She didn’t want to get too jazzed. Didn’t want to run out too much line or acknowledge that given what she knew and had just learned, things were beginning to make sense.
It was 9:30 a.m. Lena sat in her car, working the phone from the parking garage at the doctor’s office. According to Justin Tremell’s assistant, he never arrived at work before eleven. According to Lieutenant Barrera, Tremell lived just ten minutes away in Pacific Palisades-a neighborhood Lena was familiar with just off Sunset and Brooktree Road. She jotted down the address in her notebook, thanked Barrera, and closed her phone. Then she slipped the personal information forms Dr. Ryan had given her into the murder book and pulled out of the garage.
She had walked out of the doctor’s office with the originals, not photocopies. The actual forms that Jennifer McBride had handled and spent time filling out. Documents that Lena could take back to the lab because she thought she’d noticed something.
Sue Ryan, MD, didn’t have to be that nice, but she was. Nor did Barrera, who knew Lena had been ordered to cross Justin Tremell off the list, but never mentioned it as he looked up Tremell’s home address and gave it to her.
She blew through the first traffic light. For a split second she thought about her meeting with the chief yesterday. Just long enough to push it back and bring the car up to speed. The road coiled through the hills like a warped spring. As she slid into the curves, she tried to keep an open mind and not connect the dots-even though the dots seemed to be connecting themselves. Within ten minutes she found Brooktree, made a left and coasted down the hill. When she crossed the stream at the base of the canyon, she made another left, saw Tremell’s house, and started down the private drive.
The house had been set in a meadow that stretched across two or three acres of open land in a city that wasn’t supposed to have any open land. She could see the stream winding through the tall grass and a barn with two horses beside a small pond. When the drive split, she spotted a pickup truck and several cars in a parking area and stayed to the left.
There was something idyllic about the property. Something remote and unreal. The house was smaller than she would have guessed, but just right for the setting. It was an eclectic mix of stone, wood, and glass with a vaulted roof line and a modern feel that took advantage of the views without overpowering the landscape. As she pulled beside the pickup and got out, she noticed the ladders leaning against the back of the house. A handful of day laborers were taking a break in the warm sun beside three palates of roof shingles. She caught the laughter in their eyes. Someone was whispering in Spanish while another giggled with his head down. Lena looked for the contractor that went with the pickup, but didn’t see him around.
She crossed the gravel lot and stepped onto the rear porch. The door was open. Cupping her hands, she gazed through the screen into the kitchen and saw an older couple sitting at the breakfast table. And the infant was here, too. Tremell’s new son, Dean Jr. The woman was cradling the baby in her arms, patting his back, and still holding the empty bottle of formula in her free hand.
At first glance, the scene inside the kitchen seemed just as pastoral as the trip down the driveway from the road. But after a short time, it struck Lena that the older couple had no intention of acknowledging her presence. They had seen her approach the door, yet they hadn’t moved or said anything. They just sat there, staring back at her.
She reached for her badge and pressed it against the screen. “I’d like to speak with Justin Tremell.”
A beat went by before the man finally spoke in a weak voice. “He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“He belongs to a club. He goes there before work. He won’t be back until late tonight.”
There was something odd going on. The way they were sitting, the timid, even forced sound of the man’s voice. And the woman was patting Tremell’s son like a robot, her lifeless eyes stuck on the floor just below the screen door.
“Who are you?” Lena asked.
The man shrugged. “Eve’s parents.”
“Then you’re Justin Tremell’s father-in-law?”
He seemed to need time to think it over.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
He didn’t answer the question. Lena felt certain that they were frightened and made the decision to enter. But before she got halfway into the room, she stopped and thought that she knew what the problem was.
She could hear it. The sound of the couple’s daughter from the master bedroom. The sound of an a.m. fuck session filtering down to the kitchen from the second floor. It wasn’t hot and heavy, but it was there.
Lena thought about the contractor she didn’t see outside and looked back at the couple. It wasn’t fear in their eyes. It wasn’t even pain. It looked more like sadness. The kind that keeps you up at night and eats away at your soul.
Lena drew a business card from her pocket and set it down on the table. “I’d like to speak with your daughter.”
The man’s eyes skimmed over the card, his head remaining still.
“I’ll be waiting outside,” Lena said.
She stepped onto the porch, thought about lighting a smoke but decided against it. She could see the roofers eyeing her from the lawn. She could see them trying to get a read on her. Trying to figure out whether or not she got it and knew what was really going on.
She turned away, walking to the end of the porch and over to the fence. As she gazed at the horses, she thought about the way the couple had been dressed. They didn’t come from money. And they had to live with whatever hell their daughter was putting them through. It didn’t look easy.
She turned and leaned against the fence, gazing back at the house. She was at the far end, well out of the roofer’s line of vision. And she could see Justin Tremell’s young wife checking her out from a window on the second floor, her fuck session with the help apparently over. She hadn’t covered up and was holding her breasts in her arms. But Lena was surprised by her face. She appeared melancholy, even wounded, not arrogant. When she stepped away from the glass, Lena thought about the hollow look in her eyes and wondered if she wasn’t calling out for help in some way.
It was an uncomfortable feeling, and Lena tried to shake it off. Glancing at the pickup beside her car, she continued walking around the circular drive toward the pond. But as her view cleared the corner, she noticed a limo parked in front of the house, recognized the driver, and suddenly knew exactly what was going on. Justin Tremell’s young wife wasn’t doing the roofing contractor. Someone else was doing her.
It took a moment to settle in, then another few seconds to play back what she had seen in the kitchen and through the window. The images were raw and dirty, and she couldn’t help feeling stunned. When they finally died off, she approached the car and gave the driver a long look.
“Waiting for someone?” she said.
He couldn’t look back at her and squirmed in his seat. “Yes, ma’am. I expect so.”
“The man who writes the checks?”
“That sounds about right,” he said.
“Dean Tremell?”
He tipped his cap, still unable to make eye contact. “That’s right. Mr. Dean will be along any time now.”
“What’s your name?”
“Louis.”
“How often do you come out here, Louis?”
“I just drive, ma’am. It’s what Louis does. He drives and he keeps his eyes on the road. At the end of the week, he collects a paycheck and goes home.”
“I get it, Louis. But how often do you come out here?”
Dean Tremell cleared his throat from behind her. “Whenever I tell him to.”
She turned and watched Tremell getting into his suit jacket as he approached. He was moving quickly, eating up ground in meaty chunks like a feisty bull. It seemed like whatever he’d done to his daughter-in-law had put him in a good mood. Oddly enough, there wasn’t even a hint of embarrassment. Just a slight grin stretching across his weatherbeaten face, an ironic grin laced with curiosity.
“What are you doing out here?” he said.
“Looking for your son. How ’bout you?”
He paused to think it over, running his fingers through his white mane. When he was ready, he met her eyes, cocked his head, and lowered his voice.
“I’ve always believed that a man doesn’t choose his needs. His needs choose him. That’s why I’ve made it a practice to never apologize for who I am. What you see is what you get. Life’s simpler that way, don’t you think?”
“How’s your son feel about that?”
“I’m sure that he’d be upset if he knew. Who wouldn’t?”
“What about his wife?”
Tremell didn’t answer the question, and Lena instinctively took a step back. She was thinking about Justin Tremell’s exploits and what she had read on the Internet last night. It seemed clear that the kid had been home schooled: Justin Tremell had learned everything from his father.
Tremell cleared his throat again. “I had a long talk with the district attorney Saturday night. We spoke after you left. He gave me every assurance that he would take care of this.”
“Maybe you didn’t give him enough money.”
Tremell laughed. “It’s not what you think, Detective.”
“It isn’t?”
“Not by a long shot.”
Lena glanced at the house, then turned back and decided to take a chance.
“I know about the abortion,” she said.
“What abortion is that?”
“Jennifer McBride got pregnant.”
“The dead whore?”
A moment passed. Dark and sick and beyond the pale.
“Yeah,” Lena said. “The dead whore.”
Tremell leaned against the car. Who he was didn’t match what she saw in his eyes, and it bothered her.
“I’m sorry, Detective. I should’ve had more respect. It sounds like she lived a dangerous life on all counts. It’s always hard to watch when life bites back. Let me make it up to you.”
“How would you do that?”
“I know a place downtown. Actually, I own it. Let me buy you an early lunch.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Tremell grinned. “Come on, Detective. Meet an old man halfway. You’ve got your point of view, and I’ve got mine. They may not be as different as you think. Isn’t it worth talking about? Let’s have lunch. The chef’s the best in L.A.”
Lena looked back at him, offering a tentative nod. Then Tremell smiled and gave her the name of the restaurant. Although it didn’t ring a bell, she knew the street and block number, and agreed to meet him there in an hour. When he climbed into the limo and reached for his cell, she walked around the drive to her car. The roofers were back at work on top of the house. None of them were laughing anymore.