White Lies Page 12

  "No. Don't think he gave one. If the patient wants to hand off his personal property, that's nothing to me."

  "Did he have to sign anything?" Smythe asked.

  "No. I think Blaine gave it to him. No, that's right, it was his body guard. Big, beefy guy, never left his side. He sorted it all out. A girl came right after that for the costume."

  Bledsoe made a note. "Thanks, Amelia."

  "That doesn't seem like it was very helpful."

  "Oh, you never know," Bledsoe said. "You've given us more than we had."

  * * *

  Bledsoe called Asher's accountant to find out if he had any information on the gofer and bodyguard. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Asher had told Fred to give the police any information they wanted. Fred gave him the bodyguard's name and current address. There was no way to track the gofer without a name.

  "Randall Clement," Bledsoe said as he placed his scribbled note in front of his partner.

  She reached for her jacket. "That's not too far. Shall we?"

  Traffic was unusually light as they drove out to Venice Beach. The bodyguard had a small cottage on a walk-street two blocks from the ocean. He was weeding a flowerbed in his postage-stamp sized front yard when the detectives pulled up. He invited them in and herded them into a bright, sunny kitchen separated from the living room by a breakfast bar.

  "Who do you want to know about?" he asked as he rummaged in his cabinets.

  Smythe and Bledsoe took tall stools on the opposite side of the counter. "Blaine," Smythe said.

  Randall pulled out a Japanese porcelain tea set and dumped loose tea in the pot. "I haven't worked for Ash since he got locked up."

  "We need to know about an incident that occurred eight years ago."

  "Is Ash OK?"

  "As far as we know," Bledsoe said.

  "Eight years ago, huh. I'll try." The sink had a tap for instant hot water. Randall filled the pot and put it on a trivet next to the detectives. He set small matching cups in front of them, without asking if they wanted any.

  Bledsoe eyed the fragile cup and nudged it aside to make room for his notebook. "Do you remember a trip to the hospital?"

  "Which time?"

  "Falling down the stairs and impaling himself with a jeweled dagger?"

  Randall wasn't a tall man, but he was heavily muscled. He wore his graying hair in a short ponytail. A tie-dyed tee shirt strained across his chest. Cut off jeans showed his legs to be just as well defined. The delicate Japanese teacup looked incongruous in his beefy hand.

  "Who told you that?"

  "Insurance report," Bledsoe told him.

  "Oh. Yeah, I guess they would say that. But, y' know, that's not how things happened."

  "How did it happen?" Smythe asked.

  "Director stabbed him. That's why he fell."

  "The director?" Smythe rolled her eyes. "Did you actually witness that?"

  "Yeah. He's dead now, so I don't think it matters." Randall shook his head in disapproval. "Massive coronary. Man, you could see it comin', the anger he had. Whoo."

  "Why would he stab Blaine?" Smythe demanded.

  "Oh, he was just nuts." He lifted the lid to the teapot and sniffed the rising steam. Judging it done, he poured three cups. "It was something about the costumes. He was up on the mezzanine screaming at one of the wardrobe girls. God, he was a piece of work. I was about to go up there. It was getting nasty. Ash beat me to it. Got between the director and the girl. So he starts screaming at Ash instead. People were splitting. Nobody wanted to see where it was going. I knew it was gonna get bad. I was at the bottom of the steps when nut job grabs the dagger off Asher's belt and just rams it into his leg. That's why he fell. He took a step back, and there wasn't anything there. Head over teakettle, as my mom used to say. I caught him about halfway down. It was lucky he didn't get hurt worse."

  "So who lied to the insurance company?" Bledsoe asked. He eyed the pale liquid and decided to pass.

  Randall shrugged. "Not my department. I got Asher to the hospital and then home to bed."

  "Where did the dagger go?"

  "Dagger?" Randall frowned. "Huh. I sent Ellie for some street clothes, 'cause he was still in costume. And Sophie showed up for what was left of the costume." He paused in thought, blowing on the tea and gingerly sipping. "Oh, yeah, Scotty showed up for that."

  "Scotty?"

  "Yeah, Scott White. He was working as a P.A., I think."

  "And where is he now?" Bledsoe asked.

  "Oh, he's dead, too. Overdose. Drugs, man, they're the worst things you can put in your body."

  Smythe nodded. "I agree."

  Bledsoe gave a soft snort, looking at Randall's pronounced musculature. He probably didn't feel that way about steroids. "Who was Scott working for?"

  "Ash, sort of."

  "Why sort of?"

  Randall rolled his shoulders in an uneasy shrug. "I don't like trash talk, but Scotty was bad news. He's dead, you know, so I guess it don't matter. But Ash is really generous, and Scotty just took advantage of him."

  "How so?"

  "Well, he was on the payroll, but he didn't do anything. And he was always trying to get stuff from Ash."

  "What do you think he did with the knife?" Smythe asked.

  "That's easy. Sold it for drug money."

  "Any idea who he'd sell it to?"

  "No, sorry. I don't mess with that shit."

  Bledsoe pocketed his notebook. "Back to square one."

  Chapter 29

  When Bledsoe arrived at the office with coffee for both of them, Smythe was standing at his desk staring into space. Her hazel eyes were unfocused, but her thin lips were pressed into a white line. He knew that look.

  "What are you thinking?" He handed her a cup.

  It took a minute for her to surface. "None of this adds up." She frowned at the files she'd spread across both their desks which faced each other. "Every time we arrest Blaine there is something that proves his innocence. Either the killer knows that the arrest won't stick—in which case it could be Blaine—or he doesn't know, and really wants Blaine in prison."

  "What purpose would that serve?"

  "If it's Blaine—publicity. If it isn't Blaine..." Smythe shook her head. "It doesn't make sense."

  Bledsoe poked through the photos. "No girlfriend?"

  "He insisted he wasn't sleeping with the girl." Smythe pulled out Sharon's DMV photo. "According to her mother, she was dating a bunch of guys."

  "Seems kind of odd, a guy that good looking with no woman in the picture."

  "Maybe he's gay."

  "Well, that's possible, but how do the murders connect?"

  Smythe gave an eyebrow shrug. "Why would someone want Blaine in jail?"

  Bledsoe took a careful sip of coffee. It was still too hot to drink. "Revenge?"

  She sorted though the files on her desk. "Where’s the file on the attack on his ex-wife?"

  He passed it to her.

  "How does this fit with the rest?" She waved the file at him. "Maybe he didn't expect her to fight back. She got him good—mace in the eyes and gouged his neck with her keys. They're running DNA, but it won't be Blaine. She already said the guy was shorter."

  "Maybe she's the evidence."

  "What do you mean?"

  "She's the link to Blaine."

  Smythe flipped through the reports. "Her first call was to him."

  "So?"

  "You don’t think that’s odd? She didn’t call her husband, her sister, her mother. She called her ex?"

  "Maybe she's been seeing him on the sly. Would explain why there isn't some female presence."

  Smythe tapped the papers before her. "Probably not. But she doesn't seem beyond using him. She’s got a new book out. He’s trying to get noticed. They’re both on the six o’clock news."

  Bledsoe hummed tunelessly as he thought it through. "Self-help guru as a victim?" He squinted a disagreement.

  "Injured but not dead," she countered. "I'm sure sh
e could milk a lot of media coverage out of it. I bet she's signing up for interviews right now."

  "Ok. But how is she related to the murders?"

  Smythe lined up the various files on the desk. "Maybe she isn't. Blaine's got a lot of contacts. Maybe there's more than one perp."

  He gave her a doubtful look. "That's one major conspiracy theory you got going."

  "You got any better ideas? I went through all his arrests. No one killed or maimed in any of his DUI arrests. No overdoses beyond the wife and brothers."

  "Anyone left in that family?" he asked, flipping open the file.

  "One of the brothers was married. She wasn't at the party."

  "Maybe we should take a look at that investigation?"

  She cocked her head. "Which?"

  "The overdose."

  She turned to her computer and logged in. "I'll put in the requests."

  Bledsoe opened a file and pulled out the photo of the jeweled dagger. "So White takes the knife from the hospital and just brings it home? Do we know where he was living?"

  Smythe nodded acknowledgement as she kept typing. "His last known was...Malibu and that is the same as Blaine."

  "So White was living with Blaine and working for him. That sounds real cozy."

  "Here's the other file. Looks like that investigation was a dead end. Valerie White and her brother Paul died. Blaine was hospitalized. Wait a minute." She tapped the computer screen. "Look at this. The other brother, Scott, said he found them all passed out and called 911." She mumbled as she scanned the rest of the report. "Bah, bah, bah and...Scott fingered Paul as the supplier, claimed not to be involved and he and Paul's wife, Larissa, walked."

  "That means White's alive?"

  "Says here the evidence was released to him."

  "So where is he now?"

  Chapter 30

  Bledsoe examined Denny’s office as he waited for him to finish a phone call. It was a working man’s office, which surprised him. He expected more glam and less practical. Three of the walls had bookcases crammed to overflowing with binders, boxes, DVDs and scripts. The fourth wall had rows of photographs.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Denny said as he ended the call. He tossed the earpiece on his desk.

  “Not a problem. You’re a busy man,” Bledsoe said. As long as the AC was blasting, he could wait all day. He took his notebook and pen out. “No pictures of Blaine?” He gestured to the wall of photos with his pen.

  “No.” Denny swiveled his chair to view the gallery of clients. “Ash used to take dead center.”

  “Why did you take his picture down?”

  Denny glanced at him and then away. “He’s not my client anymore.” His tone sounded defensive.

  “Or friend?”

  Denny turned his chair back to face the detective, but avoided his eyes. He toyed with the earpiece. “It’s complicated.”

  “Blaine seems to think that you’ve severed ties completely.”

  Denny looked up, a pained frown creasing his forehead. “Well, that’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Tough love and all that? Give him an ultimatum and walk away. That’s what Crenshaw told me.” He shook his head. “It never seems to work.”

  "Crenshaw?"

  "The latest shrink. He made me promise to stay away from Ash, and I gotta tell you that put my hackles up."

  “Must have worked. He’s sober now.”

  “Now, yeah, but for how long?” He leaned back in his chair and pinned the detective with a worried look. “Do you think he set the fire?”

  “I’m pretty sure he didn’t.”

  Denny let out a long breath. “Thank God.”

  “Did you think he did?”

  “No.”

  His answer was quick, but Bledsoe could tell he was chewing on something. He doodled in his notebook waiting for it to hit the tipping point.

  “It’s just that sometimes he doesn’t think. I know he wouldn’t set a fire on purpose. But, he gets distracted…”

  “We have an eye witness to a break-in immediately prior to the fire.”

  Denny looked greatly relieved. “I want him to be better, you know, but he’s never been able to do it. I’m glad he’s cut ties with his party buddies. That's a big part of it. He’d only been sober a couple months last time, and they pulled him right back into it.”

  “Buddies like?”

  "You want a list?"

  Bledsoe nodded. “What about Scott White?”

  “He’s a pain in the ass.”

  “So, you knew he was alive?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you told Blaine that White was dead?”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Scotty’s a leech and a weasel. Ash is too generous. And he’s never had any family to speak of. Scotty did the oh-we’re-brothers-now thing, and Ash went for it. Handed over anything he asked for—cash, cars, jewelry, artwork.” Denny threw his hands up in disgust. “I had to lay down the law with the bodyguards—keep Scotty away from Ash. And I told Fred to shut down some bank accounts and credit cards.” He looked over to the pictures. “That’s not really my job. I did that as a friend. Ash has always needed to be protected.”

  “Do you think White is dangerous?”

  Denny chewed his lip and gave a one-shoulder shrug. “He’s a scheming, conniving son of a bitch, but I don’t think he’d ever hurt anyone.”

  “Does he hold a grudge?”

  “Against me?”

  “No, Blaine.”

  “Why would Scotty hold a grudge against his golden goose?”

  “Maybe he wasn’t golden enough?”

  Denny stared into space, a worried frown on his face. “I’ve never understood him. He’s just a greedy bastard. Asher’s wrung dry now. I doubt he’s given him a second thought.”

  “Know where I can find him?”

  Denny shook his head. “I try to keep my distance. He calls here every couple of months trying to get some work, but I know he's just looking for his next mark. I wouldn't wish him on my worst enemy.”

  “Do you know any friends of his?”

  “I've never socialized with the guy,” he said sharply.

  Bledsoe gave him a bland look.

  After a gusty sigh, Denny rubbed his face. "Sorry. Let me think. One of the bodyguards was buds with him. Dan? Don, something Italian, Taglerini, Tognarelli, something like that. He was a piece of work, too, but he crashed his motorcycle couple weeks back. Hear he’s a vegetable.” He rolled his shoulders in a stretch. “I really try to avoid him. That’s all I got.”

  Bledsoe folded up his notebook and tucked it away. “Thanks for your time.”

  Denny stood up and offered his hand. “You've talked to Ash. Do you think he's going to make it this time?”

  “He seems determined.”

  Denny gave him a sad look. “I miss him.”

  Chapter 31

  Ellie arrived ten minutes early for the meeting, but she didn't have to wait. Fred beckoned her into his office right away.

  "You said it was urgent," he said as he sat back behind his desk.

  Ellie took the left hand chair in front of his desk. His office was spacious, but practical. Bookcases full of binders, magazines and flyers lined the neutral beige walls. The matching bland carpet was worn under the chairs where clients had scuffed nervous feet. A few shiny plants, in tasteful planters, peeked out from dim corners. The room had no windows.

  "I'm worried about Ash," she said. "Have the police been through his finances?"

  Fred leaned back and frowned at the ceiling. "I'm not comfortable discussing his business with you."

  Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "Fred, it's me."

  "I know, L. E." He shrugged. "Things are different now. He's got a good handle on the business side of things. He doesn't need the kind of help he used to."

  She nodded thoughtfully. "I'm glad to hear that." She wound the strap of her purse around her hand. "So, he wouldn't be stuck with some crazy
scam on the side... "

  "All his business goes through me."

  "And there's nothing, you know, shady..."

  "You mean did I screw up?"

  She bit her lip. "Sorry."

  He gathered up a row of spreadsheets, jogged them into a tidy pile and put them aside. "Anything in particular that you're afraid of?"

  "What if he signed something...I don't know... some stupid contract..."

  Fred held up a hand to stop her. "When Asher was, um, sent to the state hospital, people bailed on him. That left just you, me, and for a while, Denny. I was still cleaning up Pam's mess. Her accounts were a disaster." He paused and shook his head. "Sorry. It just makes me so mad." He straightened a couple of already tidy piles on his desk as he took a few deep breaths.

  "Anyway, when it became apparent that he might be in there for more than his usual couple of weeks, I reorganized the company to provide for him as long as possible. I had a bad feeling he wasn't going to be working for awhile, and I was right. He's in good shape financially for now. And he knows that to stay that way, he needs to keep within the budget I give him. We agreed that everything goes through me." He ran his hand over the desk surface corralling eraser crumbs.

  "It's always possible that Ash might get scammed, but he's consulted me on every financial decision. We discussed hiring Sharon, and what her salary should be. I set him an allowance, and he's stayed within it for the past two years. He calls whenever he needs to go over his limit. I really don't think he'd sign any contract, or whatever, without letting me know."

  "He said you helped him with his will."

  Fred frowned. "I will only say that it is current. And I just helped him understand how to structure the bequests. My cousin handed the legal portion. You know Donald."

  Ellie nodded. "He's good."

  "Yes, he is."

  "Ash thinks this might be connected to Scotty."

  Fred's frown deepened. "I haven't seen him since Valerie's funeral."

  "Who else was around then?"

  Fred ticked them off on his fingers. "Randall, Don, you, the whole White clan: Scott, Paul, Larissa, Val...," Fred shrugged. "His circle shrunk while the White boys were around."

  "I've seen Randall. What's Don up to?"