It was late afternoon by the time I reached Jane Granger’s apartment in Redondo Beach. She had to be making good money in the escort business because she lived in a luxury complex only a block from the beach. The property was lushly landscaped with banana plants and giant birds of paradise bordering the front and magenta bougainvillea spilling over the railings.
I rang the bell, and a few seconds later someone checked me out through the peephole and said, “The sign in lobby says: No Solicitors.”
“I held up my badge. “I’m an LAPD homicide detective.”
She opened the door and said, “Is this about Pete?”
“How’d you know?”
“There was short story in the Times. A friend of mine saw it and called me. Ann Licata also called. Told me to cooperate with you. Come on in.”
The living room was tidy and spare, with just a white canvas sofa, a gleaming glass and brass coffee table in front, and, on the opposite wall, a white brick fireplace with an empty mantel. In the corner was a sad-looking ficus tree with withered leaves. The room had the featureless, generic quality of a motel.
Granger was a tall redhead with tired eyes and too much makeup. She was dressed as if she was about to leave for a date with a client: black Spandex miniskirt, high heels, and pink Angora V-neck sweater revealing the lacy edge of a black push-up bra that showed a lot of cleavage. In her twenties she had probably been beautiful. Now in her mid-thirties, she was still shapely, but the life she’d led was starting to take its toll.
We sat on opposite ends of the sofa and I asked, “How’d you meet Pete?”
She reached into her purse, lit a cigarette, crossed her legs, and leaned back. When she caught me checking out her legs, she smiled slyly. “I don’t want to say anything that might get me into trouble. You understand what I’m saying, detective?”
I gave her the same spiel I gave Licata, assuring her I was not interested in prostitution, only homicide.
“Pete was a good guy. I’ve been real torn up about this.”
I studied her for a moment, watching her take languorous drags of her cigarette. She didn’t seem particularly upset.
“So how’d you meet Pete?”
“I’m just about to make a stupid mistake,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to be honest with a cop.” She took another long, slow drag of her cigarette and fanned away the smoke. “My girlfriend and I were having drinks one night at a restaurant on the water in San Pedro. Pete was at the bar, drinking a beer. We talked. I found out he was really hurting for money. Said he had to come up with some cash in a few days for his child support. Pete was a big boy. Seemed street smart, like he knew how to handle himself. I told him I needed a driver because my regular driver just moved to Houston, that he could make a few hundred bucks for a couple of hours work. He agreed.” She uncrossed her legs. “I didn’t find out until later that he was an ex-cop.”
“What, exactly, did he do?”
“He took me to the date, walked me to the door, checked out the place, made sure it seemed safe. We each had our cells. I’d text him with codes. We had a code for: the call was cancelled; I was in danger; I suspected the client was a cop; the date was over; call the office; send over another girl. All kinds of things.”
“Wasn’t he worried about getting busted?”
“Well, he wasn’t doing anything illegal. He just dropped me off, picked me up, and drove me around. He made it a point never to handle any money or negotiate with clients.”
“How long did he drive for you?”
“Started about a year ago. Stopped driving a few months ago.”
“Why’d he stop?”
“He never felt right about it, him being an ex-cop and all. So when he caught up on his child support, he bailed.”
“Did he drive for anyone else?”
“No. Just me and Adriana.” She flashed me a coy look. “I only do doubles.”
“You’ll have to explain. This isn’t my area of expertise.”
“That’s two girls and one client. We start with a show. Me and Adriana get it on. Then, when the client’s ready to roll, I retreat to the bathroom and Adriana finishes him off.” She pulled back her shoulders and smoothed her skirt. “I’m not a prostitute. I don’t have sex with clients.”
I decided not to engage her in a philosophical discussion on what qualified as prostitution. “Was your relationship with Pete strictly business?”
“It was at first. But we started dating just about the time he stopped driving for me.”
“Can you think of anyone he might have encountered when he was driving who might have a reason to kill him?”
She shook her head. “Like I said, he had nothing at all to do with the clients.”
“Did you ever see anyone threaten Pete?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“Let me describe a scene to you. It’s a Saturday night. You and Pete are cooking dinner at his house. Pete’s daughter is there. A man comes to the door. He pulls out a gun. He threatens Pete. Does that refresh your memory?”
She stubbed out her cigarette. “Yeah.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me when I asked you?”
“Because this whole thing is turning out to be a big fucking mess, and I don’t want to get involved in a murder investigation.”
“You are involved.”
“I can see that.”
“Listen, I understand your concerns. But if you keep things from me, I’ll keep digging and digging. I’ll keep coming back over here. I’ll end up questioning everyone you know. The easiest way for you to do this is to just tell me the truth. Because if you do, I’ll be out of here, I’ll move on to the next step of my investigation, and I won’t come back.”
She slipped an unlit cigarette in her mouth. “His name is Ray Abazeda. He owns the escort service.”
“I thought Ann Licata owned the escort service. The business and the phone number are registered in her name.”
“She’s the front man, the straw man, whatever you call it,” Granger said. “Ray’s the real owner, the one who rakes in the cash. Ann’s just an employee. Ray’s smart. He doesn’t want vice cops or the IRS on his back, so he keeps a low profile and pays other people to take the risk. Fucking camel jockey.”
“Where’s he from?”
“One of those places back in the Middle East. I can’t remember. But he’s been here for decades.”
“Why’d he threaten Pete?”
She sighed theatrically. “I was Ray’s girlfriend. At least one of them. But I got to know Pete pretty well when he was driving me. We started dating. He didn’t want me doing the escort thing anymore. So I left the business. I left Ray. He was jealous, but that wouldn’t have been enough for him to go after Pete. What really pissed him off was he thought that Pete was stealing one of his girls. He thought Pete talked me into leaving Elegant Escorts because he was trying to set up his own escort service-a competing service-and I’d be one of his girls. That really pissed Ray off. Even though I didn’t make it with clients, I was one of his best earners,” she said with a hint of pride. “I really put on a show. I’ve got a lot of repeat clients.”
“Any truth in what Ray was accusing Pete of?”
“No way. But Ray’s a crazy motherfucker. He wouldn’t listen. He was afraid that if someone poached one of his girls and went out on his own, he’d be seen as weak. And this is a tough business. He was afraid that other competitors would start poaching his girls and stealing his clients. So he had to show that he was a hard guy. So that night he confronted Pete with the gun. Told him that if he didn’t stay away from his girls and his business, he’d fucking kill him.”
“What’d Pete do?”
“Pete just marched to the door, smacked the gun out of his hand, shoved him off the porch, and slapped the
