“Prema wants to avoid public humiliation.”
“Manipulation,” he said. “If it’s true, think Qeesha planned to get pregnant?”
“Could be. A baby with Donny Rader could kick up her lifestyle.”
“If she held on to her life.”
I said, “Maybe Qeesha wanted more than generous child support. Maybe she thought she could actually replace the Queen Bee. Unfortunately for her, the Queen figured it out and took care of business. That could explain why the bones were treated so cruelly: deconstructing the competition, reducing the problem to a lab specimen in a coldly efficient way. It would also serve as a warning to Donny. Look what I’m capable of when I’m threatened.”
“Where does Wedd fit in?”
“To me he still looks good as Adriana’s killer, because even with doping her up, I don’t see Prema managing to physically restrain another woman, drive her to the park, shoot her. Plus, Wedd’s car was spotted near the scene. Wedd could’ve also dispatched Qeesha-talk about your efficient estate manager. But at some point he turned expendable.”
“Queen Bee tying up loose ends.”
“She’s a tall woman,” I said, “might fit the seat position on the Explorer. Getting Wedd to drive her somewhere wouldn’t be a problem. Attending to her needs was his job. And the spot where he got shot isn’t that far from the compound. Laurel up to Mulholland, hook west to Coldwater, drive a few miles. For someone in good shape, no challenge walking back.”
“Shoot a guy, mosey on home, do Pilates,” he said.
“And maybe ditch the gun along the way.”
He phoned Sean Binchy, ordered him to search Mulholland Drive between Laurel and Coldwater for a.45.
I said, “Qeesha was an experienced con. Had enough street smarts to pick up on any growing tension at the compound. She called in Adriana for support because she was unwilling to give up her dream. Figured if she could hold out until the baby was born, Donny would bond with his child and protect her.”
He said, “Buzz buzz buzz goes the Queen Bee and the Drone wimps out.”
We reached the Seville. He pointed to his unmarked, several vehicles up the row. “Off to garbage patrol.”
“When will you start the surveillance?”
“After the trash reap. Why?”
“I’m kind of into hiking,” I said. “For the exercise.”
He looked at me. “Free country. Hope you get good weather.”
I was back on Coldwater by nine the following morning, had added a small backpack. Inside was a pair of miniature binoculars, two bottles of water, a few snacks.
Being noticed wouldn’t be a problem, just the opposite, but that was good: I was now that guy who parked his Cadillac on the turnoff and was foolish enough to brave oncoming traffic in the name of aerobics.
I’d also brought a companion: Blanche trotted along happily at the end of the short, pink leash she favors when making personal appearances. I made sure to keep her away from the road and she picked up the drill quickly, heeling and adjusting herself to my pace, breathing audibly but easily.
Nothing like a dog to make you look harmless. Especially a small cute dog and there’s nothing cuter than a French bulldog.
And no Frenchie is more appealing than Blanche.
Still, she’s not a setter or a retriever and even with cool weather and ample hydration, I knew my time would be limited by her stubby legs and her flat face.
My first sighting of the compound entrance was at nine eighteen. Sixteen minutes later, I used my phone to record a delivery from an organic market on Melrose. Eight minutes passed before the truck exited.
Just before ten a.m., a dry cleaner from Beverly Hills completed a similar circuit, then nothing for the next half hour. Blanche and I settled in a shady, safe spot up the road. Water for both of us. I ate a PowerBar and she made short but dainty work of a Milk-Bone, burped happily, and grew entranced by flowers, flies, butterflies, bees, potato bugs. A small plane that circled overhead for a few seconds.
We were back at ten forty-eight, watching the entrance to the compound. Seconds later an unmarked white Econoline van with blackened windows passed us, rolling down from the east. No livery number that I could see, so not hired transport. No I.D. of any sort. As it turned up the compound road, I got my binocs out.
An arm shot out and punched the call button. As the van idled, I managed to make out the lettering around the license-plate frame.
There was a 323 phone number on the top slat.
The gate swung open, the van drove in. I called Home Sweet Home’s number, got voice mail for Oxford Educational Services followed by a brief description of the mission statement:
Did that include anatomy and forensic anthropology?
Nine minutes after the Oxford van had entered, it drove back out, headed south on Coldwater. One of the windows was half open. I caught a flash of juvenile face before the glass slid back up.
A field trip?
Scooping Blanche into my arms, I ran back to the Seville.
CHAPTER 46
I caught sight of the van descending Coldwater. A Jaguar and a Porsche traveled between us. Perfect cover as we crossed into Beverly Hills.
The cars kept going as the van turned right at Beverly Drive, edging Coldwater Park and cruising slowly.
The park was small but well equipped, with a shallow rock-stream, a playground, and barbered grass. Toddlers frolicked. Mothers nurtured. Nice place for the youngest of the Premadonny brood-the little blond girl-to recreate. The older kids would probably be bored. Then again, these were children who rarely got out. Maybe swings and slides would be a big thrill.
The van made that moot by rolling past the park. Mansions gave way to small charming houses on narrow lots, as the road grew dim under canopies of shaggy old trees. Potholes appeared. The ambience was more funk than luxe, not unlike the slice of Beverly Glen where I lived.
Fifteen mph signs and speed bumps began to appear every few seconds. No problem for the van; it had been crawling at ten miles an hour, came to a full stop at each bump. I hung as far back as I could without losing visual contact, allowed a gardener’s truck to sandwich in. The new convoy continued for another mile before the van veered right and the truck stayed on Beverly Drive.
Now I knew our destination. Good clean fun for all ages.
Franklin Canyon Park is a hidden slice of wilderness minutes from the self-conscious posing and the hypertensive drive of the city. Six-hundred-plus acres of untamed chaparral, skyscraper cedars, pines, and California oaks surround miles of hiking trails and a central hub bejeweled by a sun-mirror lake. A smaller pond is chock full with ducks and turtles and sunfish and minnows.
I knew Franklin because I used to take my previous Frenchie there when he grew restless. A bully, black- brindle heathen named Spike, he loved to explore. Though his affinity for poultry made the duck pond a challenge.
Packs of feral dogs were rumored to prowl the park’s upper reaches but we’d never seen them. We did spot chipmunks, squirrels, the occasional late-rising skunk, lizards, and snakes, including a rattler or two that Spike dismissed as unworthy of his attention. A couple of times our presence provoked a chorus of ululation from distant
