Marcia Clark - Killer Ambition

Back when I was a baby DA in the Beverly Hills branch court, I caught a burglary case in which the victim was a lead actor in a primetime detective series. Burglary was the most common felony in Beverly Hills. The burglar turned out to be the piano teacher for one of the actor’s children. That case had been an eye-opening primer on how “the other half”-really more like the other one percent-lived. Everyone had a personal assistant. Some of the assistants even had assistants. And all of them were treated like furniture. The residents were so used to having assistants around all the time, they became invisible. So the most intimate of conversations about sex, deals, money, and custody battles took place in full earshot of the assistant. Luckily, most assistants were pretty loyal and damn scrupulous about not leaking what they heard. Or maybe they were just scared. But one thing was for sure: assistants were a fount of information and we’d learn a lot if we could get any of them to talk.

Bailey announced us on the intercom and the gates swung open smoothly. A young man in faded jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with the title of Russell’s last film, Princess Warrior, met us in front of the house.

“Mr. Antonovich will be back in about an hour, but he said you could wait inside. We’ve got a lot of people in and out all the time, so it’d be better if I took care of your car.”

Bailey wasn’t wild about the idea, but she tossed the keys to the kid. “I need easy in and out,” she ordered.

The door was answered by a guy in a crew cut and an FBI-style suit. I say FBI- style because I didn’t see the standard earpiece and I knew the FBI hadn’t been called in on the case. He put out his hand and gave his name in a serious voice. “Kenneth Krup. You’d be Detective Keller and DDA Rachel Knight?”

I barely resisted the urge to say “affirmative.” I didn’t remember seeing any security types like this on our last visit. It seemed a little late for Russell to bring in the troops now. Bailey confirmed our identities. “This way,” he said.

Back to the great room, which still truly was. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll send Sophie in to get whatever you need.” He turned on his heel-which must’ve been rubber, because it squeaked on the highly polished wooden floor-and left us. A mixture of light green and floral smells gave the room a garden-like atmosphere. I didn’t have to look far for the source: there was a gigantic arrangement of white dahlias and lotus flowers on a low table in the far-right corner of the room, and Chinese vases filled with hydrangeas, roses, and calla lilies on glass shelves, coffee tables, and side tables. Maybe it was the size of the room, maybe it was my state of distraction, but I hadn’t noticed the floral display the last time we were here.

I leaned toward Bailey. “Think Sophie would bring us a couple of dry martinis?”

“I think Sophie would bring us a couple of male strippers if we asked her to.”

I considered the idea. “We should probably get some interviews done first.”

Bailey shrugged.

One second later, a slight young woman, no more than five feet one, dressed in a black cotton dress and white apron and looking like she was in her late teens, entered the room. I made the deductive leap that this was Sophie. Sophie asked what she could get us. We said water would be nice. She inquired whether we wanted tap or sparkling; we opted for tap. When she returned with two glasses, I asked in what I hoped was an offhand manner how long she’d been working there.

“Three years.”

“Pretty long time.” Especially for someone who looked no older than twenty. “What are your days?”

“Tuesday through Saturday,” she said.

“So you get Sundays off. That must be nice.”

Sophie shrugged. “Sure.”

I was trying to make this sound conversational so she wouldn’t get scared off, but Sophie was edging away from us. I’d have to get to the point.

“Do you ever work on Mondays?”

“Around the holidays and awards season, or if Frankie calls in sick, or if there’s a party and they need extra help. But then they pay me extra.”

“As they should. Glad to hear it.” And I really was. “Then Frankie usually works Mondays?”

Sophie nodded.

“So you weren’t here last Monday?”

“No. And thank goodness because the twins were home sick and I didn’t have anyone to stay with them.”

That meant she hadn’t been here on the day of the “kidnapping.” Also, she probably wasn’t eighteen. “You have twins?”

“I’m twenty-seven.” She smiled at my stunned expression. “I know, I’m lucky.”

“Good.” I hate it when people with baby faces complain, “I still get carded at bars.” Yeah, that really sucks.

Sophie zipped off to amaze others with her youthful appearance.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess Sophie isn’t our guy,” Bailey said.

“Ruthless killers come in all packages, you know.”

Bailey raised an eyebrow.

“She could be the mastermind, and her devoted protégé did the killing.”

“A devoted protégé who also doubles as a babysitter for her twins,” Bailey said. “Of course, why didn’t I think of that?”

We were ableto eliminate others just as easily-Vera, the cook, who basically only spoke Hungarian, and had been busy in her wing of the house all day and well into the evening; Annabelle, the “interior plant designer”-I kid you not-who maintained the indoor flora on Tuesdays and Fridays; and Dani’s personal trainer/yoga instructor, Shakti, who had taken Monday off to do a spiritual cleansing. Call me a skeptic, I just don’t believe someone whose last name is Schwartz had “Shakti” on her birth certificate.

After about half an hour, I noticed that the Antonoviches took their air-conditioning seriously. It’d crept up on me and I didn’t realize I was cold until I found myself suppressing shivers. So when Eric called during our interview with Annabelle to tell me we had the all clear to go after the major players, I used it as an excuse to step outside. I took an extra five minutes after ending the call to work the bluish tinge out of my fingers.

But now, just twenty minutes later, I was freezing again. I wanted to go out and take another sun break, but Russell chose that moment to show up with his manager, Ian Powers, and their respective assistants, Uma and Sean. The director rolled in with an earpiece in his ear, a cell phone in his hand, and his assistant glued to his side, monitoring the conversation on her own cell while scribbling notes on a small pad. When Russell ended the call and gave us a curt nod, I could see he looked haggard, but he radiated even more nervous energy than I remembered from our last visit. I guessed he was coping by staying busy. Bailey told him why we were there and said we’d start by talking to Uma. He sat down on the nearest couch, leaned back, and folded his arms across his chest. “Okay.”

“Separately,” I said.

Ian, who’d remained standing, examined me coldly, as though I’d just told him I had a screenplay I wanted to send him. “Why’s that?”

I wasn’t obligated to explain it to him, but Ian had been Russell’s manager for over ten years and was used to standing between Russell and all things unpleasant. So I chalked up his attitude to protective habit and told him. “We need to make sure that each witness gives us his or her best memory without being influenced by anyone else’s opinion or recollection.”

Russell’s features tightened, a mixture of confusion and irritation. “But what is there for anyone to remember? I was the one who got all the messages. They won’t know anything.”