Revision of Justice (5 page)

“It’s about time someone found him.”

“Justice—he’s dead.”

Except for scattered whispers, a hush had fallen over the party as Templeton and I reached the bottom of the stairs.

People moved aside to let us pass.

“I called 911 before I went looking for you,” Templeton said. “Cantwell’s down on the terrace, attempting CPR.”

She led me across the patio and yard to the steps where I’d last seen her disappearing with Cantwell.

“I couldn’t find a pulse. His skin was on the clammy side. I think he’s been dead awhile.”

“You OK?”

“A little queasy.”

The steps were brick, bordered on each side by low, Oriental-style lamps. They lighted our way through a break in the cactus hedge to a thick stand of oleander that opened up to a terraced patio not visible from the house.

Cantwell knelt on the bricks, frantically attempting CPR on a lean young man who stared into the starless sky with dead eyes.

The amber glow from a circle of Malibu lights was dim, but I could make out certain features—a clean-shaven, sharply angled face with a shadow of heavy beard; long, straight dark hair fanned out behind the head; eyes as black as coal; thick hair on the forearms and upper chest, where two buttons were open Hollywood-style. Greek, Spanish, Middle Eastern, Italian—I couldn’t tell which. But rather good-looking, for a dead man.

Cantwell tilted back the young man’s head and blew four blasts of air into his mouth. When he was done, he placed his hands on the man’s belly, just below the rib cage, and pushed forcefully several times.

“How are you doing?”

Cantwell looked up at me with anxious eyes. He was breathing hard and his ruddy face glistened with sweat.

“I could use a break, to be honest.”

I knelt down and took over.

Christine Kapono appeared and immediately pushed aside a couple of patio chairs to make more room.

Down the darkened canyon, flashing blue lights could be seen snaking up the road while a siren wailed above a chorus of barking dogs.

“We’ll need more light,” Cantwell told Kapono. “There are flashlights in the garage.”

Kapono took off at a run.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Cantwell said, sounding seriously shaken.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Templeton suggested.

“I think I will.”

Templeton touched my shoulder as I pumped on Farr’s flat belly.

“Let me know if I can help.”

I nodded without pausing to look up.

I worked on Raymond Farr, getting no response, until the paramedics arrived. They took over, went quickly to work, but eventually pronounced him dead.

Templeton and Kapono stood dutifully by with Cantwell’s big flashlights, beaming them down on the body. Templeton had the intent look of a reporter, her eyes and ears alert. Kapono seemed more in her own world; her mouth had taken on an odd twist, barely noticeable, that suggested a private smile.

Under the added light, the victim’s skin looked unexpectedly pink, as if he were embarrassed by all the trouble he’d caused. There were no wounds or blood on the body that I could see, no external signs of blunt trauma. I did notice a series of old scars on Farr’s left wrist and hand, pronounced enough to indicate deep cuts at some point in his distant past. The fingers on his right hand were slightly curled and rigid, while those on his left hand were open, looking more relaxed.

Next, I surveyed the patiolike enclosure. Beneath a shade umbrella, a half-empty bottle of imported Grolsch beer sat upright on a table, distinctive with its emerald-green glass and hinged, reclosable cap. Near it was Templeton’s handbag, notebook, pen, and bottle of Evian water. Cantwell’s outfielder’s mitt lay forlornly on a chair, a telling counterpoint to the somber turn the evening had taken. Cantwell himself sat in the adjacent chair, looking pale and upset.

I lifted my nose. The air had grown calm and the smell of beer was strong, along with an odd, fainter scent I couldn’t quite identify. The terrace itself had recently been swept clean, and was free of litter or noticeable debris, with one exception—the remains of a torpedo-shaped cigar near the entry, chewed wet on one end, cold ash at the other. A half-smoked Montecristo Number 2.

By the time I spotted it, a small crowd of the curious or concerned had come down from the house to look on, pushing forward to form a ragged group just inside the passageway.

Roberta Brickman, Leonardo Petrocelli, and Lawrence Teal were among them. Of the three, Teal appeared the most troubled, though I caught Brickman exchanging a look with Christine Kapono that was as steadfast as it was impossible to read.

Teal’s agitated eyes were pointed where mine had been only moments before, at the half-smoked cigar that lay a foot or two from where he stood.

The paramedics asked the onlookers to move back and a shuffling of feet followed. When it settled, I looked again for the cigar, but didn’t see it. Teal was slipping a hand into a pocket of his white shorts. When my eyes went looking for his, they took off faster than a long-legged rabbit in hunting season.

Moments later, uniformed police arrived and, minutes after that, a homicide detective.

His name was Claude DeWinter. He was a huge, jowly black man in a dark suit who stood two or three inches above six feet, with a lieutenant’s badge on his belt and a big man’s bellicose manner that instantly put me at odds with him.

The first thing he did was to pop a stick of sugarless gum into his mouth. The second was to order everyone off the patio who did not personally know the victim or have something pertinent to offer that might explain his death. Everyone else was to leave a name and phone number, and go home.

Brickman, Petrocelli, Teal, and Cantwell stayed, along with several others I would later learn were former Cantwell students who had met Farr once or twice. Templeton and I also remained.

Of all the civilians, I was standing closest to the victim.

“You,” DeWinter hollered at me. “Over there with the others. And watch where you step.”

“That Grolsch bottle,” I said, as I crossed the terrace. “You should probably have the contents lab-tested.”

He threw me a look.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

DeWinter stood his ground like a mountain, making me go around him while he followed me with his dismissive eyes.

He softened a bit when Templeton approached with her press credentials. If she’d been male, or not so strikingly attractive, I’m not sure her press card would have made a difference.

DeWinter actually smiled a little, and lowered his voice a decibel or two. Templeton pointed to me as I took my place with the others.

“That gentleman is with me.”

DeWinter regarded me critically.

“Professionally or socially?”

“We sometimes work together on stories.”

“Stay out of the way,” DeWinter said to me, “and we’ll get along.”

He directed a uniformed cop to begin taking names and information, and scanned our faces.

“Anyone here occupy the house?”

Cantwell stepped forward in his baseball outfit, his cleats clacking on the bricks.

“That would be me.”

“Name?”

“Gordon Cantwell.”

“You know the victim?”

“He was a student of mine.”

“What do you teach?”

“Screenwriting.”

“Victim’s name?”

“Raymond Farr.”

From the back of the pack came an unfamiliar male voice. “His real name is Reza JaFari.”

Everyone turned at once, like movie extras on cue, as if Dylan Winchester had been there directing us.

Standing at the edge of the terrace was a gaunt young man with shaggy hair down to his collar and a sparse beard scattered over the lower portions of his face. The hair and whiskers were dark, like his eyes. His look suggested Hispanic, but his face was curiously pale. I immediately saw Jacques in the face and in the slender, slouching body.

“You knew the victim?” DeWinter demanded.

The young man nodded. He made his way forward, excusing himself, until he was face to face with DeWinter.

“Relationship?”

“Roommates.”

“Give me an address.”

While DeWinter scribbled in a small notebook, the young man gave his street and apartment numbers on Fountain Avenue. DeWinter slipped a fresh stick of gum into his mouth and glanced from the roommate to Cantwell and back again.

“So is he Reza JaFari or is he Raymond Farr?”

“He’s both,” the roommate said. “He was born Reza JaFari—he’s Iranian. Came here when he was, like, fourteen. Later, he figured Raymond Farr would work better in Hollywood. At least that’s what he told me.”

“He seems to have confided a lot in you.”

“Like I said, we’re roommates.”

“What’s your name, pal?”

“Daniel Romero.”

“You came with him?”

“I dropped him off earlier.”

“Dropped him off at what time?”

“Around seven, I guess. Earlier, maybe. He had an appointment to meet somebody.”

“Who?”

“Didn’t say. Just said there was a party and he wanted to get here early, before it started. Asked me to come back around nine, give him a ride home.”

“You’re late.”

“I went to run my dog over in Runyon Canyon. I fell asleep.”

“In the park?”

“In my truck.”

“Anybody with you?”

Romero shrugged. “Maggie.”

“Who’s Maggie?”

“My dog.”

“Don’t get cute, Danny.”

“I guess nobody was with me, then.”

“Anybody see you?”

“Maybe. At the park.”

“After that, when you slept.”

“I doubt it.”

“You don’t seem too shaken up, seeing your buddy lying here dead.”

Romero said nothing, didn’t even flinch. There was a remarkable calmness about him that was almost eerie.

“I asked you a question, Danny boy.”

“No, sir. You made a statement.”

DeWinter didn’t like that, not a bit.

“You stay here.”

The big detective crossed to the body and bent slowly down, wheezing as he strained for air with his huge gut trapped between his knees and his chest. As he reached out to examine the victim, Romero spoke again.

“You might wanna be careful how you handle him.”

“I’m always careful,” DeWinter said gruffly, his jaw working hard at the gum. “I been doin’ this for twenty years.”

“I mean extra careful—he’s HIV-positive.”

“Jesus!”

DeWinter rose with amazing quickness, considering his size. I saw Cantwell wipe furiously with a sleeve at the lips that had been on Reza JaFari’s mouth just moments before my own. Petrocelli and Teal also registered surprise, but Roberta Brickman never even twitched.

DeWinter was looking straight at Daniel Romero.

“How do you know he’s got HIV?”

Romero shrugged again.

“I know, that’s all. He told me.”

“Did he tell you if he liked girls or boys?”

“He was what you’d call bisexual, I guess.”

“And you, Danny boy?”

“I’m gay, if that’s what you’re asking.”

DeWinter regarded Romero with eyes full of disgust, then turned away to peer down at Reza JaFari.

“AIDS,” he said, half under his breath. “At least we know what killed him.”

“Romero didn’t say JaFari had AIDS,” I said. “He said he was HIV-positive. Big difference.”

“Do me a favor,” DeWinter said. “Butt out until you’re asked.”

He pointed a finger toward the rear of the crowd.

“And you, Romero. You stay put. Maybe he died of AIDS, or maybe this was some kind of lovers’ quarrel. Either way, we have some talking to do.”

“He didn’t have AIDS,” Romero said. “And we weren’t lovers.”

Daniel Romero stood several inches shorter than Claude DeWinter, and probably weighed half as much. He was, quite possibly, in a bad situation. Yet he had just discounted the detective’s two pet theories regarding the cause of Reza JaFari’s death, and there wasn’t a hint of acquiescence in his voice. I liked him for that, if nothing else.

DeWinter nailed Romero briefly with one of his patented hard looks.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

He pulled on latex gloves as he turned away to attend to the body, muttering to himself.

“Jesus, I hate these fuckin’ fag deals.”

Lieutenant DeWinter questioned us one by one in Gordon Cantwell’s study.

Templeton was the first to be interviewed, leaving her enough time to phone in details afterward for a short news story in the next day’s
Sun
—a favor DeWinter granted her after she’d dropped hints that she was single and found police work fascinating.

In between, I grabbed a few seconds alone with her, just enough time to tell her that Dylan Winchester, the director, had attended the party but left before the body was found.

“Don’t you think DeWinter should know that?”

“If he asks.”

She raised her wrist, looked at her watch.

“I’d better find a phone and file my story.”

The rest of us waited our turn in the living room, while Cantwell’s housekeeper laid out a table of sandwiches and coffee in the dining room to sober us up and help us stay awake.

I was pouring a cup when Lawrence Teal sidled up next to me. All the lights were up, and his narrow face had lost some of its youthfulness, especially around the eyes.

“Please don’t say anything about the cigar.”

Even at a whisper, Teal sounded seriously worried.

“Not if you turn it over to me, Teal.”

“Why would you want it?”

“I collect crime scene evidence as a hobby.”

“What makes you think there was a crime?”

“If there wasn’t, why did you snatch up Dylan Winchester’s cigar before the police could find it?”

We had orders not to talk, and a uniformed cop was giving us the eye from across the room.

“I’ll explain later.”

“Where’s the cigar?”

“I flushed it.”

“You’re a fool, Teal.”

The cop was on his feet, eyeing us more closely. I grabbed a sandwich, showed Teal my back, and found a chair near the fireplace, waiting my turn to face the inquisition.

I passed the time stealing glances at Daniel Romero while Lawrence Teal did the same to me, his eyes looking increasingly uncomfortable as my meeting with DeWinter drew near.

Finally, I stopped sneaking peeks and simply stared. Romero’s face haunted me that much; it reminded me so of Jacques’s. Once or twice he looked up from his magazine, smiling a little in my direction, but without a hint of coquettishness or calculation. After a while, he stretched out on the floor with his hands behind his head and his eyes closed, his T-shirt raised just enough to reveal a flat belly between bony hips and a wispy trail of dark hair descending from his navel into his low-slung jeans.

I was imagining what the rest of him might look like when I heard DeWinter bellow my name.

I got up and crossed to the room under the stairs. DeWinter faced me from across Cantwell’s antique desk. A small engraved plate facing me on the front panel informed me the desk had been used in newsroom scenes for
His Girl Friday
.

DeWinter was no more cordial than he had been earlier, and during his terse questioning, I recalled his previous command—
Butt out until you’re asked.
I volunteered nothing, including what I knew of Dylan Winchester’s tirade against Raymond Farr/Reza JaFari, and the cigar that had later disappeared into Lawrence Teal’s pocket.

Since I had neither met nor seen JaFari before his body was discovered, my interview with DeWinter was over in less time than it took him to chew the life out of a fresh stick of gum. He kept Daniel Romero behind for more interrogation, but let the rest of us go.

The last I saw of Romero that night was DeWinter escorting him into Cantwell’s study. He stopped at the doorway just long enough to glance back toward the living room, where I stood with Templeton as she gathered up her things. His dark eyes searched my face a moment, revealing little more than curiosity, and then he was gone.

Templeton and I made our exit a few minutes past midnight. The coroner’s van was parked out front and a criminalist was setting up lights on the terrace.

“Make your deadline?”

“With time to spare.”

We strolled down Ridgecrest Drive toward the Mustang, which was parked a short distance up from an old pickup, which I assumed belonged to Danny Romero. All the other party vehicles were gone. Templeton talked on, pumped up from her involvement with a breaking story.

“I fed the desk enough to fill a ten-inch hole. They’re boxing it somewhere on page three. An unexplained death at a Hollywood party always spices up the page.”

“Especially if famous names are involved.”

“Unfortunately, Dylan Winchester is the only household name I had to work with. And he’s not exactly A list anymore.”

“You’re starting to talk like a Hollywood type, Templeton.”

“Am I?”

I nodded.

“How should I talk?”

“Like a reporter type. Tell me what you got out of DeWinter.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Getting interested in the story, Justice?”

“I might be.”

We’d reached the Mustang and faced each other across opposite doors. Since I was sober, she tossed me my keys.

“DeWinter feels JaFari’s death could he natural or accidental, maybe an overdose. And he hasn’t ruled out AIDS. But he seems to think Romero is involved in some way.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Romero’s name kept creeping into his conversation. And the fact that he’s got no alibi.”

“What else?”

“DeWinter told me the house was unlocked after six p.m. Anyone could have come and gone without being noticed.”

“Somebody must have seen something.”

“Between six and seven p.m., Cantwell was in the early innings of his softball game. Kapono was down the hill picking up ice. The housekeeper was in different parts of the house, getting ready for the party.”

“They leave the place wide open?”

“On party night. It’s pretty much BYOB, come when you want. Cantwell leaves Kapono in charge.”

“According to Romero, he dropped JaFari off sometime before seven. JaFari took a beer with him down to the terrace, either with someone or alone, to keep his appointment.”

“And died there.”

“Leaving Romero the last person to see him alive.”

“At least that’s how DeWinter figures it.”

“You and DeWinter have gotten pretty chummy pretty fast.”

“There are certain advantages to being female.”

She said it with a crafty smile.

“At least when the cop’s straight,” I said, recalling a few of my own police sources from the old days who weren’t.

The driver’s door groaned as I pulled it open. I slid in behind the wheel.

“So, you think DeWinter’s zeroing in on Romero?”

“He says it’s not uncommon when the murder victim is gay to find out a lover is involved.”

“Gosh, just like heterosexuals.”

She smiled ruefully, with a shrug of her shoulders.

“And presuming it is murder,” I added.

“Presuming, yes.”

“Only Romero says he and JaFari weren’t romantically involved.”

“DeWinter doesn’t buy it.”

“He can’t imagine two homosexuals living together and not fucking like bunnies?”

“He does seem to have his preconceptions.”

“If Romero’s guilty, why would he come back the same night so openly?”

“By DeWinter’s reasoning? For exactly that purpose—to give himself the appearance of innocence.”

We buckled our seat belts, and I slipped the key into the switch.

“So, are you going to work with me on the magazine piece, Justice?”

I punched the accelerator twice and turned the key. The carburetor choked and gave up. Three attempts later the engine kicked over and I goosed it with a little gas until it idled.

“Here’s your lead, Templeton:
Screenplays were stacked up knee deep around the upstairs toilet, and there was a dead man down on the terrace. Just another Hollywood party
. You can take it from there.”

“It’s cute. But I need more than an opening, Justice. I was in over my head to begin with. Now the story’s complicated by an unexplained death.”

“Not complicated, Templeton—
enhanced
. You’ve got more to work with now. Makes your job easier.”

“I don’t know if I can sort it all out.”

“That’s what outlines are for.”

“There’s still some hard research to be done, and several interviews. I’m running out of time.”

“You’re a pro, Templeton. You’ll handle it.”

She sat in silence for a moment, then took a deep breath before she spoke.

“Harry’s already spoken to my editor at
Angel City
. He’s gotten you cleared to join me on the assignment.”

“Harry did
what
?”

“They’re old friends, back from Harry’s early days at the
Times
. Harry asked if you could assist me, to take some of the load off. Said he needs me back on my regular beat at the
Sun
. Officially, you’ll be my research assistant. You might even get a tag credit.”

“Harry’s meddling in my life again.”

“
What
life?”

I slipped the Mustang angrily out of park, then twisted the wheels through the angles of a Y-turn until they were pointed downhill. I was shifting into drive when I heard Lawrence Teal’s voice from up the road, calling my name.

We turned to see him trotting toward us, his sandals slapping the asphalt.

“Your blond friend,” Templeton said.

“You got the hair color right.”

Teal leaned against the driver’s door, catching his breath.

“I was wondering if you could give me a lift down the hill.”

His eyes were searching mine again, telling me we needed to talk.

“I’ve been waiting for a cab, but I’m not sure it’s coming.”

“Sure, get in.”

He climbed into the backseat, and I introduced him to Templeton. I started down the hill, while Templeton leaned over the seat.

“I understand you knew Reza JaFari.”

“As Raymond Farr.”

“How well?”

“Saw him around now and then. That’s about it.”

I glanced at Teal in the mirror.

“What was his connection to Dylan Winchester?”

Tension passed like a shadow across Teal’s face.

“Why do you ask that?”

“You and Winchester are pretty close, aren’t you?”

“We’re acquainted.”

“I saw the two of you together earlier this evening.”

He looked away, and kept his mouth shut.

“I also know that Winchester was looking for Farr. Angry with him, as a matter of fact.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Templeton said.

I kept my eyes on Teal in the mirror.

“Teal?”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Justice, watch out!”

My eyes darted back to the road as we came off a curve. I stomped on the brake pedal.

Directly ahead, caught between my low beams, was the old lady with the shopping cart full of bottles. I twisted the wheel hard and the nose of the Mustang veered sharply to the right. I heard the sound of worn tires sliding with a soft swish across the pavement, then a clatter of metal against metal as my car door made contact with the wheeled basket.

The Mustang stopped sideways across the road. The old woman hobbled after the cart as it rolled downhill on wobbly wheels.

All three of us were out of the car in seconds. Teal went after the runaway cart while Templeton and I raced to the old woman’s side. When we took her arms, she shook us off.

“Let me go,” she said. “I want my bottles!”

“We’ll get your bottles for you,” Templeton said. “Are you all right?”

“My bottles!”

Teal caught up with the cart and held on to it until we reached him.

“Thank the Lord!” The old woman patted Teal’s cheek, then smiled at Templeton and me. “Not a single one broken.”

“I think we should get out of the road,” Templeton said. “Before another car—”

“The road is the problem,” the old woman said. “They made it wider. Paved it. All the cars. Houses everywhere. So beautiful before that. So unspoiled.”

“Let me take you home,” I said.

“My home is the canyon! Until the flames come!”

Templeton and I exchanged a glance. We guided the old woman to the side of the road.

“You live in the canyon?”

“Seventy years I’ve had my house—since 1927. The house my husband built.”

Templeton lay a hand gently on the woman’s shoulder.

“Why don’t you show us where it is?”

“Why should I do that?”

“We love old houses. Don’t we, Justice?”