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Authors: Cheryl Crane

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BOOK: Imitation of Death
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Chapter 4
B
y the time Amondo returned with a pair of shoes for Nikki (Bruno Magli vintage black flats, which went
fabulously
with her sweats and tee) the police had arrived in full force. The alley was full: black-and-white Beverly Hills precinct cars, two ambulances, and several unmarked police cars. Nikki sent Amondo back to the house to retrieve her cell phone and take her dogs out while she remained to answer the police officers’ questions . . . without giving up any information on Jorge. She needed to talk to him. Better yet, she needed to see him. But first, she had to deal with this mess.
The first officers on the scene were a Mutt and Jeff pair, one tall, one short, only the tall one had the gut and the short one looked like he needed a sandwich. They both wore black uniforms with shiny oval badges and shinier shoes. Once Nikki identified herself and the victim, it only took the tall cop, Officer Mendez, three questions to get to the owner of the gardening shears, information Jorge had conveniently etched in the handle for him.
“This J. Delgado, you know him?” Officer Mendez (Mutt) asked, pen poised over a little notepad. So far, he’d been very professional about Eddie’s celebrity status and hers; maybe it just went with working Beverly Hills. Drew Barrymore, Johnny Depp, Annette Bening, Ron Howard—Nikki never knew who she’d run into at the post office or the market. Mendez had recognized her immediately as Victoria Bordeaux’s daughter, but had been polite enough to pretend not to notice that she was wearing the odd combination of sweats and designer shoes, no makeup, and had a zit coming up in the middle of her forehead. Not exactly the way celebrities liked to be seen in public.
“We have a friend of the family, his company does our gardening,” Nikki explained. “His name is Jorge Delgado. I . . . I don’t know if those are his, though.”
“Right.” The officer scribbled something down. He was standing close enough that she could smell garlic on his breath. Everything bagel?
Down the alley a little ways, behind the Bernards’ portion of the fence, a nice-looking plainclothes cop in khakis and a white polo was talking with a guy in bare feet and wrinkled shorts and t-shirt. He looked pretty hungover. A by-product of Eddie’s party?
“Ms. Harper?”
There were so many people in the alley by now, cops and bystanders, making so much noise, that Nikki had to concentrate to hear what the uniformed cop was asking about Eddie’s next of kin.
“His parents. That’s their house. Someone should go over and tell them what’s happened,” she said, glancing at their portion of the fence. “There’s no way someone at the house hasn’t heard the sirens.” All she could think of was poor Melinda. No mother should have to see her child this way.
Nikki glanced at Eddie. He still hadn’t been moved. His eyes still stared, sightless, at the fence across the alley. The cops were still taking photos. “Or at least call them. Someone should call the Bernards.”
“I need you to answer my questions, Ms. Harper, and let us do our jobs.”
He seemed to be taking a lot of notes. What could he be writing?
“We’re going to have to talk to everyone who was in your house. And the housekeeper who found the body. Her name, please?”
“Ina . . . Delgado.”
He didn’t look up. “Illegal?”
She frowned, and tried not to sound as irritated as she felt. The police weren’t supposed to be biased, and certainly not one with the surname Mendez. But when did mankind ever live up to Nikki’s expectations?
“
No
. She’s a U.S. citizen, same as you and me.” It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him if
he
was a U.S. citizen. She left it there.
He flipped back a page in his notebook and looked down at her. “Delgado? Maid’s name is Delgado? You sure the pruning shears aren’t hers?”
“Ina Delgado is my mother’s
housekeeper
, not a maid.” She paused, giving him time to think on that for a moment. “As I said, Officer Mendez, I don’t know who the gardening shears belong to.”
A white lie, really. Jorge had a pair that looked like those, exactly like those, but who could say for sure if they were his?
“Jorge. That’s spelled with a J. Probably his.”
“Even if they are his, how do we know he had them? This is too easy. It’s obviously a setup,” she argued. “For heaven’s sake, my mother was pruning roses yesterday morning.
She
could have used them, for all we know.”
“Victoria Bordeaux?” He looked up from his notes. “She have a beef with the deceased?”
Scribble. Scribble.
He was serious. It was all she could do not to laugh. The answer was yes, of course. She had a
beef
with him. So did half of L.A. “No,” she answered.
“But these are her garbage cans?” More scribbling.
The guy’s questioning seemed random. Was that his technique? To rattle a witness so badly that they accidently confessed?
“I guess, technically, yes, these are my mother’s bins, but
she
didn’t kill him. Neither did Ina Delgado or Jorge Delgado.”
“You know who
did
kill him?”
Scribble. Scribble. Scribble.
Was he taking down recipes or something? Maybe he was actually a writer for the
National Enquirer
. With a badge, a gun, and a cop car.
Nikki massaged her temples with her thumb and forefinger. She was beginning to develop a headache. She needed a latte. A venti. Possibly splurging on 2 percent milk instead of the usual skim. It was looking like a 2 percent–milk kind of day. “I don’t know who killed Eddie. But as you can see, the entire block leaves their cans here. And it’s an alley. Anyone could come back here.”
“
Sister, Sister
, it’s one of our favorite movies. The wife and me. Some of the best work Victoria Bordeaux ever did. I don’t know why she didn’t win an Oscar for that one.”
It took Nikki a beat to catch up. “A lot of people say that.”
He looked up from his notepad, glanced in the direction of Eddie’s body, then back at her. He lowered his voice. “I’d ask for an autograph, if it was . . . you know . . . appropriate. For the wife. Her being a big fan and all. She collects autographs. She’s got sixty-some. Brad Pitt, that’s her newest.” He shook his head. “But . . . I’m on duty. I’d never ask.”
She smiled distractedly. Who had gone to the Bernards’ house? She couldn’t see that any of the first cops on the scene were missing. “Right.” She glanced up at him. “Officer Mendez, are you sure someone’s gone to tell the Bernards? I would hate to have Eddie’s mother or father . . . see him this way.”
“Taken care of, ma’am.”
“Good.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Then . . . do you think I could go back to my house and take a shower? Get dressed?”
“We’ll have more questions for you later.” He nodded in the direction of the cutie in the polo shirt who had a
The Way We Were–
era Robert Redford look. “Lieutenant Detective Dombrowski will need to speak with you.”
Mendez’s garlic breath was mixing with the aroma of sour milk in the alley and Nikki was beginning to feel a little nauseous. Maybe she’d just go for black coffee. Amondo made decent coffee, better than Ina, who always skimped on the coffee beans. “I’ll be happy to answer as many questions as you want, but I’m in my PJs here.” She opened her arms wide. “No woman likes to be seen in her PJs, Officer Mendez. It’s only a matter of time before the paparazzi show up.”
He looked at her and seemed to notice, for the first time, that she was, indeed, dressed . . . casually. Even for an early morning homicide in the alley. “My wife would never be seen in her PJs,” he told her. “Fire alarm goes off in our apartment building, she has to get completely dressed. Lipstick, too. She doesn’t have a lot of pigmentation in her lips.” He motioned to his lips with his pen.
Nikki didn’t know what it was about her that made people tell such personal things about themselves. It happened to her all the time.
She offered a quick smile, giving him a flash of the Bordeaux blues. “So it’s okay. If I grab that shower?”
“This is your house?” He pointed to the open pedestrian gate leading to Victoria’s property. He didn’t seem to be taking in the Bordeaux blues . . .
“My mother’s house. I was staying the night . . . actually, staying a few days. I had a water leak and my house is being painted.”
And repainted
, she thought. She’d apparently hired the paint contractors from hell. Three days ago she’d walked into her carefully restored 1940s bungalow to find that her kitchen had been painted Pepto-Bismol pink. Somehow, her color swatches had gotten mixed up with another client’s.
Officer Mendez hesitated. “Hang on a second.” He turned to the guy in the white polo. “Hey, Dom.”
The cop walked over to them and waved, indicating the barefoot stranger should approach them. “Yeah?”
“Okay if Ms. Harper here goes to her mother’s home and gets dressed? Lieutenant Detective Dombrowski,” Mendez introduced.
Nikki nodded, glancing at the guy standing behind Dombrowski. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. Who didn’t?
“Sure,” Dombrowski said. “I need you to get this guy’s information and let him go. He doesn’t need to be seen, either,” he said.
Nikki gave the guy a little nod. She didn’t know who he was, but apparently he was someone. “Nikki Harper,” she said.
The guy nodded but didn’t offer his name.
“No problem, Lieutenant.” Mendez turned to Nikki. “You can go back to your mother’s house, but you need to stay there. Everyone who was there at the time of the discovery of the body needs to remain in the house for questioning.”
“Right. Sure. No problem.” Nikki took one last look at Eddie and headed for the back gate to her mother’s property. She wanted to go straight to Jorge’s house, but it didn’t seem like that was going to be possible. This wasn’t the kind of news you wanted to break over the phone, but she was afraid she might have to.
She wanted to get to Jorge before the cops did.
 
Nikki grabbed her cell phone off her nightstand and hurried for the
en suite
bathroom. Stanley and Oliver beat her to it. “Out,” she ordered, pointing with one hand as she hit SEND on the phone with the other. “No dogs in the shower.”
Stan darted out. Ollie lowered his head, looking pitiful, but did as he was told. Nikki turned the lock on the bathroom door; Victoria was as bad about respecting the privacy of others as the dogs.
Jorge’s line rang.
She had no idea what she was going to say when he picked up. How would she say it? She stepped out of her sweatpants; she’d left her Bruno Magli shoes at the end of her bed. Sending them had to be Victoria’s work. Amondo would never have gone into her closet and chosen a pair of shoes; he’d have grabbed the flip-flops.
Nikki turned on the shower in the Italian marble stall. Her mother had had Nikki’s bathroom remodeled a couple of years ago while remodeling her own. Victoria didn’t seem to care that Nikki hadn’t lived at home since she was sixteen. “Just in case,” her mother had insisted.
In case what? In case Nikki lost her mind?
Which, apparently, she had, since she’d been here more than a week, with no escape imminent.
Jorge’s line continued to ring in Nikki’s ear. She pulled her t-shirt over her head. “Come on . . . come on,” she muttered. “Answer your phone.”
It rang until it went to voicemail. This wasn’t the kind of thing you left a message about. One of the dogs scratched at the bathroom door.
“Go lay down, Stanley,” Nikki ordered, knowing very well it was him. He was the more outgoing of the two. The one more willing to dare scratch the paint on one of Victoria’s white doors. The other day he’d pulled a silk pillow off a couch in the living room and dragged it halfway across the room before taking a nap on it.
Nikki dialed Jorge’s phone again. “Come on, pick up.” It was still early. He was probably asleep. Probably hungover. She didn’t think Jorge had a drinking problem, but he occasionally
tied one on
on a Friday or Saturday night, especially if there was
fútbol
on Telemundo.
The call went to voicemail again. “Damn it, Jorge.”
There was a knock on the bathroom door. “Nicolette? Are you in there?”
Who else would be in here?
“I’m in the shower, Mother,” Nikki called, hanging up, and dialing again. She glanced at herself, naked, in the mirror. Not bad for forty-one years old. Not curvy like her mother, but tall and slender. Nikki had always envied Victoria’s gorgeous platinum blond hair, but she’d come to accept and actually
like
her own red hair. Victoria referred to it as
strawberry blond
. The Bordeaux blue eyes made her face. She turned away from the mirror; it was beginning to steam over. “Go away, Mother.”
Victoria knocked again. Then turned the locked knob. Then knocked again. “The police are here,” she announced. “They want to speak to us.”
BOOK: Imitation of Death
10.83Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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