James Conway - In Cold Blonde

“Now, now,” she said. “I thought we were here to talk business.”

“We are,” Adam said, getting the waitress’s attention and signaling for two more drinks. “You want a job in advertising, our biggest problem will be deciding which of the fifteen or twenty companies I routinely work with will be the best fit for you.”

“It can’t be that easy.”

“It is, trust me. But first, tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”

Alice had a biography all ready. One she cooked up just for Adam, one that should resonate with him. “Well, I grew up in Dayton, Ohio. My dad was a pharmacist and Mom was a teacher.”

“Brothers? Sisters?”

“Nope, only child.”

“Hey, me too,” Adam said.

“I always wished I had a sister. Someone I could trust with all my secrets.”

Adam reacted, surprised. “That’s unbelievable. I always wanted a brother for the same reason. I felt so alone growing up.”

Alice knew this. Eleven years earlier, when she was a senior in high school, she spent a two-hour school bus trip sitting next to a seventeen-year-old Adam Devlin. They were on a field trip to the Getty Center in Los Angeles, and Adam got stuck sitting next to the dumpy Alice Waterman. He’d sort of seen her around, had heard some rumors about her being easy, but never paid her much attention. Not pretty enough, not popular enough, not anything enough for his clique. But it was a long trip and they got to talking.

She fell in love with him on that trip. Played over their conversation a thousand times in her head, spent weeks hoping he’d call or acknowledge her at school. Of course, he never did. He completely ignored her.

Until that terrible day.

But she’d gleaned enough information to serve her purposes today. The waitress arrived with their drinks; when she left, Alice said, “Anyway, I loved high school. I was an athlete, a tennis player, and I actually thought about turning pro, but I blew my knee out senior year and that ended that.”

“Okay, now this is freaky,” he said. “I was an athlete too, a football player. Until a linebacker cut my knees out from under me and shredded my ACL.”

“It’s awful, isn’t it? Not just the pain, but also the shattering of all your dreams, all your expectations. It was like starting over at seventeen.”

Those were Adam Devlin’s exact words eleven years ago and he stared at her in wonder. “That’s exactly what it was like,” he said, looking at her as if for the first time. There was something special about this woman, something wonderful. And this was going to be more than a one night stand, he decided. Much more.

Looking at a dead body is never easy. Looking at your dead son is agony. “That’s him,” Nick Wood said grimly. “That’s Colin.”

Nick Wood was an impressive-looking guy. Ryan guessed he was sixty, and in great shape. Trim, handsome, with a long face and bushy eyebrows, he dressed casually in khakis and a blue Polo golf shirt. He wore a thick gold bracelet on one hand and a ruby encrusted school ring on another. Expensive jewelry, but he could afford it. He was a very successful contractor, Ryan knew, building many of Orange County’s most prestigious high rises.

Ryan waited to see what Nick Wood would do next. Some people kiss their loved ones; others take a hand or stroke the face. Nick Wood just stared, shook his head as if disappointed, then asked, “Do you know who did this?”

“No, not yet,” Ryan said leading Nick Wood into the hallway where Syd waited. “We’ve got some leads we’re following, and we were hoping you might be able to shed some light.”

“You said it was a murder.”

“A woman met him in a bar, they went back to his car and we believe she shot him.”

Ryan could almost hear the gears working as Wood digested the information. Something complicated was going on in there, more than just grief. “Is something bothering you, sir,” Ryan asked.

“Could it have been self defense?” Nick Wood asked.

“Self defense,” Syd asked. “Why would you think that?”

Ryan connected the dots. “You’re thinking about the date rape three years ago.”

Nick Wood was surprised. “You know about that?”

Ryan nodded. “We heard Colin avoided prosecution because you settled out of court.”

Wood shook his head. “Colin had this… problem with women. My fault, I guess, I don’t know.”

“Why would it be your fault?” Syd asked.

“Colin’s mother died when he was six years old. I never remarried, but I dated, a lot. And I was never shy about bringing the women back to the house.”

“So Colin grew up watching a parade of women march in and out of your bedroom,” Ryan said.

“And we used to joke about it. Grade them on a scale, 1-10, that sort of thing. Colin would grade them on looks and I’d grade them on performance. Then, when he got into high school and started dating, I’d grade his dates on their looks and he’d grade them on performance.”

“How charming,” Syd said.

Wood glanced at her, shrugged. “I’m a pig, I know. Or was. Karma has a way of catching up with all of us. I got prostate cancer, the operation left me, well, let’s just say I’m incapable of judging performance anymore.”

“And now that you can’t fuck anymore, you’ve stopped thinking of women as sex objects?” Syd snapped.

“Syd…” Ryan said, his tone telling her to shut up. She knew better. Never let your personal feeling affect an interview.

“No, it’s all right, Detective,” Wood said. “She has a right to be angry. I treated women like shit for years. And so did Colin. That’s why I asked if it could have been self-defense.”

“It’s possible,” Ryan said. “But under the circumstances, it’s doubtful. It doesn’t feel like a spur of the moment attack. We think it was planned. Perhaps by a woman he offended in the past.”

“We’d like the name of the woman you paid off three years ago,” Syd said. “And any other women you know who may have had a grudge.”

“Kathy Tuttle was the woman three years ago. She lived in Santa Monica, I think, but I sent the check to her lawyer. I can call my office and get you the information.”

“Thank you,” Ryan said. “Can you think of any other women?”

Wood considered for a long time, and then shook his head. “I don’t know. The Tuttle girl was the only one he told me about, because he had to. He needed the money. If there were others in the last few years, I’d have no way of knowing.”

Ryan and Syd stood in the doorway watching Nick Wood get in his Lexus. They had gotten the name and number of Kathy Tuttle’s attorney and Ryan had called LAPD Media Relations to let them know they could issue a press release with Colin Wood’s identity.

As Wood drove off, Syd asked, “You believe in karma, Ryan? Like Casanova there and his prostate cancer.”

“Actually, I do,” Ryan said, then realized that was one of the reasons he was hesitating about picking up the Lotto money. Enough, he thought. Time to tell Syd, at least get her advice about what he should do. He looked at Syd. “I need to tell you something.”

Syd looked at him expectantly. “What?”

Before Ryan could answer, his cell phone rang. “Damn it,” he said pulling it out of his pocket, ready to turn it off — then he noticed the name of the caller, Anne. “I better take this,” Ryan said. “Why don’t you call that lawyer and see if you can get an address for Kathy Tuttle.”

Ryan looked a little flummoxed, Syd thought, and she immediately suspected that the call was from Ryan’s ex-wife. But she wasn’t going to say anything. Not yet, anyway. “You got it,” Syd said, stepping into the parking lot. “I’ll meet you at the car.”