A Death In Beverly Hills (22 page)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Steve sat in his car in the stables' lot and updated his notes while packs of girls trooped in and out. Didn't any boys ride horses? He unfolded a map and marked the addresses of Marian Travis's girlfriends. Four of the five lay along a more or less zigzag route between the stables and his home, most of them in the platinum triangle of Beverly Hills, Holmby Hills and Bel Air. Number five was out in the Malibu Colony along the PCH. It was almost three and Steve decided to hit her tomorrow. For about five seconds he considered calling ahead and then figured that would just give them a better chance to avoid him.

The first subject was Tamara Porter. According to the housekeeper she and her husband were in Sedona, hiking amidst the desert wild flowers, and they would be gone for another week at least. The second subject was Carol Ann Burke. He got as far as his name and the purpose of his visit before she politely closed the door in his face. He spotted number three, Leslie Wahlberg, just pulling out of her driveway and decided to follow her. In any other neighborhood her hundred thousand dollar silver Porsche Cayenne would have been hard to miss. In this part of LA it was as common as a Toyota Avalon in San Jose. On the positive side, Leslie believed in using her turn signals and Steve never felt he was in much danger of losing her. It turned out to be a short trip. About ten minutes after they started she turned into the Beverly Garden Center on La Cienega.

A tide of white people with a sprinkling of Asians and an occasional African-American surged through the parking lot, each pushing a rattling flat-topped cart. Leslie quickly grabbed her own clanking trolley and dived into the throng of shoppers. Late thirties, pretty in the way that money and attention can push you up a couple of notches on the beauty scale, she navigated the wide aisles with single-minded determination. Steve unobtrusively threaded his way behind her. The place was divided into sections, large fruit and ornamental trees along the rear fence, blooming flowers near the cash registers, fertilizers and clay pots to the left, garden furniture to the right, vegetables and shrubs in the middle.

Leslie headed for the edibles and carefully perused the tomato plants which ranged in size from six inch seedlings to half grown plants a foot and a half tall. Steve debated confronting her over the Early Girls and Better Boys or just keeping an eye on her until she returned home. But what if this was the first in a long list of errands? He might waste the rest of the afternoon, possibly lose her, or be spotted and treated like a stalker. Well, at least here she couldn't slam the door in his face.

"Ms. Wahlberg?" he asked politely.

Hazel eyes scanned Janson in careful appraisal.

"Yes?"

"I apologize for interrupting your shopping. My name is Steven Janson. I work for Greg Markham, the attorney defending Tom Travis. Marian's brother, Riley, told me that you and Marian were friends and I was hoping to talk with you for a couple of minutes." Steve held out his card.

Two long seconds passed. Leslie's eyes locked on his face. Finally, she took the card, read it carefully, then slipped it into her pocket.

"I wondered if anyone was ever going to get around to me," she said in a musing voice and turned back to the shelf of plants. "What do you want to know?"

"Were you and Marian good friends?"

Again a long pause. "Good friends? We knew each other for a long time, liked each other. Marian was an unusually . . . straightforward person." Leslie paused to find just the right word. In the shadows cast by the mesh sunshades Steve noticed subtle hints of color on her cheeks and forehead, an ivory cast that he began to think had not come from the cosmetic counter at Nieman-Marcus. And her eyes weren't simply hazel but glittered with green, gold and russet flecks against a background of warm honey.

"Straightforward?" he repeated, trying to force his attention back on the job.

"Direct, the opposite of passive-aggressive. Marian had strong values and she wasn't shy about telling people what they were and living up to them -- Do you know anything about tomatoes?" She held up a plant in a square plastic pot.

Steve had the sudden impression that Leslie Wahlberg had a strong personality of her own.

"Sungold," Steve said, reading the label. "It's yellow."

"So?"

"Tomatoes should be red. Yellow ones wouldn't taste the same even if they did, taste the same."

Leslie gave him another of her long stares, then replaced the pot. "How about this one?"

"Beef Master," Steve read. "Much better."

With a the hint of a smile she put it in her cart. Steve found her acceptance of his advice strangely gratifying.

"Did Marian ever mention that anyone was bothering her, hang-up phone calls, someone following her or watching her, anonymous letters . . . ?"

This time there was no delay. Marian gave her head a quick shake. "No, nothing like that." She offered another plant for Steve's inspection. He read the label and dropped it in her cart. She made no comment and with a clatter pushed on down the aisle to the next display. A decisive woman. Steve studied her sidelong and noticed that her every movement was smooth, each step a display of grace and economy of motion. He increased his pace to catch up.

Now for the fun questions
. "I don't quite know how to say this," he began when she stopped at the next leafy display, "but could Marian have been involved with another man?" Steve held his breath, expecting another of Leslie's long pauses while she parsed the question, word by word.

"You mean Robert?" she replied at once without looking up.

"Robert . . . ?"

"Robert Garsen. From your question I thought you knew."

"I suspected, but after your description of Marian's strict moral code. . . ." Steve let the rest of the sentence hang.

"Her moral code was adherence to the principles of honesty, generosity and kindness," she said with a hint of steel in her voice.

And remaining faithful to her husband didn't figure into that someplace?
Steve thought but held his tongue.

"She felt she was justified," Leslie said, sensing Steve's disapproval. Her expression was thoughtful, not accusatory or defensive. Steve marveled at the harmony of the planes of her face, the balance of line and shadow. How could he have thought that hers was a beauty that depended on fabrics and potions?

"Justified?"

"Before they were married she told Tom she wanted another child and he agreed. They kept trying and when she didn't get pregnant she contacted a fertility doctor."

"And Tom refused to be examined?"

"One excuse after another until finally he admitted that he had been lying to her all the time, that he was sterile and had been for years."

"So, she got pregnant to. . . ?"

"Get even? Punish him? No, Marian didn't think that way. Too much negative energy. For her it was just a matter of fairness. Tom lied to her about being able to father a child, and she felt that his lie released her from her commitment to him. Eventually she met a man she came to care for and who wanted to start a family with her. Of course, she told Tom."

"That she had met someone or that she was pregnant?"

Leslie's cheeks reddened and she looked away. "That she was pregnant."

Steve tried to imagine that conversation and a gout of acid twisted his stomach.
Had Lynn ever . . . ? Would she have told . . . ?
He pushed the offending questions into the dark place at the bottom of his brain.

"How did Tom take that?"

"Not well," Leslie said, still not meeting Steve's gaze. "He begged her not to leave him, promised to see a doctor, agreed to an adoption . . . ."

"But Marian wanted out."

"His lies just ended it for her. She didn't hate him. She just didn't love him any more. She couldn't love someone she couldn't trust."

"But she didn't leave him. Why not?"

"Tom begged her not to. He said it would make him look like a fool or worse if she left him in the middle of her pregnancy. Everybody would assume he must have done something terrible to her, beat her up or cheated on her or something worse for her to leave him like that. The name 'Charlie Sheen' was mentioned. So they came to an agreement."

Leslie picked up another plant, a large one, and handed it wordlessly to Steve. He nodded his approval and she placed it in her cart. It was such a small thing, but it pleased him with a strange intensity, as if it were evidence of some kind of a comfortable domestic bond. How could he have ever thought this woman ordinary?

"What kind of an agreement?" He asked watching her face, marveling at the flickering highlights in her honey eyes.

"She would see her lover, discretely, and Tom would be free to do the same. Once the baby was born they would announce an amicable split. She would wait six months before marrying the father and in a year or two he would quietly adopt the child and Tom wouldn't object. She had her own money so the financial details wouldn't be an issue."

Marian's yoga classes were probably in response to her pregnancy, Steve realized, and Tom's sudden involvement with Kaitlen Berdue now took on a whole new dimension.

"How come you didn't call the police when she disappeared?"

"I didn't think any of this mattered. By then they were living separate lives. Tom's girl friend was no secret to Marian. She didn't care."

"And later?"

"When they found Marian's body near where Tom had been driving his dune buggy with the cord from one of their lamps around her neck, I just assumed that he had been drinking and that she had said something that made him snap. As I said, Marian didn't sugarcoat her opinions. Sometimes people mistook her directness for cruelty."

"And now what do you think?"

"Now I don't know. How could I? I'm not on the jury." Leslie's cart rattled into the concrete-floored building near the exit and she began picking through boxes of fertilizer.

"This one?" she asked, holding up a blue and yellow box of Miracle Gro. Steve checked the label's recommended uses, then nodded. She smiled and a warm glow spread through his chest.

"You know my next question," he said, giving her a level stare.

"He had nothing to do with it. He loved her."

"You know the old song, 'You only hurt the one you love.' He has to be checked out."

Leslie glared and pushed off into the checkout line. Steve followed, and when she came to a halt, poised the tip of his ballpoint above his pad. Leslie gave him another irritated glance then expelled a long breath.

"Robert Garsen," she said, finally meeting his gaze, "lives in Baldwin Hills. He's in the insurance business." Steve wrote it down. "He had nothing to do with this. You'll see."

"You're probably right, but he might know something that will lead me to someone who does. Tom Travis is innocent which means that whoever murdered Marian is still on the loose."

"Do you believe that or is saying it just part of your job description."

"He's not a killer," Steve said softly.

"Human beings have an infinite capacity to do the unexpected," Leslie replied with quiet certainty.

Steve shrugged and put away his pad. "Somebody knows what happened and if I'm lucky they'll tell me something that will lead me to the real killer."

They had reached the head of the line and Leslie paid and pushed the cart back to her Porsche with Steve trailing along behind.

Steve held out his hand. "Thanks for your help. You've got my number, in case something comes up."

"Yes, if something comes up."

Steve turned away, then stopped. "Ms. Wahlberg," he called as she hit the remote for the tailgate, "may I ask you a personal question?"

She gave him another of her appraising stares then a little nod. "I suppose."

"Is there a Mr. Wahlberg? You're not divorced, widowed . . . ." Steve held up his hands.

Leslie laughed, her cheeks flushing a soft pink. "College sweethearts," she said.

"He's a very lucky man."

"I think it would be better if I didn't tell him you said so."

"I suppose you're right."

"And Mr. Janson . . . ."

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Steve's eyes followed her car until it was eventually swallowed in a river of steel and disappeared.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Cynthia Allard's producer, Jarred Whiting, reclined his chair and appraised her with slitted eyes, his standard signal that he was going to have to make "a hard decision," hard, of course, on someone else. In a normal person Whiting's waved white hair and pale blue-gray eyes might have signified a distinguished, grandfatherly disposition. To everyone who knew him they only proved that soulless predators could assume a multitude of forms and guises.

"Your Travis story's dead until next Wednesday, at least. Then it's good for . . ." Whiting speculatively raised his brows, "what, a fifteen second recap from the sidewalk in front of the courthouse?"

Cynthia stifled a frown and tried to meet Whiting's gaze. "Not necessarily. The prosecution's going to want to close strong. My sources tell me they'll put on expert testimony tying the murder weapon back to the missing table lamp and then close with a lawyer who'll testify that Marian Travis had engaged him to file divorce papers shortly after the baby was born."

Whiting waved his hand dismissively. "So, a week from now you'll have a couple of thirty second spots saying exactly the same thing as every other reporter covering the story. Explain to me why that justifies your sitting on your can for a week while everyone else around here actually does some work."

"Jarred, I developed this story. I'm the one who broke--"

"I'm interested in tomorrow, not yesterday. Why shouldn't I let Jeri or Dennis phone in the daily summary and have you dig into something new?"

"Such as?"

Whiting pulled a scrap of paper from the pile on his desk. "There's a kid in Aspen, fifteen, supposed to have killed his aunt and uncle in their sleep with a spear gun when they wouldn't let him go on vacation in Cabo with some of the rich kids from his school."

Cynthia shook her head in confusion. "Didn't that happen a week ago?"

"So?"

"So it's old news. I'll spend four days running around Aspen re-interviewing the kid's homeroom teacher who'll tell me what a quiet, moody kid he was. What's the point?"

"If he had used a shotgun, maybe I'd agree with you, but the spear gun gives it a nice twist, real curb appeal. You have something better to do with your time? Sitting around here on your butt waiting for your phone to ring isn't going to cut it." Cynthia glanced into Whiting's icy eyes and looked away. "That's what I thought. Okay, your flight--"

"I've got something," she said quietly, not looking up.

"You've got something? Something on the Travis case?"

"Yes."

"Well, don't keep me in suspense. Dazzle me," Whiting demanded, a predator's smile twisting his lips.

An hour later make-up finished with Cynthia's cheeks and throat and she checked herself in the mirror. A touch here, a push there and her hair looked right. Back on the set the sound man slipped the mike under her collar, did a sound check and nodded at the director who positioned himself to the right of the camera. Cynthia took in and expelled a deep breath.

"In five, four, three . . . ." The director flashed two fingers, one, then pointed at her as the camera's light went red.

"Good afternoon, this is Cynthia Allard for CourtWatch." Oversized text slid up the teleprompter screen and Cynthia's words effortlessly followed the script.

"The Tom Travis murder case has just taken a bizarre turn with the addition of suspended former Los Angeles County Deputy Prosecutor, Steven Janson, to Travis's defense team.

"Only a few months before Marian Travis disappeared, L.A. County Deputy DA Steven Janson was assisting LA Homicide Detectives in the search for the so-called Headless Killer. In the middle of that investigation, Janson's wife, Lynn Burris Janson, the daughter of Judge Malcolm Burris, coincidentally the judge who is presiding over Tom Travis's case, was murdered by the Headless Killer. After her death the police focused their investigation on a suspect named Alan Lee Fry.

"Before he could be arrested, Fry fled to Cuba where he was immune from extradition. Only a few weeks after fleeing the country, Fry was found murdered in his Havana apartment and Steven Janson, the last victim's husband, was the prime suspect in Fry's death.

"Janson, who never denied shooting Fry, successfully avoided extradition back to Cuba with the help of Tom Travis's lawyer, Gregory Markham. Nevertheless, in response to a disbarment proceeding Janson eventually agreed to a two year suspension from the practice of law on the grounds of moral turpitude for his alleged cold blooded murder of Alan Fry.

"Now, accused murderer, Steven Janson, former son-in-law of the judge trying the Travis case, has been hired by Tom Travis's attorney, Gregory Markham, as a so-called 'Senior Associate' to review evidence and interview potential witnesses for Travis's defense.

"Markham, Janson, and the Prosecutor, Deputy D.A. Ted Hamilton, have all refused to comment on this strange turn of events, but one courthouse regular, on condition of anonymity, told me, 'There's an old saying, 'Set a thief to catch a thief. Maybe Greg Markham thinks it should be 'Set a killer to catch a killer.'"

Cynthia paused and gave the camera a meaningful stare.

"For CourtWatch, this is Cynthia Allard."

"And we're out!"

The red light winked off and Cynthia unclipped the mike and sighed. She felt sorry for Steve but facts were facts and she had saved her job for another week.