The Gods of Guilt (Mickey Haller 5) (16 page)

I, on the other hand, had long since given up any hope of identifying the man in the hat. To me the trail was dead cold. Most security systems don’t keep video for more than a month. Most of the places where Cisco made inquiries told him they had no video from the night Gloria Dayton was murdered. That he was too late.

“Well, you can drop that,” I said. “I’ve got a name I want you to put at the top of your to-do list. I want to find her as soon as possible.”

I gave him the name Trina Rafferty and filled him in on my conversation with Roberts about her.

“If she’s still a working prostitute she could be anywhere from here to Miami and this might not even be her real name,” he said.

“I think she’s close,” I said. “I think Fulgoni may even have her stashed somewhere. You need to find her.”

“Okay, I’m on it. But why the big hurry? Won’t she say the same thing Roberts just told you?”

“Somebody knew Glory Days was the CI who set up the Moya arrest. That wasn’t Kendall Roberts—at least she says it wasn’t her. I think that leaves Trina Trixxx. I think Fulgoni already got to her and I want to know what she told him.”

“Got it.”

“Good. Let me know.”

I disconnected. Earl told me we were coming up on the address for Flex, the yoga studio owned by Roberts. He slowed the car to a crawl as we passed by the storefront studio. I checked the hours printed on the door and saw the place was open eight to eight every day. I could see people inside, all women and all in downward dog positions on rubber mats on the floor. I knew the position because my ex-wife was a longtime yoga enthusiast.

I wondered if Roberts’s clients minded being on display to the street and passersby on the sidewalk. Many of the positions in yoga have a subtle or overt sexuality to them and it seemed odd to have a studio where one wall was floor-to-ceiling glass. As I pondered the question, a woman inside the studio walked up to the window and held her hands up to her eyes, pantomiming that she was looking at me through binoculars. The point was clear.

“We can go now, Earl,” I said.

He picked up speed.

“Where to?”

“Let’s go down the road a bit to Art’s Deli. We’ll pick up sandwiches and then I’ll go see Legal Siegel for lunch.”

A
t eight-thirty that night I knocked on the door at Kendall Roberts’s home. I had been sitting out in the Lincoln on her street and waiting for her to return.

“Mr. Haller. Is something wrong?”

She was wearing the same outfit from earlier and I assumed she had come from work at the yoga studio.

“No, nothing is wrong. I just came back to tell you that you can forget about that subpoena.”

“What do you mean? Did you take it to a judge like you said?”

“Didn’t need to. I noticed after I left here that there wasn’t a seal on it from the clerk of the U.S. District Court. Moya’s case is in federal court. Gotta have that seal or it’s not legit. I think the lawyer, Fulgoni, was trying to see if he could get you to come in on the sly, so he doctored up what looked like a subpoena and had his man take it out to you.”

“Why would he do that—I mean, want me to come in on the sly?”

I had already been puzzling over this, especially since the subpoena Fulgoni had dropped on me had been legit. Why go through the correct motions on mine and not Kendall’s? So far I hadn’t been able to figure out why.

“Good question,” I said. “If he wanted to keep it quiet, he could have filed the subpoena request under seal. But he didn’t. Instead he tried to bluff you into coming in for an interview. I’m probably going to go see him tomorrow and that’s exactly what I’ll ask.”

“Well, it’s all confusing . . . but thank you.”

“Confusion aside, we aim to please at Michael Haller and Associates.”

I smiled and then felt dumb about what I had just said.

“You know, you could’ve called me. I gave you my number. You didn’t have to come all the way back out here.”

I frowned and shook my head like her concern was warrantless.

“It was no problem. My daughter lives nearby with my ex and I swung by there for a bit.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. I had indeed driven by my ex-wife’s condo building and stared at the lighted windows of her unit. I imagined my daughter in there in her bedroom, doing her homework or on the computer tweeting or Facebooking with friends. I had then driven over to see Kendall Roberts.

“So that means that next Tuesday I don’t have to go to that lawyer’s office?” she asked.

“No, you’re clear,” I said. “You can forget about it.”

“And I won’t have to go to court or testify about anything?”

That was the big question and I knew I had to stop making promises I was not sure I could keep.

“What I’m going to do is see Fulgoni tomorrow and make it clear to him that you’re out of it. That you have no knowledge that will be useful to him in this matter and he should forget about you. I think that should take care of it.”

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

I didn’t make a move to leave and she glanced over my shoulder toward the street where my car was parked again in the red zone.

“So, where’s your partner? The mean one.”

I started to laugh.

“Oh, Earl? He’s off now. He’s actually my driver. Sorry again about that today. I didn’t know what I was getting into when we came here.”

“You’re forgiven.”

I nodded. There was nothing else to say at that point, but I still didn’t move from my position on the front doorstep. The silence became awkward and she finally broke it.

“Is there . . .”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m just standing here like a goof or something.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, I, uh . . . you know, the real reason I came back is I wanted to talk about that question you asked. I mean, from earlier today.”

“What question?”

She leaned against the door frame.

“You asked me about the past, you know? About how I lived with the past. My past.”

She nodded. She remembered now.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was being sarcastic and that was out of line. I had no business—”

“No, it’s fine. Sarcasm or not, the question was valid. But then that guy knocked on the door with the phony subpoena and I, you know, never answered the question.”

“So you came back to answer it.”

I smiled uneasily.

“Well, sort of. I thought . . . that the past for both of us was something . . .”

I started laughing with embarrassment and shook my head.

“Actually, I don’t know what I’m saying here.”

“Would you like to come in, Mr. Haller?”

“I would love to but you have to stop calling me that. Call me Michael or Mickey or Mick. You know, Gloria used to call me Mickey Mantle.”

She held the door wide and I stepped into the entry area.

“I’ve also been called Mickey Mouth on occasion. You know, because lawyers are sometimes called mouthpieces.”

“Yes, I get it. I was about to have a glass of red wine. Would you like one?”

I almost asked if she had something stronger but thought better of it.

“That would be perfect.”

She closed the door and we went into the kitchen to get glasses and pour the wine. She handed me a glass and then took up her own. She leaned against the counter and looked at me.

“Cheers,” I said.

“Cheers,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Your coming here, this isn’t some sort of thing you have, is it?”

“What do you mean? What thing?”

“You know with women . . . like me.”

“I don’t—”

“I’m retired. I don’t do it anymore, and if you went through this whole damsel in distress thing with the subpoena because you thought—”

“No, not at all. Look, I’m sorry. This is embarrassing and I should probably just go.”

I put my glass on the counter.

“You’re right,” I said. “I should’ve just called.”

I was halfway to the hallway when she stopped me.

“Wait, Mickey.”

I looked back at her.

“I didn’t say you should’ve just called. I said you
could’ve
just called. There’s a difference.”

She took my glass off the counter and brought it to me.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I needed to get that out of the way. You’d be surprised how my former life still affects my current one.”

I nodded.

“I get it.”

“Let’s go sit down.”

We went into the living room and took the same seats we sat in earlier in the day—across from each other, a coffee table between us. The conversation was stilted at first. We exchanged banal pleasantries and I complimented the wine like the expert oenophile I was not.

I finally asked her how she ended up with a yoga studio and she matter-of-factly explained that a former client from her escort days had loaned her the initial investment. It reminded me of my attempt to help Gloria Dayton but obviously with different results.

“I think for some of the girls, they really don’t want to get out,” Kendall said. “They get what they need from it—on a lot of levels. So they may talk about wanting out but they never do it. I got lucky. I wanted out, and there was someone there to help me. How’d you end up being a lawyer?”

She had expertly if not abruptly thrown the lead back to me and I responded with the basic explanation about following a family tradition. When I told her my father had been Mickey Cohen’s attorney, her eyes showed no recognition.

“Way before your time,” I said. “He was a gangster out here in the forties and fifties. Pretty famous—there’s been movies about him. He was part of what they called the Jewish Mafia. With Bugsy Siegel.”

Another name that did not register with her.

“Your father must have had you late in life if he was running around with those guys in the forties.”

I nodded.

“I was the kid from the second marriage. I think I was a surprise.”

“Young wife?”

I nodded again and wished the conversation were going in a different direction. I had sorted all of this out for myself before. I had checked the county records. My father divorced his first wife and married his second less than two months later. I came five months after that. It didn’t take a law degree to connect the dots. I was told as a child that my mother had come from Mexico, where she was a famous actress, but I never saw a movie poster, a newspaper clipping, or a publicity still anywhere in the house.

“I have a half brother who’s an LAPD cop,” I said. “He’s older. He works homicide.”

I didn’t know why I said it. I guess to change directions.

“Same father?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you guys get along?”

“Yeah, to a point. We never knew about each other until a few years ago. So consequently I guess we’re not that close.”

“Isn’t it funny that you didn’t know about each other and you became a defense lawyer and he became a cop?”

“Yeah, I guess. Funny.”

I was desperate to get off the path we were on but couldn’t think of a topic that would do it. Kendall rescued me with a question that broke new ground but was equally painful to answer.

“You mentioned your ex. So you’re not married?”

“No. I was. Twice, actually, but the second one I don’t really count. It was quick and painless. We both knew it was a mistake and we’re still friends. In fact, she works for me.”

“But the first one?”

“We have the daughter.”

She nodded, seemingly understanding the lifelong complications and connections a broken marriage with a child produces.

“And your daughter’s mother, are you on good terms?”

I sadly shook my head.

“No, not anymore. Actually, I’m not on good terms with either of them at the moment.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.”

I took another drink of wine and studied her.

“What about you?” I asked.

“People like me don’t have long relationships. I got married when I was twenty. It lasted a year. No kids, thank god.”

“Do you know where he is? Your ex? I mean, do you keep track of each other? My ex and me, we’re in the same business. The law, so I see her in the courthouse every now and then. If she sees me coming in the hall, she usually goes the other way.”

She nodded but I didn’t detect any sympathy.

“Last time I heard from my ex he wrote me a letter from a prison in Pennsylvania,” she said. “He wanted me to sell my car so I could send him money each month. I didn’t reply and that was about ten years ago. He’s still there for all I know.”

“Wow, and here I was all ‘woe is me’ because my ex-wife turns away from me in the courthouse. I think you win.”

I hoisted my glass to toast her and she nodded in acceptance of the win.

“So, why are you really here?” she asked. “Are you hoping that I can tell you more about Glory?”

I looked down at my glass, which was now almost empty. This was either going to be the end of things or the start.

“You’d tell me, right, if there was something I needed to know about her?”

She frowned.

“I told you all I know.”

“Then I believe you.”

I finished my wine and put the glass on the table.

“Thanks for the wine, Kendall. I should probably go now.”

She walked me to the front door and held it open for me. I touched her arm as I passed by. I tried to think of something to say that would leave us with the possibility of another meeting. She beat me to it.

“Maybe next time you come back, you’ll be more interested in me than the dead girl.”

I looked back at her as she closed the door. I nodded but she was gone.

I
was trying to talk a final shot of Patrón out of Randy after last call at Four Green Fields, when my phone screen lit up on the bar top. It was Cisco and he was working late.

“Cisco?”

“Sorry if I woke you, Mick, but I thought you’d want me to.”

“No worries. What’s up?”

Randy hit the bright lights and started blasting “Closing Time” on the sound system, hoping to chase the lingering drinkers out.

I hit the mute button late and slid off the stool to head to the door.