Anatomy of a Crossword (18 page)

“That didn't sound overly enthusiastic.” Rosco's arms now held his wife tight.

She looked into his face, so close, so familiar, so loving and kind. “Okay.”

“Better. Not
great
acting yet, but better … Maybe Dean can give you some coaching. Or maybe Sara. She seems to have come a long way in just one day.” He kissed Belle, and she kissed him back, straightening her spine and lifting her chin.

“Okay.” She allowed herself a gentle, self-deprecating laugh. “Two pieces of anonymous crossword fan mail.”

“That's the spirit,” Rosco said. “Now … let's start with Groslir … Much as I think the guy's a jerk for browbeating you, he does have three signed contracts and legal precedents on his side.”

Belle's mood reverted instantaneously, and her body language followed suit. “If I'd known how potentially dangerous it was to be part of this movie, Rosco, I would never have allowed Sara to come out here. That's what's really bothering me.”

“Hold on there … One: Sara's her own person; nothing—and I mean
nothing
—would have prevented her from grabbing this chance at some campy entertainment. Two: if you're referring to Nan's accident, that's all it was. Unfortunate? Sure. Scary for everyone involved? Absolutely. But accidents can happen, Belle.”

“What about the original ‘Rosco'?”

“I'll bet car crashes occur so often in Southern California that folks don't even blink an eye any longer … Maybe that's why most people out here own multiple vehicles—because one's always in the body shop.”

Belle didn't respond immediately; when she did, it was clear that Rosco's argument had had little effect. “I just don't have a good feeling about this situation. And I'm not talking about the Chick and Debra disaster.”

“Sara's not in danger, Belle.” Rosco tried for a reassuring chuckle. “Heck, if I'd thought this set—or anything remotely involved with spending a week in Los Angeles—was potentially harmful, I wouldn't have let you come out here, let alone Sara.”

Belle raised her eyebrows. “Didn't I hear you mention something earlier about people making their
own
decisions?” Then she shook her head. “Something weird's going on, Rosco … I don't know what, but it's not good.”

“Well, I vote we put all concerns on the back burner till tomorrow. There's nothing to be gained by stewing over it tonight.”

“You just want to get me into bed,” Belle said with a small chuckle. For the first time since their conversation had begun, her tone was not only relaxed but relieved.

“Did I say that?” He glanced around the room as if looking for a nonexistent witness to support his claim. “I never said that.”

“It's all in the translation.” She chortled again, then rose and began turning down the bed. “I miss home.”

“You miss Kit, that's what you miss … and having to fight for space in your own bed. Thank goodness we only have one dog, that's all I can say.”

“It's her bed, too, Rosco, in case she hasn't made that abundantly clear.”

Rosco smiled. “I imagine Kitty believes that
she's
allowing us to sleep on
her
bed.” Then his smile turned serious. “It's only a week, Belle. It'll be over before you know it, so let's try to make it fun.”

“I know.”

“And we're in this together.”

“I know that, too.” Belle walked back toward him, but before she could put her arms around his neck, the phone rang. Rosco reflexively reached for the receiver.

“Polycrates,” he said as he looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was twenty past ten.

Two minutes ensued during which time Rosco remained mostly silent, mumbling “Uh-huh,” a few times while a male voice on the other end of the line did nearly all the talking. Belle, standing close, could hear the man's staccato and persistent tone, but couldn't make sense of the words.

As soon as Rosco hung up, she asked, “Who's calling at this late hour?”

“Jillian Mawbry.”

“Who?”

“Debra Marcollo's defense attorney. He'd like to have a word with me.”

CHAPTER 21

Rosco had never been a morning person, but 7:30
A.M.
panned out to be the only time he had available for Jillian Mawbry. And since he was still rolling along on East Coast time, it wasn't all that bad; the rest of the day would be spent with Sara on the
Anatomy
set. Because of the early hour, Mawbry's offices in Westwood were not yet open, so they'd agreed to meet at his home on Paula Avenue, just over the Burbank line in Glendale. Rosco had little trouble locating the house. It was a nicely maintained three bedroom ranch-style home with a decent-size lawn, but the neighborhood was wedged between the meeting point of the number 5 Freeway and the 134. The noise from the cars, trucks, and Harley-Davidsons was close to deafening.

Rosco parked the Mustang behind a black-and-gold pickup truck and debated whether to raise the convertible's top as he studied the less-than-quiescent scene. Two laborers spoke in Spanish while trimming the bushes in front of Mawbry's house while another man stood on the property's side walkway staring into a green box that Rosco guessed was a sprinkler control panel. All three looked like honest men, so Rosco opted to leave the top down. He stepped from the car, glanced at the words painted on the truck's door, and smiled.
MARQUIS DE SOD LANDSCAPING—LET ME WHIP YOUR LAWN INTO SHAPE
!

Rosco walked up the brick path toward the front door but was stopped by the man near the sprinkler box.

“He's out back. It's easier to go around the side.”

“Thanks,” Rosco said, then added an affable: “You're working early.”

“I take advantage of the mornings and evenings; when the sun's hot and high, I take a siesta. It's the only way to keep from frying your brains.”

Rosco nodded toward the pickup truck. “Great name … Are you the ‘Marquis'?”

He nodded. “What can I say, people notice it. A name like that … You'd be surprised how many people hire me just because they like the sound of it.” He extended his hand to Rosco. “I'm Max, Max Chugorro … You're not a producer, are you?”

Rosco laughed. “No, 'fraid not. In fact, I don't know the first thing about the movie business.” He glanced down at his trousers and shoes. “Do I look like a producer?”

“Come to think of it, no. You're a little too rumpled … maybe a little too casual … I'd say you looked more like ‘talent' than a ‘suit.'”

“‘A suit'?”

“A studio exec … That's what I like call producers and business-types like that. A suit's what distinguishes them from us working stiffs.”

“I see.”

“Actually, I do a little screenwriting on the side, so I try not to let any opportunity pass me by, just in case you were in on the production end. You guys from the East Coast have a different way of dressing.”

Rosco didn't bother to ask how Max Chugorro had pegged him as an outsider; the flat “A” of a his Massachusetts accent was hard to mistake.

The landscaper/screenwriter cocked his thumb over his shoulder. “Mr. Mawbry's in the back on the terrace … All that brickwork's mine.” Max handed Rosco a business card. “Let me know if you need anything done. I've got dynamite references. If you're not into home hardscaping or landscaping, pass the card along. In fact, if you don't live here, pass it along to someone who does.”

“Will do.”

Rosco strolled down the walkway to the rear of the house. There was a substantial stretch of lawn out back as well, along with a ten-by-twenty-foot brick patio surrounded by a low wall covered with molded concrete planters. Jillian Mawbry sat in a metal chair in front of a matching table. A pot of hot coffee, two cups, and a plate of rolls and bagels were before him. He was speaking on a cordless telephone and waved for Rosco to join him and help himself to coffee.

The attorney was younger than Rosco had expected; possibly Belle's age, which was thirty-one, but his reddish-brown hair had already begun to thin, and his skin was a greenish and unhealthy white. Although as tall as Rosco, his pale pink Ralph Lauren polo shirt hung slackly from his shoulders, and his arms had no more muscle definition than copper tubing. After a moment, Mawbry disconnected his call and offered Rosco a surprisingly flaccid and indifferent hand. For a moment, Rosco wondered whether the man was ailing.

“Sorry … My sister's getting a divorce. Second one in as many years. I wish she'd have the good sense to find richer husbands if she's going to dump them so quick.”

Rosco wasn't sure if he should laugh, smile, or look sympathetic, so he remained poker-faced and said nothing.

“I appreciate you driving all the way over to the Valley. I would have come to Santa Monica, but I had ‘The Marquis' scheduled to do some sprinkler work, and he needed to get into the house and my breaker box. And Max has not been an easy man to book lately. Ya gotta grab him when you can.”

“Not a problem,” Rosco said, raising his voice above the freeway din. “I've got a nice rental car. I like to drive, see new places.”

“I know, I know, the noise here is enough to make you crazy. I'm putting the house on the market in the spring. Moving to the other side of the hill. I was nuts to buy this place … Anyway, let's get to it, shall we? What do you know about Debra Marcollo?”

Rosco shrugged. “Nothing really … She's been arrested for murdering Chick Darlessen … And you're her lawyer. That's about it.”

“Let me step back a bit. Why do you think I've taken on this case? And it's not for the bucks; Debra Marcollo doesn't have a plugged nickel, so scratch any big fat fee.”

“I don't suppose
altruism
would be the answer you're looking for?” Rosco smiled for the first time. Mawbry didn't, so Rosco pushed on. “It's no different in New England … This case has notoriety. So my guess is you probably had to pull a few strings in order to be retained … The big guns with their mugs in the papers couldn't have been far behind.”

Mawbry laughed. “Darlessen's murder is small potatoes for heavy-duty trial lawyers, but you're right on one count: I had to pull a few strings. A case like this could put me on the map. Right up there with your notorious ‘big guns.'”

“And you want me to do some investigative work.”

It was a statement, not a question, but Mawbry responded with a surprisingly decisive, “Right.”

“I'm not licensed to work in California; I assume you're aware of that? Why not get a local P.I.?”

Jillian Mawbry laughed, but the sound had a hollow ring as if the man were practicing human vocal responses. “A license doesn't mean jack as far as I'm concerned. What's a license signify? That you get to carry a gun, right? You won't need a weapon, legal or not, to help me out … And, as far as a local investigator's concerned? Forget it; you're already here. You're on the
Anatomy
set. You're part of the furniture, for pete's sake … Look. A new guy snooping around only puts people on edge. You? You're a tourist. Your wife's under contract for the show. You and the old lady are under contract, too, which makes you just another curious dude asking a few innocent questions.”

Rosco didn't ask how Mawbry had learned about his or Belle's or Sara's studio contracts. L.A. was clearly a smaller and tighter-knit community than he'd originally believed. Instead, he poured himself a second cup of coffee. “What exactly are you looking for, Mr. Mawbry?”

“Jillian, please.”

“Jillian.”

“The answer to that question is
anything
. All I need is something that I can use to plant a strong reasonable doubt into the minds of a jury.”

“From what I've been hearing, it sounds like the cops have Debra Marcollo dead to rights … fingerprints on the gun and a confession to the lifeguard.”

“So, Polycrates, you do know quite a bit, after all.”

“The news was all over the radio on my way here.” Rosco took a sip of coffee and added. “I gather you feel Debra's innocent?”

“Who cares? What's that got to do with the price of eggs? The trick is to drag out the trial as long as possible … Work the press … Get my name out there. But if it makes you feel any better, yeah I think there
is
reasonable doubt, and I don't intend to lose the case.”

“But she confessed …”

Jillian Mawbry opened a leather case that was sitting on the table. He removed a sheet of yellow legal paper. “Here's exactly what she said when she ran into that off-duty lifeguard on the beach Sunday night. I'm quoting from the guard's statement. ‘He's dead, he's dead. I don't know how it happened. The gun … just went off. I don't know. I don't know why I did it.' You can give those words any reading you want, Rosco, but unless, you were there, it's impossible to determine intent because you didn't hear Debra's voice and tone. The only stickler is the sentence, ‘I don't know why I did it.', and she maintains she was referring to leaving the house. In other words, she's claiming she didn't know why she ran from the house.”

“And the fingerprints on the gun?”

“Darlessen had taken her out a few days earlier to give her a lesson in shooting. That's why her prints are there.”

“And she has witnesses to that?”

“No.”

“You mean there was no one else present at the shooting range when she took her practice shots?”

“What shooting range? They fired the gun into the Pacific Ocean.”

Rosco raised his eyebrows. “And no neighbors came out when they heard the shots?”

“In Malibu? What are you, crazy? If they heard anything at all, they probably jumped under their beds and waited for the sun to come up. Look, Polycrates, everything the cops have is circumstantial, as far as I'm concerned. Their case can be picked apart, but I need some alternative scenarios. I need some other motives. Maybe even some other suspects. I have nothing against framing someone else if it means getting my girl off.”