Grave Endings (27 page)

And Aggie?

She probably suspected what had happened to Iris. Maybe she said something to Randy that worried him. I didn't think he
wanted
to kill her. Trina said he punched a hole in the wall when he heard she was dead.

Then again, Randy was an actor.

And Diana Warfield, if that was her name. She must know something about the murders. That would explain her paranoia. She had probably been terrified when Randy told her he was going to turn himself in.

Do they know, Randy?

Where was the tape? Something in the back of my mind teased at me, something I had heard, something I had seen. . . .

I had to warn Trina about Jason. She had mentioned that a friend of Randy's was helping her figure out what the package was and where Randy hid it, and I wondered with a quiver of alarm whether that friend was Jason. She'd been impressed by his offer of help, by the fact that he'd called to see how she was doing.
Wasn't
that nice?
she'd said.
He didn't have to do that.

What if she'd taken him up on his offer? What if he'd trashed her apartment so that she would turn to him for help and lead him to the tape?

What if I was building something out of nothing?

I phoned Trina, but she didn't answer. Feeling a little silly, I phoned her father.

“She's staying at some hotel,” Roland Creeley told me. “She wouldn't tell me where. I asked her how she could afford that, but she said not to worry, a friend was taking care of it for her.”

“By the way, did Randy leave any videotapes with you?”

“No. We're not into that, Alice and me. It's funny, because Trina asked me the same thing. And so did Mr. Horton's son. He was a good friend to Randy.”

I left another message for Trina, asking her to call me immediately. I marked the message URGENT. I debated saying something about Jason—but what if she confronted him? I could see her doing that.

“Don't trust anyone,” I said.

forty-two

Thursday, February 26. 12:03 P.M. Corner of Pico
Boulevard and Wetherly Drive. The victim and an assailant were arguing. “This is the beginning,” the assailant said. “If you go to jail, I'm gonna bail you out
and kill you.” The suspect is a male standing 5 feet 10
inches and weighing 180 pounds, with brown hair
and brown eyes.
(West Los Angeles)

BUBBIE G SAYS A FOOL MAKES TWO TRIPS WHERE A WISE man makes none. I don't know if I was a fool, but when Anthony Horton phoned and asked me to come to his office, I went.

The receptionist was away from her desk when I arrived, which suited me fine. I found my way around the corner to Horton's office and heard a raised voice on the other side of his door.

“. . . do something . . . once in your life . . . tired of cleaning up your mistakes.” Horton's voice.

Jason replied—at least, I assumed it was the son—but he spoke too low for me to make out what he was saying.

“. . . too late . . . she'll figure out what's going on . . . shut her up . . .”

So Horton was hoping to do some damage control.

I heard the click of the door. Hurrying along the carpeted hall, I made it around the corner and was walking back toward the office, as though I'd just arrived, when Jason emerged. He looked startled to see me, and after giving me a curt nod, he strode down the hall.

Horton stood in the doorway. He had bags under his eyes and looked as though he hadn't slept well. He definitely wasn't happy to see me.

“My receptionist didn't tell me you were here.”

I wouldn't want to be in
her
shoes. “I didn't see her. She must be in the restroom. I hope I'm not too early?”

“Not a problem.”

Pulling his face into a smile as flat as Enron stock, he invited me inside. There were fresh roses on the credenza, but it would have taken more than roses to diffuse the lingering tension in the room.

If flowers could speak, I thought as I sat down.

“You've been talking to people about Randy and Rachel's Tent.” Horton wagged his finger. “I thought we had an understanding, Molly.”

“I agreed not to write about the drug dealing. I didn't say I wasn't going to ask questions about Randy.”

“What did you find out?”

“Why don't
you
tell
me
?”

He leaned against the back of his massive chair. “I think you found out what Dr. Bramer and I learned yesterday, that those red threads Randy was selling were fake. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“What can I tell you?” Horton sighed. “I'm disappointed. I'm saddened. We both are.”

“Are you planning to reimburse all the people Randy scammed?”

Horton laughed, but the sound was hollow. “I like you, Molly. You're direct. I am, too. Yeah, we're going to make good to everybody. It's the right thing to do, and honesty is always good business.”

“And you don't want to face lawsuits.”

“Find me someone who does and I'll show you a lawyer.” He grunted. “Speaking of honesty, you didn't tell Dr. Bramer you were at Randy's funeral.” Horton wasn't smiling now. “You also didn't mention that the police think Randy killed one of our staff, which I'm having a hard time believing. I had to read that in the paper this morning.”

I had seen the short write-up in the “California” section. “I had concerns about what was going on at Rachel's Tent. I had to be cautious. Is that why you asked me here?”

“That's part of it.” He made a ball of his hands and leaned forward. “I need to know if I can trust you. I need your promise that what I'm about to tell you stays in this room.”

I felt a quiver of excitement. “That depends on what you have to tell me.”

He held my gaze for a moment. “It's a tough world, Molly. You're a reporter. You probably see more ugliness than most people. I worked hard to build a good life for my family. I tried to protect my kids, but it doesn't work like that, does it? Drugs, alcohol. You can't get away from them.”

He looked up at the ceiling as if it held the escape he sought, then back at me. “My son came to talk to me last night. He had something hard to tell me, something he's been keeping in for some time. He told me because he knew you were asking questions, talking to women who had been at Rachel's Tent. He wanted to prepare me. I think you know what I'm talking about.”

I nodded. Charlie had probably phoned the director after my visit. And Bramer had phoned Horton.

“He had inappropriate relationships with one or two of the women from the agency,” Horton said. “Six years ago. They came here as our guests, to spend an evening with my family. That's what makes it particularly upsetting. I don't approve of casual sex, especially under my roof. That's not how I raised my son.”

Was this the spin Horton was planning? “Jason didn't have
inappropriate relationships
with these women, Mr. Horton. He raped them.”

Horton flinched. “There was no rape. It was consensual. Maybe they felt obligated, because of my relationship with Rachel's Tent. Or maybe they were impressed by who he was. Young people today don't think twice about having sex outside of marriage.”

“He didn't
have sex.
He raped them, Mr. Horton.”

“Did any of these women file charges? No, they didn't. If they had been raped, they would have told someone. The police. A parent. A friend. They woke up in the morning and regretted what they had done. That happens all the time, Molly, but it's not rape.”

I clenched my hands. “They didn't report the rape because they didn't think anyone would believe them, and your son knew that. They didn't report it because they had no self-esteem, because they'd spent years being told they were worthless.”

“And that's my son's fault?”

“He drugged them with Rohypnol, Mr. Horton.”

“Rohypnol?” Horton grunted. “Jason wouldn't do something like that. If those women were drugged, Randy did it.”

“It's easy to blame a dead man,” I said.

“You and I know Randy had a problem with drugs, Molly.” He was making me part of his team. “He introduced drugs to Jason, and liquor. I should have seen it, but I didn't. I should never have brought him into our house. That was my fault. I felt bad for him. I trusted him.”

Cut to the chase, I thought. “Why are you telling me this, Mr. Horton?”

“I'm asking you to keep this quiet. Don't ruin my son's life for something that happened six years ago, Molly. I'm willing to compensate these women generously for their emotional suffering. I will make a substantial donation to a rape center. You name the place and the amount. You'll have a check today.”

“This isn't a business transaction, Mr. Horton.”

“Everything in life is business. Everything has a price. It's his word against theirs, Molly. There's no evidence. There never was.”

“There's a videotape,” I said.

Horton pursed his lips. “
Stolen
from Jason's room. That tape probably wouldn't be admissible in court, even if it showed up. But we're not talking about legalities, Molly. My son was stupid. He's the first one to admit that. You shouldn't ruin a man's life because of stupidity.”

I wondered how much Jason had admitted to his father. “What about the lives your son ruined, Mr. Horton?”

“How are their lives ruined, Molly? They're all doing better than they were before they came to Rachel's Tent. One of them was a prostitute. Another woman lived on the streets before we took her in.”

“So did your mother,” I said. “Are you saying her life wasn't worth as much as someone else's?”

“Don't talk about my mother.” Horton's face was dangerously red. His cheek twitched. “You're putting words in my mouth, Molly. That's not what I meant. I'm talking from a practical point of view. This is never going to court, but it could make things uncomfortable for me and my family, and Rachel's Tent. And if you write anything about rape, as much as I respect you, Molly, I'd have no choice but to sue you for libel.” He paused. “I could make their lives so much easier, Molly. Think about it.”

I thought about it on the way home. I felt soiled by our conversation. Six roses from Zack helped lift my spirits, but not enough, because when I phoned to thank him, he asked me what was wrong.

I told him about my meeting with Horton. “And Trina hasn't called me back, Zack. The last time we talked, she sounded annoyed and told me she didn't need my help.”

“Maybe she doesn't like you checking up on her all the time, Molly.”

“She called
me
Saturday night. She was hysterical, she needed help.”

“Did you see her face when you told her you were Aggie's best friend? If she could have left right then, I think she would have.”

I remembered. “But Sunday she was chatty, Zack. She left me Randy's phone, and the list and the clippings. She asked me to check things out.”

“Maybe she decided you're the wrong person to ask for help. You're convinced that Randy killed Aggie. She's trying to prove that he didn't, and that someone killed him.”

I supposed he was right. “She said a friend is helping her find Jim. What if the friend is Jason?”

“What makes you think that?”

I told him.

“She probably has a lot of friends, Molly. Anyway, you warned her about him, right?”

“Not specifically. She's a little headstrong, Zack. I didn't want her to confront him.”

Connors was sympathetic when I phoned him, but unhelpful. “Horton's right, Molly. We don't have a case.”

“I could talk to Melinda again. Maybe she'd be willing to press charges.”

“With what? She never told anybody about the rape. There were no lab tests. We don't have any body fluids. As far as the law is concerned, there
was
no rape. If we had the videotape and the victim, that would change everything.”

If pigs had wings, I thought. “Horton said if the videotape was stolen, it wouldn't be admissible.”

“Horton should stick to his enterprises. If
I
stole it, or someone else working for the state did, it wouldn't be admissible. If a private party stole it, we could use it. But we don't have a tape. We don't even know that it exists.”

“It exists,” I insisted. “Iris told Melinda that Jason taped her. Aggie took the tape. I know she did.”

“You can't
know
it,” Connors said. “I'm not saying I disagree with you. But I have nothing to take to the D.A.”

“Maybe Jason has other tapes, Andy. You could get a search warrant.”

“If he had other tapes, I'm sure he got rid of them. And if he didn't, his daddy did. Plus I don't have probable cause for a warrant.”

“What if you could tie Jason to Iris's murder?”

“Molly, we don't know that there
was
a murder. We don't even have a torso, because it was cremated years ago. We don't have a rape victim. We don't have a missing woman. We have a client who left Rachel's Tent and may have gone home to her parents, but we can't check because her file is missing. Suppose she took the file herself?”

“Assume that Jason raped her and she was murdered. That's not enough of a connection?”

“Not if you can't prove conspiracy. We can't prosecute a rapist because he benefits from the death of the victim.”

I felt like screaming. “Randy just decided to kill Iris on his own?”

“Look, I'm as frustrated as you are. You think I don't want to haul this guy in?”

I e-mailed my
Crime Sheet
column to my editor, then drove to the dressmaker to pick up my wedding dress.

“Very nice,” she said when I had put on the gown. “Bra is very good. Now you have good breasts, yes? You see? Nice line. You should wear this bra all time.”

I dropped off the gown at my parents' and invited myself to dinner—scrambled eggs with toast, but it beat eating alone. I helped with the seating arrangements for the wedding. When I left at half past eleven, my mom and dad were still hunched over the dining room table, moving three-by-five-inch index cards like Rummy Q tiles.

I had been leaving messages for Trina all day. When I arrived home I tried her again. After three rings her voice mail picked up.

I tried it again. And again. Finally, she answered. I could tell from her hello that I had woken her, but I was relieved.

“I'm sorry I woke you, Trina. I was worried, because you didn't call me back.”

“Molly?” Her voice sounded groggy, and she drew out my name.

“Trina, are you okay?”

“Tired.”

“Okay. Will you call me in the morning?”

“Have to . . . sleep.”

“Did you take some of your sleeping pills?”

“Pills.”

“How many did you take?”

“Tired.”

“Trina, how many pills did you take? Trina?”

“Talk . . . later.”

I was beginning to feel alarmed. “Trina?”

No answer.

“Keep talking to me, Trina.”

Still no answer.

“Trina, are you there?”

I called her name a few more times, then phoned Connors at home. I grabbed the Yellow Pages from under my desk.

“If she took sleeping pills, Molly, of course she'd be sleepy.”

I flipped to HOTELS. “Something's wrong, Andy. She sounded lethargic.”

He yawned. “You have no idea where she's staying?”

“Saturday night, she wanted Zack to drop her off at a hotel near her apartment. She mentioned the hotel, but I wasn't paying attention.”

“Did she say where it is?”

“On Sunset.” I ran my finger down the list.

“That narrows it down.”

“I think she said it's near Crescent Heights.” I turned the page, and there it was. The Suncrest. “It's the Suncrest. I'll call you back.”