Private (Private 1)

Chapter 55

CRUZ AND DEL RIO trooped into my office. Cruz combed his hair back with his fingers, refastened his ponytail. Del Rio righted the chair Andy had knocked over and sat in it.

“Andy fired us? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I had to tell him about Shelby and the spa. He couldn’t believe it.”

“Ooof,” Cruz said. “I feel for the guy.”

“Me too,” I said. “Ever wish you were wrong?”

“He fired us because you told him the truth, huh?” said Del Rio.

“He’ll change his mind in a few days.”

“You think?” Cruz said.

“So, how are you doing?” I asked them. “We’re still working this case, right? We’re going to find out who murdered Shelby.”

Cruz put a hand in his inside pocket. He withdrew a narrow notebook and started to report. He said that he’d interviewed a woman who worked at Glenda Treat’s spa and that she’d given him the names of two clients who saw a lot of Shelby Cushman.

“They’re both in the entertainment business,” Cruz said. “I did some research. Also, I checked with the New York office. One of the guys, Bob Santangelo, came from Brooklyn. You know him?”

“I know his name. I think I’ve seen him in a couple of movies.”

“Pugnacious type from back east. One of those actors who don’t give TV interviews. Likes to throw his weight around.”

“He saw Shelby a lot?”

“A few times a week, apparently. The other guy is Zev Martin, an A-list director, works for Warner Brothers a lot. People say the A stands for asshole in his case. Apparently, he’s quite in love with himself.”

“Bat Out of Hell,” Del Rio said. “Horror classic, freakin’ masterpiece. I saw it about six times. Martin directed it. Santangelo played the bad guy.”

“Both of them are married,” Cruz continued. “Neither has a record.”

“License to carry?” I asked.

“Negative,” said Cruz.

“You have a preference?”

“Nope.”

“You take Santangelo,” I said to Cruz. “Keep in touch.”

Chapter 56

DEL RIO AND I drove to Warner Brothers studios out in Burbank. I showed my badge at security, then told them to check with the studio head, who was a client. A couple of minutes later, I drove down the wide, bright roadway through the lot, past the commissary and the soundstages, out to the bungalows that were laid out in a campus-like setting.

We found Zev Martin working on his motorcycle to the side of a white house with his name stenciled over the door. He was a small guy in his thirties with tightly clipped facial hair and a barbed-wire tattoo around his biceps.

I introduced Del Rio and myself while Martin squinted up at us suspiciously. “What?” he asked.

“We’re investigating the death of Shelby Cushman,” I said. So far, this line had proven to be a conversation stopper. This time was no different.

“You saw her several times a week,” Del Rio said. “At the Benedict Spa. Did she ever say anything to you about anyone giving her trouble there?”

Martin stood up, wiped his hands on a dirty rag, and said, “You don’t go to see girls like that so you can listen to their problems. Pretty funny idea, actually. Is that what you do?” Martin said to Del Rio. “You pay women to talk about themselves? Why don’t you just get married?”