Box Office Poison (Linnet Ellery) (16 page)

“I take it you’ve never visited an Álfar in jail?”

“No.”

“It takes a special facility to hold one.”

I felt really stupid. “I should have thought of that. How do you hold an Álfar when they can just walk out of our world?”

“They’ve found a way.”

The elevator arrived and we rode up to the jail level. The female guard at the desk searched our briefcases and treated us to a hostile stare, which took me aback. Chris leaned over the high-tech desk. I peered over her shoulder and saw that the entire back of the horseshoe-shaped desk was lined with screens displaying pictures of prisoners in their cells. One of the screens had multiple windows offering different views of the cell. Occasionally one picture would be blocked, though I couldn’t tell why.

“Hey! Back off!” The female guard had come out of her chair, and she and Chris were almost nose to nose.

“And you guys better back off. I’m forced to interview my client in his cell where he is under constant surveillance rather than in an interview room where I’m assured confidentiality. You better not have microphones in that cell, because if you do and if anything turns up in the DA’s evidence I’m going to sue a lot of people naked and put some others in jail. And I want the cameras turned off until I’m finished. Got that?”

“I can’t do that. He might—” the guard began.

“The cameras aren’t what’s keeping him there. The walls keep him there. Now turn the cameras off or I call the DA and a judge.” Valada pulled her cell phone out of her purse and brandished it like a small, blunt sword.

”Let me check with my boss.” She made a call and had a quick, hushed conversation. “He says okay.” She jabbed at a button and the screen went dark. “Go on through.” She buzzed us through the heavy bulletproof glass that separated the outer lobby from the jail proper.

“What’s with her?” I said in a low voice to Chris.

“Never done criminal law, I take it?”

“A few weeks in the summer during my clinical work.”

“Cops do not like defense attorneys. They think we put scumbags back on the streets and play gotcha with good cops. I try to explain to them I only play gotcha with bad cops. And it’s bad cops doing bad work that gets scumbags released. Defense attorneys just take advantage of their failings.”

A guard approached us. “Come with me. He’s in the special cell at the end of the block.”

He led us down a long hallway lined with cells. Men hung on the bars staring, hooting, and catcalling. “Hey chickie, chickie, chickie. See what I got. Big man over here.” I forced myself to meet the gazes of the men haranguing me. They were dressed in orange prison jumpsuits; several had pulled down the top to reveal either bare chests, or wife-beater T-shirts. Where skin was exposed it was almost always heavily decorated with tattoos: barbed wire, swastikas, dragons, swords, and Chinese and Japanese ideograms. The harsh scent of cigarette smoke caught in the back of my throat and tickled the nose, and the wild male odor of sweat mingled with a less than inefficient sewer system. And somewhere in the building dinner was being prepared. It smelled as if cabbage was on the menu.

I hadn’t been in a jail since my senior year in law school when they had taken us for a tour of several prisons and given us an up-close look at the execution chamber. Intellect told me to oppose the death penalty after so many people on death row had been exonerated by DNA evidence. But there were some cases where my gut took over, and the angry, frightened, and far more emotional side screamed for blood and vengeance. My only other brush with criminal law had been a six-week course at the public defender’s office that I had mentioned to Chris. The students got the small fry cases—drunk driving, marijuana busts, bar fights that didn’t leave anybody dead or maimed. I never represented anyone I thought was innocent, but I found myself deeply involved in every case because my clients seemed so helpless and confused at being enmeshed in the American justice system.

The one certain thing I had learned during that summer was that the likelihood of prosecution and jail time was a direct function of class and race. I never met any affluent whites at the morning arraignments where the shuffling men stank of stale booze, sweat, and vomit after a night in the drunk tank. The white guys from Temple or Crowne got escorted home, or if they did get arrested they got bailed out in a hurry because they could afford the bond. Which was why I was uncomfortable with the death penalty.

I had found the entire experience unsettling, and had rejected job offers from both the Public Defender’s Office and the District Attorney. Partly because my vampire foster father and Shade, one of the senior partners, had pretty much prepared a place for me at IMG, but also because I wanted the dry, unemotional aspect of corporate law well away from these uncomfortable thoughts about social inequity. It was hard to face that about myself, and I was grateful when the guard spoke up, pulling me out of my naval gazing.

“Do not approach within two feet of the prisoner, and no physical contact. Got it?”

“Well, that’s going to be a little tough, given the cell,” Chris said and her tone was pure acid. “The only static place is the bunk and the john, and I don’t think all of us are going to fit on the john.”

The guard looked confused. “Uh … yeah, right. Guess that’s true. Well, do what you need to do.”

He led us to the final cell at the end. This one didn’t offer a view through bars. There was an actual steel door with a small, mesh-reinforced window set into the metal. He inserted the key and swung open the door.

I found myself staring at a blank metal wall that was sliding past. It moved in a track with a high-pitched whine that was almost painful to the ears. It seemed like we waited for a long time before we saw an opening. Then Chris darted through. I was rooted to the spot, trying to understand what I was seeing. The guard put a hand between my shoulder blades, and gave me a small push.

“Move! While you’ve got the chance.”

I rushed in to find Chris seated next to Kerrinan on the bunk. “Sit down. Quick!” she ordered.

I realized another wall was moving and it was going to intersect with my position. I leaped to the bunk and sat down on the other side of the Álfar actor. He looked haggard. Álfar are like Teflon. It seems like no dirt ever sticks to them. Their features are so regular that some modeling agencies described them as walking mannequins, but there is something in the eyes that is tremendously alluring to humans. That ability seemed beyond Kerrinan this day. Despite the unusual color of his eyes, pale gray flecked with purple, they had the flat, uncomprehending stare of the eyes in a stuffed animal head.

I could tell that concentrating with the constant mechanical whine of the moving walls was not going to be easy. Another one was cutting on a diagonal across the cell. That’s when I figured out the purpose of the moving walls.

I didn’t understand the physics behind it—nobody did—but apparently Fey was sort of overlaid on top or maybe beneath our world. Geography was the same, but somehow buildings changed or vanished, Álfar vehicles both motorized and horse-drawn didn’t intersect with our vehicles, and humans and Álfar in the same building didn’t see each other. John’s mother and now John lived in the Dakota.

For a moment I reflected that it must be torture for John to know he was a shadow veil away from the human world he loved. Or maybe not. Maybe when she’d driven that sliver of ice deep into his eye it had somehow broken his connection to the world where he’d grown up. Whatever she had done, it was Álfar magic, and it had worked.

Well, the same thing was now being applied to Kerrinan, but in the other direction. Humans couldn’t use some kind of magical whammy to keep him in our reality. So we had fallen back on science, which was something humans did pretty well. I had a feeling the constant changing geometry of the room made it impossible for Kerrinan to get a fix on the Álfar world and thus kept him trapped in his cell. I wondered how they avoided having a pattern emerge that would enable a determined prisoner to escape? I concluded it was probably computer-controlled and the movement was being randomized. I couldn’t imagine how much that was costing the county of Los Angeles.

“Kerrinan, this is Linnet Ellery,” Chris said. “She wanted to ask you some questions.”

“Is she part of my defense team?” the Álfar asked. “Because if she’s not, perhaps I shouldn’t be talking with her.” The mellifluous voice that had set a generation of women to swooning in movie theaters around the world was now ragged and harsh. He gave a cough. “Sorry, not sleeping. When I’m fatigued it always shows up in my voice first.”

Chris and I exchanged a glance. We had already discussed this earlier and found a solution. I was just surprised that Kerrinan had been this astute. According to John, the Álfar weren’t known for their logic and caution. He had described them as a species of raging ids.

“Chris has hired me as a researcher, which means the same rules of client confidentiality apply to me as to her,” I said.

“I take it this is a dodge from the way she introduced you.”

“A little bit. Look, I think something strange is happening with regard to the Álfar, and I need more information than I can get from the newspapers,” I said. “I’ll understand if you’re not comfortable with this, and I’ll leave, but I think your people are being…” I hesitated, not wanting to put voice to it because it did sound kind of crazy.

“What?” Kerrinan prodded.

“Okay, this is going to sound really melodramatic, but I think you’re being targeted.”

“Me?”

“Well, not you specifically. The Álfar.”

He was frowning, marring the smooth perfection of that handsome face. “Has something else happened?”

I closed my eyes briefly. “Yeah, you could say that.”

I gave him an abbreviated version of what had happened the day before on the Warner lot.

Kerrinan was shaking his head. “This is crazy. I know Jondin. She’s a ditz but never a diva,” Kerrinan said.

“I’d say this goes a little past diva, Kerrinan, and straight to crazy mass murderer,” Chris Valada said in her usual dry way.

“Will you tell me what happened? The day your wife died,” I asked. The actor looked at me in confusion. “Look, bear with me. I want to see if there are any similarities to what Jondin is telling the authorities.”

“Like what?” Kerrinan asked.

I shook my head. “No, I don’t want to lead you or suggest anything. Just tell me about the day.”

The eyes that met mine were shadowed, haunted by doubt and fear. “I want you to know, I loved Michelle. More than anything. More than life. I would have done anything for her, and I would never have hurt her. But…” Kerrinan’s voice trailed away. The question hung in the silence.
But what if I did?
Chris gave his arm a quick squeeze.

“Let’s start at the beginning. Walk me through the whole day. Try to remember everything. Even if it seems trivial it might be important,” I said.

He closed his eyes briefly, gathering his thoughts. “We got up early, and we worked out together.”

“Did you go to a gym?” I asked, looking up from the pad where I was taking notes.

“No, we have a full gym at the house.”

“Okay, go on.”

“We went out for breakfast at Mary’s Lamb. Michelle liked the orange-pecan muffins…” His voice broke. If this was an act, I thought, he should win an Oscar. “I dropped her off back at the house around eleven and went to a photo shoot for
GQ
”

“Anything unusual happen there?” I asked.

“No.”

“Who was there?”

“Guillermo, he’s the photographer, and a couple of assistants to set the lights. I don’t know their names.”

“All of them human?” He nodded. “Okay, go on.”

“That lasted until around one thirty. I was hungry so I took myself to lunch at Terra Sushi.”

“By yourself?” Chris asked.

“Yeah, sometimes it’s nice to just be alone.”

“I can’t believe you got to sit and eat and nobody approached you,” Chris said. “Terra Sushi’s in Studio City along Sushi Row. Very trendy.”

“I signed an autograph for my waitress, but there weren’t a lot of ordinary people there … fans, I mean.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Most of the tables were industry people. A bunch of agents.”

“You didn’t tell me that. You just told me where you had lunch. Was it an office party?” Chris asked.

“No, they were from a lot of different agencies. It was sort of like a little mini-conference. There was another Álfar there, a really old guy who is on the Council.”

“Did you speak to him?” I asked.

“Yeah, briefly. He just introduced himself and said he liked my work. After that I left.”

“After lunch?” Chris prompted.

“Oh, I went over to that little driving range just down Ventura from the restaurant and hit a bucket of balls. One of the employees must have called the press because there were a few cameras when I came out, and my fan club got the Tweet so there were maybe fourteen, fifteen fans looking for autographs. Oh, and a couple of crazy people.”

“Crazy people?” Chris and I said in concert.

“Well, maybe that’s a little harsh, but the guy really was nutso. He waved a Bible in my face and said I was an abomination, or something. The woman, this skinny old broad with a tan so dark she looked like jerky was shouting at me about how I was just an empty suit and a no-talent. There were some others, just yelling. I couldn’t really make out what they were saying. My fans chased them off. I have great fans.” A smile flickered briefly.

“And then?”

“Haircut in Beverly Hills. I got out of there around six.”

“Nothing unusual happened at the barbershop?” Both Chris and Kerrinan were giving me strangest looks. “What?” I asked.

Chris shook her head. “Yeah, you are not from around here. Actors like Kerrinan don’t go to barbershops. They go to a salon and have a designer. The only way they’d go to a barbershop is if it was some kind of new place that was so retro it was hip and therefore trendy, and George Clooney decided to go there first.”

“Okay, even New York isn’t that bad.”