A Dead Sister (Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery) (32 page)

“I’ve taken up enough of your time, and I don’t wan
t you to miss your flight. Thank you for meeting with me without an appointment. I should have been more delicate with my inquiry. It’s just that I was so distraught after hearing this disreputable man’s claims. I apologize for waylaying you. Please do go, so you can catch that plane.”

Mr. P took her hand, shaking it perfunctorily. “I won’t miss my flight. It’s my own plane. They won’t go anywhere without me. I mea
nt what I said about steering some business your way, Ms. Huntington. Who should I speak to on your behalf?” The rage and fear had receded and an almost convivial wiliness took over.

“Paul Worthington i
s the person mentoring me. He’s charged with overseeing the opening of the Palm Desert office where I’ve hired on. You can reach him at that number on my business card. I’m sure he’d be glad to hear from you. Of course it would help me out, too. I’m just grateful you’re still willing to do that after such an awkward first meeting.” Jessica mustered the closest thing she could to an appreciative smile.

Mr. P looked like the cat that swallowed the canary. He must have pushed a button or something, because the near-catatonic assistant in the slinky dress and spiked heels materialized in the doorway.

“Please show Ms. Huntington out. We’re done here.” With that, he turned his back on Jessica. It was “game over,” as far as Mr. P was concerned: check and mate.

“Let him think he’s won, please God,” Jessica thought, as she retreated from his malevolent conceit.

The silent ride down to the lobby gave Jessica ample opportunity to observe the young woman standing beside her. The operant word was young. She surely must be 18, or Mr. P wouldn’t have her on public display, but she couldn’t be much older. “He still likes them young,” Jessica thought, recalling how he had run his hands over that photo of Kelly. What might this taciturn subordinate have to say about Mr. P’s inclinations if she could somehow break through that stoic façade?

“I’m sorry Mr. P forgot to introduce us. I’m Jessica Huntington. I don’t think I caught your name.”

“I know who you are. I gave Mr. P your card, remember?” She did not turn toward Jessica, or otherwise acknowledge Jessica’s overture. With her head down, she spoke again. “My name is Kim Reed, not that it’s any business of yours. If I were you, Ms. Huntington, I’d mind my own business.”

Jessica casually looked around, presuming from Kim Reed’s demeanor that there was video surveillance on board the elevator. As the elevator came to a stop, Jessica dug around in her purse, pulling out her keys, making sure the image of her keys was caught on film. She also palmed a business card.

Stepping from the elevator, Jessica reached out and took Kim Reed’s hand in both of her own, slipping the card to the startled young woman. “Thanks so much. Please thank Mr. P for me again, and tell him I hope he has a safe trip.” With that, Jessica turned and walked quickly past Lil Dwayne, waving jauntily as she stepped out of the lobby and back onto the street.

She had parked close to th
e Pure Platinum Music Group building and was not far from her car when a very tall gentleman strode toward her, basketball player tall. He was thin, with long lanky arms and large hands and feet. A pronounced forehead and angular cheekbones dominated his countenance, as did a jagged slash on his right cheek. Jessica forced herself to keep moving to her car. She looked both ways before stepping into the street and opening the driver side door. The hulk lumbered on. He had not glanced up or acknowledged Jessica in any way as he passed. Slipping into the car, she adjusted the rear view mirror in time to see the doc entering the building she had just left. Where had he come from?

CHAPTER 26

It was nearly seven o’clock by the time Jessica settled in at her father’s house in Brentwood. The traffic from downtown LA had been brutal. She was so distracted she made a couple wrong turns that cost her twenty minutes more on the clogged streets. A lot of things disturbed her about the raging Mr. P and the unpleasant-looking man fitting the doc’s description. Unpleasant-looking, who was she kidding? He was just plain ugly. It wasn’t merely his physical appearance. There was something in the way he carried himself, something sinister or “dis-eased.” “El doctor maligno,” was right. Even though he had not looked at her, Jessica sensed he was keenly aware of her presence as he passed her on the street.

The dutiful Ms. Palmer had been waiting patiently at the Brentwood estate for nearly an hour, even after Jessica had pushed back her expected arrival time. Roberta Palmer very obligingly accepted Jessica’s apology, before taking up an attenuated spiel about use of the house. Jessica had heard it the week before. This time, she paid close attention to everything she was told about security at the Brentwood estate.

She was still on ed
ge. Mr. P and the doc knew more about her than she knew about them. How had he learned about her or Chester Davis? Two thousand dollars was a lot of money. Had Mr. P put up the bail money for Chet using Arnold Dunne as his emissary? Was it really an overdose that had killed Chet so soon after his release?

After a salad and a glass of wine, Jessica found herself pacing. She had changed into a bathing suit, hoping a swim would ease the tension that held her taut like a guitar string wound too tight. Too soon after eating for that swim, she sank into the bubbling hot tub. Jessica called Dick Tatum to
confirm their lunch meeting on Wednesday.

He did not answer his phone, so she left a voice mail, suggesting that they meet at the Mission Inn. Unless she heard otherwise, she would plan on meeting him in the lobby of the hotel at 11: 30, and they could choose to dine at one of the restaurants on site or go elsewhere. The bubbling water soothed her. Still, she felt vulnerable outside in the dark, even with all the security systems on at the house, and lights blazing from every room. More than once, she thought she heard movement in the bushes or on the slope below the house. Real or imagined scraping and clanking sounds eventually drove her inside behind locked doors, without ever taking that swim.

A phone call to Frank Fontana made matters worse. During that phone call, Frank had come about as close as anyone had come in a long time to calling her an idiot. Maybe it was a cop thing. Once they put on that uniform, they were the final arbiters of what was sensible or not sensible in the pursuit of justice. That did not sit well with the lawyer in her. Playing devil’s advocate was one thing, laying down the law was altogether another matter.

Jessica had to admit wh
at had seemed like inspiration on that drive into LA now seemed more like desperation. Idiot was about right. She came close to saying as much to Frank, who reluctantly agreed that she was already on Mr. P’s radar, even before the confrontation in his office. She was not the only one. Mr. P knew all about Chester Davis. Frank agreed there was a good chance that the bail money came from him via Arnold Dunne.

Preliminary evidence from the autopsy turned up no sign that Chester Davis had been injured or otherwise involved in a struggle before his death. He had vomited, not an uncommon occurrence among addicts who overdose. It would be several more days before they had findings from the toxicology screen to determine what all he had in his system at the time. There were partially dissolved amphetamine tablets in the vomit, along with remnants of food eaten by Chester before his death. At this point, the coroner had concluded that asphyxiation was the cause of death, from aspirating his own vomit during a drug overdose.

Neither Frank nor Jessica was entirely convinced that Chester’s death was such an unfortunate, but convenient, accident. They reached an impasse almost immediately about what to do about the situation, however. Still furious with Jessica for making that visit to Mr. P, Frank was adamant that they had done all they could. Any further investigation into Kelly’s death ought to come from Art Greenwald and the cold case team.

“You need to
lay low, Jessica.  Pray Mr. P was convinced by the mea culpa song and dance you did on the way out of his office. Let him believe you can be bought off by that offer he made to send a little business your way. The best way to do that is stay out of it! You’re lucky to be alive, Jessica. What if you two had still been going at it when the doc got there? Have you thought about that?”

“I have, thank you very much. I don’t need you to add to my anxiety. What I need you to do is to help me figure out how to get that son-of-a-bitch. Both of them, in fact, so there aren’t any more dead girls like Kelly. Do you think they just gave up all their bad habits, or whatever it was they were doing that got Kelly killed?
In fact, that little bastard’s at it again. You and I both know he put someone up to killing Chester Davis. For God’s sake, Frank, you’re the homicide detective. Surely you’re not going to let this guy get away with murder again?”

“When I said ‘we’ve done all we can for Kelly,’ what I really meant was
you’ve
done all
you
can do for Kelly. I want you to leave this to me and to the rest of us who are paid to take the kind of risks you took today. You no longer have Chester Davis as a client, so there’s no official reason for you to be involved in any sort of police investigation. His murder happened on my watch, and I’m on it! And Jessica, before you blow your stack at me again, I want you to ask yourself one question: how
did
you get on Mr. P’s radar? You’ve been out there asking a lot of people a lot of questions about Kelly’s death. If this Mr. P knows so much about you and Chester Davis, there’s a good chance he knows a thing or two about the company you keep. Not just me and your pal Dick Tatum. I’m talking about Tommy and the rest of your cat pack. Please, Jessica just back off.”

“Oh, I’ll back off, alright.” With that, she hung up the phone, muttering: “at least he didn’t call me bitch like the creep who
left that note.” She shuddered from a mix of rage and fear. “Had that been only this morning?” she wondered, as she tried once again to reach Dick Tatum. Her anger was still blazing hot. It wasn’t that Frank had pulled rank on her, as he and his colleagues were wont to do. It was the fact that he was right, damn it. Here she was again, putting herself and others in harm’s way. She left Dick another message. This time she included a warning that the men Chester Davis believed to be responsible for Kelly Fontana’s death were on to them. “Please call me, Dick and be careful.”

CHAPTER 27

As Jessica tried to maintain her focus on meetings at the LA law firm, t
hat argument with Frank intruded. Mostly because of the dreadful circumstance she, and maybe her friends, were in. It also bothered her that she cared as much as she did about what Frank Fontana thought about her. Both of them willful and determined, their clash was way too reminiscent of the disputes that had popped up between her and Kelly. She wasn’t ready for that kind of Huntington-Fontana volatility, even if it was her own impulsivity that contributed to the turmoil. The attraction between them was undeniable. Nevertheless, she was not willing to take up with a guy she couldn’t get along with outside of the bedroom.

She was thinking that very thing when Paul Worthington stepped out of his office, wearing a crisp white shirt with a red tie and khaki slacks. He looked remarkably refreshed for a man who must have been working on knotty problems since early morning. His blue eyes sparkled and he was smiling as he ushered out his client, an attractive woman in professional attire. Jessica recognized her, not from the tabloids but from some business show Jim loved to watch. She was an executive at a studio involved in film production featuring computer-generated animation, like Pixar, but smaller and less prominent. The company had made a big splash a while back hiring this woman away from Google or Apple or someplace like that.

“Jessica, I’ll be right with you,” Paul said, in a completely formal way, as she remained seated in the outer office of the suite he occupied. The administrative assistant usually at her desk must have stepped away or left for the day. Gloria was nowhere to be seen. Her desk was tidied up and neat as a pin.

“Paul, thank you so much. I can’t believe this can all be handled so easily. It is s
uch a relief. The man’s a genius,” she said, speaking to Jessica.

“She knows that,” Paul said. “I just hired her for our new Palm Desert office. Leslie Windsor, thi
s is Jessica Huntington. I cleared up a little matter for Leslie, but I’m hoping she’s going to let us handle some of her other legal matters. And, by the way, Leslie is interested in finding a place in the desert as a weekend getaway.”

“Property is still such a steal out there. Not like LA or the Silicon Valley, where I live and work. It’s irresistible.”

“If there’s anything I can do, Ms. Windsor, I’d be happy to assist. I grew up there and have returned after an extended absence. I’ll be checking things out for another client. If you have an idea about what you’re looking for, I’d be glad to do a little scouting for you, too.”

“Really, where do you live?”

“I’m in Mission Hills. That’s in Rancho Mirage, if that’s an area you know.”

“Do I ever! I’ve rented a place there for the Kraft-Nabisco Open several times. I love, love, love golf! If I could get away with it, I’d trade places with an
y of the great ladies on the LPGA pro circuit. I’m nowhere near good enough to do that, so I’m not giving up my day job any time soon. Second best is to have a place to go and play all the golf I can squeeze in.”

“You have plenty of choices on that front, a hundred and twenty courses in the valley. More, depending on how you count them.”

“Let’s set up a lunch once it gets a little cooler. There are probably a lot of issues I should consider before I plop down money for a house, even at a bargain price.”

“True. Does it matter that you’re on a private, semi-private or public course? How challenging a course do you want, how much are willing to pay for an equity stake, and what other amenities are you looking for? Or you could forget about all that and just go with your gut. Buy the house you fall in love with, like a lot of happy people do, Ms. Windsor.”

“No thanks. I prefer to do things more systematically. Paul is trying to clean up one of the muddles that love, or something like it, left on my doorstep. But please, no more with the Ms. Windsor thing. It makes me feel old. It’s Leslie, Jessica. Please, give me your card. When I see a window of time open up, I’ll call and we can find something that works for you, too, okay? My latest run-in with a lothario also makes me wary about how I own what I own, so maybe we can chat about that too.” Jessica dug out a card and handed it over.

“I’d be happy to talk things over. I look forward to hearing from you, Leslie.” That was the polite thing to say, but Jessica really meant it. She liked the woman. Smart, thoughtful, and direct, she could probably make a decision when the time came about whatever legal matters required Jessica’s assistance. It was easy to
understand how she became a CEO. She couldn’t have been much older than Jessica, forty, at the most. “Good for her,” Jessica thought. It was inspiring to see a woman making her mark and so upbeat about it.

Paul came back after seeing his client out to the elevator. He was ecstatic. “I am a genius. You’ve got yourself another client, Jessica. Let’s get out of here.” He stepped back into his office for a moment and came out wearing a navy blazer. “I presume all went well with the Van der Woerts. I caught a glimpse of you all with your heads together after I left and everybody was smiling.”

“It did go well, Paul. We got through the interview. I have a much better idea about documents that need updating. They have a lot of ideas about a legacy, but no clear plan for how to realize it. I get the feeling that whatever’s going on with their daughter is kind of putting pressure on them to act, but also keeping things up in the air. I gave them an overview of their options to consider until we meet again. They’re coming out to the desert Labor Day weekend. A realtor is taking them to look at homes. I’ll arrange for dinner, maybe at my house, if that sounds like a good idea to you.”

Paul had been listening carefully while scurrying around, turning out the lights in his office, and closing and locking the door. He scribbled a note for Gloria, leaving it on her desk. “That would be a very nice thing to do. That sort of personal touch really would put them at ease, Jessica
, and build trust. There is definitely a problem with the daughter, but they should tell you about it rather than hearing it from me.” He stepped closer and smiled down at her. “You’re the antidote to the grief their daughter is giving them. Just about the same age, but the daughter they deserved, not the one they got.”

He shook his head, thinking about whatever it was they were going through. “All ready for your surprise?”

“I guess so.”

“Can you walk a few blocks in those shoes?” he asked, looking admiringly at more than her shoes. She was wear
ing the red Max Mara dress and black Jimmy Choo pumps with sensible 2-inch heels.

“No problem, Paul. Let’s go!”

Paul took her by the elbow and steered her from the outer office, locking the door behind them. They ran the gauntlet of inquiring eyes and friendly hellos as they made their way to the front desk and elevators to the ground floor. In that time, in addition to the exchange of salutations, Paul took a call and placed a call on his cell.

Along the way, “hey Jessica” was tossed at her from people she had met during the whirlwind of introductions on her previous visit. She acknowledged their greetings, but could not respond in kind by using their name. Names
and
faces were still such a blur. Once they were outside the building, she confessed her inability to recall the names of those who greeted her.

Paul set off down the sidewalk as he addressed her concern. “You should be able to recognize the more senior people, Jessica, if you bump into one of them. Our website can help you with that. Amy is planning a kind of open house at the Palm Desert office in the fall. We’ll coordinate that event with our annual meeting, probably after Thanksgiving. That will give you a chance to mingle and meet more of the members of the firm. We’re talking about a couple hundred lawyers, Jessica, and twice that many legal assistants, interns and suppor
t staff. Give yourself a break.”

He was moving at a pretty good clip. The LA streets were bustling with foot traffic, as well as the constant stream of cars. Rush hour was building to a pitch. Jessica hustled to keep up, chatting a bit more about the ground she had covered with the Van der Woerts. When they had
travelled several blocks, making a turn or two, Jessica was lost until a recognizable storefront came into view. The A & D, the Architecture and Design museum, she knew, of course. Her father had taken her there on more than one occasion since it opened in 2001. As they reached the front door, Paul held it open for her.

“In you go,” he said. Once inside, they met up with a middle-aged man, casually attired in an arty mix of nerd and hip. “This is Jessica Huntington, Jeff. Jessica, Jeffrey Stark is working on an exhibit that will open the end of July, and there are a few things you just have to see while you’re in town.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Jessica. Follow me.” He was smiling pleasantly as he led them through a maze of space in the process of transformation. “Watch your step,” he cautioned, “and your head!” he added, ducking through a doorway with a half hung banner slumping in the door opening.

“Here we are,” their escort announced. The three of them came to a halt in front of a long glass enclosed display case. In the case were architectural renderings and blueprints. There was something familiar about the artist’s drawings and the graphic designs set out side-by-side in the case. The soaring lines and bold angles were classic mid-century modern but infused with the love of the outdoors, and something fanciful or romantic. It suddenly hit her. She knew where she had seen them, or something similar.

“Dad’s, these are Dad’s designs. Oh my God, Paul, how did you find these?” Jessica was fascinated as she peered at the items in the case. There, on one of the prints, was her father’s signature. It was Jeff who answered her question.

“The exhibit is going to be called “Never Built,” Jessica. It will pay homage to the Los Angeles imagined but never realized by artists and architects like your father. We’ll mount an enlarged image of one of his designs on the wall behind this display case, and there will be a brief bio
and photos of the things he
has
done in LA and elsewhere. That will include your family home in the desert, by the way.” He walked her down to one of the last exhibits at the far end of the display case. There was an exquisite rendering of the house in Mission Hills. A drawing just like that, penned in ink by her father, was hanging in a frame in his office. This had to be a copy, or an earlier draft, perhaps.

“But how did you find out about this, Paul?”

“Paul is on our board, Jessica. When he saw your dad’s name on the list of individuals we were including in this exhibit, he offered to foot the bill for the whole thing. He was thrilled. He’s been a fan of your father’s work for years. Now I see he’s a fan of his daughter, as well.”

Jessica spun about and threw her arms around Paul, tearing up as she thanked him. Swept up in a rush of gratitude, she fought to regain her composure as she clutched at the fine Italian wool in Paul’s blazer. There was something so completely disarming about the thoughtfulness of this gesture that she was overcome by emotion. Inexplicable, unanticipated kindness was a powerful thing
. A potent antidote to the dark revelations about Kelly and the malevolence that killed her.

Paul had put his arms around her, holding her close as she recovered from the impact of his surprise. Taking a step back, she was able to speak again. Both men were smiling, pleased to have made her so happy.

“Actually, I’m his fan, Jeff, and yours now too. This is such a wonderful thing you’ve done for my father. Does he know?”

“Oh yes, we’ve told him. Ther
e will be an opening night gala on the 31
st
. Your father and several other living architects will be there. Others will be represented by their families. We hope you’ll join us too, Jessica. You’ll get a formal invitation, by mail, but now you can go ahead and put it on your calendar.”

“Of course I’ll be there. This is just so amazing. I should make a donation, too. Will you take a check?” Her head was still spinning as she wrote out a large check to the A&D. The place not only served as a museum but also did outreach and education, identifying and nurturing the next generation of Hank Huntingtons.

Jessica was awash in a glow all evening long. Paul was pretty happy too, charming and animated. He regaled her with tales about his childhood, growing up in California amid an odd assortment of family members. He had a brother and two sisters. From what Jessica gathered, they were more invested in spending the family money than preserving or adding to it. True to Andrew Carnegie’s old adage, “from shirtsleeves back to shirtsleeves in three generations,” meaning the first generation makes the money, the second holds on to it, and the third squanders it. Paul was fighting to hold the line on his share of the family fortune. That fortune had its roots in the California gold rush. Not gold per se, but a fortune made in the sale of pick axes, dried beans, coffee and other supplies sold to the droves of treasure hunters who flooded into California in the 19
th
century.

Paul was the only member of the family’s current generation to pursue a legal career, though that line of work was well-represented among his ancestors. An uncle was a sitting member of the California Supreme Court and his great uncle had been a lawyer who moved into politics, as many do. That great uncle was a member of the United States Senate for a couple decades, serving i
n an era when a long tenure in Congress was considered a virtue rather than a vice.