country club terrace.”
“Which country club?”
“I was speaking metaphorically. I have no idea if she belongs to any club but it wouldn’t surprise me. Sydney was rich then, so she’s probably richer now.”
“Rich girl playing at the law?” I said.
“Good insight, you must be a psychologist. The first time you met Sydney she’d be sure to let you know where she was coming from. Swinging the Gucci purse, letting drop all the relevant data in machine-gun monologue. Like you were a student and she was teaching Introductory Sydney.”
“She talked about her money?”
“About her daddy the film honcho, her husband the film honcho, all the industry parties she was ‘compelled’ to attend. The sons at Harvard-Westlake, the house in Brentwood, the weekend place in Malibu, the Beemer and the Porsche on alternate days.” He mimed a finger-down-the throat gag.
“When did she leave the P.D.’s office?” I said.
“Not long after the Malley case closed, as a matter of fact.”
“How soon after?”
“Maybe a month, I don’t know.”
“Think it had anything to do with the case?”
“Maybe indirectly. Her name got into the paper and soon after she got a fat private practice offer from Stavros Menas.”
“Mouthpiece of the high and mighty,” I said.
“You’ve got that right. What Menas does is more P.R. than criminal defense. Which makes him the perfect L.A. guy.
“Does she still work for him? She’s got no office listing.”
“That’s ’cause she
“Why?”
He glanced down at his food. “Couldn’t tell you.”
“Burnout?”
“Sydney didn’t feel deeply enough to burn out. She probably just got bored. With all her money there was no reason for her put up with all the shit. When I first heard she quit, I figured she was going to try to get a movie deal out of the case. But it didn’t happen.”
“You figured because her husband’s a film exec?”
“Because she’s like that. Manipulative, out for herself. She’d fly to Aspen for the weekend on a private jet, be at work Monday in a Chanel suit and try to sound convincing about fighting for justice for some dude from Compton. By lunchtime, she’d be dropping names about who sat next to her at The Palm.” He laughed. “I’d like to think she’s not real happy, but she probably is.”
“Did you hear any specific rumors about a movie deal?” I said.
“I do know that she wrangled to get the case.”
“How?”
“By kissing up to the boss. The way it works at the P.D. is whoever’s top of the list gets the next client. Unless the boss handpicks someone for a specific case. I know for a fact that Sydney wasn’t next up on Troy Turner because the guy who was told me he’d been bumped. He wasn’t bitching, he had no stomach for high-profile bullshit. The way he phrased it was ‘The bitch did me a favor.’ ”
“Was she qualified?”
Montez clicked his teeth together. “I’d like to say no, but yeah, she was smart enough. By that time she had three, four years under her belt and her win-loss record was as good as anyone’s.”
“Three or four years out of school?” I said. “I remember her as older.”
“She was older. After she passed the bar she got married, did the mommy bit, waited until the kids were older.” He wiped his mouth and folded his napkin. “When you see her, give my regards.”
“I will.”
“I was kidding.”
I phoned Milo’s desk from the car. He was out and I asked for Detective Binchy.
Sean said, “Hey, Dr. Delaware.”
“Could you get me an unlisted address?”
“I don’t know, Doc, it’s kind of against regulations.”
“Milo asked me to talk to this person, so in a sense I’m a police surrogate.”
“A surrogate… okay. I guess. You’re not going to shoot anyone, are you?”
“Not unless they piss me off.”
Silence.
He said, “Ha. Okay, hold on.”
Lauritz Montez’s rant about Sydney Weider’s lifestyle had cited houses in Brentwood and Malibu but maybe that had been metaphorical, too. Or, she’d defied his rich-get-richer expectations and downsized.
Her listed residence was a smallish, single-story ranch house on La Cumbre Del Mar, on the western edge of Pacific Palisades. Sunny street cooled by Pacific currents, seven-figure ocean view, but by no means palatial. Splintering redwood siding striped the white stucco front. Half-dead sago palms and droopy ferns backed a flat lawn spiked with crabgrass. A shaggy old blue-leafed eucalyptus created gray litter on the grass. The driveway was occupied by a dented, gray Nissan Pathfinder filthy with gull shit.
As I walked to the door, I could smell the Pacific, hear the slow breathing of rustling tide. No one answered my knock or two bell pushes. A young woman across the street opened her door and observed me. When I faced her, she went back inside.
I waited awhile longer, took out a business card, wrote a note on the back asking Sydney Weider to call me, and dropped it in the mail slot. As I returned to my car, she came walking up the block.
She had on green sweats and white sneakers and dark glasses, walked with a stiff gait that threw her hip out at an odd angle. Her hair was chopped short and she’d let it go white. She was still thin but her body looked soft and loose-jointed and ungainly.
I stepped out to the breezeway in front of her house. She saw me and stopped short.
I waved.
She didn’t react.
I stepped toward her and smiled. She thrust her arms in front of her torso in a sad, useless defensive move. Like someone who’d seen too many martial arts movies.
“Ms. Weider- ”
“What do you want?” Her lawyer’s voice was gone, tightened by fear-laden shrillness.
“Alex Delaware. I worked on the Malley- ”
“Who are you?”
I repeated my name.
She stepped closer. Her lips fluttered and her chin quaked. “Go away!”
“Could we just talk for a minute? Rand Duchay’s been murdered. I’m working with the police on the case and if you could spare- ”
“A minute about what?” Ratatat.
“Who might’ve killed Rand. He was shot last- ”
“How would I know?” she yelled.
“Ms. Weider,” I said, “I don’t want to alarm you, but it might involve your personal safety.”
She clawed the air with one hand. The other was balled tight, flat against her flank. “What are you talking about? What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s possible- ”
“Go away go the fuck away!” Shaking her head frantically, as if ridding it of noise.
