Rage

CHAPTER 24

Monday, I called the Daneys’ home. No one answered, so I turned to Sydney Weider and Lauritz Montez.

Weider was no longer at the Public Defender’s and I found no home or office listing for her. Lauritz Montez was still a P.D. but he’d moved uptown to the Beverly Hills office.

He answered his own extension, just the way he’d done years ago. This time, my name evoked silence. When I asked him if he’d heard about Rand, he said, “Oh… you’re the psychologist. No, what about him?”

“He was murdered.”

“Shit,” he said. “When?”

“Nine days ago.”

His voice went flat as lawyer’s wariness took over: “You didn’t call just to inform me.”

“I’d like to talk to you. Could we meet?”

“What about?”

“It would be better in person,” I said.

“I see… when were you thinking?”

“Sooner’s better than later.”

“Okay… what is it now, four-thirty, I’ve got paperwork but I need to eat. Know where the Bagel Bin is on Little Santa Monica?”

“I’ll find it.”

“Bet you will. Five sharp.”

The place was New Age Deli: glass cases of smoked fish and meat and all the right salads, but the stainless-steel/vinyl ambience was autopsy room. Maybe that was honest; lots of creatures had died to feed the early-dinner throng.

I arrived on time but Lauritz Montez was already at the counter ordering. I hung back and let him finish.

His hair was now completely gray but remained long and ponytailed. The same waxed mustache fanned across his bony face; the chin fuzz was gone. He wore a wrinkled cream linen suit, a pink button-down shirt, and a bottle-green bow tie. Two-tone olive suede and brown leather wingtips graced narrow feet; the left shoe tapped the floor rapidly.

He paid, got an order slip, turned, nodded.

“You look pretty much the same,” he said, motioning me toward the single open table.

“So do you.”

“Thanks for lying.”

We sat and he began arranging the salt and pepper shakers and the sugar bowl into a tight little triangle. “I did some checking and found out Rand’s a West L.A. homicide case but no one will tell me anything. You must be wired right into the cops.”

“I’m consulting on the case.”

“Who’s the detective?”

“Milo Sturgis.”

“Don’t know him.” He studied me. “Still a prosecution groupie, huh? How long was Rand out of custody before he got killed?”

“Three days.”

“Jesus. How’d it happen?”

“He was shot in the head and dumped near the 405 North in Bel Air.”

“Sounds like an execution.”

“It does.”

“Any physical evidence?” he said.

“You’d have to ask Detective Sturgis.”

“Such discretion. What do you want from me?”

A kid in a paper hat and an apron brought his order. Sliced pumpernickel bagel, baked salmon, sides of coleslaw and baked beans, Styrofoam cup of tea.

I said, “There are no real suspects, but there is a hypothesis. And speaking of discretion- ”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. So you work full time for the other side?”

“The other side?”

“The righteous bunch that sits on the other side of the courtroom. Are you a resident prosecution expert or just a freelance?”

“I do occasional consultations.”

“Have Freud, will travel?” He lined up his utensils perfectly parallel to his plate. Removed a sugar packet from the bowl and squared a folded corner before slipping it back in. “What’s the hypothesis?”

I said, “They’re looking at Kristal Malley’s father.”

He said, “That guy. Always thought he hated my guts. You really think he’d be that nuts?”

“Can’t say.”

“Isn’t it your job to say when people are nuts?”

“Don’t know Malley well enough to diagnose,” I said. “Never met him during my evaluation and haven’t spoken to him since. How about you?”

He stroked his mustache. “Only time I ever saw him in person was at the sentencing.”

“But you feel he hated your guts.”

“I don’t feel, I know. That day in court, I was up at the bench doing my thing, returned to the defense table and caught him glaring at me. I ignored it but kept getting that itchy feeling at the back of my neck. I waited until the D.A. starting blabbing before I turned around, figuring Malley’s attention would be shifted. His eyes were still on me. Let me tell you, if they were guns, I wouldn’t be here.”

“He owns real guns,” I said.

“So do I,” said Lauritz. He flicked his bow tie. “Surprised?”

“Should I be?”

“I’m a bleeding heart subversive.” His mustache lifting was the sole indication he’d smiled. “But as long as the law says I can own bang-bangs, I will.”

“Self-defense?”

“My dad was military and the one thing we did together was blast away defenseless animals.” He massaged his left eyebrow. “I was actually good enough to qualify for my college team.”

“Have you been threatened because of your work?” I said.

“Nothing explicit, but it’s an edgy job so I stay on the edge.” He removed another packet, smoothed its edges, passed it from hand to hand.

“Law begets order,” he said. “And a shitload of disorder. I stopped fooling myself a long time ago. I’m part of the system so I triple-lock my doors at night.”

“Did Malley ever do more than glare at you?”

“No, but it was a heavy-duty glare. Serious rage. I didn’t blame the guy. His kid was dead, the system’s set up to be us-them and I was them. He didn’t scare me and I’m not scared now. Why should I be? All this time’s passed and he never made a move on me. Do the cops seriously think he killed Rand?”

“It’s just a- ”

“I know, hypothesis.” He wiped salt grains from the top of the shaker. “I suppose you know Troy Turner was murdered, too.”

I nodded.

“Think there’s a connection?” he said.

“Troy was killed a month into his sentence,” I said.

“And this is eight years later. Yeah, if I was Malley and wanted to do the revenge bit, I’d have finished the job quickly. It’s something I thought about when I heard about Turner’s death. I got concerned for Rand, called his warden and asked for a special watch. The jerk said he’d look into it. Definitely bullshitting me.”

“When you called were you thinking about Barnett Malley?”

“Maybe,” he said. “But even in general terms, I was thinking Rand would make a good trophy for some testosterone-laced sociopath out to make his rep.” He looked down at his food but didn’t touch it. “Anyway, I appreciate the warning, but if I got freaked out about every victim’s family member going after me I’d be a basket case.”

He held his hands out, palms up, steady. “See, no anxiety.”

Just compulsively organized table items.

I said, “You’re in Beverly Hills now. Must be a different level of offenders.”

“B.H. is more than just celebrity shoplifters. We handle a lot of West Hollywood’s felony cases, so, no, I’m not sleeping at the wheel.”

“Didn’t mean to imply you were.”

He took a long time assembling a salmon and cream cheese sandwich. Picked out capers one by one and imbedded them around the outer edge of the bagel’s whitened, bottom half. Inspecting his handiwork, he closed the sandwich but didn’t eat.

I said, “How much contact did you have with Rand after he went away?”

“I called him a couple of times,” said Montez. “Then I moved on. Why?”

“He phoned me the day he died, said he wanted to talk about Kristal but wouldn’t give details over the phone. We made an appointment and I showed up but he didn’t. A few hours later, he was found- dead. Any idea what could’ve been on his mind?”

He played with the sandwich on his plate, nudging it with his thumb until it sat dead center. When he looked up, his jaw was taut. “This isn’t really about warning me, is it? It’s about pumping me for information.”

“It’s both,” I said.

“Right.”

“We’re not in an adversarial position, Mr. Montez.”

“I’m a lawyer,” he said. “In my world everything’s adversarial.”

“Fine, but now we’re on the same side.”

“Which is?”

“Getting some justice for Rand.”

“By locking his killer up?”

“Wouldn’t that be a good start?” I said.

“In your world,” he said.

“Not in yours?”

“You want to know something?” he said. “If the cops do find whoever shot Rand and the P.D.’s office gets the case, I’d be happy to take it.”

“Even if the shooter turns out to be Barnett Malley?”

“If Malley accepted me, I’d do my best to keep his ass out of prison.”

“Pretty detached,” I said.

“Survival skills go beyond guns,” said Montez.

“When you represented Rand, did you sense he was holding back about anything?”

“He was holding back about everything. Wouldn’t communicate with me, basically he played mute. No matter how many times I told him I was on his side. It could’ve been frustrating but the script had already been written. I never got a chance to bring in my own shrink because of the plea deal. Sure, I would’ve liked to know what was going on in that kid’s head. Which I didn’t get from your report. That was a masterpiece of omission. All you said was that he was stupid.”

“He wasn’t bright,” I said, “but there was plenty going on in his head. I thought he felt remorse and I said so. I doubt your expert would’ve come up with any profound abstractions.”

“Just a dumb kid? Bad seed?”

I said nothing.

“Yeah, I sensed remorse, too,” he said. “Unlike his compadre. Now that one was a piece of work. Evil little bugger, if Rand hadn’t gotten involved with him, his life could’ve turned out a whole lot different.”

“Troy was the main killer,” I said. “But Rand admitted hitting Kristal.”

“Rand was a dumb, passive follower who hooked up with a cold little sociopath. In a trial, I would’ve emphasized the follower angle. But like I said, nothing would’ve mattered.”

“The script.”

“Exactly.”

“Who wrote it?”

“The system,” he said. “You don’t murder a cute little white kid and walk away.” His hand brushed over his butter knife. Adjusted the angle of the handle. “Weider claimed she wanted to mount a team defense. I was so green I bought it. That tells you something about the system, doesn’t it? One year out of law school and Rand got me as his one-man army.” He waved a finger. “Justice for all.”

“Why’d she change her mind?”

“Because all she wanted to do was pump me for information. Once we got to court, she was going to pull a switcheroo and dump all over my client. Her prelim motions emphasized Rand’s size and strength, she had all this expert research data showing low I.Q. sociopaths were more likely to turn violent. If it had gone to trial, Turner would’ve been morphed into some frail little dupe who’d been physically intimidated by Rand. Anyway, we were spared all that. The case went down easy.”

“Not for the Malleys,” I said.

He showed me his palm. “I can’t think in those terms. And if Barnett Malley doesn’t understand that, I’m ready for him. Nice seeing you again, Doctor.”

I stood and asked if he knew where I could find Sydney Weider.

“Going to warn her, too?”

“And pump her for info.”

Montez pulled out a pair of sunglasses, held the lenses up and used them as mirrors. One end of his bow tie had drooped lower than its counterpart. He frowned and righted it.

“You can probably find her,” he said, “on the tennis court or the golf course or sipping a Cosmopolitan on the country club terrace.”

“Which country club?”

“I was speaking metaphorically. I have no idea if she belongs to any club but it wouldn’t surprise me. Sydney was rich then, so she’s probably richer now.”

“Rich girl playing at the law?” I said.

“Good insight, you must be a psychologist. The first time you met Sydney she’d be sure to let you know where she was coming from. Swinging the Gucci purse, letting drop all the relevant data in machine-gun monologue. Like you were a student and she was teaching Introductory Sydney.”

“She talked about her money?”

“About her daddy the film honcho, her husband the film honcho, all the industry parties she was ‘compelled’ to attend. The sons at Harvard-Westlake, the house in Brentwood, the weekend place in Malibu, the Beemer and the Porsche on alternate days.” He mimed a finger-down-the throat gag.

“When did she leave the P.D.’s office?” I said.

“Not long after the Malley case closed, as a matter of fact.”

“How soon after?”

“Maybe a month, I don’t know.”

“Think it had anything to do with the case?”

“Maybe indirectly. Her name got into the paper and soon after she got a fat private practice offer from Stavros Menas.”

“Mouthpiece of the high and mighty,” I said.

“You’ve got that right. What Menas does is more P.R. than criminal defense. Which makes him the perfect L.A. guy. He alternates between a Bentley and an Aston Martin.”

“Does she still work for him? She’s got no office listing.”

“That’s ’cause she never worked for him,” he said. “The way I heard it, she changed her mind and retired to a life of leisure.”

“Why?”

He glanced down at his food. “Couldn’t tell you.”

“Burnout?”

“Sydney didn’t feel deeply enough to burn out. She probably just got bored. With all her money there was no reason for her put up with all the shit. When I first heard she quit, I figured she was going to try to get a movie deal out of the case. But it didn’t happen.”

“You figured because her husband’s a film exec?”

“Because she’s like that. Manipulative, out for herself. She’d fly to Aspen for the weekend on a private jet, be at work Monday in a Chanel suit and try to sound convincing about fighting for justice for some dude from Compton. By lunchtime, she’d be dropping names about who sat next to her at The Palm.” He laughed. “I’d like to think she’s not real happy, but she probably is.”

“Did you hear any specific rumors about a movie deal?” I said.

“I do know that she wrangled to get the case.”

“How?”

“By kissing up to the boss. The way it works at the P.D. is whoever’s top of the list gets the next client. Unless the boss handpicks someone for a specific case. I know for a fact that Sydney wasn’t next up on Troy Turner because the guy who was told me he’d been bumped. He wasn’t bitching, he had no stomach for high-profile bullshit. The way he phrased it was ‘The bitch did me a favor.’ ”

“Was she qualified?”

Montez clicked his teeth together. “I’d like to say no, but yeah, she was smart enough. By that time she had three, four years under her belt and her win-loss record was as good as anyone’s.”

“Three or four years out of school?” I said. “I remember her as older.”

“She was older. After she passed the bar she got married, did the mommy bit, waited until the kids were older.” He wiped his mouth and folded his napkin. “When you see her, give my regards.”

“I will.”

“I was kidding.”

I phoned Milo’s desk from the car. He was out and I asked for Detective Binchy.

Sean said, “Hey, Dr. Delaware.”

“Could you get me an unlisted address?”

“I don’t know, Doc, it’s kind of against regulations.”

“Milo asked me to talk to this person, so in a sense I’m a police surrogate.”

“A surrogate… okay. I guess. You’re not going to shoot anyone, are you?”

“Not unless they piss me off.”

Silence.

He said, “Ha. Okay, hold on.”

Lauritz Montez’s rant about Sydney Weider’s lifestyle had cited houses in Brentwood and Malibu but maybe that had been metaphorical, too. Or, she’d defied his rich-get-richer expectations and downsized.

Her listed residence was a smallish, single-story ranch house on La Cumbre Del Mar, on the western edge of Pacific Palisades. Sunny street cooled by Pacific currents, seven-figure ocean view, but by no means palatial. Splintering redwood siding striped the white stucco front. Half-dead sago palms and droopy ferns backed a flat lawn spiked with crabgrass. A shaggy old blue-leafed eucalyptus created gray litter on the grass. The driveway was occupied by a dented, gray Nissan Pathfinder filthy with gull shit.

As I walked to the door, I could smell the Pacific, hear the slow breathing of rustling tide. No one answered my knock or two bell pushes. A young woman across the street opened her door and observed me. When I faced her, she went back inside.

I waited awhile longer, took out a business card, wrote a note on the back asking Sydney Weider to call me, and dropped it in the mail slot. As I returned to my car, she came walking up the block.

She had on green sweats and white sneakers and dark glasses, walked with a stiff gait that threw her hip out at an odd angle. Her hair was chopped short and she’d let it go white. She was still thin but her body looked soft and loose-jointed and ungainly.

I stepped out to the breezeway in front of her house. She saw me and stopped short.

I waved.

She didn’t react.

I stepped toward her and smiled. She thrust her arms in front of her torso in a sad, useless defensive move. Like someone who’d seen too many martial arts movies.

“Ms. Weider- ”

“What do you want?” Her lawyer’s voice was gone, tightened by fear-laden shrillness.

“Alex Delaware. I worked on the Malley- ”

“Who are you?”

I repeated my name.

She stepped closer. Her lips fluttered and her chin quaked. “Go away!”

“Could we just talk for a minute? Rand Duchay’s been murdered. I’m working with the police on the case and if you could spare- ”

“A minute about what?” Ratatat.

“Who might’ve killed Rand. He was shot last- ”

“How would I know?” she yelled.

“Ms. Weider,” I said, “I don’t want to alarm you, but it might involve your personal safety.”

She clawed the air with one hand. The other was balled tight, flat against her flank. “What are you talking about? What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s possible- ”

“Go away go the fuck away!” Shaking her head frantically, as if ridding it of noise.

“Ms. Weider- ”

Her mouth gaped. No sound for a second, then she was screaming.

A gull harmonized. The same neighbor from across the street stepped out.

Sydney Weider screamed louder.

I left.