Ties That Bind

Chapter Eleven.

Jon Dupre's starkly modern house perched on the edge of a steep hill, separated from his neighbors by woods and facing an expanse of rolling hills and the low mountains of the coast range. The front of the house was curved tan stucco but the back was mostly glass, to take advantage of the spectacular view.

Two patrol cars pulled in behind Sean McCarthy's unmarked car. When McCarthy and Stan Gregaros walked toward the house, several officers grouped behind them. Gregaros grinned and loosened his jacket so his gun showed.

"Jon's not going to be happy to see me," he told McCarthy. Then he rang the doorbell hard and fast, three times. When the door opened, Gregaros flashed his badge at a bikini-clad blonde. She glared at the detective as soon as she recognized him.

"Is the gentleman of the house in?" Gregaros asked.

"Go fuck yourself, Stanley."

She started to shut the door but Gregaros stopped it with his foot.

"Don't be that way, Muriel."

The blonde turned her back on the detective and walked away without a word.

"Lovely young lady," Gregaros told McCarthy in a voice loud enough for the blonde to hear. "Her real name is Muriel Nussbaum, but she's Sapphire when she's working. The blond hair is a dye job but her blow jobs are the real McCoy."

Muriel didn't give Gregaros the satisfaction of a word or a glance as she waded through the deep carpeting that covered the floor of a high-ceilinged living room. She stepped aside when she arrived at a sliding glass door that opened onto a massive wood deck. Gregaros brushed past her. Dupre and a glassy-eyed brunette were chest-deep in a bubbling hot tub. A look of intense hatred suffused the pimp's handsome features as soon as he spotted Gregaros. A cell phone was lying on a low glass table. Dupre muscled his way out of the tub, grabbed it, and angrily speed-dialed a number. His eyes never left Gregaros as the detective crossed the deck.

McCarthy studied Dupre. He had the type of sleek, muscled body that is developed in a gym. His hair was short and styled. McCarthy was certain that Dupre's nails had been manicured. Then he shifted his gaze to Dupre's earlobe. There was a diamond stud in it.

"The motherfucker is here. He's in my house," McCarthy heard Dupre say into the phone, his anger under tight control. As soon as Gregaros got within arm's length, Dupre thrust the phone at him.

"My lawyer wants to talk to you."

"Certainly," Gregaros answered with an accommodating smile.

Dupre handed Gregaros the phone and the detective let it slip through his fingers.

"Oh, gee," he said, as he watched the phone sink to the bottom of the hot tub. "How clumsy of me. And I did so want to chat with Mr. Baron."

"Fuck you, Gregaros," Dupre answered with a low growl as every muscle in his body tensed.

"You're under arrest, Johnny boy," Gregaros informed Dupre, suddenly all business.

"For what?" Dupre asked belligerently.

"The murder of United States Senator Harold Travis, scumbag."

McCarthy thought that Dupre's shock was genuine, but he'd seen savvy crooks fake every emotion known to man.

"I didn't kill Travis," Dupre protested.

"I suppose you didn't argue with him at the Westmont, either."

Dupre started to answer, then clamped his jaws shut. Gregaros grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and turned him around so a uniformed officer could slap on a pair of cuffs. Dupre was wearing a low-cut swimsuit and nothing else.

"I'm not going downtown like this. Let me dress."

"Afraid someone will buttfuck you in the lockup? Funny, it doesn't bother you when someone does it to one of your girls. It'll do you good to learn how the other half lives."

Gregaros was trying to goad Dupre into attacking him, but McCarthy stepped in when Dupre tensed.

"I think we can let Mr. Dupre dress, Stan," he said, calmly moving between the detective and Dupre. Gregaros turned red with rage but held his tongue.

"Take Mr. Dupre inside and let him get dressed," McCarthy instructed a patrolman. "Watch him carefully, then cuff him."

As soon as Dupre had been hustled inside, Gregaros whirled toward Sean. "Don't ever do that again," he said.

"I know you'd like to kick the shit out of Dupre," McCarthy answered calmly, "but I don't want to hand Oscar Baron any more ammunition than you did by dropping that phone in the hot tub."

"Listen . . ."

"No, you listen to me, Stan," McCarthy cut in, his voice suddenly and uncharacteristically hard. "This is my case. You're along for the ride because you know a lot about our suspect. But I won't tolerate you letting this get personal. If Dupre killed Senator Travis I want him on death row, not back in his hot tub because you need to blow off steam."

When the guard let Jon Dupre into the noncontact visiting room at the jail, he looked as vicious as a raccoon that had once been trapped in Oscar Baron's garage. The lawyer was grateful that a wall of concrete and bulletproof glass separated them.

"Hey, Jon, how are they treating you?" Baron said, speaking into the receiver of the phone that hung from the wall on his right.

"Get me the fuck out of here."

"It's not that simple, Jon. You're charged with murdering a United States . . ."

"I didn't kill anyone. The charge is total bullshit. That asshole Gregaros is behind this. I want you to sue him for false arrest and assault."

"Slow down. We're not suing anyone until we clear this up."

"Well, do it then. Find out what the bail is and get me out of here."

"I told you, it's not that easy. They don't have to set bail in a murder case like they do with other charges. We have to ask for a hearing. It will take time."

"I want out of here, Oscar. I don't want to be caged up with a bunch of degenerate morons."

"Hey, I don't want you locked up either, but there are procedures that have to be followed. I can't just break you out. And there's something else, too--my fee. We need to get that settled."

A vein started throbbing in Dupre's temple. "What kind of shit is this, Oscar? Haven't I always taken care of you?"

"Definitely, Jon," Baron said, keeping his tone businesslike, "but defending a murder case is different from handling that thing with the escort service. It's complicated and expensive. And they're probably going to go for the death penalty, which means twice the work you put in for a noncapital case. So we have to talk about money before I agree to hop in here."

"How much money are we going to talk about?'

Baron fought to keep his voice level. He was going to ask for more money than he'd ever received before and he was hoping that Dupre could come up with it.

"We're going to need an investigator--maybe more than one--and expert witnesses . . . ."

"Cut to the chase, Oscar."

"Okay." Baron's head bobbed up and down. "Let's say two hundred and a half for starters."

"Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?"

"That's the retainer. It could go higher depending on the length of the trial and . . ."

Dupre laughed. "I can't come up with two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"Hey, Jon, don't go cheap on me. We're talking about your life."

"I don't have that kind of money."

"I thought you were doing okay with the girls and the other stuff."

"I was until the cops busted me. I haven't been able to run Exotic for months and I've had to lay low with the other stuff. Besides, you know I don't keep everything that comes in. There are other people who . . . you know."

Dupre grew intentionally vague, nervous about phone taps.

"Well, what can you come up with?" Baron asked.

"Right now? Maybe fifty."

"That's not even enough to get started in a case like this, Jon."

"I'm good for it, Oscar. I've always paid you."

"This is a death-penalty case. They're expensive. What about your parents? They have dough."

"My parents will probably cheer when they hear about my arrest. They cut me off when I was kicked out of college."

"Well, why don't you think it over, Jon, and give me a call," Baron suggested, anxious to get away now that it looked like Dupre couldn't come up with his retainer.

"This is bullshit," Dupre said, glaring at Baron through the glass. "You can't bail on me, you greedy fuck."

Baron shot to his feet and glared back, very brave with a concrete wall and bulletproof glass keeping Dupre at bay.

"This greedy fuck just beat a case for you, you ungrateful shit."

Dupre didn't want Baron to leave him. He had to get out of jail.

"Hey, man, I'm sorry. Calm down, okay? I'm locked up and I'm a little tense."

The lawyer sat down, feigning reluctance. Dupre might be bluffing to get Baron to lower his retainer. Dupre's next words dashed his hopes.

"What if I can't get the money?"

"Tell the judge. He'll appoint you a lawyer."

"A public defender!" Dupre was livid. "I'm not risking my life with a free lawyer."

"Hey, they're okay, Jon. They screen them for murder cases. You'll probably get someone good." Baron looked at his watch. "Gee, I didn't realize the time. I've got someone waiting at the office. Meanwhile, see if you can get the dough for my retainer. You need a pro and I'm the best."

Dupre's hand tightened on the receiver.

"We'll be in touch," Baron said, backing out of the room. As soon as he was in the corridor, the attorney breathed a sigh of relief. He hated dealing with angry clients, especially loose cannons like Dupre. Of course it was different if they could pay, but that didn't look likely. Too bad, a quarter of a million dollars would have been nice.