Blood Defense Read online

  Alex shook his head. “I don’t get it. Why have jewelry like that if you’re not going to wear it?”

  I’d been thinking about that for a while. “I have a hunch that jewelry didn’t belong to Chloe.”

  “Then why’d she report it as hers?”

  “To cover for someone else. Like her roomie, Paige. And Paige didn’t want to report it because it was a secret gift.”

  We got to Alex’s car. He stopped and looked at me over the hood. “From Mr. Perfect?”

  I nodded. “That’s my theory. And if I’m right, it’s just more proof that he’s got to be married.” And a married lover opens up a rich vein for all kinds of possible fall guys I can toss into the mix: the man himself, his wife, maybe even adult children. Any one of them could lose it with the “home wrecker.” I told him, “Let’s move on Paige. I want to try and figure out who Mr. Perfect is.”

  Alex headed out of the lot. “Don’t you want to see Chloe’s sister? She could probably tell us if Chloe was using on a regular basis.”

  “But she won’t. Families aren’t exactly delighted to see us, Alex. Especially when we’re looking for information that makes the victim look bad.”

  “Even if the cops might have the wrong guy?”

  “They never think that. They’ll think we’re just trying to get our client off. Which we are.” And that’s why I almost never talk to the family of the victim. There’s no point. “Besides, we don’t have time to waste on long shots. The preliminary hearing is next week, and I have to find a zinger that’ll get people to start doubting the prosecution’s case.”

  “So where am I going?”

  “Beverly Hills.” Alex had plumbed Paige’s social media, but she hadn’t been a big “sharer.” All he found for the past year were a few photos from a trip she took to Napa Valley with Chloe and her sister, Kaitlyn; a group photo with other waitresses at Majesty; and a couple of photos with fellow models. No personal postings about her life or anyone in it. Paige was smart to play it close to the vest. As many have learned the hard way, there are too many jerks out there who’ll abuse the access to all that information.

  But it left us with relatively few threads to pull: her modeling buddies, the other waiters at Majesty, and her mother. I didn’t think the latter could help us even if she’d wanted to. I doubted Paige would confide in her mother about a relationship with a married man. That basically left us with her coworkers.

  I called Michelle and asked her to get us permission to talk to the waitstaff at Majesty. She called back ten minutes later. “The manager’s a real piece of work. But I got him to give you a few minutes to—and I quote—‘see if anyone is willing to talk to you.’ And the story about you and Dale went nuclear. Listen to this.” The sound of phones ringing nonstop came through. “It’s been like that all day. By the way, did you really tell someone all your relatives are murder suspects?”

  “Shit. Yeah. I kind of lost it. Tell ’em that was a joke.” I got the address of the restaurant and the manager’s name and told Michelle I’d check in after we got kicked to the curb.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Majesty was one of those high-end restaurants that did the minimalist swank thing. Very subdued décor—original abstract art and clever hanging lights that were virtually sculptures. I noticed the chef and sous chefs were already working in the kitchen, and delicious smells were floating through the air.

  The manager, Bernard Shore, reminded me of the English butler character in one of those old movies. Slicked-back steel-gray hair, a pinched nose, and permanently pursed lips. He even gave a prissy sniff when he saw us at the door. Bernard made us come in through the back door and pointed to the closest table to the bathroom. “You can sit there.”

  I looked at all the empty tables. Message received. “Why don’t we start with you?”

  Bernard’s expression showed he’d like to tell us why not. But he said, “Fine,” in a bored voice.

  We were all still standing. Bernard didn’t wait for a question. “Paige was a beautiful girl and a hard worker. She never gave me any trouble. That’s all I know.”

  I pulled out my notepad. “So you hired her without knowing anything about who she was? Where she worked before? Whether she had a rap sheet?”

  Three twentysomething guys and a woman about the same age came in through the back door carrying aprons. The waitstaff was starting to show up.

  Bernard gave me a hard look, then deliberately turned his gaze over my shoulder. “I know she got her BA at Cal State Northridge. And she used to work at Ciao on Sunset.” Bernard’s sour expression told us what he thought of that restaurant.

  “Did you know who she was friendly with? Who she might’ve been dating?”

  “I had no idea and no wish to know.”

  Alex looked at Bernard and leaned in, trying to force the man to make eye contact. It didn’t work. Another two young guys and two women with aprons came tumbling in, laughing.

  I tried again. “Then she wasn’t particularly friendly with any of the staff here?”

  Bernard gave an irritable sigh that blew the smell of industrial-strength mouthwash into my face. “I didn’t take any notice of that. I’m not a den mother; I’m the manager of a high-end restaurant. What my employees do on their own time is their business. As long as it doesn’t affect their job performance, they can socialize with pelicans for all I care.”

  I stared at Bernard. His eyes remained fixed over my left shoulder. I turned to see what was back there. Just the door. I’d noticed some of the waitstaff throwing us glances while we talked to Bernard.

  Alex spoke up. “Did Chloe ever come in here?”

  “No.” Bernard glanced at his watch. “I have to get to work. You’ve got ten minutes to talk to the staff—if they want to—and then you’ll have to leave.”

  I smiled at the manager and held out my hand. “It’s been lovely chatting with you.”

  He ignored my hand and headed for the kitchen.

  The waiters and waitresses had gathered at a large round table near the front of the restaurant. Alex was scoping them out. “I think one of the guys is on the team.”

  I gave him an apologetic look. “I hate to play the gay card, but . . .”

  “I don’t.”

  We walked over to the table. I followed a few paces behind to let Alex storm the beachhead. When he introduced us, their expressions ranged from wary to downright hostile. More fun was on its way. The guy Alex had clocked sized Alex up, then turned his head. So much for the gay card.

  I stepped up and talked fast. “Look, we’re not here to dig up dirt on Paige. A lot of questions are coming up about the case against Dale Pearson. It’s not as slam-dunk as the press makes it seem. And if Dale Pearson didn’t do this, then the person who did is still out there. You want to make sure you do everything you can to get that guy, don’t you?”

  A couple of them nodded. A couple of them shrugged. But the rest weren’t buying it. One of those, a woman whose hair was pulled into a tight bun on top of her head, and who looked like the oldest of the bunch, stood up. “I know he’s your father and all, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re defending a murderer. I get that you’re just doing your job. But I don’t have to help you do it.”

  She walked off. Alex’s “teammate” gave him a cold look and left with her. A couple of others seemed inclined to do the same but stayed seated—probably out of curiosity. One of the younger-looking waiters, who had a tattoo of an iron cross on his neck and wore black-framed glasses, watched them leave, then turned back and studied Alex and me for a moment. “I’ll talk to you, but I doubt I’ll be of much use.”

  We took the two now-empty chairs. I asked whether anyone knew whom Paige was dating. The tattoo guy in the glasses, who said his name was Greg, spoke first. “I think she had a friends-with-benefits thing going with a guy.” He looked around the table. “Remember that dude on the motorcycle?” There were nods and Oh yeahs. “I think he was an actor or something. But she never re
ally talked about him.”

  The waitress with freckles and a ponytail added, “I thought I remembered her saying he was a stuntman, but he might’ve been an actor.”

  But no one knew his name. “Did you ever hear about her dating someone who was famous? Possibly married? Someone she called Mr. Perfect?” The ponytailed waitress gave me a dirty look. I shook my head. “I’m not looking to slam her for it. I have information that she was seeing someone like that and he might have a reason . . .”

  Greg nodded. “We get a lot of famous people coming in here. But I never knew about her dating anyone famous. Or married.”

  The others agreed. A young girl, tall and thin, with long dark hair and exotic features, came in through the back door. The ponytailed waitress pointed her out. “That’s Tonya. I think she and Paige used to hang out.”

  Bernard had emerged from the kitchen and was shooting us daggers. I gave him a friendly wave. He tapped his watch, then turned and went back into the kitchen.

  I got up and started to pass out my cards, but the ponytailed waitress held up a hand. “Wait, um . . . I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what’s it like? You know, him being your father. Is it totally weird?”

  I was no stranger to the power of the media, but the speed with which this story had spread was breathtaking. It felt like I’d been asked that question a million times during the past few hours, but I still had no better answer than the simple truth. “Yeah, it really is.” I told them to give me a call if they thought of anything else, then we headed over to Tonya.

  Now that I got a better look, I realized I’d noticed her in the group photo on Paige’s Facebook page. She’d been in the background, but there’d been something about the way she stood, like a deer poised to bolt at the slightest sound, that made me take a second look. Otherwise, I probably would’ve skipped right past her, because her face was closed off in a way that said, Don’t notice me.

  Tonya looked a lot younger in person than she did in the photo. Alex and I introduced ourselves. She glanced from me to him without expression, but I could feel the tension in her body, and I knew she was about to tell us to buzz off.

  I talked fast. “I know we’re probably the last people you want to see, but we only want to figure out who did this.” I gave her my spiel about the possibility that Dale was innocent and wrapped up with a line I use with reluctant witnesses. “And I promise we’ll keep whatever you say confidential.”

  That was a big fat lie. Well, sort of a big fat lie. If she didn’t have anything helpful, I really would keep it confidential. And if it hurt us, I’d take it to the grave. But if she said anything I could use, I’d haul her into court and pry her statement out of her with Crisco and a crowbar.

  Tonya tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “D-do you really think someone else did it?”

  “I think it’s very possible. But I need to get more information.” I gave her a gently pleading look.

  “I don’t really know anything. I didn’t see her the night of the . . .” Her lip began to tremble. She bit down on it.

  They’d obviously been close. This was exactly the person I was hoping to find. Someone who might know Mr. Perfect. I had to go easy on her, though, or she’d shut us down. “How long had you known her?”

  “About six months. She was really nice to me.”

  “Did you guys ever hang out after work?”

  Tonya nodded. “A little. We’d go out for drinks, stuff like that.”

  She’d tried to make it sound occasional, no biggie, but she was a lousy liar. It’d been more than “a little” and more than just drinks. “Did you know who she was dating?”

  Tonya’s eyes slipped over to Alex, then came back to me. “No.”

  Yes. But she clearly didn’t want to talk in front of Alex. I looked at my watch. “You probably have to get back to work. Why don’t we meet up after? Drinks are on me. But it’ll just be you and me. Alex won’t be able to make it. Are you okay with that?”

  She nodded. I suggested we meet at the Tower Bar on Sunset. It had private corners and it’d probably be quiet on a weeknight by the time she got off. I took her contact information. She said she could get there by ten thirty.

  Maybe, finally, I’d found someone who could give me an inside line on Paige’s life.

  And especially on Mr. Perfect.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Alex dropped me off at the Tower Bar at ten o’clock, and I got a table by the window. It was a cool, clear night, and the view of the city was downright transporting. I stared out at the sparkling lights and thought about all the ugliness that lay under the cover of darkness.

  After the waiter took my order for club soda and lime, I thought about Tonya—the way she’d looked in the group photo and the depth of her grief when she’d spoken about Paige. I had a feeling I knew what her story was.

  Fifteen minutes later, Tonya showed up, in jeans and a black sweater, her long, dark hair now down around her shoulders. She ordered a glass of chardonnay. I offered to buy her dinner, but she shook her head. “I ate at the restaurant. I’m good.”

  We chatted about Majesty—what the tips were like (really good), what Bernard was like (really douchey)—and then I got down to business. “So I get that you and Paige were pretty close.”

  “Um . . . kind of, yeah.”

  It was a quiet night, just four or five occupied tables. The waiter was back with her wine in less than a minute. Tonya took a sip.

  “You met her on the job?”

  Tonya nodded. “She helped me get hired.”

  I was going to wait for her to get a little more lubricated before I played out my hunch. But if she was the type who had a hollow leg, I could be waiting all night. I decided to go for it.

  “And you needed her help because you’re underage, aren’t you?” Her eyes widened. She said nothing. “It’s okay. I’m not the cops. You can tell me. How’d you get the fake ID?”

  “Paige. She was there when the manager interviewed me. I told him my purse got stolen and I’d lost my ID. He said he couldn’t hire me until I replaced it. I would’ve given up. But Paige caught me on the way out the door and told me she could help.”

  When that hunch played out, I knew I was right about the rest of it. “So you’re what, seventeen?”

  “I’ll be eighteen in June.” She gave me a rebellious smile as she took another sip of wine.

  “Where’d you run from, Tonya?”

  She froze. “I d-didn’t. Why are you saying that?”

  “Was it your stepdad? Your uncle? Your dad?”

  Tonya stared at me for a long moment. Her eyes, wide and frightened, darted around the room. When they came full circle, she looked down at the table and whispered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. And it’s okay. You’re safe.” I waited for her to make eye contact. When she finally did, I continued. “I get what you’ve been through. Don’t worry, this stays between us.” Tonya slowly nodded. “So who was it?”

  “My stepbrother.”

  I had to fight down the burning flash of anger. I wanted to kill that son of a bitch with my bare hands. Tonya looked down at her wineglass. After a few seconds, she glanced up at me. “So how did you know? Were you—”

  “Sorry. Just a sec.” The waiter had arrived. I’d waved him down thinking Tonya had better start drinking some water before she got back in her car. Now I decided I could use a drink myself. I had to calm myself down and refocus. No one realizes how common this shit is. Or how serious the damage. I ordered a glass of pinot noir and a glass of water for Tonya. When he left, I asked, “Did Paige know?”

  “Not at first. I never meant to tell her, but one night after we’d been partying, I got pretty wasted and . . . messed up. It just came out.”

  “Were you at Paige’s place?”

  “We were that night, but we didn’t hang there much.”

  “Did you ever see Dale there?”

  “That’s the . . . cop?” I
nodded. “No.”

  “Where did you guys hang out?”

  “Clubs, like Greystone or Lure. And restaurants. We came here a few times.”

  Those were some pricey clubs. And Tower wasn’t exactly a cheap date, either. “Who paid?”

  “Paige.” She twisted the stem of her wineglass.

  “Did you ever hear her talk about a guy she called Mr. Perfect?”

  “Mr. Perfect? No. But I heard that the others told you about the guy on the motorcycle. I saw him drop her off at work a couple of times. She didn’t talk about him much, just said he was an ex but they were kind of still friends.”

  But if an ex doesn’t want to be an ex anymore . . . I’d been focused on Mr. Perfect, but an ex-boyfriend could work just as well. “Do you know his name?” Tonya shook her head. “Can you describe him?”

  She gave virtually the same description as the one I’d gotten at the restaurant—right down to the helmet with the flames on the sides. Except she added, “He’s really cute.”

  “Did Paige tell you what he did? Was he an actor?” But Tonya didn’t know, and she couldn’t tell me anything else about him.

  I took another tack. “You said you hung out at her place sometimes?” She nodded. “Did you ever happen to see her jewelry?”

  She shrugged. “Probably, but I don’t remember anything in particular.”

  I pulled out the photos of the jewelry that’d been stolen. “By any chance, did you ever see jewelry that looked like this?”

  She looked at the photos and her face brightened. “Oh yeah. I had to borrow a T-shirt, and I saw the pieces in her drawer. Seemed weird that she kept them there, buried under everything.”

  I’d been right. The jewelry was Paige’s. “Maybe because it was such expensive stuff.”

  Tonya’s eyes got huge. “You mean they’re real?”

  “Seems so. Did she say where she got them?”

  “Just said they were gifts.”