The Lost Witness (28 page)

She blew through the first traffic light. For a split second she thought about her meeting with the chief yesterday. Just long enough to push it back and bring the car up to speed. The road
coiled through the hills like a warped spring. As she slid into the curves, she tried to keep an open mind and not connect the dots—even though the dots seemed to be connecting themselves.
Within ten minutes she found Brooktree, made a left and coasted down the hill. When she crossed the stream at the base of the canyon, she made another left, saw Tremell’s house, and started
down the private drive.

The house had been set in a meadow that stretched across two or three acres of open land in a city that wasn’t supposed to have any open land. She could see the stream winding through the
tall grass and a barn with two horses beside a small pond. When the drive split, she spotted a pickup truck and several cars in a parking area and stayed to the left.

There was something idyllic about the property. Something remote and unreal. The house was smaller than she would have guessed, but just right for the setting. It was an eclectic mix of stone,
wood, and glass with a vaulted roof line and a modern feel that took advantage of the views without overpowering the landscape. As she pulled beside the pickup and got out, she noticed the ladders
leaning against the back of the house. A handful of day laborers were taking a break in the warm sun beside three palates of roof shingles. She caught the laughter in their eyes. Someone was
whispering in Spanish while another giggled with his head down. Lena looked for the contractor that went with the pickup, but didn’t see him around.

She crossed the gravel lot and stepped onto the rear porch. The door was open. Cupping her hands, she gazed through the screen into the kitchen and saw an older couple sitting at the breakfast
table. And the infant was here, too. Tremell’s new son, Dean Jr. The woman was cradling the baby in her arms, patting his back, and still holding the empty bottle of formula in her free
hand.

At first glance, the scene inside the kitchen seemed just as pastoral as the trip down the driveway from the road. But after a short time, it struck Lena that the older couple had no intention
of acknowledging her presence. They had seen her approach the door, yet they hadn’t moved or said anything. They just sat there, staring back at her.

She reached for her badge and pressed it against the screen. “I’d like to speak with Justin Tremell.”

A beat went by before the man finally spoke in a weak voice. “He’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“He belongs to a club. He goes there before work. He won’t be back until late tonight.”

There was something odd going on. The way they were sitting, the timid, even forced sound of the man’s voice. And the woman was patting Tremell’s son like a robot, her lifeless eyes
stuck on the floor just below the screen door.

“Who are you?” Lena asked.

The man shrugged. “Eve’s parents.”

“Then you’re Justin Tremell’s father-in-law?”

He seemed to need time to think it over.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

He didn’t answer the question. Lena felt certain that they were frightened and made the decision to enter. But before she got halfway into the room, she stopped and thought that she knew
what the problem was.

She could hear it. The sound of the couple’s daughter from the master bedroom. The sound of an a.m. fuck session filtering down to the kitchen from the second floor. It wasn’t hot
and heavy, but it was there.

Lena thought about the contractor she didn’t see outside and looked back at the couple. It wasn’t fear in their eyes. It wasn’t even pain. It looked more like sadness. The kind
that keeps you up at night and eats away at your soul.

Lena drew a business card from her pocket and set it down on the table. “I’d like to speak with your daughter.”

The man’s eyes skimmed over the card, his head remaining still.

“I’ll be waiting outside,” Lena said.

She stepped onto the porch, thought about lighting a smoke but decided against it. She could see the roofers eyeing her from the lawn. She could see them trying to get a read on her. Trying to
figure out whether or not she got it and knew what was really going on.

She turned away, walking to the end of the porch and over to the fence. As she gazed at the horses, she thought about the way the couple had been dressed. They didn’t come from money. And
they had to live with whatever hell their daughter was putting them through. It didn’t look easy.

She turned and leaned against the fence, gazing back at the house. She was at the far end, well out of the roofer’s line of vision. And she could see Justin Tremell’s young wife
checking her out from a window on the second floor, her fuck session with the help apparently over. She hadn’t covered up and was holding her breasts in her arms. But Lena was surprised by
her face. She appeared melancholy, even wounded, not arrogant. When she stepped away from the glass, Lena thought about the hollow look in her eyes and wondered if she wasn’t calling out for
help in some way.

It was an uncomfortable feeling, and Lena tried to shake it off. Glancing at the pickup beside her car, she continued walking around the circular drive toward the pond. But as her view cleared
the corner, she noticed a limo parked in front of the house, recognized the driver, and suddenly knew exactly what was going on. Justin Tremell’s young wife wasn’t doing the roofing
contractor. Someone else was doing her.

It took a moment to settle in, then another few seconds to play back what she had seen in the kitchen and through the window. The images were raw and dirty, and she couldn’t help feeling
stunned. When they finally died off, she approached the car and gave the driver a long look.

“Waiting for someone?” she said.

He couldn’t look back at her and squirmed in his seat. “Yes, ma’am. I expect so.”

“The man who writes the checks?”

“That sounds about right,” he said.

“Dean Tremell?”

He tipped his cap, still unable to make eye contact. “That’s right. Mr. Dean will be along any time now.”

“What’s your name?”

“Louis.”

“How often do you come out here, Louis?”

“I just drive, ma’am. It’s what Louis does. He drives and he keeps his eyes on the road. At the end of the week, he collects a paycheck and goes home.”

“I get it, Louis. But how often do you come out here?”

Dean Tremell cleared his throat from behind her. “Whenever I tell him to.”

She turned and watched Tremell getting into his suit jacket as he approached. He was moving quickly, eating up ground in meaty chunks like a feisty bull. It seemed like whatever he’d done
to his daughter-in-law had put him in a good mood. Oddly enough, there wasn’t even a hint of embarrassment. Just a slight grin stretching across his weatherbeaten face, an ironic grin laced
with curiosity.

“What are you doing out here?” he said.

“Looking for your son. How ’bout you?”

He paused to think it over, running his fingers through his white mane. When he was ready, he met her eyes, cocked his head, and lowered his voice.

“I’ve always believed that a man doesn’t choose his needs. His needs choose him. That’s why I’ve made it a practice to never apologize for who I am. What you see is
what you get. Life’s simpler that way, don’t you think?”

“How’s your son feel about that?”

“I’m sure that he’d be upset if he knew. Who wouldn’t?”

“What about his wife?”

Tremell didn’t answer the question, and Lena instinctively took a step back. She was thinking about Justin Tremell’s exploits and what she had read on the Internet last night. It
seemed clear that the kid had been home schooled: Justin Tremell had learned everything from his father.

Tremell cleared his throat again. “I had a long talk with the district attorney Saturday night. We spoke after you left. He gave me every assurance that he would take care of
this.”

“Maybe you didn’t give him enough money.”

Tremell laughed. “It’s not what you think, Detective.”

“It isn’t?”

“Not by a long shot.”

Lena glanced at the house, then turned back and decided to take a chance.

“I know about the abortion,” she said.

“What abortion is that?”

“Jennifer McBride got pregnant.”

“The dead whore?”

A moment passed. Dark and sick and beyond the pale.

“Yeah,” Lena said. “The dead whore.”

Tremell leaned against the car. Who he was didn’t match what she saw in his eyes, and it bothered her.

“I’m sorry, Detective. I should’ve had more respect. It sounds like she lived a dangerous life on all counts. It’s always hard to watch when life bites back. Let me make
it up to you.”

“How would you do that?”

“I know a place downtown. Actually, I own it. Let me buy you an early lunch.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Tremell grinned. “Come on, Detective. Meet an old man halfway. You’ve got your point of view, and I’ve got mine. They may not be as different as you think. Isn’t it worth
talking about? Let’s have lunch. The chef’s the best in L.A.”

Lena looked back at him, offering a tentative nod. Then Tremell smiled and gave her the name of the restaurant. Although it didn’t ring a bell, she knew the street and block number, and
agreed to meet him there in an hour. When he climbed into the limo and reached for his cell, she walked around the drive to her car. The roofers were back at work on top of the house. None of them
were laughing anymore.

I
hope you like squab,” Tremell said.

“I can’t say that I’ve ever had it before.”

Lena watched the sous-chef set down their plates. The roasted pigeons were served whole and appeared undercooked. Tremell thanked the man and watched him return to the kitchen as he sipped ice
water from a crystal glass.

They were sitting at a table by the fireplace. And they were alone. The restaurant didn’t open for lunch. Lena counted only twenty tables when she first arrived, with two private rooms.
The bar was small but elegant and carved out of solid walnut—an antique that had been meticulously restored and probably imported from the East Coast. The art on the walls was
magnificent.

“It’s potluck around here,” Tremell said. “There aren’t any menus, and if we were here for dinner and drinking, the wines would be preselected. Gérard makes
one twelve-course meal for each seat in the house. You pay for your place, not the food. You pay for the privilege. The waiting list is six months long.”

Lena was listening, but considered herself immune. She had agreed to come for no other reason than the fact that Tremell had made the offer. It seemed clear that he made it for a reason. She
thought that she knew what it was, but needed to be sure. Until then, she felt certain that she could take anything he tried to do to throw off her balance. This included the pigeon that she was
about to eat.

She picked up the knife and made her first cut. The meat looked raw.

“It’s not chicken,” Tremell said. “It’s supposed to be served like that. If they were roasted any longer, the meat would taste like liver.”

She took a bite and had to admit that it tasted good. Maybe even better than that. And she could tell that Tremell enjoyed watching her. He seemed amused, even confident, that he was pulling off
whatever he had caged up in his demented mind.

He started eating, attacking the small bird on his plate like a man with a big appetite.

“Now that we’re here,” he said, “why don’t you start by telling me exactly what you think my son did?”

“What would be the point when the DA has probably told you everything already.”

“As a matter of fact he has. But let’s face it, nothing Jimmy J. Higgins ever does will make the world a better place than it was before he got here. He’s a lawyer and a
politician. That’s a pretty bad combination if what you want in life really needs to get done. You’re in charge, aren’t you? It’s your case, right?”

“The last time I checked.”

“Well I’d like to hear your version of the story. From the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

Lena watched him take another swig of water. She wasn’t surprised that Higgins had talked to Tremell. She assumed as much from the things Chief Logan had said. Still, hearing Tremell talk
about it so openly felt something like being part of the actual crime. Her revulsion was a reflexive move, an act of self-defense against a district attorney who had crossed the line tens times
over and may have given their case away to the father of a suspect. It was more than dishonest. It was reckless.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Lena said. “Let’s start with the baby I saw in the kitchen. Why don’t you tell me who the real mother is?”

He lowered his fork and gave her a long look. She didn’t detect a change of mood—didn’t see any sign of anger on his face—and this surprised her, too.

Tremell reached for his napkin. “I thought you said the girl had an abortion.”

“I did. But things are still fluid and that’s not the question right now.”

“We’re talking about my grandson.”

“That’s right. Who’s the mother?”

“My son’s wife, of course. Eve.”

“Can you prove it?”

He picked up his fork and started eating again, his wheels still turning. “You’re a suspicious woman, aren’t you?”

Lena met his eyes but didn’t respond, waiting for his answer.

“I’ll save you some time,” he said. “But only because I don’t want to hear that you’ve been poking around. And I don’t want to see this turn into
something it isn’t on television. You don’t either unless you want to meet my attorneys.”

“Save me some time.”

“Eve gave birth to Dean Jr. at UCLA Medical Center. It was an extended stay that cost a fortune. I’ll call my assistant. You’ll have copies of everything faxed to your office
within the hour. Good enough?”

“Good enough.”

“Now tell me what you think my son did.”

Lena didn’t need to think it over. “He strayed and picked the wrong woman.”