Bloodthirsty Page 5

  “What loss?” she said.

  Oh, shit. We were told that the family had been notified. “Mrs. Summerhaven, I apologize,” I said. “I thought you knew. Your daughter’s husband was found dead this morning.”

  “Of course I knew. The police were here. But it’s no loss to me. And my name isn’t Summerhaven. That’s my foolish daughter’s make-believe name. You may call me Katryn.”

  She had such a lilting Caribbean accent that every nasty word out of her mouth sounded like sweet music.

  “Catherine,” I said, “we’re here to…”

  “Katryn. No H.” She spelled it for me. “And who’s your partner, Mr. Lomax? The one smirking.”

  I looked over at Terry, who was obviously enjoying my little run-in with Barry Gerber’s mother-in-law from hell.

  “Detective Terry Biggs, ma’am,” he said. “And that’s not a smirk. It’s my natural joyful exterior. You know, don’t worry, be happy.”

  Jesus H. Christ. He had looked her right in the eye and done a lame imitation of Bobby McFerrin. Don’t worry, be happy? It was just a bad joke, but I was sure she was going to look right back at him and say, I’m calling your boss, you goddamn racist.

  She laughed. “I like your partner,” she said to me. “He has a sense of humor. Follow me.”

  We walked from the entryway into a large room that had enough books from floor to ceiling to be considered a library, but there was a glossy white grand piano in one corner of the room, and from what I remember about libraries, piano playing is not encouraged.

  “My daughter is in here,” Katryn said as we passed through an arch into an even larger room. If it hadn’t been furnished it would have been perfect for arena football. Royal Summerhaven was sitting on a tufted white sofa on the fifty-yard line.

  I have no idea how much of a loss it is for a beautiful young cover girl to have her coke-snorting, crack-whore-chasing, twice-her-age husband suddenly ripped from her life, but if Royal Summerhaven were grief-stricken, it did not in any way detract from her beauty.

  She was wearing creamy white pants, a white blouse, a royal blue sash around her waist, and a rock around her neck the size of Minneapolis. Its twin, St. Paul, was set in platinum and parked on the third finger of her right hand.

  Terry and I introduced ourselves and extended our condolences. Unlike her mother, Royal accepted them graciously. We chatted for a while about nothing, because it’s not polite to ask the widow right off the bat if she has an alibi for the time of her husband’s death.

  According to Royal, they had been married three years and were deeply in love. Mama snorted but we all ignored her.

  “When was the last time you saw your husband?” I asked.

  “Yesterday morning,” she said. “I was doing laps in the pool, and he came out to tell me he was going to visit Snow Way.”

  “What or where is Snow Way?” I asked.

  “Snow Way is Barry’s racehorse. She’s stabled at the Pomona Fairplex. He adores her.” She stopped to correct herself. “Adored. He adored her.”

  “And then?”

  “I was still swimming, so he blew me a kiss, and he left.”

  “At what point did you realize he was missing?”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “Barry doesn’t call me during the day. He’s always busy. And I knew he had a premiere to go to last night.”

  “And wouldn’t you have attended the premiere with him?” I said.

  “I’ve sat through that movie three times in our screening room,” she said. “Some people think it’s glamorous to get dressed up, walk down the red carpet with the paparazzi screaming at you, then sit in a crowded theater and watch a movie you’ve seen too many times already, but I think it sucks. It’s what Barry does…did. Not me. Does your wife follow you to the office and watch you work, Detective?”

  “I’m not married,” I said, leaving out the my-wife-is-dead factoid that might have gotten hard-hearted Katryn to cut me some slack. “But I see your point. So you didn’t expect to see him yesterday. What happened when your husband wasn’t here this morning?”

  “Excuse me, Detective.” Mama Bear to the rescue. “My daughter and her husband have separate bedrooms. He only came to her bedroom or dragged her to parties when it suited him.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Katryn said. “Please be so kind as to hold all your questions until I get back.” Her heels click-clacked on the marble floor as she left the room.

  “My mother is upset about Barry,” Royal said. “Well, not exactly about Barry, but how it will affect me. Can I have Carmen get you something to drink? Iced tea? Coffee? Coke?”

  Our standard answer is no.

  “Iced tea,” I said quickly.

  “A Coke would be great,” Terry said, right on my heels.

  Obviously we were on the same wavelength. We both wanted to get another look at the maid.

  There was a telephone table next to the sofa. Royal picked up the phone, pushed a button, and called in our drink orders.

  After about a minute, I could hear Katryn coming back. The staccato of high heels was much faster this time. What’s her hurry I thought, as she breezed back into the room.

  And then I got my answer. There, right behind her, was Lt. Brendan Kilcullen, and Katryn just couldn’t wait to bust our balls.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, giving us a big, fat, don’t-worry-be-happy smile, “your boss is here to check up on you.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Kilcullen was dressed for success. Dark-blue tailored suit, white shirt, subtle red tie. Same outfit the president wears for the State of the Union address.

  “Believe me, I am not here to check up on my detectives,” he said. “I’m actually here to check up on Ms. Summerhaven.”

  He took Royal’s hand and shook it gently. “I’m Lieutenant Brendan Kilcullen, LAPD. I’m so sorry to meet you under these circumstances. The mayor asked me to personally extend his condolences.”

  “Thank you for coming,” she said. “Please tell the mayor that I’m doing as well as can be expected.”

  “Whatever the city can do for you and your family, don’t hesitate to call him on his direct line,” Kilcullen said, pressing a business card into her hand. “Or me.” He gave her a second card.

  “The only thing I want from this city is for you to catch my husband’s killer.”

  “These two detectives are the best in the entire department,” I heard him say for the first time ever. “Last year they cracked the biggest series of homicides we’ve had in decades. This is an industry town and your husband was a giant in the industry. These men will find his killer quickly and bring him to justice.”

  The smirk had returned to Terry’s face. He was cracking himself up, but he was smart enough not to share it with the grieving widow, the man-eating mother-in-law, or our ass-kissing boss.

  Carmen arrived with our beverages.

  “Thank you,” Royal said, as the little Mexican woman set our drinks down, then backed out without making eye contact with a single cop.

  “Would you like something to drink, Lieutenant?” Royal asked.

  “No thanks,” he said. “But I need to have a quick word with Detectives Lomax and Biggs. Can we step into the other room for a moment?”

  Kilcullen is a tough cop with nineteen years under his belt, but he has slid seamlessly into the bullshit politics that go with rank. The fact that he showed up at an investigation could only mean one thing. Somebody was leaning on him.

  We followed him into the room with the white piano.

  “Rumor has it that you had a dick-waving contest at the crime scene with the fire department,” he said.

  “Not true,” I said. “No dicks were waved.”

  “And there’s no embarrassing video of some high-ranking fireman yelling at you with a bullhorn?”

  “There’s a heartwarming video of me shaking hands with my fireman buddy, George Fong. I’d be glad to have copies made for the Cap
tain, the Commander, the Deputy Chief, and anyone else up the chain of command who thinks I might have embarrassed the department.”

  “So I don’t have to worry about the Captain ripping me a new asshole?”

  “Or the Commander,” I said. “Or the Deputy Chief.”

  “They want this case solved fast,” Kilcullen said. “You heard what I said to the widow about her husband being a giant in the industry. And a Jewish giant to boot. So they’re all over me. Right up to the Mayor.”

  “We just got started,” Terry said.

  “Oh, you just got started. Why don’t I tell that to the Mayor?” Kilcullen said. “And you know what he’ll tell me? Barry Gerber was a dear friend of mine. And a generous contributor to my election campaign—”

  “And if you don’t catch his killer fast,” Terry said interrupting, “a lot of big time Jewish producers who also make donations will be very upset.”

  Kilcullen smiled. “You got it. You finally understand politics.”

  “I thought my job was police work,” Terry said.

  “It is,” Kilcullen said. “But my job is politics, and if you don’t solve this thing fast, I’m the guy who is gonna rip you a new asshole. You wouldn’t want that to happen, would you, Biggs?”

  “No sir,” Terry said. “The last thing this department needs is another asshole.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  We rejoined the womenfolk. Kilcullen lowered himself onto the sofa next to Royal. “Why don’t I just sit quietly and listen while these two detectives finish their interview. Sometimes the smallest things you can think of are all we need to crack a case wide open.”

  He nodded at me. “Carry on, Detective.”

  “Ms. Summerhaven, did your husband have any enemies?” I asked.

  “Hah!” It came from Katryn. She opened a drawer in the telephone table, pulled out a Los Angeles directory and dropped it on the glass coffee table in front of the sofa. “This ought to get you started.”

  “Famous people often have their detractors,” said the lieutenant who was just going to sit quietly and listen. “Can you think of someone who knew him personally and might have wanted to kill him?”

  “Everyone who knew him wanted to kill him,” Katryn said. “And you can put my name at the top of the list. I wished him dead every day, and now that he is, I hope he burns in hell.”

  “Mama,” Royal said. “He was my husband, and you’re in our house. Have some respect for the dead.”

  “Respect? The man was a tyrant, a drug addict, and a womanizer, and you were the ebony trophy wife. As far as I’m concerned, you’re better off now that he’s dead.”

  “Exactly how much better off will she be?” Terry asked.

  Kilcullen started to get up off the sofa, but stopped himself. Before he was a cop-slash-politician, he was a homicide detective. He knows that everyone is a suspect. Especially the beautiful young widow-slash-beneficiary. And sometimes the cops asking the questions just have to drop a bomb. In this case, Terry was the bombardier.

  Katryn, of course, was about to go mental, but Royal stopped her cold. “Let me deal with this,” she said, turning to Terry. “Barry and I had a pre-nup. In the event of his death I get three million dollars, which may sound like a lot of money, but it’s less than I earn in a single year as a model.”

  “Who gets the rest of his estate?” Terry asked.

  “He has two ex-wives. They’ll get a little. He has no siblings, no children. His parents get the rest. They’re in their eighties. They still live in the same house in Queens where he grew up. They’ll probably leave everything to charity when they die.”

  “Thank you,” Terry said. “It’s an ugly question. I’m sorry if I asked it in an ugly way.”

  “I understand,” she said. “You’re thorough. That’s good.”

  It was time to bail. “Ms. Summerhaven, we realize this is a stressful time for you, and we understand there were some family tensions between your mother and your husband, so one more question before we go. What can you tell us about the other people in your husband’s life—business relationships, personal contacts, things like that? Was he at odds with anyone? For instance, we know he had some kind of a falling out with Damian Hedge.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t really know. Barry was never very forthcoming about any of his business deals or his…his personal life outside our home. T.B. would be the best person to talk to.”

  “T.B.” I said. “That would be Tyler Baker-Broome?”

  “Yes.”

  Kilcullen’s eyes widened, no doubt wondering how I put such a convoluted name to a two-letter clue. Maybe Terry and I actually were the two best detectives in the entire department.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I know where to find him.”

  Kilcullen extended his Look of Approval. Why spoil the magic by explaining to him that only last night T.B. had given me his business card?

  “Can we talk to the maid and any other household staff briefly before we go?” I asked. “You never know what they might have seen or heard.”

  “There’s four people,” Katryn said. “I’ll have them meet you in the kitchen.”

  Royal waited for her mother to leave the room.

  “Mama is right,” she said. “I was there when Barry needed eye candy. It was much more of a business arrangement than a marriage. Models have a short shelf life. Barry was going to help me start an acting career. I know he has a reputation for being…” She hesitated. “I was going to say ‘difficult,’ but he was a heartless bastard. Especially in business. But he could also be a very sweet, generous man. I’m very sad that someone murdered him, and I’d like you to do everything you can to find out who killed him.”

  Kilcullen stood. “Ms. Summerhaven, you have my personal guarantee. This department will not rest until the man who killed your husband is behind bars.” He turned to me. “Am I right, Detective?”

  “You’re always right, sir,” I said, recalling the inscrutable wisdom of my firefighter friend George Fong.

  Brass up your ass.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Terry and I met with the help. They were no help.

  Besides Carmen there were three others: see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil.

  They were all appropriately upset about the death of Señor Barry, but nobody had any questions. Or answers. Just vacant stares.

  We gave them our cards and told them to call if they thought of anything.

  “Just dial 1-800-GESTAPO,” Terry said.

  They didn’t laugh. “Language barrier,” Terry said.

  Kilcullen was still talking to Royal when we left the house. Katryn escorted us to the door. She didn’t say anything. She probably just wanted to make sure we left.

  “That was special,” I said as we headed east on Sunset. “How generous of Lieutenant Kilcullen to stop by.”

  “Who says cops can’t learn to micromanage,” Terry said. “He did everything but recite the department credo. Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night, blah, blah, blah.”

  “I believe that’s for postal workers,” I said.

  “Post office, police department,” Terry said. “What’s the difference? We’re all just guys in uniforms toting guns.”

  Barry’s company, Pita Productions, had their offices at Raleigh Studios on Melrose. I called Tyler Baker-Broome to make sure he was there. “We’ll need a drive-on,” I said.

  He laughed. “Can’t you guys just flash your badges at the front gate?”

  “We could use lights and sirens if you don’t mind everyone on the lot knowing that the cops are after you.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’m not thinking straight today. Barry’s murder is a big shock to everyone at Pita.”

  I told him we’d be there in twenty and hung up.

  “Pita bread is what they use to make falafel sandwiches,” I said to Terry. “Pita Productions sounds like a Middle Eastern bakery. Couldn’t he come up with something a litt
le more creative?”

  “Ah, grasshopper,” Terry said. “You know so little of the ways of show business. ‘Pita’ is a blend of his parents’ names. His father is Pinchas. His mother is Tanya. P-I-T-A. People who work there say it stands for Pain In The Ass.”

  “You are a treasure trove of Hollywood folklore,” I said.

  “It makes up for my shortcomings as a cop.”

  Terry’s cell rang. He checked the caller ID and smiled. His kids don’t call this early, so it had to be Marilyn. “Hey, babe,” he said. “Have I heard about it? Mike and I caught the case. Yeah, we were just at Gerber’s house in Bel Air. No, it doesn’t change anything. We’ll just have to look for another producer. They’re like hydras. One dies, two more pop up. What? Are you kidding?”

  He turned to me. “Marilyn said if we question Damian Hedge she’d like us to get her his autograph.”

  “Tell her no problem,” I said loud enough so she’d hear me. “We’ll get you his prints and a mug shot too.”

  “Sorry, babe,” Terry said into the phone. “Mike’s a purist. Does everything by the book. I can’t even get him to take bribes. Love you too. Bye.”

  We turned right on Bronson and pulled up to the studio gate. Terry rolled down the window. Before he could say a word, the security guard spread his arms out wide and said, “Detectives Lomax and Biggs. How the hell are you?”

  Sergeant Rich Agins, recently retired from LAPD. So much for keeping a low profile.

  “Rich,” Terry said. “I heard you took a security job. How do you like it?”

  “Are you kidding?” Agins said. “This booth is smaller than a gerbil’s ass, the pay couldn’t buy rice and beans for an anorexic Mexican, the Hollywood assholes who drive through here treat me like I’m a retard, and this uniform is so tight that my crotch has been chafed since my third day on the job. But hey man, I’m in show business. I love it.”

  “Another retired cop living the dream,” Terry said.

  “Sarge, good to see you,” I said. “You got a drive-on for us?”

  “Yeah, the girl at Pita left a drive-on for a Mister Lomax. Mister my ass. I figured somebody murders Barry Gerber, LAPD would be sending Starsky and Hutch. And here you are. You got a list of suspects yet?”