by David Chill
Cruising up Beverly Drive, I sailed past a variety of expensive jewelry stores, art galleries, and fragrance shops. The streets turned residential after seven or eight blocks, with gorgeous, stately manors quietly sitting along the ostentatiously wide street. The distinguishing part of Beverly Drive was not the remarkable homes, but the long rows of palm trees, exceedingly tall, bending unevenly toward the western sun, their signature sharp leaves jutting out at the top. I drove slowly through a pair of six-way intersections, where three streets crossed. In some cities they built roundabouts to deal with this oddity, which allows drivers to easily move from one street to another. In Beverly Hills they did no such thing. Getting through a six-way intersection requires a certain amount of patience and a certain amount of politeness. It was a little after two o’clock and the traffic was light, so the drivers were cooperative. I imagined trying to sift through this strange impediment during rush hour, a chore which might easily deteriorate into a festival of honking horns and extended fingers. But a Beverly Hills police officer once told me that these intersections actually had the fewest number of accidents in the city. Go figure.
The huge Zellis home was a gray, two-story structure, with blue trim around the windows and half a dozen alabaster columns lining the front. A thick series of perfectly manicured green hedges framed the property. There was a narrow driveway, along with a front entrance that featured a steel gate. I parked and walked up to the entrance. The gate was locked, hardly a surprise for Beverly Hills, but I caught the attention of a gardener near the side of the property, wheeling a lawnmower. What was a surprise was that he came right over, smiled, greeted me in English, and let me in.
It took a good thirty seconds to walk to the front door, and after pressing the doorbell, it took another thirty seconds before a young woman in her mid-20s flung the door open. She had shoulder-length blonde hair that had both the color and consistency of parched straw, along with large brown eyes and pink cheeks. She was tall and buxom, pretty in the way a stripper might be pretty. She had a wide mouth and perfect teeth.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, my name is Burnside,” I said and handed her my card. “Is Phil available?”
“Phil’s not here,” she responded, looking down at my card carefully.
“Will he be back soon?”
She didn’t answer immediately; rather, she kept eyeballing my card and trying to assess something. Finally, she looked back up at me. “Are you the person Phil hired?”
“That’s me. I knew Phil from high school. Culver City.”
“Yes, right, he mentioned it. I’m Joy, Phil’s wife. Oh, come in, he should be back in a few minutes,” she said, opening up the door and inviting me inside.
Their house was marvelous. The foyer had a muted gray-and-white tile floor, with a tall atrium that held a sparkling crystal chandelier. There was a circular staircase and a number of hallways that branched off in a few directions. Some colorful artwork lined the walls, and I slowly drank it in as Joy Zellis led me into a large living room. There were two plush couches facing each other, a number of easy chairs, and a white baby-grand piano in the corner. The tall glass windows looked out on a large green backyard, with a pool, a Jacuzzi and a cabana.
“Phil out running an errand?” I asked casually, as I sat down in one of the easy chairs.
“No, he was playing the back nine at Riviera. He finished a little while ago, which means he should be home anytime now.”
“Ah.”
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“No thanks, I’m good.”
We sat in silence for an awkward moment before she spoke again. “Have you, um, found out anything about Amanda?”
“No,” I said, trying to deflect. “In fact, I probably have more questions now than I did when I started.”
“Like what?”
I paused. “We should probably wait for Phil.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, and we endured another long silence before she spoke again. “I guess you and Phil go way back.”
“We do. High school. Are you from L.A.?”
“No,” she replied. “New York. I came out here to break into acting.”
“How’s that going?” I asked, knowing the likely answer.
“It’s tough. When a girl hits a certain age, the roles dry up.”
I didn’t bother to point out that she barely looked over twenty-five, and that there was probably a fifty-fifty chance she was younger than her step-daughter. Instead, I just agreed with her.
“Show business is a tough racket,” I said, then asked the question I was most curious about. “How did you and Phil meet?”
“Oh, I was temping a couple of years ago. The agency sent me to Phil’s office. It was love at first sight.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“No, you probably don’t.”
Her mouth opened and closed, and then we heard the bang of a door being slammed. The molecules in the room seemed to shift immediately, from an awkward space where neither of us knew quite what to say, to an anticipation of Phil’s entrance. Joy rose and walked across the room as Phil entered. She greeted him with a full mouth kiss that lasted a beat too long. He patted her on the butt and walked over to me. I felt like I was in a bad movie.
“Burnside,” he said, shaking my hand. “You didn’t need to come over. Unless something’s happened.”
“Something has,” I said, and made a motion with my eyes, that Phil, surprisingly astute, picked up on. He turned to his young wife and asked if he could be alone for a few minutes with his old friend. Joy’s mouth didn’t open and close this time; rather, it curled up and she sucked in a deep breath. Turning on her heels, she left in a huff, shutting the door loudly behind her. Phil turned back to me, sighed, and sat down on the couch.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “We’re having some problems.”
I looked at him and didn’t say anything.
“So, what’s happened? You find out who went after Amanda the other night?”
“No.”
Phil frowned. “What is it, then?”
“It’s Moose. Someone shot him in the garage of Amanda’s building. He’s dead.”
The news caught him off guard, and his body swayed backward, as if he had been hit with a gust of wind. He gazed off into the distance, confused. Finally, he refocused and turned back to me.
“Good Lord. What happened?” he asked.
“All we know is that Moose was seen accompanying Amanda this morning at about ten-fifteen. A neighbor saw them leave her apartment and head down the elevator. That’s about it right now. The police will review the footage from any video cameras.”
“Is Amanda all right?”
I looked down. “We don’t know. She wasn’t there when the police arrived.”
“Oh, God,” he said quickly.
“Look, Phil. Try not to overreact to this.”
Phil reached into his pocket and jerked out a cell phone. He tapped a few buttons and placed it to his ear. I could hear the endless ringing and I could see the increasing desperation in Phil’s eyes. The ringing turned into voice mail, and Phil left a brief message imploring his daughter to call him immediately. He slapped the phone down on a glass coffee table.
“I have no idea what to do,” he managed.
“She could have simply left the scene unharmed. Where might she have gone?”
“I don’t know. Maybe to her brother’s apartment, Aaron’s place. He lives down at USC. Maybe to Wyatt’s. As long as Wyatt wasn’t involved in this.”
“You think he was?” I asked.
“I don’t know. But I do know, well, he has a past.”
“Really? Like what?”
“I had someone look into his background. It’s complicated.”
It certainly sounded complicated, and it sounded downright murky that Phil Zellis had hired me and then not bothered to disclose this part of the story. T
his was not completely unusual. People hire private investigators to do a certain task, and they are often stingy with the details, be it due to shame or privacy or the need to maintain control of the information flow. It made my job harder, and it delayed getting clients resolution of their issue.
“The more I know, the more I can help you.”
Phil glanced at me, but it was hard to see if he comprehended this. “Not much I can say at this point.”
“Okay. Here’s the thing. I need to ask you a few questions. Were you aware of anything going on between Amanda and Moose.”
His head shot up and he looked me dead in the eye. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
Phil shook his head. “He was like an uncle to her. Maybe a big brother. That’s all.”
“But they were close.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter. My daughter would have never touched Moose. And if I knew he tried anything with her, I would have killed the bastard.”
I put up a hand. “Whoa. Stop. Look, the police are going to be here soon. You need to think about this. And you need to compose yourself. I can dismiss remarks like that because I know you. You make those kinds of comments around the police, you’re going to get yourself in a jam. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He didn’t respond, so I sat there and let that sink in. There was a part of me that wanted to help him, and a part that wanted to learn more about what Phil knew and what he didn’t know. But there was a fine line that separated Phil from being a client and being a suspect. If Phil had anything to do with Moose’s demise, I couldn’t let it go. But if he was just a bystander, he didn’t need to put himself in harm’s way.
“Can you help me here?” he finally asked.
“Sure. What do you want me to do?”
“You can start by trying to find Amanda.”
I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “But I’ll need your son’s contact info. As well as any friends of Amanda’s. And if you’ve received any threats, I need to look at them or listen to them.”
Phil said okay. I said okay. I wondered if I should suggest to Phil that he have a conversation with a criminal defense attorney. I wondered what was going on behind the scenes. I wondered if Moose was targeted or if he just got in the way. This case was indeed getting interesting. Maybe too interesting.
Chapter 5
The untidy relationship between Moose Machado, Amanda Zeal, and Phil Zellis was both confusing and intriguing. There were a lot of unanswered questions. Phil hadn’t provided many details, Amanda had disappeared, and Moose would not be available for comments going forward. I started thinking about who might have some hidden knowledge about their situation, and two people sprang to mind. One was our former football coach at Culver High, Frank Fultz. But Coach Fultz lived inconveniently far away, in a small town outside of Palm Springs. My phone call to him was picked up by his wife, who said he was unavailable all day. She did not tell me anything further. The other person who might add something to this was Phil’s first wife, Suzy Zellis, who I learned through Facebook, now goes by Suzy Barber. She also lived in Beverly Hills, albeit on the wrong side of Sunset Boulevard.
It seems a contradiction in terms to refer to a tony neighborhood containing large, beautiful homes as the poor section of Beverly Hills. There is no poverty in Beverly Hills. There are no homeless, the streets are swept, and the lawns are manicured. There are often flower beds on the paths leading up to the front door, and the exteriors are elegant and stately no matter what street you’re on. It is as close to a model community as one could conjure up, a series of well-maintained homes which cradle both the haves and have-mores. Most of Beverly Hills can be accurately categorized as gorgeous; it’s just that some parts are just more gorgeous than others.
Suzy Barber lived in a spacious house on Almont Drive, a few blocks north of Olympic, and not too far from Amanda Zeal’s apartment. It was an older art deco-style home, the exterior featuring some very large windows, which allowed pools of light to pour in. The rooms on the second floor had small balconies on them. The house went well back into the property, and a white Mercedes sat in the driveway. Unlike her ex-husband’s digs, there was no security gate, and no impediment to my simply strolling up to the front door and ringing the bell.
I heard a woman call out that she would be a minute, that she was on the phone, and to please wait. I waited for what was probably three minutes before the door, made from what seemed like an expensive form of distressed wood, opened. A woman in her mid-forties stood there, blonde, very pretty, with a few lines on her face. She wore faded jeans, torn at the knees, and a black, long-sleeve top. Both were covered with drips of various colored paint. Oddly, it did not look bad on her. She gave me the once over, and said nothing, waiting expectantly for me to begin the conversation.
“Hello. Are you Suzy Barber?”
“I am. And who might you be?”
“My name’s Burnside,” I said, handing her my card. “I’m a private investigator.”
She scrutinized the card. “Apparently you are. It says so right here. What can I do for you?”
“May I come in?”
“No, you may not,” she said matter-of-factly. “Despite your impressive credentials, I really don’t know who you are. And I’m not in the habit of inviting men I don’t know into my home.”
“I understand,” I said, and it was clear I had to make myself better known to her. “Actually, I was hired by your ex-husband, Phil. We used to play football together in Culver City. That was before he moved on to Vassar. I gather the two of you met there. And then you had Amanda. And then Aaron. And then Phil took over the plastics company your grandfather founded. And then sold a few years ago before you two got divorced.”
Suzy Barber stared at me for about five long seconds, but she no longer seemed to harbor expectations of me to say anything. Without a word, and as if in a stupor, she stepped back and motioned me inside of her home. I walked into a small living room, nicely appointed, but far from the ostentatious surroundings of her former husband. The hardwood floors were made of bleached oak, and some incomprehensible art hung on the walls. I sat down on a curved-back pine chair with a red seat cushion. It looked as if it would be uncomfortable, but surprisingly, it was not.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” I said. “But I did need to speak with you. I’m not sure how much you communicate with your ex these days.”
“We move in different circles,” she acknowledged, leaning against an archway a few feet from me.
“Okay,” I said. “I get it.”
“So, were you and Phil old friends? He never mentioned you.”
“We took different paths,” I told her. “I stayed with football and then moved back and forth, in and out of law enforcement. Honestly, until the other day, I hadn’t spoken to Phil since our high school graduation.”
“Why did he hire you?” she asked.
“It’s about Amanda. She was assaulted a few nights ago near her apartment. Phil wanted me to find out what happened.”
Staring at me as she tried to comprehend this, she finally spoke. “Is she all right?” she finally managed.
“Amanda wasn’t injured badly in the attack. She carried some pepper spray with her.”
Suzy gave a smirk. “Phil probably gave it to her. Sounds like something he would do.”
“He did. I take it you haven’t spoken to your daughter about this.”
“My daughter and I aren’t close. In fact, we’re somewhat estranged. We grew farther apart after the divorce. It’s like she chose whose side to be on.”
“Oh?”
She lowered her eyes. “I had Amanda when I was very young. Too young. I was just twenty years old and a sophomore in college. I tried to go to classes and take care of her, but that just wasn’t possible. So I stayed home with her. Phil was the one who got his degree.”
I watched her carefully. “Sounds like there’s a little resentment there.”
“There’s a lot of resentment there. Having a child turned my life upside down. I dreamed of being an artist when I was younger. It finally happened, but it took over twenty years for me to become the person I wanted to be.”
“That must have been difficult,” I said as sympathetically as I could, recognizing I was sounding like an amateur psychologist.
“It was extremely difficult, especially at first. I knew nothing about being a mother, but I knew I didn’t want an abortion. I thought this all might work out. But, as I said, I was just twenty and I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Amanda was a difficult baby, colicky, always getting into things when she was a toddler. She never really grew out of being a problem. She was always testing limits, and Phil let her get away with too much. She began hanging out with the wrong crowd as a teenager, drinking, drugs, the whole bit. I probably bear some responsibility, but again, there was a lot of resentment toward her. In the end, I think I just said if she wants to ruin her life, go ahead. Be my guest.”
I took this in. “Do you know anyone who might have wanted to harm her?”
Suzy sighed. “Most every boy she ever went out with. She was a tease and a flirt. I imagined this behavior might go away when she became an adult, but perhaps not.”
“Any names you can provide?”
She shrugged. “I can try and remember a few, but I’m sure they’re years in the past. I doubt they’ve interacted with her lately.”
“But if Amanda were to need a place to stay, who might she contact? Close girlfriends? Other family?”
“Aaron, I would imagine, over at USC. Her brother seemed to get along with her for some reason. She didn’t have a lot of girls who were friends. A few, but most moved out of L.A.”
“Okay,” I said, as a dozen questions floated through my mind. I considered the reality of being curious, and the curse of being an ongoing student of human nature. It meant that scratching that itch often led to being incredibly nosy. “And what happened between you and Phil? I know you’re obviously divorced. But how is it you two wound up where you are?”