A Twisted Path Page 9

  He headed out of the salon and across the strip mall to the sandwich shop, replacing thoughts of Tina’s narrow waist and jutting hips with musings on why Merrill Wick’s manicured lawyer had almost guaranteed there would be no bail by implying an insanity defense. Furyk had decided during his confrontation with Carlito – the long delays between the kid’s responses had given Furyk ample time to consider what to have for dinner, whether the Dodgers would make the playoffs, and what to do about Merrill – that Merrill had not killed her husband. It wasn’t the result of brilliant detective work or a Holmesian ability to draw grand conclusions from an iota of evidence. It was because he believed her. And because it was easier to move ahead if he started with that premise. Furyk was experienced enough to know that most people were guilty of something, but not cynical enough to believe they were automatically guilty of whatever they were accused of. He’d start with Merrill being innocent.

  Furyk was also smart enough to know he was no genius. His approach was to make a couple of assumptions, poke around a bit, then tweak his assumptions according to what he found. Eventually, he’d have enough information to draw a conclusion he could stand behind. Not exactly a rigorous investigative style, or anything you’d find in a handbook. But he didn’t have access to all the resources of the police department nor time to spend months pulling together evidence. Jesus, he wasn’t a cop or even a private investigator, he reminded himself whenever he bothered to think about it. Poking around seemed to work out pretty well and it seemed something at least slightly strange was going on here, so poking around was probably a good way to go. Before he got to the sandwich shop he’d decided on the next move. He’d go push a few buttons with the slick attorney.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The icy air from the vents did nothing to reduce the stink of the tacos. Margolin watched with disgust as the juice from one of the greasy half-moons streamed out the back as the Sheriff tilted it up and took a huge bite out of the other end. The clear liquid bounced off the cardboard box holding the rest of the tacos and splattered out, immediately soiling the Sheriff’s pants in a spray of greasy drops and the black console on the passenger’s side. Brant’s glasses were still on and he half-smiled around the mouthful of food, brushing at his leg with his free hand and adding a smudge of cheese to the growing mess. If Margolin didn’t know better, he’d think the Sheriff was messing with him.

  Brant didn’t wait until he’d swallowed what was in his mouth. “So whatcha gonna do, counselor?”

  The tone was almost friendly, not threatening. Margolin knew not to be lulled into a sense of comfort. The man was dangerous.

  “It’s under control. Merrill is being examined by a psychiatrist tomorrow. He’ll find that…” He didn’t get to finish.

  “Control?” Brant spit out, a piece of shredded lettuce flying from his mouth and landing on the steering wheel. The booming sound of his voice filled the car and Margolin almost jumped. “Nothin’s under goddamn control, partner.” Brant used the word intentionally, drawing it out. He turned in the passenger seat and despite the sense of foreboding, Margolin couldn’t help but notice the precarious position of the box of tacos as they shifted in the Sheriff’s lap.

  “You don’t have nothin’ in control, Margolin. Not a goddamn thing. Do you even know what the hell happened that night? Do ya?”

  Margolin saw his reflection in the Sheriff’s sunglasses and was glad for the calm look he could see was still on his own face. “I’m not sure yet. She’s confused. Scared. She’s been medicated for months now and her head isn’t clear. What happened that night, I’m not sure. Neither is she.”

  Brant took off his sunglasses and leaned toward Margolin. The eyes were bloodshot and slightly bulging. Margolin preferred the shades to be on. “You sayin’ she doesn’t know if she killed him? Doesn’t remember?” The smell of taco meat was now coming from his breath, stronger than from the three that were starting to congeal in the cardboard box.

  Margolin stayed calm, didn’t lean away. He needed Brant to have confidence in him, to let things play out. Play out the way they had planned. “It doesn’t matter. The psychiatrist – ours and the prosecutor’s – will conclude the same thing. Merrill killed her husband in a stupor, drugged out on sedatives and anti-depressants, pushed to the edge because she thought he was having an affair. End of story.”

  Margolin waited. Brant sucked at some meat caught in his teeth and eyeballed the attorney. “You just make goddamned sure that’s what happens. This wasn’t what we planned, and if it turns to shit, guess who’s getting flushed down the crapper?”

  There wasn’t much doubt who the Sheriff had in mind. Merrill killing Carl was unexpected, but maybe it wasn’t that much of a problem. They just had to keep the whole thing under control. No big change in plans. Brant didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed open the car door with his right elbow and turned his back on Margolin. Hoisting himself out of the car, he turned back around, holding the food and drink the same way he had before getting in. He leaned in the open door.

  “Don’t screw it up, counselor. You call me tomorrow and tell me everything’s going just great. Then you figure out how it’s all gonna turn out just the way we want. I don’t plan on gettin’ my hands real dirty on this.” The sunglasses were back on and despite the fear that was starting to creep into Margolin’s chest, he was glad.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  After the lunch rush, Furyk left the shop in the care of Jimmy who, despite having bailed earlier in the week, was a responsible kid who would keep the place from burning down. The drive to Century City comprised two phases. The first was fifteen minutes on a surprisingly fast-moving freeway. That covered 90% of the distance. The last mile and a half was on surface streets covered with cars, construction, and chaos. It took twenty-five minutes. By the time Furyk pulled into the circular drive filled with faux cobblestones that provided the only access to the two thirty-five story towers filled with entertainment attorneys, film producers, and anyone else who could afford the highest square foot rent in town, he was already thinking about the long drive back that would be exacerbated by the rush hour that started at 3:00 and didn’t end until well after prime time programming started. Eschewing the valet parking – even drive-thru fast-food places seemed to have valet parking in LA – he started to pull into the visitor lot that only charged $9.00 for the first twenty minutes and $6.00 for every fifteen minutes after that. An S-class Mercedes was just stopping in front of the valet guy in the red vest who would take the keys and park the car for probably double the self-park rate. The man getting out of the driver’s side was Perry Margolin. Two lucky timings that day, though Tina should count double. Furyk swerved away from the entrance to the self-parking area, pissing off a guy in a BMW that still had dealer plates and garnering a couple of sharp horn blasts and maybe a middle finger, though he didn’t bother to look in the rearview mirror to find out. Usually you don’t flip off a guy who is parking in your own office building just in case it turned out to be a client or boss, but Furyk’s crappy little Honda probably precluded him from being a cause of concern. He pulled in behind the Mercedes and waved off the second valet who had the class to smile at Furyk just as broadly as if he’d driven up in a Maserati. Furyk would have to remember to tip him a few bucks just for not being a jerk.

  Jumping out of the Honda, he cut between the two cars and fell into step as Margolin headed to the revolving doors. Out here, instead of in some grand office where the attorney would not doubt feel like he was in control, was a better place for the conversation.

  “Counselor, do you have a moment?” Furyk had come at an angle such that Margolin didn’t know there was someone next to him. His response was automatic and practiced. He held up a hand and began speaking before looking over at Furyk.

  “I’m sorry, no comment. I’ll have something for the press tomorrow…” He looked over while still walking toward the door and his smile faded a little as he assessed Furyk. Clearly not a journalist.
Probably not a potential client. Looked like a cop. Margolin kept walking. The door to the building was just ten feet away. It would be easy to lose this guy by passing through the guard station.

  Furyk wanted the privacy afforded by being in public and no one caring what they said to each other. He put a hand on Margolin’s shoulder, gently but firmly. The attorney stiffened but stopped.

  “It’s about Merrill Wick. My name’s Bill Furyk.” Furyk watched the expression on Margolin’s face change from fake pleasantness to mild confusion and then a hint of recognition. All in the space of about two seconds. He didn’t know Margolin had made the connection between the man standing next to him and the name on the visitors log at the County Jail the other day.

  Furyk hadn’t decided exactly how to play this. He didn’t know why Margolin had made a move that kept Merrill in jail. Maybe he believed she was crazy and this was the best thing for her. But maybe not. So he’d start with the straightforward approach.

  Margolin responded first. “Mr. Furyk, I’ve known Merrill for many years and don’t believe she’s ever mentioned you.” He didn’t ask the question, but the challenge was clear. “Are you an old friend, getting back in touch after all these years?”

  “Something like that. I’m just trying to help out. She’s in a tough spot.” Furyk generally thought lawyers were okay, despite their penchant for getting in the way of cops putting bad guys in jail. They were just doing their job. But right away he decided Margolin was full of shit. A guy like this, pulling in a few million a year and hobnobbing with all the right people, wouldn’t take a case he knew he was going to lose even if it were a family friend. What’s more, he should be treating Furyk like someone who may have useful information – not a pain in the ass or some news-stalker. “I wanted to talk to you about Merrill, see if I could help out.”

  Margolin tried to figure out if the man standing in front of him now was a threat or an irritant. Merrill had never mentioned his name, nor had Carl. He looked like a cop, but hadn’t identified himself as such. Maybe he was private, hired by someone to look into Carl’s death. There were a lot of people interested. If any one of them had hired a private investigator, that was a very bad thing.

  “Are you an investigator, Mr. Furyk? Friends of the accused don’t usually accost me in front of my office.”

  “No, I just make sandwiches.” That’ll clear it up, Furyk thought. Margolin didn’t think so.

  “I see. Why don’t you leave me your number and I’ll set up a time for us to speak. You can bring lunch.” Margolin turned back toward the building and began to head to the door, throwing out an instruction to call his secretary and leave his number. Furyk let him go.

  He wasn’t sure why he’d let the odd encounter simply end. He hadn’t gotten any information he was looking for, like what the attorney’s plan was for defending Merrill or what evidence he had to exonerate her. But he did learn something equally important: Margolin wasn’t behaving the way Furyk would expect.

  Chapter Forty

  That night Furyk took Tina to her favorite Sushi place. The hair dresser didn’t eat sushi – she thought it was disgusting, putting raw, dead fish in your mouth, like you were a cat or something – but she liked eating with chopsticks and knew there were always a lot of celebrities dining at Matsuhisa’s near the Beverly Center. She picked at a few pieces of teriyaki chicken and told Furyk about her crazy blue-haired customers. She also enthusiastically recounted, as she had before, how she loved being able to live in her tiny house in the hills above Studio City. And that she appreciated how Furyk had introduced her to the man who owned the house but lived in Tuscany most of the year and was so thankful to Furyk for doing him a favor last year that he let Tina live there in exchange for watering the flowers. But mostly she drank warm sake and rubbed her bare foot against Furyk’s leg under the table and made him very happy she hadn’t changed from her clothes earlier in the day. He drank only water and green tea. An hour later they were at his place and Tina was dancing to some crazy hip-hop song by Ludacris on a station Furyk didn’t know his radio got and her hips were undulating to the beats and her shirt was coming off.

  Furyk sat on a barstool in the living room and watched her as she moved between the couch and the television. Her olive skin didn’t need any tan and the contrast against the lace white bra made his head light. She unhooked the top button of her jeans, the belt having come off at the beginning of the song, and ran her hands along her face in mock-coquettish shyness. Furyk came out of his seat and didn’t embarrass himself by trying to match her moves. He stepped over the couch that was in his way and as she laughed at this direct bee-line for her he reached her, pulling her in close, his hand on her bare back. The skin was warm and dry and she kept dancing, a little slower, pressed up against him. He kissed her neck, leaning down to reach the soft, brown skin, and she put her arms up in the air and swayed. The music sounded louder as he smelled the perfume she always wore and the hint of the chemicals she had been putting on old ladies’ hair a few hours earlier. His left hand slid around her waist and down past the jeans that were riding so low on her hips. His fingers caught on the strip of panties that were above the pant-line but below the two dimples that marked the end of her back. For just a minute he was distracted, a random thought suddenly flitting across his mind. It was a flicker of Prole, standing in the interrogation room, face flushed after he’d kissed her on the cheek. Tina sensed the unexpected hesitation and didn’t care what caused it. She leaned in toward him and her hips pressed against him, her swaying driving him mad. No stray thoughts any more. He straightened and looked her in the eyes. Her hands came down behind his neck and she leaned back, which only pressed her hips harder against him. Furyk looked at the calm brown eyes and rich, full lips and was hungrier than he’d been before dinner. He pulled her in and kissed her gently, the taste of cinnamon teasing his tongue. Then harder, as she opened her mouth wider and their teeth touched lightly and her tongue reached for him. Furyk bent his knees and pulled her up in one sweeping motion. Tina’s legs came off the floor and wrapped around his waist. Furyk turned and carried her toward the bedroom, ignoring the lamp on the stand next to the couch that caught her leg and was knocked onto the ground, the popping sound of the bulb breaking lost in the music. His eyes open so he could find his way, lips still pressing and moving against hers, he unsnapped the clasp of her bra as he reached the bedroom door and gave silent thanks to the dexterity that allowed him to do three things at once while his mind was on only one thing. Tina gave a little moan as she felt the bra loosen and then they were on the bed and her hands were pulling off his shirt and the music of Ludacris and the next half dozen songs were drowned out by other sounds.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Detective Prole brushed the crumbs from the Tasty-Cake Cinnamon Roll off her cream blouse with one hand while steering with the other. The crumbs joined the detritus on the seat and floorboards that had accumulated since the last time she’d had the car cleaned and vacuumed. Carbon dating would have put that event at some time in the past four years. A frozen dinner waited for her at home but she was fine with having an appetizer while on the road. She spun the wheel of the decade old Caprice, her personal car but it would have fit right in as one of the unmarked sedans in the lot at the station, except it was too old to make the grade even there. The guy she dated for about two seconds after a drunken sob-fest over some bullshit trauma she couldn’t remember was a mechanic and even though she hadn’t slept with him in seven years, he kept the high-powered engine he’d built for her in tip-top condition. In case she ever had to get away from bad guys while off-duty, he said.

  She made a couple more turns and was on Furyk’s street. No streetlamps in the hoity-toity section of Encino Hills where she couldn’t understand how he afforded to live. His house was set back a little, but she could see the front door from a hundred feet down the street. His porch light was on, even though there was no porch. He must’ve been home since the beat up Honda with t
he engine almost as big as hers sat in the driveway. The front door opened as her headlights began to sweep across the yard and she killed them as she rolled quietly toward the house, still twenty feet away. It wasn’t Furyk coming out. It was some bimbo. Prole hit the brakes and stopped hard before she was in front of the house. The bimbo didn’t see her, partly because the shit-brown Caprice blended in with the night and probably partly because she was too stupid to walk and chew gum, Prole figured. The girl turned her cartoonishly curvy backside toward Prole and leaned in the door of Furyk’s house. Furyk was a real gentleman, walking the girl all the way to the front door. What an asshole.

  Bimbo skipped down the walkway and got into a Jeep Cherokee – of course – flipped her hair a few times, and drove off. Prole could almost hear the background music that must follow her everywhere she went. Prole was pissed and wanted to shoot out one of the taillights and arrest the bitch for driving illegally. Not an unusual thought for her whenever some dim civilian irritated her, but this time she felt particularly vehement about it. Sitting in the darkened car, watching Furyk’s silhouette close the door, she realized she was pissed. Really pissed. At Furyk. And that was stupid. Good for him to move on, get a nice piece of ass and leave hers alone. She zipped up any other thoughts and got out of the car wearing her best friendly smirk.

  The porch light went out just as she was a few feet from the door. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, but not before she tripped on the last of the brick steps. She cursed lightly and just before her hand rapped on the door, it opened. Furyk was wearing a pair of boxers, nothing else, and had a bottle of water in one hand. His face told her he thought La-La girl had come back for her purse, or maybe another throw, but it quickly turned to a quick smile when he recognized it was Prole. That surprised her – he should have been pissed he wasn’t going to get laid again. She was even more surprised when the look turned to embarrassment, and not because she was getting a good look at damn near every inch of the body she’d seen a few times both in the dark and with all the lights on. She could read in his face that he knew she’d seen his little friend leave. But she couldn’t figure out why that would embarrass him. She kept the smirk and decided to play it just like she would with anyone else.