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Authors: Linda O. Johnston

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BOOK: Never Say Sty
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“Okay,” I said with a sigh. “But tell him to be on his best behavior. And not to expect me to act anything but civil to him.”
“That’s a start,” she said, and hung up.
 
 
AS I ENTERED the long, low building housing the Yurick firm, Mignon, the receptionist, looked up and smiled. “You have a visitor waiting in your office, Kendra,” she chirped.
Over the months I’d worked here, I’d come to read the numerous nuances of Mignon’s perkiness. Mostly, she was simply an amazingly happy person who wasn’t ashamed to let it show. Other times, she feigned her usual demeanor to hide what was really inside at that less-than-delighted moment.
This, I felt certain, was one of the latter times.
Her lack of genuine enthusiasm told me Dante couldn’t be my caller. “Who is it?” I asked, waiting for her to suggest it was Detective Howard Wherlon or his sidekick in the Sebastian Czykovski murder investigation, Detective Vickie Schwinglan.
“It’s that nice detective,” Mignon twittered. My heart sank as I realized my clairvoyance was in champion mode that day. I attempted, as I walked down the hall between attorney offices on one side and support staff cubicles on the other, to prime myself to handle another interrogation with resignation and ease.
But when I got to my office, inhaled a huge, calming breath, and looked inside, a different detective sat there: Ned Noralles.
Interesting. I didn’t think he was in investigator mode on this particular murder, but maybe he’d convinced his superiors of his innocence, so they permitted him to participate.
“Kendra!” He sounded a whole lot heartier than he tended to be when he planned to rake me over the coals of his questions. “Got a few minutes?”
“Sure.” I sounded nearly as perky as Mignon. “What’s up?”
He wasn’t in his usual dark suit, but still wore his leisure attire of earlier that day when he served as potbelly coach.
“I’m just looking for . . . well, some suggestions. I’ve been a cop for a long time. A detective who conducts investigations. But . . . okay, let me just say it. How does a person whose background is in the legal field—whether a police professional or an attorney—deal with being a murder suspect, even if not at the top of the list? I mean, how did you live with that?”
His face had fallen with each new attempt to spit out what was on his mind. I’d always considered him good-looking. He still was, but his handsomeness was absolutely strained by the difficulties he was dealing with.
“It isn’t easy, Ned,” I assured him sadly. “There’s this prevailing sense of paranoia, like everyone’s buying into those absurd allegations. Sometimes a feeling like, even if you did nothing wrong, you’re being punished for something, but you don’t understand what it is. At least that’s how it was for me.”
“Yeah,” he said. “And there’s this other thing with me. I know how cops think. Sometimes we do stuff to fool suspects into confessing. We can tell lies if we’d like. But of course we have to Mirandize people when they’re actually taken into custody. At least I haven’t undergone that particular indignity. And neither, fortunately, has Nita.”
“Your sister’s an actual suspect, too?”
“Sure. My buds Howard and Vickie made that clear right away. The Noralles siblings both had their feelings hurt by that S.O.B. judge Sebastian and decided to do something about it—one acting alone or both, doesn’t matter. There’d be at least collusion and co-conspiracy.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “They’d even hang it on Porker and Sty Guy as conspirators, too, if they could. Maybe the potbellies worked together to wind that damned harness around the guy’s miserable neck and pull it tight. Pigs are smart, so why not try to convict them, too?”
That latter question was obviously rhetorical, so I didn’t attempt to answer. “I don’t know what to say, Ned, except that I empathize. And if there’s anything I can do to help. . . .”
His expression immediately lightened. Uh-oh. I had the awfullest sensation that I knew what he was going to say.
Hadn’t he once—and not completely in jest—suggested that I act as unofficial consultant to the LAPD in my murder magnet mode?
“That’s why I’m here,” he said. “I know you’re not a pro, a trained detective. All you go on is guts. And intuition. And . . . well, persistence when you think there’s injustice being done. I’ll be working on it, too, of course, unofficially. And this isn’t easy for me, but. . . . Please, Kendra, I’d be eternally grateful if you’d turn your usual insight and whatever the hell else you’ve got going on in our direction. Help me figure out who killed Sebastian Czykovski before Nita and I are hauled in for it.”
Chapter Eight
TALK ABOUT TOPSY-TURVY situations. LAPD Detective Ned Noralles was actually asking the attorney he’d snubbed and snarled at for being too nosy to do exactly what he’d gotten upset about. More than once.
Solving a murder.
But what could I say? We’d developed more than a mutual respect . . . or so I thought. “I’ll try, Ned.” I was surprised to see his dark eyes dampen.
“Thanks, Kendra,” he said softly. “I’ll owe you. And if you would especially look for. . . . Well, never mind.”
I
did
mind. What else was he thinking? I needed all the extra ideas I could get. But when I pressed him slightly, he just shrugged and thanked me all over again.
Even assuming I was successful in determining who’d disposed of Sebastian—a huge assumption—I’d no idea how Ned thought he could repay me what he claimed he’d owe. A Get Out of Jail Free card? I sure as heck hoped I’d never need one of those again, like I had a while back as a suspect in multiple murders.
Meantime, I figured he was probably just being paranoid. There was no indication—at least, that I’d seen—that Nita and he were any more suspect than the rest of us. Even so, I could understand his concern about being on the other side of a murder case.
“Let’s just hope your comrades in arms come to their senses and find Sebastian’s real killer themselves,” I said. “Soon.”
And I’d also hope they’d forget how adamantly they had insisted that I butt out.
 
 
AFTER NED LEFT, I stared at my computer screen for what seemed like eons. I pulled up my e-mail, but my mind wasn’t on it. Instead, it swirled around Sebastian Czykovski and his slaying.
Who hated him enough to hit him hard, then choke him with an animal’s harness? I’d learned from media accounts, my own interrogation, and Ned’s additional insights that whoever it was had apparently taken Sebastian off guard and slammed him against the wall, knocking him unconscious. Thus, the killer wasn’t necessarily someone with strength enough to fatally tighten a strap on a nylon harness around the neck of a healthy, medium-size male who’d be fighting back in self-defense.
I Googled Sebastian once again, but now most of what came up immediately involved his death. Nothing stated emphatically who hated him enough to kill him, although online postings contained multiple speculations on that subject. The upshot was that, as I’d suspected, the less-than-kind Sebastian had earned a lot of enemies in his proudly public animal training and judging life. He had been highly involved in canine agility trials—training dogs for them, judging competitions, and talking about them on lots of TV interviews. He’d even seemed somewhat revered in that field.
Glancing toward the bottom of my computer screen, I discovered I was running late. Time to hurry from the Yurick office to pick up my pup from Darryl’s. I’d hoped to go home and change clothes and freshen up for this evening’s activities—dinner with Dante and Corina.
Maybe that was exactly what my subconscious mind had been saying by not fussing about the hour: I was a fruit-cake for agreeing to accompany these two on an evening out. What could it be but a verbal sparring match between the smart, powerful Dante and the subversive, also intelligent, paparazzo?
And then I got an idea for a potential diversion. As I waved my farewells to the office staff and fled, I called Dante.
“Hi,” I said when I reached him immediately. “We still on for tonight?”
“I’d rather it just be you and me, and not your friend the reporter.” His voice was low and husky, and sent shivers through me that made me glad I wouldn’t be alone with him. Which was another reason I’d called.
“I have an idea where to eat tonight, and why,” I told him.
“Good idea,” he said when I was done. “See you there in an hour.”
 
 
THE PLACE WASN’T extremely convenient, though I didn’t have to go home to leave my exuberant Lexie alone. I headed over the hill after picking her up, departing the San Fernando Valley and heading for Melrose Avenue, one of L.A.’s most trendy locales.
Fortunately, since it was July, the evening temperature was moderate, which meant the outside setting would work well. We were dining alfresco, with dogs.
I’d spoken with Corina, who’d been delighted with the venue, particularly since she’d expected my call meant I was calling off our conclave. “Just wish you’d told me before,” she said. “I’d have hopped home to get my doggy, too. But it’s probably better this way. Three dogs would be even more of a distraction to my interview than two.”
I parked, and Lexie and I headed down the sidewalk to Regalio’s on Melrose. I noticed immediately that my dinner companions already sat at a table in the crowded outside patio area. Dante rose gallantly as we joined them. Wagner traded eager sniffs with Lexie.
“Good to see you, Kendra.” Dante kissed me lightly on the lips in greeting. “Sit here.” He motioned to the chair beside him, facing the street. “I’ve ordered a chenin blanc from a winery I visited last year in France. I hope that’s all right with you.”
Corina Carey, who’d also stood, hadn’t said much after “Hello, Kendra” and “Hi, Lexie.” She wasn’t exactly a shy violet. Tonight she watched Dante—not a difficult chore. The guy was absolutely easy on the eyes. He’d worn a dark suit that went utterly well with his deep brown eyes and black, wavy hair. His smile smoldered as he passed it between Corina and me.
“The wine’s great, Kendra,” Corina informed me as we sat down. Corina, too, had dark hair. Hers was styled in a cute shag. Her soft brown eyes tilted enough to suggest some Asian ancestry. She wore an emerald green pantsuit to show off her slinky figure that looked so good oncamera. I looked around, half expecting to see one of her prize photographers lurking in the background, but one of Dante’s conditions for tonight’s interview had been no pictures. Not this time—and probably not ever.
I sampled the wine. Smooth. Seductive. Seemed utterly appropriate for this small crowd.
We ordered first—salads plus exotic-sounding pasta and chicken dishes to be served family-style.
“Too bad I didn’t know further in advance that we’d be eating here.” Corina leaned over to pat Lexie. She turned to Dante. “I told Kendra I’d have loved to bring my dog, too.”
Dante responded with the obvious. “What kind do you have?”
“A Puli.” Corina’s smile revealed her bright, white teeth. “It’s—”
“A Hungarian sheepdog,” Dante interjected, clearly stealing her thunder, since her smile started to droop.
She obviously expected us to be puzzled, but even I had heard of Pulik—the plural of Puli. “They’re smart,” I said. “Good herders. And that hair of theirs—I like how it resembles dreadlocks, depending on how they’re brushed. Or not.”
“I brush ZsaZsa’s often,” Corina said. “She’s got black fur, and she’s beautiful.”
“You’ll have to show her to me sometime,” Dante said.
“Me, too.” Okay, I’d heard of them, but I’d never seen one.
“Sure,” Corina agreed.
Our salads were served. And as we started to eat, Corina initiated her interrogation.
Dante answered frankly that he was the deep pockets behind the new reality show that I’d helped to dream up—and he’d been pleased with the initial ratings, even before they might balloon because of Sebastian’s death. As they chatted amiably, I allowed my mind to wander, until—
“So you had an argument with Sebastian Czykovski the day before he died?” Corina said.
I glanced at Dante, who’d paused with a forkful of greens near his sensuous mouth. Instead of appearing affronted or defensive, he smiled, took his bite and chewed slowly. “If you’re asking if I killed him, or even had a motive,” he said in a few seconds, “I’d hardly admit either to you.”
“But—” Corina began.
Dante changed the subject to his pet projects, pun intended: HotRescues and HotWildlife. The first saved pets and placed them in new homes, and the second saved wild animals, releasing them into the wild when appropriate, and nurturing them for life when it wasn’t.
Dante handed business cards to Corina and me. “We do damned good work, and my staff should get all the public kudos possible. Come to HotRescues or HotWildlife anytime, Corina, for one of the best personal tours you could ever imagine. Just think of what a great TV show that would be.”
Since her affiliation was with the tabloid show
National NewsShakers
, I suspected she’d be a whole lot more interested if Dante could guarantee a nice, juicy, oncamera big cat mauling. Even so, she seemed surprisingly enthusiastic. “Love it!” she exclaimed. “I’ll absolutely be in touch. Oh, and if you happen to be there on the day of the filming, that would be a major plus in getting it onair faster.”
BOOK: Never Say Sty
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