Write to die, p.9
Write to Die, page 9
“Okay, I’ll bet you Sylvie Virtin is dead.”
“What are the stakes?”
“Loser buys dinner at a restaurant of the winner’s choice anywhere in California. Loser pays travel costs, too.” With that, Rory had hedged his bet. If Sylvie turned out to be alive, he’d have to pay Lester, but Sarah would have to pay him.
Lester wasn’t taking that bet, though. “I don’t bet for pussy stakes. Why don’t we make it five thousand dollars and the winner buys dinner?”
Rory paused for a few seconds. “Ha! You haven’t changed a bit. It’s a deal. But, uh, where are you getting that kind of dough?”
“Started a really profitable pool-cleaning business a couple of years ago.”
Rory wasn’t sure if Lester was telling the truth or not but decided not to press it. “So we have a bet, then?”
“Yes. And I’ll see what I can do about a warrant—or something—without landing myself in a disciplinary proceeding.”
“Great. By the way, Lester, when are you guys gonna release the autopsy report about exactly how Joe died?”
“Later today, so I might as well tell you what I think you already know. He was hit over the head with a blunt object and then garroted to death with a piece of rope.”
“Fits what I saw when I opened the door.”
“You know it’s weird you found the body, Rory.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“That reminds me, though. Have you heard that the entire security camera system in the studio’s Executive Office Structure had been broken for at least a week before the murder? It’s why we don’t know for sure who killed him.”
“No, I hadn’t heard that.”
“Any idea why they wouldn’t have fixed it right away?”
“Not specifically, but you have to understand, Lester. Studio security might imagine that someone could try to off a movie star, or a famous director or well-known producer, or even, at the outer limit of possibility, a writer. But they probably don’t think much about murder in the EOS. It’s filled with suits. My guess is that no one in security could imagine that anyone would want to kill a suit. So they didn’t get around to fixing it right away.”
“Suits,” Lester said with a smile. “That’s what the uniforms call detectives.”
“Exactly. When was the last time someone shot a detective, Lester?”
“It happens, but not all that often.”
No sooner had Rory stepped back into his office than the phone rang. It was the receptionist. “There’s someone calling for you named Madge. She says you had lunch with her today.”
“That’s sort of true. Put her through.”
“Hi, Tuna. Remember me?”
“Yep. How did you locate me?”
“Your name was on your credit card slip. I looked you up on the state bar website, which lists your law firm and its phone number.”
“Oh. Of course. Well, what can I do for you, Madge?”
“I wanted to let you know that I think someone is following you.”
“Do tell.”
“Not long after you and your friend arrived, a tall guy with a shaved head, wearing mirrored sunglasses, came in and took a table that was more or less around the corner from yours. He could see you, but you couldn’t see him. He ordered only an espresso and a croissant. When you got up to leave, he slapped a twenty down on the table and followed you out. He didn’t eat the croissant, and he didn’t come back for his change.”
“How do you know he wasn’t following my cop friend?”
“Maybe he was. But I don’t call cops up. So I’m calling you. You can tell him if you want to.”
“Well, thanks. I will definitely look into it.”
“You’re welcome. Do you want me to send you a photo I took of the guy?”
“You took a photo of a guy minding his own business in your restaurant?”
“If he was minding his own business, I’m an armadillo. Do you want the photo or not, Tuna?”
That meant giving her either his e-mail or his cell number. What the hell; he gave her his number. “Thanks, Madge, I’ll look for the photo via text. Let me know if you see the guy again, huh?”
“Will do.”
He was about to say something else, but realized that the call had been terminated. A moment later, the photo arrived.
He looked at it, sat and thought about it for a while. The guy looked a lot like the guy in the red Honda. He needed to tell Sarah about it, but that could wait.
Chapter 13
WEDNESDAY EVENING
While Sarah had found the hoopla around the premiere of Extorted—spotlights in the sky, the red carpet leading into the theater, ushers to take you to your seat and the big tent with canapés and champagne—exciting, the movie, beyond the blessed absence of ads and previews before it started, had left her well south of wowed.
On emerging from the theater, she pulled out her phone, gave the film a bad rating on both Metacritic and Rotten Tomatoes and posted a review:
[Spoiler alert] Sitting president roomed in college w/ two other guys. Had homosexual affair with one, who later died of AIDS. 3rd roommate, knew about it, returned to his African country. Now head of state there. Has been extorting president for years for small things, now needs large military assistance package worth billions. President up for reelection, running on family values. If he refuses, all will be revealed. President invites leader to DC for formal visit, makes plans to have him assassinated. President and wife are gunned down instead, Grinning VP, now the pres, embraces African leader. Bad acting, stupid, predictable plot, cheap CGI. Too long.
That made her feel much better about having been denied an invite to the party. She’d been careful, though. Instead of posting under Sarahhot, her usual nom de movie (as she called it), she’d put the review up under a new pseudonym less likely to get her caught: Criticfromtheheartland.
As she was heading back to the parking lot, she spotted the buses that were to take people to the after-party, leaned in through the doors of one and said to the driver, “Hey, I’m driving to the party, but I’ve forgotten the address.”
The driver smiled at her and said, “Lady, I can’t give you the address unless you show me your invite to the party.”
“Please?”
“No can do. I could lose my job.”
A dapper man wearing a tux, who was getting on the bus, said, “If you’ll have a drink with me at the party, I’ll give you the address.”
“Okay.”
He gave her the address and said, “My name is John Esparza. What’s yours?”
“Sarah Gold.”
“Okay, see you there, Sarah. But you’re not going like that, are you?” He gestured at her spangle-covered white jeans and red peasant blouse.
“No, I’m planning to change into something a good deal more, well, fun.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing that.”
Rory arrived early at the party, hoping to catch Hal Harold, who, he knew, liked to get there early and leave early. Assuming, of course, that he chose to come at all, under the circumstances. Rory was standing by the bar, scanning the door, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, and there was Hal.
“Hey, Hal, I was watching the door for you. How did you get in without my seeing you?”
“Sneaked in through the kitchen. There are too many media types out front. I know they’re waiting for the celebs, but given my situation I didn’t want to give them the opportunity to pounce on me, too.”
“Yeah, for once you’re the subject of attention instead of your clients.”
Hal nodded. “I appear to have lost my anonymity. I’ll have to get used to that until this ridiculous murder thing blows over.”
“What evidence have they got against you?”
“How about a drink, Rory?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned to the bartender. “Two extradry Grey Goose martinis, one with olives, one with a twist.” They stood in silence while the bartender made the drinks and set them down on the polished wood counter without spilling a drop. Hal handed the one with the olives to Rory, picked up the other and raised his glass. “To the end of this murder nonsense.”
They clinked glasses, and Hal took a large swallow of his martini.
Rory said, “Yes, to that. And now, as I was asking, what have they got against you?”
“Nothing, so far as I know. This is all about the DA having it in for me for reasons that go back a long way.”
“A small bird told me that they found a spot of your blood in Joe’s office.”
Hal took another sizable swallow of his martini. “Where’d you hear that?”
“A source.”
“Who was the source?”
“I’d rather not say, Hal.”
“I thought we were law partners.”
“We are, but I’m not your lawyer on this, remember? Quentin Zavallo is representing you.”
“Do you know him?”
“Not really.”
“He’s around here somewhere. He’s wearing one of those stupid purple shirts he always wears. If you see him, introduce yourself.”
“So what was a spot of your blood doing in Joe’s office?”
Hal put the martini to his lips and finished it off. “Do you know the funny thing about blood?”
“No, enlighten me.”
“Once it’s dry, it’s hard to tell how old it is.”
Rory took a small sip of his own martini. “Why was your blood ever in Joe’s office?”
“Cut my hand in there.”
“How and when?”
“Do you want another, Rory?”
“Not yet.”
Hal turned back to the bartender. “Another of the same.” He turned back to Rory. “You need to learn to take advantage of these open bars. But where were we?”
“You were about to tell me how and when you cut your hand in Joe’s office.”
“You know, I wasn’t born yesterday, son. Your source is probably a cop. And right now, the cops don’t know how or when I cut my hand. I prefer to leave it that way for now and not take the risk that you’re a police spy.”
“I’m not.”
“So you say.”
“My source told me another thing, Hal.”
“Hit me with it.”
“He said that on top of the blood evidence, they’ve also got a security video clip of you looking red faced and disheveled as you drove off the studio lot, not long after the murder.”
“Bullshit. They don’t even know exactly when the murder took place. Besides, I’ve always looked disheveled. My kindergarten teacher sent a note home to my mother complaining about it.” He laughed, the raucous laugh of someone getting drunk in a hurry.
Hal finished off the martini and asked the bartender for a third. Then he said, “Whoa! Look at that,” and pointed to the middle of the room.
Rory looked and saw a beautiful blonde talking to a man who appeared to be in his late fifties but was wearing a purple shirt better suited to someone a good deal younger. The woman had her back to Rory and was swathed in a tight black dress, her back bare from the waist to a thin black strap around her neck.
“That’s our new associate, is it not?” Hal said. “She certainly cleans up nice.”
“What the hell is Sarah doing here?”
“You didn’t get her an invite?”
“Nope. I tried, but couldn’t get it done.”
“Maybe she persuaded someone else with more clout. She’s a go-getter, I hear.”
“Who’d you hear that from?”
“Just when we checked her out before we hired her.”
Rory drank down what remained of his martini in two gulps. “Hey, that was great. Bartender? Hit me with another.”
“That’s more like the Rory I know and love,” Hal said.
“So, Hal, how carefully did you investigate Sarah before we hired her?”
“Just the usual. Among other things, she’d already been vetted for the Supreme Court clerkship, so I didn’t think we needed to do a lot. Why?”
“Did you check out the two-year gap on her resume between college and law school?”
“I did ask her about it. She said she worked as a waitress or something to save up some money for law school.”
“Yeah. She told me the same thing. Funny thing is, the place she says she worked—a bar called Another Bird in the Hand—doesn’t exist. Or at least I can’t find it.”
“Maybe it closed.”
“Yeah, maybe, but it should have left some trace on the web.”
“I’m sure there’s an explanation. Anyway, I see your refill is here.” He turned to the bar and handed Rory the new martini. “Drink up.”
“Thanks.”
“In the meantime, I’m going to go circulate. In the short run, my current notoriety should make people even more interested in the firm, and it’ll generate future business in the long run.”
“Unless you go to jail.”
“Trust me, I’m not going to jail.”
Rory watched Hal wander into the crowd, which was growing thicker, and launched himself, martini in hand, toward Sarah and the purple-shirted man he assumed was Quentin Zavallo.
Chapter 14
When Rory approached, Sarah was deep in conversation with the man. Rory stood politely to the side and waited for one of them to acknowledge him. Finally, the man in the purple shirt looked over at him.
“Hi,” Rory said, addressing him. “I’m Rory Calburton. I assume you’re Quentin Zavallo. Hal Harold suggested I come over and introduce myself. Apologies for interrupting.”
“Nice to meet you, Rory. No apology needed. Hal has mentioned you to me, quite favorably I might add. And I saw your partnership announcement. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“I assume you know Sarah Gold here, since you’re in the same firm.”
“I do. We’re working together on a case.” Rory took another swallow from his martini and turned to Sarah. “How the hell did you get in?”
“Oh, you didn’t have an invite?” Quentin said.
“No, I didn’t. I used my wiles, you might say.”
“Were your wiles assisted by that dress?” Rory asked.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s not appropriate for a lawyer from our firm, frankly.”
“What, you don’t like the slit up the side to my waist, or the lack of a back?”
“More the two smallish swatches of material covering your, uh, upper body. Held on in a way I don’t quite get.”
“You like?”
“No.”
“Well, you’re the one who suggested I wear, if I recall your exact words, ‘as little as you’re comfortable wearing.’ And I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”
“Maybe we should take this conversation in a different direction,” Quentin said.
“Yes,” Sarah said. “Quentin and I were just discussing the fact that Joe Stanton’s brother, Peter, may have a flash drive that will shed light on who murdered Joe.”
“Did you tell him how you got that information, Sarah?”
“No, I like to protect my sources, Rory.”
Quentin laughed. “I don’t need to know the source. Unfortunately, there’s very little discovery in a criminal proceeding at this stage, at least for the defense, so we can’t subpoena something like that from Peter right now. But I’m going to send an investigator out to talk to him.”
“Ask Peter about his past relationship with Sylvie Virtin,” Sarah said. “Something’s going on there. And I think Sylvie’s dead, by the way.”
“She called me just this afternoon,” Quentin said. “To give me some information that she thought might help exonerate Hal.”
“How do you know it was really her?” Rory asked.
“She seemed to know a lot of details about Joe, Peter, Hal and other things that an imposter wouldn’t know.”
“Unless someone briefed her,” Sarah said. “Did she tell you where she was?”
“Yes, near DC.”
“Why don’t you ask her for her address and send someone to talk to her, too?” Rory said.
“Not a bad idea. I think we’ll do that.”
“I have to go follow up on my wiles,” Sarah said. “I owe someone a visit for getting me in here.”
“Can I get you a drink first?” Rory asked.
“I don’t drink. As you well know.” She turned to Quentin. “Another leftover from my past.”
“What past are you referring to?” he asked.
“It’s not really important,” Sarah said. “By the way, Rory, where’s your date?”
“Dana? She’s out front doing her TQEN duties. But she’ll be in soon. I got her name on the invite list.”
“Hers, but not mine,” Sarah said.
“It’s different if you’re bringing a date. And by the time I’d gotten her in here and gotten you into the movie, I was out of favors to cash.”
“I see.”
Rory decided to ignore Sarah’s icy stare and move on. “Here comes Dana now,” he said. “Do you guys want to meet her?”
“Maybe later,” Sarah said.
“I already know her,” Quentin said. “And I don’t want to renew the acquaintanceship right now. See you guys around.”
“Bye,” Sarah said.
Thirty seconds later, Dana walked up to him. She was wearing a short red skirt and an ecru blouse with a gold chain necklace. “Did the two people you were talking to just flee because they saw me coming?”
“Kind of.”
“One was Quentin Zavallo, right?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ve always had a good relationship. Wonder why he fled.”
“Maybe he didn’t want to talk about the Hal Harold case.”
“Could be. Who was the tall blonde in the nothing black dress?”
“Associate in our firm, Sarah Gold. Working on a civil case with me. She was at the courthouse today. Guess you missed seeing her.”
“Which case? The stolen script thing?”
“It wasn’t stolen.”
“You know, I might know a little something about that.”
“Do tell.”
“What are you drinking?”
