“I thought she was a judge,” Bergen said impatiently. “I don’t know anything about it anyway.”
“Perhaps not,” Dawes said. Then, just with the slightest changes of posture and expression, she was no longer the cordial hostess. Her voice took on an edge. “But you’re going to go back to that table, put your tight little ass in that chair, and tell us everything you do know, or you’re gonna need that lawyer for a whole lot of unpleasant reasons.”
Kovac rubbed a hand across his mouth while he grinned to himself. She was good.
“Better listen to her, Junior,” he said. “You know how big a big shot you think you are? The people she’s talking about pick their teeth with little pricks like you.”
Bergen ’s look went from Kovac to Dawes. “Does he have to be here?”
“It’s his case. What’s the matter, Donny? You think Detective Kovac maybe knows a little too much about your family matters?”
Bergen shook a finger at Kovac. “My sister said he pushed her around. She’s gonna sue the city.”
“That’s cute,” Kovac said. “A junkie whore takes on City Hall. I can’t wait to see what she wears to the press conference.”
Bergen leaned a little toward him across the safe distance of the table width. “Ginnie has friends, asshole.”
“Lots of them, I’m sure,” Kovac said. “Her dealer, her johns, a pimp or two…”
“She’s not a prostitute.”
“Not anymore,” Kovac said. “Why fuck a hundred guys for a few bucks a pop when she can just latch on to one fat tick like David Moore? She gets his wife out of the picture, she’s got it made. Nice house on Lake of the Isles, rich husband. Too bad money can’t buy acceptance. To the people in that neighborhood, she’ll always be a junkie whore.”
Bergen was getting red in the face. “Stop calling her that!”
“Have a seat, Mr. Bergen,” Dawes said, back to being Miss Manners. “Clear this up for us. If you haven’t done anything wrong, there shouldn’t be any problem doing that.”
Bergen sat down, hooking the heel of one cowboy boot over the rung of the chair. He leaned an elbow on his knee and looked away, nibbling on his thumbnail like a rat grooming itself.
“Can you tell us where you were Friday evening?” Dawes asked.
“I thought I wasn’t a suspect.”
“We’re trying to corroborate the statements of a third party.”
“I was out,” he said. “On the town. Like always when I’m here.”
“You’re not a permanent resident of the city?”
“It’s too fucking cold.”
“Where do you live?”
“L.A. Encino.”
The San Fernando Valley. Smut capital of America. Kovac had read it in a magazine. Hard-core porn movies were routinely made in rented houses in otherwise normal family neighborhoods.
Picturing Long Donny Bergen there brought a whole new meaning to “boy next door.”
“Yeah, look,” Kovac said. “This is all nice and chatty, and I’m sure you’d be an interesting person to talk to, if I didn’t happen to think you’re a maggot on the asshole of life. But let’s cut to the chase, Junior.
“We know you popped into the lobby bar at the Marquette Friday night to meet up with Sis and the gang. What was that about?”
“It wasn’t about anything,” Bergen said, belligerent. “So I stopped to have a drink with my sister. So what?”
“Where were you before that?”
“At my apartment, getting ready to go out.”
“Was anyone there with you?”
Bergen turned to the lieutenant again. “How is this supposed to square someone else’s story? I think it sounds like you’re trying to pin something on me.”
“Knowing if a particular someone was with you will be important to that other person,” Dawes explained. It was a lie, of course, but that didn’t matter. They were under no obligation to tell the truth during the course of an interview; only the interviewee risked a penalty for lying.
Bergen narrowed his eyes. “Who?”
Dumb as a post, this kid, Kovac thought. Good thing for him he had other talents.
“We can’t tell you that, Donny,” Kovac said. “If we tell you, you’ll decide what story you want to tell, depending if you like this person or hate them.”
Bergen turned that puzzle over and over in his narrow little head.
“That means you have to tell us the truth,” Dawes said.
He frowned at that, clearly thinking he was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.
“What’s the matter?” Kovac asked. “Did you have some underage girl there with you?”
“No! I don’t need to do underage girls.”
Kovac gave his crocodile smile. “That’s not about need, though, is it, Junior?”
“I was alone.”
“Between six and seven,” Dawes specified. “You were home alone.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Did anybody see you leave the building?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“You live in California,” Kovac said, “but you keep an apartment here. You must be here a lot.”
“My manager says it’s a good investment.”
“What do you do with it when you’re not around? Rent it out?”
“What’s the difference?”
Kovac shrugged. “Just curious.”
“Did you speak with your sister on the phone Friday afternoon?” Dawes asked.
“Yeah. Three, three-thirty. She asked me if I wanted to stop by the hotel for a drink.”
“Do you happen to know if David Moore was with her at the time?”
“I guess he was.”
“How well do you know him?” Kovac asked.
“We don’t hang out. Except for the fact this one has bucks, I usually don’t like my sister’s taste in men.”
“How did you meet him?”
“Through Eddie. A year, year and a half ago.”
“Eddie?” Dawes asked.
“Yeah. Eddie Ivors. I know Eddie through the business. He introduced me to Dave.”
“Through the triple-X movie business?” Kovac said.
“Yeah.” Bergen gave a little laugh and a smirk. “Everybody thinks Eddie made his money with theaters. Eddie made his money in porn and used the money to buy the theaters. Mr. Respectable Businessman.”
“And David Moore? How was he connected to Ivors?” Kovac asked, his blood pressure rising again. David Moore, the critically acclaimed documentary filmmaker. Kovac knew what Bergen was going to say before he said it.
“He’s into it. He’s directed some stuff for Eddie. Hard-core.”
Kovac shoved his chair back from the table so fast, it tipped over as he stood up. Donny Bergen cringed and cowered. Lieutenant Dawes jumped and twisted around to give him her full attention. Kovac was barely aware of either of them.
That piece-of-shit, rat bastard.
He could see David Moore’s photograph from his Web site, the smug, superior artiste. He wasn’t any better than a pimp, no, worse than a pimp. He sopped up money making filth, and still lived off his wife.
That meant he had bank accounts no one knew about. Greedy fool. He had money of his own, but he paid for his mistress out of the family funds. Un-fucking-believable.
Kovac started to rub his temples and pace back and forth in front of the door.
Dawes looked at him cautiously. “Are you all right, Detective? Do you need to step out?”
Before Kovac could answer, someone banged on the door. Elwood stuck his head into the room.
He directed himself to Kovac in a hushed voice. “I think I might have found Stan Dempsey’s hidey-hole.”
56
THE BOTTOM DROPPED out of Carey’s stomach. She felt the blood drain from her head to her feet.
Lucy’s baby photo in the silver frame. The black-and-white picture of Carey’s graduation from law school, her father gazing at her with unmistakable pride. These were the photographs she kept on the nightstand beside her bed at home.
She looked around the room again, slowly, recognition dawning with a sickening surety. Her champagne bucket. Her wineglasses. Her pillows. Her blankets. Karl Dahl had looted her home, taking things he thought she might want to have with her.