A Deadly Affair

By John Leslie Evans

The story begins when prominent Beverly Hills psychiatrist, Dr. Joel Steiner, is shot and killed by an unknown intruder, on Steiner’s luxury yacht, the Sirocco. LAPD Det. Joe Kellermann and his partner, Det. Rick Ramirez, begin an immediate investigation into Dr. Steiner’s murder. Supposedly, “happily married,” the detectives soon learn Steiner was having a secret affair with one of his patients: a mystery-woman, know only as “Rita.” Upon further investigation, the mistress Rita Chandler, is found living in a beach-front bungalow on P.C.H. in Malibu. During the interrogation, Miss Chandler reveals that her affair with Steiner had become the ultimate fatal attraction. He was totally obsessed with her. When she tells him the affair is over, primarily because she has fallen in love with another man, Steve Ryan, he loses it; in a fit of rage he tells her: “If I can’t have you…nobody else will!” Steiner even threatens to kill her.

A scene with Steve Ryan reaffirms Miss Chandler’s testimony that after the break-up, Steiner constantly spied on her, stalked her, made obscene phone calls, etc., finally forcing her to leave her Santa Barbara apartment. At the end of this scene, we are shocked, when Ryan reveals that Rita Chandler is HIV-positive. She has AIDS.

In a scene, following, Kellermann’s superior officer, Capt. Frank McElroy, already has a list of four possible suspects: Rita Chandler, her boyfriend, Barbara Steiner, the “grieving widow,” and Steiner’s business partner, Dr. Sydney Zellman. This scene ends with a surprise visit from Diana Marlowe, from the Santa Barbara District Attorney’s office. She is here to see Kellermann with vital information concerning the Steiner case.

Miss Marlowe reveals that about three months prior, Rita Chandler came into her Santa Barbara office and filed a complaint against Steiner. As incredible as it sounded, Miss Chandler was positive, Steiner had injected her with the deadly AIDS virus. Pregnant (with Steiner’s child) she had an abortion. Upon further investigation, the D.A.’s office learned that Steiner was treating three AIDS patients, including a gay man, named Larry Mosely. Genetic analysis of the virus that infected Miss Chandler, was shown to be identical to Mosely’s. Dr. Steiner was arrested, arraigned and released on $200,000 bond. His trial was scheduled to begin in a matter of weeks. Miss Marlowe explains, word “leaked out” of the D.A.’s office; Mosely’s gay and HIV status became public. He was suing Steiner for doctor-patient confidentiality. Kellermann immediately adds Larry Mosely to his possible-suspect list. Within 48 hours later, Kellermann is informed by Beverly Hills detective Gregg Juarez, that Diana Marlowe has been reported missing. She walked out of her hotel and hasn’t been seen since. This is followed by a $50,000 ransom hoax, perpetrated by an ex-con, Marlowe had “sent-up.”

A sequence of events follows, wherein the detectives try to “flush out,” Larry Mosely. They learn that Mosely is “holed-up” in an L.A. Skid Row hotel. In the interrogation scene that follows, we see that Larry Mosely is dying. As the detectives wait for the hotel elevator to take them back to the first floor lobby, they suddenly hear a single gunshot from Mosely’s room. They discover he has committed suicide. Ten days after her disappearance, Diana Marlowe’s body is discovered in an Echo Park self storage locker; a single bullet wound to the chest. A ballistics report states that the weapon Mosely used to kill himself with, was the same one used to murder Miss Marlowe.

The big break in the case comes when Bill Bradshaw, with the Los Angeles D.A.’s office contacts Kellermann. He states that a man, Tony Lesniak, being held prisoner a the Men’s Central Jail, has vital and important information concerning Dr. Steiner’s murder. For that information, Lesniak wants the D.A.’s office to cut him a deal. Lesniak states emphatically that on two separate occasion

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 3, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462809769

John Leslie Evans

John Leslie Evans, born in Corsham, England and raised in Kimberley, British Columbia, Canada, presently lives in Brea, California, a suburb of Los Angeles. His first published novel, “Prescription: Murder,” was adapted from a screenplay by the same name. This was followed by “Eyes of a Killer,” the story of a predatory woman who lures a rogue cop into a complex web of murder and deception, and “Dead of Night,” the story of a woman’s obsession with money…power…prestige. “A Question of Murder” concerns the alleged murder-suicide of tabloid-publisher, Randall Curtiss and his wife, in their palatial Hollywood Hills mansion. In “A Deadly Affair,” the ultimate fatal attraction leads to murder, when Dr. Joel Steiner is found shot to death on his luxurious Marina del Rey yacht.

Book preview

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Saturday, Sept. 11, 1999. Marina del Rey, California. Ten minutes past midnight. A full moon. A black, crystalline night brilliant with stars. The Hacienda was an upscale Mexican restaurant overlooking the yacht harbor. It was a sprawling, low-slung building with a red-tiled Spanish roof, arched windows, wrought iron grille-work, wooden shutters. Palms and thick tropical foliage hugged the melon-colored adobe walls. The sensuous, pulsating sound of Latin music drifted from inside the Hacienda bar and filled the sultry, midnight air.

Inside, the bar was a hub of activity. Now, the music was loud, hot; a searing salsa beat. The place was dark, classy. Large wrought iron chandeliers hung from the beamed ceiling. Ornate, filigreed, gold sconces lined the textured walls. A wall of glass overlooked the Marina; a broad expanse of lights glimmered in the distance. The trio of Hispanic musicians suddenly

switched gears; now they were playing a soft, romantic love song. A dozen or so patrons were dancing.

Opposite the panoramic wall of windows, was a long, elaborate, serpentine bar. Hardly visible in a darkened corner, sat Dr. Joel Steiner. He was alone. Suddenly, a red-jacketed bartender placed a fresh, double shot of Chivas Regal on-the-rocks in front of him, and moved off. Steiner took a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled. He took a large gulp of the scotch and savored its rich, aromatic flavor. As he set the crystal glass down on the bar, he all at once caught his reflection in the smoky mirror of the back-bar. The man staring back at him was somewhere in his early forties; dark, lean, handsome, charismatic; with a touch of arrogance. A close observer would have noticed a certain melancholy look about him. He seemed distracted; his mind crowded with many thoughts. He was suddenly alerted at the sound of the barkeep’s voice: Dr. Steiner? Another one for the road?

Uh...no thanks, Ramon, he answered, think I’ve had enough for one night.

You sure.?

Yeah. You working tomorrow night?

Yes.

Steiner stubbed out his cigarette. See you tomorrow night, then. Buenos noches, amigo.

Buenos noches, Dr. Steiner.

Dr. Steiner held his liquor pretty well. As the bartender watched, he began to weave his way through the shadowy darkness of the bar toward the exit. There was just a hint that he might be a little drunk.

Steiner crossed a small parking area in front of the restaurant and was soon walking along a sidewalk that bordered the Marina. The Marina was sepa- rated by a tall, eight-foot-high, chain-link fence. He could still hear the soft Latin-rock music drifting from the Hacienda; this intermingled with bursts of laughter, as the bar patrons were returning to their cars. Soon, he’d arrived at a metal gate, which he opened. Now he was standing at the top of a long, wooden stairway, which led down to the yacht harbor, itself. He hesitated for a long moment, surveying the view. A thin wisp of cloud skirted its way across the moon’s surface; the moonlight danced on the water like glittering diamonds. He could hear the sporadic screech of seagulls from somewhere off in the distance. Directly below, Steiner could see a wide, wooden dock and an array of motor-boats, sailboats, launches. The dock area appeared to be deserted. Gripping the handrail tightly, he began to descend the stairway, and was soon walking along the stationary, wooden- planked dock.

The Sirocco was a glistening, sixty-foot-long yacht. Its gleaming white hull, teakwood decks and polished brass fittings seemed to sparkle in the moonlight. The boat was immaculate. Proceeding carefully, Steiner stepped down to a floating dock, immediately adjacent to the Sirocco. Noiselessly, he crept up a narrow ramp, and in a few moments, had stepped onto the teakwood deck of the boat. To his left was the mahogany-paneled door to the salon. Slowly, he pushed the door open, and entered.

The salon was shrouded in deep shadows. Steiner crossed to a nearby desk and flipped on a lamp. In the subdued, amber light, he gazed around the luxuriously-appointed cabin. The built-in sofas were richly upholstered; there was burnished teakwood paneling; the exposed beams arched the ceiling. The carpeting was thick, plush. The accessories were opulent, expensive. Inside a built-in, lighted, glass cabinet was Dr. Steiner’s collection ofjade and ivory sculpture—purchased on his numerous trips to China and Malaysia. On silent feet, Steiner moved to an elaborate, mirrored bar in one corner of the salon. He picked up a heavy, crystal decanter and poured two fingers of scotch into a glass. It was just when he returned the crystal decanter-stop, that he heard it. An abrupt, muffled sound coming from the stairwell area leading down to the below-deck cabins. Steiner was immediately concerned. He took a step or two toward the stairway. His voice was low, apprehensive: Who’s there?

Except for the far-off, plaintive shriek of the seagulls, there was dead silence.

Steiner set his drink down on a nearby table and crossed toward the stairwell. It was thick with ominous, black shadows. Is somebody there...? he called out tentatively. In the deathly silence, he could hear the soft, raspy sound of someone breathing. He continued to look into the shadowy gloom. The shadows appeared to deepen and creep forward. All at once, Steiner flipped on a light. For a second or two, he was blinded by the glare. The stairwell was flooded by a harsh, white light. Suddenly the silence was shattered by the BLAST of a .38 caliber revolver. Once. twice. three times. The SHOTS reverberated throughout the ship’s salon. The first bullet went astray, burying itself in the teakwood paneling. The two following bullets found their mark and entered Steiner’s chest, one piercing his left ventrical. He let out a loud, piercing scream and then fell clumsily forward, head-first, down the narrow stairway. He landed in a grotesque heap at the foot of the stairs. His eyes were fastened on the ceiling directly above him. They had that dry, soft shine. Dr. Joel Steiner was dead.

It was 9:00 o’clock, straight-up, when I wheeled the unmarked into a parking space next to the chain- link fence and killed the engine. Another beautiful, cloudless, sunny California day. A light breeze blowing in off the ocean. I couldn’t remember seeing the sea so vividly blue. The boat and the surrounding dock area was a hub of activity. A couple of uniforms moved on and off the yacht. Another officer was stringing up yellow, crime-scene tape. A small cluster of gawkers had gathered on the dock. Two or three black-and-whites, an unmarked detective’s car and a coroner’s wagon were parked on the bluff overlooking the Marina—as well as a white van with UBS-TV News emblazoned on its side-panels.

In case I forgot to introduce myself, the name is Kellermann. Detective Joe Kellermann...attached to LAPD’s Pacific Division. I’m pushing forty. My ex- wife describes me as being tall, muscularly-built, good-looking. I’ve also been known to be brusque, impatient at times, with a ballsy, aggressive attitude; I usually come across as the cerebral tough guy. I descended the long wooden stairway, and as I approached the Sirocco, I was met by my partner, Det. Richard (Rick) Ramirez. Ramirez, about 30, a product of the East Los Angeles barrio, was dark, sensual, handsome, with hair the color of a blackbird. He had the same handle as Richard Ramirez, L.A.’s notorious Midnight Stalker. but that never seemed to bother him. I threw him a quick glance. So.. .whadda we got here, Rick?

Single victim. A Dr. Joel Steiner. Appears to be the owner of the boat. Two gunshot wounds to the chest. He’s been dead for approximately nine hours—

I nodded. Okay. Let’s take a look.

Ramirez and I moved past a uniformed cop who stood on board the boat, guarding the crime scene. Inside the salon, there was an array of police types; forensics people, fingerprint men, police photographers. Dr. Steiner still lay in a grotesque heap at the foot of the stairway. A police photographer was busily taking pictures of the death scene; fixing the body’s position for the record. The ship’s interior was sporadically lit up by the flash of his strobe light. A coroner was carefully examining the body. I started to descend the stairway but stopped halfway down. The area was small, crowded; I decided to stay out of the way, at least for the time being. Ramirez and I retreated back into the salon. Two criminalist experts were combing and dusting the room for possible clues.

Fill me in here, Rick. What do we know about the victim?

"So far, not much. Understand he’s a shrink. Excuse me..a psychiatrist. Must be pretty successful. lives in an upscale neighborhood. I’d call Beverly Hills an upscale neighborhood. wouldn’t you, Joe?"

I grinned. Yeah. Yeah. I’d have to say, yes.

Suddenly, we were joined by the coroner. He was about sixty-five, tall, balding, gaunt-looking. His name was Dr. Martin Blackman. You can release the victim anytime you want, Detective. We got everything we need. Cause of death is pretty obvious. Two gunshot wounds in the chest. Possibly a .38 caliber—

Thanks, Marty. Any sign of the gun?

No, Detective. Your people are still lookin’ for it. So far.zilch.

Thanks again, Marty. I turned back to Ramirez, as the coroner moved away. Any signs of forced entry, Rick?

No. Nothing at all.

Who discovered the body? Who called 911?

You happen to notice the older dude being interviewed by that TV reporter, out there on the dock?

"Yeah, I did. What’s his story? Where does he fit into all of this?"

Claims to be a general handyman. Says he’s done a lot of work for Dr. Steiner—

This guy got a name, Rick?

Yeah. Said his name was Sykes.Ben Sykes.

I nodded. "Uh-huh. Think maybe it’s time we had a little chat with Mr. Sykes—"

Ramirez began to exit the salon. You got it, Joe.

Suzanne Ettinger, a reporter for UBS-TV News and I had met on numerous previous occasions. All crime scenes. What is it they say about bad chemistry? Ettinger had taken an obvious dislike for me the minute she’d laid eyes on me. The feeling was mutual, believe me. She was one of those big-mouthed, brassy, blonde broads. She was great-looking—and she knew it. She expected guys to cream their jeans.wilt.turn into jellyfish, with her pumped- up ego and her condescending manner. Most guys did. I didn’t.

Ettinger spotted Ramirez and I just as we stepped off the Sirocco. An expression of annoyance flashed across her face. She was interviewing Sykes, a gnarled and weather-beaten man in his late seventies. At first glance he had the look of some trippy Appalachian;

a guy who should be out in the backwoods somewhere, makin’ moonshine. As we approached the stationary dock, Ettinger decided to ‘wrap’ the interview. She looked directly into the lens of the Minicam, being held by a middle-aged, bearded cameraman. This is Suzanne Ettinger, she said brusquely, speaking to you from the scene of the crime, just outside the luxurious boat, reportedly owned by the victim: Dr. Joel Steiner. Now, back to you in the studio—

The assistant killed the TV camera, and Ms. Ettinger turned to face me. Her eyes were piercing, wary. Detective Kellermann? Do you have any leads? Does this look like a mob-hit to you?

I was surprised at her question. We have no comment at this time, I said.

Ettinger was not about to relent. Do you have any suspects, Detective? Do you have any reason to believe—?

I cut her off. "I’m sorry, Ms. Ettinger. Like I just told you, we have no comment at this time."

Her voice took on an annoying, whining quality. "Aw, come on, Detective. I know we’ve had our differences in the past.but I need a story. Make my day!"

I looked directly at her. Her eyes were cold, challenging. "What is it about No Comment, that you don’t understand, Ms. Ettinger?"

A dark smile filtered across her face. Why don’t you go fuck yourself, Detective! Abruptly, she turned to the cameraman. Okay, Brad, she said, "let’s get the hell outta here."

I turned to face Ben Sykes. He stood watching as the reporters moved away. His mouth hung open; he was stunned by Ettinger’s ballsy attitude. "Mr.

Sykes, I said, flashing my ID, I’m Detective Joe Kellermann with the LAPD. This is my partner, Detective Ramirez. I understand you were on friendly terms with the victim. Isn’t that right?"

Yes. Yeah, I was.

We need to ask you a few questions—

Okay. So.shoot!

Detective Ramirez tells me you worked for Dr. Steiner, off and on. What kind of work did you do for him, Mr. Sykes?

Sykes was a little evasive; he shrugged. "Well.I’m what you’d call a Jack-of-all trades. Helped him maintain the boat, mostly. There was always painting to do.stuff like that. Dr.