Not a Girl Detective

by Susan Kandel

By the time I returned to my seat, Nancy was back, clad in a white lace skirt and bustier, a tangle of crucifixes, and masses of bleached blond hair. Behind her, a slide show was in progress. Every few seconds, the image changed.

  A marble statue of Aphrodite.

  A Raggedy Ann doll.

  “Gambino. I have a confession to make.” I fidgeted in my seat. The dress was not good for sitting. “Gambino?”

  He was mesmerized by an image of a kinky Helmut Newton model, naked except for a pair of thigh-high boots.

  “I have a confession, too,” he said. “I love performance art.”

  I kicked him under the table.

  A geisha girl holding a flower.

  A female nude curled up like a seashell.

  It couldn’t be.

  Nancy writhed across the stage moaning “Like a Virgin” and doing distinctly unvirginal things with her microphone stand.

  A little girl from the Victorian era sitting on a riverbank.

  These were the slides I’d found in her car.

  A headless mannequin draped in fur.

  They were part of her act.

  I was glad I couldn’t see Clarissa’s face, because I knew what was coming next. Indeed, at the precise moment Nancy screamed “Like a vir-ir-ir-ir-gin,” it materialized on the wall: the painting of naked Nancy Drew, in all her fleshly glory. It was like the return of the repressed, only in stereo-surround sound.

  Was Grace Horton turning in her grave? Or proud of her feisty granddaughter, who was doing it on her own terms? And Clarissa? I turned to see if I could catch a glimpse of her, but all I saw was a blur of red moving out the door.

  I sighed deeply.

  “What did you want to confess?” Gambino asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, adjusting his collar. “How’d it go with the hookers?”

  23

  The phone rang at 2:11 A.M. Startled, I reached over Gambino to pick it up, but there was no one on the other end. Must’ve been a bad dream. I put the phone down and he pulled me into his arms.

  “Everything okay?” he mumbled, still half asleep.

  “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  “Go back to sleep.”

  The phone rang again at 2:13 A.M. There was still nobody there.

  “Damn,” I said out loud.

  “What is it?” Gambino sat up and rubbed his eyes.

  “Wrong number, I guess. I don’t know.” I rearranged the blankets a little. My feet were cold.

  “You look sexy in that thing.”

  “It’s called a sweatshirt,” I said, smiling.

  We were back asleep by about 3:00 A.M.

  The phone rang again at 4:10 A.M.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “Cece?”

  I lowered my voice. “Andrew?”

  “Listen, I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “Did you call before?”

  “When?”

  “Never mind. What’s going on? It’s the middle of the night.” I glanced over at Gambino.

  “It’s Jake. He’s all riled up. He wants to see you. He says he’s got to get something off his chest.”

  “I’m not a priest.”

  “I realize that.”

  “Can’t it wait until morning?”

  “I don’t think so. Jake insists on talking to you.”

  “It’ll be light in a couple hours. I can come over then.”

  “Please.”

  “Andrew, this is crazy. I’m sleeping.”

  “You don’t understand. I have to be at the store at seven this morning. We’re doing inventory before we open. The only time is now.”

  I groaned.

  “You’re a good person.”

  “I’m an idiot.”

  “Oh,” he added as an afterthought, “Jake said to bring what Edgar gave you. He’ll explain.”

  And what exactly did either of them know about what Edgar had given me? And while we were on the subject of explaining, it was about time Andrew explained how he happened to have my missing key in his desk.

  I hung up the phone and looked at Gambino again. He was out cold. I’d be back before he woke up. And I didn’t need to bother him. He’d been working so hard, it was the last thing he needed. He had the morning off. Maybe I’d bring back a guava and cheese pie from Café Tropical in Silver Lake, and we’d eat the whole thing in bed.

  My sweatshirt was lying on the floor inside out. I pulled it on and tiptoed over to the closet, where my sweatpants were hanging on a hook. I put them on, stuck the black-and-white photograph Edgar had mailed me into the front pocket, jammed my feet into an old pair of fleece-lined boots, and walked as quietly as I could to the front door. Buster appeared out of nowhere, thrilled at the prospect of an impromptu stroll.

  “No, boy. Later. I promise.”

  I shut the door behind me.

  Traffic was light. I made it in fifteen minutes. There was an open spot across the street from Andrew’s. It was permit only, but I doubted any cop cars would be patrolling the area at this hour. Plus, the sign was so covered with graffiti you’d have a hard time making the ticket stick. I got out and locked the car. The air smelled like rotten meat. I sidestepped some Styrofoam packing crates that seemed to have been dismembered right there on the sidewalk. There was a baby crying in the distance. Then the sound of a car backfiring. Then someone kicking a can. There were people all around. Businessmen.

  “Smoke?”

  “No.”

  “Smoke?”

  “No.”

  “Smoke?”

  “No.”

  “Where you going?”

  I kept my head down.

  “Need company?”

  “No.”

  “Whore.”

  Echo Park Lake in the wee hours of the morning was not the happiest place on earth.

  I started up to Andrew’s apartment. I was almost at his door when I heard some scuffling at the top of the stairs. Probably rats. Spooked, I looked up, prepared for anything. Anything except someone running past me faster than the speed of light.

  It looked like Andrew.

  I turned around and watched him disappear.

  There was no answer when I knocked at his door. What was going on?

  “Jake? Open up, Jake!”

  Silence.

  “Andrew? Please open the door!”

  That was when I felt a hand grasp my shoulder and spin me around.

  “You think I’m going to let you wander around the street in the middle of the fucking night?”

  “Gambino! You scared me.”

  “You scared me.”

  “I was going to get you a guava and cheese pie.”

  “We’re a long way from the Tropical.”

  “On my way home, I meant.”

  “From where exactly?”

  “Bridget’s boyfriend’s. He’s with Edgar’s boyfriend. They’re in trouble.”

  “Please tell me you’re not talking about the one the cops are looking for.”

  “Okay, I’m not.”

  “Damn it, Cece.”

  “I have to go inside. They need my help.” I tried the door. It was unlocked. Before he could stop me, I swung it open and started inside.

  “What are you doing? Do not take another step!” Gambino pushed me behind him and drew his gun. “I mean it.”

  I nodded, knowing he meant it. But I’d made a promise, and when I make a promise, I mean it, too.

  He headed back into the bedroom. I waited for what seemed like hours, not moving, barely breathing. The living room looked as small and shabby as it had the other day. The wallpaper was grimy, the couch was threadbare, the plants needed watering.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “What is it?” I yelled.

  “Don’t touch anything. Just come in here.”

  I walked into Andrew’s bedroom. My legs felt like water. Gambino was standing there, looking down at the floor.

  “You know this poor bastard?”


  “It’s Jake Waite,” I said softly.

  Gambino knelt down. With a white handkerchief he’d taken out of his pocket, he picked up a small gun lying next to Jake. Then he took Jake’s hand. It looked small in his large one.

  “Holy shit!”

  “What?”

  He laid his head on Jake’s chest. “He’s not dead.”

  “He’s alive?”

  Gambino pulled out his phone and called an ambulance. “For the time being.”

  “Jake, Jake, it’s Cece.” I fell to my knees and stroked his cheek. “You’re going to be okay. Who did this to you?”

  “He did it to himself,” Gambino said. “Some fucking suicide.”

  “Suicide? What are you talking about?”

  “Read this,” he said, holding up a small piece of paper.

  I’m sorry for the people I hurt. I’m sorry for who I’ve become.

  Jake

  That was it. Short and not sweet. “This isn’t right, Peter.”

  “I know.”

  “No, this note isn’t right. Jake isn’t sorry about who he is. He doesn’t have any regrets. He wanted to tell me something. That’s why I’m here.”

  “This guy is wanted for questioning. What the hell are you doing running over here when he calls?”

  “It was important. He had something to say to me.”

  “I think he said it.”

  “Jake loved Edgar. I know he didn’t kill him. And I know he didn’t try to kill himself.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He isn’t the type. Plus, he of all people had everything to live for.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that somebody faked this.” But who? Andrew? Mitchell?

  “That’s a serious accusation you’re making.”

  “I realize that.”

  The paramedics arrived, put Jake on a gurney, and slipped an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. Then they hooked him up to an IV.

  “Is he going to make it?” I asked.

  “Not if you don’t get out of our way.”

  I squeezed Jake’s hand as they wheeled him out. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “Just get better. I’ll be by the hospital later.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Gambino said with an unpleasant undertone to his voice.

  He walked into the kitchen and rummaged around in the drawers until he found a box of Ziploc bags. He put the gun in one baggie and the note in another.

  “What kind of gun is it?”

  “Looks like a twenty-two.” The same as the gun that killed Edgar. “Since when do you care about guns?”

  “Is this your case?”

  “For now. I’ll have a better idea of what we’re dealing with soon. And where you will or won’t be going.”

  “News flash. You’re not my father. I’ll go where I want to go.”

  “Not if you don’t want to get arrested for obstruction of justice you won’t.”

  “You wouldn’t do that to me.”

  “Watch me.”

  “You can forget all about your guava and cheese pie,” I said.

  “I’ll call you. I’ve got work to do here. The crime scene guys are on their way.”

  “Are you dismissing me?”

  He walked me back out to the living room and pushed me out the door. “Don’t turn this into something personal. This is business. I’ve got to take care of things here, then go to the hospital. Just pray he wakes up and can tell us what the fuck’s going on.”

  “I don’t pray. Not anymore.”

  “I don’t have time for this, Cece.”

  “Neither do I.” I had to find Andrew.

  24

  What are you doing here at this ungodly hour?” asked Bridget as she unlocked the front door to her shop. “And in sweatpants?”

  I think it was safe to say she usually slept through this part of the day. “I was in the neighborhood and figured I’d say hello.”

  “Well, come on in, then,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “Though I’m not exactly ready to face my public.”

  “I’m not your public.”

  Helmut, nobody’s fool, smelled cinnamon rolls and leapt for the white paper bag I was carrying.

  “Helmut, down! Stop that nonsense right now!” Bridget turned to me. “His vet has him on a low-carb diet.”

  “We’ll eat his, then.” I opened the bag and pulled out the rolls and two lattes. “So where’s Andrew?” I asked, handing her the one with two sugars. “I brought one for him, too.”

  “He’s late.”

  She sat down at Andrew’s desk, took a sip of her latte, and made a face. She opened the top drawer, grabbed two sugar packets, ripped them open, poured the contents in, and took another sip. “Now this is what I call coffee.”

  “How can you drink it like that?”

  “It’s delicious.” I watched her, waiting for the right moment. But there wasn’t going to be a right moment.

  “I’ve got to tell you something, and you’re not going to like it.”

  She slammed down her cup. Coffee went everywhere. “I do not want to hear another word about Andrew! That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Leave it alone, will you?”

  “I can’t.”

  “You won’t.”

  “Andrew called me last night.”

  “What?”

  “You know Edgar’s boyfriend, Jake Waite? The one who’s been missing?”

  She pushed the top drawer closed. It made an un-earthly sound, like a death rattle. “I keep telling Andrew to oil this drawer,” she said.

  “Bridget. Listen to me. Jake’s been hiding at Andrew’s. They’re old friends.”

  “I’m not listening.”

  “They thought I could help them figure out who killed Edgar, and clear Jake’s name.”

  “I said I’m not listening.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Well, what you’re saying is insane.”

  She stood up, then sat back down.

  “I realize it sounds that way. Jake remembered something in the middle of the night, something he thought I should hear about right away. So I headed over to Andrew’s. It was a disaster. I saw Andrew, at least I think it was Andrew, bolt out of there without a word to me, and when we went inside—”

  “We?”

  “Gambino and me. When we went inside, we found Jake. He’d been shot. They took him to the hospital. I don’t even know if he made it.”

  I stopped.

  “You think Andrew had something to do with it, don’t you?”

  “I need to talk to him,” I said gently.

  “Well, you can forget about that.” She stood up again. “He’s not coming.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He phoned just before you got here. He said he’d been called away on a family emergency. He didn’t know when he’d be back.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I knew it sounded like a lie.” She tossed what was left of her coffee into the trash. “The police must be looking for him, too.”

  “They will be.”

  “Jesus,” she said. “I really thought he was special.”

  “We don’t know anything yet. It may all be perfectly innocent.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “No.”

  She turned to look at the racks of beautiful clothes filling the hallway. Sheer net blouses. Spangled sweaters. Cocktail dresses. Dinner suits. Princess coats. “Fuck.”

  “Do you need my help with all this, Bridget?”

  She scratched her short curly hair. “I’m fine.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” She gave me a sorry attempt at a smile. “It’s funny. You peel off the top layer of skin and sometimes you find a stranger underneath.”

  “I’ll call you later,” I said, hugging her good-bye. She didn’t hug me back.

  I got home around eight-thirty in the morning, realizing only then that I’d forgotten to check
Andrew’s drawer for the key. Was it still there? Unlikely.

  It’d been a long night. The instant the door closed behind me, I kicked off my boots, put Edgar’s photograph back in my drawer next to the Lanvin cape, and yanked off my sweats. I needed a shower. It took exactly three and a half minutes for the hot water to warm up, during which time I think I sat on my bed staring vacantly into space, though I can’t be sure. Following the monumental task of washing my hair, I collapsed at the kitchen table, then got up briefly to put on a pot of coffee. The phone machine was blinking. There were two messages. The first was from Lael.

  BEEP. You’re up and at ’em awfully early this morning. Good for you! I guess we haven’t talked all weekend. Asher’s a fox, I’ll give him that, but there’s no there there, if you know what I mean. That’s all I’m going to say on the subject. He has a good orange juicer, the kind that costs a hundred and thirty dollars at Williams-Sonoma. And there’s a Jackson Pollock painting over his bed. But that’s absolutely all I’m going to say on the subject. There’s a huge stack of that particular issue of People in the bathroom, by the way.

  There would be.

  The second message was from Gambino.

  BEEP. I hope you got some sleep. I’ve been with the guys in the lab. You were right. Most suicide notes don’t have two different sets of fingerprints on them.

  Because nobody had tried to commit suicide. Somebody had tried to commit murder.

  I called him back immediately, but he was unavailable. I spent the next half an hour trying to get an actual human being on the phone, anyone who could tell me about Jake’s condition. But the Cedars-Sinai automated phone system outmaneuvered me at every turn. I don’t know why I expected otherwise. Clearly, I was going to have to do this in person.

  I hated hospitals. In my experience people go to hospitals and they don’t get better. They die. My father, for instance. One minute he’s walking around, mean as all get-out, the baddest cop in town. The next minute he’s dying in a hospital bed, with silent nurses padding about silently.

  I took a last sip of coffee. That was so long ago.

  I got dressed quickly, grabbed my car keys off the table, and headed out the door. Halfway down the path, I swung back around. I’d forgotten to turn off the lights. My father used to be a real stickler about things like that.

  JAKE WAS ALIVE, but barely. They’d removed two bullets from his brain, but there was still too much swelling to know exactly what kind of damage had been sustained. He was in recovery. He’d been in surgery for almost four hours. He’d be on a respirator for at least a few more days.