Guilt (28 page)

“Same answer, I’m afraid.”

Banfer turned to Milo. Milo glared and Banfer faced forward again. “Let’s put this in context: I’ve been more forthcoming than I need to be, given the circumstances.”

“What circumstances are those, Floyd?”

“No charges have been filed against anyone, you’re at the supposition stage, fishing around, and neither I nor my client is obligated to talk to you about anything. However, we
chose
to cooperate volitionally because we’re
not
obstructionistic. And in terms of files, I’m unaware of any statute requiring a small businessman to cope with needless paper buildup.”

“Fair enough,” said Milo.

Sudden switch to an easy, amiable tone. Banfer risked another try at eye contact. Milo smiled.

“Well,” said the attorney, “it’s good to see we’ve reached a meeting of the minds.”

“I agree. Now how about we talk to Jack, directly.”

“You feel that’s necessary?”

“Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t, Floyd.”

Banfer sighed again, punched numbers on his cell phone. “Hey, it’s me … as well as can be expected … I told them that … they still want to talk to you … I’ll stay right here, not to worry … might as well, you’ve got nothing to hide … sooner’s better than later, Jack, let’s get it over with and move on … we’re on the parkway between Beverly and Camden … good idea.” Clicking off, he studied the traffic. “On his way.”

Jack Weathers wore a blue cashmere blazer, a white silk shirt, dove-colored slacks, blue suede loafers with gold buckles. If they recast
Gilligan’s
Island
, he’d be great for Thurston Howell the Third. Except for the defeated, sagging shoulders, the bags under his eyes, the wrinkles that had deepened during the twenty-four hours since we’d last seen him.

The shuffling gait of an old, weary man.

I got up and vacated the space next to Banfer. Weathers hesitated.

Milo said, “Take a load off, Jack.”

Weathers’s jowls quivered. Pink capillaries laced the whites of his eyes. A couple of cuticles were rubbed raw, detracting from an otherwise perfect manicure.

He sat down heavily and Banfer filled him in on what we knew. When Banfer wanted to, he could be concise.

Jack Weathers laced his hands together, stared at his knees.

Milo said, “Tell me everything you remember about the woman who called herself Simone Chambord.”

“What’s her real name?” said Weathers.

“Why don’t you let me do the asking so you can do the answering.”

Weathers’s head snapped back.

Floyd Banfer said, “Let’s keep it streamlined, Jack, and they’ll be out of your hair.”

Weathers said nothing. The group of younger Persian women returned. His attention shifted to shapely rears, and that seemed to relax him.

He said, “Good-looking girl, black but lightish. I figured her for a wannabe actress.”

“Because of her looks.”

“That and she had a way about her.”

“What way was that, Jack?”

“Vivacious,” said Weathers. “Theatrically vivacious.”

“Like she was playing a role.”

“This town, everyone plays a role. What I’m getting at is everything was just a little bit exaggerated.” He studied Milo. “You’re kind of central-casting yourself.”

“So you figured Simone for a wannabe.”

“But she had the right credentials for the child-care job. Experience, letters of reference.”

“From who?”

“Previous employers.”

“How about some names?”

“Don’t recall,” said Weathers.

“How about checking the file?”

“No file.” Weathers colored. “We turn everything over regularly.”

“Paper buildup.”

Floyd Banfer rubbed one leg against the other.

Jack Weathers said, “Exactly.”

“Okay,” said Milo, “but when she applied you must’ve called her references. Any memories of who they were and what they told you?”

“Nah, I’ve got so many applications, nothing stands out.”

“Business is good.”

“Can be,” said Weathers. “All I can tell you is she checked out.”

“Wannabe actress,” said Milo. “Guess you see a lot of that.”

“I go in assuming the real agenda is advancing their careers. Or so they believe.”

Milo said, “Doesn’t work that way?”

“Works against them.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because once someone’s seen as being in a service position they tend to be … always seen that way.”

“They’re viewed as inferior?”

“Not inferior,” said Weathers. “Different.”

“Donny Rader started off as a golf caddie and houseboy for a producer.”

“That’s the official story.”

“Not true?”

Weathers sneered. “I don’t know what’s true, what’s not. I don’t know anyone’s narrative.”

Floyd Banfer said, “It’s all a matter of information control. We hear what they want us to hear.”

“Stars,” said Milo.

“Anyone in power.”

I said, “So you have no problem hiring wannabes.”

Jack Weathers said, “Not if they learn their proper place and do the damn job.”

“Did Simone Chambord learn?”

“Never heard about problems.”

“Far as you know, she’s still working for Premadonny.”

“I’d assume.”

“What else do you remember about her?”

“Good-looking,” said Weathers. “Extremely attractive. In that fresh way. Great figure … she could carry on a conversation, said she loved kids, showed me a child-development book she was reading.”

“She was hired as a nanny.”

“No,” said Weathers. “As a child-care assistant.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Pay scale, for starts. When the client insists on an official nanny, we hire British girls who take formal training at one of the schools they have over there. They’ve got the book learning but some of them can be a little uptight. Some clients like that. Others want something more relaxed.”

“Prema Moon and Donny Rader have a relaxed attitude.”

“I’d assume.”

“How many other people have you sent to them?”

“Couldn’t say,” said Weathers.

Milo said, “Wild guess.”

Weathers looked at Banfer. Banfer nodded.

“Wild guess? I’d say half a dozen.”

“What jobs did you fill for them?”

“I believe there were a couple of domestics. Housekeepers. We don’t do that anymore, can’t compete with the domestic-specialty agencies,
all those ads they run in the Spanish papers. But back then we did, so probably that’s it. Couple of domestics.”

He turned to Banfer. “This is okay?”

“So far, Jack.”

Milo said, “You’re worried about Premadonny’s gag clause?”

“Hell, yeah,” said Weathers. “We’re talking damn stringent.”

“As opposed to …”

Banfer said, “Clauses that are less stringent.” He smiled at his own obfuscation.

Milo said, “Educate me, Counselor.”

“It’s nothing complicated, Milo. Default is generally a ban on talking to the media, publishing a book, that kind of thing. This particular clause covers virtually every single syllable uttered about Premadonny to anyone on any topic. Is it legally binding? Probably not, but testing that theory would bring considerable anguish. In any event, Jack’s told you everything he knows about the Chambord woman and Ms. Betts.”

“Then on to the next topic,” said Milo, pulling out the enlargement of Melvin Jaron Wedd’s DMV photo.

Floyd Banfer’s face remained blank.

Jack Weathers said, “Oh, shit.”

F
loyd Banfer placed a hand on Jack Weathers’s cashmere sleeve. “He’s also one of yours?”

Milo said, “Who is he, Jack?”

Weathers wrung his hands. “A guy … M.J.”

Milo said, “Melvin Jaron Wedd. When did you place him at the compound?”

Weathers muttered something.

“Speak up, Jack.”

“Three years ago. Give or take.”

“What’s his job title?”

“Estate manager,” said Weathers. “I’d placed him before, similar thing.”

“Whose estate did he manage before?”

“Saudi family, gigantic place in Bel Air. Four, five years ago.”

“And before then?”

“No, that was the first. They had no problems with him—the Arabs. They moved back to Riyadh.”

“So you sent him to Premadonny.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Who solicited your help?”

“Business manager.”

“Who’s that?”

Weathers’s eyes traveled to the right. “Not the manager directly, some assistant.”

Floyd Banfer said, “Or some assistant’s assistant.”

Weathers regarded his nephew crossly. “That’s the way it goes with people at their level.”

Milo said, “Who’s their business manager?”

“Apex Management. They handle a lot of the biggies.”

“What do you remember about M.J.?”

“A guy,” said Weathers. “I think he had some bookkeeping experience. Him I
did
check out. What’s the problem with him?”

“Maybe nothing, Jack.”

“Maybe nothing but you’re carrying around his picture?”

“His name came up.”

“Meaning?”

“His name came up.”

Weathers waved a hand. “Frankly, I don’t want to know. Now can I go and try to pay some bills? I’m no civil servant, got no cushy pension and overtime.”

Milo said, “Sure. Have a nice day.”

“Sure?”

“Unless you’ve got something more to tell us, Jack.”

“I’ve got nothing. To tell or to hide or to relate or report. I’m in the service business, I find service people for clients who need service. What they do once they’re hired is their business.”

Bracing himself on the bench’s center divider, he got to his feet, buttoned his blazer. Banfer stood and took him by the elbow. Weathers shook off the support with surprising fury. “Not ready for a scooter yet, Floyd, let’s get breakfast, Nate ’n Al, Bagel Nosh, whatever.”

Working hard at casual.

Banfer tapped his Rolex Oyster. “Sorry, appointments.”

“Busy guy,” said Weathers. “Everyone’s busy. I should be busy.”

He hobbled away.

Banfer said, “His blood pressure’s not great, I hope the stress doesn’t cause problems.”

Milo winked. “That sounds like prep for a civil suit.”

“Not funny, Lieutenant. Are we through?”

Before waiting for an answer, Banfer headed east on the parkway. A curvaceous female jogger came heading his way. He didn’t bother to look.

Milo sat down on the bench. “I drove by that private road this morning. Like I thought, tough surveillance. The county registered the compound as eleven acres, divided into three legal parcels, all registered to another holding company called Prime Mayfair. Tried a trace-back, it dead-ends at a paper-pusher who works for Apex Management.”

I said, “A lot of plot to thicken.”

He looked up Apex’s number. Got transferred a few times. Hung up, shaking his head.

“Got stonewalled by an assistant’s assistant’s walking-around-guy’s gopher’s peon’s underling slave. Not that anyone would tell me anything even if I could get through. Weathers’s destroying his files doesn’t help, want to take bets he’ll be torching Wedd’s soon as he gets back from breakfast? And for all the tough talk to Banfer, there’s nothing I can really do about it.”

“At least you’ve got confirmation that all three of them worked together.”

He kicked a leg of the bench. Unfolded Wedd’s DMV shot and stared at it for a while. “I need face-time with this prince but getting into that compound’s as likely as being invited to an Oscar after party.” He smiled. “Actually, Rick was invited to one a few years ago. After sewing up the DUI daughter of some hoo-hah producer who drove her Aston into a wall.”

“Did you go?”

“Nah, both of us were on call that night … okay, I’ll figure out a
way to watch the place. After I recanvass the park, see if the staff or the regulars remember anything.”

He checked with Reed and Binchy to learn if Kelly LeMasters’s story had pulled up anything solid. It hadn’t. Same for the anonymous Crime Stoppers line.

I said, “Breakfast? Nate ’n Al, Bagel Nosh?”

“No, thanks, already ate.”

Prior meals had never deterred him before.

I said, “Hope you feel better.”

Back home I put in a call to Dr. Leonard Coates.

Len and I were classmates in grad school, worked together for a year at Western Pediatric. I stuck around at the hospital, putting in time on the cancer wards while Len shifted to a Beverly Hills private practice.

Soon after hiring a publicist, Len began getting quoted in the popular press. It didn’t take long to acquire a celebrity patient load, and a few years in he’d taken over the penthouse floor of a building on Roxbury, was overseeing half a dozen associates. While suffering from a serious case of Hollywood Sepsis.

It’s a progressive condition, also known as Malignant Look-At-Me Syndrome, leading to excessive dependency on public exposure, self-invention, and the narcosis of fame.

Len’s addiction had led him to write a useless pop-psych book, peddle countless treatments for screenplays and reality shows, obsess on getting his picture taken at certain parties in the company of eye candy. Tall and slim and meticulously bearded, he plowed through a succession of women. I’d stopped counting his marriages at four. He had two kids that I knew of and the few times I saw them they both looked depressed. The last time Len and I had run into each other was at a hospital fund-raiser. Smiling all the while and checking out the crowd nonstop, he’d spent a lot of time griping about “ungrateful brats. Just like their mothers, you can’t fight genetics.”

His service operator put me on hold. The audio track was a sales
pitch for “Dr. Coates’s compelling new book
Putting Your Life in Balance
.”

The operator broke back in as a synopsis of chapter 1 was ending. The gist was “Stop and Smell the Roses.” I’d never known Len to have a hobby.

She said, “Sorry, Doctor’s unavailable but he’ll get the message.”

I said, “How’s the book doing?”

“Pardon?”

“Dr. Coates’s new book.”

She laughed. “I just sit here in a small room and answer the phone. Last thing I read was a utility bill.”

To my surprise, Len called my private line nine minutes later.