Sidney Sheldon's Angel of the Dark Page 4

  Danny knew he ought to press her, but he couldn’t bear to upset her again. Clearly she didn’t want to talk about it. She’ll tell me when she’s ready.

  “I see. And what about you, Mrs. Jakes?”

  “Me?”

  “Was there anyone who might conceivably have held a grudge against you, personally?”

  Angela Jakes thought about this for a moment. “You know, I never thought so. Although, as you can imagine, Detective, with an age difference like the one between me and Andrew—over fifty years—people are quick to judge. I know there were many in Andrew’s social circle who distrusted me. They assumed I was after his money. I imagine you thought the same thing.”

  “Of course not,” lied Danny, avoiding her eyes.

  “I tried to persuade Andrew to leave me out of his will, to prove to people our marriage was never about money. But he wouldn’t hear of it. He said the naysayers were bullies and one should never give in to bullies.”

  “Is that why you gave all his money to charity? To prove people wrong?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe that was part of it, subconsciously.”

  “Did your husband know that you were planning to give everything away when he died?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “It might have hurt his feelings. Andrew wanted me to have the money, and I wanted him to be happy. But the truth is, I have no use for that sort of wealth.”

  Without meaning to, Danny raised an eyebrow.

  Angela Jakes laughed, a warm, mellifluous laugh, like honey oozing off a spoon. “You look dubious, Detective. But really, what on earth would I do with four hundred million dollars? I like to paint, I like walking in the canyons. Those things don’t cost millions. Far better for it to go to people who need it, who can really make use of it. In some small way, it makes me feel as if what happened wasn’t entirely in vain.”

  She looked down at her hands again and Danny could see she was fighting back tears. Instinctively, he reached out and put a hand over hers. He was embarrassed to admit it, but the intimacy felt wonderful. Electric.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  Danny jumped. Lyle Renalto’s voice had shattered the mood like a stone crashing through a windshield.

  “What are you doing here?” the lawyer demanded.

  As he stood in the doorway, Renalto’s handsome features were twisted into an angry mask and his shoulders thrust aggressively forward. He was wearing an identical suit to the one he’d worn at the hospital, with a pale blue silk tie that matched his eyes. Danny didn’t think he’d ever been less pleased to see a person in his entire life.

  “A police interview is going on,” he replied coldly. “And as usual, Mr. Renalto, you’re interrupting. May I ask what you’re doing here?”

  “That’s easy,” Lyle replied, “I live here. Didn’t Angel tell you?”

  Danny turned to Angela. “He’s the friend you’re staying with? You never mentioned it.”

  She shrugged. “You never asked. Lyle was kind enough to offer me a place to stay while I recuperate. As I told you, he’s been a tremendous support through all of this.”

  Lyle Renalto said curtly, “If you’re done harassing Mrs. Jakes, Detective, I’ll be happy to show you out.”

  “Detective McGuire is not harassing me,” said Angela. “He’s been perfectly polite.”

  “Hmm.” Renalto sounded unconvinced.

  Ignoring him, Danny said, “I have one more question for you, Mrs. Jakes, if you don’t mind. You mentioned that you first met Mr. Jakes at an art class.”

  “That’s right.”

  “May I ask what your name was at that time?”

  Angela glanced nervously toward Lyle Renalto. “My name? I don’t understand.”

  “Your maiden name,” Danny explained. “Before you and Mr. Jakes were married.”

  “Oh!” She looked palpably relieved. “I wondered what on earth you meant for a moment.” She fixed Danny with the chocolate eyes for a third and final time. “Ryman. My maiden name was Ryman.”

  THE ROOM WAS SMALL AND DRAB and claustrophobic, and the smell of day-old Chinese takeout was overpowering. Detective Henning thought: Stolen art isn’t the booming business the media makes it out to be.

  Roeg Lindemeyer, an art fence turned occasional police informer, lived in a dilapidated single-story house in one of the more run-down Venice walk-streets, narrow, pedestrian-only alleyways that ran between Ocean Avenue and the beach. A few blocks farther north, 1920s “cottages” like Roeg’s had been renovated by hip, young West L.A. types and were changing hands for seven hundred grand or more. But not here. This was Venice Beach as it used to be: dirt-poor. Roeg Lindemeyer’s “showroom” was as seedy and impoverished as any junkie’s squat.

  “So? Have you seen any of them?”

  Henning watched impatiently as Lindemeyer leafed through the insurance photographs of the Jakes miniatures. The fence was a wizened hobbit of a man in his midfifties, his fingers black with tobacco stains. He left thumbprints on each of the images.

  “What’s it worth to ya?”

  With distaste, the young detective pulled two twenty-dollar bills out of his wallet.

  Lindemeyer grunted. “Hundred.”

  “Sixty, and I won’t report you for extortion.”

  “Deal.”

  Greedily, the older man stuffed the cash into his pocket and handed back the now smeared photographs.

  “So?” Detective Henning repeated. “Have you seen those miniatures on the black market or haven’t you?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s it? ‘Nope’? That’s all you got for me?”

  Lindemeyer shrugged. “You asked me a question. I answered it.”

  Henning made a lunge for his money. Lindemeyer cringed.

  “Okay, okay. Look, Detective, if they was for sale, I woulda seen ’em. I’m the only guy on the West Coast who can move that niche, Victorian shit. You know it and so does everybody else. So either your boy’s skipped town or he ain’t selling. That’s real information, man. Maybe he wanted ’em for personal use.”

  A psychopathic, homicidal rapist with a love for obscure nineteenth-century portraiture? Detective Henning didn’t think so. “Maybe he had a buyer lined up already,” he mused aloud. “Then he wouldn’t have needed your services.”

  “Mebbe.”

  “Do you know of any prominent collectors who might commission a job like this?”

  “I might.” Lindemeyer eyed the sergeant’s wallet.

  It was going to be a long and expensive afternoon.

  “COULD YOU DO ME A FAVOR and check again?”

  Detective Danny McGuire flashed the receptionist the same winning smile he’d used on the nurse at Cedars, but this time to no avail.

  “I don’ need to check agin. I checked awready.”

  Today’s gatekeeper at the government records office on Veteran was black, weighed around two hundred pounds, and was plainly in no mood to take shit from some dumb-ass Irish cop who figured he was God’s gift to women.

  “We got no records for no Angela Ryman. Not Ryman RY, not Reiman REI, not any Angela Ryman. No births, no marriages, no deaths, no Social, no taxes. Not in California.”

  Danny’s mind was flooded with doubts. One by one, he tried to rationalize them away.

  Maybe she was born out of state.

  Maybe she and Jakes got married in the Caribbean, or in Paris. Folks with that kind of money don’t just run down to city hall like the rest of us. The marriage certificate could be anywhere.

  It doesn’t mean anything.

  Even so, walking into the administration offices of Beverly Hills High School half an hour later, the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach remained.

  “I need the records of a former student.” He tried to force some optimism into his voice. “She would have graduated eight or nine years ago.”

  The male clerk smiled helpfully. “Certainly, Detective. What was the young lady’s name?”

  �
�Angela Ryman.”

  The smile faded. “Well, I’ve been here ten years and that name doesn’t ring a bell with me.” He opened up a tall metal filing cabinet and pulled out a drawer marked Ru–Si. “I don’t suppose you have a picture?”

  Danny reached into his briefcase. He handed the man a shot of Angela that his officers had taken from the house. She was wearing her wedding dress and looked even more radiant than usual, her perfect features aglow with love and joy, her dark hair swept back from her milk-white face, her chocolate-brown eyes dancing.

  The clerk said, “Oh my. Now, that’s a face I wouldn’t forget in a hurry. No, I’m sorry. That girl was never here.”

  “YOU’RE HURTING ME!”

  Lyle Renalto was gripping Angela Jakes by the shoulders so tightly that his fingernails bit into the flesh.

  “I’m sorry, Angel.” He released his grip. “But you have to get out of here. Now, today, before he comes back.”

  Angela started to cry. “But I…I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Of course you haven’t,” said Lyle more gently. “I know that. You know that. But McGuire won’t understand.”

  Angela hesitated. “Are you sure he won’t? He seems like such a nice guy.”

  “I’m sure,” said Lyle firmly. Pulling an overnight bag out of the closet, he handed it to her. “Get some clothes. We may not have much time.”

  DETECTIVE DANNY MCGUIRE WOKE AT FIVE in the morning. He’d gone to bed at two and barely slept. His mind was racing.

  Angela Jakes had lied to him. About her name and about her education. What else had she lied to him about?

  And why?

  Why would she fake a name and a past to the man who was trying to catch her rapist and her husband’s killer? A man who was trying to help her? There could only be one reason. Angela Jakes must have something in her past that she was ashamed of. Deeply ashamed of. The obvious thought popped into Danny’s mind:

  Had she been a hooker back in the day? Was that the “unhappy life” Andrew Jakes had rescued her from?

  It was a familiar enough story in L.A.: young, beautiful, small-town girl comes to Hollywood with dreams of making it as an actress. Falls on hard times. Hooks up with the wrong crowd…

  Yet whenever Danny pictured that angelic face, those eyes so full of trust and goodness, he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Andrew Jakes had picked up his bride on Hollywood Boulevard. He hadn’t believed Angela Jakes was a gold digger either, even when all the evidence pointed to it. I was right about that. I gotta trust my instincts more.

  But what were his instincts telling him now?

  That was the problem. He had no idea.

  After leaving the high school yesterday, he’d driven around for an hour, trying to figure out his next move. The obvious way to go would have been to drive back to Lyle Renalto’s place and confront Angela on the spot. With any other witness, Danny wouldn’t have thought twice. But he couldn’t bring himself to grill the lovely Mrs. Jakes in front of her odious attorney, who would doubtless insist on remaining glued to her side. If she did have guilty secrets, and who of us didn’t, she deserved a chance to confess them in private. Danny would understand. After everything she’d just been through, he owed her that much sensitivity at least.

  So instead Danny had driven back to the station house to brainstorm with the rest of the team. Only it was actually more of a shit storm. Every lead his men had been chasing seemed to have turned into a dead end. Henning’s Venice art expert had come up with a big fat doughnut on the miniatures. The insurance scam angle looked less and less promising, as the only people who could possibly benefit from a staged robbery would be the Jakeses themselves, one of whom was dead, while the other had given away all her money. Two of Danny’s officers had been checking out the lucky charities on the receiving end of Angela Jakes’s generosity. Both seemed totally kosher, with sparklingly transparent accounts. A sophisticated computer program had gone through every violent rape in the L.A. area in the past five years, looking for any connection with art or jewelry thefts, or any connection at all that might link one of those suspects to the Jakes crime scene. Nothing. It was the same story with forensics. Prints: nothing. Semen analysis: nothing.

  Danny pulled on a pair of sweatpants and stumbled into the kitchen to fix himself a strong cup of coffee. It was still dark outside. The tree-lined, suburban street in West Hollywood where Danny had lived for the past six years was empty and as silent as the grave. Was Angela still asleep? Danny pictured her, dark hair spilling over a soft white pillow, her glorious body warm and naked beneath Lyle Renalto’s sheets. Was she in the guest bedroom? Christ, he hoped so.

  He remembered Lyle’s contemptuous comment at the hospital: “For a detective, you’re a pretty poor judge of people. Angela and I aren’t lovers.”

  Detective Danny McGuire hoped with all his heart that Renalto’s words were true.

  He looked at his watch: 5:20.

  If I drive over there now, they’ll still be asleep. I can see for myself which beds were slept in.

  He jumped into the shower.

  IT WAS SIX A.M. ON THE dot. The same uniformed maid who had been on duty yesterday answered the door. Danny thought, Poor woman. How early does she have to be at work?

  The maid looked at Danny and thought, Poor man. How early does he have to be at work?

  “I’m looking for Mrs. Jakes.”

  “Mrs. Jakes not here.”

  “Okay, look, I know Mr. Renalto’s your boss. And I know he’s not exactly thrilled about my questioning Mrs. Jakes, especially at this time in the morning. But this is a murder investigation. So I need you to please wake Mrs. Jakes, and Mr. Renalto if you have to.”

  “No, you don’t understand. She not here. She leave last night. You’re welcome to come in and search the house if you no believe me.”

  Unfortunately Danny did believe her. His heart began to race unpleasantly.

  “Left? Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know. She have a suitcase. Mr. Renalto drive her to the airport.”

  Danny’s career flashed before his eyes. I should have come straight back here yesterday. I would have caught them. Now my key witness has flown the coop to God only knows where.

  “What about Renalto? Did he leave with her?”

  The maid looked surprised by the question. “Of course not. Mr. Renalto, he is here. He is asleeping upstairs.”

  Danny pushed past her, bounding up the ornately carved staircase two steps at a time. Double doors at the end of the corridor clearly led to the master bedroom. He kicked them open. The sleeping figure under the covers didn’t stir.

  “Okay, asshole. Where is she?” Danny marched toward the bed. “And you’d better have a good fucking answer or I am going to book you for obstruction of a murder investigation and personally see to it that you never practice law in this town again.”

  Grabbing the heavy silk counterpane, Danny yanked it off the bed.

  And really, really wished he hadn’t.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TWO YEARS EARLIER…

  SOFIA BASTA HUNG UP THE PHONE and hugged herself with happiness.

  Her husband was coming home. He’d be here in an hour.

  Husband. How she loved saying the word, turning it over in her mind and on her tongue like a piece of succulent candy. They were married now. Actually married. Frankie, her only friend through the long, dark, desperate years in New York. Frankie, the most beautiful, brilliant, perfect man on earth. Frankie, who could have had anyone, had chosen her, Sofia, to be his bride. Most mornings she still woke up and felt nervously for her wedding band, unable quite to believe her good fortune. But then she reminded herself.

  I am Sofia Basta, great-granddaughter of Miriam, a Moroccan princess. I’m special. Why shouldn’t he have chosen me?

  Their apartment was modest, a two-bedroom condo in the Beverly Hills postal district, but Sofia had made it warm and welcoming, delighting in creating the perfect nest for F
rankie to come home to. Brightly colored cushions and throws adorned the couch in the living room, which was flooded all day long with blazing California sunshine. How Sofia loved that sunshine, after eighteen grim, overcast years in New York! The grimy city, the loneliness of the children’s home. Sofia’s life had been a nightmare back then. But it all seemed like a dream now, a story that had happened to someone else.

  And what a story it was.

  Sofia’s mother, Christina, had been a drug addict and sometime hooker, as ill equipped to take care of her children as she was to take care of herself. But it had not always been like that. Christina Basta grew up in great wealth, first in Morocco and later in Paris, where her parents sent her to an exclusive girls’ boarding school. Tall and slender as a gazelle with creamy skin and mellow, searching brown eyes, the spitting image of her grandmother Miriam, Christina quickly caught the eye of the Parisian modeling scouts who hung around the Rue Du Faubourg looking for fresh talent. By sixteen years of age Christina was working almost full-time. By eighteen she was living in New York, sharing a model apartment with three other girls from her agency and indulging in all the myriad pleasures the city had to offer.

  Christina Basta’s burnout was rapid and catastrophic. First came cocaine. Later it was heroin. At twenty, after one missed job too many, Christina was dropped by her agency. By now estranged from her family, and too proud to ask for help, she turned instead to “boyfriends” to fund her ever-growing habit—in reality dealers and pimps, who dragged her deeper and deeper into hell.

  Sofia and her twin sister, Ella, were the result of Christina’s third pregnancy. Christina had tried to abort them, as she had the other babies, but the procedure was botched and both babies survived. Born in the Berwind Maternity Clinic in Harlem, and abandoned there by their mother that same night, the Basta twins spent a few short weeks together before Ella, the prettier baby of the two, was adopted by a local doctor and his wife. From then on, Sofia began her life as she was destined to continue it: alone.

  But not completely.

  When Sofia was six years old and living at the St. Mary’s Home for Girls in Brooklyn, the staff at the home received word, via a top-flight Madison Avenue law firm no less, that Sofia’s mother had died. Christina had left a “small bequest” to her daughters. As the doctor and his family had moved away, taking Ella with them, it was decided that the bequest should go to Sofia.