“Anything unusual happen there?” I asked.
“No.”
“Who was there?”
“Guillermo, he’s the photographer, and a couple of assistants to set the lights. I don’t know their names.”
“All of them human?” He nodded. “Okay, go on.”
“That lasted until around one thirty. I was hungry so I took myself to lunch at Terra Sushi.”
“By yourself?” Chris asked.
“Yeah, sometimes it’s nice to just be alone.”
“I can’t believe you got to sit and eat and nobody approached you,” Chris said. “Terra Sushi’s in Studio City along Sushi Row. Very trendy.”
“I signed an autograph for my waitress, but there weren’t a lot of ordinary people there … fans, I mean.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Most of the tables were industry people. A bunch of agents.”
“You didn’t tell me that. You just told me where you had lunch. Was it an office party?” Chris asked.
“No, they were from a lot of different agencies. It was sort of like a little mini-conference. There was another Álfar there, a really old guy who is on the Council.”
“Did you speak to him?” I asked.
“Yeah, briefly. He just introduced himself and said he liked my work. After that I left.”
“After lunch?” Chris prompted.
“Oh, I went over to that little driving range just down Ventura from the restaurant and hit a bucket of balls. One of the employees must have called the press because there were a few cameras when I came out, and my fan club got the Tweet so there were maybe fourteen, fifteen fans looking for autographs. Oh, and a couple of crazy people.”
“Crazy people?” Chris and I said in concert.
“Well, maybe that’s a little harsh, but the guy really was nutso. He waved a Bible in my face and said I was an abomination, or something. The woman, this skinny old broad with a tan so dark she looked like jerky was shouting at me about how I was just an empty suit and a no-talent. There were some others, just yelling. I couldn’t really make out what they were saying. My fans chased them off. I have great fans.” A smile flickered briefly.
“And then?”
“Haircut in Beverly Hills. I got out of there around six.”
“Nothing unusual happened at the barbershop?” Both Chris and Kerrinan were giving me strangest looks. “What?” I asked.
Chris shook her head. “Yeah, you are not from around here. Actors like Kerrinan don’t go to barbershops. They go to a salon and have a designer. The only way they’d go to a barbershop is if it was some kind of new place that was so retro it was hip and therefore trendy, and George Clooney decided to go there first.”
“Okay, even New York isn’t that bad.”
“Welcome to Tinsel Town,” Kerrinan said, then sighed and continued. “And what do you mean … unusual?”
“Nobody took some of your hair or something.” I was groping and it showed.
He shook his head. “No.”
“Okay, go on.”
“Michelle and I didn’t have plans that night. We were going to eat at home. Watch a little TV.” He fell silent and started to shake. So hard that I could feel it through a bunk bolted to a cinderblock wall.
My muscles were tight with tension, and a headache was starting to climb up over my head to lodge just over my brows. I realized it was because of that constant, horrible screeeee as the metal walls slid in their tracks. Kerrinan had to listen to it 24/7, and if he was convicted of murdering his wife he would be listening to it for the rest of his very long Álfar life.
I realized we had all been silent for a long time. It was Chris who prodded this time. “Go on, Kerrinan, finish it.”
He gulped down a sob, a harsh, guttural sound, and said, “We were watching a DVD of Moulin Rouge. Michelle got up and went into the kitchen to make us some popcorn. I love popcorn when I watch a movie. Then blackness. I don’t remember anything else until I could see again and I was in the kitchen, and my hand was all sticky, and I was holding … holding…”
“Michelle?” Chris asked.
There was a confused moment where he first shook his head, then nodded and said, “I was holding her in my left arm, but there was a … knife in my right hand.”
“You didn’t tell me that before!” Chris said. “You just said you were holding her.”
“I … I was scared to. Afraid you wouldn’t defend me.” Tears rolled down his face. He drew an arm across his eyes and pulled in a shuddering breath.
Chris was staring at him in frustration, but she was clearly worried. I stepped in. “If he had a traumatic blackout from the shock of finding her body he could have knelt down, gathered up Michelle, and then picked up the knife.”
“Yeah, and the DA is going to say he came out of a blinding, killing rage and that’s why he was holding a knife. Also, why didn’t he hear her screaming if he blacked out when he found the body? She didn’t die from the first stab wound, and she had defensive cuts all over her hands.” Kerrinan moaned and leaned forward, holding his gut. “I know you haven’t done a lot of courtroom work, I can tell you that juries believe the theory that’s the easiest to understand. In this case that’s the one that has Kerrinan butchering Michelle.”
That did it. Kerrinan hurled, vomit spewing across the bare concrete floor.
12
I found Qwendar just where he’d said he would be, in the interior courtyard of the Getty Museum. The elderly Álfar had suggested the venue. I had done a quick Google search and discovered that the Getty was a completely and perfectly reconstructed Roman villa built by J. Paul Getty to house his collection of antiquities. Another oddity in the enigma that was California.
The building, gleaming white in the sunshine, sat on a hill overlooking the Pacific Coast Highway and the majesty of the Pacific beyond the asphalt and passing cars. My research revealed that entrance to the Getty was free, but you had to reserve a time and pay for parking. It was also on the outskirts of Malibu, and I hoped I’d have time to drive through that famous locale before meeting Merlin and his brother for dinner. Then I walked through the museum in search of the courtyard, saw the quality of the collection, and decided I really needed to tour the museum instead. Malibu could wait.
A friendly docent had directed me toward the courtyard. I stepped out of the shady interior, blinked in the sudden glare and spotted Qwendar seated on a marble bench, surrounded by lush vegetation and contemplating a long, narrow marble pool filled with very blue water. Bronze statues stood on the edge of the pool, also seeming to contemplate the water. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” I said as I walked up.
Qwendar looked up. “I was intrigued by your phone call.”
I looked around at the white pillars supporting an overhanging porch on all four sides and the bright red tile roof, listened to the distant pound and whoosh of waves, and felt tension melting out of my back and shoulders. “And thank you for suggesting we meet here. I would never have found it, and it’s … remarkable.”
“Yes, humans did have a great capacity for beauty.”
“But no longer?” I asked.
His arms swept out in an encompassing wave. “Consider the rest of Los Angeles.”
“That’s a little unfair. Comparing a city to a garden at a museum.”
“Perhaps you are right. But there are profound differences between Álfar and human tastes.” He stood and straightened his suit coat. “There is a place in the gardens that offers a lovely view of the ocean and is fairly private. Madam, will you walk?” He gave a funny little half bow and offered his arm.