Chapter 9
Chapter
Milo gave me the details that night at nine.
“As she charmingly put it, tomorrow at two, take it or leave it.”
“Her office.”
“Surprisingly no, a private room at Chelsea Club. Ever been there?”
“Couple of years ago.”
“How’d that happen?”
“Can’t say.”
“Got it, some hoohah-patient. Some life you lead. Rick was offered a membership but turned it down. Anyway, are you free at two?”
“I am.”
“Great. Don’t need to give you the address.”
—
The West Hollywood branch of the Chelsea Club chain sits on top of a twenty-story building on Sunset just past the point where the lick-the-sidewalk cleanliness of Beverly Hills gives way to the civic neglect of the Strip.
The clubs are hyped as invitation-only lairs for the young, talented, and fabulous. In reality, invitations are generated by member recommendations, and ability to pay is the main qualification.
Milo’s assumption about a patient inviting me there was wrong.
My dinner host had been a young, newly appointed family court judge who appreciated my assistance in helping her maneuver a big-ticket film-biz divorce.
She’d brought her boyfriend and I’d brought Robin.
Technically, I could’ve talked about it, but I keep my work in the “other” world buttoned up.
Robin and I had gone there expecting a dim, luxe, exclusive vibe heavy on décor, possibly soured by a snooty front desk. Wrong on all counts. The hosts were young and bland, the ambience bright and architecturally undistinguished.
The main room was a vast space surrounded by glass. Despite the sweeping dimensions, the place was crowded and noisy, mostly occupied by twenty- and thirty-somethings in designer leisure-wear perched at cocktail tables or sprawled on long couches.
Meager conversation as nimble fingers played laptops. The noise came from piped-in music. Soft-sell hip-hop, the type parents didn’t mind.
As we neared our table, Robin said, “College dorm for the privileged. But the view’s amazing.”
—
I arrived five minutes early on Thursday for the meeting with Bel Geddes and Heck, found parking on a nearby side street, and entered the black glass structure. A sleepy-looking security guard passed me through to the direct Penthouse Elevator after a two-second look-over.
A quick, silent ascent deposited me into the massive room.
In daylight, astonishing view on three sides.
The same tables, chairs, couches, and several bars, one staffed by a guy washing glasses.
The only other people were two men in maintenance uniforms operating humming carpet sweepers and a young woman sitting several feet behind the host lectern, captivated by her phone.
Chelsea’s hours were generous: nine a.m. to midnight. But at two p.m. the lunch crowd was gone and the cavernous space had the bereft look of abandonment.
The hostess saw me, scrolled a bit more, then got off her phone and walked to her station wearing a programmed smile. Young, lovely, perfect body. I wondered how many auditions she’d been on recently.
I told her why I was there.
She said, “Yes, Alex, that’s in the Thames Room. You’re the second to get here, I’ll take you.”
“Taking” meant walking me halfway and pointing to a door.
I opened it on Milo, sitting on the left side of a pale-wood, surfboard-shaped conference table and listening to his phone.
Plain-wrap meeting place, maybe fifteen by fifteen, with white walls and bland nature photo-posters mounted on each of the four walls.
No view here. Windowless.
I sat down next to Milo. He listened for a few more seconds, said, “Thanks,” and put the phone down.
“Anything interesting?”
“Alicia’s back at Martha’s going through the rubble again. She found some more money but nothing huge. Coupla hundred. The fact that Martha hid it all around is interesting.”
I said, “Maybe there was a bigger stash that the bad guy took.”
He nodded and waved a hand around the room. “Glamorous, huh? Think Bel Geddes is trying to tell me something? Panoramas are for the good guys, you get stuck in a closet.”
“Big closet.” Especially for you.
“Funny thing,” he said, “it actually was a closet back when Delaney owned the building and this was his penthouse. Maybe he kept his shoes here.”
“You knew Delaney?”
“Knew of him,” he said. “Unsubstantiated rumors.”
“Nasty stuff?”
“Financial stuff.” He waved a hand dismissively.
The door opened and the hostess ushered three people in. They’d merited a complete escort.
Dr. Wendy Allemande didn’t lead the pack but your eyes go to who you recognize and she looked exactly as she had when I’d seen her at a faculty meeting last year.
Five-five, late thirties, pretty and zaftig, with curly brown hair and an open, lightly freckled face.
In the classroom, she went for jeans and simple tops.
Today she was dressed for the courtroom in a charcoal pantsuit, a white silk shirt with a ruffled front, and gray suede shoes with two-inch heels.
Our eyes met. She shot me a quick smile tinged with anxiety. Not unlike the look she’d given me when I served on her doctoral committee and she was about to take her orals.
Just behind her was Michael Heck. Five-ten, thickset and powerfully built, with a deep tan not suggested by his DMV photo. He wore an unstructured tweed sport coat over a nutmeg-colored T-shirt, black skinny jeans, brown Nikes. His eyes avoided us as he followed Wendy and the leader of the pack.
Bettina Bel Geddes’s strut was fashioned to let the world know she was in charge.
Ditto for her jewelry: diamond earrings, gold bangles, a serious diamond ring on her left hand.
Five-foot-five or so in bright-yellow sandals with four-inch heels, she was a green-eyed redhead and had pushed that fact with a cardinal-red skirt suit.
The skirt ended six inches above her knees.
A lot of women have stopped wearing stockings but Bel Geddes had opted for black hose nubbed by tiny red roses.
Her face was smooth with the calculated beauty of an anchorwoman. The eyes were sea-green, nothing like Milo’s traffic lights. Perfectly mascaraed, with a penchant for flashing that she employed as she studied me. Raising her eyebrows, she shook her head and sat down at the head of the table.
“If you’re Delaware, there’s no need for introductions.”
I smiled.
Bettina Bel Geddes said, “Okay, then let’s get going,” and drew a tiny tape recorder out of her purse. “I’ll be recording these proceedings.”
Milo produced a nearly identical recorder from his attaché case. “Great.”
Bel Geddes said, “Hmm. I suppose I can’t stop you. Though you could always just request a copy.”
“Easier this way, Counselor.”
“Hmm. All right, we proceed.”
Click click of both recorders. Smooth duet, as if choreographed.
Bel Geddes said, “Mister Sturgis.” Meaningful stare.
“Before I allow you to question Michael I’m informing you of the ground rules.
You will be respectful of Michael and nothing you broach will imply any sort of wrongdoing on Michael’s part.
We all know where that led. Abject failure to find the real killer and severe psychosocial ramifications for Michael. ”
She looked at Heck, frowned when he remained impassive, and turned to Wendy.
“A brief summary, please, Dr. Allemande.”
Wendy glanced at me and licked her lips. “I’m still evaluating but the gist is that Michael has experienced some of the common sequelae of incarceration—”
“Needless incarceration,” said Bettina Bel Geddes. “A brutal process based on incorrect assumptions.”
She frowned again as Wendy said, “Basically, there have been problems with sleep and mood.”
I nodded.
Heck began drumming his fingers on the table. Not comfortable with being described as a patient.
Bel Geddes said, “How are you sleeping, Michael?”
“Getting better.”
“But not back to normal.”
“It can get a little sketchy,” said Heck.
Bel Geddes said, “In any event, we’ve documented post-traumatic symptoms.”
“Not PTSD,” said Heck. “When I was in the service I saw plenty of guys with that but I wasn’t one of them. This is more like…”
Bel Geddes said, “The sequelae of injustice. Which is a form of PTSD, albeit different from what was observed while offering service.”
Taking a moment to let that sink in.
No one reacted. Including Heck.
“All right then. It took an unwarranted incarceration based on utterly faulty assumptions to bring you to a place where you hadn’t been before.”
Heck sighed. “Whatever.”
Knitting sculpted eyebrows, Bel Geddes turned to Wendy.
Wendy said, “That’s about it.”
“So far.”
No reply.
The Queen of All Frowns took over Bel Geddes’s face. Amazing what anger can do to beauty.
“Okay,” she said, turning to us. “What is it you need to know from Mike?”
Milo said, “Whatever he thinks could help us.”
Heck said, “Sure.”
Milo said, “Great, Mike, and thanks a ton for doing this. I could understand if you didn’t want to—”
Bel Geddes said, “Talk about an understatement.”
Heck said, “I want to. I wanted to help right from the beginning because I care—cared about Sophie. We weren’t a couple anymore. But we stayed friendly and I’d never do anything to hurt her.”
Tears welled up in his eyes. Heck swiped them away with a sleeve. Angry at displaying emotion. No attempt to milk the situation.
I told myself: Oscar winner or innocent.
Milo might’ve been feeling the same thing, because now it was his turn to frown. He pasted on a smile. “Got it, Mike. Can you think of anyone who might hurt Sophie?”
“I mean,” said Heck. “I guess you guys always look for someone close. Which makes sense. I guess. Unless it’s one of those serial killers who prey on strangers.”
Fixing his eyes on Milo.
“Mike, we’re not even close to guessing. That’s why you’re here. And yes, we do look at the victim’s inner circle. We had no idea you were in it until your DNA—”
Bel Geddes said, “Ancient history. Move on.”
Milo said, “Mike, who else was in Sophie’s inner circle?”