The First Cut (29 page)

“Where?”

She remembered a story about a rock musician who’d hanged himself with a belt from a closet rod. She’d seen it on VH-1. It was rumored that he was doing that weird sex self-suffocation thing. Yeah. Right. Who was she to talk about weird sex? Then there was the TV mobster’s girlfriend who’d hanged herself from an overhead light fixture.

She went into the sitting room and looked at the chandelier. She pulled a long, narrow scarf taut between her hands. She looked at the chandelier, then at the scarf, and again at the chandelier. She drew her fingers across the fine skin of her neck and let the scarf slither to the floor.

Maybe he had thought of everything after all.

If she couldn’t kill herself, she could at least slide into unconsciousness for a while. She took one of the two Xanax tablets and set it on the nightstand with a cup of water. She lifted the dog into bed with her and pulled up the covers.

She again pressed her hands beneath her.

This was what her meltdown in Hermosa Beach had brought her. What did he think? That she’d just passively go along with his plan to abduct, torture, and murder women? Hello…He’d always been into kinky sex games, but she hadn’t seen this coming. Should she have? She was a stripper, not a psychiatrist, for pity’s sake. But she was also a person who had always lived by her wits. So far, he’d stayed a step ahead of her. Now, she needed to get a step ahead of him.

Maybe I can cut a deal with the police, she thought. I’ll get a good attorney. Someone he doesn’t know. He said there’s no evidence linking him to Frankie. If the police can’t prove he did it, they’ll let him go. Then he’ll kill me. It would be my word against his, and who would believe me? He’ll make me disappear. Killing him is my only way out. I’ll say it was self-defense. Or I’ll make it look like an accident. Maybe I’ll make
him
disappear. Dear God, is Lisa still alive? I need to get out of here. I need to bust through the windows, make a rope, get out of here, and run to find a phone.

She started to get out of bed, but fell back into it. She felt nauseous and exhausted. Who was she kidding? She was crashing too hard to do anything, except what he wanted.

The door of the suite opened and she heard him singing made-up lyrics to his favorite song: “Pussycat, Pussycat, where are you?”

He stood in the doorway of the bedroom carrying a tray. “There she is.” He made room for the tray on the nightstand beside the bed. He raised a silver dome covering a plate to reveal scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit. There was a thermos of coffee, a glass of orange juice, and a red rose in a bud vase.

“You look like shit, my dear.” He handed her the orange juice. “Drink this. I can tell you didn’t follow my instructions to eat something and take a Xanax. Sit up. Drink this, I said.”

She climbed to an elbow, took the juice, and sipped. “How’s Lisa?” she croaked.

“She’s fine.
She
was wondering how
you
were. Isn’t that considerate?”

“I wish I was dead.”

“Pussycat…Come on, now. I brought a visitor for you.” From his shirt pocket, he took a small Baggie. “Miss Tina,” he sang.

It was both the last thing and the only thing she wanted. She reached for it.

He pulled it away. “Not so fast. I’ll get a bump ready for you while you eat something. Then you’re going to wash your face, put on sunglasses, and we’ll go downstairs. You’re going to tell Lolly you have a migraine and that the light makes your head hurt more. You’ve been very ill, but you’re feeling better and you need to be left alone for a few days. If you can pull that off, you can have the rest of the Baggie.”

He handed her a piece of toast and pressed it against her lips.

She took a bite, staring fiercely at him.

“This is your fault, baby. You had to be the drama queen. Here’s the deal. As long as you play nice, I’ll make sure you stay even. You won’t have to feel shitty like this again. And if you don’t care about yourself, I know you care about your sister. Fuck with me and I’ll snatch her off the street like we took Lisa. I’ve always wanted to get my hands on her tight little ass. Then I’ll put you both in the basement. After I’m done, I’ll dump you both in the desert, side by side.”

T W E N T Y - F I V E

V
INING HUNG OUT IN THE REPORT-WRITING ROOM WHILE WAITING
for her car. A couple of tired officers who had finished their Morning Watch at 8:00 a.m. were still there at computers banging out arrest reports. Some of these would end upstairs in the Detectives Section. Three Latino juveniles, gangbangers or wannabes with hair shorn as short as velvet, gang insignia tattooed on their scalps and across the backs of their necks, were sitting in a glass-walled area on one end of the room, isolated from the adult prisoner population and supervised by officers.

She stuck her head into the Patrol Sergeants’ office and asked about the schedule of Officer John Chase, who had written the fix-it ticket to John Lesley. Chase was off until Saturday.

“You have his cell phone number?”

“I do, but I think he went out of town.” The sergeant searched for the phone number and gave it to her.

When she was leaving, a female corporal who had overheard the conversation followed Vining from the room and pulled her aside. Vining had become friendly with her while working out at the gym in the building.

“Don’t expect a call back soon, Nan. Chase went fishing in Cabo with his buddies. Bachelor party. They might not have cell phone service where he is.”

“Do you know where he’s staying?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Thanks.”

Jones had already talked to Chase. He reported nothing remarkable about his interaction with Lesley other than normal irritation from receiving a citation. She’d been told to finish the luncheon angle and move on. Still, the name John Lesley rolled around in her head like a ball bearing in one of those maze games she’d played when she was a kid. Rolling into dead ends, searching for the trapdoor—the way out.

After receiving her car keys, she walked down the hall and through the door that led to the parking garage. She went down the stairs and along the uncovered driveway, out of the way of the stream of officers going in and out, finding a private corner where she called Chase’s cell phone. He didn’t answer. She left a message.

She headed back up the stairs where officers were jiggling a key in the door, bitching about how no one had fixed the lock yet. Someone exiting held the door for them and Vining went upstairs to the Community Services Section. She met with Officer Roberta Ulrick who had coordinated the luncheon. Everyone who’d received an award that day had been photographed with the chief. She wanted to see the citizen hero.

“I remember Mr. Lesley. He was the nicest man.” Ulrick found John Lesley’s photo. “And not hard on the eyes, either.”

Vining admired the shot of the tall, tanned, dark-haired man with the winning smile. He was wearing a well-cut, dark suit and an expensive-looking tie and was firmly grasping the chief’s hand.

“Am I right?”

As Vining looked at the photo, the background of the midnight blue stage curtain began to undulate until it looked like troubled water. Lesley’s face floated upon it, rippling, breaking up and then becoming clear.

“Don’t you think?” Ulrick tried again for a response.

“Absolutely.” It was a catch-all answer and rarely a wrong choice.

“Does he have something to do with Frankie Lynde? You’re working that case, right?”

“Right. We’re talking to people who might have interacted with Frankie at the luncheon. Following up on everything.”

“The million tendrils of a life.”

“You got it. Didn’t Lesley bring his wife?”

“Oh, yes.” Ulrick looked through the photographs. “Guess we don’t have a picture of her.”

“What was she like?”

Ulrick made a face as if she didn’t know where to begin. “Also very pleasant. Good-looking as you would expect, being his wife. Some of our guys commented that she was built like a brick you-know-what house.”

“What’s her name?”

Ulrick looked over the guest list. “They were at table four. Let’s see. Pamela Lesley. But her husband called her Pussycat, which the men ate up, of course.”

The ball bearing rolled from one side to the other.

While Ulrick ran John Lesley’s photograph through the scanner to make a copy, Vining returned to the Detectives Section and logged onto the databases to search for a criminal background on Pamela or Pussycat Lesley. Nothing came up. She was on the phone with her contact at the DMV when Kissick came by.

“What’s up?”

“Getting background on John Lesley and his wife.”

“John Lesley. The citizen hero who got the fix-it ticket? Why?”

Good question. She didn’t have a solid answer. “Following up the luncheon angle.”

“Nan, John Lesley and his wife were there with Frankie Lynde and two hundred of their closest friends. So what?”

“An hour ago you asked me about my progress on the luncheon.”

“And the sarge said to quickly finish and move on. Frankie Lynde’s murderer would not have attended a police event. I don’t know why I encouraged you to follow up on it. Not to mention that it became personally embarrassing to me.”

“It shouldn’t have been. We have sound reasons for checking out the people who were there.”

“We have bigger fish to fry, like thousands of leads. I need you elsewhere.”

Vining saw the strain in his face. “Okay. You still want me to talk to Kendall Moore’s wife?”

“Yeah. See if the SOB has dental issues so we can cross him off the list.”

“Will do.”

“Without any solid leads, we are in CYA mode—covering our backsides so nothing comes back to haunt us.” He managed a smile. “Just so you know, the crap that’s running downhill is pooling at my feet.”

“I know, Jim. Remember, we’re on the same team.”

“You said the key word: team. Last thing I need is Cowboy Nan taking off alone into the sunset.”

“Got it.” She had to check herself. The last thing she needed was to revive her old jacket. She wouldn’t have a prayer of returning to Homicide or staying at any desk in Detectives.

“Thanks, Partner,” he said. “You okay?”

“Fantastic. You?”

“Never better.”

They both grinned at the lies.

Vining checked the fax machine on her way out, wanting to grab her materials before anyone else saw them. The driver’s license and car registration information for John and Pussycat Lesley were waiting. They lived in Encino in the San Fernando Valley. Pussycat’s photograph showed her to be cute, not gorgeous. Her lips were slightly parted as if she’d been coached on how best to pose. Thick, blond hair framed her face and fell past her shoulders. Twenty-four years old. Brown eyes. Five feet five inches tall. One hundred thirteen pounds. Vining visualized the artist’s sketch of Lolita at the strip club. The profile fit.

John Lesley was not smiling in his license photo. His attitude was different from his pose with the police chief. Vining read his gaze as menacing. Someone else would interpret it as annoyance after a long wait at the DMV. He was thirty-eight years old, six-foot-one, one hundred eighty, brown over brown.

He had four cars registered to him. Three were registered to his home address: a new Mercedes S600 sedan, a 1965 Cadillac Coupe de Ville convertible, and a five-year-old Ford F-150 truck. One car, a black Hummer H2, was registered to his business address in West Hollywood. He was driving this car when Officer Chase pulled him over in Pasadena.

As she was leaving, Caspers snatched her as she passed his cubicle.

“Hey, Vining. Listen to what I found out about your boy Lesley. It’s like lifestyles of the rich and stupid. He tried to get a restraining order against his wife, saying she stalked him, but it wasn’t granted. In the permanent R.O. she got against him, she claimed mental and physical abuse, saying that he once strangled her until she was unconscious and had threatened her with guns. She didn’t report any of it to the police of course. She also said he made her participate in weird sex games with prostitutes. He claimed it was all a ploy to attempt to nullify the prenup. Part of their divorce settlement was an agreement never to disparage each other publicly. This is like eating a steak.”

“You got all that from DVROS?”

“Hell no. I Googled John Lesley and Michaela Michele. Got dozens of hits. Most of the material was on this Web site, Stupid Celebrities dot com.”

“That PRO still in effect?”

“It’s got another year on it.”

“Don’t let Kissick know you’re fooling around with this. He’s in no mood.”

“I was just taking a break for ten minutes. We’ve been working twenty-four seven. Kissick needs to lighten up. He’s getting on my last nerve, too.”

“See you later.”

At the in/out board, Vining moved the magnetic dot into “In The Field.” Under the terms of the PRO, John Lesley would be forbidden to possess or be in the vicinity of firearms. Guy like John Lesley who owned a nightclub, bound to be a firearm on the premises. She could likely arrest him on a 166, violation of the stay away order.

In Community Services, she picked up the copy of John Lesley’s photo with the chief and made photocopies of it and Pussycat’s driver’s license photo.

The Lesleys were invited to Pasadena to accept an award and had received a fix-it ticket while heading to the freeway. John Lesley had marital difficulties. None of that had anything to do with Frankie Lynde.

Then why couldn’t she let them go?

M
ANDA ANGELOFF, THE BUSY AND EFFICIENT CATERING MANAGER AT THE
Huntington Hotel, had already spoken with the staff who had worked the luncheon. Some of them remembered seeing Frankie Lynde with her father, but no one recalled anything noteworthy.

“There were a lot of officers in uniform there. It was a sea of navy blue. No offense, but you kind of look the same.”

“Do you have someplace where you could post Frankie Lynde’s photograph on the off chance that an employee who wasn’t working the luncheon saw something?”

“There’s a bulletin board in the employee lunchroom.”