Detective Brueghel accompanied me to my dressing room at the rear of the building, where he waited for me to shower away the remaining bits of Des’s flesh and blood. The hot water offered some comfort, but it was temporary. And it called attention to my own cuts and scratches, leaving them stinging and bleeding.
When I was dressed, a paramedic arrived and took care of my wounds. He didn’t think any of the cuts needed stitches. He taped one on my neck and two on my left hand. The ones on my forehead, cheek, and the back of my head were scratches, better left to “breathe.” He doubted any of the cuts would result in permanent scarring. “But you might want to get the opinion of a specialist,” he said.
At my request, he also took a look at my sprained ankle and taped it professionally.
When he’d finished and moved on, the detective said to me, “You know, I meant to look you up last week, when I heard about you and Charbonnet having that tussle. I don’t suppose it had anything to do with the Arden case?”
“That was a long time ago,” I said, sniffing. There was an unpleasant odor in the room.
“But not forgotten. And not solved.” He stared at me, as if that was my fault. “What was the fight about?”
“Roger was drunk.” I spotted the source of the malodor, got up from the chair, and limped to the table containing stale champagne, wilted carrots, and ripening feta cheese.
Brueghel watched me dump the offending items, then said, “There were a lot of people at the party. Why’d he go after you?”
“Just lucky, I guess,” I said, limping back to the chair.
“I don’t get you, Blessing,” the detective said heatedly. “Somebody tried to kill you tonight. According to all accounts, Roger Charbonnet took a swing at you last week. That makes him a standout suspect. But instead of helping me get the son of a bitch, you make little jokes. What’s going on?”
The honest truth was that I had no idea what was causing my reluctance to put Roger on the spot.
“You have any reason to think Charbonnet wasn’t responsible for the bombing?”
“No,” I said.
“Then work with me, for Christ’s sake.”
I nodded. “Roger went a little postal at the party because he thought I was talking about him.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
He smiled. “You’re a professional interviewer, right?” he asked.
“That’s part of what I do.”
“Then you know how hard you have to work when people answer with just ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ ”
“Another thing my profession has taught me: Be careful when you’re accusing somebody of criminal behavior. Too many lawyers in the world.”
“There’s nobody here but you and me. Just tell me what you think. Did Charbonnet murder Tiffany Arden?”
“I believe he’s capable of it. I’ve seen his anger.”
“At the party, you mean?”
“And back in the day.” As soon as that popped out of my mouth, I realized I was going to tell him about Roger confronting me with his gun and threatening to kill me if I didn’t leave Los Angeles.
The detective’s reaction was as expected. “Goddamn it, Blessing. What the hell were you thinking? You should have come directly to us.”
“I went directly to you about Roger’s broken alibi,” I said. “We all know how well that worked out for me.”
Detective Brueghel was silent for about a second. “Okay. I’ll give you that one. But you come out here last week. You find out this … sociopath has been harboring a twenty-two-three-old grudge against you, and still you do nothing about it?”
“Like what? He took a drunken swing at me, and he wound up in the pool. What exactly do you expect me to do with that, even if I could link it to a murder that’s over twenty years old?”
“I’m going to link it to a murder that happened two hours ago,” he said. “But two hours or twenty-three years, the dead … they’re depending on me to find justice for them. And I’ll do it, no matter how long it takes.” His eyes were moist. He blinked, and a tear worked its way down his face. “It’s my calling. The blue religion.”
Whoa. This guy was either a true believer or a megalomaniac. And I didn’t know of too many true believers in his profession. Good cops, sure. But homicide dicks who cried for the dead? Not too many of those. At least not in my hometown. In L.A.…?
He stared at the floor for a few seconds, then blinked and rolled his head in a circular motion, prompting little popping sounds from his neck. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “I can get a little carried away.”
I nodded, as if I understood.
“It’s not just the dead I serve,” he said. “Whoever rigged that explosion is going to come at you again. I wish I could offer you some kind of police protection, but those days were over even before the latest budget cut. Does Charbonnet know where you’re staying?”
I told him about the break-in at the villa and the dead rat left in the oven.
He shook his head. “There must be a reason you were holding back that little event. Maybe you have a death wish? Or maybe you just don’t trust me, or cops in general?”
“It’s nothing like that,” I said, though he’d been close to the truth with the question about my trust issues. For much of my earlier life, I’d considered police the enemy. I no longer believed that, but old habits die hard.
“Well, the guy hates you. He’s a chef. Somebody breaks into the place where you’re staying and cooks a rat for you. More than a coincidence, right?”
“Right.”
He asked for the address. When I told him, he said, “Isn’t that near where you and Charbonnet had your party fight?”
“A few houses down.”
“A gated community?”
I nodded.
He got out his cellular phone and called Detective Campbell. He instructed her to send a forensics team out to the villa. Checking his watch, he said, “Tell them to wait for us at the gate. No, cancel that. They should follow us out. I want to make sure the gatekeepers don’t interfere.”
Detective Campbell evidently said something that reignited his anger. “Goddamn it. What next? Homeland Frigging Security?”
He snapped the phone shut and put it away. “The FBI has arrived, arrogant and an hour late. As soon as they force my guys to stop working long enough to fill them in on everything, they may want to talk with you.”
“Should I stay here and wait?”
“Your choice. As far as I’m concerned, you can forget I mentioned it.”
So I wasn’t the only one guilty of being uncooperative.
“About the villa in Malibu,” I said. “A real estate agent has been showing the place to prospective buyers.”
“Great,” he said, meaning just the opposite. “Wouldn’t want to make it too easy. Well, I know the fingerprint I’m looking for. It’ll match one we’ve had on file for twenty-three years.”
“If you and Detective Campbell are driving out to the villa, I’d like to come along and get my stuff out of there.”
“Not a good idea. Charbonnet knows the property. He’s had access. And he knows you’re still alive. The villa is the last place I want you tonight, even with Detective Campbell and myself on the scene. We’ve got work to do, and worrying about your safety would only slow us down. Find yourself a hotel room and try to get some rest.”
“Okay,” I said. “But I’ll have to go out there and pack up tomorrow.”
“Yeah. I guess you’ll be needing your razor, fresh clothes, and the rest. If you want, I could throw your stuff into a bag and have it when we meet.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather do my own packing,” I said.
He withdrew a small white card from his shirt pocket, scribbled something on it, and handed it to me. On its front was an embossed detective shield and his name, office and email addresses, and office phone number. “That’s my cell number on the back. Call me when you want to get your gear, and I’ll drive out with you.”
“It might be early,” I said. “I’m going to try and catch a flight back to New York tomorrow.”
“No flight,” he said, getting that dedicated look again. “I want you out here. I can make it official, put you in custody as a material witness. That might not be a bad idea, with our deadly friend on the prowl.”
“No. Don’t do that,” I said. “How long are we talking about?”
“I can give you a better idea tomorrow, after I see what we have on Mr. Roger Charbonnet. You using a limo?”
“A gray Lexus convertible. In the lot next door.”
“Leave it until I get one of the bomb squad guys to check it out. It’s probably blocked in, anyway. It’s a mess out front. Fire trucks. Police cars. Media. Show that card to a patrol cop and tell him I said he should find you a ride.”
He took a few steps toward the door and stopped. “I almost forgot, there are some women from the network in that booth the director uses. They’ve been waiting to talk to you. Maybe one of them can give you a lift to a hotel? Be careful, Blessing. Start acting smart.”
As far as I was concerned, smart was taking the next flight out to New York City.