Warm Reception

Warm Reception

By

William von Reese

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 by William von Reese

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

[This is a work of fiction, but the murder related herein actually took place in Los Angeles during the final decade of the Twentieth Century]

Chapter 1

Wakeup Call

A chortle of the motel phone jarred David awake. Phones do not ring any longer, he thought; they make noises, like tropical birds. This one sounded like the mating call of some huge, prehistoric and very horny winged creature.

David switched on the bed-side light and picked up the receiver. His movements nudged Eva from her sleeping position, naked beside him, head nestled in the cavity between his shoulder and chest. She muttered a protest in Spanish as she turned away from the light, her bronze body taking a graceful, sleeping pose on her right side.

Lars's voice boomed in David's ear.

Get your ass over here now.

Where are you? David asked.

Brandon's house.

In Encino. Atop the hills south of the field. A short drive from where David was, at the La Jolla Motel across from the Van Nuys airport.

What's the hurry?

Lars paused, as if searching for words before answering. His voice lowered.

Brandon's been shot.

David focused on the diamond-patterned wallpaper, trying to make sense of Lars' words. He turned toward Eva, still in bed, as if she, of all people, had an answer.

Oh, David said and hung up the phone. Coming.

He reached for his pants, folded over a nearby chair. Lars was not a guy likely to panic or hallucinate. His boss, and David's publisher, had surely been shot. As David tottered, stepping into his slacks, Eva arose to a sitting position, bare breasts piquant, rubbing her eyes against the light.

You are leaving me now?

Sorry. Emergency of some sort. He did not wish to shock her with news of her employer's death.

As David pulled on shirt and jacket, he took a twenty note from his wallet . This is for breakfast. There's a coffee shop on the corner. Good thing you came in your own car. You can get back to work from here.

Eva nodded and looked up at him. He bent to cup her warm shoulders and plant a kiss on her forehead. Sorry.

David hated to leave her. Not just the warm bed or the afterglow of sex. He really felt something for this lovely Nicaraguan girl.

* * *

Outside, the wipers quickly took care of the condensation that had clobbered his windshield. No traffic this time of night, and normally he would make it up the hill in record time. Except tonight there was fog. Driving passed the airfield, he could barely make out the rotating beacon through the cloud. He would have to take it slow on the road up to Brandon's house.

This marine layer had rolled in earlier in the afternoon just as he left The Company to fly home. Conditions had not looked good all day. Lars had followed him into the parking lot.

You going home already? Brandon wanted to see you first.

David pointed at the sky. I'm trying to take off before the field closes down.

Lars looked up. You won't make it. You'll have to stay over again. So contact Brandon later, if you can't take off.

Will do. Or maybe not, he thought to himself.

The thick bank that had hung offshore all day was swirling in quickly, and not on little cat's feet. David sped up to reach the airport, maybe get clearance for a downwind departure before the field closed.

He parked his airport clunker in the car lot, grabbed his briefcase and ran to his plane, an aging Cherokee 180. By the time he had opened the cabin door and tuned the radio to the ATIS frequency, the field had shut down. He would be spending another night in the Valley. No big deal; it had happened often before. He cursed himself for never getting an instrument rating. In a wicked way, though, staying over was preferable to going home. He would give Dolores a call. And Eva, too.

David walked across the street to the La Jolla Motel to get a room and use the pay phone. The motel had a vacancy; they always did on weekdays. Then he called Eva, who was still at work in the mailroom of The Company. She sounded pleased to meet him after work for drinks and dinner.

David checked Brandon's extension but he was still out. Then David called his wife, Dolores, at the doctor’s office where she worked.

Marine layer rolled in.

Again? That excuse is getting kinda tired, David.

You know how it is.

Yeah, I used to work at The Company, remember? Still staying at the La Jolla?

It's the closest place to the airport.

Well, enjoy.

Dolores hung up. With her contacts at The Company, she probably knew all about Eva. Maybe he really should get an IFR rating so he could leave the field on instruments. Or drive the car, a trip that took 3 and one-half hours. That might help save the marriage. But David wasn't sure he really wanted to save the marriage.

* * *

Still driving in dense fog, David reached the top of the hill. He found Skyline Drive and turned right toward Brandon's house, inching carefully along, trying not to graze the cars parked along the curb. There was still no traffic, luckily.

The car's heater had kicked in, dispelling the chill of the mist enveloping the car. California fog, it's cold and it's damp, like Cole Porter said. But David was still post-coital, feeling warm and fuzzy from his intimacy with Eva.

While driving, David was reviewing his earlier sight of Eva's body. The mirror over the bureau was perfectly positioned to view her shape as she straddled him on the bed. With a voyeur's rapt attention David noted the curve of her bottom, rounded but without a roll of fat or dimple of cellulite.

Pert and petite, with a playful disposition, she was no drab, butterball Mayan from Central America. She wore her black hair shoulder length. Skin was just bronze enough to imply a perfect tan. Brown eyes framed by strong, arched brows hinted at a Spanish bloodline.

Eva was a legal immigrant from Guatemala, and one of The Company's typical hires: a foreigner served up by the Department of Employment at below minimum wage. Eva was set on bettering herself and sending support back home. She was taking night courses at Community College to prepare for citizenship and sharpen secretarial skills. Luckily for David, this had not been a class night, or she would have declined his invitation. Eva was a find, both for him and The Kohl Company.

Brandon's house was getting close now. David slowed the car to a crawl, trying to glimpse, between the closely parked cars at the curb, the five-digit street numbers painted on the berm. About three more blocks.

When he spotted the house, David decided to pull into the driveway. Parking at the curb would be dangerous on a foggy night like this. What he neglected to foresee was that his car was soon to be hemmed in by emergency vehicles, blocking his exit from the driveway.

David pulled to a stop next to Lars's car, also in the driveway. The garage door was down. The front of the house was dark. There was no welcoming porch light. No wonder. Neither Lars nor his sister, Karla, were considerate of others. Nor was Brandon, Karla's husband; but he would have turned on a porch light as a matter of pragmatism, nothing more.

David rang the bell and heard a scurry of response. Rapid footsteps. Then Lars yanked open the door.

Come back to the den. We've got to decide what to do, and soon.

We?

David followed Lars through the darkened parlor to the subdued lights at the rear of the house. David saw Karla, curled in fetal position, on a couch. She was wearing Capri pants in patterned colors and a turtleneck blouse, what she changed into for comfort after coming home from work. She made no move to rise, greet David or even acknowledge his presence. She was clearly out of it. She was covered in filth. David could smell her from across the room.

Lars grabbed his arm and turned him toward the door that opened into the garage.

Look at him. Lars switched on a light over the doorway.

There was Brandon as David had never seen him: seated on the carpet with his back against the door, head slumped forward. No bald patch was visible through his carefully trimmed hair. His face was hidden behind his raised knees. He was wearing a safari-style shirt in a sand color, with the epaulets he favored. Designer jeans and leather loafers. He was always a neat and stylish dresser.

Brandon was surrounded by an enormous pool of blood. As he was slumped forward, the wound or wounds themselves were hidden from view. They appeared to be confined to the torso.

David noticed his voice was shaky as he turned to Lars and asked, Did you feel for a pulse?

Lars shook his head in affirmation, the corner of his mouth turned down. Of course. Just before I called you.

Why me? I'm just the CPA. Why not the attorney?

Lars smirked. He's corporate, not criminal. This time of night I'd only get his machine. And I know what he'd say anyway: call the cops and get a criminal lawyer.

Still, why me?

You have a lot at stake.

That's for sure, David thought. Income, for one. There would be repercussions from Brandon's death David had not even begun to foresee.

Why not Trey? He's the heir. David knew Lars hated Trey. And vice versa.

You know how Trey feels about Karla. He'll be glad to see her take the rap for shooting Brandon. Then he'll fire all our Nielsen asses.

David saw his point. Trey would inherit The Company and put the whole Nielsen family back on welfare. Police on the way?

We haven't decided yet what to do.

We? David asked. Karla is totally zonked. How did you talk to her?

She was still awake when I got here. I am the only person she called. She asked me to dial the police. Said she would tell them the shooting was an accident. She took Brandon for a burglar. She had left the garage door open.

Then Brandon must have closed it after he drove in.

Do you buy that, Lars?

He gave David a hard look, then said. Yeah. I guess. She was really drunk.

As he spoke with Lars, David's eyes swept the room. A revolver with a short barrel was lying on a table beside a recliner.

Have you touched that? David asked, pointing at the gun.

You think I'm fucking stupid?

What can we do but call? David asked. What is an alternative? Hide the body?

By his reaction, a shrug, David saw that Lars had actually considered this.

Think of The Company, he said. My job. Your royalties . Karla's future. The Company runs entirely on Brandon's bullshit. He is known nationwide. The Company will never survive the scandal of his being shot by his wife. Better he should just...disappear.

David saw his point, but said, Depends on who takes over The Company. But hiding the body is really a bad idea.

Trey will take over. Brandon Dean Kohl, The Third. Drop the h and you've got it right. Lars spoke with heavy sarcasm. He was referring to Brandon's elder son, nicknamed Trey. Lars glanced at the bar and said. I sure need a drink, but I don't dare touch anything.

Not a good idea, David agreed.

So what do you think? Do we let Karla take the rap? Or lose Brandon's body?

David looked into Lars's black, angry eyes and said, I am not up to body disposal this time of night. The deed is done and Karla admits doing it. Call before it gets any later. The longer we delay the more suspicious things look.

Shit! I was hoping you could come up with something.

Maybe you should ask Trey instead of me. He has the most at stake here.

That ass-wipe is spoiled silly. He hates me. And Karla. He'll be glad to see her take the rap.

Stepmothers are rarely popular with kids.

Lars walked to the phone on the bar. He hesitated before picking up the receiver. This call was officially correct, David could guess him thinking, so his fingerprint would be expected. David heard him punch the three magic numbers. While Lars spoke the particulars, David turned to Karla. She had not moved any more than had Brandon. Would she be in any shape to tell her story to the police when they came? Best let her sleep as long as she could.

Lars called at exactly 12:30. The police said they would dispatch a unit that should arrive in ten minutes. Two patrol cars showed up with lights blazing at 12:47. David was timing these events by the clock on the wet-bar wall.

Sergeant Bromfield and Detective Blakely introduced themselves at the front door. Uniformed officers were deployed outside, securing the entrances and exits.

The two policemen surveyed the situation in the den, and at once began calling for support. Coroner, ambulance, crime scene and evidence teams were quickly on the way to Skyline Drive. The garage door was opened and lights turned on. Officers and crime-scene personnel began to congregate in the garage around Karla's Mercedes and Brandon's Jaguar.

The coroner examined and removed Brandon, while Karla remained as motionless as he. She got the ambulance. She was not cogent enough for questioning, so the police sent her under guard to the hospital to sober up and be tested for evidence. The revolver was the first item to be gingerly placed in an evidence bag.

Sergeant Bromfield took Lars and Lieutenant Blakely, the cop in charge, took David aside. That Lars and David were not witnesses but latecomers to the scene became quickly apparent, so they put formal statements on hold until a more convenient hour. Karla was the only witness, if not the perp, and there was no way of talking to her. David wondered if her stupor was exaggerated, or even feigned. Karla was not above playing games, he knew from experience.

By first light the fog lifted. David stood in the garage talking with the crime-scene people and watching the developing sunrise. Only chalk marks and an incredible amount of blood-stained carpet pointed to where Brandon's body had been. There were dusting powder and coffee cups everywhere in the den. Waiting for the driveway to clear of official vehicles, Lars and David talked some more.

They want to take my statement at the station, Lars said, nodding toward the detectives This is going to be some fucked-up day. No going back to bed now.

David scanned the eastern sky. It was getting bright and clear. Looks like I can take off okay now.

Lars grinned at David wickedly. So, who were you shacked up with last night? As if I didn't know.

After years working together, Lars knew David pretty well. A gentlemen never tells.

That sweet little cunt from Guatemala City.

David squelched his irritation. The Nielsen’s were a rough bunch, evident from their gross language. Eva did not deserve that terminology. David shrugged and said nothing.

She's Company property, you know. But no hard feelings. There's plenty of pussy in the mail room for all of us.

After the house had been taped and cleared, the police removed the patrol cars blocking the driveway; and as the sun rose David was free to leave. Lars drove off trailed by the policemen. David headed back to the airport.

There was no hope of finding Eva still at the motel. She would have had breakfast and headed to work at The Company by now. So David checked out of the La Jolla Motel, took breakfast at the coffee shop David had urged on Eva, prepped the plane and was finally cleared for VFR departure.

* * *

Flying eastward toward home, squinting into the rising sun, a sense of imponderable change invaded David's life. The worm of self-interest was already at work, eating away at his confidence. What would happen now with his royalty income? Trey and David had always treated one another with careful but uneasy politeness, though their mutual dislike was obvious. Could they get along with Brandon gone? Could The Company survive with the principals at war with each other?

But his concern was minor compared to what faced Karla, whose life would be splintered by the legal process and the bad publicity. Trey was certain to fire Karla and Lars and the whole Nielsen family. Only a miracle could save The Company from plunging from its present prosperity into the toilet. Brandon's scandalous death would affect a multitude of people. How would it all play out?

Chapter 2

Rough Landing

The steep approach to Sky Haven Airport and the turbulence in the flight pattern have scared some visiting pilots so badly that they never came back. Based at this high-altitude field for more than twenty years, David was an old hand. But there were some days, some landings even David taxied off the runway with his shirt soaked in sweat and shaking so much he was unable to write in his log book. Today looked like one of those days. The Santa Ana winds had kicked up. No wonder the fog of the night before had lifted so quickly.

The flight home was a straight path that took him past Mount Wilson, bristling with antennae, then Baldy, then Lake Arrowhead then over ski slopes to home. Navigation was easy. Even on smoggy days, with ground visibilities limited, once above the layer one could steer by these familiar peaks poking above the soup.

He never filed a flight plan for this short trip across the LA basin. At altitude David was within gliding distance to airports all along the route. And the time/distance of the flight was too short to make filing a plan worth the trouble.

His first intimation of turbulence came near the porcupine peak of Mount Wilson. A solid jolt stirred him from brooding over Brandon's death. His usual route home, flying near and parallel to the mountain range north of Los Angeles, was inviting severe turbulence. David banked away south, hoping to find smoother air above the flatlands of metropolitan LA. Navigation was no problem today. Rough air was.

The wind was so strong directly out of the east that ground speed dropped to half. By the time David came abeam of Lake Arrowhead, he was taking a beating. He was over foothills now. Over rougher terrain, the wind currents turned more erratic and violent. He was holding onto the seat frame with one hand to avoid being knocked against the cabin ceiling despite the seat belt across his lap.

Sky Haven Unicom advised runway six.

Winds are out of the east at 40 knots, gusting to 60. Reports of severe turbulence on approach, with possible wind shear at the end of the runway.

Roger. Traffic permitting, I'll do a straight-in approach. Over.

No reported traffic. Take care, Dave.

The personal reference was not proper radio protocol, but David appreciated his friend Rick's concern. Radio talk tended to be informal at rural airports, especially when traffic was light. And conditions dangerous.

David could now see the blue of the water behind the dam and tensed for even higher terrain ahead. His armpits were already cold. He flexed his fingers trying to relax and turned off the heater.

Airport in sight, he lined up with runway six and forced the bucking plane down onto its main gear. The headwind took him down to taxi speed within a few feet. He had to add power to reach the turnoff. The relief flooding through him was delicious.

The rest was routine. David noted the tachometer reading for entry into his log book later, tied down carefully, secured the control surfaces, then drove home. David felt good that he had once again proved his piloting skills. Survival equals success in the flying game.

David crossed the highway and walked the short three blocks to his home. Dolores would be at work at Dr Whitmore's office. She had left no breakfast dishes in the sink. And she did not often eat breakfast out, as David sometimes did.

He took the logbook from his briefcase and made the entry, noting a RON (remained over night) at Van Nuys. Was this damning evidence of his infidelity? No, merely justification for his tax deduction of airplane expense.

Beat after the tension of the landing, Brandon's death and only thirty minutes sleep, David considered what to do next. There were messages on the machine. Should he attend to business or hit the sack? He could indulge himself the latter choice. As a sole practitioner, the answering machine and computer served him as both secretary and junior accountant. Let the machines keep watch a few more hours.

When he went into the bedroom to undress, David noticed the bed was undisturbed. Dolores normally left the bed unmade until evening. Had she made it up early? Or never slept in it last night?

He slept until mid afternoon, faintly aware that the phone had been ringing during his sleep. That did not disturb him, however, since the machine was on duty. David crawled out of bed, feeling rested but edgy. Dolores would be home in a couple of hours. He had best attend to his messages. And prepare for her return.

Half a dozen of the usual client calls. But there were two from Lars and a call from Trey, now the Heir Apparent.

He called Lars first. Lars was furious. Anger was a big part of his personality. His square, black moustache and grim demeanor reminded you of Hitler.

The dumb shits tested me for powder marks! They kept me at the station till ten o'clock to videotape a statement.

How's Karla?

Still in the hospital. They are treating her for dehydration and shock. Along with hangover.

And Trey? Family members are high on the suspect list.

Trey's luckier than a Mick in clover. He was home with his family last night.

And me?

They're sending a guy to Sky Haven for your statement. They enjoy visiting a vacation resort, the goofballs. It's like a day off with pay for them.

Yeah. But am I considered a suspect?

Lars's laugh was harsh. He was one crude dude, David knew from years of watching him at work. No subtlety, no tact. But he got the job done. He worked with the same blunt effectiveness of his earlier career as a butcher. Chop and saw. No delicacy.

You're as lucky as Trey. You have the perfect alibi.

David had not expected that Lars had talked to Dolores this morning before she left for work.

You told Dolores that I had a good alibi because I spent the night with Eva? Thanks a lot! Now Dolores would know for sure what he was up to last night. Not that she didn't already guess.

I got her before she left for work.

You bastard!

It's all got to come out now, anyway. I was not alone, either, last night. Luckily. I need an alibi worse than you.

David kept silent, trying to guess what would be in store for him when Dolores came home. If she came home.

Be glad you've got Dolores instead of Fiorita to face.

Isn't she visiting in Sicily right now?

Yeah. You'll hear her yelling clear across the Atlantic anyway.

When he returned Trey's call, Trey was sarcastic as usual. He wanted to know why they hadn't called him about his father's death last night. Instead he had to find out this morning when the detectives showed up at his door.

Couldn't you have clued me in? After all, I am his son.

David explained that once the police arrived,