Pressing freshly glossed lips together, she asked Lucy, “Still holding up?”
“Holding up fine. I just hope you crack him.”
“Like an egg,” said Leah. “Over easy.”
She fluffed her hair; then she stepped into the interrogation room.
Stratton said, “Hey, Lee, for a minute I thought you’d given it all up for a life of joyful abandon.”
“Okay, let’s finish up,” she said. “If you have something to say, Mr. Graydon-Jones, out with it. Otherwise we’ll just work with what we’ve got.”
Stratton said, “Before we go any further, I’d like some definite quid pro quo.”
“Pu-leeze.”
“You don’t care about getting the big fish, Lee?”
“This case, Jeff, they all seem pretty big.”
Graydon-Jones cursed under his breath.
“What’s that, sir?” said Leah.
Silence.
“You have a comment, Mr. Graydon-Jones, feel free to make it.” Glance at her watch.
Stratton said, “My client’s willing to offer you information that could clear up two additional homicides. Bona fide homicides, not involuntary manslaughter, which is the most you’ll get out of the Best girl, and you know it. You don’t want to hear about it, fine.” Shrug.
“We’ll hear, Jeff. What we won’t do is put a price tag on the merchandise until we’ve had a chance to examine it.”
“Believe me,” said Stratton, “this is good.”
Leah smiled. “I always believe defense attorneys.”
Milo said, “My mortgage is assumable, my Porsche is paid for, and the check’s in the mail.”
Stratton shot him a hard look.
Leah’s smile got wider and she put her hand over it. Another peek at her watch. Even though I’d suggested it, I found it an annoying mannerism.
She sighed and got up.
Stratton said, “Fine. Listen and evaluate. I’m sure you’re smart enough to see it for what it is.”
Leah said, “That’s me, Ms. Smart,” and clasped her briefcase.
She sat down.
Graydon-Jones looked at Stratton the way a baby looks at its mother just after it receives its first shot.
Stratton said, “Give me a commitment that if the information’s good you’ll go to bat for my client.”
“Going to bat for your client’s your job, Jeff. If Mr. Graydon-Jones’s information proves useful, it will be taken very seriously. Even in this day and age, we like to clear bona fide homicides.”
“It’s more than useful,” said Stratton. “Believe me. But I think it’s important you realize the scope of what we’re talking about. Qualitatively. The information Mr. Graydon-Jones is in possession of, in addition to being revelatory, is four-plus exculpatory.”
“Of whom?”
“Mr. Graydon-Jones. What he has to tell you goes to the crux of the matter and relates to Karen Best, as well. Motivation. Two homicides that are the conceptual fruit of the Karen Best incident and point a strong finger at original guilt in Karen Best’s death. What we’re talking about is the fact that someone else, and not Mr. Graydon-Jones, undertook to further these two—”
“Denton Mellors, aka Darnel Mullins, and Felix Barnard,” said Milo, in a bored voice.
Graydon-Jones’s eyes bugged. Stratton blinked very fast.
“Yeah, we know about those, counselor,” said Milo. “Old Curt lays that on you too, Chris.”
“Oh, no,” said Graydon-Jones, holding out his hands as if scooping air. “Oh, bloody fuck, no, no, no, this is—no bloody way, bullshit! I can prove I was out of town the day Denny shot the private eye. Curt paid him thirty thousand dollars to do it. Recorded it as payment for a screenplay Denny never wrote. Thirty grand—he showed me the money.”
“Mellors showed it to you?” said Milo.
“No, no! Curt! He showed it to me and told me what it was for—said Denny was more than happy to do it, Denny was a closet thug, always had been.”
“Where did this conversation take place?” said Milo.
“At his house.”
“In Malibu?”
“No, no, his other one, Bel Air. He used to have a place on St. Cloud. Now he’s in Holmby Hills, on Baroda.”
“Was anyone else present during this conversation?”
“Of course not! He invited me for lunch. Out by the pool, his fucking terriers pissing all over. Then he pulls out an envelope and shows me the money. Has me count it. And tells me about some private eye asking around about Karen, he’d been paying him off for a year, putting him on the books to cover it and giving him odd jobs. Now the bastard has gotten greedy and wants more so he can buy a house somewhere. So now Denny is going to kill him at some motel Curt owns. He owns all sorts of things; he’s all over, like an octopus—”