Johnson swerved, narrowly missing a semi in the left-hand lane. From the other end of the line Goodman heard a wild screeching of brakes, followed by a stream of the sort of language no one’s grandmother ought to hear.
When Johnson finally came back on the line he sounded winded, like he was gasping for breath. ‘You are kidding me, right?’
‘I wish I were,’ Goodman sighed. ‘I followed her to his office yesterday.’
>
‘That fat bastard …’ Johnson muttered. It was the pot calling the kettle black, but Goodman decided this was no time to quibble over insults.
‘According to Nikki, she hired him to come up with some answers. Because we haven’t given her any. And because she’s tired of being treated like a suspect.’
We’ve given her plenty of answers, thought Johnson. But she doesn’t like them because they all point back to her.
His mind scrambled to process this new information. Why had Dr Roberts hired Derek Williams? If Johnson was right, and Nikki was behind these killings herself, then it made no sense for her to hire a PI. Unless she’s using him to dig up dirt on us? So she can discredit our investigation and get away with murder. Literally.
His head started to swim. Part of him wanted to share these doubts with Goodman. But his partner already thought he was biased against Nikki. This latest theory would be the icing on the cake. On the other hand, he couldn’t sit by and do nothing while she instructed the appalling Williams to trample all over their investigation like a goddamn elephant.
‘We have to stop him,’ he told Goodman.
‘At last, something we agree on,’ Lou replied. ‘The question is how?’
Both men were silent for a moment. Then Johnson said, ‘One of us needs to pay him a visit.’
‘Not one of us,’ said Goodman. ‘Both of us. We’ll talk about it when you get back here.’
Goodman hung up and began placing the transcripts of the Kovak trial back in the file.
So. It looked as though he and Johnson were partners again, albeit uneasy ones. It was a small step in the right direction. He remembered his father’s old advice about keeping your friends close but your enemies closer. Lou Goodman had always tried to live by those words.
They were one of the reasons he was still alive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Derek Williams flipped awkwardly through the latest copy of Angelino Magazine, sneaking regular glances at the clock. He was in the waiting room at Haddon Defoe’s private medical practice in Beverly Hills, his ample backside ensconced in an expensive Italian leather armchair. The room, in Williams’ view, was self-consciously ‘fancy’, as if the prints of silent movie stars lining the walls, or the exquisite Venetian glass vase full of peonies on the coffee table could make up for the outrageous fees Defoe charged his private patients.
He was aware that for-profit work was only a small part of what Haddon Defoe did for a living – Williams had done his homework and was familiar with the doctor’s tireless work helping the city’s addicts and providing basic healthcare services for the homeless. Not to mention his private but extensive donations to African American causes in some of LA’s roughest neighborhoods. On paper at least, the man was a borderline saint. Williams had no reason to begrudge him his fancy Beverly Hills office, or his luxurious house in the Palisades Riviera, or his priceless collection of silent movie memorabilia. But a part of him couldn’t help but chafe at the pretentious opulence of this waiting room, all Diptyque scented candles and silk cushions and piped classical music drifting out from state-of-the-art Bose speakers.
‘Mr Williams?’
Haddon’s beautiful secretary, a coffee-colored goddess with coltish legs and a dazzling smile, gestured to the door behind her desk.
‘Dr Defoe will see you now. If you’d like to go through?’
Unpeeling himself from his seat with an embarrassing squelching sound, Williams lumbered through into Haddon Defoe’s office.
‘Mr Williams, hello! How can I help?’
Defoe’s unexpected warmth put the PI even more on the back foot. Stepping out from behind his desk in rolled-up shirtsleeves, smiling broadly, Haddon offered Williams his outstretched hand. ‘You wanted to talk to me about Doug Roberts?’
‘That’s right.’ Williams pressed his clammy palm against Haddon’s dry one. ‘His wife – his widow, I should say – has received some pretty unpleasant threats. She’s my client,’ he added, by way of explanation. ‘I’m wondering whether the person making them might have had some connection to her late husband.’
‘Someone’s been threatening Nikki?’ Haddon’s expression darkened. ‘She never mentioned that to me.’
‘Would she be likely to?’ Williams asked casually. ‘Are the two of you close?’
‘Well, I …’ The question seemed to catch Haddon off guard. ‘Do the police know about these threats?’ he asked, dodging it.
Williams gave a snort. ‘The police? Oh yes. They know. But let’s just say keeping Dr Roberts safe doesn’t seem to be at the top of their priority list. That’s why she hired me.’ He handed Haddon his card. ‘That and other reasons.’