Simple Justice (20 page)

“You and William?”

“I’m with someone,” she said. “William’s mom.”

She took out her key and unlocked the gate. I held it open for her until she and the stroller were safely inside. She thanked me, bid me a nice day, and went on her way.

I watched her push the stroller down the brick path, taking the left turn toward the three cottages. I stepped quickly back inside and closed the gate quietly behind me.

I kept my distance as I followed. She pushed the stroller past the first cottage, then the second. Samantha Eliason’s bodyguard was no longer in sight.

As she approached the third cottage, I ducked into the woodsy landscape for cover. I hunkered down behind a big Scotch broom, parted some yellow-blossomed branches, and watched her turn up the walk to the porch.

Samantha Eliason stepped anxiously out.

She brightened as the baby was lifted into her arms, and rubbed her nose against his, talking baby talk.

Then she and the redheaded woman exchanged a kiss, put their arms around each other, and went inside.

That’s when I heard a footstep in the dry leaves behind me, and turned into a hail of blinding pepper spray.

How much do you want, Mr. Justice? My bank account has its limits, but we might be able to work something out.”

I was stretched out on the sofa in the second cottage, a wet towel over my eyes, having first flooded my face with water at the kitchen sink.

The bodyguard stood over me with his can of pepper spray, ready to nail me again if I made the wrong move.

“I’m not here to get money out of you, Samantha.”

“Then why?”

“I told you. The Billy Lusk story.”

“I called Queenie Cochran. She told me you do some freelance writing for the agency now and then, which explains how you know certain things. But to use her words, there’s no chance in hell that you’re on the staff of the
Los Angeles Sun
.”

“I didn’t say I was on staff…”

“She also reminded me of who you are and why you were run out of the newspaper business six years ago.”

“I’m working freelance for the Sun,” I said. “Strictly legwork.”

The fire that I’d first experienced in my face and eyes had diminished to an unpleasant but tolerable stinging. Each time I tried to open my eyes, it felt like there was ground glass beneath the lids, so I kept them closed.

“Have Queenie call Alexandra Templeton at home,” I said. “She works for the
Sun
.”

“Why should I?”

“Templeton’s the lead reporter on the Billy Lusk story. She’ll tell you I’m working with her. Or you can call her yourself.”

Eliason must have figured it was worth a simple phone call, because she asked for Templeton’s number. I heard her from across the room, speaking in low tones. I removed the towel from my eyes and opened them just enough to see her with the telephone to her ear.

She hung up, came back, and faced the bodyguard, looking unsure if she were relieved or perplexed.

“He’s telling the truth. He’s working on a story about Billy.”

I asked the bodyguard to point his can of pepper spray in another direction. Eliason nodded, and he put the can away.

“I deeply regret this, Mr. Justice,” Eliason said. “But I’m not going to apologize.”

I sat up, groaning, and used the towel to wipe away the perspiration that coated my face and neck, despite the air conditioning.

“You were trespassing,” she went on, trying to sound forceful rather than defensive, but not succeeding. “Then you were caught spying on me. I have a right to protect myself.”

“With preemptive assault?”

“You have no idea what it’s like living in the public eye. The strange letters. The threats. The possibility of violence. It’s always there.”

I glanced at the bodyguard.

“If he holds his hand over a candle for a few hours, maybe I won’t press charges.” I pinned her with my eyes. “Or file the kind of lawsuit that can smear all this across the papers, not to mention tabloid TV.”

I had no intention of doing either, but I needed to regain some leverage as quickly as possible.

“You promised me that what transpired between us would remain confidential.”

“If you dealt straight with me,” I said. “You didn’t.”

She dropped her eyes, and I saw the tension coiling itself in her well-developed neck and shoulders.

“You want to start over and try it again, Samantha? It might be your last chance. But you’d better get it right this time.”

She found a plastic case of Panter Silhouettes, lit one, took two quick puffs, and said to the bodyguard, “Get Patricia.”

He left.

“Look,” I said, “I don’t want to hurt anybody. I just want to know what’s going on.”

She took another drag, agitated, and stared at the smoldering cigar.

“Another one of my secret vices.” She laughed uneasily. “I quit for the baby, but this whole thing with Billy…”

She stubbed out the cigar and moved around the cottage, opening the windows.

The air had cleared by the time the redheaded woman appeared carrying the sleeping baby. She didn’t look so radiant now; she looked confused and worried.

Eliason asked the bodyguard to go outside, which he did.

“This is Patricia, Mr. Justice.” She hesitated. “My lover.”

The word didn’t come out of her mouth easily. She offered the other woman an apologetic look.

“That’s the first time I’ve acknowledged that to anyone other than a few close friends.”

“You met Mom and Dad,” Patricia said.

“That’s true.” Eliason smiled at the milestone and relaxed a little. “I did, didn’t I?”

In short order, Patricia informed me that she was a physical therapist who lived communally with several other women in a big house they’d purchased in Santa Barbara; that she was spending more and more time at Eliason’s Brentwood home, helping with the baby; that the two women had met while mountain biking in Arizona; and that she’d introduced Eliason to her parents three weeks ago during a trip to Duluth for their thirtieth wedding anniversary. It was more than I needed to know, but at least it indicated that they’d started to trust me.

Eliason took the baby from Patricia, cradling him in her arms.

“And this is William,” she said, sounding very much the proud mother.

“Yes, we met. I saw the resemblance to Billy. That’s what led me back.”

“As you’ve probably guessed, I gave birth to him when I was away in Europe. We named him when Billy and I were still getting along.”

“At some point, you and Billy must have been doing more than just getting along.”

“Billy and I were good friends, Mr. Justice, but we were never intimate. We conceived William using the Thanksgiving method.”

“That’s one I’m not familiar with.”

“Turkey baster,” Patricia explained matter-of-factly. “Sam got pregnant on the second try.” She laughed, and a pink blush seeped in among her freckles. “We’ve been giving thanks ever since.”

“I’ve always wanted a family,” Eliason said. “A committed partner, which I have in Patricia. And a child to love and cherish, which I have in William.”

“Billy’s idea or yours?”

“He knew I was looking for a sperm donor, and he volunteered. The genes made him a natural choice. He was bright, good-looking, healthy. He tested HIV-negative. And we really cared about each other. At least before…”

“Before the drugs changed him?”

She nodded.

“When I was still carrying, I told Billy that if he’d become drug-free, I’d let him spend as much time with his child as he wanted, without any financial responsibility. I wanted William to know his father, for Billy to be part of our lives.”

The baby stirred in his sleep, and she gently jiggled him until he became quiet again.

“I guess that won’t be possible now,” she said.

“But after he got in deeper with his coke habit,” I said, “he started squeezing you for money.”

She nodded again.

“His parents had cut him off, and he was getting desperate. He asked for a little at first, then larger and larger amounts.”

“And when you resisted, he threatened to expose you as a lesbian.”

She chewed a corner of her lower lip. Patricia laid a hand on her dark hair, stroking it gently.

“Ever since we met two years ago, I’ve encouraged Sam to come out,” Patricia said. “I told her it would take so much pressure off her. Meeting my parents was the first step. Coming here, being more open around strangers like us, that was next.”

She gave Eliason a supportive smile.

“I think she just needs a little more time.”

“If you’d planned to come out,” I said, “wouldn’t that take the muscle out of Billy’s threats?”

The distress deepened on Eliason’s face.

“I’m afraid it was more complicated than that.” She gnawed seriously at her lip now. “It still is.”

Patricia picked up the story.

“Billy told Sam that if she didn’t give him what he wanted, he’d tell his mother about the baby. That they’d file for custody, use Sam’s sexual orientation against her in court. Talk to the media. Leave her without a career or a child.”

“You could have fought it legally,” I said.

Eliason pressed her cheek to her son’s downy head.

“And I might have lost. The courts take kids away from lesbian mothers all the time. The prospect of losing my child…I don’t even want to think about it.”

“So you decided to keep William a secret? Even from his grandmother?”

“Mrs. Devonshire is extremely possessive,” Patricia said. “If she knew about William, she’d do anything to get him for herself.”

“And anything,” Eliason added, “to keep me away from him.”

The baby woke, and his pink mouth puckered into a yawn. He reached for his mother’s hair with tiny fingers.

My next question was one the entire conversation had been pointing toward.

“And what would you do to keep him?”

Eliason flushed with anger and turned away, pacing the room with the baby against her shoulder.

“She wouldn’t commit murder,” Patricia said firmly.

She walked to Samantha and put an arm around her shoulders. “Not this woman. No way.”

“I won’t pretend I didn’t despise Billy for what he was doing to us,” Eliason said. “But if someone killed Billy other than that boy in jail, it wasn’t me.”

“Any ideas?”

The two women exchanged a troubled glance.

“I think you should tell him,” Patricia said.

Eliason shifted the baby to her other arm before she spoke.

“Derek Brunheim was obsessed with Billy, Mr. Justice. And every bit as possessive as Mrs. Devonshire.”

“That doesn’t make him a murderer.”

“Billy called Sam on Monday night,” Patricia said. “She was nursing the baby, so I answered the phone. It was late. Only an hour or two before Billy was killed.”

“I didn’t want to talk to him,” Eliason said. “I assumed he wanted more money, and I wasn’t in the mood to deal with him. But Patricia said there was trouble.”

“Billy had told Derek he was moving out, and Derek went ballistic,” Patricia said. “Billy was really scared. I told Sam I thought she should talk to him.”

“I’ll never forget how frightened he sounded,” Eliason said. “In fact, I remember his exact words.”

“I’m always interested in exact words,” I said.

“He told me Derek had murder in his eye.”

Margaret Devonshire had closed the funeral services for her son to everyone but the immediate family, so Billy’s closest friends had hastily arranged a Saturday afternoon memorial service of their own, and had the decency to invite the Devonshires.

It was held at a small reform temple on Beverly Boulevard that welcomed members of the gay and lesbian community to its regular worship services, and had special programs for them as well.

During the 1980s, I’d attended more memorial services than I could remember, but Jacques’s had been the last. I wouldn’t have been at this one except that Templeton had asked me to go with her, pressing me when I’d tried to get out of it.

Because she’d been preoccupied with other assignments, including her Masterman research, she was feeling cut off from the Billy Lusk story. I’d briefed her on the principal characters, but she wanted to see what some of them looked like, as she put it, “up close and personal.” At least that was the explanation she gave for wanting to be with me on a weekend evening.

It must have been a slow news day, because we arrived separately to find three TV crews out front. We took seats inconspicuously inside at the back, off to the right. The late afternoon light cast a pleasant glow through a stained glass Star of David formed in blue against an amber background, set high in a west wall.

Templeton wore a tasteful gray dress with a flowing scarf of deep burgundy that complemented her dark skin and willowy stature, but still managed to be appropriately subdued. My nose caught the subtle scent of cologne as she shifted her chair closer to mine.

She filled me in on the Devonshire family background, which she’d looked into with special interest. Margaret Devonshire had converted to the Jewish faith when she’d married her first husband, Billy’s father. When she later remarried, Phil Devonshire had belonged to a posh country club that excluded Jews and non-whites. He’d insisted she renounce her links to Judaism so that he could keep his membership, and she’d complied, further upsetting her already alienated young son.

“Not that Phil Devonshire’s racist or anti-Semitic,” Templeton added, with a straight face. “He just likes to be with his own kind.”

“From what I hear about Phil Devonshire,” I said, “he’s the ultimate control freak. My way or the highway. And Billy was someone he couldn’t easily control.”

“Meaning what?”

I told her about Phil Devonshire’s fondness for guns, and how he and Billy had been at odds over Billy’s drug use and sexual proclivities.

“It sounds like you’ve put Mr. Devonshire on your list of suspects,” Templeton said.

“Or maybe I just don’t like him very much.”

From our location in the back, we could observe the former golf pro sitting midway down the aisle, looking very much like he wished he were somewhere else. He’d put on considerable weight since his professional playing days, along with a toupee and a drinker’s pickled nose. For the service, he’d dressed in a blue blazer and flashy yellow necktie that seemed close to mockery, considering the occasion. He struck me as someone who probably had more sensitivity for his favorite five iron than for other human beings.

Next to him, Margaret Devonshire was dressed in somber black, looking more worn-out than when I’d first met her, and not at all comfortable attending a service she hadn’t personally supervised.

All around the Devonshires, younger men and women chatted and embraced, and a few were already dabbing their eyes with hankies. It was a sizable crowd that included both gay and straight couples, which indicated that Billy Lusk must have been more personable throughout his life than his recent history indicated.

There were a few older straight couples as well, who exchanged words with Margaret Devonshire, while her husband nodded mechanically with a tight smile fixed to his silent lips.

I directed Templeton’s attention to Derek Brunheim, who was seated in the front row, surrounded by friends and holding court in his customary way.

Then I pointed out Samantha Eliason, sitting alone near the back, across the room, her face hidden behind a veil.

“How do you know it’s her?”

“The shoulders,” I said. “And the walk, when she first came in.”

“From what you’ve told me, she had as much motive for wanting Billy dead as anyone.”

“She admitted that Billy was blackmailing her,” I said, “and threatening her with the loss of her child. The question is whether her girlfriend is lying about the phone call they claim they got from Billy the night he was murdered.”

“Her girlfriend could also be lying about where Samantha was that night.”

“Good point.”

To our left, a tall, broad-shouldered shadow fell across the floor beneath the entrance archway.

As it moved forward, Jefferson Bellworthy followed it into the room, dressed in a sharp-looking black suit over a white silk shirt with a Chinese collar. He strode down the aisle to the front, where he and Brunheim embraced.

I identified Bellworthy, and Templeton gave him an appraising look.

“Now that’s what I call a fine brown frame.”

“You can cool down, Templeton. He’s as homosexual as I am.”

“I’ve never shopped for labels,” she said coyly, and turned her appraising eyes on me.

I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

“Bellworthy seems like a nice enough guy,” I said. “But he’s also got a violent streak. If anyone was in the right place at the right time to murder Billy Lusk and get away with it, it was him.”

“Then there’s your friend, Jin Jai-Sik. I don’t suppose he’ll show up for the service.”

“Not likely.”

“I ran his name through records, like you asked,” she said. “Two drunk driving convictions. Nothing else.”

Just as the room began to dim with the fading sunlight, as if on cue, a young rabbi took the podium. He spoke briefly about Billy Lusk in a personal way, mentioning in particular his gift for making friends, then centered his remaining remarks on the issues of tolerance and brotherhood.

After that, a succession of Billy’s friends, not including Samantha Eliason, rose to remember him; a few recalled colorful events from Billy’s social life that must have caused Margaret Devonshire an uneasy moment or two. A young woman took the stage to perform Billy’s favorite song; she sang a slow, evocative version of “Last Dance” a cappella, and the room filled with the sound of mourners weeping softly and blowing their noses.

When Derek Brunheim stood to speak, Phil Devonshire put an arm around his wife’s shoulders, as if to protect her from the evil that was to follow.

Brunheim talked theatrically and at length, a performance that was both funny and touching, interrupted two or three times when he paused to cry. His words seemed rehearsed but not his tears, and I wondered if Margaret Devonshire felt as much compassion for his grief as he did for hers.

The moment the service ended, Samantha Eliason quickly slipped out a side door, where neither the cameras nor Margaret Devonshire were likely to see her.

Phil Devonshire was on his feet nearly as fast.

He led his wife briskly up the center aisle, a hand at her back to move her along, superiority stamped all over his bloated face. He typified the kind of person for whom I felt a special loathing: rich, powerful, arrogant, bigoted. The type who would smile and make pleasant small talk with Jews and people of color when circumstances required it, but who would do whatever was necessary behind their backs to keep them off his golf course and out of corporate boardrooms.

I had little doubt that he did the same with homosexuals, and I wondered to what lengths he would go to eliminate them from his own family, especially if they vied with him for so much of his wife’s attention, the way his stepson had.

Templeton stood, and I followed her toward the crowded aisle.

“Coming here today must have been difficult for you,” she said.

I had an idea where this conversation was headed, but wasn’t interested in going there, and I kept my silence.

“Isn’t tomorrow the sixth anniversary of Jacques’s death?”

I resented the familiar way with which she spoke his name, but kept quiet about that as well.

“I talked with one of your landlords,” she said. “Maurice. He let me into your apartment yesterday.”

“Yes, I found the clipping from the
Times
.”

“He filled me in on some things.”

“I’m surprised you’ve found so much time to look into my personal history,” I said. “What with all your pressing assignments.”

“I made the time. I like to finish what I start.”

She slipped her arm through mine as we shuffled toward the foyer with the other mourners.

“Jacques is an unusual name,” she said. “Was he French?”

“He changed his name from Walter to Jacques when he was fourteen. After hearing an old recording by Jacques Brel.”

“How interesting.”

“At least that’s the story he told me. He had different versions for different aspects of his life, as the need arose.”

“Sounds like an intriguing man.”

“He was an abused kid whose stepfather sodomized him until he grew hair on his ass.” I hoped the harsh truth might shock her into leaving the subject alone. “To survive emotionally, Jacques retreated into fantasy a lot of the time. He spent most of his life trying to decide if he wanted a father figure to protect him or abuse him.”

“Which one were you?”

“We never quite figured that out.”

We stepped into the foyer and the dying sunlight.

“Maurice told me about Jacques’s illness,” Templeton said. “How you took care of him the last few months of his life.”

“Someone had to take over. Maurice and Fred were worn out. It was my turn.”

“Maurice said you and Jacques loved each other very much. That you broke up several times but always got back together. Like destiny, Maurice said.”

“Maurice has a flair for the romantic,” I said. “Maybe that’s why he and Jacques got along so well.”

“But you did get back together a final time, just before he got sick.”

“We were each working through some things. It was looking like it might work out.”

“Caring for him those last months must have been very hard.”

“It’s always hard when someone you care about takes a long time to die.”

I thought,
There are times when you want them to die, to just get it over with, and then you hate yourself afterward for wishing it
. But I didn’t tell her that.

We moved down the wide steps, where mourners mingled, and toward the street. I saw Phil Devonshire at the wheel of a new Chrysler, driving away fast as the TV cameras panned for a final shot.

“Two weeks after his death,” Templeton said, “you filed your AIDS series with the
L.A. Times
.”

We’d reached the sidewalk. I stopped to face her.

“I really don’t care to discuss this, Templeton.”

“It was the story of two lovers, one caring for the other as he died of AIDS. Was that just a coincidence, Justice? Or was that series about you and Jacques, with the names changed?”

“Are you researching a story of your own?”

“I could be.”

“No comment, then.”

Her Lexus was at the curb. My Mustang was around the corner. I glanced impatiently in its direction.

“You’re angry with me for looking into this, aren’t you?”

“I’m not your keeper, Templeton. You can talk to anyone you please. Do all the digging your reporter’s heart desires.”

She offered a little smile, like a peace pipe.

“How about some dinner? There’s a terrific Thai place just down the street.”

“Thanks. I’ve got an errand to run.”

She took out her keys but made no move to her car.

I was suddenly aware of how close she was standing. So close that if she moved another inch, her chest would be touching mine.

“Then I guess it’s time to say good night,” she said, and closed the inch between us. I stood my ground, and our bodies made contact.

I looked past her, at two men embracing. Their arms were wrapped around each other, almost desperately tight, as one wept on the shoulder of the other.

I felt Templeton’s hand on my chest.

“What are you thinking about right now?”

I looked right into her eyes, tired of all the masks. Especially my own.

“Paul Masterman, Jr.,” I said.

“Seriously?”

“Quite.”

“Why?”

“Because he turns me on.”

I felt her hand drop away and heard the jingle of her keys.

“I’ll call you,” she said, “if anything new comes my way on Billy Lusk.”

She placed a hand on my shoulder and stretched as if to give me a friendly kiss.

When I continued to hold my ground, her mouth moved deliberately toward mine, until our lips touched. She pressed further, and our lips parted just enough so that each of us tasted the moisture in the other’s mouth. It was much more than just a parting kiss between friends.