Читать книгу Sidney Sheldon’s The Silent Widow: A gripping new thriller for 2018 with killer twists and turns - Сидни Шелдон, Sidney Sheldon - Страница 14

Lou Goodman drove alone to Pacific Palisades. He and Johnson had agreed long ago to divide and conquer on their homicide cases. Goodman always handled the rich, high-class, educated types, while Johnson bonded with the ‘great unwashed’, as Lou only half-jokingly called the blue-collar witnesses. The system didn’t work perfectly. Johnson was great with low-income whites, and over his years in the drug squad had developed a decent working relationship in some of the rougher Latino communities. But he was old school LAPD when it came to black neighborhoods. He didn’t like them and they didn’t like him.

It was a problem.

But not today’s problem.

Today’s call was up in the wonder-bread-white community of Pacific Palisades. The wide streets and multimillion-dollar mansions were very much Lou Goodman’s territory. He was in his element.

‘Turn right on Capri Drive,’ Google Maps commanded. Goodman obeyed, cruising past homes so opulent it beggared belief. ‘Estate’ was an overused word among LA real estate brokers, but these houses were the real deal: ten-, fifteen-, twenty-bedroom palaces with sweeping driveways and idyllically manicured grounds. Uniformed maids, all of them Latina, darted in and out of side gates, some walking dogs, others taking out trash or directing deliveries. Goodman saw a bouquet of flowers as big as he was being delivered to one house, and to another an entire van’s worth of helium balloons emblazoned with the words ‘Ryan is 9!’

Lucky Ryan. Goodman thought back to his own ninth birthday, a trip to the ice rink in White Plains with his buddy Marco. What a great day that had been. One of the last completely happy days of his childhood, before his father went bankrupt and the Goodman family’s rapid descent into poverty, misery and loss began. By Lou Goodman’s tenth birthday, his father was dead. But he never thought about that any more. He’d trained himself only to remember the good times, the happy times. He’d also learned young that while money couldn’t always buy you happiness, a lack of money always brought anguish. Lou’s father barely understood what real wealth was. Greg Goodman had felt rich when he owned a business and a house with a garage and a big backyard. Losing those modest successes had destroyed him.

His son was different. Lou Goodman knew very well what real wealth was, and the terrible things men would do to obtain it and maintain it.

‘Your destination is ahead,’ Google informed him cheerfully. ‘You have arrived!’

Someone’s certainly arrived, thought Goodman, staring up at the vast, Greek classical mansion that was 19772 Capri Drive, aka the Grolsch Residence.

He’d skim-read the family information in the car on the long drive over from Boyle Heights: Nathan Grolsch had made a fortune in waste disposal way back in the 1980s. Dumped his first wife and two daughters and married again in his fifties to a barely legal beauty queen named Frances Denton. Nathan and Frances had one son together, Brandon. According to the file, the kid had turned nineteen three days ago, the same day Lisa Flannagan was murdered.

If Jenny Foyle’s DNA results were to be believed, Brandon Grolsch had spent his big day slashing Lisa Flannagan to death before tossing her corpse onto the side of the freeway like a bag of trash. Either that or someone else had managed to insert tiny traces of Brandon’s flesh under Lisa’s fingernails, an unlikely scenario, however Goodman looked at it.

Goodman hit the call button on the enormous front gates. Two stone lions gazed impassively down at him from marble pillars to his right and left.

‘Yes?’ a woman’s voice crackled over the speaker.

‘Good afternoon.’ Goodman cleared his throat. ‘I’m Detective Louis Goodman from the LA Police Department. I’m here concerning Brandon Grolsch.’

‘Jus’ a moment please.’ The woman had a Mexican accent. Probably the housekeeper. Goodman heard a crackle of static, then a long silence. He was about to ring again when the gates suddenly whirred into life, swinging open to reveal the house and gardens in all their glory.

Making his way up the bluestone driveway, past a lavish marble fountain, Goodman climbed the formal steps up to the front door. Potted olive trees flanked the entrance, and an antique bronze lamp gleamed above the portico. The place looked more like a fancy hotel than a private residence, a small Ritz Carlton perhaps, or a Four Seasons.

‘Come in, please.’

The housekeeper, indeed Mexican, led him through a light-filled foyer into a small sitting room. Goodman took in his surroundings. The furnishings were overtly feminine – white sofas, pale pink drapes, floral cushions and cream, fringed cashmere throws. A large vase of fresh peonies graced an otherwise bare coffee table, and a candle had been lit that smelled of something cloying and sweet. Maybe figs?

‘Mrs Grolsch will be coming in a minute. Can I get you some tea?’

‘No, gracias.’ Goodman smiled. He was about to arrest this family’s son on suspicion of murder. It didn’t seem right to be drinking their tea at the same time. ‘Is Brandon at home?’

The housekeeper looked down nervously. ‘Mrs Grolsch is coming,’ she mumbled, leaving the room before Goodman could ask her anything else. A few minutes later, the door opened again.

‘Detective? Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Fran Grolsch.’

The woman in front of him was not at all what Goodman had expected. Chubby and out of shape, with the bloated face and puffy eyes typical of pain-pill addicts, Frances Grolsch was unrecognizable as the attractive former beauty queen from her Google Image pictures. This afternoon she was wearing a stained pink Juicy Couture tracksuit that sagged around her backside, and wore her thinning, greasy hair tied up in a cheap elastic. If Goodman had to use one word to describe her, that word would be defeated. Even her voice sounded exhausted, each word elongated – ‘I’m Fraaaaan’ – as if the effort of moving on to the next one was too much to bear.

‘You’re here about Braaaaandon?’ She slumped down onto one of the couches.

‘That’s right. Is your son at home, Mrs Grolsch?’ Goodman asked.

‘Nooooo.’ Frances Grolsch closed her eyes, offering no more information. This woman needs help, Goodman thought.

‘Do you know when you expect him back?’

The eyes opened, but she didn’t respond.

‘Ma’am?’

To Goodman’s embarrassment, Frances Grolsch opened her mouth and let out a long, low howl, an awful, animal moan of distress that went on and on, getting louder and louder. Goodman heard a door slam in the hallway, and heavy footsteps approaching. Seconds later the door swung open and a tall, elderly man in a dark suit stormed in.

‘What the hell, Franny? Shut up! You sound like a goddamn air-raid siren. I’m trying to work.’ Turning on Goodman, the old man barked, ‘Why is she crying? And who the hell are you?’

Goodman produced his badge. The old man inspected it, unimpressed.

‘Homicide?’ he scowled. ‘Who died? Franny, I said shut UP!’ he roared at his wife, who ran whimpering from the room.

‘Nathan Grolsch, I assume?’ Goodman countered, doing his best to take control of the situation. Not easy with such a bullying, forceful man.

‘Of course I’m Nathan Grolsch,’ the old man grunted. ‘The question is, who the hell are you?’

Goodman held up his badge again.

‘So? Why are you here?’ Grolsch asked, unimpressed. ‘I’m a busy man, you know.’

‘I need to speak to your son, Brandon.’

Grolsch rolled his eyes. ‘Is that why she was bawling?’ He nodded towards the door through which his wife had bolted. ‘You asked her about Brandon?’

‘Mr Grolsch, do you know where your son is?’ Goodman asked pointedly. He was beginning to get irritated by the old man’s attitude. ‘A young woman has been brutally murdered and we need to eliminate your son from our inquiries.’

‘Well, that shouldn’t be hard,’ Brandon’s father said bluntly. ‘Brandon’s dead.’

Goodman did a double take. ‘Excuse me?’

There was no record of Brandon Grolsch’s death, or even of his being missing.

‘He took an overdose,’ Nathan Grolsch announced matter-of-factly. ‘His mother got a letter around eight months ago, from a “friend” who saw it happen. Some friend, right? Fran’s still in denial about it. Thinks Brandon’s gonna walk back through that door some day like the prodigal son.’ He snorted derisively.

‘You received word eight months ago that your son died of an overdose, but you never thought to notify anyone?’ Goodman asked, incredulous.

‘What’s to notify?’ Nathan Grolsch shrugged. ‘There was no body, no proof. Look, my son was an addict, OK? A useless, lying, no-good scumbag who threw his life away for drugs. That is the beginning and the end of the story. Brandon was dead to me long before that letter.’

Wow, Goodman thought. What a prince of a guy. With a dad like that, no wonder the kid went off the rails.

‘Does Mrs Grolsch still have the letter?’

‘Nope. I burned it.’ The old man’s pale, rheumy eyes glistened with spite. ‘That meddlesome bitch Valentina Baden should never have shown it to Fran in the first place. She must have known it would screw her up. Better for everyone to get rid of the thing. Close the door on the whole sorry chapter.’

Goodman’s mind raced. ‘Valentina Baden? You mean Willie Baden’s wife?’

‘Right,’ Grolsch grunted. ‘She runs some charity for missing kids. I guess at one point Fran decided Brandon was “missing” and Valentina must’ve gotten involved. In any case, she passed on the letter. So you can go ahead and “eliminate” Brandon from your inquiries.’

‘I’m afraid it’s not quite that easy, Mr Grolsch,’ Goodman said, pleased to have provoked a look of deep irritation on the old man’s face. ‘We have DNA evidence directly linking Brandon to the murder victim. And as you say, you have no proof your son is dead. No body. And, now that you’ve burned the letter, no hard evidence either. Other than your word.’

Goodman’s tone made it plain how little store he set by Nathan Grolsch’s word.

‘What’s the dead girl’s name?’ Nathan Grolsch sighed deeply.

‘Lisa Flannagan.’

‘Never heard of her.’ Grolsch shrugged.

‘She was Willie Baden’s mistress,’ Goodman shot back. ‘Among other things. Small world, isn’t it?’

A momentary flash of surprise registered on Nathan Grolsch’s face, but he swiftly recovered. ‘Not that small. From what I’ve heard, Baden’s slept with half the pretty girls in LA. Probably why his wife needs charity work to distract her. Look I’m sorry, Detective, but I really can’t help you. My son is dead, whether you choose to believe it or not.’

‘Be that as it may, I’m going to need to know when, exactly, you last saw him,’ Goodman insisted. ‘Who his friends were. His dealers. Where he hung out.’

‘I don’t know any of that,’ Nathan Grolsch snapped. ‘I dare say his mother remembers some of the low-life scum he hung around with,’ he offered grudgingly. ‘You could ask her, although as you can see, Detective, Frances is not exactly at her best by this stage in the day. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get changed. My racquetball coach should be here any minute.’

And with that, Nathan Grolsch left the room, without so much as a handshake.

Goodman wisely took a couple of moments to regain his composure before walking back into the hallway and accosting the housekeeper.

‘Take me to Brandon’s room.’

He could see the housekeeper’s panic, her eyes darting around the foyer in search of Mr Grolsch, afraid to comply without his approval. Goodman flashed his badge and repeated the instruction, his tone making it plain this was not a request. Reluctantly she escorted him upstairs and nodded towards the relevant door, then scuttled away as fast as she could.

The room Goodman walked into was a large, brightly decorated boy’s bedroom. He felt a pang of real sadness. There was so much warmth here, so much innocence and hope, traces of the happy child Brandon Grolsch must once have been, before drugs robbed him of his future. The desk chair shaped like a football. The Lamborghini posters on the walls. The trophies, for swimming and karate, wedged between books about NFL heroes and space exploration. The giant ‘B’ cushion, propped up against the Pottery Barn teen bed.

Where did it all go wrong?

A noise behind him made Goodman turn. Brandon’s mother, her eyes still puffy from crying, hovered anxiously in the doorway.

‘Did Brandon have a computer? Or a phone?’ Goodman asked.

She nodded. ‘Both. Once. But he sold ’em, long before he left. You know how it is, when kids have problems.’

Goodman nodded. He knew how it was.

Frances Grolsch gazed vacantly around her son’s room.

‘Maybe he got another phone … I guess he must have.’

‘Mrs Grolsch, your husband believes that Brandon is dead. He said you received a letter—’

‘We don’t know!’ Frances insisted, twisting her fingers round and round in her lap, like someone trying to wring the last drops of water from a dishcloth. ‘That letter wasn’t signed, or anything. Maybe it was a mistake.’

‘But there was a letter?’

She nodded miserably.

‘That Mrs Baden passed on to you?’

Another nod. Then, more lucid than before: ‘He could be dead, Detective. I know that. I’m not stupid. He used to call me two, three, four times a week, no matter what state he was in. Then last summer the calls stopped, just like that.’ Her eyes welled up with tears. ‘Until it’s beyond doubt, until I know for one hundred per cent sure, I can’t give up hope entirely. You understand, don’t you?’

‘I do,’ Goodman assured her. ‘Which is why it’s so important we find out what happened to Brandon, Mrs Grolsch. We need to know, for our investigation. And you need to know too, one way or the other. Right?’

She nodded vigorously.

‘Were there any other adults he might have turned to, after he left home? When he stopped calling you. A teacher at school? A counselor? A doctor, even?’

Frances Grolsch sighed heavily. ‘Brandon didn’t like teachers. He had a lot of therapists, but I don’t know if he’d’ve reached out to any of them.’

A thought suddenly occurred to Goodman.

‘Did he ever see a therapist named Dr Nicola Roberts?’

Frances furrowed her brow and thought for a moment. Then, closing her eyes, as if the effort was too much for her, she shook her head. ‘Uh-uh. Don’t think so. I don’t remember that name.’ Looking up at Goodman, she suddenly asked, ‘What is your investigation anyway? Is Brandon in trouble, Detective?’

Goodman stared back at this broken, lonely woman, with her bullying husband, rattling around this opulent prison of a house. I suspect Brandon’s been in trouble for a very, very long time, he thought.

‘We don’t know anything for sure yet, ma’am,’ he said aloud, pulling out his card and pressing it into her clammy hand. ‘But if you remember anything – anything at all that you think might help – please call me.’

‘Mmm hmmm,’ said Frances Grolsch, looking dazed.

Goodman headed out to his car. It had been quite the elucidating visit. Clearly he and Johnson needed to speak to Mr and Mrs Willie Baden, and the sooner the better. But driving away, it was the toxic atmosphere in the Grolsch household that haunted him more than anything, sending shivers running down his spine.

Poor Brandon.

Families like that were how monsters were made.

No amount of money could compensate for a life that loveless and bleak.

Passing the neighboring home with the birthday balloons outside, he found himself saying a silent prayer for nine-year-old Ryan.

Good luck, buddy. I think you might need it.