A Death In Beverly Hills by David Grace Read Free Book Online

said, the guy's a prick. He cheated on his wife and he lied to his mistress about his wife. That doesn't make him a killer."
    "So you think somebody else did it and framed Travis by burying Marian's body in the same place where he was driving his dune buggy?"
    Steve took a bite of pastrami, his eyes darting around the room, drawing out the silence until Cynthia decided that it was his way of telling her that he wasn't going to discuss the case. She picked up the last wedge of her own sandwich.
    "Nobody cares what a semi-disbarred attorney thinks," Steve said half a minute later.
    "I care."
    "Okay, then in that case, I think he probably did it."
    "But you're not convinced."
    "I'm not on the jury. I don't have to be convinced."
    "If you found out something that proved Travis didn't do it, would you turn it in?" Cynthia's asked in a nonchalant tone.
    "You think I'd let an innocent man go to prison?"
    "He's a prick, you said it yourself. He lied to his girlfriend. Probably hit his wife. Cheated on her at least. And . . . ." Cynthia let the sentence drop.
    "And what?"
    "Well, you know the rumors."
    "What rumors?"
    "Nothing," Cynthia said quickly, "just malicious gossip."
    "Gossip about what?"
    "I shouldn't have said anything."
    "But you did. Now finish it," Steve demanded.
    "I'm sure it isn't true," Cynthia began after a long pause, "but there were rumors that Tom and Lynn went out a few times after he met her at one of her family's charity functions. She never mentioned him to you?"
    "It looks like Cynthia Allard, Girl Reporter, is back in town," Steve said, his voice flat, harsh. Standing, he dropped a twenty on the table.
    "Steve, I'm sorry." Cynthia grabbed his hand. "It's this job, sometimes things just slip out. I really do want to be your friend." Steve jerked his hand away. "Let me make it up to you. If you ever need anything, even if it's just a friend you can talk to, call me, please."
    "I'll have the waitress call you a cab," Steve said in a tone as dead as clay and turned toward the door.

Chapter Nine

    Steve barely noticed the drive home, his arms and legs operating on automatic pilot like so many pistons and gears while his mind replayed the last time he had seen Tom Travis. It had been at the La Paloma Grill up in Malibu Canyon. Two miles east of the Pacific Coast Highway the villagers liked to think of themselves as residents of another world, someplace rural and organic and as remote from the grit of Los Angeles as Catalina island is from the mainland shore.
    They had driven up in Lynn's crimson Mercedes SL. Steve remembered tossing the keys to the all-American kid at the valet parking stand. At his age Steve would have been thrilled to get behind the wheel of an eighty thousand dollar car. Jaded by Ferraris, Bentleys and quarter million dollar Aston Martins, the boy looked at the Merc with no more interest than he would have given his grandma's Toyota.
    Behind La Paloma's main building lay a patio sheltered by pale stucco walls which in turn were almost hidden beneath bougainvillea, wisteria, and climbing roses in sprays of purple, white and butter gold. Steve remembered everything about that night in exaggerated colors. Lynn's dress floated in his memory, a lustrous cobalt that matched the glimmering blue of her eyes.
    The patio seemed a fairy garden sunken beneath the bowl of the night. Candles flickered within crystal lamps and here and there in the shadows twenty dollar cigars pulsed like oversized lightning bugs. Tom Travis had reserved a table two-thirds of the way across the glazed brick patio, directly opposite the restaurant's rear doors. Muted strains of a string quartet drifted on the breeze, a counterpoint to cricket chirps and distorted voices which all twisted together like the babble of a small stream. When they reached the table Travis gave Lynn a dazzling smile, stood, and kissed her cheek. Steve glanced at the empty fourth chair.
    "Great to see you guys. Steve, right? Tom Travis." Travis's palm