Anne sat across from Travis Taylor. The private detective was a good looking man, reminding Anne of a young Clint Eastwood. He had steel-gray hair and a trace of Texas in his gravelly speech. He dressed in a dark blue suit, probably a throwback to his FBI days, and smelled of Old Spice.
They sat in a quiet corner of the Beverly Hilton lobby bar. Anne had checked into the hotel, treating herself to a suite, but the room wasn’t ready yet. She still had to move out of the Santa Monica apartment and her office at Rogers, Middleton and Roberts, but two things took priority; getting ready for the California Lottery in the morning, and finding out about Syd Curtis.
“She’s a good cop,” Travis said. “She was only on the street for five years before getting bumped to detective. She had a solid rep as a uniform. She earned three commendations before actually winning a Medal of Valor last year.”
The Medal of Valor was the highest honor an LAPD officer could earn, not given out lightly and always involving bravery and heroism above and beyond the call of duty. “What did she do?” Anne asked.
Travis read from his notes, paraphrasing the police report. “A man started beating his pregnant wife in a grocery store in Sherman Oaks. One of the customers tried to stop him; the husband pulled a gun and shot the customer, killing him. Chaos erupted inside the store, panicked people running out the doors, employees fleeing out the back and one of them called 911.
“Officer Syd Curtis and her partner, Bruce Carroll, were the first to arrive at the scene. Witnesses told them that the man with the gun and his pregnant wife were still inside the store and he’d also taken a teenage girl hostage. The hysterical mother begged the officers to save her daughter.
“Officers Curtis and Carroll entered the store with weapons drawn and spread out trying to find the suspect. As Officer Curtis turned down an aisle, she found the husband holding his wife and the teenage girl at gunpoint. He immediately put the gun to the back of the teenage girl’s head and said if the police didn’t leave immediately, he was going to shoot the girl. The man was clearly unstable and Officer Curtis feared for the lives of the hostages.
“Then she spotted her partner moving up behind the suspect. But her partner was unable to risk apprehending the suspect because of the imminent threat of the suspect’s gun to the teenager’s head.
“So Officer Curtis lowered her gun to the floor and placed her hands above her head. Then she began to slowly approach the suspect. The official language reads, ‘With disregard for her own safety and a high degree of courage and bravery,’ she asked the suspect to please release the hostages and take her instead. Closer and closer she stepped, gently urging him to let the hostages go.
“Finally the suspect took the gun away from the teenage girl’s head and pointed it at Officer Curtis. That gave her partner the opening he’d been waiting for. He fired, killing the suspect.”
“Wow,” Anne said, impressed. The diminutive, freckled-faced little red head was full of surprises.
“She got her detective shield and was transferred to Vice. She distinguished herself both as an undercover officer soliciting johns on the street and in a deep cover operation to break up a Russian white slavery ring. The brass was impressed and she got her pick of assignments. She chose Homicide.”
What Travis didn’t tell Anne was that he also checked on Syd Curtis’s new partner in Homicide, Ryan Magee, and discovered that Ryan and Anne used to be married. And Travis heard that Magee had just hit the Lotto. Judging by her LAPD photo, Syd Curtis was a looker; so, like any trained detective, Travis put two and two together and figured Magee was fucking his partner and now that he was rich, Anne wanted Magee back. And since Anne was paying Travis six hundred dollars a day, he was perfectly willing to help her for as long as possible.
“Now that’s all official file stuff,” Travis said, sipping his club soda. “But I did find out some intriguing inconsistencies. On her police application she lists her name as Syd Curtis from Riverside, California. She claims to have attended Arlington High School before getting an AA at Santa Monica College. Santa Monica College does list her as a graduate but there is no record of her ever attending Arlington High School. In fact, there is no record for her in the State of California before she got a driver’s license ten years ago when she was eighteen.”
“Kind of old to get your first driver’s license,” Anne said.
“That’s what I thought,” Travis said. “And there’s more. A friend of mine works at the Police Academy and I had him pull her application. A letter of recommendation accompanied the application, written by an LAPD officer, Andrea Templeton. Syd Curtis’s address while she attended the Police Academy was the same as Andrea Templeton’s.”
“They were living together?”
“Apparently. Officer Templeton was killed in the line of duty a few days before Syd Curtis graduated from the Academy. I checked her obituary; one line stuck out to me.” He referred to his notes again. “In lieu of flowers please send a donation to the Gay and Lesbian Alliance against Defamation.”
Anne tried to make sense of this. “GLAAD? What’re you saying, Andrea Templeton was gay?”
“I don’t know. But that kind of obit is generally a pretty good indicator.”
“Do you think she and Syd Curtis were lovers?”
Travis shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve only been on the case for a few hours. But I could try and find out. I’m also curious about Syd Curtis’s life before she suddenly appeared at Santa Monica College. We know she lied about going to Arlington High School, I’d like to know what else she’s lied about.”
“Me, too,” Anne said. “How much time do you need?”
“One day, maybe two.”
“Excellent. And, Travis, don’t bill Rogers, Middleton and Roberts for this; I’ll be taking care of it personally.”
“Of course,” he said, her request confirming his suspicions. “I’ll call you when I’ve got something.” Travis collected his files and left.
Secrets and lies. Everybody’s got them, thought Anne. It was one of her favorite things about being a lawyer, finding those lies, exposing the secrets, exploiting a weakness. And sometimes what you found even surprised someone as cynical as Anne.
Surprise me Syd, thought Anne.
Surprise the hell out of me.
THIRTY-FIVE
Alice was staring at herself on television. Surveillance footage taken at the Bel Air Regent Hotel showed her walking to the elevator with Adam.
Adam looked so, what was the word, expectant, yes, expectant. Look at that smile on his face, she thought. Joyful but still a little bit naughty. You could almost feel his enthusiasm as they walked. Here was a man who ruled his world. Here was a man about to get laid.
The blonde didn’t look so bad either, if she did say so herself. The short skirt showed off her long legs, the low cut blouse showcased her tits, and the sexy way she walked promised carnal delights.
She owed it all to Charlotte, her look, that is. Charlotte came to the Institute three years ago; she was bi-polar and a sex addict. They had all sorts of fancy theories for sexual addiction these days — compulsion, disease, impulse control disorder, sexual desire disorder — but Charlotte happily called herself a nymphomaniac. In fact, during her three-month stay, Charlotte seduced three of the doctors (two men and a woman), four nurses (all women), three orderlies (men), six patients (four women and two men) and a husband she found in the atrium who was waiting to visit his wife.
And here was the thing; Charlotte wasn’t that pretty. Average at best. And for a long time she had trouble seducing the people she wanted to have sex with. So she taught herself how to use clothes, make-up and attitude to become irresistible.