Loren D. Estleman - Valentino 03 - Alive! (8 page)

“Are you working with the police?” Lysander’s smile remained in place and his eyes on his visitor’s, who was nevertheless acutely aware that his daily uniform of sweatshirt and jeans was out of place.

“No, they’re not so desperate they’ve taken to hiring film archivists to assist in their investigations. I’m looking into Craig Hunter’s death as a friend.”

“Please accept my sympathy. At my age I’ve grown accustomed to burying friends, but it must be traumatic for one so young.”

“Thank you. I’m older than I look, but I hope I never get so old I’ll take murder in stride.”

“As do I. As a criminal attorney I’ve seen more than my share of crime-scene photos and autopsy reports. I despair sometimes for the future of the race. Two detectives interviewed Mr. Grundage in my presence this morning. We both assured them that we never had any contact with Hunter.”

Valentino knew this for a lie, but it was too early to spring the trap. He wanted to know more about the man he was dealing with. “Craig was beaten to death and his arms were broken ritually above the elbows. Detective Yellowfern said Grundage practically has a patent on the method.”

“If he’d said that here, in front of a third party, I’d seek damages for slander and defamation of character. Mr. Grundage has never been charged with a crime, much less indicted or convicted.”

“That’s a sterling claim for an upstanding citizen to post on his website.”

If he expected the lawyer to bridle at that, he was disappointed. Many hundreds of hours in court had sealed his emotions inside layers of hard shell. “His father, Anthony Grundage—Big Tony—worked his way up from a common longshoreman in San Diego to become an influential labor leader during the Depression. The competition developed its tactics with crowbar in hand, not from behind a desk. His son would be the first to concede that he responded in kind. The Kefauver Committee indicted Anthony on six counts of extortion in interstate commerce in 1951, then dropped all charges for lack of evidence. However, his exposure on national television during his testimony branded him a notorious character until his death. Whatever improprieties the father may or may not have committed, it’s irresponsible and actionable to apply them to the son.”

“He’s being investigated by Congress, just as his father was,” Valentino said. “But you know that, having sat beside him during his appearances. Our senators and representatives don’t take that step for their own amusement.”

“I agree. Are you a native Californian?”

“No. I was born and raised in Indiana.”

“I am. The first firm I interned with had a department that specialized in contract law and represented people in the entertainment industry. In your time here you can’t have failed to note that publicity is the coin of the realm. Washington is no different. Face time means as much to a politician as it does to an actor. When it comes to headlines, the name Grundage is magic. Now, if there’s nothing else you wanted to see me about, I have important calls to place.”

It was a scene-ending line if ever there was one, but rather than turn away in dismissal, Lysander held his ground. Clearly he was expecting his visitor to make the next move. In that moment, Valentino realized the attorney had consented to the interview as much to gain information as to impart it. It was time for the archivist to play his card.

“There is something else. You denied ever hearing from Craig Hunter, but he called you in this office last Friday night.”

Lysander didn’t blink. “Who said that?”

“No one. Your number was on his redial.”

“Anyone is free to dial my number. It’s listed. Perhaps he misdialed.”

“Angering you enough to tell your client, who had him killed using his modus operandi. That’s no sillier than to call it coincidence.”

“Be careful, young man. The line between hypothesis and false accusation is very thin.”

“I have a witness who says he was in conversation for some time with whoever answered. It was the last call he made from that phone before he was murdered.”

“And the name of your witness?”

Valentino shook his head.

“Young man, I’ve faced many an ambitious prosecutor. I know when I’m being bluffed.”

“I told you I’m older than I look. Telephone company records will show whether a call was placed to your number and for how long.”

For the first time he saw an authentic-looking reaction on the lawyer’s face, a slight deepening of the pink on his cheek. “I need to confer with a client before I continue this conversation,” he said. “Would you step outside for a few minutes?”

“Mike Grundage?”

“Please step outside.”

Valentino did so, strolling the reception room and reading certificates of public service preserved in clear Lucite as the woman behind the desk whispered her fingers over her computer keyboard. She stopped typing, listening over her headset. She gave the visitor a chilly smile and pushed the button that unlocked and opened the door to the private office.

This time Lysander remained sitting. Valentino consigned himself to more butter-soft leather in front of the great mass of obsidian.

“What you and I discuss can never leave this office.” The lawyer’s hands were clasped on the glistening surface separating host from guest. Valentino kept his own hands off it, knowing he’d leave a wet mark. “I made that promise in return for permission to breach attorney-client privilege. I can go no further until you agree to that.”

“If it’s a criminal matter, I’m bound to report it. I have no such privilege.”

“So far as my client and I are aware, it involves nothing illegal.”

“If that’s the case, I agree.”

An index finger detached itself from the others and pointed toward the ceiling. “If word of the conversation gets out, I face disbarment. That’s nothing compared with the firestorm of litigation you will face from my partners. It will follow you for years, drain all your resources, and plunge you so deep in debt your heirs will never be able to repay it.”

“I’m already there, Mr. Lysander. I’m rebuilding a theater.”

“You’ll lose it and everything you’ve invested in it. In the end you’ll wish you and Hunter had never met.”

He was used to that feeling; but he nodded.

The finger rejoined its mates. “Hunter’s business was with Elizabeth Grundage, not Mike.”

“His wife?”

“His stepmother. Tony, her late husband, controlled the stagehands’ and projectionists’ unions in Hollywood during the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s. They worked on the sets of
All Quiet on the Western Front, The Wizard of Oz, Frankenstein
—”

“
Frankenstein?
” He thought of that suitcase full of books.

“Yes. Of course, that was long before I was born, but my firm represented the family when Tony was too old and ill in mind and body to look after his financial interests, and counseled Elizabeth when his will was in probate.”

“She must be ninety.”

“Far from it. Tony remarried late in life, after Mike’s mother died. The family has continued to retain me all these years.”

“What business could Craig have had with a gangster’s widow?”

“Quite apart from the slur on Tony’s memory, I resent your characterizing Elizabeth in that way. She’s a grand lady, not a cheap gun moll.”

For the second time in the meeting, upset showed on the smooth face of the officer of the court. It could be artifice; Valentino gave him the benefit of the doubt. “I’m sorry.”

Lysander nodded, apparently mollified. “I was bound by the seal of my profession to divulge none of this to the police, even when it involved Hunter.”

“You admit he called you?”

“I state it, in strictest confidence, and only because Mrs. Grundage gave me leave to do so. He approached her last week with a transaction. When he found out later I’d advised Elizabeth not to become involved, he called me to complain. He became abusive, threatening. He was drunk. I hung up on him.”

“This was Friday night?”

“Yes.”

“What was the transaction?”

“I can’t discuss details. She refused to allow me to, and as her attorney I agree with the decision. She’s suffered enough at the hands of authority and the media through no fault of her own. These latest troubles involving Mike have tried her sorely. She’s entitled to her privacy.”

“Any transaction with the victim of a homicide is evidence that’s being withheld from the police.”

“But there was no transaction. She turned him down.”

“All the more reason to come forward with the details. She can’t possibly be held accountable—unless she told her son and he reacted in gangsterish fashion.”

“Have you had any training in law?”

“Not unless you count helping restore three Perry Mason movies starring Warren William.”

“Even if Mr. Grundage confessed to me that he had conspired to commit a murder—which I assure you he has not—I could not pass the information along without his permission.” Lysander glanced at a platinum Rolex strapped to the underside of his wrist. “I can give you no more time. If you were consulting me professionally, I would send you a bill for two hundred dollars for the amount I’ve given you already.”

Valentino kept his seat. “Why did you agree to see me at all?”

“I’m beginning to wonder.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I must ask you to leave.”

The archivist stood. “Craig Hunter developed a sudden interest in Universal horror films shortly before his death,
Frankenstein
among them. You told me his father had a direct connection with that production. All that, together with how Craig died, convinces me Mike Grundage is involved. He’s a pretty slick character, from what I’ve heard and read. I think if he’s as determined as you are to protect his stepmother from harassment, he wouldn’t be dumb enough to break Craig’s arms and point suspicion directly at himself. I think you may be thinking the same thing, and that’s why you hoped I might be able to help.”

“And what makes you think I’d look for it from an amateur like you?”

“In law, yes; but I’m an expert in what you called ‘the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s.’ I’m pretty sure now you offered to meet with me because of what I do for a living, but you’re too tied up in legal red tape to come out and ask for my advice. Maybe after you’ve conferred with both Elizabeth and Mike, you’ll be in a position to come clean with me. If you’re convinced your client is innocent, and if you can convince me far enough to establish reasonable doubt, please call.”

“It’s worse than that, I’m afraid.”

He’d turned to leave, but the defeat in Lysander’s tone made him turn back. The attorney looked less plump and pink, like a neon bulb that had sprung a leak, losing precious gas.

“There’s a third connection,” he said, “one the police aren’t aware of yet, but they’ll find out once they finish tracing Mike’s financial interests.”

“You mean the legitimate ones.” He could kick himself for alienating his source this close to an agreement; but the lawyer was preoccupied.

“He owns the Grotto, the bar where Hunter’s body was found. Thank you, Mr. Valentino. I very much hope we can meet again—without the legal red tape, as you put it.”

8

HE DIDN’T FEEL
like going home—or rather, to The Oracle; his concept of
home
didn’t include carpenters and plasterers and mad Russians drifting in and out at will. He went back to the office, where there was always work to be found, a new lead on
London After Midnight
to be followed up or a crisis in the lab to attend to that would distract him from an unsatisfactory day of sleuthing. Before, he was vexed by how much he didn’t know; after his session with Horace Lysander, what he thought he’d known he didn’t know now. The case against Mike Grundage had appeared to be open and shut, with only the
why
left unanswered. Now he seemed an unlikely suspect at best.

And what did
Frankenstein,
a sensational novel written in 1816 and adapted even more sensationally to the screen in 1931, have to do with a murder committed in the twenty-first century?

Ruth was on the phone, assuring someone that he had indeed called the university power plant, but that it wasn’t a power plant now (and more’s the pity, was her attitude). Valentino swept past her station, grateful to be spared another soul-destroying exchange, and opened his office door to find a woman seated behind his desk.

Their gazes locked for less than a second before he drew the door shut and confronted Ruth, who was putting down the receiver. “What’s Teddie Goodman doing in my office?”

“She said she was a friend. I told her you might not be back, but she said she’d wait awhile. I told her to go on in.”

“You let in a complete stranger?”

“I had to. There’s no place to sit out here, and I can’t work with people skulking about.”

He wasn’t even sure what work that was. He hadn’t dictated a letter in weeks and Kyle Broadhead was entirely self-contained inside his monk’s cell with his pre-Columbian computer. “What if she turned out to be a thief?”

“Thieves don’t dress that well. They wear striped convict shirts and little black masks.”

He turned back to his door to trade one headache for another.

“That was rude even for you,” Teddie Goodman said when he was inside. “The social graces are lost on you ivy league types. I’m glad I dropped out.”

He’d never quite been able to place her accent. At times she sounded like a bad imitation of Bette Davis in
Jezebel,
at others like Yosemite Sam. At the moment it was Bette, but neither dialect matched her insistence that she was a close relative of Theda Bara’s, the Ohio beauty queen-
cum
-mysterious woman from the Middle East, here to snatch men’s souls on the silent screen. She did bear a passing resemblance to the old-time vamp, a razor-thin mannequin with black-black hair swept back from her sharp features and bladelike nails, today painted deep red to match her lipstick and swath of scarlet spiraling up diagonally from the hip of her black sheath dress and over the opposite shoulder. Her salary as Mark David Turkus’ personal hatchetwoman at Supernova International allowed her to wear the latest fashions from Beverly Hills and Paris, and to wear them only once before turning them over to some less fortunate wealthy woman. At the moment she was using Valentino’s desk as a vanity table, touching up her jet-trail eyebrows with the aid of a black pencil and a compact mirror with a mother-of-pearl case.