Chapter Twelve
Detectives Camarillo and Marin took Nick’s recommendation and began their interviews with Sissy and Jonah Nevin. Nick had no idea how reliable the information from Sissy and Jonah might be, he just knew there would be a lot of it. And he was right.
The Nevins were receiving in their bathrobes—Sissy, completely made up despite the early hour, wore a silver number that would have looked perfect on the set of Lost in Space (the original series), and Jonah wore a purple-and-blue smoking jacket. He was not a smoking-jacket kind of fellow, so the effect was more the-washing-machine-ate-my-bathrobe.
Sissy professed astonishment that the police were in the house—despite the view from her giant picture window of uniformed officers leaning over the fence surrounding the pool yard and pointing at the giant alligator swimming through the murky green water. The officers were shouting to each other and using their radios. Kind of hard to miss.
Jonah offered them orange juice, waffles, and a sickly smile. “Terrible thing. Terrible thing. We try not to associate with these people more than we have to. Horace is family, of course.”
Camarillo graciously declined the offer of breakfast on behalf of himself and Marin, and took a seat on the green love seat—which immediately half swallowed him, though never had a man looked so dignified sinking into the furniture. Marin had shrewdly opted for the wooden chair by the antique sewing table, where Nick had sat the first time he met the Nevins. Nick chose to stand off to the side, where he had a perfect view of the Nevins but was not in their direct line of sight.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Sissy said in that breathy, girlish voice, once Camarillo had explained the situation. “Not that I’m blaming anyone, but people have been encouraging these fantasies of Horace’s, and that just gets him more excited and worked up.” She threw Nick a sorrowful look.
“Sadly, Bennie Regan, our victim, is as real as you are,” Camarillo said.
“Oh, I don’t doubt it!”
“Had you ever met Mr. Regan?”
“Not to our knowledge,” Jonah said promptly. A little dog hoping for a big cookie.
Sissy, however, was not in quite such a hurry to end the visit. She bit her lip, looking reflective. “Regan is such a common name. Perhaps if you could describe him?”
“We can do better than that,” Marin said in an unexpectedly melodious voice. She rose and showed the photo on her phone to Sissy and Jonah.
“Is that—? Is he—?” Jonah seemed to lose color.
“Yes,” Marin said. “This is Mr. Regan, deceased.”
Sissy was still studying the photo. She began thoughtfully, “You know, Father…” She stopped, flicked Camarillo an apologetic smile. “No. I’m sorry. I think he just has one of those faces. You’ll ask Horace about him, of course.”
“Of course,” Camarillo said as Marin returned to her place by the window.
“Horace has a great fondness for young men.” Sissy threw Nick a rueful look. “Mr. Reno’s friend is currently a favorite of Horace’s. It never lasts long, of course, and at least Mr. Foster seems like a kindhearted boy.”
Nick raised his brows but did not bite.
“Walk me through last night,” Camarillo invited.
Sissy and Jonah were eager to comply. They told Camarillo all about the strange dinner where Horace had announced he was hiring a private investigator, although he had no money to do anything so ridiculous. They critiqued the food, speculated on Ami Savitri’s relationship with Ned Duke, castigated Gilda Storm as a sham and charlatan who encouraged Horace’s delusions and paranoia, dismissed Wynne Winthrop as a washed-up has-been shamelessly pining for a man with unnatural desires for other men young enough to be his grandchildren, shook their heads over Enzo Juri, who was to be commended for his loyalty to Horace and the work he did with disadvantaged youths, but who was, after all, a secret drinker and owned an illegal exotic animal that posed a deadly threat to everyone on the property—not to mention all the cats and dogs in Laurel Canyon.
Marin and Camarillo took notes and exchanged frequent glances.
Nor did the revelations stop there. If Ned Duke had ever successfully published anything, it was news to them. Ami Savitri worked as a Sous Chef at NBC Universal and made pretty good money for a woman her age, so why was she living in a wreck like Angel’s Rest, hmmmmm? Wynne Winthrop had been married four times, and her last husband had died under mysterious circumstances and left her a bundle—
“What happened after you got a headache and left the dinner table?” Camarillo interrupted, doggedly pursuing his trail no matter how many times the Nevins jumped in creeks or ran across rocks.
Sissy’s cheeks grew pink. “Father and I came back here and tried to decide what we should do. We’re Horace’s only living family, after all, and if he’s going off the rails again, it’s up to us to see people don’t take advantage of him.” She did not look at Nick that time.
“If you believe your cousin is making up these threats, how do you explain the gang that attacked him Friday afternoon and Bennie Regan being found dead on the third floor of this hotel?” Camarillo questioned.
Sissy folded her hands and pressed her lips together. Her expression grew saint-like. Jonah, watching her, said, “I think we should tell them, Mother. For his own sake.”
“Thinking is not proof,” Sissy said.
Camarillo said, “We’ll bear that in mind. What is it you believe?”
“I believe Horace has hired these young thugs. I believe they are extras in his homemade movie.”
“His homemade movie?”
“Horace can no longer tell the difference between reality and fantasy. That’s very obvious. At first, I assumed he was making everything up. The threats, the attacks on his life—for heaven’s sake, he once claimed that someone had loosened the headboard of his bed so that it would fall on him! But if he’s not making these latest incidents up, and I must admit that seems to be the case, then Horace himself must have arranged for these attacks. You’ll notice they always occur when someone is there to save him.”
“What’s on the fourth floor?” Nick cut in.
Sissy looked momentarily confused. “A lot of old junk, I suppose. I haven’t been up there in years.”
After finding Regan’s body, Nick had gone all the way up to the top floor to make sure no other intruders were in the building. He had not found anyone else, but on the fourth and fifth levels he had discovered a cache of costumes as well as a small hoard of movie props and set decorations.
In addition to all the movie memorabilia, there was a lot of antique furniture being stored up there.
So while Horace might be cash poor, he did have assets that could be readily liquidated for cash. It was more than possible he could raise the dough to hire some punks to pretend to threaten him.
The problem was, Horace was a collector, and collectors did not like to part with their collections.
Perhaps anticipating where Nick was going with his line of inquiry, Camarillo asked, “Mr. Daly is an older gentleman. Once he’s gone, who inherits all this?”
Nick kept his face blank.
Sissy and Jonah looked at each other.
“I have no idea,” Sissy said. “Horace is always changing his will.” She glanced at Nick. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this week your wide-eyed young friend is Horace’s so-called heir.” She gave a ladylike snort.
After interviewing the Nevins, Camarillo and Marin moved on to Gilda Storm, who spent thirty minutes babbling about the dark presence haunting Angel’s Rest, two minutes complaining that the radiator in her apartment didn’t work, and one final minute on the likelihood of Wally the Alligator killing someone if the law didn’t do something.
“Animal Control has been notified,” Camarillo reassured her.
Next up was Ami Savitri, who offered them raspberry turnovers and the information that she liked to bake when she was stressed.
To which Marin replied, “Your cookie jar must never be empty in this place.”
Amy made a face. “It wasn’t so bad at first. It was even kind of fun. The rent was amazing, and everyone seemed quirky and colorful. I loved Horace’s movies when I was a kid. But lately, yeah, it’s been weird.”
She was a polite and conscientious witness. She professed to have no knowledge of the dead man and admitted that until the previous evening, she too had believed Horace was making up the threatening letters and mysterious accidents-that-weren’t-accidents.
“I figured he was bored and lonely,” she said and winced. “I feel terrible now. Imagine something like that going on, and no one believes you.”
As for her movements on the night in question, after dinner she and Ned had shared a glass of wine in the old library, which was kind of their special hangout—no one else ever went into the east wing—and then they sneaked back to their rooms and said good night.
Camarillo grinned charmingly, and said, “Did you say good night in your room or Mr. Duke’s?”
Ami blushed. “Oh, we’re not—that is, we do sometimes, but not last night. Ned wanted to work, and he has to obey the muse when she calls. I guess.”
Hoo-boy, Nick thought. She really liked Duke if she could swallow that line of guff whole.
It was obvious to Nick that not only was Savitri not part of any sinister conspiracy—thanks to being the kind of person who minded her own business—she was not going to have a lot of useful observations to share. Say what you would about the Nevins, they had been a fount of information.
Camarillo and Marin closed their notebooks and rose.
On impulse, Nick said, “Why do you think that alligator keeps trying to get into your rooms?”
He didn’t expect her to have an answer, so the look of guilt that flooded her face came as a surprise.
“He’s hungry,” she said. “Enzo can’t afford to feed him enough anymore. Do you know how much an alligator that size eats? I used to bring him leftovers and scraps from where I work at the studio, but it backfired. Wally started associating me with food. I don’t know how he keeps getting out, but when he’s loose, he comes straight for me.”
“He won’t be getting loose again,” Camarillo promised. “Animal Control will take care of that.”
She looked horrified. “They’re not going to kill him, are they?”
Camarillo and Marin were amused. “No. No, of course not. He’ll go to the LA Zoo most likely.”
“That’s sad. He may not know he’s an alligator,” Ami said.
“Trust me,” Nick said. “He knows he’s an alligator.”
Camarillo was still chuckling about that when they stepped into the hall.
“An alligator always knows it’s an alligator,” he misquoted. “Is that your philosophy, or did you get it off Animal Planet?”
“It’s my observation,” Nick said, and Camarillo laughed again.
Marin stepped aside to make a phone call, and Nick accompanied Camarillo to Ned Duke’s rooms. He felt a little guilty about leaving Perry trapped babysitting Horace for so long, but the opportunity to sit in on these interviews could not be missed.
And, after all, coming here this weekend had been Perry’s idea.
Ned Duke was nervous.
That was obvious from the minute he opened his door. He was pale, he was sweaty, and he was talking too much.
“What a terrible thing to happen. He probably had a heart condition. Maybe. Maybe the place is haunted. Why would he be up there anyway? Maybe that accident ended up saving Horace’s life. Because he couldn’t have been up to any good.”
He did not ask them to sit down.
“I hope this won’t take long. I’m in the middle of a very tricky scene. Once you lose your train of thought, it’s hell trying to get it back. I don’t mean to be rude; it’s just I don’t know anything and I have this deadline.”
It couldn’t have been clearer if he’d run up a Jolly Roger. Granted, Duke would make one skittish pirate.
Nick was pleased to see that Camarillo picked up the same signals. The tone of the interview was different right from the start. Gone was the charming smile and approachable attitude. Camarillo glanced at the laptop sitting on the coffee table in front of the leather sofa. “Is this an article or a book you’re working on, sir?”
“A b—an article, but I am also working on a book.”
“I see. What’s the article about?”
Duke proceeded to lie—badly—about writing an article on the top ten open source productivity tools, while Nick surveyed what he could see of the apartment. It was immediately obvious that Duke’s quarters were more comfortably furnished than anyone else’s they’d interviewed so far.
In addition to the leather sofa, he had a huge wooden rustic-design entertainment center with a flat-screen TV and a high-end stereo system. He had a large ivory area rug plush enough to sleep on. He had a seven-piece dining set and framed watercolors on the walls. In short, he was not enduring the hand-to-mouth existence of most of his neighbors. Yet supposedly he was eking his living at one of the most precarious professions out there. As Nick well knew from living with a guy eking his living from one of the others.
That wasn’t the only red flag. A tower of soda crates—some so old they looked hand-painted—leaned against the wall next to the entertainment center. Nick was not an expert in antiques, but Perry cared about such things, and it was because of Perry’s gloating triumph at scoring a beat-up soda crate from the 1940s that Nick knew those boxes went for up to two hundred dollars each.
Same with that little crowd of dusty mason jars on the dining-room table. Depending on a number of variables, those could go from twenty to one thousand dollars apiece.
And vintage marbles? Very collectible. A single marble from the 1800s could go for one hundred dollars or more on eBay.
Camarillo had finished grilling Duke about his writing, and invited him to share his movements on the previous evening.
Duke cleared his throat and glanced nervously at Nick. “Well, after the incident with the prowler, we all went inside and tried to convince Horace to phone the police. But he wouldn’t. I’m not sure why, because there were plenty of witnesses, so no one could accuse him of making it all up this time.”
“Go on,” Camarillo said.
“Mr. Reno can vouch for all that.”
Nick was amused. “Sure.”
“All that is not the part I’m interested in,” Camarillo said crisply. “What happened after dinner?”
Duke went paler still. “After dinner? After dinner, Ami—that’s the young woman across the hall—”
“We know who Ami is,” Camarillo said.
“Oh. Right. Well, Ami and I were together.”
Camarillo smiled like a cheerful tiger. “All night?”
“Uh, well, y—I mean, you know. A lady’s reputation.” Duke cleared his throat again.
Camarillo said to Nick, “Did we just time-travel back to the 1800s when I wasn’t looking?”
“Maybe,” Nick said. “Going by some of the antiques I see lying around here.”
Duke groaned, collapsed on the sofa, and put his face in his hands. “All right, all right! I admit it. I was up there. It was me. But it was an accident. My God, how do you think I feel? I’m sick over it. I would never— I thought I got them all!”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Camarillo inquired.
“He lost his marbles,” Nick said. He couldn’t resist it. But it really wasn’t a joking matter. “Mr. Duke here has been supplementing his writing income by stealing from his landlord.” He said to Duke, “What do you do, sell everything on eBay?”
“Etsy,” moaned Duke. “It’s a more targeted market, and the seller fees are lower.”
Camarillo said, “What the hell?”
“I’ve been up on the top floors,” Nick said. “I think they’re primarily being used to store Horace’s collections and a bunch of the hotel’s old furniture.”
Face still in his hands, Duke nodded.
“There’s a lot of junk up there. Rotting mattresses and broken furniture. But there’s valuable stuff too. Some of it is too big to be moved without getting caught, but there are plenty of small, highly collectible items that could be easily lifted with no one the wiser.”
Duke raised his head. “It’s true. Okay? I’m not denying it. Horace doesn’t care about that stuff. He probably doesn’t even remember most of it is still there. What use is it, leaving it to rot? What happened last night was an accident. I was carrying a paper bag of marbles, and the bag tore. A few of the marbles fell out. I thought I got them all. I was going to go back when it was daylight to make sure, but…”
Nick said, “But in the meantime, one of Horace’s harassers was snooping around the house—who knows, maybe with the same idea of pocketing a few items to keep as souvenirs or maybe even to pawn?—and he slipped on one of the marbles and fell down the staircase.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Camarillo said. “We still have to get the ME’s report. For all we—”
“We do know,” Marin interrupted. She had slipped inside the front door while Nick was talking. She held up her cell phone. “I just got off the phone with the ME. Preliminary findings are consistent with an accidental fall down a wooden staircase.”