I didn't have to even look into the Elliot file to see what had happened. I knew. Case a.s.signments were generated by random selection in the chief judge's office. The Elliot case had obviously been initially a.s.signed to Bryce Andrews's court and Vincent didn't like his chances there. For starters, Andrews would never allow bail on a double-murder case, let alone the hard line he would take against the defendant when it got to trial. So Vincent hired the judge's wife as co-counsel and the problem went away. The case was then randomly rea.s.signed to Judge James P. Stanton, whose reputation was completely the opposite of Andrews's. The bottom line was that whatever Vincent had paid Carney, it had been worth it.

"Did you check?" I asked Lorna. "How much did he pay her?"

"She took ten percent of the initial advance."

I whistled. Twenty-five thousand dollars for nothing. That at least explained where some of the first quarter million went.

"Nice work if you can get it," I said.

"But then you'd have to sleep at night with Bryce Andrews," Lorna said. "I'm not sure that would be worth it."

Cisco laughed. I didn't but Lorna did have a point. Bryce Andrews had at least twenty years and almost two hundred pounds on his wife. It wasn't a pretty picture.

"That it on the visitors?" I asked.

"No," Lorna said. "We also had a couple of clients drop by to ask for their files after they heard on the radio about Jerry's death."

"And?"

"We stalled them. I told them that only you could turn over a file and that you would get back to them within twenty-four hours. It looked like they wanted to argue about it but with Cisco here they decided it would be better to wait."

She smiled at Cisco and the big man bowed as if to say "at your service."

Lorna handed me a slip of paper.

"Those are the names. There's contact info, too."

I looked at the names. One was in the dog pile, so I would be happily turning the file over. The other was a public indecency case that I thought I could do something with. The woman was charged when a sheriff's deputy ordered her out of the water on a Malibu beach. She was swimming nude but this was not apparent until the deputy ordered her out of the water. Because the charge was a misdemeanor, the deputy had to witness the crime to make an arrest. But by ordering her out of the water, he created the crime he arrested her for. That wouldn't fly in court. It was a case I knew I could get dismissed.

"I'll go see these two tonight," I said. "In fact, I want to hit the road with all of the cases soon. Starting with a stop at Archway Pictures. I'm going to take Cisco with me, and Lorna, I want you to gather up whatever you need from here and head on home. I don't want you being here by yourself."

She nodded but then said, "Are you sure Cisco should go with you?"

I was surprised she had asked the question in front of him. She was referring to his size and appearance-the tattoos, the earring, the boots, leather vest and so on-the overall menace his appearance projected. Her concern was that he might scare away more clients than he would help lock down.

"Yeah," I said. "He should go. When I want to be subtle he can just wait in the car. Besides, I want him driving so I can look at the files."

I looked at Cisco. He nodded and seemed fine with the arrangement. He might look foolish in his bike vest behind the wheel of a Lincoln but he wasn't complaining yet.

"Speaking of the files," I said. "We have nothing in federal court, right?"

Lorna shook her head.

"Not that I know of."

I nodded. It confirmed what I had indicated to Bosch and made me more curious about why he had asked about federal cases. I was beginning to get an idea about it and planned to bring it up when I saw him the next morning.

"Okay," I said. "I guess it's time for me to be a Lincoln lawyer again. Let's. .h.i.t the road."

Twelve

In the last decade Archway Pictures had grown from a movie industry fringe dweller to a major force. This was because of the one thing that had always ruled Hollywood. Money. As the cost of producing films grew exponentially at the same time the industry focused on the most expensive kinds of films to make, the major studios began increasingly to look for partners to share the cost and risk.

This is where Walter Elliot and Archway Pictures came in. Archway was previously an overrun lot. It was on Melrose Avenue just a few blocks from the behemoth that was Paramount Studios. Archway was built to act as the remora fish does with the great white shark. It would hover near the mouth of the bigger fish and take whatever torn sc.r.a.ps somehow missed being sucked into the giant maw. Archway offered production facilities and soundstages for rent when everything was booked at the big studios. It leased office s.p.a.ce to would-be and has-been producers who weren't up to the standards of or didn't have the same deals as on-lot producers. It nurtured independent films, the movies that were less expensive to make but more risky and supposedly less likely to be hits than their studio-bred counterparts.

Walter Elliot and Archway Pictures limped along in this fashion for a decade, until luck and lightning struck twice. In a s.p.a.ce of only three years Elliot hit gold with two of the independent films he'd backed by providing soundstages, equipment, and production facilities in exchange for a piece of the action. The films went on to defy Hollywood expectations and became huge hits-critically and financially. One even took home the Academy Award as best picture. Walter and his stepchild studio suddenly basked in the glow of huge success. More than one hundred million people heard Walter being personally thanked on the Academy Awards broadcast. And, more important, Archway's worldwide cut from the two films was more than a hundred million dollars apiece.

Walter did a wise thing with that newfound money. He fed it to the sharks, cofinancing a number of productions in which the big studios were looking for risk partners. There were some misses, of course. The business, after all, was Hollywood. But there were enough hits to keep the nest egg growing. Over the next decade Walter Elliot doubled and then tripled his stake and along the way became a player who made regular appearances on the power 100 lists in industry minds and magazines. Elliot had taken Archway from being an address a.s.sociated with Hollywood pariahs to a place where there was a three-year wait for a windowless office.

All the while, Elliot's personal wealth grew commensurately. Though he had come west twenty-five years before as the rich scion of a Florida phosphate family, that money was nothing like the riches provided by Hollywood. Like many on those power 100 lists, Elliot traded in his wife for a newer model and together they started acc.u.mulating houses. First in the canyons, then down in the Beverly Hills flats, and then on out to Malibu and up to Santa Barbara. According to the information in the files I had, Walter Elliot and his wife owned seven different homes and two ranches in or around Los Angeles. Never mind how often they used each place. Real estate was a way of keeping score in Hollywood.

All those properties and top 100 lists came in handy when Elliot was charged with double murder. The studio boss flexed his political and financial muscles and pulled off something rarely accomplished in a murder case. He got bail. With the prosecution objecting all the way, bail was set at $20 million and Elliot quickly ponied it up in real estate. He'd been out of jail and awaiting trial ever since-his brief flirtation with bail revocation the week before notwithstanding.

One of the properties Elliot put up as collateral for bail was the house where the murders took place. It was a waterfront weekender on a secluded cove. On the bail escrow its value was listed at $6 million. It was there that thirty-nine-year-old Mitzi Elliot was murdered along with her lover in a twelve-hundred-square-foot bedroom with a gla.s.s wall that looked out on the big blue Pacific.

The discovery file was replete with forensic reports and color copies of the crime scene photographs. The death room was completely white-walls, carpet, furniture and bedding. Two naked bodies were sprawled on the bed and floor. Mitzi Elliot and Johan Rilz. The scene was red on white. Two large bullet holes in the man's chest. Two in the woman's chest and one in her forehead. He by the bedroom door. She on the bed. Red on white. It was not a clean scene. The wounds were large. Though the murder weapon was missing, an accompanying report said that slugs had been identified through ballistic markings as coming from a Smith & Wesson model 29, a .44 magnum revolver. Fired at close quarters, it was overkill.

Walter Elliot had been suspicious about his wife. She had announced her intentions to divorce him and he believed there was another man involved. He told the sheriff's homicide investigators that he had gone to the Malibu beach house because his wife had told him she was going to meet with the interior designer. Elliot thought that was a lie and timed his approach so that he would be able to confront her with a paramour. He loved her and wanted her back. He was willing to fight for her. He had gone to confront, he repeated, not to kill. He didn't own a .44 magnum, he told them. He didn't own any guns.

According to the statement he gave investigators, when Elliot got to Malibu he found his wife and her lover naked and already dead. It turned out that the lover was in fact the interior designer, Johan Rilz, a German national Elliot had always thought was gay.

Elliot left the house and got back in his car. He started to drive away but then thought better of it. He decided to do the right thing. He turned around and pulled back into the driveway. He called 911 and waited out front for the deputies to arrive.

The chronology and details of how the investigation proceeded from that point would be important in mounting a defense. According to the reports in the file, Elliot gave investigators an initial account of his discovery of the two bodies. He was then transported by two detectives to the Malibu substation so he would be out of the way while the investigation of the crime scene proceeded. He was not under arrest at this time. He was placed in an unlocked interview room where he waited three long hours for the two lead detectives to finally clear the crime scene and come to the substation. A videotaped interview was then conducted but, according to the transcript I reviewed, quickly crossed the line into interrogation. At this point Elliot was finally advised of his rights and asked if he wanted to continue to answer questions. Elliot wisely chose to stop talking and to ask for an attorney. It was a decision made better late than never but Elliot would have been better off if he had never said word one to the investigators. He should've just taken the nickel and kept his mouth shut.

While investigators had been working the crime scene and Elliot was cooling his heels in the substation interview room, a homicide investigator working in the sheriff's headquarters in Whittier drew up several search warrants that were faxed to a superior court judge and signed. These allowed investigators to search throughout the beach house and Elliot's car and permitted them to conduct a gunshot residue test on Elliot's hands and clothes to determine if there were gas nitrates and microscopic particles of burned gunpowder on them. After Elliot refused further cooperation, his hands were bagged in plastic at the substation and he was transported to Sheriff's Headquarters, where a criminalist conducted the GSR test in the crime lab. This consisted of wiping chemically treated disks on Elliot's hands and clothing. When the disks were processed by a lab technician, those that had been wiped on his hands and sleeves tested positive for high levels of gunshot residue.

At that point Elliot was formally arrested on suspicion of murder. With his one phone call he contacted his personal lawyer, who in turn called in Jerry Vincent, whom he had attended law school with. Elliot was eventually transported to the county jail and booked on two counts of murder. The sheriff's investigators then called the department's media office and suggested that a press conference should be set up. They had just bagged a big one.

I closed the file as Cisco stopped the Lincoln in front of Archway Studios. There were a number of picketers walking the sidewalk. They were writers on strike, holding up red-and-white signs that said WE WANT A FAIR SHARE! AND WRITERS UNITED WE WANT A FAIR SHARE! AND WRITERS UNITED! Some signs showed a fist holding a pen. Another said YOUR FAVORITE LINE? A WRITER WROTE IT YOUR FAVORITE LINE? A WRITER WROTE IT. Anch.o.r.ed on the sidewalk was a large blow-up figure of a pig smoking a cigar with the word PRODUCER PRODUCER branded on its rear end. The pig and most of the signs were well-worn cliches and I would have thought that with the protesters being writers, they would have come up with something better. But maybe that kind of creativity happened only when they were getting paid. branded on its rear end. The pig and most of the signs were well-worn cliches and I would have thought that with the protesters being writers, they would have come up with something better. But maybe that kind of creativity happened only when they were getting paid.

I had ridden in the backseat for the sake of appearances on this first stop. I was hoping that Elliot might catch a glimpse of me through his office window and take me for an attorney of great means and skill. But the writers saw a Lincoln with a rider in the back and thought I was a producer. As we turned into the studio, they descended on the car with their signs and started chanting, "Greedy b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Greedy b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" Cisco gunned it and plowed through, a few of the hapless scribes dodging the fenders.

"Careful!" I barked. "All I need is to run over an out-of-work writer."

"Don't worry," Cisco replied calmly. "They always scatter."

"Not this time."

When he got up to the guardhouse, Cisco pulled forward enough that my window was even with the door. I checked to make sure none of the writers had followed us onto studio property and then lowered the gla.s.s so I could speak to the man who stepped out. His uniform was a beige color with a dark brown tie and matching epaulets. It looked ridiculous.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Walter Elliot's attorney. I don't have an appointment but I need to see him right away."

"Can I see your driver's license?"

I got it out and handed it through the window.

"I am handling this for Jerry Vincent. That's the name Mr. Elliot's secretary will recognize."

The guard went into the booth and slid the door closed. I didn't know if this was to keep the air-conditioning from escaping or to prevent me from hearing what was said when he picked up the phone. Whatever the reason, he soon slid the door back open and extended the phone to me, his hand covering the mouthpiece.

"Mrs. Albrecht is Mr. Elliot's executive a.s.sistant. She wants to speak to you."

I took the phone.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Mr. Haller, is it? What is this all about? Mr. Elliot has dealt exclusively with Mr. Vincent on this matter and there is no appointment on his calendar."

This matter. It was a strange way of referring to double charges of murder.

"Mrs. Albrecht, I'd rather not talk about this at the front gate. As you can imagine, it's quite a delicate 'matter,' to use your word. Can I come to the office and see Mr. Elliot?"

I turned in my seat and looked out the back window. There were two cars in the guardhouse queue behind my Lincoln. They must not have been producers. The writers had let them through unmolested.

"I'm afraid that's not good enough, Mr. Haller. Can I place you on hold while I call Mr. Vincent?"

"You won't get through to him."

"He'll take a call from Mr. Elliot, I am sure."

"I am sure he won't, Mrs. Albrecht. Jerry Vincent's dead. That's why I'm here."

I looked at Cisco's reflection in the rearview mirror and shrugged as though to say I had no choice but to hit her with the news. The plan had been to finesse my way through the arch and then be the one to personally tell Elliot his lawyer was dead.

"Excuse me, Mr. Haller. Did you say Mr. Vincent is... dead?"

"That's what I said. And I'm his court-appointed replacement. Can I come in now?"

"Yes, of course."

I handed the phone back and soon the gate opened.

Thirteen

We were a.s.signed to a prime parking s.p.a.ce in the executive lot. I told Cisco to wait in the car and went in alone, carrying the two thick files Vincent had put together on the case. One contained discovery materials turned over so far by the prosecution, including the important investigative doc.u.ments and interview transcripts, and the other contained doc.u.ments and other work product generated by Vincent during the five months he had handled the case. Between the two files I was able to get a good handle on what the prosecution had and didn't have, and the direction in which the prosecutor wanted to take the trial. There was still work to be done and pieces were missing from the defense's case and strategy. Perhaps those pieces had been carried in Jerry Vincent's head, or in his laptop or on the legal pad in his portfolio, but unless the cops arrested a suspect and recovered the stolen property, whatever was there would be of no help to me.

I followed a sidewalk across a beautifully manicured lawn on the way to Elliot's office. My plan for the meeting was threefold. The first order of business was to secure Elliot as a client. That done, I would ask his approval in delaying the trial to give me time to get up to speed and prepare for it. The last part of the plan would be to see if Elliot had any of the pieces missing from the defense case. Parts two and three obviously didn't matter if I was unsuccessful with part one.

Walter Elliot's office was in Bungalow One on the far reaches of the Archway lot. "Bungalows" sounded small but they were big in Hollywood. A sign of status. It was like having your own private home on the lot. And as in any private home, activities inside could be kept secret.

A Spanish-tiled entranceway led to a step-down living room with a fireplace blowing gas flames on one wall and a mahogany wood bar set up in an opposite corner. I stepped into the middle of the room and looked around and waited. I looked at the painting over the fireplace. It depicted an armored knight on a white steed. The knight had reached up and flipped open the visor on his helmet and his eyes stared out intently. I took a few steps further into the room and realized the eyes had been painted so that they stared at the viewer of the painting from any angle in the room. They followed me.

"Mr. Haller?"

I turned as I recognized the voice from the guardhouse phone. Elliot's gatekeeper, Mrs. Albrecht, had stepped into the room from some unseen entrance. Elegance was the word that came to mind. She was an aging beauty who appeared to take the process in stride. Gray streaked through her un-dyed hair and tiny wrinkles were working their way toward her eyes and mouth, seemingly unchecked by injection or incision. Mrs. Albrecht looked like a woman who liked her own skin. In my experience, this was a rare thing in Hollywood.

"Mr. Elliot will see you now."

I followed her around a corner and down a short hallway to a reception office. She pa.s.sed an empty desk-hers, I a.s.sumed-and pushed open a large door to Walter Elliot's office.

Elliot was an overly tanned man with more gray hair sprouting from his open shirt collar than from the top of his head. He sat behind a large gla.s.s worktable. No drawers beneath it and no computer on top of it, though paperwork and scripts were spread across it. It didn't matter that he was facing two counts of murder. He was staying busy. He was working and running Archway the way he always did. Maybe it was on the advice of some Hollywood self-help guru but it wasn't an unusual behavior or philosophy for the accused. Act like you are innocent and you will be perceived as innocent. Finally, you will become innocent.

There was a sitting area to the right but he chose to remain behind the worktable. He had dark, piercing eyes that seemed familiar and then I realized I had just been looking at them-the knight on the steed out in the living room was Elliot.

"Mr. Elliot, this is Mr. Haller," Mrs. Albrecht said.

She signaled me to the chair across the table from Elliot. After I sat down Elliot made a dismissive gesture without looking at Mrs. Albrecht and she left the room without another word. Over the years I had represented and been in the company of a couple dozen killers. The one rule is that there are no rules. They come in all sizes and shapes, rich and poor, humble and arrogant, regretful and cold to the bone. The percentages told me that it was most likely Elliot was a killer. That he had calmly dispatched his wife and her lover and arrogantly thought he could and would get away with it. But there was nothing about him on first meeting that told me one way or the other for sure. And that's the way it always was.

"What happened to my lawyer?" he asked.

"Well, for a detailed explanation I would have to refer you to the police. The shorthand is that somebody killed him last night in his car."

"And where does that leave me? I'm on trial for my life in a week!"

That was a slight exaggeration. Jury selection was scheduled in nine days and the DA's office had not announced that it would seek the death penalty. But it didn't hurt that he was thinking in such terms.

"That's why I'm here, Mr. Elliot. At the moment you are left with me."

"And who are you? I've never heard of you."

"You haven't heard of me because I make it a practice not to be heard of. Celebrity lawyers bring too much attention to their clients. They feed their own celebrity by offering up their clients. I don't operate that way."

He pursed his lips and nodded. I could tell I had just scored a point.

"And you're taking over Vincent's practice?" he asked.

"Let me explain it, Mr. Elliot. Jerry Vincent had a one-man shop. Just like I do. On occasion one of us would need help with a case or need another attorney to fill in here and there. We filled that role for each other. If you look at the contract of representation you signed with him, you will find my name in a paragraph with language that allowed Jerry to discuss your case with me and to include me within the bonds of the attorney-client relationship. In other words, Jerry trusted me with his cases. And now that he is gone, I am prepared to carry on in his stead. Earlier today the chief judge of the superior court issued an order placing me in custody of Jerry's cases. Of course, you ultimately get to choose who represents you at trial. I am very familiar with your case and prepared to continue your legal representation without so much as a hiccup. But, as I said, you must make the choice. I'm only here to tell you your options."

Elliot shook his head.