Off the record, Gina stated that she doesn’t buy the accident theory, but her hands are tied. “Advani had a rock-solid alibi. Didn’t even have to rely on his drunk friend to back him up—the friend’s apartment complex is high-end, has security cameras in all the public zones.
“It showed him coming over, the two of them going out to buy beers, then Advani opening the door to accept a food delivery. No sign he ever left the building. And no sign he ever reentered Jocelyn Wai’s after he walked out earlier that night—her building had even more cameras. We checked his phone location anyway, but nada. It was at the friend’s place the entire time.
“If he did it, he’s a brilliant psychopath. Scariest thing is he was only twenty-three and maybe six, seven months, when Jocelyn died. If you’re right abouthim being involved in Virna Musgrave’s death, that’s two women in the space of, what, three years? What’s the word for an unmarried black widower?”
As for motive—that’s tricky, because there’s no financial one. He wasn’t in Wai’s will. But Gina estimates Wai spent probably half a mil on Advani over the course of their relationship.
“They lived large, were snapped at all the hot spots, and I don’t think he was paying for it—that would’ve wiped him out, even at his salary. No, our boy has a way of hooking up with wealthy women, and having those women show him a good time—then die on him. You know how he got his Venice Beach condo, right? Look up Susanne Winthorpe.”
I expected Suzi W to be some hot stripper or dancer.
Yeah, got that one really, really wrong.
Chapter 21
“I left my job because of the impossible hours and asshole bosses,” I said to Ackerson, the lie so generic it told her nothing. “Being a junior in those firms is brutal. A constant churn of burned-out twentysomethings. I wanted more out of life—I was deciding what to do next when I met Diya. Seemed like a sign from the heavens to take a big leap and head out here.”
No one from DeJong, Greyson, & Wijesinghe would ever refute my statement, not when it said nothing many others hadn’t said before. In their line of work, reputation was everything, discretion the name of the game—and burning people out was a badge of honor rather than a black mark.
“Our caliber of clients,” portly Greyson had said to me when I began at the firm, “do not wish to do business with a firm known for its loose lips. Keep them zipped.
“Doesn’t matter if you learn that Mr.Smith needs more investment income for his secret second family out in San Diego, or that Ms.Rock Star is screwing her entire crew of backing dancers every Wednesday and needs to pay off a blackmailer. None of your business. Your business is their money and keeping them happy so they never want to switch to another firm.”
If the firm hadn’t bowed to pressure from the LAPD, they sure as hell wouldn’t do it for a cop in another country. Detective Callum Baxter might suspect I’d been fired, might even have a source in that poisonous dickwad Jason Musgrave, but it meant nothing without official confirmation. Even that official record, if ever opened, would simply show an elegant resignation letter.
DeJong, Greyson, & Wijesinghe hadn’t survived this long by being anything but ruthless. Fighting my forced “resignation” would’ve just left me with a permanent stain on my name in the circles that were my livelihood. This way, if any future employers ever reached out, HR would just say the firm and I weren’t “a good fit”—though privately, the firmhadno doubt gotten the word out among their top-tier friends to steer clear of me.
It didn’t matter how good I was at making money, I’d shit the bed when I’d become not only romantically involved with Virna, but financially involved.
I’d never again work in those gilded halls.
“Do you know if your wife has a life insurance policy?” Ackerson asked.
I’d been ready for her to resort to her tactic of switching topics, but not for this particular question. My answer was startled—and honest. “I don’t think so? We never discussed life insurance, so if she has a policy, it’ll be from before we met.”
“How about a will?”
“Yes, we did it a couple of days after our wedding.”
“Why the rush?” Ackerson leaned across the table, her tone sliding into abrasive. “You’re both in your twenties, plenty of life left to live.”
I lifted my shoulders. “My father’s a lawyer. He suggested it.”
“Odd thing for a man to suggest to newlyweds.”
I shrugged again and left it at that, even though Ackerson pausedand stared. Poor Ackerson. She had no idea I’d grown up in this environment—and while the game player was my mother, it was my father who’d taught me how to withstand it. Because Anand Advani had been caught between his slavish devotion to his wife and his paternal need to protect his second son since the day of my birth.
“People want to fill silences,” he’d said to me when I was nine, and freshly emotionally bruised after an interaction with the woman who only had enough love in her for one son.
“Long pauses are a favorite tactic of anyone who wants to get information out of another person—just wait until the other party cracks from the awkwardness or gets nervous. Don’t fall for it again, Tavish. Don’t show her your heart.” A pause. “Or you won’t survive her.”
Today, I deliberatelydidn’tmaintain the eye contact. Some cops read that kind of contact as a challenge and got aggressive. But neither did I look around as if unable to settle. Rather, I looked down at the table as if lost in thought.
There’s no such thing as justice. It’s all legal chess. First one to checkmate wins.
My father’s words. My mother’s thoughts.
The problem was that my former employer wasn’t the only other player in this game. If Jason Musgrave got wind of the murders of the Prasad family, and of my involvement with Diya, Ackerson would have herself a font of nasty innuendo and accusations.
