Ten minutes later, I threw my briefcase into the backseat of one of the fleet cars, a Mercedes S class. Rick was at the wheel. He handed me a container of coffee.
“ Shelby was not a hooker. I’m sure she wasn’t. That’s bullshit,” I said.
“You think I’m lying? Why would I lie to you, Jack?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Buckle up,” he said. “Let’s get to the bottom of this. Let’s find out who murdered her and why they did it.”
Del Rio drove the car through the smog-gray morning up into the hills. The neighborhood got richer as we climbed.
Mansions worth millions were set on lush grounds with staggering views. Del Rio slowed the car and pulled up to the high wrought-iron gates in front of one of the great houses in Beverly Hills.
Since the early 1940s, this mansion on Benedict Canyon Road had been owned by a notorious gossip columnist, an Oscar-winning film director, and a Saudi prince.
Now the sprawling Mediterranean-style villa was masquerading as “the Benedict Spa.”
But I knew, the LAPD knew, and men of means from all over the world knew it too-this cliff-hanging spread was a glorified whorehouse, currently occupied by Glenda Treat, madam to the stars and star makers. The landlord was none other than Ray Noccia.
I heard myself say to Rick, “You’re not telling me that Shelby worked here?”
Rick nodded once.
“Ms. Treat isn’t expecting us,” he said. “We have to ask her about Shelby, let it come from the horse’s mouth. I suggest you turn on that charm thing you do so well.”
“I don’t feel too charming this morning.”
“Just work it,” Del Rio said.
Chapter 44
There was an unlocked gate maybe twenty yards down a hill from the so-called spa’s main entrance, and I opened it. With Del Rio behind me, I bushwhacked through Glenda Treat’s side yard, batting away branches as I made my way toward the pool in back.
I stopped at the edge of a flagstone terrace to let Rick catch up, and at the same time, I took in the scene.
An assortment of slender, very pretty young women lay in powder blue chaises, their feet pointing toward a circular swimming pool. I was reminded of an hors d’oeuvres platter. Chicks and dips.
“That’s her,” said Del Rio, jutting his chin toward a forty-something woman with a white-blond ponytail. The visor shading her eyes made her look like a dealer in Vegas.
The moment I fastened my eyes on Glenda Treat, she looked up and saw the two of us.
Ms. Treat had hardly aged since she’d been in the news as “the Don’s Madam” several years back. Arrested for pandering, she had threatened to open her little black book to the media: a long list of leading men, power brokers, and politicians. In the end, she had backed away from the tabloids and quietly done her five-year stretch. When she got out, the story goes, Ray Noccia had presented her with the keys to this place in appreciation for her stiff upper lip.
I tried to imagine Shelby with Ray Noccia and Glenda Treat, and it just didn’t compute. Shelby wasn’t hard and she wasn’t sleazy, not the Shelby I knew, anyway. The Shelby I knew had a funny line for every occasion and would give you the shirt off her back. So maybe that was the problem.
Glenda Treat uncurled gracefully from her lounge chair and came toward me and Rick, sizing us up-and I did the same to her. She obviously liked her cosmetic surgery: green eyes stretched tight, Hollywood thin, pillowy breasts. I wondered if she could actually swim in her pool, or if those artificial flotation devices kept her bobbing at the surface.
She smiled her famously winning smile, which had always seemed a little forlorn to me.
She thought we were johns, of course.
I introduced Rick and myself, then handed her my card.
“I’m not wearing my glasses,” she said.
I told her I was with Private. She knew the firm. Everybody does. She had even heard of me.
“What can I do for you gentlemen, then?” Glenda said. Her smile had lost some of its gleam. “Manicure? Seaweed wrap?”
“I need some information on Shelby Cushman.”
The remnants of her welcoming smile faded to a distant memory.
“I hear she’s dead,” said the madam. “Excuse me.”
She showed me her back and a long stretch of thigh as she bent at the waist to whisper into the ear of a twenty-something brunette at poolside. The brunette picked up a cell phone, then walked away to make the call.
Glenda returned to say, “I have to ask you to leave my property. It’s private as well.”
“Give me one minute, okay?” I said. “This is strictly personal for me. I’m working for Shelby ’s husband. She was a friend of mine.”
“Mr. Morgan, Shelby was a fine masseuse. She could do four or five massages a day and make every one feel special. She started working here after her marriage. I recall that she said she was bored being home alone all day. About what happened to her? All I know is what I read in the LA Times. Of course, we all know what a rag that is.”
“Did anyone want to hurt Shelby?” I asked. “Anyone make any threats?”
“She was popular,” Glenda said. “Miss Congeniality. Everybody liked her, and she thought she was their friend.”
She addressed her last remark over my right shoulder. I turned to see three men coming through French doors out to the patio.
They were casually dressed, with bulges under their armpits. I recognized two of them from the night I met Ray Noccia in my driveway.
One of them, the guy in the lead, was wearing a black shirt, black pants, black jacket, no tie. He locked eyes with me, and I saw that he remembered me too.
“What are you doing here, Morgan? You have an appointment for a massage?”
I held up my palms to show that I wasn’t looking for trouble. But it didn’t matter. Trouble had found me.
“Do I look like I have to pay for a massage?” I said.
Chapter 45
The man wearing all black had mostly been a shadowy presence in my driveway, standing behind Ray Noccia when the don paid me a call. He was muscle, and I could see him better now: in his late thirties, handsome if you like his type, bulked up, and heavily armed.
Glenda smiled in his direction. “Do you know Francis Mosconi, Mr. Morgan? He’s in a related line of work,” she said.
“We’ve met,” I said. “Francis.” I nodded his way.
I also recognized the man directly behind Mosconi. He was Noccia’s driver, the fifty-something gentleman who’d maybe wisely advised me not to refuse a conversation with the boss. I placed him now. He was Joseph Ricci, the don’s cousin, I believed.
A third man followed Ricci and Mosconi out onto the patio. He was young, blond, tanned, and looked like a lifeguard in his yellow polo shirt and khakis.
Mosconi patted me down. A few feet away, Lifeguard was doing the same to Del Rio, who pushed his hands
