A Dead Sister (Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery) (31 page)

“Yes, Frank, someone I know. I’m more than a little freaked out by the fact that somebody is paying e
nough attention to me to find me, savagely attack my car, and leave a nasty note under my windshield wiper. I get that it is
not
a love note, Frank.”

“Would it be too self-serving to say that I’m
glad
to hear no one’s leaving you love notes under your windshield wiper?”

“Ha ha, Frank. Very funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny, well maybe a little. I have to fix dinner, but the kids are off with Mary and her gal pal this week, so call whenever you want.”

“Okay. Look, Frank, I did learn
from the circumstances surrounding Roger’s murder. I am on high alert, promise.”

She hung up and gav
e Officer Parker, and the officer with him, her complete attention. He bagged the note now laying on the seat of her car.  She explained that she had touched it before reading the message it contained. Jessica set out the timeframe surrounding the visit to her office, and gave him her business card. She wrote Amy Klein’s name on the back so he could corroborate the timeline she gave him.

“I didn’t
know you were a lawyer, Ms. Huntington. Does the hate mail have anything to do with your employment?”

“
I didn’t no they let you drive a police car,” she snapped. The last time they met the officer had been on bicycle patrol. “No, Officer Parker, I’ve only been on the job a week. My clients don’t hate me yet.”

She could go on the record about looking into an old friend’s murder, but shades of Roger Stone! That would go over like a lead
balloon. Bringing up Kelly and Chester Davis also seemed like an open invitation to extend the conversation with Officer Parker and his dutiful, but quieter partner, Officer Smythe.

“So who thinks you’re a bitch, and what do they want you to back off from?”

“If I knew that, I’d tell you. I’m as curious as you are. If you ask around, maybe someone saw something and can give you a description of the person who did this. Or it could be there’s a print I didn’t completely destroy when I fished that note out from under the windshield wiper. Maybe some guy has me mixed up with the divorce lawyer his wife has hired to put the screws to him.” For a moment, Jessica wondered if Jim or, more likely, his crazy she-beast, thought she needed to be warned off. Her gut told her this was related to Kelly, and had nothing to do with Cassie the Worm-Hearted.

“Okay, Ms. Huntington. If you think of anything else, you know how to find us.”

It took another half hour, but Jessica was finally on I-10, driving a nearly new BMW sedan in a pearly white. It was less sporty than her own, but a gorgeous thing with all the bells and whistles. The tow truck driver helped transfer her packed bags from her own battered bimmer before loading it onto the flat-bed truck and hauling it off to the dealer.

As she drove toward LA, Jessica tried to rethink her plans for the evening. Originally, she had hoped to get into town with plenty of time to go over the file that Amy Klein had helped put together about the Van der Woerts. Jessica managed to catch up with Roberta Palmer and let her know she was running a couple hours behind schedule, and might be delayed further if she couldn’t get into LA before rush hour
.

“I’ll get there when I get there,” Jessica sighed, trying to put herself in a state of acceptance per Father Martin’s exhortation.
At least she still had that option.
She
could still pursue a calmer state of mind. She could juggle her schedule, put a couple more phone calls on her to-do list for tonight, get her BMW repaired and otherwise deal with all the unforeseen hassles of the day. Not so for the unfortunate Mr. Davis, whose sorry-ass life was over.

Why had he left the relative safety of protective custody to go back out on the street? The urge to get high may have overcome him. Where had he or his confederate come up with two thousand dollars? Had Chester Davis been holding out on them? If so, what else had he been holding back?

A growing sense of dread crept over Jessica with every mile she logged, bringing her closer to LA, home to the disturbed and disturbing Mr. P. An old prayer she had learned in high school popped into her head. She had come across the prayer again recently while reading the books loaned to her by Father Martin.

Tradition he
ld that St. Teresa of Avila carried the prayer with her everywhere, using it as a bookmark. Father Martin had included it as an actual bookmark with his copy of St. Teresa’s
Interior Castle.

“
Let nothing disturb you. Let nothing frighten you. All things are passing away. God never changes. Patience obtains all things. Whoever has God lacks nothing. God alone suffices.”

In that moment, Jessica knew what she was going to do. Her foot pressed down on the accelerator, she reset the cruise control
a little closer to eighty. The car sped up to close the distance between her and the city of angels.

CHAPTER 25

On her way to LA, Jessica had impuls
ively decided to pay Mr. P a visit. She wanted to look him in the eye as she showed him a picture of Kelly. Two pictures, actually. One, the head shot of Kelly as the lovely young woman she was at nineteen. The second, Kelly with her head horribly askew after Mr. P ran her down.

When Jessica arrived at the offices of Pure Platinum Music Group Monday afternoon it was a little before five o’clock. The glass-enclosed building comprised five floors. A security guard sat on a high stool behind a polished stainless and wood information desk that
was molded into an oval shape. A sign indicated “guests check-in here.” Framed art from album covers hung on the gleaming wood walls behind him. In a case to his right, a guitar and other memorabilia were displayed. On the left, a similar case contained vintage recording equipment and a vinyl record pressing machine. On all the walls were pictures of Mr. P at different ages, standing among icons in the music and film industry.

Jessica gave the security guard her card and indicated that she would like to speak to Christopher Pogswich. The beefy, 50-something black man looked befuddled m
omentarily, then smiled jovially. He looked at the card, then at Jessica, staring over the spectacles sitting about halfway down his nose. Shaking his head, he spoke.

“I take it you don’t have an appointment with Mr. P, M
s. Huntington. A word of advice: no one, absolutely no one, calls him Pogswich. Don’t do it. I’ll see if he’s in. Is this business or personal?” Before she could respond, he answered, shaking his head again. “Business—it’s just gotta be business.”

Jessica wasn’t exactly sure how to take that. Perhaps anyone who had personal dealings with Mr. P would already know better than to use his given name. She figured this was going nowhere, but she stood there and waited as “Lil Dwayne,” according to the nametag, called upstairs to see if Mr. P was in. He explained that a Ms. Huntington was there to see him.

“Yes, that’s right, Huntington, Jessica Huntington. Says here she’s an attorney with Canady, Holmes, Winston and Klein. Uh huh, uh huh, sure will.” He hung up and, to Jessica’s surprise said, “Mr. P’s assistant will be right with you, Ms. Huntington. Please have a seat.” He pointed to a sitting area that didn’t seem like it got much use. Copies of music industry magazines were neatly arrayed on a glass side table set between L-shaped rows of block-like chairs with leather cushions and metal frames.

She sat down beneath a large picture of a much younger Mr. P with shorter, darker hair, combed down Beatle-style. He sported a mustache and long side burns, wore a burgundy Nehru jacket, and held up two fingers in a v-shaped peace sign. He looked a little like Peter Sellers, or maybe Jimmy Fallon playing Peter Sellers. His eyes in this picture, as in others, were somehow unsettling, maniacal, like a cult leader. Okay, so
maybe more like Peter Sellers in the role of Dr. Strangelove. The longer she waited, the more she kept thinking about how scared Chester Davis had been and the fact that the man had turned up dead.

Jessica had chang
ed her mind about meeting Mr. P and was going to tell Lil Dwayne she had to go, when the elevator opened. Out stepped a retro-looking young woman with shoulder-length, jet black hair, teased to give it a bit of a bouffant, accentuated by a headband. Dark eyeliner was drawn out into wing tips over heavy lashes, accompanied by deep red lipstick. She wore a navy sleeveless form-fitting shantung silk sheath, dark silky stockings and stiletto heels. She might have stepped off the set of Mad Men, except that she had a Hindu goddess tattooed from shoulder to elbow on one arm. That gave her a bit of a Bond-girl vibe. A bored Bond-girl, apparently, from the dead-pan mien and the tone in her voice.

“Follow me, please.” No introductions, no amenities, nothing.

Lil Dwayne turned in his seat, looking Jessica up and down as she passed on the way to the elevators. When he shifted in his seat to watch her go by, Jessica noticed that, in addition to a wolfish grin, Lil Dwayne was wearing a gun. Stashed in a shoulder holster; she caught a glimpse of it as his jacket fell open.

The ride up to the 5
th
floor was silent. When the elevator stopped, it opened into a plush outer office. As in the lobby on the first floor, the walls here were covered, too. In addition to the ubiquitous photos of Mr. P with this or that rock or film star, there were also signed concert posters, gold and platinum records, and blown-up versions of covers from Billboard, Rolling Stone, Music Connection, and other industry publications.

The room was dominated by large windows that let in the afternoon sunlight and provided views of the city. A large, dark wood desk with modern lines sat in front of the window, accompanied by a leather chair in white. The wall that separated the outer o
ffice from Mr. P’s was made out of a jigsaw of expensive woods. White leather loveseats were set out to accommodate those who waited for Mr. P. A sheet of silvery glass seemed to float above the white base of the coffee table set in front of the loveseats.

“Sit,” the zombie ordered, pointing to the white loveseat. She tapped so lightly on the door to the inner office that Jessica could barely hear it. From inside, a man’s voice responded
.

“
Come in please.” Zombie-girl opened the door, but only a crack. She slithered through a space too small for any mortal female to pass. In another minute or two, the door swung wide and Mr. P made his grand entrance. His hair, now snow white, had been sheared short; a mid-length flat top in the front. He sported a trimmed mustache and beard, also white.

“Ms. Huntington, welcome. Sorry to keep you waiting. Please come into my office and have a seat.” He did not offer to shake hands but directed Jessica toward another white leather chair that sat opposite Mr. P’s
enormous desk. Jessica did as she was told. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of this odd little man, and did a little jig as she entered the inner sanctum of his private office.

A wall of windows dominated this room, too. The
light streaming in sparkled off a glass conference table that was surrounded by half a dozen white leather, high-backed chairs. Mr. P whispered something into the zombie girl’s ear as she towered over him. Even without the 5-inch stilettos, she was taller than Mr. P who must have been no more than 5’2” or 5’3”. In a flash, the vamp moved to a spot on the wall behind Mr. P’s desk. It was a larger version of the desk in the reception area and was also accompanied by a white leather chair. This one was more the size of a throne than any ordinary chair.

The wall behind him mirrored the jigsaw pattern of that in the outer office, also a composite of gleaming exotic woods. Jessica thought she recognized rosewood and maybe a maple with a distinctive burl. A panel on the wall opened, revealing a bar area from which Mr. P’s assistant retrieved two bottles of baby Bling H
2
O and two frosty crystal goblets. Without a word, she placed a bottle and a glass in front of each of them. Then she exited the room, closing the door silently behind her.

Jessica opened the bottle of water and poured it into the glass as Mr. P sat down and did the same. “So, Ms. Huntington, I have only a few minutes before I have to make a dash for the airport. How can I help you?” Jessica took a sip of the water before answering, then, picked up the Bling bottle, examining it more closely. “Swarovski crystals, Ms. Huntington, if that’s what you were wondering.” The word Bling spelled out on the bottle was encrusted with them.

“Mr. P, I asked for a few minutes of your time in hopes you might help clear up a matter for me. It has to do with this young woman, someone you may have known years ago.” Jessica slid the head shot of Kelly across the desk and watched Mr. P as he picked it up. His reaction was immediate, not simply recognition, but a kind of wistful look came into the man’s eyes. He ran his hands over the image, almost fondling it. Jessica’s fought the urge to snatch that photo back.

“I believe I have seen her before, Ms. Huntington, but I can’t say where or when.” That last part came out sing-song. Lik
e the lyric that it was from some old standard. “Should I know her? And how might that help you, if I did?’

“Well, to refresh your memory, her name is,” Jessica paused as the aged man gazed at her...“her name
was
Kelly Fontana. She was killed in a hit-and-run accident more than a decade ago.” She slid the second photo of Kelly across the table. That photo jarred him. When he picked it up, his hands trembled slightly, and his skin blanched. “She was only nineteen years old.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with me. She looks familiar, but I’ve seen hundreds, maybe thousands of beautiful auburn-haired girls in my lifetime. With my ties to the music and film industry, there’s always some nineteen-year-old knocking on my door, looking for a leg up. You can’t expect me to remember them all, can you?”

“What makes you think she had auburn hair? That head shot is black and white, and you certainly can’t get a clear view of her hair color from that photo taken at the scene of her, um, accident.” Jessica intended to press him while he was still a little off balance from seeing that awful picture of Kelly, dead. She took another sip of water and noticed that her own hand had a slight tremor. This cat and mouse game they were playing was growing old quickly.

“I told you, she looks familiar to me. I, I...” Jessica interrupted him. She was wary of the old man sitting across from her, but the way he was dancing around the fact that he obviously
knew
Kelly was making her more angry than afraid.

“Mr. P, what if I told you that an eyewitness has come forward. He puts you at the scene of that accident years ago?”

“I’d say, so what? The statute of limitations for hit-and-run was up long ago, Ms. Huntington.” The cold, calculating frankness of his statement was unnerving, but Jessica went on.

“There is no statute
of limitations on murder. That eyewitness I referred to says that Kelly Fontana’s death was no accident. He saw you waiting in the parking lot when Kelly ran out of the hotel, being chased by two men, your men, Mr. P.” Fidgeting with the glass of water, he was obviously becoming agitated. “It’s at that point, according to our witness, that you floored it. You drove your 1999 midnight blue Mercedes S class sedan at Kelly and slammed into her, almost head on. You can see the outcome of your handiwork in that photo of Kelly taken at the scene.”

With that, he dropped the façade, and the full-blown fiend emerged. There was something of the trapped animal mixed in with rage at being cornered
. Perhaps a bit of surprise in the detail about the car that had hit Kelly. He rose, sweeping the bottle of water and the expensive crystal goblet onto the floor.

“How dare you! What is this, some kind of shake down? I let you in here because you have a job with a prominent law firm in LA. That firm has an impeccable reputation, Ms. Huntington. At least it did, until now. I thought we might chat about my legal needs and your need to establish yourself as a rainmaker at your new job. Instead, I get falsely accused of committing some heinous crime.” He paused, perhaps trying to regain control or trying to gauge the impact he was having on Jessica.

“Let’s say I did know this Kelly Fontana all those years ago, so what? If you have an eyewitness, produce him, and I’ll challenge every lie that drug-addicted bastard has told you.” He slammed his fist on the desk for emphasis.

Jessica was stunned. Not just by the tantrum but by Mr. P’s frank admission of what he knew. He was clearly a step ahead. More than one step in fact. She had said nothing to indicate she was new to the firm identified on her business card. Nor had she said anything about the eyewitness being a drug addict. His challenge to produce the witness sent a chill through Jessica.
He not only knew who the witness was, but that he was dead
.

Interview over, time to go! What had she been thinking coming here alone and without telling a soul about her plan? Jessica fought for control as she considered the more dire consequences of her impulsivity
. Clearly the guy was rattled; otherwise, he would not have revealed so much of what he knew. She decided her best bet to get out of there was to exit quickly, while he was still off balance. Adopting a sad, bewildered tone as she spoke, she leaned over and picked up the picture of her dead friend that had been swept onto the floor. Reaching into her purse, she took out a tissue and dabbed at her eyes, even though there were no tears in them.

“Mr. P, I certainly am not here to shake you down. Kelly Fontana was my friend, and I care about what happened to her. I obviously have reservations about the eyewitness testimony, or I wouldn’t be here, speaking directly to you, would I?” With that, some of the tension drained out of the man leaning on his desk. His shoulders slumped a little, but he maintained eye contact.

“I am not here representing my firm. I apologize that I didn’t make that clear from the very beginning. In fact, I’m not here in any capacity other than that of a caring and concerned friend to someone lost so young.” Jessica stood up to leave. The thought of touching the man was almost more than she could bear, but she extended her hand, willing it not to tremble.