Dial Emmy for Murder (19 page)

I smiled at Mom, and she smiled back.

“I have also always known when to get lost,” she said. And discreetly left the room.

“Mom, you don’t have to—” I started, but she was already gone.

“I hope she didn’t leave because of me,” Jakes said.

Was he kidding? I just looked at him and shook my head. Men can be so dense. “I have some news for you,” I said. “Let me get myself a cup.”

“You look like you’re busting to tell me.”

“I am.”

I carried my coffee cup to the table and sat opposite him. I told him about my day, and the things I’d discovered, ending with the twenty-five-year-old actor who still had a pushy and crazy stage mother.

“So?”

“I heard the same thing from two people today,” I said, “so I called the other two shows. And guess what?”

“What?”

“The same actor had auditioned for them, too . . . and his mother was with him.”

“And?”

“What do you mean, ‘and’?”

“Are you trying to say that this über-stage mother killed all four actors because her son didn’t get a part he went out for?”

“It’s too much of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“But, Alex, wouldn’t she kill the actors who got hired ahead of her son? What’s the point of targeting the men who have been killed? None of them were even working on a soap.”

“Except Jackson.”

“Right, except Jackson, but my point still stands. It was good thinking, Alex,” he said, “but you know more about this stuff than I do. Wouldn’t a pushy stage mother always be there?”

“For a child, yes,” I said, “but this guy was twenty-five years old.”

“And still attached to Momma’s apron strings.”

I sat back in my chair, feeling defeated.

“Don’t feel bad, Alex,” Jakes said. “I’ve had a million theories slapped down over the years.”

He took a business card from his pocket and put it down on the table between us. “I know you have a mechanic, but he probably specializes in sports cars. This guy restores wrecks. Tell him I sent you.”

“I will. Thanks.”

He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get going,” he said, standing up. “Tell your mother thanks for the coffee.”

“I will.”

He grabbed my shoulders as he passed and pulled me to him, kissing me hard. I pulled away, looking around the room.

“Um, my mom . . .”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” He kissed me again anyway before heading for the door. “Just out of curiosity, what’s that actor’s name? The one with the pushy mother?”

“His name’s Nathan Russell.”

“Russell,” he said. “Thanks.”

I sat where I was until the front door closed. I sipped my coffee and then jumped out of my seat and ran. I reached his car just as he was about to pull away and yanked open the passenger door.

“Alex, wha—”

“You almost got me, you faker,” I said. “You like my theory. That’s why you asked for the actor’s name.”

“Alex—”

“You’re going to go and see this guy and his mother, aren’t you?”

He hesitated and then said, “Just to ask a few questions, that’s all.”

“Well, you’re not leaving me behind.”

I got into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind me.

“I’m not going right now, Alex,” he said. “Besides, you can’t just leave without telling your mom to pick Sarah up at camp.”

“Damn,” I said. He was right.

“Look,” he said, “are you working tomorrow?”

“No,” I said, giving him my most dejected look.

“I’ll pick you up in the morning, and we’ll go and talk to Nate and his mother.”

“You’re a shit, you know?” I said. “You were really going to do that without me? When I’m the one who found the lead?”

“The lead?” he said, smiling. “Yeah, you’re right. It was your lead.”

“Okay.” I opened the door and put one foot out.

“But use some of that makeup you’ve got, change your face a little.”

“Right.”

“Maybe you could try disguising yourself as a stripper this time? Huh? Fishnets, patent leather boots?”

“Very funny!” I punched him on the shoulder and slammed his door. He was laughing as he drove off.

Chapter 44

Jakes picked me up nice and early and handed me a container of coffee as I got in the car.

“There ya go, partner,” he said.

I opened the lid, took a look, closed it and sipped it.

“Just the way I like it.”

We put our coffee in the holders between us. Our hands brushed only slightly but it was enough. We grabbed each other and went into a kiss. Breathless, I pulled away.

“Damn! We’ve got to control ourselves or we’ll get nothing done!” I shook my head, trying to reach some degree of composure. “Where are we going?”

“Calabasas.”

“Oh, the family must have money. Calabasas is nice.”

“Not the nice Calabasas. The old Calabasas. Before all the developers took over. And the Kardashian girls.”

“Did you call ahead?” I asked.

“No,” he said, pulling away from the curb, “I didn’t want to warn them.”

“So what do we do if they’re not home?”

“That’s easy,” he said. “We hear a noise inside, making it necessary for us to investigate.”

“Break in?”

He grinned and said, “Only as a last resort.”

 

We pulled up in front of an old ranch style house from the sixties. The “lawn” was a tired brown in dire need of watering. Or better yet, plowing. The sun was beating down on the concrete driveway, creating a glare that was blinding. Squinting, I managed to see a gray-haired, portly man about to get into a car. It was a Beamer, quite a few years old.

Jakes quickly got out of the car and I followed, first using the visor mirror to check that my wire-framed glasses, phony nose and front teeth were in place.

The man saw us coming and stopped at the car with his hand on the door.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

Jakes showed his ID. “Detective Jakes,” he said. “This is my associate, Ms. Morgan. What’s your name, sir?”

“Russell, Tim Russell. What’s this about, Detective?”

“Actually,” Jakes said, “I was looking for your wife, Adrienne.”

“What did that crazy bitch do now?” the man demanded.

Jakes and I exchanged a glance.

“Look, we’re divorced, have been for years,” Russell said.

“What about Nate?” Jakes asked. “Is he around?”

“He doesn’t live here, either,” Russell said. “He moved out when she did.”

“She got custody?”

“What custody?” the man asked. “He was twenty at the time.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I never did, either,” Russell said. “Those two were always close, you know? It was like they had a private club that I wasn’t allowed to join.”

A question sprang to mind, but I didn’t ask it. I was supposed to let Jakes do the talking.

“Did she leave?” Jakes asked. “Or did you kick her out?”

“A little bit of both.”

“And did you kick him out, too?”

“I told you,” he said, “Nate was her little angel. He went where she went. As far as he’s concerned she’s a world-class stage mom.”

“Mr. Russell, I’m going to ask you a question, and I don’t want you to take a swing at me,” Jakes said. “If you do I’ll have to arrest you.”

“Were they having sex?” Russell said. “Detective, I think they did everything together—but not that.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“When you see my wife, you’ll understand,” he said. “She never was a very sexual person. And as for Nate—well, he’s gay.”

 

Russell was helpful after that. He gave us Adrienne Russell’s home address and told us where Nate worked. He said if his wife got a job after she moved out, he didn’t know about it.

We got in our car and moved on.

“I thought about the incest question,” I said as Jakes drove, “and then you asked it.”

“Great minds . . . ,” Jakes said.

“Did you believe everything he said?” I asked.

“Yeah. Did you?”

“Yes, I did,” I said. “I also admired his restraint.”

“Meaning?”

“Most men would have bad-mouthed the wife a little more,” I said. “Maybe even the kid. He seems . . . resigned to it.”

“He’s moved on,” Jakes said. “We better do the same.”

 

Jakes wanted to talk to the kid first and then the mother. We drove to where he worked. The Cave was a sleazy dive where Nate tended bar. And they weren’t kidding about the name. It was so dark I bumped into a barstool soon after walking in. When my eyes adjusted to the “light,” I saw it was the kind of place that makes you want to wash your hands as soon as you enter, and every other minute thereafter.

“Yeah, the kid works here, but he ain’t been around for a few days.”

“Did he have those days off?”

Nate Russell’s boss mopped his bald head with a rag he pulled from his back pocket. I had a sick and disgusting feeling he used that same rag to dry his bar glasses.

“Naw, no days off,” he said. “He was supposed to be workin’, but guess what?”

“What?” Jakes asked.

“He can have all the days off he wants from now on,” the man said. “He’s freakin’ history. And good riddance! Like I need a mama’s boy pouring beers and shots.”

“What do you mean, mama’s boy?”

“His loony mother. Coming in here on his late nights yelling at me that her boy needed his sleep cuz he had to ‘audition’ in the morning. Pansy-ass kid. Good riddance!”

Jakes and I looked at each other.

“You got an address for him?” Jakes asked.

“Sure, hold on.”

As the man went off to get the address, I said, “I thought he lived with his mother?”

“This way,” Jakes said, “we double-check.”

Chapter 45

We headed for Adrienne Russell’s home, hoping we’d find her son, Nate, there, too.

“If he’s not home and not at work, will that make him a suspect?” I asked.

“He’s a suspect already, in my book,” Jakes said.

“And the mother?”

“I’ve seen some weird relationships in my time,” he said. “Women who have maintained control over their children no matter what age they are. And boys, in particular.”

At that moment I was very glad I was the mother of a girl.

“So you think she’s been directing him to murder these young men?” I asked.

“No, I don’t believe it,” he said. “But it’s a theory.”

“That’s a horrible thought,” I said. “I mean, they’d both have to be so . . . amoral.”

“Believe me, it’s very possible.”

“So that would make it Nate who tried to force me off the road?”

He risked a quick look at me and then turned back to the traffic he was negotiating us through. “Would you rather it be him and not Randy?” he asked.

“Well, of course,” I said. “For my daughter’s sake I hope her father didn’t try to kill me. Have you located him yet?”

“He’s in the country,” he said, “but I don’t know yet if he’s actually in LA.”

“If he is, can you arrest him?”

“For forcing you off the road? Not unless we can prove it.”

“What about for stealing my money? I mean, he cleaned me out, Jakes.”

He thought a moment and then asked, “Was it a joint bank account?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, we were married—”

“So either one of you could write checks, make deposits, make withdrawals?”

I felt my shoulders slump. This was the same song and dance I’d gone through with the police when it happened.

“I know, I know,” I said. “It was his money as much as mine.”

“You should’ve kept your own account, Alex—”

“I know!” I snapped. “Like he did, the bastard.”

“He had his own bank account?”

“He sure did. He was squirreling money away every week and I knew nothing about it.”

“What did he do for a living?”

“He was an investment banker.”

“Successful?”

“Not as much as he would have liked. He had a few big clients, and he cleaned them all out, too, when he disappeared.”

“And he still stole from you?” He shook his head. “What a piece of work.”

“Yep, that’s Randy,” I said. “A piece of work.”

“Unfortunately,” Jakes said, “embezzling from his wife is not something we can arrest him for.”

I felt the old anger coming back. When Randy had left three years ago, I could’ve killed him when I realized what he had done not only to me, but to his daughter. Of course, I realized I couldn’t hurt my daughter’s father. I knew I’d have to turn that anger into something positive, so I chose to concentrate on both my work and my daughter.

“I hope the driver wasn’t Randy,” I said, “but I also hope Randy gets what’s coming to him.”

 

There are houses in North Hollywood that have been around since the early twentieth century. Back then there was a housing boom to accommodate all the craftsmen and -women who were hired to work on the movies as set builders, crew members, hair and makeup people, set designers, et cetera, once the movie business got rolling in the twenties. Adrienne Russell lived in one of those old Spanish houses, the arched doorway covered with bright red bougainvil lea and a neat brick walkway leading up to the front porch.

Jakes pulled up and cut the engine. “Same deal,” he said. “I do the talking.”

“I remember.”

We got out and walked to the front door. Jakes rang the bell and we waited for someone to answer. I was wearing glasses and a little cotton in my nose to broaden it. The cotton would also serve to make my voice sound nasal. I didn’t wear the phony teeth this time, in case somebody offered us cake. I also had a dark wig.

“How much of your life has been spent doing this?” I asked.

“Standing on someone’s porch, waiting for them to answer the door? A lot. And then we never know what’s going to be on the other side. Lots of times someone opens the door, takes one look at our faces or our IDs and starts running. And most of the time, they haven’t even done anything.”