Pie A La Murder (11 page)

Officer Willis nodded toward us and said to Downey, “Stay with them. I’ll check the grounds.”

Willis was still outside when an unmarked LAPD car carrying two West Bureau homicide detectives pulled up in front of the house. Watching from just inside the front door, where Officer Downey had told us to stand, I saw the first detective step out of the vehicle.

It was Lieutenant “Big John” O’Hara.

Nicholas grunted. “Things aren’t bad enough. Now the only person who hates me more than my ex-wife does is going to investigate the murder where I’m bound to be a suspect.”

“Big John” O’Hara earned his soubriquet because he’s six feet five and built like a pro ball player. At age fifty, he’s still in starting lineup shape. He was halfway up the front walk by the time his partner, Detective Hugh Weaver, seven inches shorter and three years older, maneuvered himself out from behind the steering wheel. Weaver, who I knew had quit smoking a few weeks ago, had put on considerable weight since the last time I saw him.

When John was working a case, he had a classic poker face. That’s what Mack had told me about him when they were partners, and there had been a few times since Mack’s death when I had seen it for myself. No matter what John found at a crime scene, or what someone told him, on the job his stony expression seldom changed. According to Mack, John’s rigid jaw and piercing eyes had caused more than one felon to confess before they began interrogating him. Mack had said, “John never hit anyone in custody; it was the look on his face that made some of them wet their pants and start babbling.”

But when he saw me inside that doorway on Bella Vista, his eyebrows shot up in surprise. He wasn’t playing poker now. I saw concern in his eyes. “Della—are you all right?”

Then he spotted Nicholas standing behind me. The eyebrows came down and his eyes narrowed. Big John O’Hara was back on the job.

Hugh Weaver, puffing his way up the path, saw me in the group at the front door and gaped. “What the hell’s going on?”

Before I could say anything, Officer Downey, who was guarding the entrance, identified himself to John and Weaver.

I saw a light go on across the street. Second floor. A man and a woman came to the window and peered at us. The front door of the next house opened a crack. Someone was there and stared out at the activity in front of number 190 Bella Vista.

While keeping me in his peripheral vision, John asked Downey, “What have we got?”

“Victim’s an adult white male. Looks like he died from a blow to the back of his skull, but we didn’t roll him over, so I don’t know if he has any other wounds. According to these two”—Downey indicated Nicholas and me—“his name is Alec Redding and this is his house. I found them inside when I got here.” Downey consulted his notebook. “Their names are—”

“I know their names,” John said curtly. “Who else is here?”

“My partner, Officer Willis, searched the house, and didn’t find anybody. He’s checking the property out back.”

A silent signal passed between John and Weaver.

Weaver responded by addressing Officer Downey. “Show me the vic.”

“Sure. This way, Detective.”

Weaver followed Downey inside the house. He gave me a quizzical look as he went past, but shot Nicholas the hostile glower he usually aimed at members of the press.

As soon as they were out of earshot John said, “Tell me.”

I resisted the urge to glance at Nicholas. I was going to tell John the truth, but only as much of it as I had to. Nicholas was right—he was likely to be a suspect—but I didn’t believe he had killed Redding and I didn’t want to make his situation worse.

“The front door was standing open,” I said. “We came in and found Redding on the floor in his studio. We were about to phone the police, but before we could dial nine-one-one we heard a siren and Officer Downey and his partner arrived. Obviously, for the police to be called, someone had to have been in the house with Redding before we got here.”

“Not necessarily. A neighbor might have spotted the open door and become alarmed.”

“Did you hear the nine-one-one tape? Do you know if it was a man or a woman?” I said.

“I’ll ask the questions,” John said curtly. He nodded toward the driveway and street. “I see both your cars. Who got here first?”

“I did,” Nicholas said. “And Redding was dead when I found him.” His voice was strangely without inflection. I looked at Nicholas, but he didn’t look at me.

“How did you know he was dead?” John asked.

“I felt his neck for a pulse, but that was just automatic. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was gone.” There was no emotion in Nicholas’s voice; his tone was the same as though he was answering a stranger who had asked him what time it was.

“What else did you do, D’Martino?”

“Nothing else,” Nicholas said.

I stared at him, willing him to show some emotion. He was behaving as though he wasn’t really present in this scene.

John turned his attention to me. “What time did you get here?”

“About twenty after nine. Maybe a couple of minutes later.”

“You said the front door was open when you arrived?”

“Yes.” I realized what question was coming next and I braced for it.

“You’re smart enough to know it’s not a good sign when somebody’s door is standing open. Why did you go in the house instead of locking yourself in your car and calling nine-one-one?”

Of course, I didn’t say that. I used the old “exigent circumstances” excuse that allows police to enter a building without a warrant. “I thought I heard a cry—I was afraid someone inside needed help.”

Nicholas said softly, “That’s not true. Della came in because she saw my car outside.”

“And why were
you
here?”

“I wanted to talk to Redding,” Nicholas said.

John again turned his focus on me. “It’s Thursday night. You usually go right home after the live show. Why did you come here instead?”

“I . . . wanted to talk to Nicholas.”

“Don’t you both have phones?”

“Mine was off,” Nicholas said.

“Della, how did you know D’Martino would be here?”

Nicholas stiffened and shot a pleading look at me. I guessed he was afraid of what I was going to say. I would have preferred that he trusted me to protect him as best I could, but at least I saw life in his eyes again.

“Della, I asked how you knew D’Martino would be here?”

I was saved from answering that loaded question by the sound of another siren. Flashing red and blue lights were racing toward us from Sunset Boulevard.

More of Redding’s neighbors were turning on lights and stepping out onto their front walks, watching as an official LAPD van—the medical examiner’s—double-parked beside my Jeep.

Just a few yards behind came an SID vehicle that would be carrying the Scientific Investigation techs. That van double-parked behind the ME’s.

The medical examiner, Dr. Sydney Carver, stepped down onto the sidewalk, followed by a young male assistant with a platinum buzz cut. Both carried medical bags.

Behind the two of them, three SID criminalists wearing identifying jackets opened the back of their van and began unloading the paraphernalia they would use to document the murder scene.

As she came closer, I noticed that Sydney Carver had dyed her hair auburn since the last time I’d seen her. Also, she had let it grow out from cropped at the ears to a well-shaped style that touched her chin. With the pewter gray color banished and the longer length, she looked younger than the “I’m-fifty-and-mind-your-own-business” she admitted to. Nothing else about her had changed. Her walk was still brisk, and her strides as long those of a man who was six feet tall. Her face was set in a serious expression, but she was a decidedly more attractive woman now than when she’d been hired as the new ME a year ago.

Nicholas let out a low, appreciative whistle. “Looking good, Sydney.”

“Against all odds, I got myself a personal life,” she said. Glancing from Nicholas to John, she added in a sardonic tone, “Cops and reporters—natural enemies. I thought next time I saw you two together at a fresh crime scene, one of you would be sprawled inside the chalk lines.”

“Maybe next time,” John said.

“You wish,” Nicholas said.

“Boys, boys, stop the pissing contest,” she said. “Big John, what have you got for me tonight?”

Just as the SID techs were coming up the walk with their cameras and their equipment cases, Officer Downey and Hugh Weaver came out of the photo studio and joined us in the crowded doorway. John gestured for Nicholas and me to step back against the wall as he told Downey, “Take Dr. Carver and SID inside.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Dr. Carver moved past him, John said, “As soon as you can, I need a TOD.”

“When I know, you’ll know,” she said brusquely.

Weaver aimed a thumb over his shoulder toward the back of the house. “I’ve been outside with Willis. The gate to the alley doesn’t have a lock on it—just a latch with a pull cord that lets you open it from either side.”

“That must be how the killer got away,” I said.

Weaver gave Nicholas a skeptical stare. “
If
the killer got away,” he said.

I was about to protest that, when we heard the sound of a racing motor speeding up the street toward us and looked outside. The new arrival was driving the tan Lexus that I had seen in the carport on Wednesday. It came to a brake-slamming stop at the mouth of the driveway. A woman whose bony arms and legs made her somewhat resemble a marionette leapt out of the car and bolted toward us. Her black hair was still gelled into spikes and her eyes were still heavily outlined in that extreme Cleopatra-style. I wondered if she ever allowed herself to look natural.

“That’s Roxanne Redding,” I said. “Alec Redding’s wife.”
Now his widow
.

“What’s going on?” she demanded. “What are you people doing in my house?”

John showed her his detective’s shield, and introduced only himself and his partner. “Are you Mrs. Redding?”

“Yes.” Her eyes were wide with apprehension. “What’s happened? Was there a robbery?”

“We don’t know yet if anything’s been taken. You can help us with that.”

“Where’s Alec? He was home—”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Redding. I have some bad news.”

An agonized moan arose from her throat. “No! No! Not Alec!” Both hands flew to her mouth, fingers pressed against her lips as though to suppress a scream.

“Is there someone we can call for you, Mrs. Redding? A friend, or a relative who can come over to be with you?”

“No . . . I don’t know. . . . Maybe. Wha–what hap–happened?”

“That’s not entirely clear yet,” John said carefully. “Mrs. Redding, we’re going to need you to make an identification.” He told Weaver, “Take Mrs. Redding inside. I’m going to put Della and D’Martino into the cars. Her in ours and him in the black-and-white. Tell Willis or Downey to come out here and keep an eye on them. I don’t want them talking to each other until we’ve had a chance to take their statements. Separately.”

Weaver nodded, put his hand on Roxanne Redding’s arm, and said, “Come with me, ma’am.”

She shook off Weaver’s hand. “Wait a minute!” She squinted at me. “I recognize you. You were at the luncheon.”

“What luncheon?” John asked, but immediately changed course. “Never mind. Save it until I get your story.”

Roxanne Redding demanded of John, “Why is this woman here? Has Alec been hurt? I want to see him!”

Weaver took Mrs. Redding’s arm again. “Let’s go inside.”

She gave me a puzzled look, but she didn’t say anything more as she allowed Weaver to guide her down the hallway.

Procedure dictated that she identify the body of the man lying on the sheet of background paper. I had recognized the victim as Alec Redding, but a formal identification had to be made, if possible by the next of kin.

“John, I need to phone Eileen and ask her to walk Tuffy,” I said. “I don’t know how long it will be before I get home tonight.”

“I’ll do it for you. Give me your cell phone. Phones—both of you. I don’t want either of you making any calls until I’ve had a chance to take your statements.”

I was about to protest, but then I saw Nicholas take his cell out of his jacket pocket and hand it to John.

To someone who didn’t know Nicholas, it probably seemed that his face was as expressionless as was John’s, but I knew better. I saw resignation in his eyes. He was acting like a robot again.

But my flash of doubt was gone in a moment. I refused to believe that Nicholas had murdered Redding, no matter how angry he was, or how atypically he was behaving right now.

“Della?” John was staring at me, his hand outstretched. I reached into the pocket of my slacks to give him my phone.