The next day at noon sharp, I was in Hancock Park at the lovely house of Jackie and Phil Fuller. Phil Fuller. Not a bad porn name. But I digress. Hancock Park is an inland neighborhood east of Beverly Hills where a lot of people in L.A. with old money live. Preppy, East Coast–y types who wear Top-Siders with no irony and who have at some point in their lives spent a significant amount of time on a Boston Whaler.
Their house was a big Tudor on a nice-sized lot. And no, the house was not too big for the lot, which made me happy. Inside, it was tastefully decorated, lots of pictures of family and friends and social gatherings, big rooms that suggested an interior designer’s touch but that also had a thrown-together confidence to them: magazines scattered on tables, worn furniture right next to newer things, matchboxes from restaurants in glass bowls.
A few of the photos had Keaton in them, haunting the room a bit.
A couple of big, older, friendly labs wandered around quietly and calmly. Occasionally I’d catch one of their placid eyes.
We were in the living room. Phil and Jackie sat together on a couch across from me. I sat on a straight-backed chair, which I’d chosen over the more comfortable one next to it. Business time.
Jackie was thin, tan, with blue eyes and expensively dyed and cut blond hair. Her hair looked almost shiny, but also soft and healthy. Like it was cared for by a pro often, maybe daily. Her most striking feature, though, was the grief that she still wore on her face. She looked exhausted, her eyes betraying hopelessness.
Phil might have felt just as much grief, but he didn’t show it. He was a big man, brown hair going gray, a sweater over his shoulders, big tortoiseshell glasses. And working a comb-over just a bit. I swear, his comb-over looked pretty good. And I thought, Shit, maybe, maybe they’ll come back in a kind of seventies-dad kind of way. You know what I’m saying? You know that dad? Out by the pool grilling burgers for the kids, nice Jack on ice in his left hand, slightly ill-fitting burgundy Lacoste shirt over his slightly out-of-shape body. Might mow the lawn later, with a fairly hefty buzz on, then head over to the country club that night for a little dinner and some more cocktails. You know that dad? You know that dad. I like that dad.
Yeah, Phil’s comb-over looked okay, but his overall appearance, for whatever reason, had a slightly contrived quality. Like he was working just a bit to pull off the Hancock Park WASP thing, whereas it came to Jackie naturally. It had probably been Phil’s idea to name the kids Keaton and Greer.
We were finishing up the how-much-I-charge conversation. This time, unlike the rattled look I got from Peter Caldwell, Jackie Fuller just said, “Fine.”
I said, “I have the case file. I’ve looked it over. There are a handful of people I want to talk to. I suppose they’ll tell me what they already told the police, but I might get something out of their stories that the police didn’t. Before I do that, though, I’d like to ask you something. Everyone the police questioned had an alibi. They never named a suspect. They never had a working theory. So, I’m wondering: What do you think happened? Did you ever put together a guess?”
And then, gingerly, I added, “Why do you think your son was killed?”
Jackie nodded to tell me she understood my question, and to tell me she was going to do the talking. She was probably the one who’d conceived of the idea of having the case looked into further, of hiring a guy like me. A mom still looking after her young. I understood it. I respected it.
She said, “Keaton wasn’t perfect. He’d made some enemies over the years. Well, I don’t know if I’d call them enemies . . . He’d let some people down over the years as a result of his behavior. You probably read that in the case file.”
I nodded.
She continued. “He’d broken up with girlfriends. He’d, he’d . . .”
She stopped. She was having a tough time saying the sentence. She moved her eyes over to Phil, who gave her a supportive look. The very beginnings of tears sprouted in her eyes.
She continued, “He’d behaved poorly, very poorly, toward some people. Like I said, girlfriends, but also friends, his brother, business associates. He just didn’t act like a stand-up young man in a lot of situations over the years. But did one of those people load a gun and put a bullet in his chest? Did one of those people wait for him to leave his house one morning and murder him? I don’t think so, Mr. Darvelle. I really don’t.”
I nodded, letting her know I’d processed what she’d said. And then I said, softly, “You can call me John.”
“Okay,” she said. And now that she’d gotten through saying negative things about her dead son, she regained her stride a bit. “So that’s why we’re so confused. To answer your question, we don’t know what happened. We haven’t a clue. It’s just so random. And . . . professional. Six in the morning? Assassinated? And that’s what makes it so frustrating. I mean, can you imagine what that must be like? Can you imagine if a loved one of yours was walking out to his or her car one day and just got gunned down out of nowhere? And the police, and Phil and I, and everybody who knew him just have no idea what happened? I still don’t sleep at night, John. It’s almost like an alien came down from outer space and took our son. It’s that strange. I never thought I’d have a thought like this, but to know who killed my son, our son—and why—would be really comforting in some bizarre way.”
I understood what she meant. Must be a pretty unusual, and uncomfortable, feeling. To know that there had to be a reason her son was killed based on the way he was killed, but to have zero idea what that reason was.
I said, “Well, I’m going to start with what I have. Going to talk to Greer, the ex-girlfriend, the guy he started the bar with, others.” I reiterated, “Sometimes fresh eyes can see fresh things.”
We all stood up. I handed Jackie my card.
I said, “I know you know what’s in the file. But if there’s anything else you think might help me, please tell me. Could be something the cops dismissed. Could be something you just think is out of the ordinary, unusual, interesting, anything. Anything you think might help me.”
Jackie and Phil both nodded, and Jackie said, “And please call us anytime with questions, or for any reason, if you think we can help.”
Phil spoke for the first time as he stuck out his hand. “Thank you, John. Detective Ott says you’re a really good detective.”
I thought: Ott. Yeah, good, tough cop. But also, deep down, good guy.
I shook Phil Fuller’s hand and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
I walked toward the door, escorted by the two big, calm dogs.