Guilt

CHAPTER 36

Brent Dorf had just left for New York on business. His assistant claimed a return date hadn’t been set but promised to deliver the message.

Robin said, “Brent’ll be interested in what I have for him, I’m counting on you, luv.”

She hung up.

I said, “Luv?”

“Charles is British and gay but he likes flirting with girls. Brent’s gay, too, for that matter. But he has absolutely no interest in girls.”

She laughed. “I can just imagine him and Milo taking lunch at the Grill on the Alley.”

“They allow polyester?”

“On alternate Tuesdays.”

“We haven’t been there in a long time.”

“I don’t think we’ve ever been there.”

“There’s another reason to go,” I said. “Tonight sound good?”

“You’re in the mood?”

“For time with you, always.”

“Meaning you’re tired of thinking.”

I told her that’s not what I meant at all and that I loved her and went back to my office.

Dinner was a two-hour respite and when we left the Grill shortly after ten p.m., I felt loose and content. The night air was clean and warm, an invitation to walk. Rodeo Drive’s around the corner from the restaurant and once the tourists go to bed, it’s a peaceful stroll. Robin held my arm as we strolled past windows showcasing stuff no one could afford. We made it home by eleven.

Making love was a great next step in the quest for distraction but when you’re compulsive and addicted to the bad stuff, you inevitably return to that dark place. I lay next to Robin as she slept peacefully, unanswerable questions eddying in my head.

The following morning, as she showered, I took Blanche outside for her a.m. toilette and retrieved the paper from the driveway. Leafing through, I came across Kelly LeMasters’s follow-up story on the park murders.

Page 10, maybe five hundred words, but she’d scored above-the-crease placement.

Milo had lured her with the promise of something juicy but nothing close to that appeared in the article, leaving LeMasters to play with human-interest filler: the mystery trajectory that had taken Adriana Betts from church-girl to murder victim, the impact of two Cheviot Hills murders upon affluent citizens.

Adriana’s sister, Helene, and the Reverend Goleman were quoted but their comments were no more revelatory than their station-house interviews. The sad mystery of a “strewn infant skeleton” was noted as was the “eerie parallel” to the bones found under Matt and Holly Ruche’s cedar tree. Nothing about the park baby’s racial makeup or parentage.

Milo’s name didn’t come up until the final paragraph, where he was described as “a veteran homicide detective left baffled.” The piece ended with an “anyone with information” message and his landline.

I figured he’d be busy all morning fielding leads, was surprised when he phoned at nine.

“Taking a break from the tipsters?”

“Got Moe and Sean on that, I need to roll. Just got a call from Floyd Banfer, Jack Weathers’s lawyer. He wants to meet, an hour and a half, B.H. parkway, corner Rexford.”

“Right near City Hall.”

“Banfer’s serving papers at BHPD, said he’d walk over.”

“He’s suing the police?”

“Some sort of workers’ comp deal on behalf of a fired officer. Nothing, he assured me, that I’d find objectionable.”

“What’s on his mind?”

“He wouldn’t say but he’s definitely antsy, Alex. I like that in attorneys. Makes them seem almost human.”

Milo and I arrived at ten twenty, found a bench on the north side of the parkway with a clear view of the Beverly Hills government complex. The original city hall is a thirties Spanish Renaissance masterpiece. The civic center complex built fifty years later tried to work deco and contemporary into the mix and ended up looking tacked on. A degraded granite path, Chinese elms, and lawn separated us from Santa Monica Boulevard. Traffic howled in both directions. An ancient man accompanied by a husky attendant inched a walker past us. A trio of Persian women in Fila tracksuits bounced by chatting in Farsi. A young woman who could have been a Victoria’s Secret model if the company raised its standards raced past all of them looking miserable.

Directly in front of us was a six-foot-by-ten-foot mound of lumpy chrome-plate.

Milo said, “What the hell is that?”

“Public art.”

“Looks like a jumbo jet had digestive problems.”

At ten twenty-six Floyd Banfer exited the police station, crossed the street, and headed toward us. When he arrived, he was flushed and smiling, a compact man with a peanut-shaped head, bright blue eyes, and the kind of white stubble that Milo calls a “terrorist beard.”

“Punctual,” he boomed. “Nice to be dealing with professionals.” Compact man with an expansive bass voice.

A hand shot out. “Floyd Banfer.”

“Milo Sturgis, this is Alex Delaware.”

Shakes all around. Banfer’s grip was a mite too firm, his arm remained stiff, his eyes wary. The smile he’d arrived with seemed glued to his face. “Pretty morning, eh?”

“Don’t imagine Beverly Hills would allow anything less, Counselor.”

Banfer chuckled. “You’d be surprised.” His suit was the same dark gray we’d seen yesterday, a slightly shiny silk-and-wool. His shirt was a TV blue spread-collar, his tie a pink Hermes patterned with bugles. Fifty to fifty-five, with thin, wavy hair tinted brown and throwing off red highlights the way men’s dyed hair often does, he radiated an odd mix of good cheer and anxiety. As if he enjoyed being on edge.

Milo motioned to the space we’d created between us on the bench.

Banfer said, “Mind if we walk? That piece of shit they call art makes me queasy and any chance to exercise is welcome.”

“Sure.”

The three of us headed west. The granite pathways are supposed to resist dust but Banfer’s black wingtips turned gray within seconds. Every few yards, he managed to wipe the shoes on the back of his trousers without breaking step. At Crescent Drive we paused until cross-traffic cleared. A helmeted bicyclist rounded the corner and sped toward us and Banfer had to step to the right to avoid collision.

“Totally illegal,” he said, still smiling. “No bikes allowed. Want to chase him down and give him a ticket, Lieutenant?”

Milo hadn’t told Banfer his rank. Banfer did his homework.

“Above my pay grade, Counselor.”

Banfer chuckled again. “So why did I ask for this meeting?”

He paused, as if really expecting an answer.

Milo and I kept walking.

Banfer said, “First off, thanks for being accommodating, got a tough week, if not now, it would have to wait.”

“Happy to oblige, Mr. Banfer. What’s on your mind?”

“Floyd’s fine. Okay, let me start with a given: Jack Weathers is a good man.”

Milo didn’t answer.

Banfer said, “You kind of scared him, popping in like that.”

“Not my intention.”

Banfer picked up his pace. “Be that as it may, Lieutenant, here’s the thing: Jack and Daisy are good people, run a good business, perform a good service-did you know they used to be in the Industry? Small screen mostly, Jack played music and acted, did a whole bunch of Hawaii Five-O’s, some Gunsmoke, couple of Magnums. Daisy was on Lawrence Welk for years. Then Jack did real estate out in the Valley and Daisy did some dance teaching, she was a dancer before she was an actress, performed with Martha Graham, knew Cyd Charisse, I’m talking talent.”

“Impressive,” said Milo.

“I’d say.”

Several more steps. A group of younger Persian women glided past, trim in black velour, wearing pearls and diamonds, listening to iPods.

Banfer said, “What I’m trying to get across is these are decent, honest people, been working all their lives, neither of them came from money, they found a niche, developed it, thank God they’ve been doing well, can even possibly think about retiring. At some point. Though I don’t know if they will, that’s up to them.”

“Makes sense.”

“What does?” said Banfer.

“Making their own decision about retirement.”

“Yes. Of course. My point here is that we’re talking good people.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Floyd.”

“Good. Anyway, in case you don’t know how the Industry works, let me cue you in, it’s all hierarchy. Bottom of the pyramid up to the top, we’re talking highly structured, who you know determines how you do, things can change in a snap.” He paused to breathe. “Who’m I preaching to, this is L.A., you’re pros.”

We reached Canon Drive. A homeless man shuffled toward us, leaving a wake of stench.

Banfer wrinkled his nose. “No more vagrancy laws. I’m ambivalent about that, would like to see them taken care of properly but you can’t just go scoop them up out of the park the way I saw in Europe when I was a student backpacking in the eighties. Made me think of storm troopers.”

Milo made no effort hiding the glance at his Timex.

Banfer said, “Time to cut to the chase? Sure, makes sense.”

But he offered no additional wisdom as we continued walking.

Halfway to Beverly Drive, Milo said, “Floyd, what exactly can I do for you?”

“Accept the data I’m going to proffer in the spirit with which it’s offered.”

“Meaning?”

“Jack and Daisy need to be kept out of any homicide investigation, nor will their contract client-the client in question-be notified of their input to the police.”

“CAPD,” said Milo. “Creative Aura of Prema and Donny.”

Banfer’s chin vibrated. “So you know. Okay, now you see what I mean.”

“You go to court much, Floyd?”

The question threw Banfer off-balance and he stiffened his arms. “When it’s necessary. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“You’re saying I’m long-winded? Would bore a jury? Don’t worry, I do just fine. Am I being a bit … detailed? Maybe I am, yes, I am. Because I told Jack and Daisy I’d take care of it and darned if I’m going to go back to them and tell them I didn’t. They’re good folk.”

“Which one are you related to?”

Banfer turned scarlet. “Why would you assume that?”

“You seem unusually dedicated but sorry if I presumed.”

“Let me assure you, I’d do the same for any client, Lieutenant.” A beat. “But if you must know, Jack was married to my mother’s sister and then she died and he married Daisy. So technically, Daisy’s my step-aunt but I think of her as my full aunt, she’s dear to me, she’s a dear woman.”

“She seemed very nice.”

“Jack’s nice, too.”

“No doubt.”

“So do we have a deal?”

“That depends on what you have to offer.”

“I have the truth to offer, Lieutenant Sturgis-may I call you Milo?”

“Sure.”

“Milo, this can be extremely simple if we go the simplicity route. I give you information and you use it as you see fit in your criminal investigation but you don’t draw Jack and Daisy into it.”

“I have no desire to complicate their lives, Floyd, but I need to be up front with you. If they’ve got crucial information, it could find its way into the case file.”

“Not true,” snapped Banfer. “Just call them confidential informants and everything will go smooth as silk.”

“I can do that but I can’t promise that at some point a prosecutor’s not going to want to know their identity.”

“If that happens, you say no.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Floyd.”

“Then we … have a problem.”

“You may have all kinds of problems if Jack and Daisy don’t cooperate, Floyd. I don’t need to tell you about all the unpleasant legal maneuvers at the D.A.’s disposal.”

“I’ll fight each and every one.”

“That will toss Jack and Daisy right into the limelight.”

Banfer slanted forward, walked faster.

Milo said, “All this hassle just to make sure Premadonny doesn’t get mad at them?”

“It’s not a matter of mad,” said Banfer. “It’s a matter of excommunication. Do you know how powerful those two are?”

“A-list.”

“Oh, no, no, no.” Banfer’s hand arced above his head, like a kid playing airplane. “Miles above A-list. It’s like pissing off the queen of En gland.”

“Last I checked the queen hadn’t excommunicated anyone, Floyd.”

“Okay,” said the lawyer, “perhaps I engaged in a bit of hyperbole, but still. If word gets out that Jack somehow violated a confidence, the results could be professionally and financially devastating.”

“Jack and Daisy signed a gag clause.”

Banfer frowned. “Standard operating procedure when dealing with clients at that level.”

“Maybe so, but we already know Jack sent Adriana Betts to work at Premadonny’s compound and we’re fairly certain he did the same for a couple of other people who may be connected to Adriana Betts’s murder. Did you read today’s Times?”

“Of course,” said Banfer. “That’s why I called you.”

“The reporter’s itching for anything I can give her. I’ve been holding her off but that could change.”

“You’re threatening to leak my clients’ identities?”

“You called the meeting, Floyd. I’m letting you know how things stand.”

Banfer clicked his teeth. “Lieutenant Sturgis,” he said, as if hearing the title for the first time. “Do you by chance have legal training?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment though I’m not sure I should. The answer is just what I’ve learned on the job.”

“Well, you’re a wily man, Milo. Not what I’d expect. Because frankly most of the cops I encounter aren’t what you’d call intellectual giants.”

“You encounter a lot of cops?”

“I do my share of workers’ comp, have represented several of your compatriots, learned how they tick. Typically their long-term goals don’t stretch beyond a brand-new motorcycle and a Hawaiian vacation.”

“Oh, those crazy kids in blue.”

“It was meant as a compliment. You seem different, Milo. A careful planner.”

“Accepted and appreciated, Floyd. So what is it you’d like to tell me in the hope that Jack and Daisy remain bulletproof?”

Banfer stopped, took hold of the bulb at the end of his nose and twisted. His breath had grown ragged. He said, “Let’s sit down.”