He colored again and his eyes bounced around. This guy was no smooth psychopath, but he was hiding something.
“Guess so,” he said.
“Can you tell me where you were on the night Lisa was murdered?”
He stared at her. Touched his forehead, wiping it, though it was dry. Now his eyes were big and frightened- exactly the expression Petra had drawn on her pad. Look, Dad, I’m a prophetess, too!
“I was with another woman.” Saying it just above a whisper.
“Could I have a name, please?”
Breshear smiled. A sick, guilty, dirt-eating, totally unattractive smile. “That’s kind of a problem.”
“Why’s that, sir?”
“Because I’m married and the woman wasn’t my wife.”
“If she can be discreet, so can I, Mr. Breshear.” Petra waved her pen.
“I’d rather not,” he said. “Look-I’m going to be straight up with you, Detective Connor. Because I don’t want you finding out somewhere else and thinking I was hiding anything. Lisa and I had a short-term thing, but it was no big deal.”
“A thing.”
“We slept together. Seven times.”
He’d counted. A scorekeeper?
“Seven times,” she said.
“A one-week thing.”
She wanted to say: Now, tell me, Darrell, was it once a day for seven days, or did you double up a few days and take a break? “A one-week thing.”
“That’s it.” The amber eyes bounced. “Actually, we really didn’t even sleep together. Strictly speaking-God, this is embarrassing.”
“What is?”
“Talking about the details-I guess if you were a man it would be easier.”
She grinned. “Sorry about that.”
He was staring into his coffee cup again and looked ready to slide under the table.
“So,” said Petra, “how long into Lisa’s employment did this thing occur?”
“A month ago, six weeks.”
That matched Patsy K.’s recollection.
“So you were intimate,” said Petra, softening her voice, trying to keep him on the edge but still willing to talk. “But you never slept together.”
“Right,” said Breshear. “I never stayed over at her place, and obviously, I couldn’t take her to mine.”
“Where’d you go?”
The blush was deeper than ever. A nice rusty mahogany. It gave him some depth, actually made him more appealing.
“Jesus-is this really necessary?”
“If it relates to your relationship with Lisa and to your whereabouts the night she was murdered, I’m afraid it is, sir.”
“And you have to write this all down?”
“If what you tell me shows you had nothing to do with Lisa’s death, there’d be no reason for anyone to find out.” A crock, everything went into the file, but she closed the pad anyway.
He rubbed his temples and studied his coffee some more. “Man… okay, the night Lisa was murdered, I was with a woman named Kelly Sposito. Her place.”
“Address, please?” said Petra, opening the pad.
He recited a number on Fourth Street, in Venice.
“Apartment number?”
That question seemed to bother him even more, as if specificity drove home her seriousness.
“No, it’s a house-”
“And you were at Ms. Sposito’s house from when to when?”
“All night. Ten P.M. to six A.M. Before that, from around five to six, we had dinner at a restaurant-a Mexican place near the studio. The Hacienda, right down the block, on Washington Boulevard.”
“Ms. Sposito works with you?”
Nod. “She’s an editor too.”
Ah, the rub. Lots of rubbing on the job.
“So you never went home and your wife didn’t suspect anything?”
“My wife was out of town-she’s a salesperson, travels a lot.”
Mr. Take-Charge-Politely Darrell was emerging as the editing room stud. Meaning there were probably plenty of other “things” he didn’t want unearthed.
“Do you have to call Kelly?” he said.
“Yes, sir. Do you know where she is?”
“At work. Is that it?”
“Almost,” said Petra. “Can you tell me who Lisa’s coke source was?”
“No,” he said. “Absolutely not.”
“No one at the studio?”
“I have no idea. No one at Empty Nest, that’s for sure.”
“Because?”
“Because I know everyone and they don’t deal drugs.”
“Okay,” said Petra. “But I imagine it probably wouldn’t be any big deal finding someone at the studio to supply, would it?”
“Oh, come on,” he said, angry now. “You think ’cause it’s the industry we’re just running around partying all day. It’s a business, Detective. We work hard as hell. I’ve never seen anyone on the lot try to sell anyone else dope, and Lisa never talked about her source. In fact, the first time she snorted she offered me some and I told her, ‘I don’t want you doing that in my car.’?”
“But she continued to snort anyway,” said Petra. “In your car.”
“Well, yes. She was an adult. I couldn’t control her. But I didn’t want any part of it-for me.” He held the cup with both hands. “You want a confession? I’ll give you one. I’ve had my share of problems with alcohol. Been sober for ten years and intend to stay that way.”
The amber eyes were flashing. Righteous indignation that looked real. Or he should have been on film rather than splicing it. Or on stage — singing his heart out.
“All right,” said Petra. “Thanks for your time.”
“Sure,” said Breshear. “Call Kelly, fine. Just not my wife, okay? Because she was out of town, couldn’t help you. Lisa and I were friends, that’s all. Why would I hurt her?”
“Just friends, except for that one week.”
“That was nothing,” he said. “A passing thing. She was lonely, kind of down, and it just so happened things weren’t going so well between me and my wife. We worked late, one thing led to another.”
He gave a you-know-how-it-is shrug.
One thing had led to seven others.
Seven things had led to another. Petra said, “But you never stayed together overnight. Unlike the situation with Kelly Sposito.”
“That’s because Lisa didn’t want to. It was a point of pride with her-she was independent, doing her own thing.”
“Where did the two of you go?”
“Nowhere. Just-we-oh, Jesus. All right, here’s the complete picture: It all happened in my car. We went out for a bite and on the way back to the lot, Lisa asked me to take a little drive, toward the beach. We took PCH, ended up near the old Sand Dune Club. She asked me to park; I had no idea what was going on. Then she pulled out that tube and snorted.”
“So it was powdered cocaine, not crack.”
