The Detective & the Chinese High-Fin (5 page)

T
he two men walked over to my desk and sat down in the two chairs in front of it. The older man to the right. The big guy to the left.

The older man said, his monotone voice mirroring his expression, “John. I'm Tony Lewis.”

I didn't respond.

The big guy didn't introduce himself.

Tony kept talking. “You just did a job for Muriel Dreen. I've known Mrs. Dreen a long time. I sometimes help her out with things. Used to help her husband out too. He was in real estate. Inman. Good man.”

He stopped talking. I could mostly see his eyes behind the bronze. He was thinking, contemplating his next sentence, or his next move.

I still didn't respond. Verbally, anyway. The blood in my body, however, began moving around more rapidly.

The older man eventually said, “John, Mrs. Dreen has lived in this town a long time. Her whole life. That's more than eighty years. She's a
very
respected woman. She has a lot of influence. Don't fuck with her, John.”

Tony Lewis stared at me.

And still—I didn't respond.

I could feel my heartbeat thumping a bit in my ears.

He continued, “Mrs. Dreen thinks you lied to her about where you found her ring. Nobody likes to be lied to, John. Muriel Dreen especially. I think you lied too. So what really happened? With the ring? You went over to the girl's house and what happened? The girl had it, right? She gave it to you. That's what happened. You need to tell me that. Because the girl can't get away with it. It wouldn't be right. Now, if you tell me the truth, we can tell the proper authorities and move on. But if you don't tell me the truth . . .” He paused and said, “I'll make you tell me the truth.”

The way he kept saying “the girl” gave his flat, emotionless delivery a sinister quality. It was clinical, inhuman. Like he could discard her, or anyone, without giving it much thought. Dump a body in a creek, then brush off his hands, brush off his pants, get in his car, drive off, go have dinner.

I looked at Tony Lewis and said, “I told Peter Caldwell what happened. That's what happened.”

Now it was Tony Lewis not responding. He just looked at me, I at him. I believed he was a tough guy. I could see him scaring somebody who got in Muriel's way. I could see him, back in the day, making sure Inman got his money af
ter some fucked-up shady real estate deal. Tony was small, but he had confidence, a threatening energy behind the bronze glass.

I broke the silence and said, “Now get out of my office.”

He didn't move.

But the big guy did.

He stood up.

Walked right up to the front edge of my desk, then sat down on it. His black boots were on the floor, but he twisted around to look at me, his left hand flat on my desk and his right hand, and arm, free.

The big guy looked at me with his uneven eyes, his removed insanity. In a raspy, almost hoarse voice he said, “Why don't you tell us what really happened.”

I looked down at the few things I had on top of my desk. My laptop, sitting in front of me. My landline over to my right. A cup that held some black felt-tip pens. A square glass paperweight about two inches tall that I rarely use but like the look of.

I looked at the big guy and said, “Why don't you get off my desk.”

I glanced at Tony Lewis. Nothing.

“Last chance,” the big guy said.

My heartbeat was louder in my ears now, making his threat seem like it came from farther away than it actually had.

I said, flatly and this time not to the big guy and not to Tony Lewis but to the space in between them, “Get off my desk and get out of my office.”

I didn't expect them to listen to me. I'd said it to trigger the action, and it did.

The big guy moved quickly. With his right hand he
grabbed my shirt at the chest and pulled me toward him.

I grabbed the paperweight with my right hand, pulled it up a foot, then smashed it down onto his left hand, which was still sitting flat on my desk.

Crack. Had to have broken a bone. Maybe two.

The big guy, loosening his grip on my shirt but managing to hold on, took a deep breath and looked down at his hand. I put the paperweight back on my desk and stood up, still connected to him. He was locked in on his hand, giving me his profile. I hit him with a left, hard, in his right ear. Not hard enough to rupture the eardrum, but close. Real close. Ever been hit in the ear? It's excruciating.

The big guy instinctively released my shirt and covered his right ear with his right hand as he went down.

I looked at Tony Lewis. While I'd been going at the big guy, he hadn't moved. I think he wanted me to think he was just watching the whole thing, cool as a cucumber, amused even. But I could tell, even though his eyes were hidden a bit, that he wasn't cool. No, he was frozen, unsure what to do. I moved around my desk and went behind the chair he was sitting in. I grabbed its arms from behind and yanked it backward. Tony Lewis fell to the floor.

I took hold of his leather jacket at the shoulders and dragged him across the slick concrete toward my open slider.

I got him outside, right next to the driver's-side door of his Mercedes. I flipped him over, putting his chest on the concrete. I wrestled the jacket off him and threw it onto the hood of the car. I put my right foot in the center of his back and pressed down, hard. Then I leaned down and grabbed the fat on the back of Tony Lewis's right upper arm.

I pinched it as hard as I could. Tony let out a strange, guttural gasp.

“Leave. Are you going to leave?”

He nodded.

The big guy was on his feet now, leaning against the wall next to my desk, his right hand still covering his right ear and his left hand held gingerly out in front of him. He was unsteady and didn't know what his next move should be, as I now had his boss pinned to the ground.

I pointed to the big guy but spoke to Tony Lewis.

“Tell him to get over to the car.”

Tony Lewis nodded.

The big guy walked over and stood next to the passenger-side door of the Mercedes, keeping his hands in the same positions.

I took my foot off Tony Lewis, walked back over to my desk, and sat behind it.

Tony got up, grabbed his jacket off the hood, unlocked the car. Neither one said a word as they both got in.

I'd pull a gun if they came back at me. They'd probably pull one as well. They'd tried the brute-force route; it hadn't worked. And there had to be a gun, or two, in the car. In the glove, under the seat, somewhere.

It didn't happen.

I watched Tony toss his jacket in the backseat, start up the Mercedes, and pull away.

I reached into my fridge
and got out a bottled water. I took a few big sips. Then I took a few big, deep breaths.
Then, over the next twenty minutes, taking intermittent sips and breaths, I calmed down a little.

I opened one of my filing-cabinet drawers, pulled out the Muriel Dreen folder I'd put away, then pulled Peter Caldwell's card out of the folder. I looked at it: his firm's name, the address. I closed up my office, got in the Focus, and headed toward Watson, Reese and Lucerne, Century City.

Century City is a small, semifancy district just west of Beverly Hills. It's got a couple of nice, little suburban neighborhoods, but it's mostly commerce and offices: high-end law firms, talent agencies, places where people wear suits, even in L.A.

Was Peter going to be at work? Not sure, but a risk I was willing to take. If he wasn't there, I'd call him and track him down that way. But if he was there, I wanted to surprise him.

I found his building. Parked. Before I went in, I asked a professional-looking group standing just outside the entrance what floor Watson, Reece and Lucerne was on. They were kind enough to tell me. With a smile, in fact. Then I walked into the building, walked right by security, and took the elevator to 22.

I got out, scanned the reception area. Very quiet. And traditional. Lots of dark furniture, a couple of those deep brown leather chairs with the studs all over them. Two pretty receptionists sat behind a big wall of a desk, the firm's name emblazoned in a classic font on its front.

I said to one of them, taking in her sharp business suit and strawberry-blond hair tied up tight in a bun, “I'm here
to see Peter Caldwell. He said to come on back.” Before she could say anything, I was walking down a long hallway, looking into open office doors.

Six offices down, there was Peter behind his desk, a bright, crisp view of the bright white buildings of Century City behind him.

When he saw me, he looked terrified.

I walked into his office and sat down on a tastefully covered green office chair in front of his desk.

He started to say something. “I told Mrs. Dreen not to—”

I cut him off. “Peter. I told you what happened. I told you the story. And then you send those two over to my office to threaten me? Peter. What were you thinking?”

Stammering and swallowing, he said, “I told Mrs. Dreen not to do that. I told her not to do it. What happened?”

“Why don't you call Tony Lewis and ask him what happened.”

Peter nodded.

Right then, the strawberry-blond receptionist appeared in the doorway behind me. “Mr. Caldwell—”

Peter put a hand up and said, “It's okay, Laura.”

She quietly vanished.

I said, “Peter. If I see those two again, or anyone like them, and especially if Heather Press ever sees them, or anyone like them, you know who's going to go to jail?”

Meekly he said, “Mrs. Dree—”

I interrupted him and said, “That's right, counselor. Muriel. Muriel's going to jail.”

This time he didn't speak. He just sat there, almost imperceptibly shaking. I wondered whether it was my eyes creating the effect or whether it was actually happening. I had a brief memory of the squirrel stuck upside down on the tree outside Muriel Dreen's house.

I let him sit there and take it all in a moment longer. He needed to process, really process, that Muriel would go to jail. Because that's what would end it, would keep Heather Press in the clear.

I said, “Muriel will try to pull some strings to get off the harassment and intimidation charges. But I'll make sure her moves don't work. You know what happens to old, rich ladies in jail, Peter? Here in L.A.? They get fucked with. A lot. Muriel won't be sitting there watching her stock show. She'll be watching her ass.

“Now. You didn't believe me when I told you what happened with Heather. Are you going to believe me this time?”

Peter nodded.

“You sure?”

“John, I told her not to send—”

“Just answer the question.”

“Yes, I believe you.”

“Good.”

I stood up and left. I walked back down the hall toward reception. Right before I got there I had a thought, flipped a U, and walked back to Peter's office.

I poked my head in. “My invoice went out today. Be on the lookout.”

He nodded.

I left, this time for real.

T
he next day at noon sharp, I was in Hancock Park at the lovely house of Jackie and Phil Fuller. Phil Fuller. Not a bad porn name. But I digress. Hancock Park is an inland neighborhood east of Beverly Hills where a lot of people in L.A. with old money live. Preppy, East Coast–y types who wear Top-Siders with no irony and who have at some point in their lives spent a significant amount of time on a Boston Whaler.

Their house was a big Tudor on a nice-sized lot. And no, the house was not too big for the lot, which made me happy. Inside, it was tastefully decorated, lots of pictures of family and friends and social gatherings, big rooms that suggested an interior designer's touch but that also had
a thrown-together confidence to them: magazines scattered on tables, worn furniture right next to newer things, matchboxes from restaurants in glass bowls.

A few of the photos had Keaton in them, haunting the room a bit.

A couple of big, older, friendly labs wandered around quietly and calmly. Occasionally I'd catch one of their placid eyes.

We were in the living room. Phil and Jackie sat together on a couch across from me. I sat on a straight-backed chair, which I'd chosen over the more comfortable one next to it. Business time.

Jackie was thin, tan, with blue eyes and expensively dyed and cut blond hair. Her hair looked almost shiny, but also soft and healthy. Like it was cared for by a pro often, maybe daily. Her most striking feature, though, was the grief that she still wore on her face. She looked exhausted, her eyes betraying hopelessness.

Phil might have felt just as much grief, but he didn't show it. He was a big man, brown hair going gray, a sweater over his shoulders, big tortoiseshell glasses. And working a comb-over just a bit. I swear, his comb-over looked pretty good. And I thought, Shit, maybe, maybe they'll come back in a kind of seventies-dad kind of way. You know what I'm saying? You know that dad? Out by the pool grilling burgers for the kids, nice Jack on ice in his left hand, slightly ill-fitting burgundy Lacoste shirt over his slightly out-of-shape body. Might mow the lawn later, with a fairly hefty buzz on, then head over to the country club that night for a little dinner and some more cocktails.
You know that dad? You know that dad. I like that dad.

Yeah, Phil's comb-over looked okay, but his overall appearance, for whatever reason, had a slightly contrived quality. Like he was working just a bit to pull off the Hancock Park WASP thing, whereas it came to Jackie naturally. It had probably been Phil's idea to name the kids Keaton and Greer.

We were finishing up the how-much-I-charge conversation. This time, unlike the rattled look I got from Peter Caldwell, Jackie Fuller just said, “Fine.”

I said, “I have the case file. I've looked it over. There are a handful of people I want to talk to. I suppose they'll tell me what they already told the police, but I might get something out of their stories that the police didn't. Before I do that, though, I'd like to ask you something. Everyone the police questioned had an alibi. They never named a suspect. They never had a working theory. So, I'm wondering: What do you think happened? Did you ever put together a guess?”

And then, gingerly, I added, “Why do you think your son was killed?”

Jackie nodded to tell me she understood my question, and to tell me she was going to do the talking. She was probably the one who'd conceived of the idea of having the case looked into further, of hiring a guy like me. A mom still looking after her young. I understood it. I respected it.

She said, “Keaton wasn't perfect. He'd made some enemies over the years. Well, I don't know if I'd call them enemies . . . He'd let some people down over the years as a result of his behavior. You probably read that in the case file.”

I nodded.

She continued. “He'd broken up with girlfriends. He'd, he'd . . .”

She stopped. She was having a tough time saying the sentence. She moved her eyes over to Phil, who gave her a supportive look. The very beginnings of tears sprouted in her eyes.

She continued, “He'd behaved poorly, very poorly, toward some people. Like I said, girlfriends, but also friends, his brother, business associates. He just didn't act like a stand-up young man in a lot of situations over the years. But did one of those people load a gun and put a bullet in his chest? Did one of those people wait for him to leave his house one morning and murder him? I don't think so, Mr. Darvelle. I really don't.”

I nodded, letting her know I'd processed what she'd said. And then I said, softly, “You can call me John.”

“Okay,” she said. And now that she'd gotten through saying negative things about her dead son, she regained her stride a bit. “So that's why we're so confused. To answer your question, we don't know what happened. We haven't a clue. It's just so random. And . . .
professional
. Six in the morning? Assassinated? And that's what makes it so frustrating. I mean, can you imagine what that must be like? Can you imagine if a loved one of yours was walking out to his or her car one day and just got gunned down out of nowhere? And the police, and Phil and I, and everybody who knew him just have no idea what happened? I still don't sleep at night, John. It's almost like an alien came down from outer space and took our son. It's that strange.
I never thought I'd have a thought like this, but to know who killed my son, our son—and why—would be really comforting in some bizarre way.”

I understood what she meant. Must be a pretty unusual, and uncomfortable, feeling. To know that there had to be a reason her son was killed based on the
way
he was killed, but to have zero idea what that reason was.

I said, “Well, I'm going to start with what I have. Going to talk to Greer, the ex-girlfriend, the guy he started the bar with, others.” I reiterated, “Sometimes fresh eyes can see fresh things.”

We all stood up. I handed Jackie my card.

I said, “I know you know what's in the file. But if there's anything else you think might help me, please tell me. Could be something the cops dismissed. Could be something you just think is out of the ordinary, unusual, interesting, anything. Anything you think might help me.”

Jackie and Phil both nodded, and Jackie said, “And please call us anytime with questions, or for any reason, if you think we can help.”

Phil spoke for the first time as he stuck out his hand. “Thank you, John. Detective Ott says you're a really good detective.”

I thought: Ott. Yeah, good, tough cop. But also, deep down, good guy.

I shook Phil Fuller's hand and said, “I'll see what I can do.”

I walked toward the door, escorted by the two big, calm dogs.