by Sue Grafton
“For which she gets paid what?”
Cheney shrugged. “Depends on what she does. Straight sex is probably a hundred and fifty bucks, which she ends up splitting with the management. Pretty quick, she figures out she has more on the ball, so she bags the cheap gigs and moves up to the big time.”
“Here in town?”
“For the most part. I understand they used to see quite a bit of her in the bar at the Edgewater Hotel. She also cruised through Bubbles in Montebello, which you probably heard was closed down last July. She had a penchant for the places where the high rollers hung out.”
“Did her mother know this?”
“Sure she did. Absolutely. Lorna was even picked up once on a misdemeanor for soliciting an undercover vice officer at Bubbles. We didn’t want to rub her mother’s nose in the fact, but she was certainly informed.”
“Maybe it’s just beginning to sink in,” I said. “Someone sent her a copy of a pornographic film in which Lorna loomed large. Apparently that’s what prompted her to come see me. She thinks Lorna was either blackmailed into it or working undercover.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” he said.
“I’m just telling you her assumption.”
Cheney snorted. “She’s in denial big time. Have you actually seen this tape?”
“I just saw it tonight. It was pretty raunchy.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure how much difference it makes. The kind of stuff she was into, it really doesn’t surprise me. How’s it supposed to tie in? That’s the part I don’t get.”
“Janice thinks Lorna was about to blow the whistle on someone.”
“Oh, man, that lady’s seen too many bad TV movies. Blow the whistle on who, and for what? Those people are legitimate… in some sense of the word. They’re probably scumbags, but that’s not against the law in this state. Look at all the politicians.”
“That’s what I told her. Anyway, I’m trying to figure out if there’s enough to warrant my taking on the job. If you guys couldn’t come up with anything, how can I?”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky. I’m one of life’s eternal optimists. Case is still open, but we ain’t had jackshit for months. You want to look at the files, it can probably be arranged.”
“That’d be great. What I’d really like to see are the crime scene photographs.”
“I’ll try to clear it with Lieutenant Dolan, but I don’t think he’ll object. You heard he’s in the hospital? He had a heart attack.”
I was so startled, I put a hand to my own heart, nearly knocking my glass over in the process. I caught it before it tipped, though a little wave of wine slopped out. “Dolan had a heart attack? That’s awful! When was this?”
“Yesterday, right after squad meeting, he started having chest pains. Like boom, he’s in trouble. Guy looks like shit, and he’s short of breath. Next thing I know he’s out like a light. Everybody scrambling around, doing CPR. Paramedics pulled him back from the brink, but it was really touch-and-go.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
“We hope so. He’s doing fine, last I heard. He’s over at St. Terry’s in the cardiac care unit, raising hell, of course.”
“Sounds like him. I’ll try to get over there first chance I have.”
“He’d like that. You should do it. I talked to him this morning, and the guy’s going nuts. Claims he doesn’t like to sleep because he’s scared he won’t wake up.”
“He admitted that? I never knew Lieutenant Dolan to talk about anything personal,” I said.
“He’s changed. He’s a new man. It’s amazing,” he said. “You ought to see for yourself. He’d be thrilled at the company, probably talk your ear off.”
I shifted the subject back to Lorna Kepler. “What about you? Do you have a theory about Lorna’s death?”
Cheney shrugged. “I think somebody killed her, if that’s what you’re after. Rough trade, jealous boyfriend. Maybe some other hooker thought Lorna was treading on her turf. Lorna Kepler loved risk. She’s the kind who liked to teeter right out on the edge.”
“She have enemies?”
“Not as far as we know. Oddly enough, people seemed to like her a lot. I say ‘oddly’ because she was different, really unlike other folk. It was almost admiration on their part because she was so out there, you know? She disregarded the rules and played the game her way.”
“I take it your investigation covered a lot of ground.”
“That’s right, though it never came to much. Frustrating. Anyway, it’s all there if you want to take a look. I can have Emerald pull the files once we get Dolan’s okay.”
“I’d appreciate that. Lorna’s mother gave me some stuff, but she didn’t have everything. Just let me know and I’ll pop over to the station and take a look.”
“Sure thing. We can talk afterward.”
“Thanks, Cheney. You’re a doll.”
“I know that,” he said. “Just make sure you keep us informed. And play it straight. If you come up with something, we don’t want it thrown out of court because you’ve tainted the evidence.”
“You underestimate me,” I said. “Now that I’m working out of Lonnie Kingman’s office, I’m an angel among women. I’m a paragon.”
“I believe you,” he said. His smile was lingering, and his eyes held just a hint of speculation. I thought I’d probably said enough. I backed away and then turned, giving him a wave as I departed.
Once outside, I drank in the quiet of the chill night air, picking up the faint scent of cigarette smoke trailing back at me from somewhere up ahead. I lifted my head and caught a glimpse of a man easing out of sight around a bend in the road, his footsteps growing faint. There are men who walk at night, shoulders hunched, heads bent in some solitary pursuit. I tend to think of them as harmless, but one never knows. I watched until I was certain he was gone. In the distance, lowlying heavy cloud cover had been pushed up the far side of the mountain and now spilled over the top.
All the parking spots were filled. Vehicles gleamed in the harsh overhead illumination like a high-end used-car lot. My vintage VW looked distinctly out of place, a homely pale blue hump among the sleek, low-slung sports models. I unlocked the car door and slid onto the driver’s seat, then paused for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, while I contemplated my next move. The single glass of white wine had done little to temper my wired state. I knew if I drove home, I’d just end up lying on my back, staring at the skylight above my bed. I fired up the ignition and then drove along the beach as far as State Street. I hung a right, heading north.
I crossed the railroad tracks, jolting the radio to life. I didn’t even realize I’d left the damn thing on. It seldom worked these days, but every now and then I could coax something out of it. Sometimes I’d bang on the dash with my fist, jarring forth news or a commercial. Other times, for no apparent reason, I’d pick up a baffling fragment of the weather. The problem was probably a loose wire or faulty fuse, which is just a guess on my part. I don’t even know if radios have fuses these days. At the moment, the reception was as clear as could be.
I pressed a button, neatly switching from AM to FM. I turned the dial by degrees, sliding past station after station until I caught the strains of a tenor sax. I had no idea who it was, only that the mournful mix of horns was perfect for this hour of the night. The cut came to an end, and a man’s voice eased into the space. “That was ‘Gato’ Barbieri on sax, a tune called ‘Picture in the Rain’ from the movie sound track Last Tango in Paris. Music was composed by ‘Gato’ Barbieri, recorded back in 1972. And this is Hector Moreno, here on K-SPELL, bringing you the magic of jazz on this very early Monday morning.”
His voice was handsome, resonant, and well modulated, with an easygoing confidence. This was a man who made his living staying up all night, talking about artists and labels, playing CDs for insomniacs. I pictured a guy in his mid-thirties, dark, substantial, possibly with a mustache, his long hair pulled back and secured with a rubber band. He must have enjo
yed all the perks of local celebrity status, acting as an MC for various charity events. Radio personalities don’t need even the routine good looks of the average TV anchorperson, but he’d still have name recognition value, probably his share of groupies as well. He was taking call-in requests. I felt my thoughts jump a track. Janice Kepler had mentioned Lorna’s hanging out with some DJ in her late night roamings.
I began to scan the deserted streets, looking for a pay phone. I passed a service station that was shut down for the night. At the near edge of the parking lot, I spotted what must have been one of the last real telephone booths, a regular stand-up model with a bifold door. I pulled in and left the car engine running while I flipped through my notes, looking for the phone number I’d been given for Frankie’s Coffee Shop. I dropped a quarter in the slot and dialed.
When a woman at Frankie’s Coffee Shop finally answered the phone, I asked for Janice Kepler. The receiver was clunked down on the counter, and I could hear her name being bellowed. In the background there was a low-level buzz of activity, probably late night pie-and-coffee types, tanking up on stimulants. Janice must have appeared because I heard her make a remark to someone in passing, the two of them exchanging brief comments before she picked up. She identified herself somewhat warily, I thought. Maybe she was worried she was getting bad news.
“Hello, Janice? Kinsey Millhone. I hope this is all right. I need some information, and it seemed simpler to call than drive all the way up there.”
“Well, my goodness. What are you doing up at this hour? You looked exhausted when I left you in the parking lot. I thought you’d be sound asleep by now.”
“That was my intention, but I never got that far. I was too stoked on coffee, so I thought I might as well get some work done.
I had a chat with one of the homicide detectives who worked on Lorna’s case. I’m still out and about and thought I might as well cover more ground while I’m at it. Didn’t you mention that Lorna used to hang out with a DJ on one of the local FM stations?”
“That’s right.”
“Is there any way you can find out who it was?”
“I can try. Hang on.” Without covering the receiver, she consulted with one of the other waitresses. “Perry, what’s the name of that all-night jazz show, what station?”
“K-SPELL, I think.”
I knew that much. Thinking to save time, I said, “Janice?”
“What about the disc jockey? You know his name?”
In the background, somewhat muffled, Perry said, “Which one? There’s a couple.” Dishes were clattering, and the speaker system was pumping out a version of “Up, Up, and Away” with stringed instruments.
“The one Lorna hung out with. ‘Member I told you about him?”
I cut in on Janice. “Hey, Janice?”
“Perry, hold on. What, hon?”
“Could it be Hector Moreno?”
She let out a little bark of recognition. “That’s right. That’s him. I’m almost sure he’s the one. Why don’t you call him up and ask if he knew her?”
“I’ll do that,” I said.
“You be sure and let me know. And if you’re still out running around town after that, come on up and have a cup of coffee on the house.”
I could feel my stomach lurch at the thought of more coffee. The cups I’d consumed were already making my brain vibrate like an out-of-balance washing machine. As soon as she hung up, I depressed the lever and released it, letting the dial tone whine on while I hauled up the phone book on its chain and flipped through. All the radio stations were listed at the front end of the K’s. As it turned out, K-SPL was only six or eight blocks away. Behind me, from the car, I could hear the opening bars of the next jazz selection. I found another quarter in the bottom of my handbag and dialed the studio.
The phone rang twice. “K-SPELL. This is Hector Moreno.” The tone was businesslike, but it was certainly the man I’d been listening to.
“Hello,” I said. “My name is Kinsey Millhone. I’d like to talk to you about Lorna Kepler.”
Chapter 4
*
Moreno had left the heavy door to the station ajar. I let myself in and the door closed behind me, the lock sliding home. I found myself standing in a dimly lit foyer. To the right of a set of elevator doors, a sign indicated K-SPL with an arrow pointing down toward some metal stairs on the right. I went down, my rubber-soled shoes making hollow sounds on the metal treads. Below, the reception area was deserted, the walls and the narrow hallway beyond painted a dreary shade of blue and a strange algae green, like the bottom of a pond. I called, “Hello.”
No answer. Jazz was being piped in, obviously the station playing back on itself. “Hello?”
I shrugged to myself and moved down the corridor, glancing into each cubicle I passed. Moreno had told me he’d be working in the third studio on the right, but when I reached it, the room was empty. I could still hear faint strains of jazz coming in over the speakers, but he’d apparently absented himself momentarily. The studio was small, littered with empty fast-food containers and empty soda cans. A half-filled coffee cup on the console was warm to the touch. There was a wall clock the size of the full moon, its second hand ticking jerkily as it made the big sweep. Click. Click. Click. Click. The passage of time had never seemed quite so concrete or so relentless. The walls were soundproofed with sections of corrugated dark gray foam.
To my left, countless cartoons and news clippings were tacked to a corkboard. The balance of the wall space was taken up with row after row of CDs, with additional shelves devoted to albums and tape cassettes. I did a visual survey, as if in preparation for a game of Concentration. Coffee mugs. Speakers. A stapler, Scotch tape dispenser. Many empty designer water bottles: Evian, Sweet Mountain, and Perrier. On the control board, I could see the mike switch, cart machines, a rainbow of lights, one marked “two track mono.” One light flashed green, and another was blinking red. A microphone suspended from a boom looked like a big snow cone of gray foam. I pictured myself leaning close enough to touch my lips to the surface, using my most seductive FM tone of voice. “Hello, all you night owls. This is Kinsey Millhone here, bringing you the best in jazz at the very worst of hours….”
Behind me, I heard someone thumping down the hall in my direction, and I peered out with interest. Hector Moreno approached, a man in his early fifties, supported by two crutches. His shaggy hair was gray, his brown eyes as soft as dark caramels. His upper body was immense, his torso dwindling away to legs that were sticklike and truncated. He wore a bulky black cotton sweater, chinos, and penny loafers. Beside him was a big reddish yellow dog with a thick head, heavy chest, and powerful shoulders, probably part chow, judging by the teddy bear face and the ruff of hair around its neck.
“Hi, are you Hector? Kinsey Millhone,” I said. The dog bristled visibly when I held out my hand.
Hector Moreno propped himself on one crutch long enough to shake my hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “This is Beauty. She’ll need time to make up her mind about you.”
“Fair enough,” I said. She could take the rest of her life, as far as I was concerned.
The dog had begun to rumble, not a growl but a low hum, as if a machine had been activated somewhere deep in her chest. Hector snapped his fingers, and she went silent. Dogs and I have never been that fond of one another. Just a week ago I’d been introduced to a boy-pup who’d actually lifted his leg and piddled on my shoe. His owner had voiced his most vigorous disapproval, but he really didn’t sound that sincere to me, and I suspected he was currently recounting, with snorts and guffaws, the tale of Bowser’s misbehavior on my footwear. In the meantime I had a Reebok that smelled like dog whiz, a fact not lost on Beauty, who gave it her rapt attention.
Hector swung himself forward and moved into the studio, answering the question I was too polite to ask. “I collided with a rock pile when I was twelve. I was spelunking in Kentucky, and the tunnel caved in. People expect something different, judging from my
voice on the air. Grab a seat.” He flashed me a smile, and I smiled in response. I followed as he set his crutches aside and hoisted himself onto the stool. I found a second stool in the corner and pulled it close to him. I noticed that Beauty arranged herself so that she was between us.
While Hector and I exchanged pleasantries, the dog watched us with an air of nearly human intelligence, her gaze shifting constantly from his face to mine. Sometimes she panted with an expression close to a grin, dangling tongue dancing as if at some private joke. Her ears shifted as we spoke, gauging our tones. I had no doubt she was prepared to intervene if she didn’t like what she heard. From time to time, in response to cues I wasn’t picking up myself, she would retract her tongue and close her mouth, rising to her feet with that low rumble in her chest. All it took was a gesture from him and she’d drop to the floor again, but her look then was brooding. She probably had a tendency to sulk when she wasn’t allowed to feast on human flesh. Hector, ever watchful, seemed amused at the performance. “She doesn’t trust many people. I got her from the pound, but she must have been beaten when she was young.”
“You keep her with you all the time?” I asked.
“Yeah. She’s good company. I work late nights, and when I leave the studio, the town is deserted. Except for the crazies. They’re always out. You asked about Lorna. What’s your connection?”
“I’m a private investigator. Lorna’s mother stopped by my office earlier this evening and asked if I’d look into her death. She wasn’t particularly happy with the police investigation.”
“Such as it was,” he said. “Did you talk to that guy Phillips? What a prick he was.”
“I just talked to him. He’s out of homicide and onto vice these days. What’d he do to you?”