A Death In Beverly Hills (24 page)

"I'm good. I'm doing work for insurance companies, PI lawyers, stuff I don't need a license for."

"That's good." Mike nodded and lazily glanced around the room. For a moment his eyes locked on Ella and she gave him a secret smile.

"What about you?"

"You mean Ella?"

Steve shrugged.

"Patsy and I broke up a couple of years ago. Can't blame her. Hell, if I was a stay-home-do-your-taxes-water-the-lawn kind of guy, I wouldn't be carryin' tin. So. . . ?"

Steve's finger drew a thin moist line across the table. "So . . . I'm working on the Tom Travis case for Greg Markham." Mike lifted his eyebrows in noncommittal inquiry. "It started out that Markham needed help and he called in his marker. A deal's a deal."

"I always said you were a stand-up guy." Another swallow. "But?"

"Damned if I don't think the prick is innocent."

"You got anything that'll stick?"

"You think the jury would take my word for it?"

"So, zip?"

"Yeah, zip. The thing is, the D.A. is right. I don't buy this as a botched burglary or some serial killer picking her as a random victim. This was personal, but everybody's singing the same song -- 'Marian Travis was a decent person who had no enemies and Tom Travis was a lightweight prick who wanted everybody to like him even when they didn't.' Travis and his wife are not people who were on the run from the mob or who ripped off some Columbian drug lord. It's like finding a barefoot corpse and two left shoes next to the body. Nothing fits."

"Sounds like a real who-dun-it. I'm just a dumb beat cop. I run across a dead body and I stand guard until the Dicks arrive, then I'm gone. Whose case was it?"

"You don't read the papers?"

"Too much bullshit. I get enough aggravation on the job."

"Simon Katz and a young guy, Jack Furley."

"Katz? Your old training officer? He giving you any rhythm?"

"Are you kidding? Katz is leading the parade that wants to see me locked up. Furley's been decent enough, but nothing that does me any good."

Mike drained his glass and contemplated the half melted cubes. "Well, he ought to be."

"What?"

"Furley ought to give you a break. He and Travis were tight there for a while."

"Tight? How?"

Mike gave him a surprised look. "You didn't know? Furley busted Travis for slapping around that actress, Clare something."

"I know about that. So what?"

"Word was he convinced her to keep it cool and Travis appreciated his 'discretion.' Once the case was over they hit some clubs, you know, lots of girls, lots of action. Travis picked up the tab. Old Jack was ridin' high on the hog for a while there."

"But?"

"But, it was affecting his work. And then he made the
Tattler
. 'Movie Star And LAPD Cop On The Town' with a picture of a couple of centerfolds hanging all over them. That took about thirty seconds to get glued to Furley's locker. It took the Sergeant, one of the Born Again types, about ten more seconds to find out. Man, he hit the fucking roof."

"What did Furley do?"

"What could he do? He told the Sarge that he was working as a bodyguard, good relations between the Department and the movie industry, blah, blah, blah. He got off with a warning but after that the Sarge was on him like white on rice. Furley had to cool it and I guess Travis found somebody else to party with. . . ." Mike stared off into space and Steve wondered if he had lost his train of thought or was just deciding whether or not to order another drink. "That's all I actually know," Mike finally said, then waved his empty glass at Etta. Steve put a ten down on the table.

"This one's on me."

"You pumpin' me for information, Steve?" Mike asked suspiciously eyeing the bill.

"Absolutely not."

"'Cause I'd hate to think your showing up here was some kind of scam to help Markham."

"I didn't even know you'd be here."

"Still, maybe you saw an opportunity--"

"On Lynn's soul, I didn't."

Mike hesitated, then raised his fresh drink in mock salute and seemed to relax. "Yeah, okay, sorry. A guy starts drinking too much, he starts thinkin' he's maybe makin' a fool of himself. Half the trouble in the world's caused by somebody doin' something violent or stupid or both just so people don't think they can make a fool out of him. Fear does awful things to a man. It makes him do things he shouldn't do and afraid to learn what he needs to know, or so dear old Father Feeney used to tell us."

"I wouldn't play you, Mike."

"Nah, I know you wouldn't." Mike pushed the bill across the table. Steve pushed it back.

"Now, I can't buy and old pal a drink? You trying to insult me?"

"Can't have that," Mike said, smiling and palming the ten. "Etta's tip."

"I'll see you next week."

"You joining the Blue Angles permanent like?"

"Until their regular guy gets back." Steve pushed back from the table.

"There was this rumor," Mike muttered, as if speaking to himself. "The story was that somebody was giving Tom Travis a hard time about something." Steve gave Leahy a sharp look. "I don't know who. I don't know when. I don't know why. Story was that before things could get too far, they caught the guy with four ounces of speed. Possession for sale. He would have gone to Quentin except it was his first drug offense and he got a deal for a year in the county jail. Travis's problem was solved."

"And. . . ?"

"There was another rumor," Mike continued as if musing on an old riddle, "that half the reason Jack Furley eventually made detective was that he busted some guy with four ounces of speed. "Coincidence? Who knows?" Mike took a sip and smiled. "See you next week. And Steve, we never had this little talk."

"What talk?" Steve said and turned away. The only sound was the muffled clatter of pins. Steve started to leave, then hesitated. How could this puffy old boozer be Iron Mike Leahy the toughest guy in the squad? "Mike, you know if you need help with something . . . ." He let the offer hang.

Leahy gave him a bittersweet smile and shook his head. "Don't worry about Old Mike. I've still got a few miles left in me." Then Leahy paused. "You know the old saying, Steve," Mike said, his gaze suddenly intense, "about people who live in glass houses. Well, who am I to talk, but you've got the look of a thirsty man."

"I'm fine, Mike."

"Yeah, sure, I know you are, but . . . all I'm sayin' is that I don't know where it was that my life sort of jumped the track, just that it's way too late now for me to ever go back. You're still a young guy, Steve, a stand-up guy. I feel bad that I disrespected you. But Steve," Mike grabbed Steve's arm with an iron grip, "anger and fear will do terrible things to a man, burn him up from the inside out until all the booze in the world won't put out the fire. Whatever it is, let it go before it's too late. Before you end up like me." Mike gave him a crooked smile and opened his hand.

Fear?
Steve thought.
I'm not afraid of anything, anything except
. . . . and he pushed the thought away before he had the chance to admit it existed.

"You're a good friend, Mike," Steve said and patted Leahy on his shoulder as he headed for the door.

"Etta, Sweetie," he heard Mike call behind him, "What time do you get off, Darlin'?" and the black light tubes popped and sizzled and Mike's shirt flickered an ethereal blue.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Steve was surprised at how popular Cynthia's "Killer Helping On Travis Trial" piece was. All day long people seemed to be looking at him sideways as if at any moment he might pull out a .45 and start shooting. A secondary effect of the story was that he feared the publicity might force Greg Markham to fire him. When he thought about it he almost laughed. Two weeks ago he wanted nothing to do with Tom Travis and had felt coerced into taking the job, now his biggest worry was that he would be cut loose.

Janson's cell rang as he was heading south on Wilshire. Markham with the
coup degras
?

"Hello."

"Mr. Janson, it's Rebecca Minton."

"Hi. Have you learned something new?"

"No. Well, not exactly."

Steve glanced at the large silver numbers above a set of oversize doors and figured he had about two blocks to go.

"I don't understand."

"Do you have any plans for dinner?"

You're the psychic
, he almost said, but didn't. "Not right now."

"Could we meet somewhere?"

It appeared that suddenly his company was in high demand. First Cynthia Allard, now Rebecca Minton.

"Sure. What's up?"

"I'd rather explain in person. Is seven o'clock good for you? Do you know Franconia's in Van Nuys?"

"I can find it." Steve saw his destination across the street at the end of the block and dodged into the left lane. "Sorry, what was that?"

"I'll see you there," Rebecca's voice rattled through a sudden burst of static and the line went dead.

Santana Casualty occupied the twentieth and twenty-first floors of a bronze glazed high-rise in Century City, a convenient location for the lawyers who lived off the company either as marauders or defenders. It was Friday afternoon and Steve had no time left for subtly. He tucked in his shirt, adjusted his coat and without an appointment marched up to the reception desk and asked to see Robert Garsen on urgent personal business. The receptionist gave him a suspicious stare and asked him to take a seat. Steve figured it was even money that her next call would be to security and he kept a watchful eye on the doors for the arrival of large men in blue polyester blazers.

The coffee table held a neat assortment of magazines,
The Casualty Reporter, Insurance Age, Barrons
. Steve rubbed his hands and nervously adjusted his cuffs then caught a glimpse of his shoes and was embarrassed at the scuffs and wear. When he was a D.A. and they were half living off of Lynn's trust fund, he had had them polished three times a week.

"Mr. Janson?"

Startled, Steve looked up to see a short slender man in a gray suit standing in front of him. "I'm Robert Garsen. What's this about?"

About five feet seven, clean shaven, ordinary to the point that you wouldn't look at him twice, this was the guy Marian had planned to leave Tom Travis for? She was already well off so it wasn't for his money. Whatever Garsen's charms were, they weren't readily apparent to Janson.

"I'm Steve Janson. I'm working for Greg Markham, Tom Travis's defense attorney."

Garsen gave him a long stare, obviously weighing his options, then turned and motioned for Steve to follow him. Garsen had a corner office and had placed his desk parallel to the door so that when he looked to his right he could see all the way to the ocean. The sun had begun to slide down the sky and the hour and the tinted glass imbued the vista with a warm glow.

"Have a seat."

"Great office," Steve said, trying to break the ice with a little polite conversation.

"Life's too short not to enjoy it if you can." Garsen glanced at the distant procession of waves marching toward the shore, then turned back to Steve. "Where do you want to start?"

"Obviously, I'm here about Marian Travis." Garsen fidgeted uneasily.
At least he's embarrassed about cheating on Tom
, Steve thought. "My information is that you and Mrs. Travis were romantically involved at the time of her death." Steve deliberately called her "Mrs. Travis", accentuating the fact that she had been a married woman. Garsen had the decency to blush and look away.

"Yes, that's true." Garsen admitted, staring into the distance as if fascinated by the play of light and shadow.

"I'm informed that Mrs. Travis planned to divorce her husband after the baby was born and that you and she were going to be married."

"Also true," Garsen agreed, still not meeting Steve's gaze.

"The child she was carrying was yours."

"We didn't do a DNA test but Marian told me that she and her husband hadn't. . . ," Garsen paused a moment and tried again, "had not been having relations at the time the baby was conceived." Garsen finally turned away from the window and looked at Steve. "She said that he had a girlfriend, that Berdue girl I suppose."

"That plus the fact that she told you that Tom Travis was sterile?"

"Yes," Garsen said looking away.

"So, you felt that because Tom was--"

"No, I didn't," Garsen said quietly.

"Didn't . . . ?"

"I didn't think that what we were doing was right just because her husband was sleeping with someone else. The fact is, it wasn't right and no matter how much I tried to lie to myself about it," Garsen shook his head, "didn't change anything."

"Did Marian feel the same way?"

Garsen laughed, a sound simultaneously both happy and sad. "You didn't know Marian, did you?"

Steve shook his head.

"She was . . . one of a kind. Very logical in a kind of . . . pedantic sort of way, the kind of logic that doesn't necessarily have a lot to do with common sense." Garsen sighed and in response to Steve's obvious confusion, tried again. "Dealing with her was sometimes like arguing with a communist." Steve's frown grew more intense. "The thing is, communism would make sense if its basic premises were correct. If human nature worked the way the communists wanted it to work, their system would have worked too, but, of course it doesn't and that's the problem. If the basic premises you're working from don't match reality, all your brilliance and all your logic is just a waste of time. That's how Marian was about some things. She'd have this very rational, very logical set of ideas but sometimes the place she started from wasn't . . . well, I didn't think it had a lot of common sense behind it."

Steve stared at Garsen's and hadn't a clue what the guy was talking about. With a sigh, Garsen tried again.

"Marian decided that Tom's . . . lack of candor freed her from her marriage vows and that her only obligation to him was to be forthright about what she planned to do."

"And you didn't agree?"

"You marry somebody, you do what you promised to do until you're not married to them anymore. I guess that's kind of an old fashioned way of looking at things, but that's how I see it."

"But in spite of that, you--"

"I helped Marian cheat on her husband. I was wrong to do it. Absolutely wrong. No excuses. I fell in love. I wanted her. She wanted me. There's nothing I can say to justify what I did. I'm not proud of my conduct." Garsen threw up his hands in surrender.

"Did you ever meet him, Tom Travis?"

Garsen shot him an appalled look. "No, I never wanted to meet him or have him meet me. I was sleeping with the man's wife for God's sake!" Garsen swiveled his chair back toward the view of the distant sea.

"When was the last time you saw Marian?"

Garsen's face clouded with a strange expression, half embarrassment, half longing.

"Two days before she disappeared, the 29
th
. We had planned to spend New Year's day on my boat with Sarah and then Marian . . . as I said, she had a different way of looking at things, and she decided that after we got back the two of us should go out clubbing after dropping Sarah off with the sitter."

"And you didn't want to?"

Garsen looked at Steve as if he had made a rude noise. "The eight month pregnant wife of a famous movie star is going to publically celebrate New Year's Eve with the man she's cheating on her husband with? And when someone asks where Tom is or who I am or how we know each other, what are we supposed to say?" Garsen shook his head in disbelief.

"But she didn't see the problem?"

Garsen's lips bent in a bemused smile. "'Just tell them that we're friends and let them think whatever they like' she told me." Garsen shook his head. "I couldn't do that."

"You had an argument?"

"A beauty. Nothing I said seemed to get through. I wasn't kidding when I said it was like arguing politics with a committed communist -- Marian was starting from a very dogmatic place. Penetrating her logic was like firing a bee-bee gun at a battleship." Garsen raised his hands in helpless frustration.

Steve tried to picture Garsen strangling Marian with a lamp cord and burying her body in a shallow grave. He couldn't do it and after nine years as a beat cop and six years as a prosecutor he didn't think he could be that wrong about somebody. He had been hoping for knuckle-dragging narcissist and instead had found a guilt-ridden Boy Scout who worried about not doing the right thing.

"Did she have any enemies? Was anyone following her, bothering her?"

"Not that she told me."

"Did she seem worried, upset?"

"Just the opposite. She was looking forward to having the baby and leaving Tom. So was I. I wanted us to have a clean break. I wanted to stop feeling like a cheat." Garsen gave Steve a sudden stare. "Let me ask you a question."

Steve almost laughed. "You want to know if I think Tom did it?"

"I was wondering if you've found any leads."

"You don't think Tom did it?"

"Do you?"

Steve shook his head. "No. I was hoping you might be able to help me find Marian's killer."

"I wish I could. So, you've got nothing?"

"I'm exploring every lead," Steve said, the investigator's equivalent of 'no comment.' "Here's my card. If you think of anything, anything at all, please call me."

Garsen glanced at it, then dropped it on his desk. Steve extended his hand.

"You never mentioned why you think Tom's innocent," Steve said.

"Marian told me a lot about him and you don't get very far in the insurance business without being able to read people."

"And?"

Garsen shook his head sadly. "I just don't think he had the balls for it."

Outside, the sun had slid down the bowl of the sky and now seemed to float over the ocean like a fat golden ball.