Blood Defense (10 page)

SIXTEEN

I
had the friggin’ nightmare again
and woke myself up with the sound of my croaking scream. It took four cups of coffee to loosen the grip of the ugly images and stop the shakes, so I was running a little late. Of course, that meant Alex showed up fifteen minutes early. “Sorry, Sam. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t keep you waiting.”

“No problem.” That’s LA. You’re either an hour early or two hours late. Two large coffees were in a cardboard tray on the passenger seat. I was probably pushing it with a fifth cup, but I’d rather have a caffeine buzz than a nightmare fog. “Plain, right?” I’m not a fan of all that latte, frappe business. Just give me the caffeine and no one gets hurt. Alex nodded. “Thanks.”

Alex was wearing slacks and a blazer. He took in my outfit as I pulled on my seat belt. “Jeans and a black leather jacket? Don’t you want them to believe you’re a lawyer?”

“Sure, but I also want them to talk to me.” I eyed his outfit. “A suit doesn’t say, ‘Relax and spill.’”

He looked skeptical but didn’t argue. “First, Laurel Canyon, then Santa Monica to see Kaitlyn, right?”

I nodded. Laurel Canyon used to be one of the hippest places on the planet, creatively speaking. Joni Mitchell, Jim Morrison, Mama Cass, Glenn Frey—everybody lived there back in the day. The Canyon Country store on Laurel Canyon Boulevard still has a psychedelic sign. But now it’s more of a mixed bag. The canyon has peaks and valleys. Literally and figuratively. The higher up you go, the better the view and the ritzier the properties—like multi-million-dollar-type properties. Steven Tyler lives in one of those. I heard Justin Timberlake does, too. So it still has cool people—albeit, bazillionaire-type cool people.

But the lower parts don’t have a view, and they can be pretty raggedy. Some of the houses look like they’re not much more than caves with plumbing. And I’m guessing about the plumbing.

Chloe and Paige lived all the way at the bottom of the canyon on the Hollywood side. The last stretch where Hollywood Boulevard dovetails into Laurel Canyon Boulevard. It had the hip-sounding address but none of the coolness factor. Their building was one of many two-story clapboard-style affairs that were thrown up back in the sixties without much attention to charm or detail—or, according to our police reports, soundproofing.

Alex turned left onto Laurel Canyon Boulevard. “Where do you want to start?”

“Let’s hit the building next door.” I read from the police report. “Nikki Ingalls in 1C claimed she saw Dale driving up and down the street almost every night—with a ‘creepy look on his face.’”

“How’d she see the ‘creepy look’ if he was driving by at night?”

“Well, Supergirl has X-ray vision. But on the off chance she’s not an immortal, that’s what we’ll have to find out.”

High-profile cases attract and repel all types. Our Nikki might be a wannabe actress/model/game-show host looking for free face time, or just your ordinary loser horny for attention—or she might be a nutjob who thought most people looked “creepy.” The possibility of an honest, sane witness was too statistically insignificant to even make the list.

Apartment 1C was on the ground floor of a faded, pink two-story building on Hollywood Boulevard that had a couple of sun-bleached plastic flamingos on the small stretch of lawn. All of the units had windows that faced the street. Nikki did have a decent-enough view. But I noticed that even though there were streetlights on both sides of the street, none of them were close to 1C. And they weren’t all necessarily working. We walked up two concrete steps to a tiny front patio area and found a gray door that had a silver
1
C
hanging just above the peephole. I knocked and stood back to give Nikki a chance to check us out. Also to give her a chance to check out the gorgeousness of Alex. According to the police report, she was in her thirties and lived alone.

I heard footsteps thud on the wooden floor inside. There was a pause, and then the door opened. She was wearing tight navy-blue sweatpants and a sweatshirt that had the arms and most of the midriff cut off. She pushed back a hank of chin-length, overprocessed platinum hair and leaned against the door with a lazy smile. “What can I do for you?”

Her eyes were so occupied with Alex that she didn’t even realize I was there. So I took a perverse pleasure in bursting her bubble by speaking up. “Just give us a few moments of your time.”

The lazy smile went away. She gave me an irritated squint.
“What for?”

“We’re looking into the case involving Chloe and Paige, and we hoped you could answer a few questions.” I try to hold off on saying that I’m working for the defendant for as long as possible. It’s something you pick up after having fifty-seven doors slammed in your face.

Nikki’s eyes strayed back to Alex. The lazy smile switched back on. She still had hope.

Knowing how to work witnesses is an important part of an investigation. I hung back to see how Alex would handle it. He played her like a clarinet. He started with a sincere, from-the-heart look. “Ms. Ingalls, I’d really appreciate it if you could spare us some time. I promise just five minutes and we’ll get out of your hair.”

She melted like a dropped ice-cream cone on a hot sidewalk. “Okay.” She turned and gestured for us to follow her inside. “But we need to make this fast. I’ve got an audition in an hour, and I have to get ready.”

Alex and I exchanged a look behind her back as we headed for the ratty, blue-chenille couch in the living room. Sometimes I wish people weren’t such clichés. Other times, I’m glad they’re so predictable. Nikki sat down on the ottoman chair across from us and ostentatiously crossed her legs—toes pageant-pointed and everything. I noticed her toenails were painted bubblegum pink and had sparkly designs on the big toes. I wondered if she’d ever get around to asking us who we were.

She oozed another smile at Alex. “I told the police I saw the suspect around here a lot.”

Alex made a show of taking out his notepad, even though his pocket recorder was on. It was a trick I’d learned early in my career, and I’d taught it to Alex yesterday. Those recordings stay secret; I use them only to beef up the notes I take in front of the witness. Nothing that hurts my client gets written down, because if I wind up calling the witness, I have to turn over a report of what they said. And it looks better to the jury if they see that we take written statements just like the cops do. Well, sort of like the cops do.

Alex took out his pen. “Did you see Dale Pearson on the night of the murder?”

“No. I was at Hyde Lounge that night.”

In her dreams. Just like the fantasy age she’d given the police. Nikki had left thirty-five behind at least ten hard years ago. And there was no way she was hanging out at a club as pricey as Hyde Lounge.

But Alex gave her a twinkle of a smile. “Hyde Lounge. Very cool. Do you remember when you first met Dale Pearson?”

She pouted and pulled on her lower lip. “About two months ago? I ran into him behind the building. The parking areas are next to each other.”

“How did you know who he was?”

“Because he told me. I figured he’d just moved in, so I introduced myself. You know, being a good neighbor and all.”

And probably hoping to be a really
great
neighbor.

Alex gave her an understanding smile. “Was he friendly?”

Nikki made a face. “No. He was kind of rude. Told me he was in a hurry and said to have a nice day.”

“When was the next time you saw him?”

“Maybe a week? Two weeks later? I saw him drive past my place, heading east on Hollywood Boulevard, then he turned around and drove back toward Chloe’s place.”

“How did he look? Happy? Sad? Upset?”

“He looked . . . intense. Like he was searching for something. Or for
someone
.” She gave Alex a meaningful look.

“Who do you think he was looking for?”

Nikki gave an elaborate shrug that hiked her sweatshirt up enough to show the bottom of her bra. It was an act that couldn’t have found a less interested audience, which amused the hell out of me. And Alex—gotta hand it to him—played the part beautifully, giving her the eye bounce she’d aimed for. This boy was a natural.

Nikki gave a pouty frown. “I don’t know. Another guy, maybe? It seemed kind of stalk-y to me.”

Huh? So he was driving up and down the street to . . . what? Catch his rival? Wouldn’t it be simpler to just park outside her building?

“When did you see him next?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe a week? Two weeks later? Same thing. It happened a couple more times. And he had this . . . look on his face. It was kind of scary.”

My bullshit-o-meter was in the red zone. I had to jump in. “By scary, do you mean angry?”

Nikki glanced at me, then turned back to Alex. “Creepier than that.” She gave a little shiver. “But it was angry, too. That’s why I thought he was, like, suspicious of Chloe.”

I could definitely see why the acting career hadn’t taken off. “Do you know if anyone else in the building noticed Dale Pearson looking like that?”

She barely glanced at me as she answered. “I think Sheila did. Sheila Wagner. She’s in 2C.” Nikki jerked a thumb at the ceiling.

I didn’t remember reading about any Sheila Wagners in the police reports. “What did she tell you about Dale?”

I’d asked one too many questions. Nikki frowned at me. “Hey, who are you guys?”

Alex stepped in with an extra dose of smooth. “I’m sorry, Nikki. I thought we told you already. We work for the defense.” He pulled out a card. “Here you go.”

She took the card. It was one of mine. I hadn’t had time to make cards for Alex yet. Nikki looked at me, her eyes narrowed. “You guys are on
his
side?”

Busted at last. “I’m his lawyer. Alex is—”

“I’m an investigator.” Alex stood up and we headed for the door. He paused at the entry and gave her a buttery smile. “If you think of anything else, please feel free to call. Anytime.”

I watched the tug-of-war on her face. Distaste for the sleazy defense lawyer fought with desire for the gorgeous investigator. Gorgeous investigator won.

As we moved down the sidewalk, Nikki leaned against the doorjamb and gave Alex her best sex-kitten smile. “I’ll definitely do that.”

Alex waved to her. I kept walking until I heard the door close, then stopped. “Nice job, Alex. Good to know you’re willing to slut it up for the team.”

“You kidding? That was nothing. I sold high-end cars, remember?”

SEVENTEEN

W
e knocked on the door
of apartment
2
C, but Sheila Wagner didn’t answer.

I was leaning in, trying to listen for signs of life, when the door to apartment
2
D opened and a young guy, barefoot and naked to the waist in low-slung jeans, stepped out. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, and his hazel eyes squinted at us above the smoke. He was hot in that dirty, up-against-the-wall kind of way. Back in my high school days, I would’ve gone for this guy in a fast second. His eyes flicked off Alex and landed on me. I was happy to take
my
turn to slut it up for the team.

I gave him a smile. “We’re looking for Sheila Wagner.”

“You probation officers?” I started to shake my head, but he laughed. “Joking. Sheila’s, like, a nun.”

In this neighborhood? “A nun?”

He gave a little chuckle. “No. She’s a librarian. But same difference, right? She’s probably just out walking her dog. Give it a few; she’ll be back.”

“Actually, we’re here to talk to people about Dale Pearson.”

“Dale.” He took a long pull from his cigarette and blew it out through the corner of his mouth. “Am I supposed to know him?”

“He’s the one they arrested for the murders.” He still looked puzzled. “Of Chloe and Paige.”

He nodded slowly. “You guys don’t look like cops.” I told him who we were. He nodded. “Nah, I never saw the dude. Saw Chloe, though. We had drinks a couple of times when I first moved in.”

“And?”

He looked out at the street. “She was a nice girl but a mess. There was something, I don’t know . . . broken about her.” He took another drag of his cigarette. “Like she’d seen too much in too few years.”

It was a much more nuanced insight than I’d have expected from this guy. And I got the reference. “The Stones. ‘19th Nervous Breakdown.’ You a musician?”

He nodded appreciatively as he looked me up and down. “Trying to be.”

I pushed down the electric surge from that look.

A female voice from inside his apartment called out. “Babe? What’s going on?”

He gave me a slow smile. “Duty calls.”

I held out my card. “Just in case you think of something.”

He took the card and glanced at it. “Or in case I get in trouble?”

“Or that.”

As he went back inside, I heard the skittering of dog toenails scratching up the walkway. A medium-size chocolate pit bull on a leash came into view. At the other end of the leash was a slender woman with long, almost waist-length brown hair. “Sheila?”

“Yes. Can I help you?” She looked flushed and a lot younger than I’d expected. Late twenties at most. The name
Sheila
seemed like it should belong to someone in her sixties at least.

I told her who we were. She gave a little frown. “Didn’t the police put my statement in a report?”

So the cops
had
spoken to her. I noticed her dog was sniffing at my boots. I took a step back just in case he decided to get a little more intimate. “Not that I saw. I got your name from Nikki.”

Sheila’s frown got deeper. “Don’t worry, Trixie doesn’t bite.”

“I wasn’t worried about the biting so much.”

Sheila nodded and gave the leash a little tug. Trixie backed up and lay down. “I didn’t really have much to say. I was at my folks’ house the night of the . . . the night they died.”

“Did you know Chloe or Paige?” I was waiting for her to invite us in where we could sit down and talk in private, but she didn’t seem inclined.

“Just to say ‘Hi’ to. But you might want to talk to C.J. I think he went out with Chloe.”

“C.J.’s your next-door neighbor?” Sheila looked over my shoulder at his door and nodded. The way her eyes lingered, I got the feeling she looked at his door a lot. “What did you tell the police?”

“Just that I’d met Dale Pearson a couple of months ago. My car got a flat up in the canyon, and I was waiting for Triple A to come. I had Trixie and Dixie with me. That was before Dixie passed. We were on our way home after a hike in Runyon Canyon, and they were really thirsty. They’re fifteen years old, so I was getting worried. Dale was the only one who stopped to see if he could help.”

Finally some good news. “And did he? Help, I mean.”

“Yes. He was super nice. Changed the tire, gave the girls some water—they loved him, and they don’t usually like men all that much. When I told him where I lived—”

“He asked where you lived?”

“I volunteered.” I guess my expression said more than I wanted it to because she nodded. “I know, dumb move. But he seemed so . . . safe. Anyway, I said I couldn’t believe I got a flat less than a mile from home, and he asked me if I lived near Chloe’s building. When I told him I lived next door, he asked whether I’d ever been burglarized or if I’d seen anyone suspicious hanging around the night of Chloe’s burglary.”

I liked what I was hearing more and more. And the fact that Sheila’s statement hadn’t shown up in any of the reports less and less. “What’d you tell him?”

Sheila smiled a little. “That the most suspicious people I’ve seen in this neighborhood are the ones who live here.” Her eyes drifted back to C.J.’s apartment. “I’ve never been burglarized, but I have this little motion detector.” Sheila looked down fondly at her motion detector, who seemed to have fallen asleep on Sheila’s foot. “And back then I had her sister, Dixie, too. But I really don’t see much. I work at the library all day, and when I come home, I shut the world out.”

“So you don’t know any of your other neighbors? Other than Nikki and C.J.?”

Sheila shook her head. “Really just C.J. I met Nikki only because I was coming home with Trixie when that police officer was leaving her place. She pointed me out to him.”

“Did you ever see Dale after that day?”

“A couple of times, as he was coming or going. We just waved and said hi.”

“Then you never saw him driving up and down the street at night, looking around?”

Sheila frowned. “No. Never. But like I said, I don’t see much of anything at night. I come home, have dinner, go to bed.”

“Did you tell the police officer that you’d met Dale?”

“Oh yeah. I did. But he didn’t seem all that impressed. He seemed kind of impatient, like, ‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’ You know?”

I sure did. And pretty soon, thanks to fifty-some-odd news channels, so would everyone else.