His jaws bunched. He scooted forward on his chair, inches from my face. I thanked God we were friends.
“All of a sudden the Gaidelases have gone from victims to psycho murderers?”
“It solves several problems,” I said. “No bodies recovered and the rental car was left in Camarillo because the Gaidelases ditched it, just as the company assumed. Who better to cancel credit cards than the legitimate owners? And to know which utilities to call back in Ohio?”
“Nice couple hiding out in Ventura County and venturing into L.A. to commit nasty? For starts, why would they home-base out there?”
“Proximity to the ocean and you don’t have to be a millionaire. There are still places in Oxnard with low-rent housing.”
He yanked his forelock up and stretched his brow tight. “Where the hell did all this come from, Alex?”
“My twisted mind,” I said. “But think about it: The only reason we’ve considered the Gaidelases a nice couple is because Cathy’s sister described them that way. But Susan Palmer also talked about an antisocial side- drug use, years of mooching off the family. Cathy married a man people suspect is gay. There’s some complexity there.”
“What I’m hearing is minor league complexity. What’s their motive for turning homicidal?”
“How about extreme frustration coming to a head? We’re talking two middle-aged people who’ve never achieved much on their own. They make the big move to L.A., delusional like thousands of other wannabes. Their age and looks make it even chancier but they take a methodical approach: acting lessons. Maybe they were rejected by other coaches and Nora was their last chance. What if she turned them away in less-than-diplomatic terms? Charlie Manson didn’t take well to hearing he wasn’t going to be a rock star.”
“This is about revenge on Nora?” he said.
“Revenge on her and the symbols of youth and beauty she surrounded herself with.”
“Tori Giacomo got killed before the Gaidelases disappeared.”
“That wouldn’t have stopped the Gaidelases from having contact with her. If not at the PlayHouse, at work. Maybe she served them a lobster dinner and that’s how they learned about the PlayHouse.”
“They do Tori, then wait nearly two years to do Michaela? That’s a dish gone way cold, Alex.”
“That’s assuming no other students at the PlayHouse have gone missing.”
He sighed.
I said, “The hoax could’ve served as some kind of catalyst. Nora’s name in the paper. Michaela’s and Dylan’s, too. Not to mention Latigo Canyon. I could be totally off base, but I don’t think the 805 link can be overlooked. And neither can Armando Vasquez’s story.”
He stood, stretched, sat back down, buried his face in his hands for a while and looked up, bleary-eyed. “Creative, Alex. Fanciful, inventive, impressively outside the goddamn box. The problem it doesn’t solve is Peaty. A definite bad guy with access to all of the victims and a rape kit in his van. If the Gaidelases were chasing stardom, why would they have anything to do with a loser like him, let alone set him up to be shot? And how the hell would they know to prime the pump by phoning Vasquez?”
I thought about that. “It’s possible the Gaidelases met Peaty at the PlayHouse and some bonding took place- outsiders commiserating.”
“That’s a helluva lot going on during a failed audition. Assuming the Gaidelases were ever at the PlayHouse.”
“Maybe Nora kept them waiting for a long time then dismissed them unceremoniously. If they did bond with Peaty, they could’ve had opportunity to visit his apartment and pick up on tension in the building. Or Peaty talked about his dislike for Vasquez.”
“Ertha Stadlbraun said Peaty never had visitors.”
“Ertha Stadlbraun goes to sleep by eleven,” I said. “Be interesting to know if anyone at the apartment recognizes the Gaidelases’ photos.”
He stared at me.
“Peaty, Andy, and Cathy. And let’s toss in Billy Dowd, because we’re feeling generous. What, some kind of misfit club?”
“Look at all those schoolyard shootings committed by outsiders.”
“Oh, Lord,” he said. “Before I get sucked into this vortex of fantasy, I need to do some boring old police work. As in pinpointing the phone booth and trying to pull some prints. As in keep searching for any troves Peaty might’ve stashed God knows where. As in…let’s not shmooze any more, okay? My head’s splitting like a luau coconut.”
Yanking his tie loose, he hauled himself up, crossed the tiny office, and threw back the door. It hit the wall, chunked out a disk of plaster, bounced a couple of times.
My ears were still ringing when he stuck his head in, seconds later. “Where can I find one of those amino-acid concoctions that makes you smarter?”
“They don’t work,” I said.
“Thanks for your input.”
CHAPTER 30
The Brazilian rosewood door of Erica Weiss’s law firm should’ve been used for guitar backs. Twenty-six partners were listed in efficient pewter. Weiss’s was near the top.
She kept me waiting for twenty minutes but came out to greet me personally. Late thirties, silver-haired, blue-eyed, statuesque in charcoal Armani and coral jewelry.
“Sorry for the delay, Doctor. I was willing to come to you.”
“No problem.”
“Coffee?”
“Black would be fine.”
“Cookies? One of our paras whipped up some chocolate chips this morning. Cliff’s a great baker.”
“No, thanks.”
“Coming up with black coffee.” She crossed a field of soft, navy carpet to an entry square of hardwood. Her exit was a castanet solo of stiletto heels.
Her lair was a bright, cool, corner space on the eighth floor of a high-rise on Wilshire, just east of Rossmore in Hancock Park. Gray felt walls, Macassar ebony deco revival furniture, chrome and black leather chair that matched the finish of her computer monitor. Stanford law degree tucked in a corner where it was sure to be noticed.
A coffin-shaped rosewood conference table had been set up with four black club chairs on wheels. I took the head seat. Maybe it was meant for Erica Weiss; she could always tell me that.
An eastern wall of glass showcased a view of Koreatown and the distant gloss of downtown. To the west, out of sight, was Nora Dowd’s house on McCadden.
Weiss returned with a blue mug bearing the law firm’s name and logo in gold leaf. The icon was a helmet over a wreath filled with Latin script. Something to do with honor and loyalty. The coffee was strong and bitter.
She looked at the head chair for a second, settled to my right with no comment. A Filipina carrying a court-reporter’s stenotype machine entered, followed by a young spike-haired man in a loose-fitting green suit who Weiss introduced as Cliff. “He’ll be witnessing your oath. Ready, Doctor?”
“Sure.”
She put on reading glasses and read a file while I sipped coffee. Then off came the specs, her face got tight, and the blue in her eyes turned to steel.
“First of all,” she said and the change in her voice made me put my cup down. She concentrated on the top of my head, as if something odd had sprouted there. Pointing a finger, she turned “Doctor” into something unsavory.
For the next half hour, I fielded questions, all delivered in a strident rhythm dripping with insinuation. Scores of questions, many taking Patrick Hauser’s point of view. No letup; Erica Weiss seemed to be able to speak without breathing.
Just as suddenly, she said, “Finished.” Big smile. “Sorry if I was a little curt, Doctor, but I consider depositions rehearsals and I like my witnesses prepared for court.”