Death Takes the Cake Read online

  “A few weeks ago Regina Davis hired a private investigator, a guy named Taggart whose office is in Westwood. He was murdered sometime yesterday afternoon. I’m pursuing the idea that there’s a connection.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Four violent deaths in LA in the past week. The first was a gang killing, and the cops got the shooter while he still had the weapon on him. The second was a married couple in a murder-suicide—that one solved itself. And in not quite four days, two people who knew each other are dead.”

  I was in an awkward spot, because I knew more than he did. I stalled. “Do you have any idea why he was killed? What the motive was?”

  “Not yet. Maybe you can help. You told me that Davis came to see you a couple of days before her murder. Did she mention anything about hiring a PI?”

  “No.” It was a relief to tell the absolute truth.

  “She mention anybody in her life she was suspicious of, or worried about?”

  “No. Reggie didn’t say anything like that.” To cut off the questioning, I added, “Sorry.”

  “No problem. It was a long shot.”

  “Sometimes long shots come in. Well, good luck with your investigation. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Hold on a minute. There’s something I want to say.”

  “What?”

  “I keep thinking about our night together, all the wonderful details. I reach for a mug of coffee and wish I was reaching for you,” he said.

  “Pretty words, but we both have a lot to do, so—”

  “Yeah, I’ve got to go, too. Oh, I caught your show last night. If you need any more fruitcakes, my editor has three of them he doesn’t know what to do with.”

  Roiling with mixed emotions—I wanted to be back in NDM’s arms and I wanted to smack him with one of his editor’s fruitcakes for making me feel that way—all I said was, “If I need one, it’s good to know I have a source. Happy investigating.” I said a polite good-bye.

  It must not have been as polite as I thought because he said, “Why do you keep trying to hang up? Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “With us?”

  “We’re friends,” I said.

  “That’s all?”

  “We slept together the other night, and it was great, but it’s not going to happen again,” I said.

  “Ever?”

  “I told you something and I meant it: I’m not going to be one of the group of women you sleep with.”

  “I didn’t sleep with anyone in Utah, and I haven’t slept with anyone but you since I got back. In spite of what you think, and seeing me with . . . that girl . . . at the restaurant.”

  He doesn’t remember her name.

  I said, “Is that true?”

  “Scout’s honor—and I really was a Boy Scout. I’ll show you my badges. What’s happened is I decided I want to be with a woman who knows the name of at least one of the Supreme Court justices. Del, honey, I’d like us to see each other exclusively. For as long as we both want to.”

  “I’m not interested in getting married again, and we won’t live together,” I said.

  “Not living together—that’s fine with me. We need our separate space.”

  My heart was thumping and my cheeks felt hot with excitement at the thought of his mouth on mine, of his touch . . . but I managed to keep my voice calm. “One-on-one, so to speak. That arrangement sounds fair,” I said.

  “Fair? I never even thought about making a deal like this before.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Either of us can bail out whenever we want to.”

  “Easy for you to say. My problem is I don’t think I’m going to want to,” he said.

  I wondered how he would feel about that if, or when, he learned that I was keeping information about Taggart’s files from him.

  That thought brought me back to my big problem at the moment: finding out if Taggart’s hard drive really had been stolen, and if the police had any clues.

  While I couldn’t ask John, and NDM didn’t seem to know, I realized there was someone else who might be able to help me. Once again, silently thanking whoever devised this handy piece of communication equipment, I picked up my cell phone and dialed.

  28

  Phil Logan’s assistant put me through to the Better Living Channel’s head of public relations.

  “Della? This is the first time you ever called me. Nothing’s wrong, I hope.”

  “No, not at all, but I wondered if you have time to see me for a few minutes. I can come to your office.”

  “It’s a madhouse around here. Meet me at the Hamburger Hamlet, the original one, on Sunset, right next door to this building. I’ll buy you lunch.”

  “Terrific. What time?”

  “Can you get there in fifteen minutes?”

  “Easily.”

  “Park in the garage next to the restaurant,” he said. “Do I need to bring anything with me for our meeting?”

  “Just your vivid imagination,” I said.

  The West Coast outpost of Jordan Enterprises was located in an office building near the invisible line that divided Beverly Hills 90210 from West Hollywood 90069. Mickey’s address was, by a few feet, on the B. H. side of the invisible line. Hamburger Hamlet was on the West Hollywood side.

  There are quite a few Hamburger Hamlets around southern California, but the one where I was about to meet Phil Logan was the original, established in 1950 by Marilyn and Harry Lewis. The story goes that on their first date aspiring actor Harry told Marilyn he had two ambitions in life: to own a restaurant and to play Hamlet. She found the location and together they opened the bistro. Harry Lewis didn’t become famous as an actor, but their enterprise was a huge success. Hamburger Hamlet managed to weather a roller coaster economy and public whims. It remained popular over the decades while other all-the-rage dining places vanished.

  As Phil suggested, I parked in the garage next door. Perhaps I was becoming paranoid after my terrifying ride through the rain, but before I left the Jeep, I scanned the area carefully. When I was satisfied that no one was around, I got out. Just before I locked the Jeep, I reached under the driver’s seat and removed the envelope with Taggart’s reports and shoved it into my handbag.

  I followed the cement path from the garage to the door of the restaurant, and was almost there when I saw Phil Logan striding toward me from the direction of his office building. He saw me at the same time, waved, and doubled his pace so that we arrived at the Hamlet’s glass front door simultaneously.

  Phil looked at me and gave a low whistle. “You look sharp,” he said.

  “I’ve just come from a meeting at Mickey’s about—”

  “The new company, I know: Della Sweets.”

  I wasn’t crazy about that name, but tried to keep a neutral tone. “Is that what he’s going to call it?”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no. It’s a place saver, in Hollywood-speak, a ‘working title.’ ”

  Phil grabbed one of the thick brass handles, opened the door, and ushered me inside.

  “Your name should be on the product, like Mrs. Fields cookies, or the Famous Amos chocolate chips. But if you have any ideas, Mickey’s open to suggestions. He’s a tough guy, but he’ll listen.”

  “I’ll give it some thought,” I said.

  Inside the Hamlet my first impression was of the delectable aroma of spit-roasting chickens. I’d been so focused on finding out if Taggart’s hard drive had been stolen that I hadn’t thought about food, but after taking one breath here, I was hungry.

  The maitre d’ greeted Phil with warm familiarity.

  “I didn’t make a reservation,” Phil said.

  “No problem today, Mr. Logan. Your favorite table is available.”

  “Great. I’m entertaining a special woman. This is Della Carmichael, host of In the Kitchen with Della on the BLC.”

  The maitre d’ turned to me. “Ahhhh, Ms. Carmichael. What a pleasure to meet you.” His
tone was enthusiastic, but I had the distinct feeling that he’d never heard of me. That was fine. When I started on the show I had this dream that it would be successful and I’d earn enough money to start saving for the future, but that nobody would recognize me on the street.

  The maitre d’ took two large hardbound menus from his station and asked us to follow. We did, into the restaurant’s main room: all dark woods and brass fixtures with the banquettes and the wing chairs around the tables upholstered in wine red leather.

  Phil Logan’s favorite table was in the center of the room. Phil indicated where he wanted me to sit, and then sat down. The maitre d’ gave us the menus, told us he’d send a waiter right over, and went back to his podium station.

  “This is the best location because I can see everybody who comes in, and they can see me, and who I’m with. A lot of useful people like the Hamlet—media folks I can go after for stories. The Better Living Channel isn’t exactly one of the big alphabet networks—not yet. It’s tough to get attention for some of the BLC hosts. Your being at the scene of some crimes has made my life a little easier. Of course, I can’t depend on that happening.”

  “I hope not! Violent deaths aren’t my idea of good publicity, Phil.”

  “That’s why you couldn’t do my job—you don’t see how to make lemonade out of lemons. Oh, bad analogy, you being a queen of the kitchen. What I meant was this: You look at a murder and see death. I look at a murder and see it as an unfortunate event that can be turned to something positive, namely publicity for the innocent. Is that better?”

  “Good save,” I said. “But I’ll never be able to see murder as anything but a tragedy both for the victim and for the killer. Two lives destroyed by the same horrible act.”

  “That’s why the world needs both of us types. You’re sensitive and idealistic—I’m a pragmatic opportunity grabber.” He picked up the menu and gave it a quick scan. “I’m in a pot-pie frame of mind.”

  “I don’t need to look at the menu,” I said. “From the moment I took a breath in here I’ve wanted the rotisserie chicken.”

  A smiling waiter appeared and took our orders. As soon as he departed, Phil said, “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Regina Davis—”

  Phil waved his hand dismissively. “Nothing to worry about. The contest and TV show are still going forward.”

  “I know.” I saw that I’d have to be more direct. “My question was about her personally. Have you learned anything from your media sources that might give a clue as to who killed her?”

  “You mean like who’s in her will?” He shook his head. “The will hasn’t been filed yet. Why?”

  I ignored that. “There was another murder, sometime yesterday or last night. A private detective named T. J. Taggart. His office was pretty close to Reggie’s. I wondered if there might be some connection between the two events.”

  Phil’s eyes lighted up with excitement. “Hey, wouldn’t that be great!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Two murders are a bigger story than just one. If there’s a connection between this Taggart and Regina Davis, then that could mean a lot more publicity for our TV show.” His expression sobered. “Unless you killed the two of them. That would be bad for the BLC.”

  In a firm tone, I said, “I did not kill anyone, Phil.”

  “I was just joking. Tell me what you know and I’ll figure out how we can take advantage of it.”

  “This isn’t to be used for publicity, Phil. I’m asking you for information as a personal favor. Okay?”

  Clearly disappointed, he lifted his shoulders in a gesture of agreement. “But you’ll tell me when there is something I can use? Right?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “It’s about the murder of T. J. Taggart. Can you find out if his murder was a robbery? He was killed in his office. Was anything stolen?”

  Punching a number into his cell phone, he said, “Robbery isn’t very interesting, media wise.” After a moment, someone answered. “Hey, Nick. It’s Phil Logan.”

  Nick? Could his “Nick” be NDM?

  “Buddy, I heard about the Taggart killing . . . Doesn’t matter where I heard it. What I’m asking is, do the cops know what the motive was? Uh-huh. In his office . . . Was he robbed? Uh, huh . . . Just his hard drive? Maybe he was into kiddie porn? You’re checking—I should have known you’d be on top of things, Nick. Thanks. Let’s get together for dinner soon . . .” Phil nodded at the phone. “Yeah, I know this works both ways. If I hear anything about the Davis murder on this end, I’ll give you an instant buzz . . . Gotta go . . . Oh, no, I won’t repeat what you told me. My lips are zipped, Buddy.”

  Phil disconnected. “I hope you heard what I said because I promised not to repeat it.”

  I held up my right hand in a swearing gesture. “You didn’t tell me a thing. By the way, who were you talking to?”

  “Nick D’Martino.” He entwined his first two fingers. “We’re like brothers. You know him. He’s at the Chronicle, gave you some good ink.”

  “Oh, yes. He’s a talented writer.” I tried to keep my tone bland, but inside I was seething. NDM knew about Taggart’s hard drive and hadn’t confided in me.

  But, to be fair, I hadn’t told him what I knew, either.

  29

  As soon as I got back home I took Tuffy for a quick walk, then went into the bedroom to study the reports I’d pried out of T. J. Taggart. Tuffy and Emma followed me into the room.

  Reluctantly, I took the envelope from my handbag. I didn’t want to pry into the private lives of people I knew. During all the years that Mack and I were married, I never opened an envelope addressed to him, even though he told me I could, and I told him he was welcome to open anything addressed to me. But neither of us ever opened each other’s mail. Considering that in all other ways we were as intimate as two married people could be, I suppose it sounds silly, but that’s just the way it was.

  The first of Taggart’s three reports was about me. I’d already read it, so I put the pages facedown on the bed. As soon as I did that, Emma jumped up and curled herself on top of the papers. I’d begun to suspect that sprawling all over a human being’s reading material was coded into a cat’s DNA, so I let her stay there and began to study the report on Mickey Jordan.

  What I read on the first page caused my eyes to pop open.

  Mickey Jordan had a police record. According to what Taggart had unearthed, Mickey had been arrested in New York City and charged with Aggravated Assault-GBI. GBI was the law enforcement abbreviation for Great Bodily Injury. Taggart’s parenthetical note read: “Because you want information ASAP, I’m giving you raw facts as I learn them. I’m trying to track down details, but the arrest occurred before the NYPD kept records on computers, so what we’re after is buried in tons of storage boxes.”

  Before computer records . . . That meant Mickey’s arrest had to have happened at least thirty years ago, maybe more. Taggart had noted the NYPD precinct but not the name of the arresting officer. I wondered if that officer was still alive, and if so, why hadn’t Taggart tried to reach him? Was Taggart an inferior PI? Or had Reggie figured she’d gotten enough information and called Taggart off?

  Could there possibly be anything in the old file that would drive Mickey to kill in order to keep it secret? I didn’t know Mickey Jordan anywhere near well enough to guess. He’d talked openly about his rough, kid-from-the-streets childhood, but he never gave any specific details. A few months ago, he’d acted pleased when, for a while, he was a murder suspect. He’d joked—at least I’d thought it was a joke—if people thought he was capable of murder it made his negotiations easier. Business opponents were more inclined to give him what he wanted.

  After the line about Mickey’s arrest, Taggart listed the rest of what he’d uncovered in chronological order. Mickey Jordan had been born Michla Jacoby sixty years ago in New York City. The only parental name on his b
irth certificate was his mother’s: Magda Esther Jacoby. Her age at the time of her son’s birth was seventeen years.

  In the middle of the third grade at Chester A. Arthur Primary School, Michla Jacoby was abruptly reregistered as “Michael Lewis.” In a parenthetical comment, Taggart had written: “If his mother married someone named ‘Lewis’ there’s no record of it.”

  At age eighteen, Michla Jacoby, AKA Michael Lewis, went to court and had his name changed legally to Mickey Jordan. Shortly afterward came the AGB arrest. Taggart noted that he hadn’t found out how the case had been resolved, but within a few months, Mickey Jordan had joined the army and was sent to Vietnam. Two years later he received an honorable discharge and was back in New York.

  The rest of the report was pretty much what I’d read in Business Section articles about Mickey. Professional and economic ups and downs, skirmishes with government oversight agencies. He’d survived them all, and his fortunes began to rise dramatically ten years ago. By that time, Mickey had become an expert at spotting the potential in losing companies, buying them at a bargain price, and turning them into profit generators. His cable TV network, The Better Living Channel, had been one of Mickey’s biggest challenges, but as of this fiscal year it was beginning to make money.

  Under “Personal Life,” Taggart reported that Mickey had been married four times and divorced three. His only offspring, son Addison Jordan, was born during his second marriage, to Francine Strayhorn. She had been described in news clips from that period as “a socialite with a wild streak.” Another parenthetical note from Taggart said, “The lady drank too much, and drove too fast. Today she’d probably be called a ‘celeb-u-tant’ and get her own reality TV show.”

  According to Taggart, Mickey had his wife hospitalized twice. After the second time there were no more speeding or DUI tickets. After she and Mickey divorced, Francine Jordan moved to Connecticut and dropped out of the public eye.

  “Their son, Addison, got an MBA from Harvard and currently works for his father. As far as is known, Jordan has no other children,” Taggart noted.