Her voice grew sharp. “Don’t take that tone with me. I care about everything you do.”
The hell. “When it affects you.”
There was a long beat of silence. “You always think the worst of me, Samantha.”
“I think the reality of you, Celeste.”
Her voice was rising. “Well, you’re wrong! I’m telling you this for your own good. Don’t take this case. Get away from that man-that cop! Do you hear me? Let it go!”
I was one block away from my building. “I’m about to pull into the garage; I’m going to lose the signal.”
“Listen to me, Samantha! Have I ever said this to you before?”
She’d said plenty of other obnoxious and undermining things, but she was right. This was a new one. “I’ll think about it. ’Bye.”
I ended the call, and Michelle pulled up to the curb in front of my building.
“I take it your mother is less than thrilled with you taking the case.”
“Your powers of deduction are, as always, astounding.”
“Why don’t you tell her you need the money?”
“Because she’d tell Jack to give it to me, and I’d rather cut off my right hand than take money from her.”
Michelle sighed. “What time do you think you’ll get back to the office tomorrow?”
“Can’t tell. I’ll call with updates.”
When I got upstairs and changed into my sweats, I kept my promise to Celeste. I did think about it. Not about getting off the case. About why she wanted me to.
I’d had thirty-three years of up-close-and-personal experience with Celeste Brinkman (changed from the original “Charlene” because she thought Charlene was a “hillbilly” name). Enough to know that this had nothing to do with her concern for my safety. When she got this whipped up about something, it always had to do with her. Her image, her status, her convenience.
Conclusion? Someone at the country club or her Pilates class must’ve dropped a comment that made her believe my taking the case would make her look bad.
As earth-shattering as that event might be for her, I was willing to let her deal with it. Because that’s the kind of evil, selfish bitch I am.
SIXTEEN
I had the friggin’ nightmare again and woke myself up with the sound of my croaking scream. It took four cups of coffee to loosen the grip of the ugly images and stop the shakes, so I was running a little late. Of course, that meant Alex showed up fifteen minutes early. “Sorry, Sam. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t keep you waiting.”
“No problem.” That’s LA. You’re either an hour early or two hours late. Two large coffees were in a cardboard tray on the passenger seat. I was probably pushing it with a fifth cup, but I’d rather have a caffeine buzz than a nightmare fog. “Plain, right?” I’m not a fan of all that latte, frappe business. Just give me the caffeine and no one gets hurt. Alex nodded. “Thanks.”
Alex was wearing slacks and a blazer. He took in my outfit as I pulled on my seat belt. “Jeans and a black leather jacket? Don’t you want them to believe you’re a lawyer?”
“Sure, but I also want them to talk to me.” I eyed his outfit. “A suit doesn’t say, ‘Relax and spill.’”
He looked skeptical but didn’t argue. “First, Laurel Canyon, then Santa Monica to see Kaitlyn, right?”
I nodded. Laurel Canyon used to be one of the hippest places on the planet, creatively speaking. Joni Mitchell, Jim Morrison, Mama Cass, Glenn Frey-everybody lived there back in the day. The Canyon Country store on Laurel Canyon Boulevard still has a psychedelic sign. But now it’s more of a mixed bag. The canyon has peaks and valleys. Literally and figuratively. The higher up you go, the better the view and the ritzier the properties-like multi-million-dollar-type properties. Steven Tyler lives in one of those. I heard Justin Timberlake does, too. So it still has cool people-albeit, bazillionaire-type cool people.
But the lower parts don’t have a view, and they can be pretty raggedy. Some of the houses look like they’re not much more than caves with plumbing. And I’m guessing about the plumbing.
Chloe and Paige lived all the way at the bottom of the canyon on the Hollywood side. The last stretch where Hollywood Boulevard dovetails into Laurel Canyon Boulevard. It had the hip-sounding address but none of the coolness factor. Their building was one of many two-story clapboard-style affairs that were thrown up back in the sixties without much attention to charm or detail-or, according to our police reports, soundproofing.
Alex turned left onto Laurel Canyon Boulevard. “Where do you want to start?”
“Let’s hit the building next door.” I read from the police report. “Nikki Ingalls in 1C claimed she saw Dale driving up and down the street almost every night-with a ‘creepy look on his face.’”
“How’d she see the ‘creepy look’ if he was driving by at night?”
“Well, Supergirl has X-ray vision. But on the off chance she’s not an immortal, that’s what we’ll have to find out.”
High-profile cases attract and repel all types. Our Nikki might be a wannabe actress/model/game-show host looking for free face time, or just your ordinary loser horny for attention-or she might be a nutjob who thought most people looked “creepy.” The possibility of an honest, sane witness was too statistically insignificant to even make the list.
Apartment 1C was on the ground floor of a faded, pink two-story building on Hollywood Boulevard that had a couple of sun-bleached plastic flamingos on the small stretch of lawn. All of the units had windows that faced the street. Nikki did have a decent-enough view. But I noticed that even though there were streetlights on both sides of the street, none of them were close to 1C. And they weren’t all necessarily working. We walked up two concrete steps to a tiny front patio area and found a gray door that had a silver 1C hanging just above the peephole. I knocked and stood back to give Nikki a chance to check us out. Also to give her a chance to check out the gorgeousness of Alex. According to the police report, she was in her thirties and lived alone.
I heard footsteps thud on the wooden floor inside. There was a pause, and then the door opened. She was wearing tight navy-blue sweatpants and a sweatshirt that had the arms and most of the midriff cut off. She pushed back a hank of chin-length, overprocessed platinum hair and leaned against the door with a lazy smile. “What can I do for you?”
Her eyes were so occupied with Alex that she didn’t even realize I was there. So I took a perverse pleasure in bursting her bubble by speaking up. “Just give us a few moments of your time.”
The lazy smile went away. She gave me an irritated squint. “What for?”
“We’re looking into the case involving Chloe and Paige, and we hoped you could answer a few questions.” I try to hold off on saying that I’m working for the defendant for as long as possible. It’s something you pick up after having fifty-seven doors slammed in your face.
Nikki’s eyes strayed back to Alex. The lazy smile switched back on. She still had hope.
Knowing how to work witnesses is an important part of an investigation. I hung back to see how Alex would handle it. He played her like a clarinet. He started with a sincere, from-the-heart look. “Ms. Ingalls, I’d really appreciate it if you could spare us some time. I promise just five minutes and we’ll get out of your hair.”
She melted like a dropped ice-cream cone on a hot sidewalk. “Okay.” She turned and gestured for us to follow her inside. “But we need to make this fast. I’ve got an audition in an hour, and I have to get ready.”
Alex and I exchanged a look behind her back as we headed for the ratty, blue-chenille couch in the living room. Sometimes I wish people weren’t such clichés. Other times, I’m glad they’re so predictable. Nikki sat down on the ottoman chair across from us and ostentatiously crossed her legs-toes pageant-pointed and everything. I noticed her toenails were painted bubblegum pink and had sparkly designs on the big toes. I wondered if she’d ever get around to asking us who we were.