“Nicole, would you rather come to the police station and spend a few hours with me and Sergeant Boxer? We can hold you as a material witness.”
Her eyes welled up. “I don’t bring my friends here.”
Conklin pressed on.
“Have you seen anyone on or near the grounds who struck you as out of place?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“What about those star tours? Do the tourists come into the garden?”
“No, and they don’t come into the house either. It’s strictly an outside-the-front-gate lecture series.”
“Thank you, Nicole. I need your contact information.”
Conklin smiled, gave her a pad and a pen. Watched her write, took back the notepad, and handed her his card.
“I’ll need the gardener’s name and number, and if you think of anything, anything, call me anytime.”
“I will certainly do that.”
Conklin nodded at the tech who was photographing one of the grave markers.
“We’ll be here for a while. Until we know who those seven victims are and the circumstances of their deaths, we’ll be turning over every stone.”
Chapter 22
I’D GROWN UP seeing Harry Chandler’s face in both huge Hollywood productions and tight, well-produced independent films. He was sexy, had terrific range, and was convincing as a hero and as a villain.
I’d checked out Chandler’s bio before getting on the road to South Beach Harbor, and as I’d expected, his story was now colored by the disappearance of his high-society wife, presumed dead. Much had been written about Chandler’s trial and acquittal, a story as dramatic as any film since Citizen Kane.
Popular opinion had it that even though the evidence wasn’t there, Chandler had nonetheless been involved in the crime. He had made a few pictures since he’d been found not guilty of murder, including the iconic Time to Reap, a cynical look at the meltdown of the global economy.
Chandler had won an Oscar for that performance. His second. I have to admit, I was eager to see him in real life.
It was only a four-mile drive from Vallejo Street to South Beach Harbor and the yacht club, both of which were part of the gentrification of the industrial area that had started in the 1980s.
I took Pierce to Broadway, then took a right to the Embarcadero. To my left was the bay. I saw sailboat masts showing above the yachts filling the harbor.
I parked my car in the lot, then found the security guard inside the harbor office at the entrance to the South Beach Yacht Club. He wrote down my name and badge number, made a call, and I went through a gate and found Chandler’s boat, the Cecily, at the end of a pier. It was a sleek, eighty-foot-long modern yacht, Italian make, a top-of-the-line Ferretti, so impressive it actually made me imagine a life in a super-luxury craft on the bay.
I walked down the pier and found Harry Chandler waiting for me, sitting in a folding chair at the foot of his slip. He saw me at the same moment I saw him; he put down his newspaper, stood up, and came toward me.
Harry Chandler looked to me like an aging lion. He was bearded and his face was lined, but he was still handsome, still the star who’d made female moviegoers all over the world fall in love with him.
“Sergeant Boxer? Welcome aboard.”
I shook his hand, then felt a little charge when he put his hand on my back and guided me to the gangway. I climbed the steps to a covered outdoor cabin on the main deck that was furnished in white sofas, sea-green-glass tables, and teak appointments all around.
Chandler told me to make myself comfortable. I took a seat while he went to the refrigerator under the bar and poured out bottles of water into two chunky crystal glasses of ice.
When he was sitting across a coffee table from me, he said, “I read about this — what would you call it? This horror that happened yesterday. And Janet called, nearly hysterical. If you hadn’t phoned I was going to call the police myself. I’m at a loss to understand this.”
I kept my eyes on the actor as he spoke. I’d seen his handsome face so many times, I felt as if I knew him.
Was he telling the truth or giving a performance? I hoped I could tell the difference.
I showed Chandler Jane Doe’s picture and he half turned away, then dragged his eyes back to the photo.