Death Takes the Cake Page 13

“That’s unnecessarily harsh,” I said.

  Without looking at her, Weaver nodded toward Liddy. “She wanted to be here.”

  John put down his second chicken sandwich. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he said. “Bill, tell us about your relationship with the dead woman. Start from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.”

  19

  Bill took a deep breath. “I met her—Reggie Davis—in my building. She’s a patient of Joe Collins.” For John’s and Weaver’s benefit, he added, “Joe’s the periodontist whose office is two doors down from mine.”

  Weaver said, “Skip the geography. Get to the nitty-gritty.”

  His manner was so unpleasant I was sorry I’d made the sandwiches he’d devoured. I clasped my hands together under the tabletop to keep from saying anything that might get me ejected from the interrogation.

  John said, “When was it that you met her, Bill?”

  “About three weeks ago. I was coming out of my office to grab some lunch at the café downstairs when we collided. I guess she didn’t see where she was going because she was looking in her purse. When she bumped into me, she dropped it and her stuff went all over the floor.” He aimed a nervous smile at Liddy. “Do you women actually use all the things you carry around?”

  John held up a hand. “Let’s stay focused. First, you said you two collided, then you said she bumped into you. Which was it?”

  Bill squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m trying to remember . . . Yes. She bumped into me. Does it matter?”

  Instead of answering Bill’s question, John said, “What happened then?”

  “She apologized, thanked me for helping her pick up the stuff, and said she hoped she wasn’t making me late for an appointment. I told her I was just going downstairs to the café off the lobby for lunch. She said that she was, too, and—”

  “And offered to treat you to lunch for helping her,” Liddy said.

  Bill looked at her in surprise. “How did you know?”

  Liddy expelled a sharp breath in exasperation. “For a smart man, you can be such an idiot.”

  “Bill,” I said, “she was trying to pick you up.”

  “She succeeded,” Weaver said.

  Bill looked at Liddy. “Now I know I shouldn’t have had lunch with her, but then it just seemed like having pleasant conversation for half an hour. A break from my work.”

  “You had the hots for her,” Weaver said.

  Bill’s cheeks flushed red.

  “Tell us the rest,” John said. “Liddy and Del—don’t interrupt.”

  I wanted to give John O’Hara of the LAPD a good swift kick for treating us like a pair of naughty six-year-olds, but he was sitting on my target area.

  Bill lowered his eyes to stare at the surface of the table. “I admit I was a stupid jerk. In two months I’m going to be fifty years old, and it was bothering me—the realization that there’s more of my life behind me than ahead . . . You can understand, John, Detective Weaver.”

  “Leave me out of this,” Weaver said. “My life is a daily delight.”

  No one hearing his sarcastic tone and seeing the darkness in his eyes could have believed that, but neither Bill nor Liddy paid attention to him.

  Bill said, “This woman I just met in the hall made me laugh. For a little while I felt . . .”

  Weaver prodded him. “You felt horny.”

  John shot a frown at Weaver. “Go on, Bill.”

  I could tell from the anguish in his eyes that going on was the last thing Bill wanted to do, but he kept his bargain with John.

  “When we finished eating, she said she had one more appointment with Joe Collins, the next day, so why didn’t we have lunch one more time? We did. Then she suggested we have dinner,” Bill said.

  Liddy groaned, but clamped her lips together to keep from speaking.

  “Get to the sex part,” Weaver said.

  Bill stiffened his shoulders and pounded a fist on the table so hard the plates jumped. “No sex! We didn’t have sex. I swear.”

  John said, “What did you have?”

  “Dinner. Tuesday night, a week ago.”

  When he’d told Liddy he was going to his card game.

  “In twenty years of marriage, I never cheated. But . . .”

  “You thought about it.”

  “Not exactly. I like to look at women. I like women, as people.”

  Weaver guffawed.

  “I do,” Bill said. “Reggie Davis was very witty. We laughed all through dinner. After, she invited me to her house for a drink. I didn’t go.”

  I was relieved Bill hadn’t gone to her house, but there was such a guilty expression on his face that it shocked me.

  John said, “What did you do?”

  “I agreed to see her again. The following Tuesday night.”

  “The night she was murdered.” Weaver’s voice was triumphant.

  John said, “Bill, tell us about that night. What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Bill said. “Not really. I mean we met at the restaurant she picked, something Italian, I think, on Melrose near Doheny, but I can’t remember the name. I was feeling like such a louse about . . . seeing Reggie, lying to Liddy. My head ached, my ears were ringing, and my guts were tied up in knots.”

  “Poor baby,” Weaver said.

  Bill ignored his sarcasm. “Reggie got there first and ordered a bottle of my favorite wine—”

  Liddy’s eye’s blazed. “How did she know your favorite wine?”

  John said, “Liddy. Not now.”

  “It just came up in conversation,” Bill told Liddy. “I was surprised she’d remembered. Anyway, I couldn’t swallow more than a sip. I told her that I thought she was a terrific person, really great, but I loved my wife, so I couldn’t stay for dinner, and I wasn’t going to see her again.”

  “After you told her that, what did you do?”

  “Put down some money for the waiter and left the restaurant. I was feeling like a lousy piece of crap, so I drove around for awhile.”

  “How long?”

  “Maybe a couple of hours. I’m not sure. But while I was driving I was thinking of what I could do for Liddy to try to make up for lying to her. That’s when I got the idea of signing up for ballroom dance lessons.”

  Weaver rolled his eyes and said to John, “Do you believe this dreck?”

  “I’m telling the truth,” Bill said. “I stopped at a 7-Eleven and looked in a phone book for places that teach dancing. I found one in West Hollywood and went over there and enrolled.”

  “At night?” Weaver’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

  “It’s Hollywood,” Bill said. “Some dance studios are open twenty-four seven.”

  “Give us the name of the studio,” John said.

  “Ballroom Boot Camp.”

  Weaver’s slitted eyes popped open. “Boot Camp? Cripes! I was in the army before I joined the cops an’ we didn’t do no dancing in boot camp.”

  “Well, I can’t help what the place calls itself,” Bill said.

  John used his most calming tone. “Let’s back up a little. When you told Regina Davis that you weren’t going to see her again, what was her reaction?”

  Bill grimaced. “Furious. She made some threats.”

  “What kind of threats?” John said.

  “To tell Liddy. To ruin my life.”

  “Good Lord, Bill,” John said.

  “I know this must look bad—”

  “It sounds like a motive for murder to me,” Weaver said.

  “But why would I volunteer all this to you if I was guilty?”

  “Like your wife said, smart men can do stupid things.” Weaver rose and unhooked the handcuffs from the back of his belt.

  Liddy gasped and pressed her knuckles against her mouth.

  Weaver said, “Doctor Marshall, you have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney—”

  “Lid, call our lawyer,” Bill said.

  She threw her a
rms around me and burst into tears.

  20

  As we watched Weaver steer Bill into the backseat of the Crown Victoria, Liddy squeezed my arm. Tears streamed down her face. “Oh, dear God . . .”

  “It’s going to be all right, Liddy,” I said.

  “How? Bill’s been arrested!” She let go of me and pressed both hands against her mouth as though choking back a scream.

  I saw sympathy in John’s eyes, but he kept his tone professional. He told Liddy, “You have a family lawyer, don’t you?”

  Liddy nodded. “Ted Duncan.”

  “Call him. Ask him to get hold of a good criminal lawyer and have them meet Bill at the West Bureau station on Butler Avenue. Della knows where it is.”

  John hurried to his car to follow Weaver and Bill.

  Her whole body trembling, Liddy stared after them.

  I put an arm around her shoulders, and turned her back toward the open front door. “Call a lawyer.” Inside, I picked up the pad and pen beside the telephone on a living room end table. “Here,” I said. “This is the address of the West Bureau station. Whatever you have to say or do, get a lawyer over there. Are you going to be able to drive yourself?”

  “Won’t you come with me?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve got to go home to find Mack’s telephone book. He had a friend who’s a bail bondsman. I’m going to contact him, to get him ready to help in case he’s needed.”

  Fifteen minutes later I turned north from Montana Avenue onto my street. A few yards from home I saw that another shock awaited me: NDM’s silver Masarati was parked at the edge of the driveway. He was standing in front of it, dialing a number into his cell phone, but as soon as he saw me pull to a stop he disconnected and hurried over to my Jeep.

  “I’ve been trying to find you,” he said. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

  “It didn’t ring.” I pulled the little instrument out of my jacket pocket and realized what happened. “The battery died. Why were you calling me?”

  NDM propped his arms on the edge of my driver’s side window. “Your friend Liddy’s husband has just been arrested.”

  I felt my jaw drop open. “It just happened! How did you find out?”

  “A source. So you know.”

  “I was there,” I said. “Who is your source—”

  “Don’t ask. You know I can’t say.” He reached through the window and put one of his hands over mine that was clutching the steering wheel. “This has got to be hard. Are you all right?”

  I found it hard to speak at that moment, so I just nodded.

  “How’s Liddy? Is there anything I can do for her?”

  “Don’t put Bill’s name in the paper. Please.”

  He was silent for a long moment. “I think I’m the only one who knows it right now. I’ll keep it to myself for as long as I can.”

  “Thank you.” I opened the door and took the hand he offered to help me out, then I turned to release Tuffy from his safety harness and let him out. “I’d invite you in for coffee, but I’m not going to be here very long.”

  NDM reached down to scratch Tuffy below the ears. “Hi, big guy.”

  Tuffy acknowledged NDM with a quick nuzzle, then strained against his leash in a way that communicated a need to relieve himself.

  “I appreciate your being willing to protect Bill for now. Come with me while I take Tuff for a short walk and I’ll tell you what happened—if you promise that it’s off the record.”

  NDM held up his right hand in a swearing gesture. “Off the record. Unless it’s information I get from a separate source and another reporter is about to break the story. But if and when I have to write the story, I’ll be as fair as possible to your friends.”

  “All right,” I said.

  While we walked Tuffy around the block, I began by telling NDM that John had come to the studio to show me photos of a gold pen and ask if I knew to whom it belonged. “I recognized it immediately. Liddy bought it as an anniversary present for Bill. I was with her when she had it engraved. John didn’t tell me until after I’d identified it that he’d found the pen in Regina Davis’s handbag.”

  NDM said, “I knew that O’Hara’s partner, Weaver, was trying to trace the ownership of a gold pen with special engraving, because the police thought it might be evidence. I was paying special attention because I knew what case Weaver was working.”

  “John said he needed to talk to Bill, but couldn’t find him. He asked if I knew where he had gone. I told John the truth when I said I didn’t know. What I didn’t say was that I had an idea. Anyway, I found them—Bill and Liddy.”

  “Where were they?”

  “That has no relevance to the case,” I said. Bill’s and Liddy’s romantic trip to the motel was no one’s business but theirs. “It doesn’t matter where they were. The point is that I inadvertently led John to them because he was following me.”

  “O’Hara knows you pretty well.”

  I heard the edge in NDM’s voice, but ignored it. “Bill agreed to answer all of John’s questions, but he wanted to do it in his own home, instead of at West Bureau because he doesn’t want his name in the papers. Bill and Liddy have twin sons who are freshmen at college in the east. He doesn’t want them to know about this, at least not through the media.”

  “If Marshall didn’t kill the Davis woman—”

  “He did not!”

  “Then the cops better find out who did damn quick. Once they’ve taken someone into custody, they pretty much stop looking elsewhere.”

  “If they won’t keep looking for the killer, then I will.”

  “You don’t have to do it alone,” NDM said.

  I stopped and looked at him. “You’re going to help me?”

  His lips curled in that wicked smile that had sent little electric jolts of desire through my body when we were seeing each other. “I prefer to think of it as you helping me.”

  “You’re willing for us to work together because you want the story,” I said.

  “That’s half of the reason.”

  Before I realized what was happening, NDM pulled me tight against his chest and kissed me. With my arms pinned against my sides, I couldn’t resist. In another moment, I didn’t want to. My lips parted . . . and it wasn’t NDM kissing me, it was two former lovers melting together in mutual desire.

  We were spotted by of a car full of teenagers driving by. They began to whoop and slap the sides of their vehicle. Embarrassed, partly at being seen, and partly because I was angry at myself for responding to him, I yanked myself out of his grip.

  “To be continued,” he said.

  “Not on this planet,” I said.

  “Want to make a bet?”

  “Save your money to spend on your age-inappropriate blondes.”

  “Ouch. Okay, point made, even though it was a little sharper than necessary. What’s our next step?”

  Back in my house, NDM perched on the kitchen stool while I fed Tuffy and Emma and filled their bowls with fresh water. When I’d taken care of the pets, I took Mack’s small brown leather personal phone book out of the napkin drawer where I kept it and reached for the wall phone and dialed.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Somebody I hope can help Bill,” I said.

  After two rings on the other end, I heard a brusque voice. “Book ’em and Bond ’em. This is Mazzone.”

  “I’m Della Carmichael. You knew my husband, Detective Mack Carmichael.”

  “Yeah. Good guy. I was sorry to hear what happened. So, you in trouble?”

  “A friend of mine is. I think he might need your services.”

  “Name?”

  “William Marshall. He’s been taken in for questioning about the Regina Davis murder.”

  “What does Marshall do for a living?”

  “He’s a dentist, in Beverly Hills. Is that important?”

  “If he’s charged and I decide to go on the hook for bail it is. Give me details of his situation in person. You
know where I am?”

  “I have the card you gave Mack four years ago. Are you still at the same address?”

  “Mazzone Bail Bonds and the building’s pigeons—the city’ll need flame throwers to get rid of us.”

  21

  Hanging up the phone, I told NDM where I was going.

  “How do you know Frank Mazzone? As far as I know, you’ve never been arrested.” NDM aimed his one-eyebrow-lifted quizzical expression at me.

  I used every ounce of my self-control not to let it excite me as once it had.

  I said, “My husband helped him out a few years ago. On the back of his card, he wrote an IOU for a return favor.”

  “Let me drive. I’m in that nest of one-way streets every day so I probably know downtown Los Angeles better than you do.”

  “All right,” I said. “Most of the times when I’ve been in that section of town it was to go to concerts at the Music Center with Liddy and Bill, and then Bill was the one who drove.”

  “See how useful I am?”

  “At times,” I said. “But you’re coming strictly as a friend, not as a reporter.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Then we have a deal,” I said.

  “Friends again?”

  “At least for the duration of this trip.”

  I strapped myself into the copilot’s seat of NDM’s “silver rocket” and we zoomed away.

  Four freeway mergers and seventeen minutes later, we left US 101 at the Broadway exit and made a left on Temple Street in downtown Los Angeles. No longer flying over the freeways, we had to ease into heavy traffic.

  “Frank’s place is on First, a block down from the back entrance to the Criminal Courts Building.” He gestured to our right. “It’s that tall, slablike structure. The front entrance is on West Temple.”

  “After it was renamed Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center, I never heard anyone use that mouthful. When John and Mack worked together, it was still the CCB.”

  “At the paper, we call having to cover a story there ‘going to Clara’s.’ ”

  “Seven years ago I was summoned there for jury duty. I would have been glad to serve, but no defense attorney wanted me the moment I said I was married to a police detective. They never called me again.”