She turned and looked out the window at the city racing by. While SID combed through the parking lot collecting trace evidence that yielded hair, fiber, and a stain on the asphalt that one criminalist believed was blood, she and Rhodes had interviewed the entire staff at the restaurant. Of the fifteen people they spoke with, two busboys and another waitress had been working on Wednesday night. All three identified Tremell and said that they remembered seeing him with the victim. And all three seemed as nervous about it as Natalie Wells.
Lena understood their concern. Justin Tremell was a rich kid with rich-kid problems. Speeding tickets, DUIs, bar fights, celebrity girlfriends, a sex video with an actress on her way to nowhere that had made the rounds on the Internet, dramatic breakups with rumors of violence, time spent in rehab relaxing by the pool on Xanax and mineral water over ice, pretending to fend off the paparazzi even though he needed them and wanted them because it meant regular appearances on the Hollywood rag shows, a father ten to twenty fortunes beyond rich only too willing to bail out his troubled son.
She understood their concern because she felt the same way And when she turned and gazed at Rhodes’s face, she could tell that he was feeling it, too.
“This could get tricky,” he said.
“Tricky?”
“How much do you know about Justin Tremell?”
“Just the things you can’t help hearing on news radio and what’s in this article. It says that he got married a couple years ago. It says he’s changed.”
Rhodes shrugged, making a right turn on Melrose at the Pacific Design Center, then slowing down as Tremell’s office came into view. It was a three-story building on the right with its own parking lot in back.
“But do you know why he’s changed?” Rhodes said.
“No idea.”
“No one does because it didn’t go through the courts. His father hired a judge and the trial was handled privately behind closed doors. You know what I’m talking about, right?”
She nodded. It was the same reason why no one heard about Michael Jackson’s custody battle with his ex-wife after his trial and acquittal for child molestation. Private trials held in upscale conference rooms were the wave of the future for the rich and famous.
“You were still in Hollywood,” Rhodes said. “I didn’t work it, but because of who Tremell is, the case ended up downtown. He beat some girl up. Wrecked her face and put her in the hospital. She wanted to press charges for the assault. A week later she changed her mind and the assault suddenly turned into a dispute. A week after that Tremell’s father bought a judge and everything evaporated into thin air. You get the picture?”
“Got it,” she said. “That’s my boy.”
Rhodes grinned at her, then pulled the battered Crown Vic into the narrow drive between the buildings. The lot was full, a limo with tinted glass idling before the building’s rear entrance. Lena could see the driver-an old man with gray hair and dark wrinkled skin-wearing a cap and uniform behind the wheel. He was keeping an eye on them as they circled the lot, and appeared a little worried when Rhodes decided to park the unpainted car right beside him in front of the doors.
Lena gave him a look as they got out. He was a small man, easily past sixty. His uniform seemed out of date, even odd. But his gaze quieted some when he looked her over and spotted the badge clipped to her belt.
“Who are you driving for?” she said.
“Mr. Dean.”
“You’re his personal driver?”
“For the last thirty years. Yes, ma’am, I expect so.”
“Who’s Mr. Dean?”
The driver smiled. “The man who writes the checks.”
“Thanks.”
“Have a nice day,” he said. “And God bless.”
She glanced at the driver as they entered the building, then turned back to Rhodes. “Who’s writing the checks?”
“Dean Tremell,” Rhodes said. “The kid’s father. Anders Dahl Pharmaceuticals. That’s what I meant by tricky. The minute he sees us, ten lawyers clock in, the kid walks, and you and me are history.”
They were standing before a rear staircase, the lobby at the other end of the hall. An attractive brunette sat behind the reception desk talking to two young guys in suits and ties who looked preppie and were probably interns. When the brunette noticed them, she beckoned them down the hall with a friendly smile and a wave of the hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said as they reached the lobby. “We’ve already made our selection. But here’s a personal gift for taking the time to come down on a Saturday.”
Her voice was just above a whisper, her demeanor more than pleasant. As she set a gift bag on the counter, she glanced across the lobby. Lena followed her gaze to the set of double doors and could hear someone talking on the other side-probably Justin Tremell or his business partner running the focus group. Turning back, she sized the woman up and guessed that they were about the same age. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and she didn’t have the look or feel of a receptionist.
“Sorry,” the woman repeated when their eyes met.
Rhodes pushed the gift bag toward the two interns. “We didn’t come for the focus group. We’d like to speak with Justin Tremell. Is he here?”
She nodded and offered another gracious smile. “I’m his personal assistant, Ann. They’re just getting started. I couldn’t possibly interrupt him right now. Would you like to make an appointment for next week?”
Lena watched Rhodes pull out his badge, saw the two interns take a nervous step back, caught the brunette’s eyes lighting up, and felt the air being sucked out of the lobby as if it had suddenly become a vacuum in one smooth motion. Rhodes didn’t look like a man willing to wait until next week.
The brunette stammered. “I can’t interrupt him. It would ruin everything.”
“I appreciate that you’re caught in the middle,” Rhodes said. “But this isn’t a social visit. We’re investigating a homicide. Either you pull him out of that room, or I do.”
If there had been any air left in the lobby, Lena figured that it was gone now. Just a lot of preppie wheels turning. Three sets of glassy eyes darting back and forth like flies trying to poke through a window.
“I need to speak with someone,” she said, reaching for the phone.
Rhodes shook his head. “Not on the phone.”
“Okay, then I’ll be back in a minute.”
He shook his head again. “We’re going with you.”
All of a sudden the brunette looked like she was having a really bad day. She grabbed her keys and trudged down the hall in her high heels, then stopped at the first door on the left where a sign read observation room. Releasing the lock, she pushed the door open revealing a private lounge. The furnishings were luxurious-everything modern and high-end. There was an entertainment center built into the far wall. Beside the couch on the right a caterer had set up a buffet table that appeared untouched. Lena eyed the variety of fruits and cheeses laid out on a silver tray, the coffee and teapots that stood in waiting beside several unopened bottles of Pellegrino water. Down the short hall to the right she could see a private bathroom that included a hot tub.
She watched Rhodes take it all in, wondering if the space didn’t double as some sort of executive fuck pad for Tremell. Letting the thought go, she turned back to his assistant slogging her way across the lounge in those heels. She was headed toward the door on the far left. A red light mounted on the wall above the molding flashed in warning. Curiously, the woman stopped and took a deep breath with her head turned. Then she tapped lightly on the door and yanked it open.
Lena stepped aside for a better view. The observation booth was dark, but not dark enough to hide the white-haired man in the leather chair turning toward the intrusion with a harsh scowl on his face. Tremell’s assistant didn’t enter the room, but leaned into the shadows while holding the door open. Her voice wasn’t much more than a shaky whisper. And nothing she said seemed to change the look on the man’s face. He didn’t understand why she was interrupting him. Even with two homicide detectives standing behind her, he appeared confused and incensed by the intrusion.