CHAPTER

46

Christopher Graydon-Jones, his head bandaged, whispered earnestly to his lawyer.

I sat on the other side of the one-way mirror with Milo, Lucy, and an assistant deputy district attorney named Leah Schwartz. She was a very good-looking woman, tiny, around thirty, with a cloud of blond, kinky hair, gigantic blue eyes, and the sometimes graceless manner of a very bright high school student. She’d been interviewing Lucy and me for most of two days, writing down detailed notes and using a tape recorder. She was writing now, sitting apart from the three of us. The little receiver she’d worn in her ear glimmered in the lap of her black skirt. Milo still wore his.

I said, “Any luck yet with App?”

Headshake.

The cocaine in the producer’s luggage had proved to be only a small part of his stash. Twenty times as much had turned up in a vault in his Broad Beach home, sparking the interest of men in suits.

“Another task force.” Milo had groaned.

Leah said, “The circus is in town.”

She found out, soon after, that the federal government had been looking into App’s dealings for a while, believing the Advent Group and its subsidiary businesses—including Enterprise Insurance—to be major conduits for money laundering. Milo’d filled in the details, yesterday, over coffee and crullers, as we waited outside Leah Schwartz’s office while she finished a phone conversation with her boss.

“How long have they suspected him?” I said.

“Long time.”

“So why didn’t they move on him?”

“Hey,” he said, “it’s the government. They could give a shit about crime control. What they’re into is getting precise appraisal of his holdings so they can confiscate everything under the RICO statutes. Better racket than parking meters.”

“So what happens now? He weasels out on Karen so they can line their coffers?”

“That assumes there’s something to weasel out on, Alex. Thank God for the dope, because Karen’s death is still not a homicide.”

“What about the bones?”

“No evidence of foul play; all the neck bones we found were intact. And what Graydon-Jones described to you at the pit was an accidental OD.”

“He’s credible?”

“When he told you, he was holding all the cards, no reason to lie. Fact is, attempted murder on you and Lucy’s a lot more trouble for him than Karen. But we can’t tie that in with App.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “If Karen had died accidentally, they could have left her on the grounds for someone else to discover. Some bad publicity, but by then OD’s were no big deal, every week another rock star was collapsing. There would have been nothing to connect the body to them, no need to pay anyone off. I don’t buy it, Milo. We’re talking nasty guys partying with a naive young woman. Graydon-Jones said she was a virgin Friday night but not Saturday. He and App gave her drugs and it got out of hand.”

“Maybe. But with the bone fragments we’ve managed to pull up, you’ll never prove it—it is definitely her, by the way. We found enough teeth to match, got confirmation from the odontologist this morning.”

“Have you told Sherrell yet?”

“Yeah, I went over in person, early this morning, to his food bank.”

“How’d he take it?”

“Like it had just been a matter of time. Then he thanked me and went back to unpacking Rice-A-Roni.”

“Poor guy. I called his son this morning. He started sobbing, then hung up.”

He ran his hand over his face.

“If it ever goes to trial,” I said, “App and Graydon-Jones will make her sound like a whore.”

“It probably won’t, Alex. With everything else going on, an accidental OD won’t prioritize.”

“What about two bona fide homicides, Mellors and Felix Barnard?”

He took a bite of cruller and wiped his lips. I could hear Leah Schwartz’s voice through her office door, rising in pitch.

“Same problem,” said Milo. “Without some sort of evidentiary chain linking Mellors and Barnard to Karen, all we’ve got are two unrelated shootings. Only link to App is he owned the motel and half of the insurance company that Graydon-Jones runs. So far neither of them are talking.”

“Why not make them think you’ve got more than you do, then try to wedge them apart?” I said. “After a year dealing with Shwandt and his girls, they should be nondairy creamer for you.”

Leah Schwartz came out of her office, flushed and hot-eyed. The three of us walked out into the hall.

“Politicians,” she said. “They should all be drawn and quartered. We’ve got a couple of days to turn something up, or the Best girl’s case goes to the bottom of the list. Meaning no indictments, and the DEA gets to play Supermarket Sweep.”

Milo said, “Couple of days? We talking to the hour?”

“I can probably wangle fifty hours if we get on some kind of track.”

“Well.” He got up and stretched. “Rome was built in two days, right?”

She laughed. Up to then, I’d never seen her smile.

   

We were fifteen hours into that edict now.

Graydon-Jones still had his hand cupped over his lawyer’s ear. He was in jail blues that nearly matched the hue of the attorney’s suit. The lawyer was a lanky, prematurely white-haired handball player named Jeff Stratton. Everyone knew about the handball because each time he showed up at 8 A.M., he announced he’d just gotten off the courts and pulled some kind of injury.

He pushed his chair away from Graydon-Jones and waved a finger. “Ready.”

A microphone on our side of the mirror amplified his voice.

Leah Schwartz put the bug back in her ear. She and Milo went in and sat around the table, facing Stratton and Graydon-Jones. I turned on my hand mike.

Leah Schwartz said, “So, Jeff.”

“We’ll hear what you have to say,” said Stratton, “but we won’t respond.”

It had taken an hour to get that far.

Leah said, “Detective Sturgis?”

Milo said, “Mr. Graydon-Jones, from your résumé, you seem like an intelligent guy—”

“Hold on,” said Stratton amiably. “Is this going to get personal?”

Leah said, “Of course, Jeff, doesn’t it always?” She looked at her watch. “Listen, I’m really pressed. If we can’t plow through this quickly, let’s just forget it and we’ll let your client take his chance with not knowing what’s going on until pretrial discovery.”

“Mellow out, Lee,” said Stratton. Every white hair was in place, flowing over his ears. His tie was printed with golf clubs. He wore a wrist bandage. “No need for sarcasm or egregious vituperativeness.”

Leah looked at Milo. “Try to watch your vituperativeness, detective. For all our sakes.”

Milo frowned at her.

“Go on,” she said impatiently.

Stratton smiled. Graydon-Jones maintained a deer-in-the-headlights expression.

“Okay,” said Milo, placing both hands on the table. They covered a good part of it. Stratton tried not to stare at them.

“Okay … Mr.—um, Graydon-Jones, like I said, you’ve got an impressive résumé, people in the know say you’re a real insurance demon. So we’re a little puzzled as to why you keep letting Curtis App call the shots.”

Graydon-Jones glanced at Stratton.

Stratton shook his head.

Graydon-Jones said nothing.

Leah looked at her watch.

Graydon-Jones looked up at the ceiling.

I said, “Go for it,” into the mike.

Milo said, “He’s blaming everything on you, friend. Including the drugs. He says you’re the one got him into dope. You were a big user during the seventies. You corrupted him. He also says it was your idea to launder dope through Advent and Enterprise and that you interfaced with narcotics dealers in England and France and Holland and sold them insurance policies that helped them organize their money laundering—”

“Bloody lies!” said Graydon-Jones. “That was just a contract like any other, I had no idea who they were. Curt sent them—”

Stratton touched his hand, and he stopped talking.

Milo said, “I’m just telling you what App says. He also claims he had nothing to do with Karen Best’s death, that he wasn’t even present when she died, and that you and Terry Trafficant and Joachim Spretzel strangled her—”

“Oh, bloody bullshit. Spretzel was a faggot, and Trafficant wasn’t even—”

Another touch from Stratton.

“Trafficant wasn’t even there?” said Milo.

No answer.

“Okay, let me finish App’s story: He and the three of you were partying with Karen, he left to urinate, and when he came back she was dead in your arms and the rest of you confessed to killing her. He says—hold on—” Pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket, he held it out of everyone’s view. “Um, um, um—here we go: He says the only reason he got involved in covering up her death was that he was worried someone had seen Karen with him and that you threatened to expose his drug usage to his wife and to tell her he’d been fooling around with Karen and some other young girls. He panicked because he’d been doping and drinking and thought he’d be criminally liable and when M. Bayard Lowell and Denton Mellors came in, shortly after, unexpectedly, and Lowell said Karen should be buried and forgotten about, he went along with it. He’s willing to plea-bargain to aiding and abetting and a suspended sentence, in exchange for testifying against you in Karen Best’s homicide. He’s also willing to trade information on your drug peddling in return for reduction of his drug charges.”

He put the paper back in his pocket.

Graydon-Jones said, “Bullshit. He never said any of that.”

“Call his lawyer,” said Milo. To Stratton: “See if he takes your call.”

Stratton said, “Maybe I will.”

Leah looked at her watch.

“Bloody lies,” said Graydon-Jones.

“I have to say App’s story makes sense, Mr. Graydon-Jones,” said Leah. “You were the one who drove up to Sanctum with all those tools and garbage bags. You were the one who attempted to murder three people so they wouldn’t excavate Karen Best’s grave. If you had nothing to hide about Karen Best, why risk all that?”

“Because Curt told me—”

Stratton said, “My client has nothing further to say.”

I whispered, “Let it ride.”

Milo yawned. Leah crossed her legs.

Graydon-Jones shook his head. Suddenly he laughed. “All on me, lovely, lovely. So what now, counselor, do I defend myself or keep that low profile and allow these arseholes to railroad me?”

Stratton said, “I need to conference with my client.”

Leah looked at her watch and clucked. “Last one,” she said, collecting her things.

Five minutes later, she and Milo were back in the room.

Stratton nodded at Graydon-Jones. Graydon-Jones was looking at Leah, not him.

Stratton said, “Chris?”

Graydon-Jones said, “First off, it’s all bloody lies. I didn’t strangle her, no one did.”

“We’ve got bones,” said Milo. “Cervical vertebrae that show evidence of—”

“I don’t care what the fuck you’ve got, no one strangled her! No one! She was hit! He hit her. In the jaw.”

Demonstrating an uppercut.

“In the bloody jaw,” he said.

“Who hit her?” said Milo.

“Curt, Curt.”

“Why?”

“Because she wouldn’t put out! He wanted her, and she wouldn’t, so he slammed her under her jaw and she fell back and hit her head and then he—did her. Then we couldn’t wake her up. I was there! You won’t find me making up stories and denying that! We were partying. The three of us.”

“Which three?”

“Curt, me, and her. Trafficant was entertaining his own fan club. Mellors was tagging after Lowell, as usual, bloody sycophant.”

“What about Spretzel?”

“I don’t know; I told you he was a faggot. Probably chasing boys.”

“Ah,” said Milo.

“Yes, I was with her, but I never hurt her. I did nothing other than make a little time with her.”

“What kind of time?” said Leah.

“Kissy-kissy, grope-grope. She was on my lap, the old trousers rubadub. I was the one she liked, my mustache—I had one back then—and my accent; she said it reminded her of Mick Jagger. She would have put out for me. It made Curt jealous.”

Touching his mouth, he spoke through his fingers.

“He was used to tarts, easy lays. ‘Slip ’em the ’ludes and you can slip ’em anything else,’ he always said. She wasn’t easy; she was a virgin, for God’s sake.” To Leah Schwartz: “Don’t look at me like that. You want the truth, I’m giving it to you. That’s the way things were back then—free love, no viruses, people doing their own thing.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Leah, inspecting her nails.

That inflamed him. “What were you doing back then?”

She looked up from her nails and smiled. “Going to school. Fourth grade.”

Graydon-Jones shut his mouth.

“Is that it?” said Milo. “That’s your story?”

“It’s the truth. Curt got all pissed because she wouldn’t climb off my lap into his. When he tried to put his tongue in her mouth, she turned her head and said ‘Yuck.’ Just like that. ‘Yuck.’ Like she’d tasted something bad. So he bopped her and she fell back. It all happened in one second. I’ll swear to it in court.”

“Chris,” said Stratton. To Leah: “I want it clear that my client’s statement by no means represents a formal offer to testify.”

Leah shrugged.

Milo leaned forward. “So that’s your story.”

“That’s what my client just said,” said Stratton.

“Then I’ll ask your client what I asked Mr. App this morning: If you had nothing to do with killing Karen, why get involved in the cover-up?”

Graydon-Jones chewed his lip. His hands played with one another. A full minute passed, then another.

Milo sat back.

Leah looked at her watch and got up. To Milo: “Win some, lose some.”

Graydon-Jones said, “I did it because Curt supported me.”

“Supported you how?” said Leah.

“Emotionally. Financially. The day before that bloody party, he promised to buy six of my sculptures. And to commission a huge atrium piece for his insurance company. I was a bleeding pauper. I hadn’t sold anything since arriving from England. If you were an artist, you’d understand. Curt offered to open up a whole new area of opportunity for me—I thought he was a true patron. It wasn’t as if he intended to kill her. She blew him off and he hit her—one of those stupid things. And nothing I did would bring her back. I figured, why should he be ruined because of something stupid like that?”

“You did it for a job?” said Milo.

“Not a job.” Graydon-Jones’s voice was strangled. “A career.”

Leah looked at Milo. “I’m sorry, sir. That’s a little hard to believe. I’d never go to court with that.”

“But it’s true!” Dropping his head. “All right, all right, there was one more thing, though it’s no big issue.”

“What’s that?” said Leah.

“The dope. The quaaludes he gave her. They were mine. Prescription for nerves. I was working mad hours at the foundry, my biorhythms were off—”

“Bull,” I said into the mike.

“Just for sleep, huh?” said Milo, smiling and shaking his head.

Graydon-Jones flinched. “All right, for sex, too, the chicks loved it—no big crime. As I said, I had a prescription.”

“And you shared your prescription drugs with Karen.”

“She didn’t protest—she wanted to try—wanted to try everything … except doing Curt. God, he was pissed. After he hit her, I said, ‘What the bloody hell did you do that for?’ and he said, ‘Don’t get all righteous with me,’ and started to unzip his trousers. Then he … when she didn’t wake up, I panicked, tried to leave. He said, ‘You’ve got a problem, Chris. She was in your lap when it happened, you were holding her, she was stoned on your dope.’ Telling me if she was found, they’d learn she was on ’ludes and it could be traced to me. He said as far as the law was concerned, I was every bit as guilty as he.”

“And you believed that?” said Leah.

“I didn’t know American law. I was a fucking starving limey just off the boat!”

“Did you consult an attorney?”

“Right,” said Graydon-Jones, “and expose the whole thing—we buried her, for God’s sake. It was over.”

I said to the mike, “Ask him why he stopped sculpting.”

Milo said, “How’d you get from art to the business world?”

“Curt offered me a job at Enterprise. Get paid to learn. As Marlon Brando would say, an offer too good to refuse.”

“He also offered you sculpting commissions. Why didn’t you take them?”

Graydon-Jones looked away.

Stratton said, “I fail to see what—”

“It all goes to the heart of the matter, Jeff,” said Leah. “Namely, your client’s credibility.”

Graydon-Jones said something unintelligible.

“What’s that?” said Leah.

“I lost interest.”

“In what?”

“Art. All the pretentiousness. The bullshit. Business is the ultimate art.”

Talking fast to conceal the real reason: he’d blocked. And App had been ready to exploit it, just as he had with Lowell.

One night of deception rewarded by twenty years of comfort and status. Success the ultimate dope. Just as it was for Gwen and Tom Shea.

Uneasy alliances held together by sin and guilt.

It had taken a dream to blow them down.

Graydon-Jones was talking to Leah’s stoic face. “Don’t you see? Curt reversed the entire bloody thing in order to shaft me. All I did was furnish the ’ludes. He hit her—take a closer look at those bones, you’ll find something on her jaw—believe me, I was there. He’s the killer, not me. He’s killed other people—”

“Hold on,” said Stratton sharply.

“I’ve got to prove myself, Jeff!”

“Just hold on, Chris.” To us: “Another conference, please. And make sure there are no open mikes anywhere.”

Leah said, “I can’t promise I’ll be here when you’re finished.”

She and Milo came out, as Stratton turned his back on the mirror and directed Graydon-Jones to do the same.

“Time for the little girls’ room.”

She left. Milo chewed two wads of gum and tried to blow bubbles. I counted my fingers several dozen times.

From the other side of the glass, Stratton waved and mouthed, “Come back in.”

Milo switched on the mike and entered the room.

“Where’s Lee?” said Stratton. “Come on, this isn’t some shoplifting case.”

Milo shrugged. “Maybe she’s powdering her nose, she didn’t tell me.”

“How professional.” Stratton looked at his own watch. “We’ll give her a minute.”

“Big of him,” I said to his ear bug.

Milo smiled.

Leah returned.

I crooked a thumb toward the glass. “Stratton’s getting antsy. I’d keep working the time bit.”

She grinned at me. “I need your little voice in my ear to tell me how to do my job? No, seriously, it’s been useful. We should probably do more in-house shrinking on the big cases. Problem is you’d probably charge too much. And most of the other DA’s would feel threatened.”

Pressing freshly glossed lips together, she asked Lucy, “Still holding up?”

“Holding up fine. I just hope you crack him.”

“Like an egg,” said Leah. “Over easy.”

She fluffed her hair; then she stepped into the interrogation room.

Stratton said, “Hey, Lee, for a minute I thought you’d given it all up for a life of joyful abandon.”

“Okay, let’s finish up,” she said. “If you have something to say, Mr. Graydon-Jones, out with it. Otherwise we’ll just work with what we’ve got.”

Stratton said, “Before we go any further, I’d like some definite quid pro quo.”

“Pu-leeze.”

“You don’t care about getting the big fish, Lee?”

“This case, Jeff, they all seem pretty big.”

Graydon-Jones cursed under his breath.

“What’s that, sir?” said Leah.

Silence.

“You have a comment, Mr. Graydon-Jones, feel free to make it.” Glance at her watch.

Stratton said, “My client’s willing to offer you information that could clear up two additional homicides. Bona fide homicides, not involuntary manslaughter, which is the most you’ll get out of the Best girl, and you know it. You don’t want to hear about it, fine.” Shrug.

“We’ll hear, Jeff. What we won’t do is put a price tag on the merchandise until we’ve had a chance to examine it.”

“Believe me,” said Stratton, “this is good.”

Leah smiled. “I always believe defense attorneys.”

Milo said, “My mortgage is assumable, my Porsche is paid for, and the check’s in the mail.”

Stratton shot him a hard look.

Leah’s smile got wider and she put her hand over it. Another peek at her watch. Even though I’d suggested it, I found it an annoying mannerism.

She sighed and got up.

Stratton said, “Fine. Listen and evaluate. I’m sure you’re smart enough to see it for what it is.”

Leah said, “That’s me, Ms. Smart,” and clasped her briefcase.

She sat down.

Graydon-Jones looked at Stratton the way a baby looks at its mother just after it receives its first shot.

Stratton said, “Give me a commitment that if the information’s good you’ll go to bat for my client.”

“Going to bat for your client’s your job, Jeff. If Mr. Graydon-Jones’s information proves useful, it will be taken very seriously. Even in this day and age, we like to clear bona fide homicides.”

“It’s more than useful,” said Stratton. “Believe me. But I think it’s important you realize the scope of what we’re talking about. Qualitatively. The information Mr. Graydon-Jones is in possession of, in addition to being revelatory, is four-plus exculpatory.”

“Of whom?”

“Mr. Graydon-Jones. What he has to tell you goes to the crux of the matter and relates to Karen Best, as well. Motivation. Two homicides that are the conceptual fruit of the Karen Best incident and point a strong finger at original guilt in Karen Best’s death. What we’re talking about is the fact that someone else, and not Mr. Graydon-Jones, undertook to further these two—”

“Denton Mellors, aka Darnel Mullins, and Felix Barnard,” said Milo, in a bored voice.

Graydon-Jones’s eyes bugged. Stratton blinked very fast.

“Yeah, we know about those, counselor,” said Milo. “Old Curt lays that on you too, Chris.”

“Oh, no,” said Graydon-Jones, holding out his hands as if scooping air. “Oh, bloody fuck, no, no, no, this is—no bloody way, bullshit! I can prove I was out of town the day Denny shot the private eye. Curt paid him thirty thousand dollars to do it. Recorded it as payment for a screenplay Denny never wrote. Thirty grand—he showed me the money.”

“Mellors showed it to you?” said Milo.

“No, no! Curt! He showed it to me and told me what it was for—said Denny was more than happy to do it, Denny was a closet thug, always had been.”

“Where did this conversation take place?” said Milo.

“At his house.”

“In Malibu?”

“No, no, his other one, Bel Air. He used to have a place on St. Cloud. Now he’s in Holmby Hills, on Baroda.”

“Was anyone else present during this conversation?”

“Of course not! He invited me for lunch. Out by the pool, his fucking terriers pissing all over. Then he pulls out an envelope and shows me the money. Has me count it. And tells me about some private eye asking around about Karen, he’d been paying him off for a year, putting him on the books to cover it and giving him odd jobs. Now the bastard has gotten greedy and wants more so he can buy a house somewhere. So now Denny is going to kill him at some motel Curt owns. He owns all sorts of things; he’s all over, like an octopus—”

“Why did he tell you this?”

“So I’d be part of it! Just as he’d made me part of Karen’s murd—death. And to frighten me—it worked, believe me. Scared the shit out of me. I caught the first plane out of the country, back to England. That’s how I can prove I wasn’t there when it happened—I have my old passport. Look at the date on the bleeding thing and compare it to the date of Barnard’s murder!”

“How long did you stay away?” said Milo.

“Two weeks.”

“Where’d you go?”

“To my mother’s, in Manchester. Curt found me, sent me a newspaper clipping. About Barnard’s murder. Then he had Denny killed a few months later.”

“By whom?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how do you know App was behind it?

“Because he sent me another clipping. On Denny. Clear warning. He’s a monster, bestowing favors, then yanking them away.”

“Sounds like he kept bestowing them on you,” said Milo. “Career, and all that.”

“Yes, but I never knew why, never knew if it would end. I knew I couldn’t escape him … so I stayed put, kept my mouth shut, did my job—earned every bleeding penny of that salary. But now I see why he really kept me around.”

“Why’s that?”

“Isn’t it obvious? As a scapegoat. If things ever came to light, he’d have someone to dump it all on.”

“Scapegoat?” said Milo. “It was you drove up there in that van with a hacksaw and plastic bags.”

Graydon-Jones froze. Then his body tilted toward Milo.

Stratton reached out to restrain him. Graydon-Jones waved him off.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “Twenty-one years I’ve lived in terror of the man. That’s why I did the things I did. I was scared.”