“You understand, I’m sure,” she said.
Nothing Gunner tried would make her more conversant. Neither overplaying the “official” nature of his inquiry, nor appealing to her sympathies as a former co-worker of a brutally murdered young woman. She had one thing to tell him, and one thing only: that Nina’s work had been substandard, her reviews steadily declining, and therefore the head of her department had been forced to let her go. That was all there was to it.
Her termination couldn’t possibly have been racially motivated? Gunner asked her.
Ishimura’s answer was a flat and emphatic
no.
Then she really clammed up.
Gunner thanked her for her time and left.
He didn’t realize the receptionist out front was not the same one he’d seen coming in until he reached the main lobby of the building downstairs. He stepped off the elevator and there she was, the original Bowers, Bain and Lyle receptionist, standing around watching all the elevator doors like somebody waiting for a lunch date. A tall, very prim and proper black woman in her late forties, if appearances weren’t deceiving, she closed on Gunner quickly and said, “Mr. Gunner, hello. May we talk? Please?”
She took his arm, leading him around the corner, and said, “I’m Allie. The receptionist who signed you in upstairs. Remember?”
“Sure,” Gunner said. “What—”
“I’m sorry, but we can’t talk here. If I’m seen, I’ll lose my job for sure. Is your car parked downstairs?”
“Yes. But—”
“I’ll walk you down. This won’t take long.”
They rode the parking elevators down to Gunner’s level and found the red Cobra where he had parked it. They’d had to share the elevator car with two other people, so the ride down had been a silent one, even though Gunner was quite obviously the only one in the car the receptionist had ever seen before.
“Oh, my. It’s a convertible,” she said, eyeing the topless, two-seater Cobra with unabashed disappointment. Apparently, a panel van with tinted glass would have been much more to her liking.
“I think we’re safe down here,” Gunner told her, in a hurry to hear what she had to say.
She had to survey the four corners of the entire parking level before she could bring herself to agree with him. Then she said, “You’re a lawyer, right? Somebody Nina’s family hired?”
“Actually, I’m a private investigator. But—”
“I was taking somebody a note and passed by Olivia’s office and heard you talking. It sounded like you were trying to find out why she was fired.”
“That’s right. I was.”
“But Olivia wouldn’t tell you anything. Would she?”
“She told me Nina had been a substandard worker. Beyond that, no. She wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“And you believe that? That Nina was a substandard worker?”
“Can you think of any reason why I shouldn’t?”
“Yes. I can.” She studied his face intently, looking for some form of proof that he could be trusted. “Nina got fired for blowing the whistle on Mr. Stanhouse. Her boss.”
“Let me guess: Because he was a racist.”
“A racist?”
“I’d heard somewhere her firing may have had something to do with her being black.”
The receptionist shook her head, said, “No. It didn’t have anything to do with that. Nina got fired for claiming Mr. Stanhouse was sexually harassing her. He kept coming on to her, so she reported him to Mr. Bowers. But instead of firing
him
, they fired
her.
It was very, very unfair.”
“Stanhouse was sexually harassing her? How?”
“I don’t know, exactly. Nina never talked to me about it, directly. But what I heard is that he’d follow her home sometimes, and call her there after hours. Things like that. It wasn’t the physical kind of harassment. It was just … well, an obsession with him, I guess. He liked her, and he wanted her to like him. Only Nina wasn’t interested.”
“And she told him so.”
“Of course. Many times. But he wouldn’t get the message, so she went to Mr. Bowers. And that’s when she got fired. It didn’t have anything to do with her work performance. It was just office politics.
Sexual
politics.”
“Is this Mr. Stanhouse in today, by any chance?” Gunner asked.
“Yes. But you’re not—”
“Going back up there to see him? No. I’m not. But if you can tell me what kind of car he drives, and what level employee parking’s on in this building …”
Allie said she could do that, no problem.
And she did.
Stanhouse drove a late-model Acura. The muscular 3.2TL four-door sedan, in jade green with gleaming chrome wheels and gold accents. It suited him perfectly. Like the car, the thirtyish black man exuded style and refinement, yet was somehow physically unextraordinary. His designer suit was impeccably tailored, and the shine of his shoes was almost mirrorlike, but his hair was wiry and uncooperative on the sides, and his face was that of a favorite uncle, round and soft and wholly without menace. Exactly what the receptionist at Bowers, Bain and Lyle had told Gunner he would be: a sheep in wolf’s clothing.
Gunner watched him get off the elevator at the employee parking level, then followed him over to the Acura, the car all but proving without question that he’d latched on to the right man. Stanhouse’s approach to the Acura was cautious, as if he’d been expecting to find another vehicle in his parking place in its stead. Frowning, he stood away from the car and thumbed a key chain control three times. Testing his car alarm.
He had opened the driver’s-side door to take a look inside when Gunner finally made his presence felt.
“The car’s okay,” he said, walking up to where the attorney could easily see him.
Stanhouse turned around, only slightly startled, and said, “What’s that?”
“I said the car’s okay. No need to be concerned.”
Stanhouse pulled his head up and out of the car to stand up and face him directly. “I got a call upstairs that the alarm was going off,” he said. “One of the attendants here—”
“Yeah, I know. That was me,” Gunner said, stepping forward with his ID open in his right hand, holding it out so the other man could get a good, clear look at it.
“I don’t understand,” Stanhouse said.
Gunner explained it to him, leaving Allie the receptionist out of the picture, as he had promised he would.
“Her mother sent you over here, didn’t she?” the attorney asked afterward, clearly agitated.
“Who, Mimi?”
“I think that was her name. This was her idea, wasn’t it? Dredging all this crap up again, even after Nina’s death.”
Gunner shook his head, said, “She’s not the reason I’m here, no. But I’m curious as to why you would think she might be.”
Stanhouse shook his own head and said, “It doesn’t matter. I’ve got nothing to say to you. Or her. Not now, not ever.”
Gunner shrugged. “Okay. Lock your car up and come on, we can ride back up to your office together.”
Stanhouse just stared at him.
“You don’t want to talk to me, it’s cool. I’ll talk to Mr. Bowers. Or Mr. Bain. Or Mr. Lyle. One of those fine gentlemen should be able to give me a moment of their time, don’t you think?”
“I can’t speak for Mr. Bowers. But seeing Mr. Bain or Mr. Lyle would be quite a trick. They’ve both been dead for over ten years now.”
“Really?”
“Really. And as for Mr. Bowers, even if he did agree to speak with you, I’m sure he’d only tell you what I’m about to tell you now. Which is that Nina was a very disturbed young woman whose allegations against me were completely false. Not only that, but they were the exact opposite of the truth.”
“Meaning what? That
she
harassed
you
?” Gunner had to grin at the very idea.
“That’s right. She did,” Stanhouse said.
Gunner started to laugh.
“You can laugh if you like. But that’s how it was. It was a classic case of the secretary having a crush on the boss. Only Nina took it too far. When I refused to go to bed with her, she tried to have me fired, claiming
I
was the one pressuring
her
for sex. And it might have worked, too, if Mr. Bowers hadn’t known me as well as he does.” He closed his car door, reactivated the alarm, and said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, that’s all I’ve got to say about the matter. You want to talk to Mr. Bowers about it, you’re welcome to try. But don’t hold your breath.”
He started forward, intending to march right past Gunner for full dramatic effect, but the investigator held his ground, barring his path.
“Let me by,” Stanhouse said. He looked like a man who might spontaneously combust if he was forced to talk about Nina another second longer.
“When we’re done,” Gunner told him.
Gunner thought the attorney’s first move would be a push of some kind, a hand on his shoulder or in the middle of his chest, but to Stanhouse’s credit, he threw a right hand at Gunner’s left eye instead, getting right down to business. No girlish preliminaries for him. It was a good right hand too: quick and straight and full of bad intent. Gunner had little choice but to admire it as he feinted left, ducking under it, and drove a right hand of his own into the other man’s mid-section, hard, instantly reducing him to a doubled-up non-combatant choking for air.
“That’s assault,” Stanhouse gasped, falling to his knees.
“Actually, that’s self-defense,” Gunner said, glancing about briefly to see that they were still all alone on this parking level. “Assault is when I attack you first. Without provocation. You can look it up when you get back upstairs, you don’t believe me.”
He gave Stanhouse a few more seconds to gather himself, then crouched down to be at eye level with him again and said, “Look. Let’s not get crazy, all right? I brought you down here to talk to you, not ruin your suit. Answer a few questions for me, and I’ll be on my way. You can do that, can’t you?”
Stanhouse struggled to his feet, slapping away Gunner’s attempts to help him. “I’ve already told you everything you need to know,” he said, brushing himself off. “I didn’t sexually harass anybody. Nina—”
“I tell you what, Stanhouse. You don’t hand me any more of this shit about Nina being madly in love with you, and I won’t laugh in your face anymore. What do you say?”
“You don’t think she
could
have loved me. Is that it?”
“She could have loved you, sure. Anything is possible. But to the point of obsession? To where it was affecting her work and jeopardizing her employment? Not a chance.”
“How the hell would
you
know? You didn’t know her.”
“Actually, I did. She and I were good friends, once. Very good friends.”
He’d said it just to see how Stanhouse would take it, this not so subtle implication that he and Nina used to be lovers, and for the most part, he got the results he had thought he might: Stanhouse seemed shaken.
“But that’s neither here nor there,” he went on. “Who Nina was or wasn’t in love with isn’t nearly as important to me as who killed her, and why. As it must be to you, I’m sure.”
“Who killed her? What are you, nuts?” Stanhouse asked. “That sonofabitch she was married to killed her. Who else?”
“That’s exactly what I came here to find out: the who else.”
“Jesus. You think
I
did it? Is that what you think?”
“Well, put yourself in my shoes for a minute. You’re telling me she was a mentally disturbed woman under your direct supervision whose constant sexual advances were making your life a living hell, and whose baseless charges of sexual harassment almost cost you your job. That doesn’t sound like a motive for murder to you?”
“No!”
“It doesn’t?”
“No! You’re out of your mind to even suggest such a thing. I could never have hurt Nina. Never!”
“Because you were in love with her.”
“No! I mean—” He stopped himself, the words to come catching in his throat like a vulgarity he was not allowed to speak.
“What
do
you mean, Mr. Stanhouse?” Gunner asked.
The attorney shook his head and said, “I’m all through answering questions. You want to talk to me again, you’re going to have to do it with my attorney present. My secretary will be happy to give you his number.”
He paused a moment to see if Gunner had anything to say about that, then said, “Now—I’m leaving. Same way I came down here. You want to stop me, let’s go.” He waved Gunner forward playfully. “Maybe this time I can fuck
your
clothes up a little.”
Gunner had to grin, so impressive was the. other man’s pluck. “Relax, counselor. I’m through with you. For now.” He made a show of stepping aside to grant Stanhouse passage, and Stanhouse took advantage of it, striding slowly past him like a one-man victory parade, chest puffed out and chin held high.
Gunner didn’t laugh out loud until he was long gone.
“You got to call this guy Goody,” Mickey said, “before he drives me to an early grave.”
Gunner had called him from the Tommy’s Original hamburger stand on Beverly and Rampart downtown, where he was eating lunch, right after he’d left a message for Matt Poole out at Southwest. He was fairly certain Poole wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to know—what ballistics had determined about the make and model of shotgun that had been used on Nina—but he thought it was worth a try anyway. The one Agnes Felker had been waving around looked like a twelve-gauge Browning. If Nina had been killed with something like that …
Well, coincidences just didn’t come that big.
So he gave Poole a call and left a message, then called Mickey afterward, and that was what he heard the minute the barber answered the phone and realized who was calling: “You got to call this guy Goody.”
“Forget about him. I’ll call him later,” Gunner said. “What about Trini Serrano? She call me back yet?”
“Yeah, she called. She said she’d be available to see you anytime after one, you wanna come by her place. She gave me the address, in case you didn’t have it. You want it?”
“No thanks. I’ve got it. Anything else?”
“Nothin’ except this guy Goody. He’s called this mornin’
twice.
First at eight, then eight-thirty, mad as hell ’cause you ain’t called ‘im back yet. I know you say it’s nothin’, man, but it don’t sound like nothin’ to
me.
Sounds to me like this man’s ass is in some serious trouble, he don’t get ahold of you soon.”