was hanging in a frame in his office. This had to be a copy, or an earlier draft, perhaps.
“But how did you find out about this, Paul?”
“Paul is on our board, Jessica. When he saw your dad’s name on the list of individuals we were including in this exhibit, he offered to foot the bill for the whole thing. He was thrilled. He’s been a fan of your father’s work for years. Now I see he’s a fan of his daughter, as well.”
Jessica spun about and threw her arms around Paul, tearing up as she thanked him. Swept up in a rush of gratitude, she fought to regain her composure as she clutched at the fine Italian wool in Paul’s blazer. There was something so completely disarming about the thoughtfulness of this gesture that she was overcome by emotion. Inexplicable, unanticipated kindness was a powerful thing. A potent antidote to the dark revelations about Kelly and the malevolence that killed her.
Paul had put his arms around her, holding her close as she recovered from the impact of his surprise. Taking a step back, she was able to speak again. Both men were smiling, pleased to have made her so happy.
“Actually, I’m his fan, Jeff, and yours now too. This is such a wonderful thing you’ve done for my father. Does he know?”
“Oh yes, we’ve told him. There will be an opening night gala on the 31st. Your father and several other living architects will be there. Others will be represented by their families. We hope you’ll join us too, Jessica. You’ll get a formal invitation, by mail, but now you can go ahead and put it on your calendar.”
“Of course I’ll be there. This is just so amazing. I should make a donation, too. Will you take a check?” Her head was still spinning as she wrote out a large check to the A&D. The place not only served as a museum but also did outreach and education, identifying and nurturing the next generation of Hank Huntingtons.
Jessica was awash in a glow all evening long. Paul was pretty happy too, charming and animated. He regaled her with tales about his childhood, growing up in California amid an odd assortment of family members. He had a brother and two sisters. From what Jessica gathered, they were more invested in spending the family money than preserving or adding to it. True to Andrew Carnegie’s old adage, “from shirtsleeves back to shirtsleeves in three generations,” meaning the first generation makes the money, the second holds on to it, and the third squanders it. Paul was fighting to hold the line on his share of the family fortune. That fortune had its roots in the California gold rush. Not gold per se, but a fortune made in the sale of pick axes, dried beans, coffee and other supplies sold to the droves of treasure hunters who flooded into California in the 19th century.
Paul was the only member of the family’s current generation to pursue a legal career, though that line of work was well-represented among his ancestors. An uncle was a sitting member of the California Supreme Court and his great uncle had been a lawyer who moved into politics, as many do. That great uncle was a member of the United States Senate for a couple decades, serving in an era when a long tenure in Congress was considered a virtue rather than a vice.
They talked about where the practice of law was heading, at the firm and elsewhere. In particular, issues that firms like theirs faced handling high profile cases while dealing with the peculiarities of the entertainment industry, especially Hollywood celebrities.
“Tell me about it. I’m getting a lesson of my own in the peculiarities of Hollywood celebrities courtesy of my ex-husband an
d his glamour girl.” He tried to make her feel better by telling her about some of the more outrageous antics they had dealt with at the firm. In no time, he had her laughing, convincing her that Jim had better get used to it, now that he was linked to a Hollywood diva.
“The claim to an artistic temperament is cover for a lot of things that are mean and stupid. Throw in a gigantic dose of narcissism, and you’ve got a recipe for a wall full of mug shots to go with all those glamour-girl shots.” He knew all about the latest episode in the sad saga. Jim’s succubus had been arrested, and a defiant mug shot was now being broadcast on the entertainment news channels.
“At least she’s got herself a lawyer,” Jessica added, ruefully. Other than their discussion about Jim and the she-beast, she thoroughly enjoyed the evening. When Paul dropped her back at the firm’s lot, he got out of their limo and sent it on its way. As he walked her to the door of her loaner car, she suddenly realized it was the first time in hours that she had thought about the distressing events of the previous day. Paul’s kindness had staved off thoughts about Kelly, and her horrible death. No thoughts about Mr. P, the doc, or that fight with Frank. No fretting about where the investigation, or her relationship with Frank, might be heading.
Saying good bye, Paul thanked her for a lovely evening and very debonairly kissed her hand. Maybe it was the joy he exuded by doing such a nice thing for her father or the pleasant conversation. She found herself looking forward to their movie night. She told him that, pulling him toward her and stepping on her tiptoes to place a kiss on his cheek. He pressed her to him as he said goodnight. The tautness in the muscles of his arms gave way as he released her, leaving Jessica a little breathless. He opened her car door, waiting as she shut herself in and locked the door. As he sidled back to his car, he whistled a happy little tune.
“Amber and bergamot,” she said to herself, finally recognizing the scent that tantalized in this man’s arms. Jessica drove home a little perplexed by the fact that, in the matter of a week, she had nearly been swept off her feet by two men. Could she offset becoming too involved with one man by seeing another? Was such a thing possible, and was it fair? They were both decent men, neither of which deserved to have their hearts trampled.
Jessica hadn’t ever really dated. Dating was an archaic notion in college. She had a group of friends with whom she did a lot of studying, but fun things too. Some paired off at the end of an evening, or after several outings with the larger group. Once that happened, it was generally assumed you had “hooked up” and were having sex. That’s when things got tricky. A kind of ‘one man at a time’ rule prevailed against the old conventions of dating several men.
Casual sexual liaisons had the potential to wreak havoc on your life and reputation, at least for her women friends. Returning home in the same party clothes you wore the night before was risky business. Being seen taking that “walk of shame,” as some called it, one too many times, with one too many men could earn you the slut label. Hook-ups and booty calls also took another toll on many of the young women she knew. They were sometimes deeply disappointed when casual sex didn’t lead to something more.
Their male friends, however, seemed to suffer much less. Less invested in sex as a pathway to relationship-building, and she wasn’t even sure there was a male counterpart to the term slut. “Player” was about the closest thing that came to mind. That moniker was the kiss of death, as far as Jessica was concerned, and no guy meriting that label would have remained on her list of friends for long.
Neither Frank nor Paul seemed remotely inclined toward “player.” Jessica worried more about “playing” them by getting too involved, too soon, or leading them on in some way. There were all those questions hanging out there: why hadn’t Paul ever married, and why had Frank’s marriage ended in divorce? She now had short answers to both, but there was more to learn.
Hell, she still couldn’t answer the question about why her own marriage had turned out to be such a disaster. She owed it to herself and the two new men in her life to get a better understanding of her own situation, as well as theirs. It was those damn hugs causing all the trouble, with Frank and now Paul, too. That had to stop.
As Jessica neared her father’s house, alone and in the dark, her uneasiness grew. Was it the unwelcome third man, occupying center stage in her life, who called to mind the male-as-player motif? For the time being, the tantrum-throwing Mr. P had passed up Jim Harper as the most detestable man in her life. Of course, she had not yet come face to face with the prescription-wielding doc, who had sashayed into the Pure Platinum Music Group’s building yesterday. Had she done enough to forestall such a meeting?
CHAPTER 28
Wednesday morning, Jessica awoke feeling challenged by the prospects for the day. She had to face Dick Tatum and whatever new revelations he might have obtained about the demise of Chester Davis. There was no longer any doubt in her mind that the attention-seeking Mr. P and the elusive doc were involved in Kelly’s death. Frank’s concerns for her safety reflected that he shared her conviction.
Despite sinking deeper and deeper into the muck and mire that surrounded the two despicable men, they had nothing to link either man to Kelly’s death. Nothing, that is, other than the eyewitness testimony of a now dead drug addict. Dick Tatum had recorded their interviews with Chester Davis, but she wasn’t sure they would be of much value or even admissible as evidence. Surely, not enough to get an indictment of either man even with the work she and her cat pack buddies had done to corroborate parts of his story.
Tommy and Jerry were still digging up as much background information as they could about both men. Jessica considered calling and telling them to back off. There was so little to go on anyway, in particular when it came to searching for the doc. No name and no history, other than his tentative association with Mr. P. It was hard to believe some lurid tale had not surfaced somewhere about the unsightly character hanging around Mr. P.
“Good grief,” Jessica muttered, “the man stood out, even in a crowd!” The women in housekeeping had attested to that. Surely, some sensation-seeking member of the paparazzi had glimpsed him. Wandering in or out of Mr. P’s workplace, as he had done Monday, should have provoked a curious-minded Hollywood reporter to inquire about his connection to Mr. P or the studio. Where was the scintillating scuttlebutt about the doc?
Given his propensity to write prescriptions for Mr. P’s friends and associates with apparent abandon, it was also impossible to believe he had avoided legal trouble. To track him down, they needed a name. Perhaps some link to the doc could be discovered by a more careful review of Mr. P’s legal troubles. Jessica put more digging into Mr. P’s legal dealings on her own to-do list, not wanting to encourage Tommy or Jerry to get in any deeper than they already were.
After swimming, tanking up on caffeine and eating breakfast, Jessica decided to track her father down. Paul Worthington’s surprise was a ray of sunshine in the growing storminess surrounding the investigation into Kelly’s death, punctuated by that bolt of lightning signaling the end to Chester Davis’ pitiful life. She was bursting with pride and happiness for her father, and wanted to congratulate him. After several attempts to locate him, Jessica gave up. Voice mails and a text message would suffice for now.
She was disappointed that there was no message from Frank. Didn’t he feel some remorse about how he handled that last conversation? Jessica certainly did. So why didn’t she call and leave a message communicating that to him? The answer was simple. She was as stubborn and prideful as Frank Fontana.
There was nothing from Dick Tatum, either. That was odd. He was, no doubt, as upset as she was about Chet Davis’ demise and their stymied investigation. “He doesn’t know the half of it,” she thought. They had a lot of ground to cover at their lunch meeting. Perhaps, when he heard all that she and her cat pack friends had discovered, he would come up with a fresh angle they might pursue. Or maybe he’d ward her off too, and lay the matter to rest along with his now dead client
.
By ten o’clock, Jessica was pulling out of the driveway leading from her dad’s estate to the street. As the gates closed behind her, Jessica inched forward, checking to see that the street was clear of traffic. Suddenly, something caught Jessica’s eye. She gasped in disgust. A large doll lay in the street, its head on the curb, horribly contorted. The doll had long auburn hair and wore a top that might have fit a real three-or four-year-old, and no panties.
A wave of nausea grabbed her as she called security. In less than three minutes, a team arrived at the house. The two men initially looked at her like she was a crazy woman when she pointed out the source of her concern. That reaction was the main reason she had called them, and not the LAPD. The shortest way to get her point across was to pull out that awful photo of Kelly, as she explained. The cold case she was working on was no longer quite so cold.
That did the trick. Jessica asked them to take photos at the curb, then go through the house and grounds making sure the culprits had not left similar mementoes elsewhere. She also asked them to review every bit of surveillance footage from the night before, and pass along information about any vehicle that had stopped nearby or passed the house more than once.
“Call in extra help if you need to. I’ll pay you triple your usual hourly rate if you turn around a report in 24 hours. The bill goes to me, not my father, okay?”
The team on site called in her request to management. They were having the same sort of trouble explaining the problem at the house until Jessica had the guys on the scene send a photo of the doll and the crime scene photo of Kelly to the manager at the home office. All the arrangements were made quickly after that.