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  “It shouldn’t be a problem,” Brooks said. “Verifying the alibi of a viable murder suspect is a legitimate law enforcement aim. That’s what we’re basically talking about here. Let me bounce the idea off a judge. Then I’ll get back to you.”

  “Thanks, counselor,” Drew said. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  “What was that about?” Ortega said.

  Drew explained about reaching out to the deputy DA about getting airline records that could help verify or disprove Hurst’s claim about the last time he was in Los Angeles.

  “I thought we were going to hold off on that until after we interviewed Welch,” Ortega said.

  “I just thought it is going to take time to get the records,” Drew said. It seemed like a good idea to get the process started. If we believe Welch is our guy after we find out what he has to say, I can call Brooks back and tell him to forget the subpoenas.”

  Ortega nodded. “Okay, fine,” he said. “But I still think we’re going to close this case today when we get Welch in here.”

  “Maybe we will,” Drew said. “Maybe I’m wrong about Hurst.”

  Ortega’s phone rang. He picked it up and talked to the caller for a few minutes, then hung up.

  “That was the ME’s office,” Ortega said. “The full autopsy report won’t be out until next week. But Poole narrowed down the time of death window. She estimates Silverman died sometime between 10 P.M., Friday, December 22, and 1:00 A.M., Saturday, December 23.”

  “Just a three-hour window,” Drew said. “That’s useful information. It puts Raymond Hargraves in the clear. His alibi stands up.”

  “Yes, and it will be helpful when we talk with Welch,” Ortega said.

  Drew’s phone rang. It was the watch sergeant telling him that Nelson Welch was in the lobby. Drew looked at the bottom left corner of his computer screen and saw it was nine-fifty. Drew thanked the sergeant and hung up.

  “Welch is in the lobby,” Drew said to Ortega. “I’ll go get him and meet you in the interview room.”

  * * *

  Ortega found Drew and Nelson Welch seated at the table in the interview room when he walked in. He dropped a printed form and ballpoint pen on the table in front of Welch.

  “That’s our visitor’s log,” Ortega said to Welch. “The watch sergeant forgot to have you sign in.”

  Drew looked at the form and saw it contained many printed names followed by signatures. Welch picked up the pen, printed his name in the space Ortega pointed to, and then signed on the line next to it. Drew looked quizzically over at Ortega after he sat down, but said nothing. Ortega leaned in and whispered to Drew, “Tell you later.”

  After signing the log, Welch pushed it and the pen across the table to Ortega. The detectives knew from his DMV record Welch was forty-five years old. He had a stocky build and short brown hair tinged with gray. Welch wore denim jeans and a green polo shirt. Leaning back in his chair, he crossed his arms in the classic defensive posture and stared at the two detectives.

  For the benefit of the video recording, Drew said, “I’m LAPD Detective Howard Drew with my partner LAPD Detective Rudy Ortega. Here with us today is Nelson Welch.”

  It surprised both Ortega and Drew to see that Welch didn’t appear at all nervous. In fact, his disdainful demeanor unnerved Drew enough that he struggled a little to remember how he intended to start the interview.

  “Can we get this over with?” Welch said impatiently, as if he had more important things to do than talk to the detectives.

  Welch’s manner irritated Drew, but he remained cordial.

  “How long did you know Fiona Silverman?” Drew said.

  “About five years. We lived in apartments across the street from each other at the time we met. I often saw Fiona walking her dogs while I walked mine. We waved and nodded. One day we spoke and became instant friends.”

  “Were you also her agent?” Drew said.

  “Yes, I represented her work to publishers and film producers,” Welch said.

  “How long after you met her did you become her agent?”

  “About a year. I was already helping Fiona—as a friend. There was always some kind of crisis or drama going on in her life. She needed someone to help her.”

  “When was the last time you were at her house?”

  “The Wednesday before Christmas. Fiona had a follow up with her doctor after eye surgery. I took her to the appointment. Later that evening, we attended a screening at the Writer’s Guild Theater. I talked with her by phone on Thursday to let her know Netflix wasn’t picking up one of her projects.”

  “When you visited Fiona at her home, were you usually expected?” Drew said. “Or did you just drop by when you needed to see her?”

  “I was always expected,” Welch said. “It was Fiona who usually called and asked me to come over. She’d call because she saw a spider in the house and was scared. Or because she needed a light bulb changed. I’d go over and take care of it. Then she’d want to talk for a while or go get a bite to eat.”

  “Did you have a key to her house?” Drew said.

  “No, I didn’t,” Welch said. “As far as I know, Fiona trusted no one with a key to her house. She was very paranoid about her personal security.”

  Drew nodded. “Did she have any problems with anyone to your knowledge?” he said.

  Welch seemed to take a few moments to consider the question. Then he grinned and said, “Well, Fiona had problems with everyone.”

  “Serious problems?” Ortega said.

  Drew resented Ortega jumping in while he was trying to establish a rapport with Welch. It showed how locked in Ortega was on Welch as their suspect.

  “Serious to the extent that someone might kill her over it?” Welch said. “Absolutely not. But, Fiona was a demanding person. She had a knack for pushing people to the edge. Some people resented that.”

  “How about you?” Ortega said. “Did you resent it?”

  “No, I’m a big softy, Detective.”

  “I suppose you were aware Fiona had some financial difficulties,” Drew said.

  “Sometimes she couldn’t pay her rent,” Welch said. “Fiona would cry and get hysterical. I paid her rent for her a few times. Fiona was an incredible talent. I truly believed she would create something fantastic at some point, and I’d get paid back. She repaid most of what she owed me.”

  “When did you learn she was dead?” Drew said.

  “Christmas Day.”

  “Four days after she died?” Ortega said, not even attempting to cover his disbelief. “Did you usually go that long without speaking to her?”

  “I needed a break from her sometimes,” Welch said. “As I said, Fiona could be difficult to be around at times.”

  “On that Thursday, what did you speak with her about?” Drew said.

  “I already told you,” Welch snapped. “The project that Netflix turned down.”

  “Where were you Friday night?” Drew said, ignoring Welch’s loss of composure.

  “Offhand, I don’t recall,” Welch said. “I’d have to check my day planner.”

  “How about Saturday?” Ortega said. “From the early morning hours until, say, noonish?”

  “I’d have been home asleep during the early morning hours,” Welch said. “I might have gone out somewhere before noon. As I said, I’d have to check my day planner.”

  “How did you learn about Fiona’s death?” Drew said.

  “One of Fiona’s friends called me. She had stopped by the house. Fiona hadn’t answered the door when she knocked. The woman said there were packages on the porch and mail in the mailbox. She was worried, so I went over to check. I saw the packages and mail like the friend said. Also, the dogs didn’t bark when I knocked on the door. That was unusual. The house was all locked up. I went around back and climbed in a window.”

  Ortega leaned across the table. “You climbed in a window?”

  “I told you things seemed weird,” Welch said. “I couldn’t just leaving
without making sure Fiona was all right. The doors were all locked. I found a window that wasn’t, so I used it to get inside.”

  “What did you do once you were inside the house?” Drew said.

  “I called out to Fiona, but got no response. Then I walked around the house to see if she was there. When I didn’t find her, I checked the messages on her answering machine. I noticed her bank statement on the counter in the kitchen. She had already opened it. I took the statement out and looked at it. She had mentioned Thursday that a friend of hers, William Hurst, had sent her fifteen thousand dollars. I found that odd because right before her eye surgery he had sent her twenty-five thousand. Being curious, I looked at the bank statement to check the deposits.”

  Welch paused for a moment, took a breath, and then continued.

  “I went across the street and talked to a neighbor. She told me Fiona must have fallen, hit her dead, and died. She told me about an ambulance, and the police had been out to the house on Christmas Eve. Fiona was klutzy, so it all made perfect sense. I thought it was horrible. Being alone like that, needing help. It was a bad visual.”

  “Did you usually open her mail?” Drew said.

  “I sometimes did, but only because she was always behind on her bills,” Welch said. “If they were about to shut off her electricity or phone or something, I wanted to know about it in time to pay it for her.”

  “Were you and Fiona in a romantic relationship?” Drew said.

  “It was only romantic in her head,” Welch said sharply.

  “I’m going to be blunt here,” Ortega said. “She was a demanding woman. She always had money problems. It seems you often had to bail her out. You took her to appointments, did chores for her. And, you weren’t having sex. I have to ask. What was in it for you?”

  “It’s my personality,” Welch said. “When someone I know needs someone to take care of them, I step in and do it. I’m not sure whether it’s a positive character trait or a flaw. It’s just how I’m wired. Fiona was brilliant. She had the potential to make a lot of money. She’d been successful before, and I believed she could be successful again.”

  “How did you feel when you learned Fiona was dead?” Drew said.

  “Stunned! How do you think? Despite how Fiona behaved sometimes, she was a unique person. She had this attraction about her. Most people stuck by her. She could be strong at times, and other times she’d withdraw and become almost childlike. The woman was a walking contradiction. Fiona could be careful but careless. Brilliant, but crazy. But she was my friend.”

  “Any idea who might have killed her?” Drew said.

  “I’ve thought about that a lot,” Welch said. “My first thought was William Hurst. But, I know that doesn’t seem to make sense, based on their history. She was always certain she could get money from him when needed.”

  Ortega had already told Drew he wanted him to ask Welch to take a polygraph. Drew decided it was time. “We’re asking several people, just to eliminate those close to her, to take polygraph exams,” he said. “Don’t read too much into it, but would you be willing to take a poly— ”

  Welch cut him off before he could finish the sentence. “Sure, sure,” Welch said. “I don’t have a problem with that.”

  “You have time for it today?” Drew said.

  “I wish I did,” Welch said. “It would save me making another trip back here. But I have appointments I already rescheduled from this morning to this afternoon to be here. I have a business to run.”

  “How about tomorrow?” Drew said.

  “Okay,” Welch said. “Sure. I will make it work.”

  “Same time as today, at ten in the morning?”

  “Sure, ten is fine,” Welch said.

  “Okay, that’s all for now,” Drew said. “Hey, would you bring in your day planner in the morning so you can let us know where you were Friday evening and Saturday morning?”

  “Sure, I can do that,” Welch said.

  Drew escorted Welch out to the lobby. Then he met Ortega back in the squad room.

  “Shit, Youngblood,” Ortega said. “I couldn’t believe it when he seemed so eager to take a polygraph. Maybe I was wrong. We’re running out of suspects. I don’t know. I was sure he was our guy. But I’d have thought he would have acted nervous.”

  “Did you want to do the interview?” Drew said. “You kept interrupting and ruining my train of thought.”

  “I told you you have the interviews,” Ortega said. “But Welch was different from the others we’ve been interviewing. He is a viable suspect. Didn’t you notice how arrogant the prick was? He acted like we were just a couple of assholes wasting his time. I wanted to press him and knock the shine off his attitude.”

  “Okay,” Drew said. “I get that. What was the deal with the sign-in log?”

  “I wanted a sample of his handwriting to compare to the cadaver note,” Ortega said. “I just thought of it when he showed up for the interview. I printed a blank log sheet off the computer and had some of the guys in the squad room sign it to make it look legit. Then I brought it in for him to sign.”

  “Good idea,” Drew said. “You got a handwriting sample without even having to ask for one.”

  “Yes, that note is realistically the only piece of physical evidence we have that might tie Welch to the murder,” Ortega said. “It had to have been sent by someone who had some level of concern for Silverman. I needed a handwriting sample from Welch and didn’t want to risk him refusing to give one or asking for a lawyer first.”

  “It’s interesting he wouldn’t say where he was Friday night or early Saturday,” Drew said.

  “Yes, especially since he seemed to recall every detail from Christmas Day,” Ortega said. “If he has such a good fucking memory, why couldn’t he recall anything from Friday and Saturday?”

  “I feel something about this guy,” Drew said. “But I’m just not sure what. I admit it threw me when he was so quick to agree to a polygraph.”

  “Let’s take his handwriting sample over to forensic analysis,” Ortega said. “That will give us a better idea. I have to drop off Keller’s samples anyway. Then we’ll go get some lunch.”

  The two detectives left the station in Ortega’s unmarked car for the LAPD Forensic Analysis Unit in San Pedro.

  * * *

  FAU housed the Questioned Documents Unit, the unit responsible for determining the authenticity or authorship of documents. The most common examination analysts did there was the comparison of handwriting or hand printing. Ortega had previously dropped off the cadaver note there once the latent print analysts at Piper Tech had processed it for fingerprints. None had been recovered.

  “We have any interviews this afternoon?” Ortega said.

  “Only one,” Drew said. “Marc Richardson. He’s a producer and screenwriter and one of Silverman’s close friends.”

  “What time?”

  “Three o’clock,” Drew said.

  “Good, once we drop the handwriting samples off at FAU, I’m in the mood for Cielito Lindo for lunch,” Ortega said. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Yes, that sounds good,” Drew said.

  Cielito Lindo on Olvera Street was Ortega’s favorite taco stand, though the humble establishment’s specialty wasn’t tacos. Since 1934 they had been serving up taquitos, tamales, and burritos. Ortega insisted on eating lunch there at least once a week. More often, when the detectives happened to be in the neighborhood.

  An hour after they had dropped off the documents at FAU, the detectives stopped on historic Olvera Street—the site of the founding of the original Spanish pueblo of Los Angeles in 1781. They walked to Cielito Lindo and ordered lunch.

  Several adobe structures still stood near the site of Sanja Madre, the “Mother Ditch” that brought water from the Los Angeles River to the first settlers. Now the area, at the edge of downtown L.A., was the site of a faux Mexican village popular with tourists. But the draw for Ortega and Drew was the taco stand. The zesty aromas of onions,
cilantro, and deep-fried tortillas enveloped the surrounding area. The detectives ordered and carried hefty plates of taquitos to seats at a wooden table next to the stand to eat every bite.

  “Man, these are the best freaking taquitos ever,” Ortega said.

  “Yes, it’s great food here,” Drew agreed. “Good thing since you like eating here so often.”

  Ortega chuckled. “Only the best for you, partner,” he said. “Where are we going to interview the Richardson guy?”

  “A midsize studio over on Melrose down near Paramount,” Drew said. “He has an office there, apparently. I think it’s largely rented offices and production facilities for independent filmmakers.”

  “Figures,” Ortega said, “an industry guy. At least it’s close by here. If the traffic is right, it’s less than fifteen from here on the 101.”

  * * *

  After finishing lunch, the detectives tossed their plates into a trash receptacle and walked back to the car. Ortega took the 101 north and then exited onto Melrose Avenue. A few minutes later, they arrived at the entrance to Colossus Pictures. Ortega flashed his badge case and told the guard they were there to see Marc Richardson. The guard gave him directions to Richardson’s office building and waved them through.

  After Ortega parked the car, they went into the building and up to the third floor. Ortega again flashed his badge to the receptionist. She called Richardson and a minute later, his office door opened. Richardson waved them in.

  Richardson looked mid-forties. He had his salt and pepper hair worn in a trendy style. He had on a light blue button-down shirt with a maroon printed tie and khaki slacks.

  “Marc Richardson,” he said, shaking Ortega’s hand and then Drew’s. “How can I help you, Detectives?”

  “We’re investigating the death of Fiona Silverman,” Drew said. “We understand you were close friends.”

  “Good lord, that was just horrific,” Richardson said. “Fiona and I go way back. We had been friends… Well, it seemed like forever. And, yes, we were close. I was just devastated when I heard what happened. Devastated.”