A Death In Beverly Hills (25 page)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Franconia's was one of those Italian restaurants that Steve found vaguely confusing. The waiters pretended to be Italian but their birthplaces were closer to Mexico City than Milan. The maitre d', probably one of the owners, was continentally distinguished with curly steel-colored hair but Janson suspected that it was more likely that he had grown up in Marseille or Buenos Aires than anyplace in Italy. The provenance of the Chef was anybody's guess from Iran to Viet Nam. At least the menu looked Italian, though he could have used a flashlight to make out some of the entries. But Rebecca seemed as happy as a Girl Scout on an outing to the Barbi factory, so Steve restricted his remarks to good natured questions on the merits of the piccata versus the osso bucco. At least, he decided, she didn't have any ethical issues about eating veal.

Tonight she wore a semi-shiny burgundy dress with a modest scooped neckline accented with a heavy gold necklace with rubies scattered among the links, fake ones Steve assumed. The outfit was a good match to her fair skin and golden hair. The table featured a votive candle in a tulip glass and the flame flickered hypnotically in Rebecca's sea-blue eyes.

The waiter delivered a bottle and poured balloon glasses of purple-black Chianti followed by a platter of calamari looking like a gourmet version of miniature onion rings with an occasional clump of deep fried tentacles thrown in for good measure. Rebecca instantly stabbed one with her salad fork and twirled it in a ramekin of aioli sauce.

"Mmmmmm. I love their calamari here. The chef told me their secret is that they add baking powder to a rice flour batter to make it especially light and crispy."

Steve remembered his meeting with Gerard Fontaine at the cooking school and wondered if Marion's old man had learned that trick yet.

"You like to cook?" Steve asked as he speared his own piece.

"My mother was a terrible cook," Rebecca replied. Steve stared at her blankly, trying to figure out if she had said something more and he had just missed it. She caught his puzzlement and waved her fingers indicating that she would explain once she had finished chewing. "My friends," she continued a moment later after a sip of wine, "thought I was so lucky because all my mother fed us was hamburgers and pizza and take-out chicken."

"But not you?"

"She was a doctor," Rebecca said, her conversation ricocheting off on another unexpected trajectory. Steve figured that eventually it would all make sense and set the latest fact aside like a jigsaw puzzle piece you bank until its position eventually becomes clear.

"What kind of doctor?" he asked politely.

"Allergist. No runny noses in my house." Another sip of wine. "Anyway, mom had her practice and her gardening and making sure we did our homework. Cooking was always at the bottom of her list."

"But if she was a doctor . . . ."

"How could she feed us junk food? 'That's why God invented multi-vitamins,' she used to say." Rebecca laughed and Steve dueled with her for the last non-tentacle piece on the platter.

"And you don't like junk food?"

For a moment Rebecca paused, confused as if she had been giving a well rehearsed speech and had unexpectedly lost her place. "Oh, mom's cooking," she said an instant later. "I got so tired of it, the take out. One day I woke up and just craved some fresh green beans with butter or a piece of rare prime rib or boeuf bourguignon e on a bed of egg noodles, something, anything except Domino's, Colonel Sanders, Burger King and Swanson's frozen dinners!"

"Swanson's frozen dinners? Didn't they outlaw them in 1979? What did she do, smuggle them in from Tia Juana?"

Rebecca laughed again and poured them both more wine. "Once I figured out that if I wanted different food I would have to cook it myself . . . ." she shrugged.

"You taught yourself?"

"It's not that hard. I started with a meatloaf from the Betty Crocker Cookbook. I still have it."

"The meatloaf or the cookbook?"

"Silly," she said, taking a playful swipe at his hand. "Both. I pressed the meatloaf between two pieces of Saran Wrap and stapled it inside the back cover." More giggles and another swallow of wine. Steve glanced at the bottle's sinking level and wondered if by the time they reached desert she was going be capable of walking to the door.

"The scallopini?" the waiter asked, appearing out of the darkness.

"For the lady."

"Yes, sir." A petrale sole with a half order of risotto and peas was placed in front of Steve. Rebecca quickly raised her knife and fork as if she hadn't eaten all day.

"I'm having a wonderful time . . . ."

"Me too," Rebecca agreed. "Mmmmm, that's good." Her eyes closed in mock delight.

". . . but I was wondering why--"

"Why I asked you to have dinner with me?"

"Something like that."

She cut up another paper-thin piece of veal,
if it's really veal and not pork loin
, Steve thought, the oldest trick in the dishonest restaurant operator's handbook, but he kept his paranoia to himself.

"Maybe I just wanted to see you."

"I--"

"I know you like me," she broke in before he could reply.

"What?" Definitely an unpredictable girl.

"I can always tell."

"Because you're a psychic?"

"No, silly, because I'm a pretty girl . . . . Well, I am." She paused and gave him an appraising glace. "You don't know a lot about women, do you?"

"Does any man?"

"Ha! That's what men who haven't a clue say to excuse their ignorance. We're not aliens, you know, in spite of what that guy said in that book."

"Book?" Steve was getting more lost by the minute.

"The Mars-Venus thing. I thought it was overrated, well, at least self-evident, stuff people should have been able to figure out on their own. It doesn't take a genius after all." She stabbed another morsel of veal and twirled several strands of pasta around her fork. Steve gave up trying to follow the thread of her conversation and poked at his fish. "Where was I?" she asked once she had stopped chewing. "Oh, right, women."

"My thought exactly."

"No, just think about it. If you're a pretty girl, or even not such a pretty girl, as soon as you hit twelve or thirteen, they're after you, boys. At first it's okay because they're so clueless, but by fifteen or sixteen, even boys will have figured out most of the basics, so we girls have to be able to tell which ones like us and which ones just want, you know, well, they all want that, but some of them actually care about you and the rest just want to try out the equipment. It's basic Darwinian self defense. You either learn how to separate the sheep from the goats, or is it wolves?" she shook her head in brief confusion. "Anyway, you've got to learn or you'll end up pregnant with some guy who'll make your life a total mess."

Steve had absolutely no idea what to say and stared at her blankly, a thin noncommittal smile frozen on his lips.

"That's how I know you like me," she concluded and speared a stalk of broccoli rabe.

"Oh." Steve took a few seconds to meticulously cut up the remainder of his fish. "So, this is a . . . social occasion?"

"Let's wait until desert," she said with a quick, nervous smile.

Between the conversational nonsequiturs and a second bottle of wine, Steve lost track of the rest of the meal. At least they avoided the usually mediocre tiramisu and instead split an order of Bananas Foster.

Lingering over cups of double roasted black coffee sweetened with spoonfuls of rum and melted vanilla ice cream, Rebecca's mood suddenly changed.

"There was another reason," she began, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Another reason for our dinner?"

Rebecca nodded and bent over her cup. Steve took a sip of coffee and waited. She would tell him when she was ready.

"I've had a . . . feeling, about Sarah."

"A vision?"

"No, a feeling."

"Okay."

"Something's happening, where she is."

"She's still alive? She's all right?"

"She's not all right but she's in no immediate danger. It's very hard for her. She cries a lot." Rebecca looked across the table and the candle flame gave her glistening eyes a deep blue glow. "They're going to move her, soon."

"Move her?"

"The people they sold her to. Something's happened. Things haven't worked out the way they thought, maybe because Sarah is so unhappy. It feels like they thought that having a child would solve all the problems in their marriage and it's just made them worse. The husband wants to get their money back."

"She's a child, not a used car!"

Rebecca shrugged. "There was a reason why they couldn't get a normal adoption."

"So, what's going to happen to Sarah?"

"I don't know."

"Is the wife going to keep her?"

Rebecca suddenly seemed on the verge of tears. "I told you. I don't know! It's just a
feeling
. It's like watching a movie and suddenly you know how it's going to end. You don't know how you know, you just do." Her gaze bored into him seeking some sign that he understood.

"So, one way or another, Sarah's going someplace, either with the wife or back to the people in Mexico to be . . . re-sold to new buyers." Rebecca gave him a teary nod. "How soon?"

"I don't know."

"Can you make a guess?"

The candlelight reflected hypnotically from her eyes. "Maybe a week. Maybe two. Not longer than three, I think."

"And you're telling me because . . . ?"

"You said you wanted to know if I learned anything new."

"You're telling me," Steve said with sudden insight, "so that I understand how important it is that I find Marian's killer soon, in time to make him tell us the name of the guy in Mexico before Sarah disappears forever."

"Maybe you understand me a little after all."

"I wouldn't go that far," Steve said sincerely.

"We really are a mystery to you, aren't we?"

"We?"

"Women. You're too direct," she said after a little pause.

"Excuse me?"

"You're a black and white, see the hill, take the hill kind of guy. You'd need to be more manipulative to be really good at dealing with us. That's all right. I'm glad you're not."

"I'm lost," Steve admitted.

Rebecca gave him a sweet smile. "I know. It must have been hard for you, with your wife."

"What?"
Had he told her that he had been married?

"It's one of the reasons I trust you so much."

Steve shook his head in confusion. Would he ever be able to follow this woman's conversational twists and turns. "I don't--"

"It's okay." Rebecca affectionately patted his hand. "She loved you very much."

"What?"

"Your wife."

Was this some kind of a scam?
"Did you--"

"It wasn't a vision," Rebecca continued, "Not like I had with Sarah." Steve just sat there frozen, confused. "It's more a feeling, like I tried to explain, when you know something even though you don't know how you know."

"You had a
feeling
about Lynn?"

"It's nothing bad. It just seemed like you really needed to know."

"Know that . . . ?"

"I just told you, that she loved you very much. You'd know that without my telling you, if you weren't so . . . upset," Rebecca said after a little pause, as if 'upset' wasn't really the word she wanted to use.

"I don't think--"

"Please don't tell me I've ruined things again," Rebecca said, suddenly afraid.

"Ruined things?"

"I do that, tell people things I think they need to hear and it frightens them away. I don't want to frighten you away." She squeezed his hand.

Steve's head seemed unbalanced and overfilled with confusing thoughts. Then he looked at Rebecca's porcelain features and thought about what she had said --
She loved you very much
-- and all his questions slipped away.

"You can't frighten me off that easily," he said and everything was fine. He looked around the half empty restaurant. "Do you need a ride home? I could give you cab fare to come back tomorrow and get your car."

"No, I'm all right. I have a high metabolic rate. Alcohol never stays with me very long."

"You're sure you don't need a ride home?"

"No, besides, it's too soon . . . ." Rebecca paused and gave Steve a long stare. "But you know that already. Why don't you walk me to my car and kiss me goodnight."

That sounded like a good idea to Steve and he signaled for the check.

Chapter Forty

"What if I threatened to break his face?" Steve suggested. Greg Markham bent over his putter, concentrated on a spot six inches in front of the ball, held his breath for two seconds, released it, then swung the club forward in a smooth arc. The ball headed straight for the hole, then, at the last instant, rolled off to the right.

"Son of a bitch!" Markham muttered and advanced to the next practice ball.

"Greg?"

"What? Oh, yeah, break his face. If the guards weren't watching and a you had a few minutes to really get to work on him, maybe that would do some good. But I don't think one punch would do it."

"This makes no sense! It's his life were talking about."

"Life -- Ego," Greg raised and lowered his palms as if adjusting a scale. "Remember, he's a star."

"But--"

"He doesn't think that whatever he isn't telling us is important to the case because it isn't important
to him
." Markham lined up his shot and the ball made a dull thunk as it tumbled into the hole. "Yes!" Greg looked over at Steve who was nervously shifting from one foot to the other. "You have to understand that in Travis' world everyone is always asking you for something, ten, twenty times a day. 'Will you do a benefit? Will you endorse my product? Will you appear in my movie? Will you meet my friend? Will you invest in my company? Will you loan me money?' You're always turning people down. It's routine. To the guy whose kid will die without the surgery, refusing to give him that loan is a huge deal, but for you it's just another guy asking you for something that you're not going to give him. So what?"

Greg moved to the next ball on the practice green.

"Okay, I get it, but. . . ."

Greg frowned at the interruption and straightened. "On the other side of the equation, whoever Tom might have had arrested must have had something on him, otherwise he would have just ignored the guy, or woman. In fact, a woman makes more sense. Suppose she threatened to go public with Tom's performance problems or a claim that he punched her or maybe she had a picture of him fondling her underage sister? That's a major problem for a star. If--"

"That's just the kind of person we need to know about. How can he not understand that?"

Markham gave Steve a weary shrug. "As far as he's concerned if the person isn't important to him, then they aren't important at all. He just doesn't believe that some nobody would murder his wife over what sees as no big deal. 'Tom, buddy, I need ten thousand to get my house out of foreclosure.' 'Sorry, can't help you.' -- Nothing important. 'Tom, can you front me a few grand for my wife's eye surgery so she doesn't go blind?' 'Sorry.' --Nothing important. 'Tom, if I don't get this part, I'll lose my union medical insurance. Please, can you get the director to hire me?' 'Sorry.' --Nothing important. Are you starting to understand his point of view?"

"Then we have to convince him that he's wrong and it's not nothing. What's he got to lose by telling us?"

Markham laughed out loud. "What's he got to lose? Are you kidding me? He's a Star. You know how you spell Star? E-G-O. He doesn't want anyone, including us, especially us, to know anything embarrassing about him. He wants us, especially you, to respect him."

"Why me?"

"Because you were a cop, a real cop. You walked a beat. You faced real bad guys. Macho. GRRRR." Markham grinned. "And you blew away Lynn's murderer. That makes you a certified Tough Guy. He wants you to like him, to think he's a tough guy too. He wants you to be his buddy, like in the movies --
Lethal Weapon
-- Glover and Gibson."

"Crap."

"Now you're getting it. So how's that going to happen if you find out he couldn't t get it up and that it frustrated him so much he ended up hitting some girl? If you find that out then you won't respect him any more and every time he sees you, he'll know that you know he's a pussy and that will piss him off. If the case were over and he never had to see either of us again, well, maybe . . . , but he needs us now so he can't stand us thinking he's a pansy-loser. -- Now be quiet while I make this putt." Greg bent over the ball.

"So Tom tells himself that whoever he sicced Furley on, whatever problems they were causing him, had nothing to do with Marian's murder and he clams up and hopes for the best?"

Greg glared at Steve for two seconds then looked back at the ball and swung the putter. As it neared the cup the ball slowed, caught the lip and angled away.

"That was your fault!" Greg complained. "You broke my concentration."

"What are we going to do?" Steve demanded, ignoring Markham's pout.

"I'm going to see Tom this afternoon and beg him on my hands and knees to tell me the name of everyone he's ever known who's been arrested for drug possession and I'm going to promise him not to tell you anything about it."

"What's he supposed to think you're going to do with the information?"

"I'll tell him that I'm going to give it the Foster agency under the name of another client so it will never be linked to him."

"You're going to lie to him?"

Greg waved for quiet. The next putt stopped an inch before the center of the cup. Markham frowned. "Of course I'm going to lie to him," he continued in a sour tone. "He's been lying to us. It's only fair that we lie right back." Steve shifted uneasily. "You've got a problem with that?"

"No, it's something else."

Markham lined up for his next putt. "Let's have it."

"I've been talking to a psychic about the case."

Markham's club flew forward in a spastic jerk and the ball bounded ten feet past the hole.

"Have you lost your mind!"

Like a kid trying to explain why his hand was stuck in the cookie jar Steve recounted his meetings with Rebecca.

"Jorge? Silver tape. A blue blanket? That's it?"

Steve shrugged.

"Terrific," Greg muttered and advanced to the last ball. "If she ever tells you anything actually useful, let me know."

"I'll fax you a detailed report with everything she told me."

"I can't wait."

"When do you think you'll be able to get me the name of the guy Travis had arrested?"

"You're awfully trusting for a former prosecutor."

"What?"

"I figure that at best I've got maybe one chance in three of getting the truth out of Travis." Greg lined up for the putt. "You need to call that cop, Furley, and see if he'll give it up." This time the ball hit the cup dead center and dropped in with a pleasant THUNK. "Yes!"

Steve wandered away from the practice green trying to figure out how he was going to find Jack Furley on a Saturday afternoon.