Warm Reception
By
William von Reese
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 by William von Reese
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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[This is a work of fiction, but the murder related herein actually took place in Los Angeles during the final decade of the Twentieth Century]
Chapter 1
Wakeup Call
A chortle of the motel phone jarred David awake. Phones do not ring any longer, he thought; they make noises, like tropical birds. This one sounded like the mating call of some huge, prehistoric and very horny winged creature.
David switched on the bed-side light and picked up the receiver. His movements nudged Eva from her sleeping position, naked beside him, head nestled in the cavity between his shoulder and chest. She muttered a protest in Spanish as she turned away from the light, her bronze body taking a graceful, sleeping pose on her right side.
Lars's voice boomed in David's ear.
"Get your ass over here now."
"Where are you?" David asked.
"Brandon's house."
In Encino. Atop the hills south of the field. A short drive from where David was, at the La Jolla Motel across from the Van Nuys airport.
"What's the hurry?"
Lars paused, as if searching for words before answering. His voice lowered.
"Brandon's been shot."
David focused on the diamond-patterned wallpaper, trying to make sense of Lars' words. He turned toward Eva, still in bed, as if she, of all people, had an answer.
"Oh," David said and hung up the phone. "Coming."
He reached for his pants, folded over a nearby chair. Lars was not a guy likely to panic or hallucinate. His boss, and David's publisher, had surely been shot. As David tottered, stepping into his slacks, Eva arose to a sitting position, bare breasts piquant, rubbing her eyes against the light.
"You are leaving me now?"
"Sorry. Emergency of some sort." He did not wish to shock her with news of her employer's death.
As David pulled on shirt and jacket, he took a twenty note from his wallet . "This is for breakfast. There's a coffee shop on the corner. Good thing you came in your own car. You can get back to work from here."
Eva nodded and looked up at him. He bent to cup her warm shoulders and plant a kiss on her forehead. "Sorry."
David hated to leave her. Not just the warm bed or the afterglow of sex. He really felt something for this lovely Nicaraguan girl.
* * *
Outside, the wipers quickly took care of the condensation that had clobbered his windshield. No traffic this time of night, and normally he would make it up the hill in record time. Except tonight there was fog. Driving passed the airfield, he could barely make out the rotating beacon through the cloud. He would have to take it slow on the road up to Brandon's house.
This marine layer had rolled in earlier in the afternoon just as he left The Company to fly home. Conditions had not looked good all day. Lars had followed him into the parking lot.
"You going home already? Brandon wanted to see you first."
David pointed at the sky. "I'm trying to take off before the field closes down."
Lars looked up. "You won't make it. You'll have to stay over again. So contact Brandon later, if you can't take off."
"Will do." Or maybe not, he thought to himself.
The thick bank that had hung offshore all day was swirling in quickly, and not on little cat's feet. David sped up to reach the airport, maybe get clearance for a downwind departure before the field closed.
He parked his airport clunker in the car lot, grabbed his briefcase and ran to his plane, an aging Cherokee 180. By the time he had opened the cabin door and tuned the radio to the ATIS frequency, the field had shut down. He would be spending another night in the Valley. No big deal; it had happened often before. He cursed himself for never getting an instrument rating. In a wicked way, though, staying over was preferable to going home. He would give Dolores a call. And Eva, too.
David walked across the street to the La Jolla Motel to get a room and use the pay phone. The motel had a vacancy; they always did on weekdays. Then he called Eva, who was still at work in the mailroom of The Company. She sounded pleased to meet him after work for drinks and dinner.
David checked Brandon's extension but he was still out. Then David called his wife, Dolores, at the doctor’s office where she worked.
"Marine layer rolled in."
"Again? That excuse is getting kinda tired, David."
"You know how it is."
"Yeah, I used to work at The Company, remember? Still staying at the La Jolla?"
"It's the closest place to the airport."
"Well, enjoy."
Dolores hung up. With her contacts at The Company, she probably knew all about Eva. Maybe he really should get an IFR rating so he could leave the field on instruments. Or drive the car, a trip that took 3 and one-half hours. That might help save the marriage. But David wasn't sure he really wanted to save the marriage.
* * *
Still driving in dense fog, David reached the top of the hill. He found Skyline Drive and turned right toward Brandon's house, inching carefully along, trying not to graze the cars parked along the curb. There was still no traffic, luckily.
The car's heater had kicked in, dispelling the chill of the mist enveloping the car. California fog, it's cold and it's damp, like Cole Porter said. But David was still post-coital, feeling warm and fuzzy from his intimacy with Eva.
While driving, David was reviewing his earlier sight of Eva's body. The mirror over the bureau was perfectly positioned to view her shape as she straddled him on the bed. With a voyeur's rapt attention David noted the curve of her bottom, rounded but without a roll of fat or dimple of cellulite.
Pert and petite, with a playful disposition, she was no drab, butterball Mayan from Central America. She wore her black hair shoulder length. Skin was just bronze enough to imply a perfect tan. Brown eyes framed by strong, arched brows hinted at a Spanish bloodline.
Eva was a legal immigrant from Guatemala, and one of The Company's typical hires: a foreigner served up by the Department of Employment at below minimum wage. Eva was set on bettering herself and sending support back home. She was taking night courses at Community College to prepare for citizenship and sharpen secretarial skills. Luckily for David, this had not been a class night, or she would have declined his invitation. Eva was a find, both for him and The Kohl Company.
Brandon's house was getting close now. David slowed the car to a crawl, trying to glimpse, between the closely parked cars at the curb, the five-digit street numbers painted on the berm. About three more blocks.
When he spotted the house, David decided to pull into the driveway. Parking at the curb would be dangerous on a foggy night like this. What he neglected to foresee was that his car was soon to be hemmed in by emergency vehicles, blocking his exit from the driveway.
David pulled to a stop next to Lars's car, also in the driveway. The garage door was down. The front of the house was dark. There was no welcoming porch light. No wonder. Neither Lars nor his sister, Karla, were considerate of others. Nor was Brandon, Karla's husband; but he would have turned on a porch light as a matter of pragmatism, nothing more.
David rang the bell and heard a scurry of response. Rapid footsteps. Then Lars yanked open the door.
"Come back to the den. We've got to decide what to do, and soon."
"We?"
David followed Lars through the darkened parlor to the subdued lights at the rear of the house. David saw Karla, curled in fetal position, on a couch. She was wearing Capri pants in patterned colors and a turtleneck blouse, what she changed into for comfort after coming home from work. She made no move to rise, greet David or even acknowledge his presence. She was clearly out of it. She was covered in filth. David could smell her from across the room.
Lars grabbed his arm and turned him toward the door that opened into the garage.
"Look at him." Lars switched on a light over the doorway.
There was Brandon as David had never seen him: seated on the carpet with his back against the door, head slumped forward. No bald patch was visible through his carefully trimmed hair. His face was hidden behind his raised knees. He was wearing a safari-style shirt in a sand color, with the epaulets he favored. Designer jeans and leather loafers. He was always a neat and stylish dresser.
Brandon was surrounded by an enormous pool of blood. As he was slumped forward, the wound or wounds themselves were hidden from view. They appeared to be confined to the torso.
David noticed his voice was shaky as he turned to Lars and asked, "Did you feel for a pulse?"
Lars shook his head in affirmation, the corner of his mouth turned down. "Of course. Just before I called you."
"Why me? I'm just the CPA. Why not the attorney?"
Lars smirked. "He's corporate, not criminal. This time of night I'd only get his machine. And I know what he'd say anyway: call the cops and get a criminal lawyer."
"Still, why me?"
"You have a lot at stake."
That's for sure, David thought. Income, for one. There would be repercussions from Brandon's death David had not even begun to foresee.
"Why not Trey? He's the heir." David knew Lars hated Trey. And vice versa.
"You know how Trey feels about Karla. He'll be glad to see her take the rap for shooting Brandon. Then he'll fire all our Nielsen asses."
David saw his point. Trey would inherit The Company and put the whole Nielsen family back on welfare. "Police on the way?"
"We haven't decided yet what to do."
"We?" David asked. "Karla is totally zonked. How did you talk to her?"
"She was still awake when I got here. I am the only person she called. She asked me to dial the police. Said she would tell them the shooting was an accident. She took Brandon for a burglar. She had left the garage door open."
Then Brandon must have closed it after he drove in.
"Do you buy that, Lars?"
He gave David a hard look, then said. "Yeah. I guess. She was really drunk."
As he spoke with Lars, David's eyes swept the room. A revolver with a short barrel was lying on a table beside a recliner.
"Have you touched that?" David asked, pointing at the gun.
"You think I'm fucking stupid?"
"What can we do but call?" David asked. "What is an alternative? Hide the body?"
By his reaction, a shrug, David saw that Lars had actually considered this.
"Think of The Company," he said. "My job. Your royalties . Karla's future. The Company runs entirely on Brandon's bullshit. He is known nationwide. The Company will never survive the scandal of his being shot by his wife. Better he should just...disappear."
David saw his point, but said, " Depends on who takes over The Company. But hiding the body is really a bad idea."
"Trey will take over. Brandon Dean Kohl, The Third. Drop the "h" and you've got it right. " Lars spoke with heavy sarcasm. He was referring to Brandon's elder son, nicknamed "Trey". Lars glanced at the bar and said. "I sure need a drink, but I don't dare touch anything."
"Not a good idea," David agreed.
"So what do you think? Do we let Karla take the rap? Or lose Brandon's body?"
David looked into Lars's black, angry eyes and said, "I am not up to body disposal this time of night. The deed is done and Karla admits doing it. Call before it gets any later. The longer we delay the more suspicious things look."
"Shit! I was hoping you could come up with something."
"Maybe you should ask Trey instead of me. He has the most at stake here."
"That ass-wipe is spoiled silly. He hates me. And Karla. He'll be glad to see her take the rap."
"Stepmothers are rarely popular with kids."
Lars walked to the phone on the bar. He hesitated before picking up the receiver. This call was officially correct, David could guess him thinking, so his fingerprint would be expected. David heard him punch the three magic numbers. While Lars spoke the particulars, David turned to Karla. She had not moved any more than had Brandon. Would she be in any shape to tell her story to the police when they came? Best let her sleep as long as she could.
Lars called at exactly 12:30. The police said they would dispatch a unit that should arrive in ten minutes. Two patrol cars showed up with lights blazing at 12:47. David was timing these events by the clock on the wet-bar wall.
Sergeant Bromfield and Detective Blakely introduced themselves at the front door. Uniformed officers were deployed outside, securing the entrances and exits.
The two policemen surveyed the situation in the den, and at once began calling for support. Coroner, ambulance, crime scene and evidence teams were quickly on the way to Skyline Drive. The garage door was opened and lights turned on. Officers and crime-scene personnel began to congregate in the garage around Karla's Mercedes and Brandon's Jaguar.
The coroner examined and removed Brandon, while Karla remained as motionless as he. She got the ambulance. She was not cogent enough for questioning, so the police sent her under guard to the hospital to sober up and be tested for evidence. The revolver was the first item to be gingerly placed in an evidence bag.
Sergeant Bromfield took Lars and Lieutenant Blakely, the cop in charge, took David aside. That Lars and David were not witnesses but latecomers to the scene became quickly apparent, so they put formal statements on hold until a more convenient hour. Karla was the only witness, if not the perp, and there was no way of talking to her. David wondered if her stupor was exaggerated, or even feigned. Karla was not above playing games, he knew from experience.
By first light the fog lifted. David stood in the garage talking with the crime-scene people and watching the developing sunrise. Only chalk marks and an incredible amount of blood-stained carpet pointed to where Brandon's body had been. There were dusting powder and coffee cups everywhere in the den. Waiting for the driveway to clear of official vehicles, Lars and David talked some more.
"They want to take my statement at the station," Lars said, nodding toward the detectives "This is going to be some fucked-up day. No going back to bed now."
David scanned the eastern sky. It was getting bright and clear. "Looks like I can take off okay now."
Lars grinned at David wickedly. "So, who were you shacked up with last night? As if I didn't know."
After years working together, Lars knew David pretty well. "A gentlemen never tells."
"That sweet little cunt from Guatemala City."
David squelched his irritation. The Nielsen’s were a rough bunch, evident from their gross language. Eva did not deserve that terminology. David shrugged and said nothing.
"She's Company property, you know. But no hard feelings. There's plenty of pussy in the mail room for all of us."
After the house had been taped and cleared, the police removed the patrol cars blocking the driveway; and as the sun rose David was free to leave. Lars drove off trailed by the policemen. David headed back to the airport.
There was no hope of finding Eva still at the motel. She would have had breakfast and headed to work at The Company by now. So David checked out of the La Jolla Motel, took breakfast at the coffee shop David had urged on Eva, prepped the plane and was finally cleared for VFR departure.
* * *
Flying eastward toward home, squinting into the rising sun, a sense of imponderable change invaded David's life. The worm of self-interest was already at work, eating away at his confidence. What would happen now with his royalty income? Trey and David had always treated one another with careful but uneasy politeness, though their mutual dislike was obvious. Could they get along with Brandon gone? Could The Company survive with the principals at war with each other?
But his concern was minor compared to what faced Karla, whose life would be splintered by the legal process and the bad publicity. Trey was certain to fire Karla and Lars and the whole Nielsen family. Only a miracle could save The Company from plunging from its present prosperity into the toilet. Brandon's scandalous death would affect a multitude of people. How would it all play out?
Chapter 2
Rough Landing
The steep approach to Sky Haven Airport and the turbulence in the flight pattern have scared some visiting pilots so badly that they never came back. Based at this high-altitude field for more than twenty years, David was an old hand. But there were some days, some landings even David taxied off the runway with his shirt soaked in sweat and shaking so much he was unable to write in his log book. Today looked like one of those days. The Santa Ana winds had kicked up. No wonder the fog of the night before had lifted so quickly.
The flight home was a straight path that took him past Mount Wilson, bristling with antennae, then Baldy, then Lake Arrowhead then over ski slopes to home. Navigation was easy. Even on smoggy days, with ground visibilities limited, once above the layer one could steer by these familiar peaks poking above the soup.
He never filed a flight plan for this short trip across the LA basin. At altitude David was within gliding distance to airports all along the route. And the time/distance of the flight was too short to make filing a plan worth the trouble.
His first intimation of turbulence came near the porcupine peak of Mount Wilson. A solid jolt stirred him from brooding over Brandon's death. His usual route home, flying near and parallel to the mountain range north of Los Angeles, was inviting severe turbulence. David banked away south, hoping to find smoother air above the flatlands of metropolitan LA. Navigation was no problem today. Rough air was.
The wind was so strong directly out of the east that ground speed dropped to half. By the time David came abeam of Lake Arrowhead, he was taking a beating. He was over foothills now. Over rougher terrain, the wind currents turned more erratic and violent. He was holding onto the seat frame with one hand to avoid being knocked against the cabin ceiling despite the seat belt across his lap.
Sky Haven Unicom advised runway six.
"Winds are out of the east at 40 knots, gusting to 60. Reports of severe turbulence on approach, with possible wind shear at the end of the runway."
"Roger. Traffic permitting, I'll do a straight-in approach. Over."
"No reported traffic. Take care, Dave."
The personal reference was not proper radio protocol, but David appreciated his friend Rick's concern. Radio talk tended to be informal at rural airports, especially when traffic was light. And conditions dangerous.
David could now see the blue of the water behind the dam and tensed for even higher terrain ahead. His armpits were already cold. He flexed his fingers trying to relax and turned off the heater.
Airport in sight, he lined up with runway six and forced the bucking plane down onto its main gear. The headwind took him down to taxi speed within a few feet. He had to add power to reach the turnoff. The relief flooding through him was delicious.
The rest was routine. David noted the tachometer reading for entry into his log book later, tied down carefully, secured the control surfaces, then drove home. David felt good that he had once again proved his piloting skills. Survival equals success in the flying game.
David crossed the highway and walked the short three blocks to his home. Dolores would be at work at Dr Whitmore's office. She had left no breakfast dishes in the sink. And she did not often eat breakfast out, as David sometimes did.
He took the logbook from his briefcase and made the entry, noting a "RON" (remained over night) at Van Nuys. Was this damning evidence of his infidelity? No, merely justification for his tax deduction of airplane expense.
Beat after the tension of the landing, Brandon's death and only thirty minutes sleep, David considered what to do next. There were messages on the machine. Should he attend to business or hit the sack? He could indulge himself the latter choice. As a sole practitioner, the answering machine and computer served him as both secretary and junior accountant. Let the machines keep watch a few more hours.
When he went into the bedroom to undress, David noticed the bed was undisturbed. Dolores normally left the bed unmade until evening. Had she made it up early? Or never slept in it last night?
He slept until mid afternoon, faintly aware that the phone had been ringing during his sleep. That did not disturb him, however, since the machine was on duty. David crawled out of bed, feeling rested but edgy. Dolores would be home in a couple of hours. He had best attend to his messages. And prepare for her return.
Half a dozen of the usual client calls. But there were two from Lars and a call from Trey, now the Heir Apparent.
He called Lars first. Lars was furious. Anger was a big part of his personality. His square, black moustache and grim demeanor reminded you of Hitler.
"The dumb shits tested me for powder marks! They kept me at the station till ten o'clock to videotape a statement."
"How's Karla?"
"Still in the hospital. They are treating her for dehydration and shock. Along with hangover."
"And Trey? Family members are high on the suspect list."
"Trey's luckier than a Mick in clover. He was home with his family last night."
"And me?"
"They're sending a guy to Sky Haven for your statement. They enjoy visiting a vacation resort, the goofballs. It's like a day off with pay for them."
"Yeah. But am I considered a suspect?"
Lars's laugh was harsh. He was one crude dude, David knew from years of watching him at work. No subtlety, no tact. But he got the job done. He worked with the same blunt effectiveness of his earlier career as a butcher. Chop and saw. No delicacy.
"You're as lucky as Trey. You have the perfect alibi."
David had not expected that Lars had talked to Dolores this morning before she left for work.
"You told Dolores that I had a good alibi because I spent the night with Eva? Thanks a lot!" Now Dolores would know for sure what he was up to last night. Not that she didn't already guess.
"I got her before she left for work."
"You bastard!"
"It's all got to come out now, anyway. I was not alone, either, last night. Luckily. I need an alibi worse than you."
David kept silent, trying to guess what would be in store for him when Dolores came home. If she came home.
"Be glad you've got Dolores instead of Fiorita to face."
"Isn't she visiting in Sicily right now?"
"Yeah. You'll hear her yelling clear across the Atlantic anyway."
When he returned Trey's call, Trey was sarcastic as usual. He wanted to know why they hadn't called him about his father's death last night. Instead he had to find out this morning when the detectives showed up at his door.
"Couldn't you have clued me in? After all, I am his son."
David explained that once the police arrived, they did not want him, or anyone, using the phone. The detectives said they would notify the next of kin first thing. David had followed their advice.
"The cops didn't show up here to be humane," Trey explained. "They wanted to see my reaction. And to ask questions and test for powder marks. As if it were not obvious that Karla shot him."
"They always suspect the victim's family." David was stating the obvious.
"I do stand to inherit The Company, my brother being mostly incompetent, as Dad was well aware."
Trey changed directions abruptly. "So where were you last night? When Lars called you."
David paused, but saw no reason to be tactful. As Lars said, it would all come out anyway. They all needed our alibis.
"I was with someone. At the airport motel."
Trey's laugh was acid. "I know who you were with. Lars told me. Your pussy perks are more important to you than your royalties."
Trey went on, "You should have called me first. There might have been something we could have done before the police arrived."
"Like what?"
"Maybe staged a break-in.”
"With Karla's prints on Brandon's gun?"
"How are you sure they are Karla's?"
"Well, I see what you mean. That crazy twat is my mother-in-law! But at least we might have talked it over first. Actually, I am glad to let Karla take the rap. If she's convicted she won't inherit, and I won't have to share the estate with her."
David did not mention Karla's prenuptial agreement. Maybe Trey knew nothing about that. Clearly he expected to get the whole estate, or at least the lion's share.
"When will you be showing up at The Company again?" Trey asked.
"In a couple of days to deliver the Course update copy."
"Keep me advised," Trey ordered, hanging up. He meant advised of any developments in the case. He knew, or guessed, the detectives would be coming to see David in Sky Haven.
David hung up. The day that had begun so crazily was not getting any saner. And he had Dolores to look forward to when she returned from work twenty minutes from now.
People tend to view events through the prism of their own personal interests. Dolores would be no exception. Uppermost in her mind, he knew, would be the loss of income that Brandon's death would portend. Not that David didn't have a solid royalty contract with The Company. Everyone foresaw, however, that without Brandon there would be no Kohl Company for long.
David felt a surge of exasperation over the details, all demanding immediate attention, that had accumulated during his absence from his office. The curse of the accountant's life, which he had chosen freely, was a life of incessant minutia. Normally he took the swarm of details in stride, but now, with the reality of Brandon's death so overpowering, he wondered if he had chosen the right profession. The feeling was analogous to looking up from a road map of northern Arizona to find he was standing on the very edge of the Grand Canyon.
He finished answering the messages on his machine while waiting for Dolores's car to appear. She usually got home at 5:10. When that did not happen, he closed up the office and walked into the house. Mid winter, it was dark already. The night was crisp and cold with a dusting of snow on the walkway. Icicles hung like pendant swords from the eaves.
Dolores was undoubtedly pissed from the calls she had taken from The Kohl Company. She was likely to have stopped in with co-workers at the Toltec Club to vent before coming home. Not a good sign. If she came home smashed she would likely lose control of her violent streak.
She was prone to violence, Dolly was. One earlier incident had taken her to the emergency room after she put her right arm through their bedroom window. The setup tonight did not augur a pleasant reunion.
6:15 and still no homecoming wife. David took an entrée to the microwave, poured a glass of red and took an uneasy meal. In the middle of it he heard a car door slam, louder than usual, and Dolores banged into the kitchen.
David was looking into dark, Spanish eyes again, this version with an admixture of Mayan. Half Irish half Mexican. Short, compact and shapely. Great breasts. He had once thought her delicious and irresistible. Now years later, he found himself resisting her often.
David and Dolores's first night together, and several thereafter, had been a disaster. The first time in bed took place at an airport motel in El Cajon, California. They were expecting to join up with Brandon and Karla, unmarried at that time, to begin an adventure flight into Baja the next day.
More symbol than gift, David had brought a single red rose from a florist's freezer to present to Dolores in poetic thanks for her surrender of-what? Her virginity? Though she was under eighteen she was anything but innocent-looking, and virginity was a doubtful issue.
This woman David had once so desired, now his wife, was standing in their kitchen staring at him in silent fury, unable to find words hurtful enough.
"How about 'cheating son-of-a-bitch,'" David offered. "That should cover it."
"Not even partly,"
She banged down her huge purse on the countertop and poured a glass of Chianti from the open bottle. She was not about to lose the thread that was pulling them toward violence. She took a gulp and went on, letting the anger build.
"Another Latina, this Eva? Couldn't you find a nice black or a slant, at least, to flesh out your pussy collection?"
"But that's not what's bothering you, is it? The women?"
Dolores glared at him. "You know damn well what's bothering me. We've been over it before. And it should have been bothering you for all these years."
Both knew that their battleground was-and always would be-money. According to Dolores, David had been content to hang onto Brandon's coattails all these years, instead of going after big bucks in Beverly Hills.
"Brandon allows me to live like I want. He’s given me the freedom to write."
Dolores's mouth twisted. "You are not a real writer!. No one even knows your name. You're a ghost. You are like a guy chopping wood for $10 per hour."
"I like my lifestyle. No suit, no tie. Informal."
"Hilltop hick in sweatshirt and jeans, driving a fucking orange pickup. You're a joke!"
They had fought this battle many times before, getting ever more heated. Often the fights ended with her physical attack. She came at David pounding with both arms, which he could secure by her tiny wrists. Then she would spit and kick.
This time it was somehow worse. Maybe they were both becoming aware this fight would signal a decisive battle. Loss of a major source of income could well do that.
They were close to that ugly finale when the phone rang. Dolores usually answered calls while his office was closed. Most of them came from her big Mexican family.
It was her mother, David could tell. Dolores had already told them of his likely loss of income and of his latest infidelity. The family would find her the best lawyer in West LA, he was sure they were telling Dolores, and we'll nail that gringo to the wall. Or was that his conscience talking?
David had tossed his cold entrée by the time Dolores hung up. She did not resume her assault. She had reached some level of composure, as if she had finally resolved a decision about her future. When she announced it, David saw at once this process had surely been colored by the prism of self interest. Hers.
She looked at David for a long moment, standing about four feet away-beyond striking distance relieved, as if she had made it across a gorge teetering on a tightrope.
"I'm out of here."
David could tell by the way she stood, dimpled chin lifted, arms stiff by her sides, that she had really made up her mind.
"Who is it? There is always someone else."
Her look was defiant, as though she expected David would mock her choice.
"Doctor Sokolov."
"Bernie?"
David knew him well, a big fat teddy bear. One of the part-time doctors of his client and personal physician-and Dolores's employer-Doctor Whitmore. "You call him 'Doctor'? You fuck Bernie and call him 'Doctor'?"
Dolores's tight smile hinted of conspiracy. "They love that, hearing themselves called 'Doctor'."
"You got that right. Always call him by title in public. Save 'Bernie' for your private moments."
"I don't need any advice from you." She turned abruptly and headed for the stairs. "I want to get my makeup and a change of clothes for now. I'll be back to pack over the weekend."
Two days from now. He was a de facto bachelor, on his way to freedom, whether he wanted to go or not.
"Is that such a big change: from accountant to MD?" David asked, catching her as she started up the stairs. "And how can you live with a guy who's 100 pounds overweight?"
Dolores paused on the steps to glare at him. "Enormous difference in income. Bernie works in Sky Haven on weekends only. Because he loves the skiing up here. His main practice is in Beverly Hills. He doesn't make a full-time job out of resort life."
"Like your current husband."
"Like my ex-husband-to-be"
Dolores went on upstairs to get her things, while David poured himself another glass of Chianti. What or who had derailed his life, he wondered? Brandon? Not him personally, but his influence, which David was unable or unwilling to resist. Why had it taken him half a lifetime to learn to avoid the women that were not good for him?
Brandon himself had once told David that Dolores was poison.
"Didn't you ever learn to date?" he asked David one day. "You don't have to marry everybody you take to bed."
David resented that remark at the time. Now he realized that Brandon was right. David had had time to taste the poison.
Chapter 3
Memorandum Of Interview
In Re: Karla Nielsen Kohl
Date: January 27, 20__
Time: 11:10 A.M.
Place: Sky Haven, California
Present: David Walthers , CPA, Witness
James Blakely, LAPD OCID
Liza Garland, LAPD
At the above referenced date and time, Detective James Blakely and Officer Liza Garland met with David Walthers, CPA, at his Sky Haven, California, office. Walthers, who was at the crime scene when LAPD arrived, gave the following account of his involvement, recorded on audio tape, with his full knowledge and consent…
David took the mike and related his story of that Wednesday night. How he was jarred awake at the La Jolla Motel by a midnight phone call from Lars, urging him to rush up to Brandon's house, which turned out to be the scene of his death. David did not omit Eva's presence in the motel bed. Not a gentlemanly thing to do, but her corroborating testimony, if needed, as to time and place might come in handy.
This Saturday morning was bright, clear and cold. The sun warmed up enough to convert the pristine snowfall of yesterday into an ugly slush, treacherous to walk upon. Blakely sat across from David's desk as he spoke his account into the hand-held mike. He was looking absently out the window as he subjected Officer Liza Garland and David to an irritating habit of his.
David had himself picked up this little trick with a paperclip, which had become a nervous habit with Blakely, that might be called The Silver Grasshopper. He had learned to do it early on in his office career, but never performed it in the presence of others.
A paperclip is bent in such a way as to spring load its loops. One loop is then balanced atop the other in precarious stasis. When the clip is dropped onto the hard surface of a desk, the loops snap apart and the paperclip is catapulted a foot or so into the air. It's a parlor trick. After a few repetitions, however, the jumping paperclip quickly became annoying.
Blakely kept gazing out the window, watching the melting snow slough off the roof, and icicles plummet from the eaves, of the neighbor's house across the street. Was he really listening to David’s recorded account of the death scene or feigning disinterest? Blakely’s colleague, clearly a junior officer of the LAPD, was a presence required merely to witness the circumstances and purport of the testimony. Liza, a cute blonde tending toward plump, was jotting into a black notebook, looking officious.
Boing! The paperclip leapt into the air for the umpteenth time as David concluded his statement. He then responded to Blakely's follow-up questions as best he could. He left out only Lars's hesitation in calling the police, and his speculation on alternative ways of handling the crisis, such as dumping Brandon's body somewhere. No sense in making Lars look worse than he already did.
Blakely then picked up the mike, signed off on the tape and turned off the recorder.
"Anyone for something to drink?" David offered.
Blakely asked for coffee, and Liza a Coke. David retired to fetch both. As he returned to the office, bearing the drinks on a tray, he overheard the tail end of Blakely's comment to Liza. It was an observation that was to pester David, the judge, the attorneys and the jury in days and months to come.
"More loose ends than a bowl of spaghetti..."
Blakely was speaking about the Kohl case, surely. What in the world did he mean by loose ends? David wondered. The actions of Karla seemed self-evident. She got drunk. She was jealous of Brandon's mistress, Grace. Karla shot her husband when he came unexpectedly through the door from the garage. What could be more obvious?
If shooting her husband was intentional, what could have been Karla's motive? David had witnessed motive aplenty over the years. Brandon's persistent, controlling cruelty would drive any normal person to murder. David had to remind himself that Karla was part of the dynamic: her masochism meshed with Brandon's sadism. Symbiosis in action.
David wanted to ask Blakely to explain his pasta analogy, but David did not, knowing the detective would demur and with sarcasm, too.
Over the weeks and months that followed, and with reflection and hindsight, David began to glimpse what had bothered James Blakely about the case. Lars's delay in dialing 911. Trey's potential motivation and possible involvement. The timing and degree of Karla's display of drunkenness. Whether Karla expected Brandon to enter through the garage door, or was she scared by an imaginary intruder, a burglar, as she later claimed. If Karla were so truly smashed, why was her aim so good? All these variables taken together gave one pause. Was Karla's act as simple and direct as it seemed? Was Karla even the perpetrator at all? What about Lars, or Trey? Or all three in collusion?
Blakely and Liza finished their drinks and rose to leave, asking for David’s suggestion for a place to have lunch. David watched them enter their unmarked police car and drive off. Was Blakely fucking her? he wondered. Probably, but he hadn't asked for a motel referral. One of the perks of office, David supposed, fucking junior members of the force.
David watched the car turn onto the highway and head for town. It was still a beautiful day. A beautiful day for fornication.
* * *
Dolores showed up later that Saturday afternoon with a U-Haul truck and a couple of Mexicans. The Mexican half of her reluctantly spoke Spanish when required, well enough to tell the helpers what to take.
Surprisingly, though, Dolores left most everything except her clothes and their books, records and photos. Tradition allots the last three items to the distaff side; even though it had been David who had chosen the books and records, and who had taken most of the pictures. Like most men, he didn't want to go through the process of divvying things up. Such cultural items are best left for women to carry on the heritage of the bloodline.
Luckily, they were childless. So David could have quibbled: What heritage of the bloodline had issued from their barren marriage?
David was left with the big TV, the furniture and most of the kitchen utensils. A rich endowment, compared with the usual property divisions, skewed in favor of the wife. Dolores must be moving in with Bernie, David reasoned. Bernie's playboy condo on the ski slopes was sure to be lavishly furnished. So Dolores was to have little need for their modest and well-used domestic appointments.
Her apparent munificence in David's regard on this Saturday was to be diminished later during the ponderous process of divorce. Dolores would demand her community interest in their Sky Haven house and half the value of his accounting practice. Not to mention her car and half their investment accounts. Compared to these big bucks, the household effects she conceded David were paltry.
What Dolores said as she prepared to depart with her U-Haul truck and crew of grinning Mexicans indicated that, unlike David, she had been giving their community assets a thorough going-over. She handed him a slip of paper from her purse.
"Here's my address for now. And here's the phone number of my attorney."
David glanced at the name of her lawyer, written in her tiny, careful hand. David didn't recognize him. Some guy with an office in San Bernardino.
"Can't we both use the same one?" David asked, not having even thought about the legalities yet.
Dolores scowled. The shape of her mouth was not a pretty sight.
"Bad idea. I am not going to be horsed around by you and a lawyer bonding like a couple of good old boys."
"Dolores..."
"I'm after my fair share. Get your own attorney. You'll need one."
Why the acrimony? David wondered. A moment's reflection gave him the answer: thwarted expectations. Dolores had met David at a time when his professional status was at its zenith. David was a founding partner of a firm of twelve full-time employees and a handful of part-timers. He flew his own plane and drove a two-year-old Corvette. A fat cat in her eyes.
When they met a second time, five years later, Dolores had been recently deserted by her marine husband and left penniless and pregnant. She had just graduated from welfare to take a minimum-wage job at The Kohl Company after getting a free abortion.
The expectations stemming from his former affluence must have motivated her to marry him. She could reasonably expect that David's financial status would have even improved over the five years since their initial meeting. From her underbelly view of life David must have seemed a good catch. That many women crave security above all was no surprise. David's inertia and her insecurity had kept them together all this time.
* * *
The local newspaper in Sky Haven, The Lamplighter, carried little news beyond the weekly concerns of that resort valley. So David bought a copy of the Sunday Los Angeles Times. The Kohl shooting was far from front-page news, but the Times did report it.
WIFE PLEADS NOT GUILTY IN SLAYING
January 26, 20__. Karla Nielsen Kohl pleaded not guilty Friday to a charge she murdered her husband, San Fernando Valley businessman Brandon Dean Kohl, Jr., in their home Wednesday evening. Municipal Court Judge Alvin Ardmore agreed to consider bail for Karla Kohl on Monday.
Mrs. Kohl told police after the shooting she thought her husband was a burglar when he entered her Encino home from a garage entrance about 11:30 P.M.
Police said she shot her husband of 23 years four times.
Beverly Hills defense attorney Simon Campania argued that Karla Kohl should be eligible for bail, noting she had no prior legal problems.
Realizing that the LA Times was not likely to detail the progress of the case as it dragged through the justice system, David subscribed to a news clipping service to keep apprised of Karla's plight. Local papers in the San Fernando Valley, especially those of the Van Nuys area where the courthouse was located, provided the best details.
A few days later came this report from the clipping service.
SAN FERNANDO MURDER SUSPECT POSTS BAIL
An Encino woman who told police she shot her husband four times after mistaking him for an intruder posted a $500,000 bond Tuesday, January 31, and was released from jail.
While Karla was in jail over the weekend, David pondered whether or how to contact her. Even if she were allowed to take calls, which he doubted, he was hesitant about phoning her. She was sure to be entirely consumed with her personal turmoil. Calls from persons other than her family would only add to her distress. He decided to wait till later to phone her. He should probably wait until she contacted him.
Then David realized Karla might have an urgent need for a defense attorney. Hollister, the Company's lawyer, might refer her to one. But if he were away for the weekend, he might not. So trying to be helpful, David decided to mail her a short note the Saturday after Brandon's killing:
Karla,
If you need legal help, call collect to: Lance Fallon (wife Bonnie) at 555-2486, his home number.
Our thoughts and feeling are with you.
Dave and Dolores.
Lance Fallon, David knew from watching him perform in court defending drug dealers, was wild and unconventional. Exactly what Karla's predicament called for: a creative defense. She could do worse.
When the news clippings arrived, however, David saw that Karla had already retained a high-profile, criminal lawyer from Beverly Hills. Just as well, because a few days later David’s envelope addressed to the Van Nuys Jail for Women was returned to unopened. Unprocessed prisoners were not allowed mail, was David's guess.
Karla was a cold cookie, David knew, but he could not see her returning to her house on Skyline Drive when she got out on bail. He found out later she went to the home of her sister, Johnnie Nielsen, to recover from her ordeal. Her family would surely take care of shocking reminders of her actions, such as Brandon's blood soaking the carpet of the den.
* * *