I woke shortly before ten a.m. the next morning. The villa had seemed sinister and intimidating the previous night, but now, under a blue, cloudless sky with a balmy breeze wafting from the ocean, all was right with the world.
Except for the messages that had been collecting in my voice mailbox.
The first call I’d ignored when I turned off my phone last evening was from the defense attorney Brueghel had mentioned, Malcolm Darrow. His voice was confident, no-nonsense. A deep-timbre voice worthy of another, more famous Darrow, named Clarence. I wondered if the name had influenced his choice of profession or if the profession had influenced his choice of name. In either case, he’d left his number at five-fifty-seven p.m.
Two hours later, at roughly eleven p.m. Manhattan time, Cassandra had provided a report on the status quo of the Bistro that, minus the snark, seemed satisfactory, especially since she’d not requested a return call.
Stew’s daughter, Dani, had left a voice mail at ten-oh-five p.m., requesting a callback.
Malcolm Darrow had left his second message a couple of hours before I awoke.
Shortly thereafter, Amelia St. Laurent had left word that she would be showing the estate today. She said she’d canceled yesterday’s tours “out of respect for Mr. O’Day’s untimely passing.” To alter the late comedian Fred Allen’s line: You can fit all the integrity in Hollywood into a gnat’s navel and still have room for a kumquat and a real estate agent’s heart.
At precisely nine, Whisper had called to remind me that rehearsal for tonight’s show would be at two p.m. She’d added, with a hint of wonder, that the overnight ratings had been good enough, especially in the key eighteen-to-forty-five-year-old demographic, for Gibby to remain on as host for this week and possibly even the next. She suggested I ignore some of the hypercritical comments on the Internet.
No problem there.
I had no intention of phoning the lawyer and, though mildly curious about why Dani had called, felt I could let that slide for a while. The fact is, suddenly I was feeling glum, and I knew why. Though I hadn’t really expected Vida to call, the fact that she hadn’t dimmed the day a little.
Well, as we all know, there’s nothing like a big breakfast to lift one’s spirits.
Thanks to a trip to the nearby supermarket, that dream was to be fulfilled. I brewed an extra-strong pot of French roast coffee, toasted four pieces of sourdough bread, which I buttered while still hot, and fried a rasher of bacon, resting the resulting strips on a paper towel to dry and crisp. I then performed a bit of stovetop magic with four eggs (but using only two of the yolks: See, I can be healthy), several hunks of jack cheese, and minced mushroom. Veggies, healthier, still.
I loaded a tray with the finished omelet, the sides, and a jar of homemade raspberry preserves, and carried it out to a table on the deck. There I sat, facing the Pacific, allowing myself to be mesmerized by the gentle surf while enjoying the fruits of my stovetop labor.
I was having a third cup of coffee, amusing myself with the fantasy of the liquid somehow dissolving the breakfast cholesterol and calories, when my eyes were drawn to a familiar tall feminine figure in a familiar white bikini, running full-out along the waterline in my direction.
When she saw me, Dani Kirkendahl made a right-angle turn and, slowing to a jog, crossed the sand toward the deck. She’d been running long enough for her skin to be glistening, but she wasn’t even breathing hard. “Billy,” she said, as I rose to greet her, “I didn’t think you were … I called you last night.”
“Can I get you some coffee?” I asked, as she took a chair. “Or water?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“I apologize for not getting back to you. I slept in this morning, and—”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I understand. I know you must be … I mean, after that horrible night. I hate to bother you, but it’s important.”
“Is it about your dad?” I asked.
“Dad? No. He’s … fine. It’s about Roger.”
I suppose my face must’ve reflected my thoughts.
“Oh. I don’t blame you,” she said. “I mean, he certainly has … anger issues. And he’s told me you guys have a long history.”
“Did he mention any details about that history?”
She hesitated, then broke eye contact, looking off down the beach. “Some.” She turned back to me. “I’ll say to you what I said to him. Whatever happened is between the two of you. Leave me out of it.”
“So you guys are still an item?”
“An item? You mean like boyfriend-girlfriend? Eeewwww. Billy, the man’s ancient. He’s Dad’s age. Well, maybe a few years younger, but still …”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just assumed … Well, what is your relationship?”
“We’re friends. Platonic friends. There are such things, you know.”
“Really? And what are your thoughts on unicorns? Or Bigfoot? Or, God help me, vampires?”
“You’re being cynical.”
“It’s not cynicism,” I said. “I’m sure you think your relationship is platonic. But what about Roger?”
“He feels the same. Women know when a man is coming on to them.” She smiled and added, “When you and I first met and you helped me to my towel, you were sending out a vibe. But it went away when Daddy appeared. Right?”
An interesting question.
I’ve never put much faith in platonic relationships, probably because I am convinced that, barring conditions such as premature sainthood, narcolepsy, or debilitation, anyone is capable of being seduced by anyone they perceive as sexually alluring. When I first laid eyes on Dani, I was wide open to that possibility. Did that change when I learned she was Stew’s twenty-two-year-old daughter? Looking at her now, sitting across from me in her white bikini, I doubted it. I have to admit, though not with pride, I was even considering the possibility that she was fishing to find out if I was interested.
She was, therefore, mistaking the myth of platonic relationship for the reality of a little thing called self-control. If she hadn’t discovered the difference by now, I was not about to bring it to her attention, by word or deed. Instead, I made a lateral shift in the conversation.
“I don’t suppose you came over here to discuss platonic relationships,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Roger wants you to meet with him.”
“Old news,” I said.
“Oh. His lawyer talked to you?”
“No, but not for lack of trying. Did Roger happen to mention why he wants a sit-down with me, of all people?”
“They haven’t let me talk to him. It was the lawyer who asked me to ask you. He said Roger needs your help.”
“Then we must be talking about some other Roger. The actor Roger Moore, maybe. Or Roger Rabbit. Some Roger I’d actually want to help.”
“Don’t be that way, Billy. He’s my friend. And he’s not a murderer.”
“Not a murderer. Got it.”
“Please talk to him,” she said.
“Why? How could I help him, even if I were so inclined?”
She shrugged. “All I know is he believes you can.”
“How long have you known him?”
“He says we met a long time ago, when I was just a kid, having brunch with my parents in one of his restaurants. I don’t remember that. The first time I can recall was at Santa Anita maybe two years ago. I was with Wilt, my ex, and Mom and her boyfriend of the moment. Roger stopped at our box to say hello to Mom. He was very charming. He gave us a tip on a race that actually paid off. I didn’t see him again until just after my divorce.”
“That was this year?”
“About six months ago. I was really down, and Mom took me out on a shopping binge. We had lunch at Bagatelle, Roger’s place off Rodeo Drive. He joined us for dessert, and when Mom got one of her right-now-or-never calls from a prospect, he offered to drive me back here. Since then, we’ve spent a little time together.”
“But you’ve really only known him for six months,” I said.
“We talk, Billy,” she said. “I know more about him than I know about Dad. You asked how much he’s told me about his history with you. I know about the murder at Chez Anisette and that you think he killed that woman. He said he didn’t, and I believe him.”
“That’s the thing about sociopaths. They may be crazier than hell, but they can still be believable.”
“Roger’s not crazy,” she said.
“Okay, let’s assume for the moment that he didn’t kill Tiffany Arden. Or set off an explosion that took the life of Des O’Day. How sane can he be if he’ll break into somebody’s house to cook a rat in their oven?”
She blinked. “R-roger did that? Well, he … probably meant it as a joke. You guys were still in your twenties …”
“This happened just days ago, right after he attacked me at your dad’s party.”
“Here?” she asked, looking at the villa.
I nodded.
“Well … just because you found a … This property had been vacant for a while, and the whole area is a haven for rats. Even the Colony. We have to set traps all the time. One may have crawled into the house and—”
“And hopped into a pan, surrounded itself with carrots and potatoes, turned on the oven, and cooked itself? With a cherry tomato in its mouth?”
“What makes you think Roger did it?”
“Who else? And he happened to be here at Malibu Sands at the time. Visiting you. He could have done it before or after the visit.”
She looked disheartened. “It still sounds like a joke,” she said. “And it doesn’t mean he killed anybody. In fact, it might mean just the opposite.” The thought excited her. “He knew how easy it was to break into your house. If he’d wanted to kill you, he could have put his dumb bomb right here under your bed. Why would he have gone to all the effort of sneaking into a studio full of people?”
“That would be a valid question,” I said, “if Roger were rational.”
“You’re the one being irrational.”
I really wasn’t up to reminding her about the damning evidence that the police had found at Roger’s. I stood up and began placing my breakfast dishes onto the tray. “The day is slipping away,” I said. “And there are things I have to do.”
“I guess meeting with Roger won’t be one of them.”
“I didn’t say that,” I told her. I might have, if it hadn’t been for that damn white bikini she was wearing.