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Justine said, “Here’s a joke. Don’t take the call.”
I looked through the shower doors to where my phone sat at the edge of the sink. The caller ID read Capt. L. Warren. It could only be about the rapists the cops had just arrested at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
“The joke’s on me,” I said to Justine. “But, I’ll make it quick.”
I caught the call on the third ring.
“Morgan. We’ve got problems with those pukes from Sumar,” the captain said. “They have diplomatic immunity.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
He gave me the bad news in detail, that Gozan Remari and Khezir Mazul were both senior diplomats in Sumar’s mission to the UN.
“They’re on holiday in Hollywood,” Warren told me. “I think we could ruin their good time, maybe get them recalled to the wasteland they came from, but the ladies won’t cooperate. I’m at the hospital with them, now. They wouldn’t let the docs test for sexual assault.”
“That’s not good,” I said. I put up a finger up to let Justine know I would just be a minute.
“Mrs. Grove is very grateful to you, Morgan,” the Captain was telling me. “I, uh, need a favor. I need you to talk to her.” “Sure. Put her on,” I said.
Justine turned off the water. Pulled a towel off the rack.
“She’s in a room with her daughter,” Warren said. “Listen, if you step on the gas you could be here in fifteen minutes. Talk to them face-to-face.”
I told Justine not to wait up for me.
By way of an answer, she screwed in her ear buds and took her iPod to the kitchen. She was intensely chopping onions when I left the house.
It was a twenty-minute drive to Ocean Memorial and it took me another ten to find the captain. He escorted me to a beige room furnished with two beds and a recliner.
Belinda Grove was sitting in the recliner, wearing the expensive clothes I’d last seen strewn around Bungalow Six—a black knit dress, fitted jacket, black stiletto Jimmy Choos. She’d also brushed her hair and applied red lipstick. And although I’d never met her before today, now that she’d cleaned up, I recognized her from photos in the society pages.
This was Mrs. Alvin Grove, on the board of the Children’s Museum, daughter of Palmer Tiptree of Tiptree Pharmaceuticals, and mother of two.
Now I understood. She would rather die than let anyone know what had happened to her daughter and herself.
MRS. GROVE STOOD when I came into the room, took my hands in hers, said, “Mr. Morgan, I want to thank you, again.”
“My name is Jack. Of course, you’re welcome, Mrs. Grove. How are you doing?”
“
Call me Belinda. I’m ashamed that I was so easily tricked,” she said. “We were having lunch in the Polo Lounge, my daughter and I, and we were talking about the Children’s Museum. Those monsters were at the next table and overheard us. Gozan said he had many children and would be interested in making a donation to the museum.
“Jack. They were well dressed. Well heeled. They said they were diplomats. They were staying at the hotel. Gozan said he wanted to talk about making a sizable donation to the museum, but wanted to discuss it privately.
“I ignored any warning signs. We went to the bungalow. I said that we couldn’t stay long, but a short chat would be all right. We are always looking for benefactors, Jack. They used Rohypnol or something damned close to it. It was in the champagne.”
“Don’t blame yourself. These are dangerous men.”
“I hope never to see either one of them again, unless they’re hanging by their balls over a bonfire. I don’t think that Adrianna will be physically scarred, but emotionally … Emotionally, my daughter is in terrible shape.”
“Terrible shape” was an understatement. Adrianna had been drugged, probably raped, maybe by both men, and Khezir Mazul had stroked her throat with a serrated blade. She would have a scar across her neck for as long as she lived.
I hated to think what would have happened to these women had I not been tipped off, if we hadn’t shown up when we did.
I started to reason with Mrs. Grove, explain to her that if she made a complaint, Remari and Mazul might be deported.
She shook her head, warning me off.
