Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

“Fair enough,” said Milo.

Sudden switch to an easy, amiable tone. Banfer risked another try at eye contact. Milo smiled.

“Well,” said the attorney, “it’s good to see we’ve reached a meeting of the minds.”

“I agree. Now how about we talk to Jack, directly.”

“You feel that’s necessary?”

“Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t, Floyd.”

Banfer sighed again, punched numbers on his cell phone. “Hey, it’s me … as well as can be expected … I told them that … they still want to talk to you … I’ll stay right here, not to worry … might as well, you’ve got nothing to hide … sooner’s better than later, Jack, let’s get it over with and move on … we’re on the parkway between Beverly and Camden … good idea.” Clicking off, he studied the traffic. “On his way.”

Jack Weathers wore a blue cashmere blazer, a white silk shirt, dove-colored slacks, blue suede loafers with gold buckles. If they recast Gilligan’s Island , he’d be great for Thurston Howell the Third. Except for the defeated, sagging shoulders, the bags under his eyes, the wrinkles that had deepened during the twenty-four hours since we’d last seen him.

The shuffling gait of an old, weary man.

I got up and vacated the space next to Banfer. Weathers hesitated.

Milo said, “Take a load off, Jack.”

Weathers’s jowls quivered. Pink capillaries laced the whites of his eyes. A couple of cuticles were rubbed raw, detracting from an otherwise perfect manicure.

He sat down heavily and Banfer filled him in on what we knew. When Banfer wanted to, he could be concise.

Jack Weathers laced his hands together, stared at his knees.

Milo said, “Tell me everything you remember about the woman who called herself Simone Chambord.”

“What’s her real name?” said Weathers.

“Why don’t you let me do the asking so you can do the answering.”

Weathers’s head snapped back.

Floyd Banfer said, “Let’s keep it streamlined, Jack, and they’ll be out of your hair.”

Weathers said nothing. The group of younger Persian women returned. His attention shifted to shapely rears, and that seemed to relax him.

He said, “Good-looking girl, black but lightish. I figured her for a wannabe actress.”

“Because of her looks.”

“That and she had a way about her.”

“What way was that, Jack?”

“Vivacious,” said Weathers. “Theatrically vivacious.”

“Like she was playing a role.”

“This town, everyone plays a role. What I’m getting at is everything was just a little bit exaggerated.” He studied Milo. “You’re kind of central-casting yourself.”

“So you figured Simone for a wannabe.”

“But she had the right credentials for the child-care job. Experience, letters of reference.”

“From who?”

“Previous employers.”

“How about some names?”

“Don’t recall,” said Weathers.

“How about checking the file?”

“No file.” Weathers colored. “We turn everything over regularly.”

“Paper buildup.”

Floyd Banfer rubbed one leg against the other.

Jack Weathers said, “Exactly.”

“Okay,” said Milo, “but when she applied you must’ve called her references. Any memories of who they were and what they told you?”

“Nah, I’ve got so many applications, nothing stands out.”

“Business is good.”

“Can be,” said Weathers. “All I can tell you is she checked out.”

“Wannabe actress,” said Milo. “Guess you see a lot of that.”

“I go in assuming the real agenda is advancing their careers. Or so they believe.”

Milo said, “Doesn’t work that way?”

“Works against them.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because once someone’s seen as being in a service position they tend to be … always seen that way.”

“They’re viewed as inferior?”

“Not inferior,” said Weathers. “Different.”

“Donny Rader started off as a golf caddie and houseboy for a producer.”

“That’s the official story.”

“Not true?”

Weathers sneered. “I don’t know what’s true, what’s not. I don’t know anyone’s narrative.”

Floyd Banfer said, “It’s all a matter of information control. We hear what they want us to hear.”

“Stars,” said Milo.

“Anyone in power.”

I said, “So you have no problem hiring wannabes.”

Jack Weathers said, “Not if they learn their proper place and do the damn job.”

“Did Simone Chambord learn?”

“Never heard about problems.”

“Far as you know, she’s still working for Premadonny.”

“I’d assume.”

“What else do you remember about her?”

“Good-looking,” said Weathers. “Extremely attractive. In that fresh way. Great figure … she could carry on a conversation, said she loved kids, showed me a child-development book she was reading.”

“She was hired as a nanny.”

“No,” said Weathers. “As a child-care assistant.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Pay scale, for starts. When the client insists on an official nanny, we hire British girls who take formal training at one of the schools they have over there. They’ve got the book learning but some of them can be a little uptight. Some clients like that. Others want something more relaxed.”

“Prema Moon and Donny Rader have a relaxed attitude.”

“I’d assume.”

“How many other people have you sent to them?”

“Couldn’t say,” said Weathers.

Milo said, “Wild guess.”

Weathers looked at Banfer. Banfer nodded.

“Wild guess? I’d say half a dozen.”

“What jobs did you fill for them?”

“I believe there were a couple of domestics. Housekeepers. We don’t do that anymore, can’t compete with the domestic-specialty agencies, all those ads they run in the Spanish papers. But back then we did, so probably that’s it. Couple of domestics.”

He turned to Banfer. “This is okay?”

“So far, Jack.”

Milo said, “You’re worried about Premadonny’s gag clause?”

“Hell, yeah,” said Weathers. “We’re talking damn stringent.”

“As opposed to …”

Banfer said, “Clauses that are less stringent.” He smiled at his own obfuscation.

Milo said, “Educate me, Counselor.”

“It’s nothing complicated, Milo. Default is generally a ban on talking to the media, publishing a book, that kind of thing. This particular clause covers virtually every single syllable uttered about Premadonny to anyone on any topic. Is it legally binding? Probably not, but testing that theory would bring considerable anguish. In any event, Jack’s told you everything he knows about the Chambord woman and Ms. Betts.”

“Then on to the next topic,” said Milo, pulling out the enlargement of Melvin Jaron Wedd’s DMV photo.

Floyd Banfer’s face remained blank.

Jack Weathers said, “Oh, shit.”

Floyd Banfer placed a hand on Jack Weathers’s cashmere sleeve. “He’s also one of yours?”

Milo said, “Who is he, Jack?”

Weathers wrung his hands. “A guy … M.J.”

Milo said, “Melvin Jaron Wedd. When did you place him at the compound?”

Weathers muttered something.

“Speak up, Jack.”

“Three years ago. Give or take.”

“What’s his job title?”

“Estate manager,” said Weathers. “I’d placed him before, similar thing.”

“Whose estate did he manage before?”

“Saudi family, gigantic place in Bel Air. Four, five years ago.”

“And before then?”

“No, that was the first. They had no problems with him-the Arabs. They moved back to Riyadh.”