Box Office Poison

GQ shoot?”

“I don’t know what—”

“Cut the crap!”

My words and tone hit him like a whip. He jumped up, took two agitated steps, then had to go dancing over to the toilet to avoid an oncoming wall. For the next few minutes I couldn’t see him for the moving walls. I could hear an indistinct mumble, but I couldn’t make out any words over the squealing of metal on metal.

A wall cleared and we could see each other. “Get over here. Now.” He did. “Where were you? Opium den? Massage parlor? Knife shop?” He flinched. “Where?”

“Balling my mistress! Okay?”

That took all the outraged wind out of my sails, but only for a moment. A new gust shook me. “God, you are so disgusting.” In a mocking sing-song I chanted, “‘Oh, I loved Michelle. More than life. I would have done anything for her. I would never have hurt her.’ What a crock.”

“No! I did love Michelle. It was just sex with Rachel.” His eyes pleaded with me. “It’s like a smorgasbord. They fling themselves at you. All long limbs and young bodies and soft skin. I’m a male!” He stood up, sat down, knotted his fingers together. “They tell you what you want to hear, stroke your vanity, but they’re not real. They’re just bodies. I always went home to her. She was what mattered. And I never lied to her. I always told her about them.”

“Convenient we can’t ask her.”

It wasn’t like I had known this woman, but I had seen her in films with her bright, crooked smile and perfect comedic timing. Then I pictured her dead on the floor of her kitchen. Granted, I hadn’t seen the crime scene photos, but I had a pretty good imagination, and I had seen just how much blood a human body contains the night Chip had been murdered. This woman had been in her own home with her husband, the man she believed loved her. Then terror. If he had killed her, what had she felt when the man she loved and trusted had come after her with a knife? I swallowed hard, trying to force down the rage.

Kerrinan hung his head, defeat lying across his shoulders. “Fine, nothing I can say will make you believe me.”

“Who is she and where can I find her?”

“Are you going to tell the police?”

“No. You are technically my client.”

“Some court won’t force you to talk? I mean, you’re doing that other Alfar case. Isn’t that a conflict?”

“There is no relationship between the two cases, and I was brought in by your attorney as an investigator. I can’t be forced to violate confidentiality. That doesn’t mean, however, that I can’t and won’t walk away if you keep on neglecting to tell me things.”

* * *

“The temptation is ubiquitous and constant,” Maslin said when we were back in the car.

“So that makes it okay?”

“No, but it makes it understandable. Kerrinan may not be human, but he is male.”

“That’s pretty much what he said.”

“Doesn’t make it less true. We think about sex all the time. We just put up a front to fool you that we have an occasional intellectual thought.” He put the jeep into gear. “So, shall we go see Ms. Steele?”

Rachel Steele lived in Pacific Palisades, but far enough from the beach to be affordable. I studied the face of the young woman who was Kerrinan’s mistress. She was tall and slender with prominent collarbones, and hollow cheeks. A bag lay in one corner of the room overflowing with dance skirts, leg warmers, and toe shoes. Long red hair hung like a curtain to her hips, and she couldn’t have been more than twenty. The smell of patchouli incense filled the room. There was a yoga mat rolled up in one corner, and lots and lots of candles.

Her head jerked back and forth. Looking at me. Looking at Maslin. Back to me. Her expression was two- thirds guilt, one-third defiance, as she said, “Kerri loves me. He was going to leave Michelle.”

I managed to keep control of my features—barely. Maslin, not so much. He let out a snort.

Rachel bounced to her feet, fists clenched at her sides. “Don’t you laugh. Don’t you dare laugh. It’s true. At least it was for us.”

“Damn, wish I had a nickel for every woman who’s ever said that,” Maslin said. I kicked him on the ankle. “Ow.”

“Look, we’re actually trying to help … Kerri,” I said trying to sooth the ruffled feathers. She sank back down on the sofa.

“Just tell us what happened that morning,” Maslin said.

She gave him a look. “Well, what do you think?”

I felt myself blushing. Maslin was undeterred. “So, just the horizontal hula, huh? He didn’t say anything about getting a haircut, hitting a few balls—golf balls this time, killing the missus?”

“No, of course not!” Rachel’s voice throbbed with outrage.

I stepped in and tried a more diplomatic approach. “Was there anything different about his demeanor that morning?” I asked.

The hair swung like sunset clouds blown by the wind. “No, he was a little preoccupied because he had to get to the GQ shoot. But very loving,” she hastened to add.

“Did you do drugs? Anything that could explain a killing rage?” Maslin asked. I gave him an admiring look. Even though we’d discussed drugs at dinner, I wouldn’t have thought to ask that question.

“No. It was early, and we only do pot in the afternoon.” Alarm creased her face. “You won’t tell anybody, will you? I don’t want to get arrested.”

Maslin gave a snort. “It’s not a news flash to the cops that starlets smoke dope. And they’d never handle real crimes if they chased down every starlet with a joint.”

“I am not a starlet. I am a serious dancer.”

“Yeah, right, sorry. And LA is so the bright center of the universe for classical ballet.”

I was beginning to wonder if Maslin’s techniques for getting a story was being rude and annoying until people just blurted out damning or revealing stuff.

I jumped in again. “So there was nothing that morning that might explain what happened that night?”

“No.”

I glanced over at Maslin, and he gave a tiny head shake. “Well, thank you, Rachel, for your time.” I gave her my card. “If you think of anything, no matter how trivial, please call me.”

The apartment complex was built in a square around a central courtyard containing a swimming pool, a few permanent barbecues, and some lawn furniture. Maslin and I walked down the stairs toward the courtyard.

“This establishes motive in a big way,” I said.

“Not that they need any more evidence then they already have,” Maslin said.

“Yeah, but this would really put the nail in his coffin, so to speak.”

“So, where to now?” Maslin asked.

I checked the notes on my phone. “Terra Sushi.”

“Well, that works. It’s time for lunch anyway.”

* * *

Maslin hadn’t been kidding about this stretch of Ventura Boulevard in Studio City being Sushi Row. We must have passed five Japanese restaurants within a four-block range before reaching Terra Sushi, and that didn’t include the unfortunately named Todai. Maslin swung the jeep into the minuscule parking lot, and a valet popped out from beneath the awning in front of the door. Nobody came rushing up with an umbrella—Maslin and I didn’t rate like Jeff.

We made a dash through the rain; my boots and pants were soaked by the time we got to the door. Then we were into the wood-paneled, soft-lit interior of the restaurant. The pungent scent of wasabi hit the back of my nose, and beneath it was the salty promise of the sea. The sushi chefs behind the bar grinned when they saw Maslin.

“Hey, cowboy, how are you?” the older one called. He was short and round and had a sweatband around his bald head just above his eyebrows.

A lovely Japanese hostess led us to a table behind little wooden walls that separated the walkway from the sushi bar but didn’t impede anyone’s view. She seemed to glide rather than walk, and I was fascinated with the