The Trials of Nikki Hill (30 page)

“Madeleine Gray,” Goodman said gloomily.

“Madeleine Gray,” Corben repeated, his face reddening. “What I want to know is why you guys, who are supposed to know what the fuck you’re doing, let two putzes from the D.A.’s office get the drop on you like this? It makes us look like ama-chures.”

Goodman had gotten into the habit of checking out his volatile partner at moments like that, just to make sure Carlos didn’t let the snake element of his brain overwhelm his common sense. But he needn’t have worried. Morales was slouched, staring at the tile floor as if he hadn’t even heard Corben’s verbal attack.

“Any idea how they found out about the Sanctum?” Goodman asked.

“I just didn’t feel like asking Walden that question,” the lieutenant said. “I didn’t want the bastard to get any more smug about this than he already was.”

“They talk to Willins?” Goodman asked.

“That’s why the D.A. called. They’d like you two to do that. If you think you can handle it.”

The major crimes detectives met with the district attorney’s investigators, Laboe and Green, in their cubicle on the eighteenth floor of the CCB. When Goodman remarked that the atmosphere of the D.A.’s offices seemed even more tense than usual, Laboe, a short, balding man who could have shaved twice a day but didn’t, told him that one of the deputies, Dimitra Shaw, had just been killed in a hit-and run.

“She was hard to work with,” Laboe said, “but it’s still a lousy thing. Walden’s gone nuts. Callin’ out the guard. Word is he was dickin’ her.”

“Maybe we better take care of our own business, huh?” Morales said.

“Your partner asked,” Laboe said. He then explained how they’d found out about the Sanctum. Ray Wise had had them phone every upscale romantic hideaway in a hundred-mile radius of the city. Pretending to be employees of Willins, they attempted to reserve his “usual” room. The Sanctum was the first to accept the reservation without question.

The investigators then visited the Sanctum armed with the proper papers. They were able to demand a copy of the spa’s computerized booking files and to force statements from two clerks who reluctantly admitted that Willins had spent quite a few evenings there in the company of Madeleine Gray.

Green, a stocky black man with a modified Afro, said, as they headed for the elevators, “This guy Willins is gonna freak big time when he discovers he’s been outed.”

“I think we can assume he already knows,” Goodman said. “No way,” Laboe said. “Not with the scare we threw into those peckers at the Sanctum.”

When the quartet of lawmen was ushered into Willins’s office at Monitor Records, they discovered another person was present—Jesse Fallon.

“I assume you’re here to discuss Mr. Willins’s relationship to the late Ms. Madeleine Gray,” the lawyer said, handing Goodman a sheet of paper. “This should save us all a little time.”

It was a neatly typed statement. “Madeleine Gray and I began a romantic liaison approximately a year ago that continued for nearly eight months. Approximately four months ago she informed me she wished to end the affair and I agreed to do so. We parted amicably.

“I further testify that, to my knowledge, my wife was 100 percent unaware of this relationship at the time Ms. Gray met her unfortunate end.”

It was signed by Willins and notarized.

“Any idea why Maddie gave you your walking papers?” Goodman asked.

Willins consulted his lawyer, who nodded his approval. “She was going on a quick trip to Europe. Part vacation, part business. She wanted me to fly over and meet her, but that was impossible, not only because Dyana would have heard about it, but because I have a business to run. When Maddie returned, she said she thought it would be a good idea if we stopped seeing each another. Frankly, I’d come to that same conclusion, myself.”

“She meet somebody on the trip, you think?” Goodman asked.

“I’m sure she did. Maddie didn’t like to be alone.”

“It says here your wife didn’t know about you and Mad-die. That still true?”

“I—”

“Mr. Willins has confirmed the fact that he and the deceased were involved romantically,” Fallon said, “and that Mrs. Willins was not aware of this relationship at the time of

the Gray murder. Beyond that, we are not prepared to venture. Thank you gentlemen for your time. I know you will do your best to respect Mr. Willins’s privacy and will keep this very personal information confidential, if at all possible.”

F
IFTY-NINE

T
he problem, Nikki realized, was that she’d never liked the woman. That was why she was so deeply affected by Dimitra’s death. Strange how emotions did their number on you. Although she and Joe Walden seemed to be sharing the same symptoms—anger, frustration, guilt—they were coming at them from different angles. He was reacting to the loss of a lover, she to an unwanted sister whom she’d rejected.

Virgil helped with her grief.

They spent the night at his place. He even invited Bird, knowing how comforting she found the big dog. He prepared their dinner efficiently and silently while she rested on the sofa in his living room. Bird lay at her feet, so tuned to her mood that he remained quiet and passive even when Virgil joined her and put his arms around her and held her close.

After dinner, she wandered into the bedroom and fell into the deepest sleep she could recall.

She was still in her clothes when she awoke. Virgil’s side of the bed remained unused.

The apartment was empty.

She went to the front door and looked out on the sunny courtyard. Virgil, in his workout clothes, was sitting on the steps, reading the morning paper. Bird’s leash was beside him. The big dog was standing at the fishpond communing with the koi.

It was such a lovely scene she hesitated to enter it.

Bird took the decision out of her hands. He suddenly shifted his attention to her, gave a little “yip,” and trotted up the steps to greet her. Virgil grabbed the leash and stood. “How you doing?” he asked.

“I’m okay. Did you sleep?”

He nodded. “On the sofa. Didn’t want to disturb you. Bird and I did some bonding. Now we’re both hungry. How about you?”

While he fixed scrambled eggs and bacon, she sipped her coffee and read the morning paper. A photo of Dimitra and an account of her brief life and hit-and-run death shared the front page with an assortment of stories about John Willins’s affair with the late Madeleine Gray.

She skimmed most of the reportage, a history of the Will-ins-Cooper marriage (complete with wedding picture), a survey of his recording empire, her previous declarations of love for him. Columnists speculated on the effect Willins’s adultery would have on the trial, the marriage, and Monitor Records. A short, vague history of the “secluded and somewhat mysterious spa known as the Sanctum” was offered, as well as profiles of the two “dedicated D.A.’s men who uncovered the secret romance,” detectives Matthew Laboe and Horace Greene. The coverage seemed as complete as the judge’s ban on public discussion allowed.

Finally, when she felt she could avoid it no longer, she took a deep breath and read what the reporters had to say about Dimitra. The police had no witnesses and no leads. Paint flecks adhering to Dimitra’s belt buckle had been identified as a standard black enamel used by most vehicle manufacturers. The article ended with the statement that “an emotional District Attorney Joseph Walden, with a catch in his voice, vowed to find the person responsible for the accident.”

Accident? Nikki supposed that’s what it was, though Dimitra had used the word “life-threatening.” “She was afraid.”

“Say what?” Virgil was staring at her. So was Bird.

“Sorry,” she said. “I was thinking out loud. Dimitra was afraid of something.”

“You think what, she was murdered?”

Nikki shook her head. “No. I think Joe hit it right, when I told him about her phone call. He said he knew something was bothering her. He thought maybe her health problem was worse than she let on. Her doctor claims not to know about any medical problem, although Dimitra may have gone to some specialist on her own. Joe thinks she was worrying about that when she walked out in front of a car without looking.”

“There you go,” Virgil said. “Feel sad as you want. I feel sad myself. But she’s gone, and you just ain’t the reason.”

That was what she wanted to believe.

The image of Dimitra’s broken body haunted her all morning. Trying to dispel it, she threw herself completely into a strategy meeting, taking a contrarian approach to the use of the Willins-Gray tie-in.

The potential benefit of the revelation was obvious: it gave them a go ticket on the jealousy motive. Unlike Joe and Ray and most of the team, however, Nikki remained cautious. They still would have to prove Dyana Cooper’s fore knowledge of the affair for it to have any legal significance. And Willins’s betrayal might lead jurors to feel protective toward Dyana. She reminded them that a jury had recently awarded a ditched wife a million dollars in damages from the woman who had “lured” her husband away.

“Don’t analyze this to death,” Wise said. “Let’s just grab this cherry that’s been tossed in our laps and beat Dyana and her smart-ass lawyer into the ground with it.”

“Love the imagery, Ray,” Nikki said. She checked her wristwatch. “Whoa, I’ve got an appointment. Have to run.”

The D.A. nodded. “They’re burying Dimitra tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah,” Nikki said. “I got the notice.”

“Where you headed?” Wise asked.

She’d scheduled a meeting at the home of Nita Morgan, the woman who’d accused Ed Goodman of blackmail. But that wasn’t any of Wise’s business. “Personal stuff, Ray. Nothing you’d want to analyze to death.”

S
IXTY

G
oodman sat at a back booth at the Saratoga, anxiously nursing a glass of iced tea. For the last ten minutes, he’d been checking the front door each time it opened, so he saw Nikki enter, survey the late lunchers and the loiterers, and finally spot him at the rear. As she walked toward him, he tried to read the expression on her face. Success? Failure?

She took the seat across from him and said, “Lunch is on you, detective. We ought to be having it at Spago.”

“It went well?”

She opened her briefcase and removed a sheet of paper. It was a document exonerating him from all blame in the matter of blackmail. It was signed by Nita Morgan.

He couldn’t believe it. “How the hell...?”

“She looks like a loon, with that long jet-black hair and the evening gown. Addams Family–time. But she didn’t get that house in Beverly Hills being eccentric. She knows what she’s doing. I spotted that right away. Her vampire TV series from the sixties is being repackaged for cable and she owns a big piece of it. She’s also writing a book. She’s looking for publicity.”

“And that’s why she came after me?”

“Not exactly,” Nikki said. “She came after you because she got a new agent. For the past five years, she’s been paying Maddie Gray three thousand dollars a month to act as her public relations counselor. That’s a euphemism for blackmailer. Her agent convinced her that times have changed. Her sexual preference is no longer a big deal. It might even be good for her career if she comes out of the closet. They were trying to figure out how best to do it when you blundered into her life.”

“So she invented the phone call?” Goodman asked.

Nikki shook her head. “She swears somebody tried to shake her down using Maddie’s files.”

“Arthur Lydon.”

“Probably,” Nikki said. “In any case, you’re damn lucky the call was made while you were in the box with Dyana Cooper.”

“What about her claim that she’d made a mistake about the time?”

“She says somebody from Internal Affairs told her to change her story. But that’s unlikely.”

“I bet it was the same jagoffs nosing around my apartment building,” he said.

“You didn’t mention that before,” Nikki said.

“A couple guys posing as Internal Affairs shooflies. Talked to my neighbors.”

“They find out anything we should know?”

He hesitated, then said, “Years ago I, ah, got involved with this lady who worked for Madame Sonya.”

“How many years, exactly?”

“Seven.”

“How involved?” she asked.

“We lived together for nearly a year.”

“She in the life during that year?”

“Not while we were together,” he said. “At least, not that I knew about.”

“Why’d you break up?”

Smiling Edie. So sweet and agreeable. So easy to be with.

“Detective?”

“We drifted. I ain’t that easy to live with.”

“She go back hooking?”

“I heard she took up with some real estate guy and stayed with him for a while.”

“Any idea what she’s up to today?”

He hesitated, then said, “Last I heard she was back in her hometown with a husband and a couple rug rats.”

“Name?”

“Edie . . Edith Jastrup. Her married name’s Peterson.”

“Doesn’t ring any bells. I’ll check the witness list.”

Edie, a witness? Goodman hadn’t considered that possibility. The thought of little Edie on the stand getting her past life thrown in her face turned his stomach.

“You know, Nikki, being a cop just isn’t so much fun anymore.”

She gave him a wry smile and said, “Let’s order. I’ve gotta get back to the office.”

She was so quiet while they dined on the Saratoga’s chiliburgers that he asked, “Something on your mind?”

“I was thinking about Dimitra Shaw.”

“I was sorry to read about it,” he said. “You were close?”

“More than I thought,” Nikki said, and told him about just missing the hit-and-run.

“She was lying on the curb?” he asked. “They didn’t mention that in the paper.”

“Her feet were in the street,” Nikki said.

He scowled. “She was crossing the street to go to Jonah’s. She wound up on the curb in front of the place. It’s a two-lane. That means she was past the middle of the street when she was hit. The driver had to have seen her. Unless he was drunk. Or stoned.”

“Dimitra was afraid of something,” Nikki said. “She warned me that Dyana Cooper had dirty tricksters trying to make our lives miserable.”