“A couple meaning two.”
“Maybe more. Three or four. But that's it.”
“And this was at work?”
“No, no.” He was light enough to blush. Good. Down went the eyes. He said, “Not at work, strictly speaking. I mean, we weren't actually working- I'm her supervisor. Anything that happens on my shift is my responsibility.”
“I understand, Mr. Breshear. You'd never have allowed cocaine to interfere with her work. But you saw her snorting three or four times on the lot after work. Where exactly?”
“In the editing room, but it was after hours. May I ask why you want to know this? Do you think what happened was related to dope? Because it's not some kind of crazy scene around here. We're all business, have to be. Without us, the picture doesn't get made.”
Long speech. The heightened color remained, lessening the contrast between freckles and background skin.
“Where else, besides the editing room, did you see her snort?”
“At- in my car. That took me by surprise. I was driving and she just pulled out this little glass tube, waited till I stopped for a red light, and sucked it up through her nose.”
“In your car,” Petra wrote, watching as Breshear's eyes did a little ocular roller coaster. “Where were you going?”
“I don't remember.” Breshear snatched up his cup and emptied it. The waitress came by and poured some more and he started drinking.
Petra declined the refill, and when she and Breshear were alone again, she sketched some more, inserting shadows and contours, making him look older. “So you don't recall where you were going. How long ago was this?”
Down went the cup. “I'd say one, maybe two months ago.”
“Were you two dating, Mr. Breshear?”
“No, no- we were working together. Late. That's the way it is in editing. They call you, you cut.”
You cut. The word choice sailed right by him.
“So you and Lisa were working late and…”
He didn't fill in the blank, and Petra said, “How'd you end up in your car?”
“I was probably taking her home, or maybe out for a bite- may I ask why you're questioning me?”
“We're questioning all the men Lisa knew, Mr. Breshear. Someone told us you'd dated Lisa and we're following up.”
“That's wrong. We never dated.”
“So I guess our source is mistaken.” She smiled, guessing that the existence of a “source” would rattle him.
He colored again and his eyes bounced around. This guy was no smooth psychopath, but he was hiding something.
“Guess so,” he said.
“Can you tell me where you were on the night Lisa was murdered?”
He stared at her. Touched his forehead, wiping it, though it was dry. Now his eyes were big and frightened- exactly the expression Petra had drawn on her pad. Look, Dad, I'm a prophetess, too!
“I was with another woman.” Saying it just above a whisper.
“Could I have a name, please?”
Breshear smiled. A sick, guilty, dirt-eating, totally unattractive smile. “That's kind of a problem.”
“Why's that, sir?”
“Because I'm married and the woman wasn't my wife.”
“If she can be discreet, so can I, Mr. Breshear.” Petra waved her pen.
“I'd rather not,” he said. “Look- I'm going to be straight up with you, Detective Connor. Because I don't want you finding out somewhere else and thinking I was hiding anything. Lisa and I had a short-term thing, but it was no big deal.”
“A thing.”
“We slept together. Seven times.”
He'd counted. A scorekeeper?
“Seven times,” she said.
“A one-week thing.”
She wanted to say: Now, tell me, Darrell, was it once a day for seven days, or did you double up a few days and take a break? “A one-week thing.”
“That's it.” The amber eyes bounced. “Actually, we really didn't even sleep together. Strictly speaking- God, this is embarrassing.”
“What is?”
“Talking about the details- I guess if you were a man it would be easier.”
She grinned. “Sorry about that.”
He was staring into his coffee cup again and looked ready to slide under the table.
“So,” said Petra, “how long into Lisa's employment did this thing occur?”
“A month ago, six weeks.”
That matched Patsy K.'s recollection.
“So you were intimate,” said Petra, softening her voice, trying to keep him on the edge but still willing to talk. “But you never slept together.”
“Right,” said Breshear. “I never stayed over at her place, and obviously, I couldn't take her to mine.”
“Where'd you go?”
The blush was deeper than ever. A nice rusty mahogany. It gave him some depth, actually made him more appealing.
“Jesus- is this really necessary?”
“If it relates to your relationship with Lisa and to your whereabouts the night she was murdered, I'm afraid it is, sir.”
“And you have to write this all down?”
“If what you tell me shows you had nothing to do with Lisa's death, there'd be no reason for anyone to find out.” A crock, everything went into the file, but she closed the pad anyway.
He rubbed his temples and studied his coffee some more. “Man… okay, the night Lisa was murdered, I was with a woman named Kelly Sposito. Her place.”
“Address, please?” said Petra, opening the pad.
He recited a number on Fourth Street, in Venice.
“Apartment number?”
That question seemed to bother him even more, as if specificity drove home her seriousness.
“No, it's a house-”
“And you were at Ms. Sposito's house from when to when?”
“All night. Ten P.M. to six A.M. Before that, from around five to six, we had dinner at a restaurant- a Mexican place near the studio. The Hacienda, right down the block, on Washington Boulevard.”
“Ms. Sposito works with you?”
Nod. “She's an editor too.”
Ah, the rub. Lots of rubbing on the job.
“So you never went home and your wife didn't suspect anything?”
“My wife was out of town- she's a salesperson, travels a lot.”
Mr. Take-Charge-Politely Darrell was emerging as the editing room stud. Meaning there were probably plenty of other “things” he didn't want unearthed.
“Do you have to call Kelly?” he said.
“Yes, sir. Do you know where she is?”
“At work. Is that it?”
“Almost,” said Petra. “Can you tell me who Lisa's coke source was?”
“No,” he said. “Absolutely not.”
“No one at the studio?”
“I have no idea. No one at Empty Nest, that's for sure.”
“Because?”
“Because I know everyone and they don't deal drugs.”
“Okay,” said Petra. “But I imagine it probably wouldn't be any big deal finding someone at the studio to supply, would it?”
“Oh, come on,” he said, angry now. “You think 'cause it's the industry we're just running around partying all day. It's a business, Detective. We work hard as hell. I've never seen anyone on the lot try to sell anyone else dope, and Lisa never talked about her source. In fact, the first time she snorted she offered me some and I told her, ‘I don't want you doing that in my car.' ”
“But she continued to snort anyway,” said Petra. “In your car.”
“Well, yes. She was an adult. I couldn't control her. But I didn't want any part of it- for me.” He held the cup with both hands. “You want a confession? I'll give you one. I've had my share of problems with alcohol. Been sober for ten years and intend to stay that way.”
The amber eyes were flashing. Righteous indignation that looked real. Or he should have been on film rather than splicing it. Or on stage- singing his heart out.
“All right,” said Petra. “Thanks for your time.”
“Sure,” said Breshear. “Call Kelly, fine. Just not my wife, okay? Because she was out of town, couldn't help you. Lisa and I were friends, that's all. Why would I hurt her?”