Love Kills Read online

  SIX

  Murdered? No way. Tink got drunk and fell in the pool.”

  They turned to see Cheyenne Leon standing behind them.

  Kissick snapped, “What are you doing here?” He shouted for the officer who was supposed to be watching her. “Campbell, get out here.”

  Campbell bolted through the French doors. “Yes, sir. I just finished running a background check like—”

  “I asked you to stay with the suspect.”

  “Suspect?” Cheyenne coiled her full lips, revealing pearly white teeth. Standing assertively with a wide stance, she darted her hand toward the wine bucket. “That champagne bottle is empty.” She made the same gesture toward Tink’s body, as if it was a garbage bin on the street that the city had neglected to empty. “She’s been dead a long time. Anyone can see that. I only got back this morning. My friends will vouch for me. I’m the one who called the police.”

  Kissick and Vining both watched her grappling with her wall of words, knowing what the other was thinking. Cheyenne was doing a lot of explaining.

  The coroner’s investigator left. Vining and Kissick muttered good-byes. Vining looked at Tink’s body and was glad to see that Hank had covered it head-to-toe with a thin synthetic-fiber blanket.

  Officer Campbell, who was standing to the side fiddling with her field notebook, found her opportunity to jump in. “I have the information about the friends she says she was with, Detectives.” She handed Vining a piece of paper. “Her background check shows that she has a criminal record.”

  This news didn’t surprise them. Vining held up her index finger, stopping Campbell. She told Cheyenne, “It’s true that you reported finding Mrs. Engleford’s body. After you burned papers in the fireplace.”

  Vining was rewarded when she saw a glint of shock flicker in Cheyenne’s eyes. She unrolled the magazine she was holding and opened it to where she’d stuck one of the burnt parchment fragments.

  Kissick frowned as he looked at the mysterious symbols over her shoulder.

  Vining asked Cheyenne, “What is this?”

  Cheyenne had recovered her tough edge, saying in a singsong voice, “I don’t know.”

  “What about this?” Vining showed her the second burnt piece of paper, which was also covered with symbols.

  Cheyenne raised an eyebrow and smirked, looking bored.

  “Why did you burn these in the fireplace?”

  “I didn’t.” Cheyenne had a second thought. “You can’t prove that.”

  “Maybe I can’t, but I know you did it.” Vining met Cheyenne’s insolent gaze. “You’re hiding something, and I’m going to find out what it is.”

  As Vining flipped the magazine closed, Cheyenne retorted, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  Vining pointed at the patio table and chairs at the far side of the pool. “Sit down.”

  Cheyenne sauntered away. “Look at the detective, showing she can be a hard-ass.”

  “Lady, you don’t know the half of it.” Vining fixed Cheyenne with the dead stare that she’d learned from Kissick, the master. The stare that gave up nothing but that sucked in everything.

  While Officer Campbell was waiting for the right time to reveal her information, Kissick didn’t hide his amusement over the exchange.

  “Go,” Vining said to Campbell, telling her to continue.

  Campbell pulled herself taller and read from her field notebook. “Her address on record is on Malibu Canyon Road in Malibu. No current wants or warrants. Couple of arrests for drug possession and prostitution. Two convictions. Most recent was three years ago.”

  Cheyenne jumped up from the chair and whipped off her jacket, revealing her shapely figure in a tight white tank top. She slapped the inside of one arm, then the other. “I was a junkie, okay? I did heroin and turned tricks to keep myself high all the time. I’ve been clean and sober three years.”

  “Why are you living with a drunk?” Vining asked.

  The question caught Cheyenne off guard. She rapidly blinked her green eyes.

  Vining goaded her. “For someone whose boss just died under suspicious circumstances, you’re not very upset. I would have thought that you’d at least be sad that you’re out of a job. You’re just ticked off about having to deal with us. I don’t know why Mrs. Engleford hired you, let alone let you live in her house. Can you explain that to me, Cheyenne?”

  Cheyenne again seemed sad, like she’d shown briefly earlier. She again raked her long hair over her shoulder and looked at the ends as she chewed her lip. Her shoulders rose and fell as she took in a deep breath, as if settling on a decision. “You should talk to this guy Tink was dating. King Getty.”

  “Getty?” Kissick asked. “Like the oil family Gettys?”

  “He said he was a cousin or something.” She looked up at Kissick from beneath her eyebrows and pouted.

  Vining thought that she couldn’t stop herself from flirting with men.

  “King?” he asked.

  “That’s what he called himself. He wasn’t a king of anything, except BS.”

  Kissick took out his spiral pad. “Do you know where he lived?”

  “On the Westside, I think. His info should be in Tink’s BlackBerry.”

  “What did he do for a living?” Vining asked.

  Cheyenne shrugged. “Movie producer, investor…Whatever guys like him say they do.”

  “Why do you think he might be involved?” Kissick asked.

  “I’m not saying he is. I’m not saying anything other than you might want to talk to him.”

  Vining looked at Kissick. She could tell he agreed that at least Cheyenne had given up that information. “How was Mrs. Engleford’s mood lately?”

  Cheyenne raised her hand as if she couldn’t put her answer into words. “Tink was Tink.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She stayed busy. All the time. People, parties, meetings, lunches…She was always on. Who knew what she was really feeling?”

  “You think she got drunk and fell in the pool.” Kissick made a few notes in his scribbled shorthand and looked up at her. “How often did she drink?”

  Cheyenne shrugged. “Most nights. She liked to drink. Too much. But that’s me. I don’t drink.”

  When Kissick paused, Vining pointed at one of the teak steamer chairs and asked no one in particular. “Why is a cushion missing?”

  Cheyenne took the question to be directed at her and bristled. “I was Tink’s assistant, not her housekeeper.”

  Vining couldn’t resist. “I hope Tink had better judgment in who she hired as a housekeeper.”

  Cheyenne raised her index finger and shook her head, rattling the gold hoops in each ear. “There’s no cause for you to talk to me that way.”

  They turned to see Detective Alex Caspers, who was walking across the patio as if he was entering a yacht.

  The young, perennially tail-chasing detective gave Cheyenne a prolonged once-over and she did the same, twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

  “Hey, Nan. Jim. What do we—”

  They heard a blast of rap music.

  While it played, Cheyenne propped her elbow on the patio table, put her head in her hand, and quietly cursed.

  Kissick pulled out Cheyenne’s iPhone that he’d confiscated from her. He read the display, “Private call.” He answered, “Hello. Hello.” He held out the phone to again look at the display. “Hung up.”

  “You had no right to take my phone and answer my calls,” Cheyenne said. “My attorney’s gonna know about this.”

  “Your attorney,” Vining said.

  “Whoa…Attitude…” Caspers said with admiration.

  Sitting in the patio chair with her long legs crossed, Cheyenne played to the young detective’s interest in her, giving him a head toss, sending her mane flying, then looking away, pretending to ignore him.

  “Who was trying to call you, Cheyenne?” Kissick looked through the phone’s call log. “Private call. Private call. Two other private ca
lls this morning. No calls beyond that. And no text messages. Why did you delete your phone and text message history, Cheyenne?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “We can get your call history from your cell phone carrier,” Vining said.

  “You need probable cause to get a warrant,” Cheyenne shot back.

  “Oh. Said like a lawyer or a criminal.” Caspers smiled crookedly, showing his bright smile, which women found adorable. He was twenty-eight with dark hair and eyes and attractive, well-balanced features, but wasn’t too handsome to be intimidating. He seemed incapable of hiding the effect that Cheyenne was having on him.

  “That would be a criminal,” Vining said.

  “You’d better get off my case or you’re gonna have a big problem.” With her elbow still on the table, Cheyenne lowered her arm and pointed at Vining. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

  “Oh-ho!” Caspers exclaimed. “And who might we be dealing with?”

  Cheyenne raised both hands, palms up.

  “I’ve had enough of this,” Vining said. “Officer Campbell, take Cheyenne to the station.”

  “Station? Am I under arrest?”

  Kissick attempted to tone down the animosity. “Cheyenne, we just want to sit and have a conversation with you in a quiet place.”

  “Unless I’m under arrest, I’m not going.”

  Vining shrugged. “Fine. You’re under arrest.”

  “What charges?”

  “Breaking and entering.”

  “What? I live here.”

  “Your driver’s license has a Malibu address.”

  “I didn’t have time to have it changed at the DMV. This is bullshit.”

  “Campbell, take her to the Detectives Section. Stay with her until we get there.” Vining sensed that Cheyenne’s bluster was an act and that she was afraid. “I need the contact information for her friends in Ventura.”

  Cheyenne stood, snatched her jacket, and put it on. She held her hand toward Kissick. “I need my phone to call my attorney. Carmen Vidal.” She said the name as if uttering it would stop all conversation.

  “Vidal.” Caspers nodded. “That’s high-end representation.”

  “I had no idea that being a personal assistant to a Pasadena socialite paid that kind of dough,” Vining said.

  Cheyenne leveled a gaze at Vining. “Like I told you. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  “You’re dying to tell us, Cheyenne,” Kissick said. “Why not help us and put it out there?”

  Cheyenne shook her head, her smile angled. She put her hands behind her and offered her back to Officer Campbell. “Go ahead. Cuff me. Let’s get this over with. Give the officer my cell phone. I want her to call Carmen Vidal. Have her meet me at the station.”

  Kissick handed Cheyenne’s phone to Campbell, who then pulled her handcuffs off her utility belt and went about cuffing Cheyenne. “Mirandize her. Let her call her attorney and only her attorney. Caspers, what are you doing right now?”

  “Sarge sent me over here to see if you need help. I have to be in court at three.”

  Kissick looked at his watch. “Want to make a run to Ventura and check out Cheyenne’s alibi? It’ll be tight for you to get back in time.”

  Caspers took the paper with the contact information from Vining. “I can do it. No problem.”

  “The way you drive,” Vining said.

  Caspers shrugged. “Hey, did you hear about Vince Madrigal?”

  “Caught it on the radio,” Kissick said. “I’m surprised someone didn’t off him long before this.”

  “You mean the guy with the big mustache and black cowboy hat?” Vining asked.

  “Yeah,” Caspers said. “The hood ornament of bull horns on his Cadillac. Supposedly Elvis gave him that car.”

  “What happened?” Vining asked.

  “My buddy with LAPD Northeast Division told me that he stabbed some girl and she shot him. Two down at once. Happened at some dump in Eagle Rock. She was twenty-two. Priors for drug possession, prostitution, shoplifting. Madrigal could get high-end tail. Why bother with that skank? She had a porn-star name. What was it? Try Me Talbot or something.”

  Cheyenne stopped in her tracks as Officer Campbell was leading her from the area. She swung her head to gape at Caspers. “Trendi Talbot?”

  Caspers pointed. “That’s it. Trendi. You know her?”

  Cheyenne let out a sound of anguish. Her legs crumpled. Campbell tried to keep her on her feet but Cheyenne dropped to her knees. She arched her back and wailed, “Trendi…”

  “How do you know her, Cheyenne?” Vining asked.

  “Not Trendi…” Cheyenne flopped forward, her head against her thighs.

  The three detectives exchanged glances.

  Campbell tried to get her back on her feet, but Cheyenne wouldn’t budge. Her shoulders shook as she keened against the cement.

  Kissick caught Caspers’s eye and hitched his head toward Cheyenne. The younger detective moved to help.

  Vining and Kissick watched them leave at the same time that two coroner techs appeared carrying a collapsible gurney to transport Tink’s body.

  Vining commented, “Cheyenne was right about one thing. I have no clue what we’re dealing with.”

  SEVEN

  Kissick took out his iPhone and brought up a browser. “Let’s see if there’re any news reports about the Vince Madrigal murder. Here’s something. Trendi Talbot, spelled with an I.”

  Vining scowled. “Who would give their baby girl the name Trendi? Now presenting Senator Trendi Talbot or CEO of Verizon Trendi Talbot. I don’t think so. Dooms her from birth to being—”

  “A prostitute?” Kissick offered.

  “Or a porn star.”

  Kissick brushed his fingers against the touch screen. “Nothing more than what Caspers told us. Says Trendi’s last known address was on Malibu Canyon Road.”

  “Cheyenne’s driver’s license has a Malibu Canyon Road address,” Vining said. “Upscale. Won’t find any beach shacks there.”

  “And Cheyenne bragging about her big-ticket attorney, Carmen Vidal.”

  “Maybe the two of them are porn stars or call girls,” Vining said. “But why was Cheyenne with Tink?”

  The coroner techs loaded Tink’s body onto the gurney, pulled up and locked the scissor legs, and pushed it across the patio. One of the techs came over to them with a clipboard.

  Vining and the tech exchanged pleasantries about the weather as Kissick took the clipboard, scribbled on the form attached to it, and handed it back.

  Vining watched as Tink’s body was rolled away. She looked at her watch. “My mom doesn’t go to work on Mondays until two. She usually does her laundry in the morning. I’d like to catch her at home before she leaves.”

  They were alone in the backyard. He looked at her with his deep-set hazel eyes that she loved, full of affection and concern, something she hadn’t realized how much she’d craved in a man’s gaze until he’d made it safe for her to feel vulnerable.

  “Nan, I know you’re tough, but you don’t need to put yourself through having to break this to your mother. I’m more than happy to do it.”

  “Jim, thanks, but I’m okay. I’ll let you know if and when I’m not. I now see how trapped I was when I was chasing the creep who tried to kill me. It was like I was in quicksand. But that’s in the past.” She looked around to make sure they were alone before she let her fingers trail against his hand. “Please believe me.”

  He smiled at her with closed lips. The smile crept into his eyes. “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  Tink’s bedroom shed no light on the cause of her demise but it did trace an outline of her heartache. It was the simple things. One nightstand was crammed with books and magazines, reading glasses, a box of tissues, and a clock, while the matching nightstand on the other side was bare. The three photographs in silver frames on the fireplace mantel would be nice but unremarkable family photos if one didn’t kn
ow Tink’s history.

  One was from Tink and Stan’s wedding day. Vining’s mother had been a guest at the small wedding on the sand at the private Jonathan Club on Santa Monica beach. The photo showed Tink and Stan barefoot on the sand. Behind them, the sun was just above the horizon, and the necklace of Santa Monica Bay was bathed in pink and orange light. A breeze ruffled Tink’s loose blond hair and her simple white knee-length summer dress, its elastic peasant neckline pulled down to expose her shoulders. She carried a small bouquet of pale pink roses.

  The groom was wearing white chinos and a Hawaiian shirt with a floral print. One hand was around Tink’s waist and the other buried behind the bouquet, probably holding hers. They gazed into each other’s eyes, and their joy leaped from the photo. Vining had half-believed her mother’s line that Tink had married Stan for his money. This photo showed two people in love.

  Another photo was of Tink’s son Derek. It had been taken on a fishing trip. Derek was a toothy preteen, grinning broadly as he proudly held up a string of silvery fish in one hand, a fishing pole in the other.

  The last was of Tink, Stan, and an adult Derek snapped in a restaurant booth. Derek had grown into a good-looking young man who took after his mother. He was tipping the edge of a scalloped cardboard base beneath a round birthday cake covered with blazing candles. Reading the inscription on the cake, Vining saw that it was Derek’s twenty-third birthday. Later that year, a drunk driver would broadside his motorcycle.

  “The most important men in Tink’s life dead within two years of each other.” She picked up the photo of Derek as a boy. “How do you move on with your life after that?”

  Kissick had come close to experiencing such a loss. He’d sat by Vining’s hospital bedside while she was in a coma for three days, talking and reading to her, living in a twilight world, wondering if she’d come back.

  He clasped her face between his hands and kissed her. She was at first surprised, but was soon swept up, digging her fingers into his hair and circling her other hand, still holding the picture frame, around his back.

  They parted with small pecks on the lips, like an ellipsis.

  She stroked his cheek, smooth from his morning shave. She liked touching his strong jaw, which for her epitomized his inner and outer strength. She looked into his hazel eyes, always finding more colors and depths, wondering if she’d ever discover everything they held.