Box Office Poison (Linnet Ellery) (17 page)

“Welcome to Tinsel Town,” Kerrinan said, then sighed and continued. “And what do you mean … unusual?”

“Nobody took some of your hair or something.” I was groping and it showed.

He shook his head. “No.”

“Okay, go on.”

“Michelle and I didn’t have plans that night. We were going to eat at home. Watch a little TV.” He fell silent and started to shake. So hard that I could feel it through a bunk bolted to a cinderblock wall.

My muscles were tight with tension, and a headache was starting to climb up over my head to lodge just over my brows. I realized it was because of that constant, horrible
screeeee
as the metal walls slid in their tracks. Kerrinan had to listen to it 24/7, and if he was convicted of murdering his wife he would be listening to it for the rest of his very long Álfar life.

I realized we had all been silent for a long time. It was Chris who prodded this time. “Go on, Kerrinan, finish it.”

He gulped down a sob, a harsh, guttural sound, and said, “We were watching a DVD of
Moulin Rouge
. Michelle got up and went into the kitchen to make us some popcorn. I love popcorn when I watch a movie. Then blackness. I don’t remember anything else until I could see again and I was in the kitchen, and my hand was all sticky, and I was holding … holding…”

“Michelle?” Chris asked.

There was a confused moment where he first shook his head, then nodded and said, “I was holding her in my left arm, but there was a … knife in my right hand.”

“You didn’t tell me that before!” Chris said. “You just said you were holding her.”

“I … I was scared to. Afraid you wouldn’t defend me.” Tears rolled down his face. He drew an arm across his eyes and pulled in a shuddering breath.

Chris was staring at him in frustration, but she was clearly worried. I stepped in. “If he had a traumatic blackout from the shock of finding her body he could have knelt down, gathered up Michelle, and then picked up the knife.”

“Yeah, and the DA is going to say he came out of a blinding, killing rage and that’s why he was holding a knife. Also, why didn’t he hear her screaming if he blacked out when he found the body? She didn’t die from the first stab wound, and she had defensive cuts all over her hands.” Kerrinan moaned and leaned forward, holding his gut. “I know you haven’t done a lot of courtroom work, I can tell you that juries believe the theory that’s the easiest to understand. In this case that’s the one that has Kerrinan butchering Michelle.”

That did it. Kerrinan hurled, vomit spewing across the bare concrete floor.

12

I found Qwendar just where he’d said he would be, in the interior courtyard of the Getty Museum. The elderly Álfar had suggested the venue. I had done a quick Google search and discovered that the Getty was a completely and perfectly reconstructed Roman villa built by J. Paul Getty to house his collection of antiquities. Another oddity in the enigma that was California.

The building, gleaming white in the sunshine, sat on a hill overlooking the Pacific Coast Highway and the majesty of the Pacific beyond the asphalt and passing cars. My research revealed that entrance to the Getty was free, but you had to reserve a time and pay for parking. It was also on the outskirts of Malibu, and I hoped I’d have time to drive through that famous locale before meeting Merlin and his brother for dinner. Then I walked through the museum in search of the courtyard, saw the quality of the collection, and decided I really needed to tour the museum instead. Malibu could wait.

A friendly docent had directed me toward the courtyard. I stepped out of the shady interior, blinked in the sudden glare and spotted Qwendar seated on a marble bench, surrounded by lush vegetation and contemplating a long, narrow marble pool filled with very blue water. Bronze statues stood on the edge of the pool, also seeming to contemplate the water. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” I said as I walked up.

Qwendar looked up. “I was intrigued by your phone call.”

I looked around at the white pillars supporting an overhanging porch on all four sides and the bright red tile roof, listened to the distant pound and whoosh of waves, and felt tension melting out of my back and shoulders. “And thank you for suggesting we meet here. I would never have found it, and it’s … remarkable.”

“Yes, humans did have a great capacity for beauty.”

“But no longer?” I asked.

His arms swept out in an encompassing wave. “Consider the rest of Los Angeles.”

“That’s a little unfair. Comparing a city to a garden at a museum.”

“Perhaps you are right. But there are profound differences between Álfar and human tastes.” He stood and straightened his suit coat. “There is a place in the gardens that offers a lovely view of the ocean and is fairly private. Madam, will you walk?” He gave a funny little half bow and offered his arm.

Touched and faintly amused by the old-fashioned courtesy, I laid the tips of my fingers on his forearm, and we moved away in stately dignity.

“You’re amused,” he said, with uncanny perspicacity.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be insulting. I just thought it was mostly vampires who went in for the whole manners as—” I broke off realizing I was about to sound insulting again.

“As what?” Qwendar asked.

I threw caution to the winds and decided to give it straight. “As a form of one-upmanship. A way to do interpersonal warfare.”

“You are a most perceptive young woman.”

“Not really. I just grew up with them.” I paused, then added, “So how do the Álfar use manners?”

“Without any agenda beyond our desire to play the leading role in our own personal drama.”

“Okay, that fits with what John told me,” I said.

“Ah, yes, John.”

We had reached a stone-paved veranda edged with a stone wall. I leaned my elbows on the wall and let my eyes trail across the expanse of lawn and the windswept California pines. Across the highway the Pacific rolled and rumbled. Gulls and pelicans swooped and spun like white kites over the water.

“Your phone call implied this was about more than one changeling brought back to the fold.”

“I’ll dispute your characterization of what happened to John in a minute. What I wanted to discuss was what’s been happening with your people.”

Qwendar became very still, his body almost rigid. “I’m listening.”

“I interviewed Kerrinan yesterday.”

“Ah.”

“Kerrinan said there was an older Álfar at the restaurant where he had lunch. Was that you?”

“Yes.”

“So you saw him on the day of the killing.”

“I suppose I did. I hadn’t really put that together.”

“How did he seem to you?” I asked.

“Fine. He was dining alone, so I took the liberty of speaking to him,” Qwendar added.

“What did you talk about?”

“I complimented him on his movies. Then I returned to my luncheon party.” I sat silent for a few moments, flicking at a few loose chips of rock with my forefinger. “Is this going someplace?” Qwendar finally prodded.

“I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of conspiracy nut.” Drawing in a steadying breath I turned to face him straight on. “I think there’s something strange going on. I think Kerrinan killed his wife, but I also don’t think he wanted to kill his wife. I also don’t think Jondin was in her right mind, though I haven’t been able to talk to her. I also think the narrative of Álfar as dangerous killers of humans is certainly happening at a most convenient time for Human First.”

“Ah, so you checked them out.”

“I did some research. Next step is to actually talk to them.”

“So what do you need from me?” Qwendar asked.

“Information on the Álfar. Any insights on how one might be … controlled or … something.” I met his impassive gaze. “You think I’m a nut.”

“No, I think you are an unusual human, and I think you might be the face of the future. A human who accepts and is comfortable with the Powers. A thing that some view with great disapprobation.” I basked in the approval for a moment. Qwendar continued. “I will provide you with what information I can. And since you are willing to help us, I will return the favor and arrange a meeting with John.”

There was a sudden tightness in my throat matched only by the feeling that my heart wanted to jump out of my chest.

I cleared the obstruction out of my throat. “Thank you.”

“No. Thank
you
.” He held out his hand. “Pact?”

“Partners, definitely.” We shook on it.

“Now, may I suggest that we stroll through the exhibits. They are quite impressive. And there is a very nice café. We can have tea afterward.”

I did notice that he didn’t actually say we would talk about the Álfar.

*   *   *

Thank God they dress differently.

It was the thought foremost in my mind as I faced the brothers across a table at Sompun, a Thai restaurant just off Ventura. The decor was upscale, with a blue vaulted ceiling and plants in the windows and mirrors along one wall that made the space seem larger. Scents of lemongrass, mint, and chili were so thick that they seemed visible in the air.

The journalist twin stared at me with frank interest that bordered on rude. Maslin was dressed in blue jeans, a cotton turtleneck sweater, and sturdy hiking boots. A backpack was slung over the corner of his chair. Merlin was still in his suit from work. The difference in attire was the only way I was ever going to tell them apart. Then, as I looked closer, I realized that Maslin’s skin carried a ruddier tinge, the redhead’s version of a tan, and he had the first hint of squint wrinkles around his blue eyes.

“Merl tells me you’ve got an investigation you need to run,” Maslin said.

“Well, I think so,” was my cautious response, and for the second time that day I launched into my explanation of why I thought someone was targeting the Álfar.

Unlike Qwendar whose expression had been one of sympathetic interest, Maslin’s expression was so neutral that I began to stammer, losing the thread of my narrative occasionally. I ended plaintively, “And now you probably think I’m bat-shit crazy.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead he opened the backpack and pulled out a laptop computer.

“Qwendar didn’t,” I added rather desperately.

“Who’s Qwendar?” Maslin asked while the computer powered up.

“Old Álfar dude,” Merlin said.

“Old Álfar dude with major clout,” I amended. “He’s been sent by some kind of Álfar Council to observe the arbitration.” I cocked a brow at Maslin. “I can’t really fill in details about the arbitration.”

He shook his head. “Merl filled me in.” The computer was up and running, and the journalist started typing, fingers flying across the keyboard. “The first question is always, who profits? Well, obviously the folks who brought this lawsuit would profit. If the industry starts to believe that every Álfar is a potential time bomb likely to go off and kill people at any moment and without any warning, then they’ll stop hiring them. Human actors win. We need to take a look at every one of the humans involved.”

“I can’t do that. I’m an arbitrator in this case. I’m just focused on the killings.”

“Yes, you’ve been a good little lawyer. You haven’t violated any of your ethical—such as they are—standards.”

“Hey!” Merlin interjected.

Maslin grinned at his brother and then at me. “I give him shit all the time about being a shyster.”

“Muckraker,” Merlin said affectionately to his brother.

“Why, thank you. A title of honor.” They had turned to face each other, and with their identical grins it was like looking at mirror images.

I waved a hand between them. “Look, back on the subject. I’ve got to maintain neutrality. If anyone discovered I was investigating the human actors—”

“Which is why you won’t. I’ll dig into the background of the various parties.”

“I think this Human First movement is a more likely candidate,” Merlin said. “Those people really are bat-shit crazy. And hateful,” he added.

“Maybe you can answer a question for me,” I said. “Is this a home-grown group, because I thought California was the Left Coast, a liberal enclave, the epicenter of degeneracy that undermines American values.”

“We are,” the twins said in chorus.

“All of those things,” Merlin continued. “But we’re also the state with the screwiest political system in the entire country.”

“Which is?”

“The ballot proposition.” Again in stereo.

Merlin continued. “Get enough signatures on a petition using the initiative system, and any crazy-ass idea can end up on the ballot at the next election.”

Now it was Maslin’s turn. “It grew out of a good impulse back in the early days of the Progressive Movement. The idea that the citizenry should and could have an impact on legislation. A way to counter the influence of powerful, entrenched interests. It’s direct democracy by citizen lawmaking.”

“Unfortunately the citizens are often idiots or bigots,” Merlin said. “The only check on the ballot proposition is the Constitution. And since the Álfar haven’t been declared a protected class under the U.S. Constitution if this proposition passes this ban will apply in California until somebody takes it up with the Supreme Court. Until then the state can violate the Fourteenth Amendment’s Equal Protection clause with impunity.”

I leaned back in my chair and considered. “They might not have to be declared a protected class.” I quoted Section one of the amendment. “All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the state wherein they reside. No state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any state deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.”

“Well, there’s a question,” Maslin said. “Are the Álfar citizens? Were they born in this country?”

“The due process and equal protection clauses use the word person rather than citizen,” I pointed out. “And courts have ruled that marriage is a fundamental right. It would certainly fall under the rubric of privileges. Bottom line: you can’t just single out a group of people, be they African-Americans or gays or women, and arbitrarily deny them their rights. Civil rights should never be subject to the ballot box.”