Pie A La Murder (26 page)

His head caught the wooden edge with such force it upended the table and sent all that was on it clattering to the floor.

I looked down.

Galen Light lay on his side on the carpet. Eyes closed.

Not moving.

My heart pounding, breathing heavily, terrified of what had almost happened to me, and terrified to think I might have killed him, I scrambled to my feet. In spite of my fear, I was about to lean down to feel for a pulse when I heard him groan. One of his hands moved slightly.

I grabbed my purse and ran from the house, but pulled the door only partway closed and didn’t let it lock. Safely inside my Jeep, watching Light’s front door, I used my cell to dial nine-one-one.

When the dispatcher answered, I said, “We need an ambulance. A man has been injured in a fall.” I gave the woman Light’s address. “He may not be able to come to open the door, but it’s unlocked. Go in.” I disconnected, and sped away from the house.

At Sunset Boulevard, I headed east, but swerved into the next street. I stopped just inside the corner and killed the motor. Behind me, I heard the wail of a siren. Through my rear window, I saw a red paramedic’s van race along Sunset Boulevard and make a sharp turn onto Bundy Drive.

I knew that I should drive to the West Los Angeles police station and report Light’s assault on me, but I was embarrassed that I had been so stupid as to go alone to the home of a strange man. In my defense, he was a well-known media personality with much to lose if he were accused of rape. He had mentioned his housekeeper, so I assumed we were not alone. And I certainly had not given Light any indication that I had any sexual interest in him at all. Even if he’d taken something I’d said or done as an invitation, the moment he heard my emphatic “no” he should have backed off.

It took a few minutes for my heartbeat to return to near normal. Even though I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of going to Butler Avenue to file a complaint against Galen Light, I steeled myself to do it. I imagine he counted on shame or embarrassment to make any woman he forced himself on reluctant to report the assault. For my own self-respect I couldn’t remain silent, but also I felt a kinship with other women who had faced what I just went through, or worse.

It was close to five o’clock on Sunday afternoon. Butler Avenue was quiet. I saw only two pedestrians, a couple pushing a stroller. I took the rare open parking space near the police station’s red-tiled entrance. When I reached up to hold my torn blouse together, I saw that the knuckles of that hand were swollen and smeared with blood. Light’s blood, from when I’d smashed him in the nose with my fist. I’d been vaguely aware while I was driving that my hand hurt, but it was only now, when I’d calmed down, that I could assess the damage. A bruise was developing, and it was painful to flex those fingers.

I knew how lucky I was, that my wounds were only superficial. Those would heal quickly, but it would take longer before I forgot being thrown onto that couch like some raging giant’s rag doll, those terrifying moments of helplessness before I was able to fight him off and escape.

Inside the station house, I was relieved to see that the desk sergeant on duty wasn’t anyone I’d met before. This officer was bald, with a thick neck and bushy black eyebrows. He was on the phone when I came through the door and barely glanced at me until he finished his call. I must have looked even worse than I thought because those dense eyebrows twitched when he focused on me.

“Are you all right, miss?”

“Yes, but I need to report a crime. An assault.”

“Do you need medical attention?”

“No. Just someone to take my report.”

“Sure.” He picked up the receiver, punched a couple of digits, and requested a detective to “see a woman” at the front desk. Replacing the receiver, he gestured toward the empty bench beside the door. “Take a seat. A detective will be out soon.”

It must have been a slow day for crime in Los Angeles, because I’d been sitting for only a few seconds when a man emerged from the direction of the detectives’ squad room.

It was John’s partner, Hugh Weaver.

The desk sergeant pointed to me, but he needn’t have bothered because I was the only person waiting.

When Weaver saw me and registered my disheveled condition, his usual scowl morphed into a frown of concern. “Hey, what happened?”

“A man tried to rape me—”

“We need to get you to the hospital.”

“No, Hugh. I said he tried. He didn’t succeed, but he hit me and ripped my clothes. I want to swear out a complaint.”

“Jeez. Thank God it wasn’t worse. Come on in.”

He steered me into the squad room and over to the pair of desks he shared with John. I was profoundly grateful that John’s side of their unit was empty. In fact, the squad room itself was practically deserted. Only one other detective was there, typing at a computer keyboard on the other side of the room.

Weaver hauled the nearest straight-back wooden chair over to his desk so I could sit next to him. “Can I get you something? The coffee here smells like rotten eggs today; I don’t know what the eff happened to the machine, but we got some cold sodas.”

I realized how dry my throat felt. “Yes. Anything cold.”

A minute later he was back with a small bottle of orange juice. He twisted off the top and handed it to me. “This’ll be better for you.”

“Thanks.” I took a sip and winced when the juice touched a cut on my lip. Ignoring the burning sensation, I drank half the bottle. “That helped.” I couldn’t see any place to put it down on his cluttered desk, so I set it on the floor beside the chair.

Weaver pulled an official form from a pile behind his telephone, picked up a pen, and wrote my name on one of the lines. He was all business. “Okay. Who attacked you?”

“Galen Light.” I gave him the address.

“Galen Light? I bet he wasn’t born with that stupid name. What’s the story?”

I kept to the basics: that I’d made an appointment to see Light, who was a well-known television personality. “He’s a life coach,” I said.

“What the eff is that?”

“Someone who gives people advice about how to live their lives. It’s the in thing, apparently. A lot people seem to be going to them.”

Weaver snorted with contempt. “I could do that easy. Somebody comes an’ tells me they’re thinkin’ about doing something. I just say don’t do it, an’ tell ’em, ‘Pay the secretary on your way out, sucker.’ Except I don’t say ‘sucker’ out loud.” Again serious, Weaver said, “Tell me what happened. Details.”

“We were talking in his office when he grabbed me.” The last thing I wanted to do was relive the experience, but I told Weaver what Light did, and what I did.

“When I pushed him off of me he fell over and hit his head on the edge of the coffee table. I thought he was unconscious, but he started to move. I ran outside, called paramedics for him, and came here. I want him arrested and charged with . . . assault, certainly. Attempted rape?”

Weaver looked up from his scribbling. “Let’s see if he’s got a record.” He shoved the report to one side, pulled his computer keyboard toward him, and typed. After a minute or two, he said, “He got a DUI two years ago.”

“Nothing else?”

“Not under the name Galen Light,” he said. “I’ll see what I can dig up about him. Right now, you need to get photographed, then I want a doc to treat those cuts an’ bruises.”

I extended my hand. “Some of his skin is under my nails. Can you get one of the SID techs to take scrapings?”

Movement at the entrance to the squad room caught my eye. Simultaneously, the last person I wanted to see at this moment saw me.

John O’Hara stared at me. “My God . . . What happened?”

Weaver said, “She got attacked.”

“But I’m all right,” I said.

“You’re
not
all right!” His hand hovered near my bruised cheek; he didn’t touch me, but his hand was so close I was sure I could feel heat from it on my face. “Who did this? D’Martino?”

“Of course not! How could you even think such a thing?” I pushed his hand away.

“Kiddies, don’t fight.” Weaver held up the form he’d filled out. “Della made a report. A guy smacked her around and tried to . . . but she got away before he could. It sounds like she gave as good as she got.”

“What guy?” John stretched for the paper, but Weaver jerked it back, out of his reach.

“Cool your jets. I’m gonna take a uniform an’ arrest him.”

“I’m coming with you,” John said.

“Oh, no. I’m not letting you anywhere near the bastard.”

Weaver’s tone was so hard it shocked me. All the other times I’d seen them together, he had deferred to John as the senior partner, but now Weaver declared himself in charge. “Stay with her,” he said. “Get pictures taken, have somebody from SID scrape under her nails, then get a doc to treat the cut on her lip.” He said to me, “When the tech finishes, go home and put an ice pack on your face.”

Through most of the routine of documenting my injuries and taking physical evidence, John was silent. When the SID tech told me he had to take my torn blouse, John got an LAPD sweatshirt from the locker room for me to wear in its place.

I refused to go to an emergency room just to have the tiny cut on my lower lip looked at. John started to protest, but the SID tech agreed that I didn’t need a doctor. He dabbed the nick with disinfectant from a first aid kit, repeated Weaver’s suggestion about the ice pack, and told me I was good to go. He left with my blouse and nail scrapings.

Back at Weaver’s desk, I picked up my handbag.

“I’ll drive you home,” John said.

“Thanks for the offer, but my car’s outside, and you can see that I’m fine.”

“Okay. You win. But sit down for a few minutes and talk to me.”

He dragged the chair Weaver had commandeered for me over to his side of the desk. As I settled into it again, John took his own seat.

“I’m calm now,” he said.

“Yes, I can see that. I’m sorry about—”

He held up a hand in a “stop” gesture. “While you were with SID, I read Weaver’s report. Who is this Galen Light? You were at his house, but it doesn’t say why you went there. Your reason may not be relevant to this complaint, but it is to me.”

“Roxanne Redding paid him three thousand dollars in two checks made out to cash instead of to his name. He lives only a few blocks from the Redding house. I hoped to learn what kind of relationship he and Roxanne have, and if he could have had a reason to kill her husband.”

John put his hands on the top of his desk—it was much neater than his partner’s—and laced his fingers together. “What did you find out?”

“Not much,” I admitted. “He said he worked hard with her, but that she lacked courage to take risks. I got a definite vibe that there was, or maybe there had been, something going on between them. More than just his giving her advice.”

“What were you doing when he assaulted you?”

“We’d been talking about Roxanne, then he went over to one of his bookshelves and said he wanted to show me something. I thought whatever it was had something to do with Roxanne, but it was just a trick to get me out of the chair where I’d been sitting.”

John was about to say something when Weaver strode into the squad room. He was seething. And he was alone.

John and I got to our feet.

“Did you pick him up?” John asked.

“No. The bastard’s in the hospital. He’s got some scum-bag shyster holding his hand and threatening to sue our friend here.”

I couldn’t believe what I heard. “Sue
me
?”

John said, “Sue her for what?”

“Assault.”

I felt like Alice after she’d tumbled down that rabbit hole. For a moment, nothing seemed real. Then my head cleared and I heard Weaver’s voice.