Melinda Wells - The Proof is in the Pudding

I liked that “hostile encounter” bit. It sounded a lot better than saying John had physically attacked Ingram.

Weaver scowled at whatever his captain was saying. When their brief conversation was over, he snapped his cell shut and nodded unhappily.

“Just like I thought. They’re dispatching another detective to take over the case. But I’m here now, and I’ll keep going until I’m eighty-sixed.”

With me close behind him, Weaver began collecting information from the celebrities in Sector Four, and those attending the gala who had been in our area when the smoke bomb went off. No one saw-or at least no one admitted to seeing-anything helpful.

Weaver had filled a dozen pages in his notebook when I saw another man enter the ballroom. While I didn’t know his name, from his sports jacket, slacks, and the stern expression on his face, I was certain he was a West Bureau detective.

Weaver muttered a curse. “Bad news just walked through the door. That’s Manny Hatch. He hates John’s guts as bad as I hate perverts.”

“Why?”

“A few years ago-remember the murder of that big music guy in Bel Air?”

“Yes. John caught the killer.”

“It started out as Hatch’s case. From the get-go, Hatch figured it was the wife and wasn’t looking at anybody else. John kept digging and found evidence that it was the victim’s stepson. Hatch was embarrassed. Ever since, he’s blamed John for his not getting the promotion he thinks he deserves. With Hatch on the job, John’s chance of getting out of this clean just fell through the hole in the outhouse.”

From the sour expression on his face, LAPD detective second grade Manfred (Manny) Hatch came into the Elysian Room with a chip on his shoulder so big I saw it half a ballroom away, just from observing his arrogant manner with the hotel’s uniformed employees. He glowered at them as though he was the head of the INS and they-even the blond Norwegian waiter and the African American security guard-were illegal aliens he’d like to ship back across California ’s southern border.

Detective Hatch behaved only marginally better to the prosperous guests in the ballroom, but he had enough sense of self-preservation not to go too far in trying to intimidate them. Hatch’s type was by far a minority in the LAPD, but I’d seen such behavior before. John called them “little Napoleons,” even though, like Hatch, some of them were close to six feet tall.

Hatch’s manner improved when Eugene Long approached him. Unlike Hugh Weaver, Hatch must have recognized Long, and realized that Long’s immense wealth could be a more powerful cudgel than was Hatch’s badge. Hatch’s facial expression relaxed from a scowl into something approximating a collegial smile. But I imagined that secretly he’d be one happy detective if he found Long-or one of LA’s other power brokers-standing over a murder victim with the weapon in his hand.

My attention was diverted to a man at the entrance to the ballroom, standing beside the police officer guarding the door. Dressed casually, in a brown tweed jacket over a moss green turtleneck sweater and tan slacks, he had a ruddy complexion and light, curly hair, cut short. I noticed him because he was waving in my direction, but he wasn’t anyone I knew. Then I realized that the man was signaling to Roland Gray, who was standing next to me.

“A man at the door is trying to get your attention,” I said.

Gray glanced toward the entrance and gave the stranger an answering wave.

“That’s Will Parker,” Gray said. “He drove me here tonight.”

“Your chauffeur?”

“My assistant, actually. Helps with research, but he drives me occasionally. I’d better go tell him we’ll be a while.”

I watched Gray cross the room, speak first to the police officer and then to Parker. Gray’s assistant was shorter than his employer, and seemed to be a few years younger. He reminded me of someone… As I was turning away, I realized who it was-the British actor, Trevor Howard, when he was about forty and starred in the classic ill-fated romance that played often on cable: Brief Encounter.

The “encounter” between Gray and Parker was brief, too. Parker turned away from the entrance and Gray started back in my direction.

“The officer at the door has no idea when we’ll be released, so I told Will to go get himself some dinner and come back.” Gesturing toward the police, Gray asked, “Anything happening?”

“It looks like Detective Hatch has finished talking to Eugene Long. Now he’s heading toward Hugh Weaver.”

As we watched, John joined Weaver and Hatch. The three detectives spoke quietly to each other. Even though I couldn’t hear the words, it seemed from their body language that it wasn’t a pleasant chat. John’s posture stiffened and I saw his jaw muscles tighten. Down at his side, Weaver’s hands balled into fists. Weaver must have been told to turn over his notes, because one hand uncurled enough for him to reach into his jacket pocket to retrieve his investigator’s notebook. Clearly fuming, he shoved it at Hatch.

Finally, the last of us present during the time of the murder were told we could go home, but admonished to keep ourselves available for further interviews.

Eileen left her mother and father standing with Liddy and Bill and hurried over to me. She was trembling. “What are we going to do? I’ve never been so scared.”

“Honey, stay calm. Don’t panic.”

She took a breath and steadied her voice. “Daddy doesn’t know what Keith was using to blackmail me, but that’s bound to come out as soon as the police search Keith’s house and find the tape. Daddy’ll never be able to prove he didn’t know about it. I don’t care for myself anymore, but what Keith did to me could make them charge Daddy with murder-and it’s all my fault.”

“It is not your fault. I have an idea, but I’m going to need you thinking clearly. First, what else in the house might link you to Ingram?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are there pictures of the two of you together?”

“No. We never went out in public, except sometimes to an out-of-the-way restaurant. Keith said we should be discreet, so people wouldn’t think he’d praised our fudge business because of…” She blushed.

“Forget about that, honey. Think hard now. Did you leave clothing at his place? Jewelry? Anything at all that could be traced back to you?”

“No. Not a thing. There’s just that that awful video. Why are you asking?”

“I’m going to keep you out of this, but I need your help.”

I saw a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “What can I do?”

On the corner of a display table to my left there was a pile of program sheets, listing the celebrity contestants and the location of each of their stoves. I picked one up, turned it over to the blank side, and handed it and the pen from the top of my clipboard to Eileen.

“Go into the bathroom and lock yourself in a stall. Sketch out a floor plan of Ingram’s house. As many details as you can remember. And where the doors and windows are in the back.”

“What are you-?”

I shook my head to silence her. “If you don’t know you won’t have to lie. Does Ingram’s house have an alarm system?”

“Yes.”

It would have been too good to be true, but I asked the next question anyway. “Do you know the code?”

“No. I was never in the house when he wasn’t there.”

“Do you know if his alarm system has interior motion detectors?”

“It did have, but he told me he got rid of them because his maid kept setting them off accidentally.”

Bless that maid, I thought.

I saw Liddy heading toward me and gave Eileen a nudge. “Go. Put down every detail you can remember.”