Billy Straight

23

Blue walls, brown booths, the too-sweet fumes of fake maple syrup.

Darrell Breshear wasn't hard to spot. At this hour, the Pancake Palace was almost empty and he was the only black man in the place, sitting in a corner booth looking miserable.

Young voice, but indeed older. Patsy K. had said forty, but Petra pegged him at forty-five to fifty. He'd already started on a cup of coffee; for all his attempts to delay, he'd showed up early. Definitely antsy.

He was thin and sat tall, had close-cropped graying hair, skin nearly as pale as Petra's, African features. He wore a black polo shirt under a gray herringbone jacket.

Bags under his eyes made him look weary. When she got closer, she saw the eyes were amber. A few freckles dotted the bridge of his nose.

He saw her and stood. Six-one.

“Mr. Breshear.”

“Detective.”

They shook hands. His was dry.

“Coffee?” he said, indicating his half-full cup. More like half-empty, judging from his expression.

“Sure.”

Breshear waved for service and ordered for Petra, saying please and thank you and getting the waitress to smile. “Sorry to play hard-to-get,” he said. “Lisa's murder shocked me, and then to be part of an investigation.” He shook his head.

“So far you're a very small part of the investigation, Mr. Breshear.” She took her pad out, began writing, then sketching his face.

“Good.” His eyes wandered to the left. “So…”

Rather than answer, Petra drank coffee. Breshear's eyes started bouncing around.

“Please tell me about your relationship with Lisa Ramsey, sir.”

“We worked together.”

“You're a film editor, too?”

“I'm a senior editor; Lisa worked on my team.”

“Senior editor,” said Petra. “So you've been doing it for a while.”

“Twelve years. I did some acting before that.”

“Really.”

“Nothing big. Not film- musical theater, back east.”

“Guys and Dolls?”

Breshear smiled. “Did that one. And others. It taught me one thing.”

“What's that?”

“I wasn't as talented as I thought.”

Petra smiled back. “Did you hire Lisa?”

“Empty Nest hired her and assigned her to me. She was good. Considering how new she was. She learned fast. Intelligent. What happened to her is unbelievable.”

Breshear's shoulders dropped and now he maintained eye contact.

Petra said, “Did she have prior experience as a film editor?”

“She was a theater arts major in college, took some editing courses.”

“How long did she work with you, sir?”

“About half a year.” Up with the eyes. He sipped, kept his cup in front of his mouth, blocking it from view.

“Are editing jobs easy to come by?”

“Not at all.”

“But Lisa got one because of her college training?”

“I- not exactly,” said Breshear. The cup continued to shield his mouth. Petra shifted forward, and he lowered it. “She- I was told she got the job through connections.”

“Told by who?”

“My boss- Steve Zamoutis. He's the producer.”

“Connections with who?”

“Ramsey. He made a call, and she got hired.”

“Six months ago,” said Petra. “Right after the divorce.”

Breshear nodded.

Doing favors for the ex. Did it confirm Ramsey's claim of a friendly parting? Or had he carried the torch for Lisa, tried to get back with her?

“Let me get something straight, sir. Was Lisa qualified for the job?”

“Yes,” Breshear answered quickly. “Considering her inexperience, she was very competent.”

Petra wrote. And sketched.

Breshear said, “That's not to say there weren't things she needed to learn.”

It took a second for Petra to untangle the double negative. Was Breshear a complex thinker, or was he looking for something other than a coffee cup to hide behind?

“And you taught her.”

“Tried my best.”

“So you and she worked together on the same movies.”

“Two pictures,” he said, naming them. Petra had never heard of either.

Breshear added, “They haven't been put into release yet.”

“What kind of pictures are they?”

“Comedies.”

“No murder mysteries, huh?”

Breshear gave a snorting laugh that he seemed to regret, because he inhaled deeply, tried to compose himself. “Not hardly.” He looked at his watch.

“What else can you tell me about Lisa?” she said.

“That's about it. She had no problems on the job. When I found out she was murdered, it made me sick.”

“Any ideas about who might have killed her?”

“Everyone's saying it was Ramsey, because he beat her up, but I don't know.”

“Did Lisa talk to you about that?”

“Never.”

Petra put the finishing touches on his portrait. She'd drawn him nervous- with haunted eyes. “Not even once?”

“Not even once, Detective. His name never came up, period.”

“Did you ever see Lisa use drugs?”

Breshear's mouth opened and shut. Out came another snort laugh. “I really don't- is it absolutely necessary to get into that?”

“Yes it is, sir.” Petra moved closer again, sliding her hand across the table so it was only inches from his.

He pulled back. “Let me say this: Lisa wasn't a heavy doper, but in the industry people tend to- yes, I saw her snort a couple of times.”

“A couple meaning two.”

“Maybe more. Three or four. But that's it.”

“And this was at work?”

“No, no.” He was light enough to blush. Good. Down went the eyes. He said, “Not at work, strictly speaking. I mean, we weren't actually working- I'm her supervisor. Anything that happens on my shift is my responsibility.”

“I understand, Mr. Breshear. You'd never have allowed cocaine to interfere with her work. But you saw her snorting three or four times on the lot after work. Where exactly?”

“In the editing room, but it was after hours. May I ask why you want to know this? Do you think what happened was related to dope? Because it's not some kind of crazy scene around here. We're all business, have to be. Without us, the picture doesn't get made.”

Long speech. The heightened color remained, lessening the contrast between freckles and background skin.

“Where else, besides the editing room, did you see her snort?”

“At- in my car. That took me by surprise. I was driving and she just pulled out this little glass tube, waited till I stopped for a red light, and sucked it up through her nose.”

“In your car,” Petra wrote, watching as Breshear's eyes did a little ocular roller coaster. “Where were you going?”

“I don't remember.” Breshear snatched up his cup and emptied it. The waitress came by and poured some more and he started drinking.

Petra declined the refill, and when she and Breshear were alone again, she sketched some more, inserting shadows and contours, making him look older. “So you don't recall where you were going. How long ago was this?”

Down went the cup. “I'd say one, maybe two months ago.”

“Were you two dating, Mr. Breshear?”

“No, no- we were working together. Late. That's the way it is in editing. They call you, you cut.”

You cut. The word choice sailed right by him.

“So you and Lisa were working late and…”

He didn't fill in the blank, and Petra said, “How'd you end up in your car?”

“I was probably taking her home, or maybe out for a bite- may I ask why you're questioning me?”

“We're questioning all the men Lisa knew, Mr. Breshear. Someone told us you'd dated Lisa and we're following up.”

“That's wrong. We never dated.”

“So I guess our source is mistaken.” She smiled, guessing that the existence of a “source” would rattle him.

He colored again and his eyes bounced around. This guy was no smooth psychopath, but he was hiding something.

“Guess so,” he said.

“Can you tell me where you were on the night Lisa was murdered?”

He stared at her. Touched his forehead, wiping it, though it was dry. Now his eyes were big and frightened- exactly the expression Petra had drawn on her pad. Look, Dad, I'm a prophetess, too!

“I was with another woman.” Saying it just above a whisper.

“Could I have a name, please?”

Breshear smiled. A sick, guilty, dirt-eating, totally unattractive smile. “That's kind of a problem.”

“Why's that, sir?”

“Because I'm married and the woman wasn't my wife.”

“If she can be discreet, so can I, Mr. Breshear.” Petra waved her pen.

“I'd rather not,” he said. “Look- I'm going to be straight up with you, Detective Connor. Because I don't want you finding out somewhere else and thinking I was hiding anything. Lisa and I had a short-term thing, but it was no big deal.”

“A thing.”

“We slept together. Seven times.”

He'd counted. A scorekeeper?

“Seven times,” she said.

“A one-week thing.”

She wanted to say: Now, tell me, Darrell, was it once a day for seven days, or did you double up a few days and take a break? “A one-week thing.”

“That's it.” The amber eyes bounced. “Actually, we really didn't even sleep together. Strictly speaking- God, this is embarrassing.”

“What is?”

“Talking about the details- I guess if you were a man it would be easier.”

She grinned. “Sorry about that.”

He was staring into his coffee cup again and looked ready to slide under the table.

“So,” said Petra, “how long into Lisa's employment did this thing occur?”

“A month ago, six weeks.”

That matched Patsy K.'s recollection.

“So you were intimate,” said Petra, softening her voice, trying to keep him on the edge but still willing to talk. “But you never slept together.”

“Right,” said Breshear. “I never stayed over at her place, and obviously, I couldn't take her to mine.”

“Where'd you go?”

The blush was deeper than ever. A nice rusty mahogany. It gave him some depth, actually made him more appealing.

“Jesus- is this really necessary?”

“If it relates to your relationship with Lisa and to your whereabouts the night she was murdered, I'm afraid it is, sir.”

“And you have to write this all down?”

“If what you tell me shows you had nothing to do with Lisa's death, there'd be no reason for anyone to find out.” A crock, everything went into the file, but she closed the pad anyway.

He rubbed his temples and studied his coffee some more. “Man… okay, the night Lisa was murdered, I was with a woman named Kelly Sposito. Her place.”

“Address, please?” said Petra, opening the pad.

He recited a number on Fourth Street, in Venice.

“Apartment number?”

That question seemed to bother him even more, as if specificity drove home her seriousness.

“No, it's a house-”

“And you were at Ms. Sposito's house from when to when?”

“All night. Ten P.M. to six A.M. Before that, from around five to six, we had dinner at a restaurant- a Mexican place near the studio. The Hacienda, right down the block, on Washington Boulevard.”

“Ms. Sposito works with you?”

Nod. “She's an editor too.”

Ah, the rub. Lots of rubbing on the job.

“So you never went home and your wife didn't suspect anything?”

“My wife was out of town- she's a salesperson, travels a lot.”

Mr. Take-Charge-Politely Darrell was emerging as the editing room stud. Meaning there were probably plenty of other “things” he didn't want unearthed.

“Do you have to call Kelly?” he said.

“Yes, sir. Do you know where she is?”

“At work. Is that it?”

“Almost,” said Petra. “Can you tell me who Lisa's coke source was?”

“No,” he said. “Absolutely not.”

“No one at the studio?”

“I have no idea. No one at Empty Nest, that's for sure.”

“Because?”

“Because I know everyone and they don't deal drugs.”

“Okay,” said Petra. “But I imagine it probably wouldn't be any big deal finding someone at the studio to supply, would it?”

“Oh, come on,” he said, angry now. “You think 'cause it's the industry we're just running around partying all day. It's a business, Detective. We work hard as hell. I've never seen anyone on the lot try to sell anyone else dope, and Lisa never talked about her source. In fact, the first time she snorted she offered me some and I told her, ‘I don't want you doing that in my car.' ”

“But she continued to snort anyway,” said Petra. “In your car.”

“Well, yes. She was an adult. I couldn't control her. But I didn't want any part of it- for me.” He held the cup with both hands. “You want a confession? I'll give you one. I've had my share of problems with alcohol. Been sober for ten years and intend to stay that way.”

The amber eyes were flashing. Righteous indignation that looked real. Or he should have been on film rather than splicing it. Or on stage- singing his heart out.

“All right,” said Petra. “Thanks for your time.”

“Sure,” said Breshear. “Call Kelly, fine. Just not my wife, okay? Because she was out of town, couldn't help you. Lisa and I were friends, that's all. Why would I hurt her?”

“Just friends, except for that one week.”

“That was nothing,” he said. “A passing thing. She was lonely, kind of down, and it just so happened things weren't going so well between me and my wife. We worked late, one thing led to another.”

He gave a you-know-how-it-is shrug.

One thing had led to seven others.

Seven things had led to another. Petra said, “But you never stayed together overnight. Unlike the situation with Kelly Sposito.”

“That's because Lisa didn't want to. It was a point of pride with her- she was independent, doing her own thing.”

“Where did the two of you go?”

“Nowhere. Just- we- oh, Jesus. All right, here's the complete picture: It all happened in my car. We went out for a bite and on the way back to the lot, Lisa asked me to take a little drive, toward the beach. We took PCH, ended up near the old Sand Dune Club. She asked me to park; I had no idea what was going on. Then she pulled out that tube and snorted.”

“So it was powdered cocaine, not crack.”

Breshear smiled. “Only black people use crack, right?”

Petra ignored that.

He said, “It was powder.”

“She snorted, then what?”

“Then she got kind of… active. Physical.”

“Then you had sex in your car,” said Petra.

“That's the way it ended up,” he said. New tone of voice. Amused?

“Seven times,” said Petra. “You'd go out and she'd snort and you'd have sex in the car.”

“Actually, five of the times were that way. Twice- the last two- I followed her home and waited till she got ready, then we went out for dinner. But we never dated, as in a real relationship. Both times she had to go home for something.”

“Dope?”

“I don't know,” said Breshear.

But he did. They both did. So far, his story meshed perfectly with Patsy K.'s.

Breshear sucked in breath. “I don't know why I'm telling you this, but you might as well know everything. We never really had intercourse. She just wanted to give to me.”

Looking right at her now, sitting straighter, challenging her to press for details.

Because sex was his thing, and once he got over the initial shame, talking about it boosted his confidence.

Petra said, “Oral sex.”

“Yes,” said Breshear, closing his eyes for a second. “First she'd get high, then she'd do it. Seven nights, once a night, the same routine. The eighth time, she said, ‘I like you, Darrell, but…' I didn't argue, because to tell the truth, I thought the whole thing was weird. She wasn't nasty about it. Very nice, just, like, time to move on. I got the feeling she'd done it before.”

“Why's that?”

“Just a feeling. She seemed… practiced.”

Petra didn't speak, and Breshear's eyes saucered again.

“What is it, sir?”

“It's hard to think of her… cut up like that. The news said it was brutal.”

Petra gave him more silence, and he said, “She was a beautiful person. I hope to God you catch whoever did it.”

“Hope so, too. Anything else you want to tell me, Mr. Breshear?”

“Nope, can't think of anything- please don't call my wife, okay? Everything's going real well between us now. I don't want to mess it up.”