A Death In Beverly Hills (12 page)

Inside Steve's head an alarm began to ring.
Had it been all over between Marian and Travis? Had she told him that she was leaving him?

Riley blushed like a kid who's mentioned a party that the rest of the people at the table hadn't been invited to. "I don't know," he mumbled, "I'm just guessing about what could have happened to make Tom mad enough to, you know."

"But there were problems in the marriage? She was thinking of leaving him?"

"Hey, I told you, I don't know! We never talked about personal stuff like that. We never talked about much of anything except her plans and how I fit into them or not."

"You weren't close then?"

"You're asking me?" Steve just stared at him. "I mean, if you asked Marian, she'd say, 'Sure, Riley and I are like two peas in a pod' but if you're asking me, no, it was all about her daughter, her stuff, her charities, her life. Never about me. Look at this place." Riley gestured at the empty shop. "This was Marian's and dad's idea of how to get me out of the way. 'Riley's too stupid to do anything on his own. He's too stupid to run a real business. Stick him in some little shop where he can't do any damage and can't lose too much money. Something that will keep him busy and out of the way.'

"Dad pays the rent and I can keep whatever's left over. I can sit here until I'm old and hobbling around on a cane for all he cares. This was her idea to get me out of the way, so here I am. You think Marian was such a wonderful person, so perfect, well think again. She could hurt people, she could make someone want to . . . ." Riley lowered his eyes. "She could make enemies, just like anybody else. Could she have gotten Tom Travis so pissed off that he'd want to see her dead? Oh yeah, for sure." Riley lifted his gaze, his eyes burning.

Steve stared at him for a long heartbeat, then closed his pad and held out his hand. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Fontaine. I appreciate your help. If you could make a list for me of your sister's friends, especially her girlfriends, I'd appreciate it. I'd like to talk with them to see if she mentioned any specific problems with Tom Travis. Who knows, maybe she told them about some threat he may have made. You can do that for me, can't you?"

"I suppose," Riley said with no great enthusiasm.

"Terrific. Fax it to me at this number, would you, save me another trip."

Riley examined the scrap of paper, then gave Steve a reluctant nod.

A moment after Janson turned away the kid was back scribbling on his wrinkled forms. Steve looked at the empty store, the cash register at the back instead of near the door where any merchant with half a brain would put it, the sign that should have been black on gold to match the business's name, the stocky dark-haired kid with muddy eyes and pock-marked skin so unlike his fair-haired sister, and wondered, as Gerard Fontaine must have wondered every day of his life, if some dark night nine months before his birth Riley's mother hadn't jumped over the back fence. And if she had, mightn't her pregnant daughter, Marian Fontaine, have done the same? Something like that could be a motive for murder.

Chapter Nineteen

The Killer saw Marian Fontaine Travis in flickers, skipping moments between consciousness and sleep when her face, just before he hit her, would slide across his vision like a fleeting reflection in a shop window. Then he would play it all out over again looking for the mistake, but each event was born in perfect logic from the one that preceded it. Sometimes shit just happens.

It always started the same way, with Marian yelling at him. If she just hadn't bitched at him with that condescending tone, hadn't given him that outraged look, like he was some no-account mutt she had caught fucking her prize poodle, he might have backed up, turned around and left, something. But she was so fucking superior, beautiful, rich, smart, and when she stood there and looked down her nose at him, like El Jefe chewing out some wetback gardener, well, he knew he couldn't let her get away with that.

So he punched her, BAM, felt her nose crunch under his fist, saw the astonished look on her face, like she couldn't believe anyone would dare do that to her. The second punch felt even better, a left hook that knocked her clear off her feet, and, as she fell, he finally saw fear in her eyes, the beginnings of the respect she should have given him in the first place. If she had only treated him with respect from the beginning maybe things would have been different, maybe he would have just turned around and left, but now it was too late for that.

As soon as she hit the floor, he knew it was too late. He'd gone too far. What was done could not be undone. If he left now the cops wouldn't be far behind and with his record and her being pregnant, fuck, they'd crucify him. She didn't leave him any choice, really. He could finish her with a knife from the kitchen but knives were messy. With all that blood some was bound to get on him.

Sure, there was a little on his hand but his shirt and pants seemed perfectly clean. She made a moaning noise and in a minute or two she would try to get up, and then things would get messy again. He'd have to strangle her. There was no other way. He looked at his hands. Most people didn't realize how much strength it took to strangle someone to death. And they struggled and scratched for a long time before they went. He didn't want any scratches nor any of his flesh under her nails.

His eyes lingered on the table lamp. A quick yank and the cord pulled free. Across the room she moaned again. Shit, she was coming to. Hurry, hurry. He rolled her over onto her bloated stomach and straddled her back, looping the cord twice around her neck. Then he wrapped the ends around each palm and pulled. Her head and shoulders rose a few inches off the floor and he relaxed the pressure, shifting his position until his right knee was planted between her shoulder blades. Then he pulled again. That was better. He had good leverage now.

She made little choking, coughing noises at first but they decreased and soon stopped. After thirty seconds all he heard was a soft 'aak. . .aaak. . . .aak' noise. He ignored it. Then she stopped making any sounds at all. He wasn't fooled. He knew it took a person several minutes to suffocate. How many times had he seen divers brought back to life after two or even three minutes under water? So he kept pulling, almost four minutes by his watch, just to make sure. Then he grabbed a towel from the kitchen and wiped his prints from the wire. Her head was in profile, one blind blue eye looking up at him. Soon it would cloud over with a gray haze. Inside her the baby kicked and soundlessly slipped away. Marian's tongue protruded limply from her open mouth. She wouldn't nag anybody with that tongue ever again.

He had to stop and think now, be smart. He had to get her out of there. Everybody knew about CSI. He'd put her where they'd never find her and if they did, by the time they did, they wouldn't find any evidence of him on her. Should he take her car? No, if anything happened, a flat tire, a speeding ticket, they might tie him to it. No, he'd use his own wheels. He parked it next to the back door, put her inside and covered her with an old plastic tarp. He'd dump that later too. There was a little blood on the hardwood floor next to the patio door where her body had fallen. He cleaned it up with Pine Sol then splashed it with Clorox for good measure. Everyone knew that bleach made it impossible to get DNA from blood. What else?

The lamp! Somebody might notice the missing cord. He'd get rid of that too. He looked around. Was there anything else? He took a deep breath but couldn't think of anything. He needed a plan. Dump her someplace, then get rid of the tarp and the lamp. It didn't seem like enough. There had to be something else, something clever that would lead the cops in the wrong direction, something that would make them think she had been mugged or car-jacked or something.

"Mommy?" What the hell? "Mommy?" A little girl in a purple t-shirt, kid's jeans and pink sneakers appeared in the doorway. He saw it all in one shocked glance. "Where's mommy?"

"She's at the store." It was the first thing that came into his head.

"The nice stores?"

That had to be the Beverly Center. "Yes, the nice stores. I'm going to go pick her up."

"Why?"

"Because her car broke down. You go back to your room. Mommy will be home soon."

The kid stared at him for about three seconds, then turned and walked away.

Another God damn loose end! Everything was happening too fast. It was all getting out of control. He had to think. What if they found her car at the mall? Maybe with a flat tire or something. The cops would figure she'd been grabbed there. But how the hell could he set it up? He looked at his watch. Could he leave the kid here alone? No way. There had to be some tape in the kitchen. Five minutes later, screaming and crying, Sarah was trussed and gagged with duct tape and wrapped up in the blue blanket from her bed.

The dirt bike made the short trip from the garage to the back of Marian's Escalade. Decked out in a baseball cap, oversized sunglasses and a turned-up collar, he parked the SUV in a remote corner of the mall, slipped the house gate's remote control into his pocket, and waited. When the coast was clear he unloaded the bike and rode away. He was equally careful when he returned to the house, waiting until the block was empty then hitting the remote and slipping through the gate unnoticed. It was the work of a few minutes to wipe down the bike and return it to the garage.

What about the kid? She knew too much. But, shit, a three year old kid? Deciding to decide later he dumped her in the back with Marian's body. He have to get rid of them both. He just needed a little time to figure it all out. And he had figured it all out. He had done what he had to do.

Now he still thought of her, from time to time, usually just before he fell asleep. If she hadn't been such an arrogant, pissy bitch, none of it would have happened. But once he hit her, there was no going back. She had nobody to blame but herself.

Chapter Twenty

Steve could feel time pressing on him like a slow-moving avalanche burying a fleeing skier, foot by foot. He'd only read a fraction of the prosecutor's files, had interviewed only a few potential witnesses, and he had discovered nothing. Maybe with Riley Fontaine's list of Marian's girlfriends he might learn something new, some motive for murder the cops hadn't wanted cluttering up their case. He shot a glance at his silent fax machine. There was something missing, something that Tom Travis knew but wasn't talking about. He had sensed it when he interviewed Gerard Fontaine. Fontaine knew more than he was saying about what had been going on between Travis and Marian. Riley was holding something back too. The fax remained mute.

Steve pulled out the log of police interviews. The cops had had one final session with Tom Travis before he shut up and got a lawyer. It took place two days after they had discovered Marian's body.

* * *

"Tom, thanks for stopping by," Jack Furley said, extending his hand. "Simon and I are both sorry for your loss."

"Terrible, the way the press is handling this," Katz added. "Believe me, we kept them as far away from the scene as we could, but with a big star like you . . . ." Simon shrugged and threw up his hands.

"Get you a coffee, soft drink?" Furley asked. Travis shook his head and they took that as a signal to sit. The cops had borrowed a conference room on the third floor with a large window and soft chairs. For this meeting they wanted Travis relaxed. Katz clicked the record button on a mini-cassette and gently laid it flat in the center of the table.

"Tom, thanks again for your continued cooperation with our investigation. We'll be recording this meeting to make sure we don't miss any important details. Before we get started, is there anything you'd like?"

"No, I'm good," Travis said in a subdued tone.

Furley gave him a thin smile. "Well, if want to take a break, get something to eat, make a call, whatever, just say so." He paused for half a second, took a deep breath, then continued. "Tom, as you know from the press reports, two days ago we found a body in the Double Peaks Recreational Preserve. We didn't want to call you in until we had forensic confirmation of the identity, which we got this morning. I'm very sorry to have to tell you that we've confirmed that it was Marian's body."

Travis's face became even more somber and his head tipped forward. The room grew quieter until the only sound was a faint hum from the AC.

"How'd she . . . what happened to her?" Travis asked without looking up.

"She was strangled."

"Strangled? And the baby?"

Furley glanced at Katz. "The doc says she didn't feel a thing."

"So, it was a girl?"

"You didn't know?"

Travis's shoulders shuddered, or maybe it was just a shrug.

"Do you have any clues who did it? . . . . That God-damned movie!"

"Movie?"

"
Against The Grain
. That has to be where they got the idea of grabbing her from the mall. It couldn't be a coincidence." Furley and Katz exchanged a glance. "What I don't understand is why they didn't ask for a ransom. Why kidnap her and then just . . . . without even asking for any money? Do you think it was me?"

"Excuse me?"
Had Travis finally realized he was the prime suspect
? Katz wondered.

"Do you think that someone did this to get even with me, payback or a loony stalker or something?"

Again, the detectives exchanged a brief, surprised glance. "Well, ahh, we're exploring all possibilities, Tom," Furley replied. "What we'd like to know is--"

"Oh, jeeze!"

"What?"

"What about Sarah?" Travis's voice trailed off and he looked expectantly from Furley to Katz.

"Uhhh, no, Mr. Travis. We didn't find any sign of Sarah."

"Thank God! That means she's probably alive, right?"

"Well, we--"

"I mean, if they were going to, you know, Sarah, they'd have left her with Marian, right? I mean, if she was . . . dead," Travis's lips froze and he bent his head. The room was still for ten seconds. "Anyway," he finally continued, head still down, "her not being there probably means she's still alive, doesn't it?" Suddenly Travis's chin lifted and he stared pleadingly into Furley's eyes.

"It's, aah, it's a good sign, for sure, Tom" Furley agreed, giving Travis a little nod.

"So, you're still looking for her?"

"Absolutely."

"Good, that's good, because, well, she's innocent, isn't she."

Innocent?
Katz gave Furley a puzzled glance.
And your wife wasn't
? Katz turned back to Travis.

"Do you think Marian did something to cause this, that she wasn't innocent?" Katz asked softly, scenting blood in the water.

"No, of course not, who deserves to be kidnapped and murdered, except maybe somebody like Osama Bin Laden? I just meant that we're adults, you know, we've all done things in our lives, good and bad, but a little kid like that, who could she have ever hurt or betrayed? I know I'm not perfect. I've made mistakes. You know my record with women. There are probably lots of people out there who'd want me hurt or dead, but who the hell would have any right to blame a three year old little girl for anything? Maybe that's why she's still alive," Travis suggested, his face suddenly brightening. "Maybe the guy realizes that she's just an innocent bystander and he's going to let her go."

Furley stared at Travis as astonished as if he had just broken into song. What planet was this guy from?

"We'll do everything humanly possible to find her, Tom," Furley assured him.

"When you do, and I'm going to keep a positive outlook here, I'm going to adopt her."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, her dad's dead. Her mom's dead. Grandpa's too old. Uncle Riley's a loser with a capitol L. Who else does the little kid have? Hell, I can afford it. She'll never want for anything. I get her the best schools. I'll send her to Harvard, Stanford, put her through medical school if she wants. Anything, anything she wants, I'll make sure she gets it. I'll take care of her like she was my own blood." Travis looked expectantly at the detectives.

"That's very decent of you, Tom, a really decent thing to do," Katz said, giving Travis a nod.

"But you know, Tom," Furley added, "right now we've got to find out who did this to Marian. If we want to find Sarah, then first we have to find Marian's killer."

"Right, yeah, I guess I got a little ahead of myself. This is all . . . . look, I'm no pansy but this is hard. I'm not thinking too straight right now."

"Perfectly normal, Tom. It would shake anybody up. But getting back to Marian, we're still not sure of the order of events. She might have been kidnapped from the mall, but maybe not. We have to eliminate the possibility that she was taken from the house so we can focus our resources in the right places."

"You think maybe she let the guy in, like a cable guy or something, that he killed her in my house, and then he dumped her car at the Beverly Center to divert suspicion?"

"It's a possibility."

"But if he put her in the Escalade, then what would he have done with the body once he got it there?" Travis asked, puzzled, then his face seemed to light up. "Do you think he had an accomplice? Somebody who met him at the mall and they transferred the body to another car?"

"Could be," Furley agreed after a long pause.

"Then they took her to the desert because that's where the press reported I'd been, to divert suspicion onto me?"

"Makes sense. You know, Tom," Furley said in a confidential tone, "we should also check on who knew you were going out there that day."

"In case they planned this in advance, you mean?"

"Sure."

"Gee, I don't know. I was sort of a spur of the moment thing."

"So, you got up that morning and decided to try out your new dune buggy?"

"Well, not exactly." Furley gave Travis an interested stare. "I had been thinking about taking it out since Christmas. At first I was thinking New Year's day then I changed my mind, then, changed it back again." Travis held up his hands. "It was all sort of . . . open ended. I think I might have said something to some of the guys from the movie--"

"That was . . . ." Furley flipped through his notes, "
The Boneyard
?"

"Yeah, we were in pre-production then, scouting locations and stuff like that. Glenn Malvo, the producer, wanted to go over some stuff with me and when we got done I went over the stage we were going to use for the interiors, just to look around."

"Look around?"

"Check out the sets, schmooze with the crew. I always get along great with the crew, that's probably because I started out as a stunt man instead of an actor."

"And this was . . . ?"

"I don't know, sometime between Christmas and New Years. I remember because I was thinking 'Doesn't this guy', Malvo I mean, 'Doesn't this guy have a real life? He's down here the day after Christmas trying to figure out if it's cheaper to film in Mexico or Palmdale.' Anyway, I wandered over to the set and said Hi to some of the guys pounding nails, shot the shit for, oh, what, fifteen, twenty minutes. Did the AD, that's Assistant Director, know his stuff, were they getting good quality on the props or cut rate shit, that kind of stuff." Travis gave Furley a quick shrug.

"And?"

"And? Oh, yeah, the dune buggy. Well, I remember talking to the guys about Christmas presents and I guess I mentioned buying the dune buggy but that I hadn't driven it yet. They asked when I was taking her out and I said something like, 'in a couple of days' or 'if nothing else comes up, maybe New Year's day,' or 'Friday or Saturday' something like that. But none of those guys would have killed Marian. They all love me. Besides, they're in the union."

Furley tried to hide his confusion over what the union had to do with anything, and instead asked, "Can you give us any names? We need our reports to be complete."

"Names? Hmmmmm." Travis furrowed his brow. "Hell, ahhh, one of the guys was Lance something. I remember because he didn't look gay, and I wondered how you survived in this town as a straight guy named Lance. There was an old guy, I always called him Freddy." Furley wrote down the name. "But, I don't think that was really his name. I just called him Freddy because he reminded me of Fred Mertz, you know, on the old Lucy show." Furley scratched out the name. "That's all I've got." Travis looked at Katz who had been concentrating on a spot on the wall above Travis's right shoulder. "So, can you tell me when she was buried?"

"What?"

"I was thinking that they must have held her for a while, until the press carried the story about me being at the RV Park, then they buried her to put suspicion on me. So, I was wondering if you can tell how long she was dead before they buried her."

Katz looked at his pad, trying to hid his disgust.

"I don't think there's any way to test for that."

"But you do think that's what happened."

"Until we get some evidence, it's all speculation. What we really need to do now is nail some things down."

"How can I help?"

"Well, Mr. Travis," Katz leaned forward, "did you ever video tape the contents of your house for insurance purposes, in case there was a fire, so you'd have a record of what was lost?"

"Gee, my business manager would take care of something like that. I don't understand. What good that would do?"

"It might eliminate the house as the original crime scene. If the recordings we took after Marian disappeared match your original tape, then that might indicate that nothing happened there. On the other hand, if the killer broke something or moved something during the attack. . . . ." Katz let the sentence drift.

"But it's been months," Travis said, shaking his head. "You looked the place over right after Marian went missing and you didn't find anything."

"That's true but we video taped where all the furniture and vases and things were at that time. We're hoping that comparing that video with your old insurance video might reveal if something had changed or was missing."

"Or not," Furley broke in. "Either way, it helps us narrow our investigation, points us one way or the other."

"It sounds like you know something you're not telling me."

"There are always--"

"No, it's okay. I know you have to keep some details back so you can be sure you've got the real killer. You mentioned a vase. Was Marian hit with vase or something like that?"

"I'm sorry, but we can't comment on the details, Tom."

"Yeah, sure, I understand."

The detectives stared at Travis for another five seconds before Furley broke the silence. "So, Tom, you gonna help us with that insurance tape?"

"Huh? Oh, sure. I'll call my business manager as soon as . . . ."

Furley slid his cell across the table. "Time is really crucial at this stage, Tom. You understand." Hesitantly, Travis picked up the phone. "If he could bring it over right away, we'll copy it and give it right back." Travis stared at the cell as if it were the trigger for a bomb, then, reluctantly it seemed to Katz, began pressing buttons.