Guilt

CHAPTER 34

We’d watched the marble-clad building for nine minutes when Maria Thomas called.

“Just had an obnoxious conversation with a Times reporter who brags she’s been dogging you.”

Milo said, “Kelly LeMasters, Olympic gold medalist in the Pestathlon.”

“She getting in the way of the job?”

“If it goes any further, she will,” he said. “At this point she’s just an annoyance.”

“Well,” said Thomas, “she’s threatening to hound you to the ground unless you feed her exclusive info and if you don’t give her anything, she’ll dig for alternative sources and go public. And we both know she’ll find alternatives, all those loose-lipped idiots floating around the department.”

“That’s my problem, Maria?”

“Now it is.”

Milo groaned. Turned to me and gave a thumbs-up and grinned like a drunk.

“Way I see it,” Thomas continued, “you can neutralize her by being selective.”

“Easy for you to say, Maria. You’re not the one getting dogged.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, that’s the way it’s going to be. You’re instructed to meet with her A-sap and offer her judicious info.”

“Define judicious.”

“At this point,” said Thomas, “Moron Maxine’s real estate deal’s totally screwed so feel free to play with the Cheviot Hills angle. Give her anything that doesn’t compromise the investigation.”

“I’ve been shutting her out completely,” he said. “Now I do a total about-face.”

“Flexibility,” said Thomas. “It’s a sign of psychological strength, ask Delaware.”

“I see him, I might just do that.”

“Whatever. Now go meet with the bitch and stay in control. Any progress on the case?”

“Not much.”

“Then it’s no big deal. Feed her a steaming mound of bullshit, press-types are born with taste buds for it.”

Click.

I said, “Didn’t know Machiavelli was Irish.”

He laughed. “When you’re in love, laddie, everyone is Irish.” His head swiveled toward Beverly Drive. A car had pulled up in front of Gold Standard’s building.

Iron-gray Mercedes sedan. A curly-haired, middle-aged man in a navy suit got out and remote-locked the car. Bypassing the mailbox outfit, he opened the door to the second floor, stepped in and up.

Milo said, “Maybe he’s someone needs gift counseling but I’m smelling the musty aroma of lawyer.”

He swung another U, got behind the Mercedes, copied the tags. Continuing south into L.A., he crossed Pico, turned left on Cashio Street, parked, ran the numbers.

Floyd Banfer, home address on South Camden Drive in B.H.

A 411 call obtained Banfer’s professional listing: attorney-at-law, office on Roxbury Drive just north of Wilshire in B.H.

“Keeping it local,” said Milo. “Should I go back in there and confront them or give myself time to plan? I’m leaning toward wait and see.”

“Sounds like you know what to do.”

“Spoken like a master therapist.”

We headed back to the station. He continued past the staff lot, stopped where I’d parked the Seville, kept the engine running.

I said, “Playdate’s over?”

“I’d better get the meeting with LeMasters out of the way. I’d bring you along but she’ll probably make a big deal about the cop-shrink thing and I figure you don’t want the exposure.”

“More important, it’ll be good for Kelly to feel she’s getting your undivided attention.”

“That, too.”

“Anything I can do in the meantime?”

“Clean up your room and stop sassing your mother. What can you do … okay, here’s something: Figure out a way I can get into Premadonny-Land to look for Mr. Wedd.”

“Maybe you won’t need to,” I said. “If he’s holed up there, eventually he’ll leave.”

“Start surveillance on the place?” Out came his pad. “You remember the address?”

“No, but it’s easy to find. Coldwater north, about a mile past Mulholland on the west side of the road there’s an unmarked private road that leads up to a gate.”

“Your research included driving up there?”

“I’m an empiricist.”

“Some rep called you, huh? Wouldn’t it be something if it was Wedd?”

“It would,” I said.

“You’ve already thought about that.”

I wished him well, got out of the car.

He said, “Hooray for Hollywood.” Roared away.