“Yes.”
“They’re gone. Or at least gone for now. I haven’t had one in weeks.”
“That’s good,” he said, his smile turning a bit sad. “I still get those sometimes. About the fire.”
I nodded but didn’t know what to say. Guillermo always had such a pleasant attitude that it was easy to forget he’d been through a major trauma as a younger man—a trauma that had cost him his wife and almost his life. The prosthetic skin he’d developed to cover his scars also added to Carmelita’s realistic appearance, and Guillermo had hinted that he’d sold the formula to the government for a hefty sum. Even so, I knew that the successes he’d enjoyed in the latter part of his life could never make up for the loss of Mrs. Garcia. I didn’t like to think about what that said about me and Annabelle, and when the thought did get in there, I did my best to chase it away as quickly as possible.
“You’re not upset?” I asked.
He shook his head and smiled. “Of course not,” he said. Then, taking his hand off my shoulder, he turned back to the machine. “I still got to build this thing thanks to you. And I know it works. I’m not done experimenting yet, you know. It will take time before it’s ready for a person to pass through. If not you, then I can find someone else.”
“Not Osvaldo,” I said.
He laughed at this. “No. Not Osvaldo.”
I let the laugh hang there for a few seconds and then said, “Thanks, Guillermo.”
“De nada,” he said. Then he turned and covered the machine with the sheet again. “Maybe we better go back in before those two elope, yes?”
“Sure,” I said. As I followed him and Perdida out of the workshop, I added, “By the way, can you give Carmelita a ride home later? I’ve still got another stop to make.”
He chuckled. “Giving her a ride will be no problem. Getting those two to separate…that won’t be so easy.”
Recalling how Sherise had asked me to stay with her after my gig at the club, I said, “Do you think Carmelita will be okay on her own tonight? I might not be back.”
“She’ll be fine,” Guillermo said. “I can ask her if she wants to stay here, though.”
“Osvaldo’s staying, too?”
Guillermo smiled. “I can make him go home.”
“I doubt it.”
Chapter Five
My last stop of the day was at a little house in a quiet neighborhood near Melrose and Gower, a rock hop away from the Paragon Pictures complex. I parked the Winslow beneath a shady oak and waited, tuning the radio and finding nothing I liked for about fifteen minutes, my eyes rising from the dial to the street with every car that approached.
When the little blue Lancer turned onto the street, I knew it was the car I’d been waiting for, absolute certainty prompting me to kill the radio and take my key from the ignition before the approaching car had even begun slowing. When it did and the front wheels guided the little car into Jeanie Palmer’s driveway, I got out of my car and timed the closing of my door to the moment Jeanie opened hers.
The metallic thud on the otherwise silent street caused the young woman to whip her head around in my direction. She was young—early twenties—and pretty, petite and dark haired in contrast to Leonora’s statuesque blondness. I imagined the two of them arm in arm and decided they must have been a cute couple while it had lasted, although not the kind you’d see at the red-carpet premieres on Hollywood Boulevard. For those, Leonora had needed a male companion, probably one provided by the studio.
When I saw that Jeanie had made me, I stood still and showed her both my palms.
“Didn’t mean to alarm you,” I said.
“You didn’t alarm me,” she responded as she turned and closed her door. “Just wasn’t expecting to see anyone there is all.”
Spunky, I thought. And fearless. The young woman had made no move to return to the safety of her car when she’d seen me, and now that I’d engaged her in conversation she seemed uninterested in doing anything else to put me off.
In fact, she did just the opposite, asking, “Can I help you?” as she took a step toward me rather than move toward the safety of her front door.
“I hope so,” I said and started approaching her, keeping my hands where she could see them as I went. “My name’s Jed Strait. I’m a private detective.”
“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow, curious.
“Yes, and I’ve been hired by a friend of yours who’s got a bit of a problem.”
“Friend?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I was about three feet away from her now, close enough to see that there was a bit of tension in her expression. I could see worry lines furrowed on her forehead, and her cheeks looked a bit flushed. There was nothing for it, though. I was here and needed to get the job done. “Leonora Rigsby,” I said.
The color in her cheeks rose immediately, and her nostrils flared.
“I’ve got nothing to say to you,” she said and turned on her heels.
I followed, talking to her back. “Miss Rigsby has lost something and wants it back. She’s wondering if you picked it up by mistake the last time you visited her.”
Jeanie Palmer stopped midstride and spun around to face me. She actually bared her teeth as she answered. “She’s calling me a thief now, is it?”
“No, ma’am,” I said, succeeding at not letting my ire rise to match hers. Then, dropping my voice even though no one was around, I added, “She’s not saying you stole it. She just wants it back in the event that you’ve somehow ended up with it.”
She stared at me, breathing hard for several seconds. Finally, she said, “And what is this item I’m supposed to have accidentally ended up with?”
If Leonora was right about who had written the blackmail note, then Miss Jeanie Palmer was an awfully good liar. She was doing indignant and falsely accused very convincingly. Maybe it was all that time around actors and screenwriters in the commissary and the costume department at Paragon. Or maybe Leonora had had her ex-lover pegged wrong on this one.
“Would you rather we discuss this more privately?” I asked.
“I don’t see why.”
I shrugged. Have it your way, I thought. “Well then, I’ll tell you. It’s about a certain film. Of a personal nature. It has both of you—”
“Stop!” she said, her rage diminishing but her general attitude of agitation still cranked up pretty high. She took a few deep breaths, rubbed her temple with the hand that wasn’t holding her keys, and said, “Do you have a…a business card or something?”
“I do,” I said and pulled one from my inner coat pocket along with my license. “All square.”
She took the card and my license, looking at both for a moment before handing the license back. “Let’s go inside,” she said.
I followed her to the front of the house, standing at the bottom of the steps as she unlocked the door and entered. A tabby cat greeted her, rubbing against her ankles. When it saw me standing outside, it turned and bolted back into the house.
Half turning toward me, Jeanie said, “Please come in. And ignore Rufus. He may try to bite. He doesn’t like men.”
So warned, I walked inside, trying to figure her out. If she really was the blackmailer, would she be inviting me in like this? Or would doing so be part of her front, a way of feigning innocence, seeming cooperative only as a ruse to throw me off the trail? It seemed possible, even likely. But it also seemed possible that she wasn’t putting on an act.
I closed the door behind me and turned to see Jeanie scanning the room, probably looking for the cat but also possibly looking to see if she’d left anything incriminating lying around the room. She gave me no time to do a visual on the place, however, turning toward me and saying, “I’d ask you to sit, but to be honest, I really don’t want you here that long.”
“Understood,” I said. “Let’s get right to it then.” Reaching back into my coat pocket, I took out the blackmail letter I’d been carrying around with me since leaving the office. I unfolded it and
held it up for her to see.
“Miss Rigsby received this recently. She feels you’re the most likely sender.”
“And she sent you to strongarm me into backing off?” This came out in a haughty tone, as though there was a barely concealed snicker of disgust just waiting to come out afterward.
“No, ma’am,” I said. “That’s not my style. I’m merely here to suggest that, if the letter did come from you, you ought to reconsider. There’s nothing real to be gained from exposing Miss Rigsby to that kind of bad press. And you won’t get the money. If you’d like to keep the film for yourself, that’s one thing, but—”
“Enough!” she shouted, cutting me off for the second time. “I don’t have that stupid movie. I wish I’d never let Leonora talk me into making it. And if I did have it, I wouldn’t be trying to blackmail her with it. I’m in it, too, you know. I’d be just as ruined as her if that thing saw the light of day.”
I nodded, choosing to ignore her temper. “Well, if not you, then someone. And I don’t mind telling you that the trail to that person is pretty cold if it’s not you.”
Her expression changed, like a dark cloud passing over a sunny plain. “You’re not going to be able to stop this person…” she said, defeat in her tone. “Not if I’m your only lead.”
For the first time since I’d met her, I actually believed she might not be the blackmailer. That, or her acting skills were off the scale.
“Well, you’re my only lead as of now,” I offered. “Do you have any idea who else might be behind this? Anyone else who knew about the film or had access to it?”
She was silent for a moment. Then she shook her head and said, “No. I can’t think of anyone. It was just between me and Leonora.”
Recalling my earlier conversation with Jeanie’s former lover, I said, “And the person who shot the footage.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You think it was Jackson?”
Jackson, I thought, making a mental note to write the name in my notebook when I got back to my car. Leonora had been adamant about keeping the third party out of my investigation, and I was glad that Jeanie didn’t share the same feelings about this sympathetic friend of Leonora’s.
“I don’t think anything yet. I’m just looking for data. Can you give me a little on this Jackson?”
“Leonora didn’t tell you about him?”
“Miss Rigsby was hesitant to say much.”
She nodded, took a moment to think things over, and then shrugged. “I don’t know him. It was…kind of awful doing…you know…in front of him. But he’s, well…he’s like us, if you must know. And he’s discreet. Leonora says we’re not the only people at Paragon who’ve used his services.”
Since she was speaking freely, I saw no point in waiting to get back to the car to take notes but rather pulled my notebook from its home in my coat pocket and started jotting. “You’re saying this Jackson isn’t interested in women?” I asked.
“That’s right.”
“And Jackson is his first name? Or last?”
“I always assumed it was his first. That’s what everyone calls him. I guess it could be a nickname.”
“You don’t know his last name if that’s not it?”
“No, but it shouldn’t be hard to find out. He works with the cameras at Paragon. I’d think if you do a little discreet digging, you should find him out.”
I nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. It would definitely be a help to me, though, if you could ask a few questions on the inside when you go back to work on Monday. You can give me a call at that number if you find anything concrete on this Jackson. Full name. Where he lives. Anything like that would be helpful.”
She raised one eyebrow. “Isn’t this work you’re supposed to do?”
“Sure,” I said. “And I’ll do it, too. But it’ll take me a little longer than it’ll take you, and my asking might raise a few red flags, give Jackson a warning before I’m ready to move on him—if that’s what I end up needing to do. If you ask around, though, and it gets back to him, he’ll likely think it was just about the job he already did for you and Leonora. Or maybe he’ll think you’re ready to hire him for a repeat performance.”
This last bit caused her to glower at me. Even so, she said nothing to indicate she was refusing the request.
I knew when I’d pushed things far enough and said, “Call me if you hear anything. I’ll work things from my end.” Then I tipped my hat just a little and turned toward the door. “I’m not going to let your cat out accidentally, am I?” I asked.
“No. He’s fine.”
“All right, then.” I opened the door and, halfway through, turned back toward her. “Just one more thing, Miss Palmer,” I said. She raised an eyebrow in response but said nothing. “If you’ve been lying to me and this letter really did come from you, I strongly suggest you reconsider following through with your threat. Blackmail is a serious crime. Right now, Miss Rigsby wants to keep the police out of this, especially since that’s in the instructions in the letter. But that situation might change. She might decide that keeping this secret isn’t worth the cost and let the cops step in. At that point, I wouldn’t want to be the person who sent this letter.”
Jeanie didn’t flinch. Her color didn’t change, and neither did her demeanor. One more time, I sized her up as formidable and hoped she wasn’t actually the blackmailer. She’d be a tough safe to crack.
“Duly noted, Mr. Strait,” she said. “Now, kindly leave before my cat does decide to chase you out.”
I smiled at this and then I was through the door, pulling it shut behind me.
Back in my car, I took a few minutes to add to my notes, making sure the scribbles taken down in Jeanie’s front room would still make sense by Monday. Then I started the car and pulled away from the curb.
Her house wasn’t far from Melrose, but I could see that Friday traffic was already building on the avenue, so I pulled into the driveway of Jeanie’s neighbor and turned around, hoping I would do better on Santa Monica or Fountain or one of the other streets to the north. Before I’d gotten three houses away from Jeanie Palmer’s place, however, I hit the brakes, stopping the Winslow squarely in the middle of the street.
A green station wagon was parked on my left. It looked identical to the one that had tailed me earlier. I knew that with car sales in California being what they were, the chances were far greater that this was a coincidence rather than the same car I’d shaken free on my way to Guillermo’s.
Still, it bothered me, and I sat there in the middle of the street, grateful there was no other traffic coming either way. I looked carefully at the car and then glanced around the area, half expecting to see a shadowy figure hiding behind a tree after having watched me go into Jeanie Palmer’s house—potentially compromising my investigation and Jeanie’s connection to it.
There was no one around, not even kids playing hopscotch or riding bicycles on the sidewalk. No dogwalkers. No strollers. No Carson Mulvaney and certainly no Elsa Schwartz.
Even so, I still wasn’t satisfied and pulled the Winslow as far over to the right as I could, double parking next to a black sedan and hoping the street would stay quiet for just a minute more. I killed the engine and got out, walked across the street to circle the station wagon. First, I checked the driver’s seat to make sure no one was actually in the compartment, maybe lying down across the seat to avoid detection. There was no one. I checked the back for the same thing and found it just as empty. Then I pulled my notebook and wrote down the license plate number, figuring I could pull strings with O’Neal or someone else at LAPD to look up the car’s owner and get at least one answer. While walking around the car, I noticed its make, which made me stop and stare.
It was a Meteor, a new model from the same company that had made the car that had gotten me to California the previous year, only to die an ignominious death in the desert, setting up my rescue by Carmelita and my eventual introduction to O’Neal, Guillermo, Peggy and everyone else that was
part of the life I’d built in this world. Seeing the logo on the fender felt like a bad omen, and I turned away from the car, opting not to write the word “Meteor.” It wasn’t something I was going to forget.
Taking another look up and down the street and still seeing no one, I went back to my car and headed north.
It turned out I was wrong. Santa Monica was just as bad. I entered the flow of traffic, eventually working my way over to Sunset, which took me all the way back to Echo Park where my guitar was waiting for me. I tried picturing the way the rest of the evening was going to go as I crawled along—head home, grab my Harmon, find something to eat, and then work my way back to Hollywood and Sherise. It would all feel like work until I made it back to Darkness. And then it would be all right—as long as the green Meteor didn’t show up again, and as long as fingering the frets on my guitar tonight didn’t cause me to cross over into some other reality again. Today had been strange enough. I was ready for a little normalcy, or what passed for normal in this version of Los Angeles.
Chapter Six
Friday night’s gig at Darkness melted into Saturday morning with Sherise. After the club closed, we stuck around, practicing the new song with the new chord changes. Sherise’s voice and the chord progression melded together perfectly and I was grateful that I kept my consciousness firmly rooted in just one world while I played.
When we were finally done and Darkness was securely locked up, we headed to Sherise’s little apartment off of Franklin. It had been a long day, and I took comfort in falling into her arms and later sleeping soundly side by side.
In the morning, we breakfasted and worked on the new song a little more.
“When do we debut this new side of Sherise Pike?” I asked after we’d gone through the song four more times.
“Soon,” she said.
“I think we’re ready now.”
She raised an eyebrow and repeated, “Soon.”
“Shy?”
She slapped good-naturedly at my shoulder, prompting me to feign injury. “Careful!” I said, trying not to laugh. “How’ll it look if I’m trying to play with my arm in a sling?”
The Shakedown Shuffle: A Dieselpunk Adventure (The Crossover Case Files Book 3) Page 7