The room she assigned him was standard issue, with a bed and a table and two chairs and a TV. But at least it had a view of the Hollywood hills. He dropped off his bag and telephoned the LAPD, asking for directions to the Detective Bureau. He was told it was in the new LAPD headquarters building, across from City Hall in the civic center.
He left the room and went back down to the lobby, where Lia gave him another smile. He waved to her on his way out to the Ford.
The drive took just under thirty minutes. East again on Sunset, then south on 101, off at the Broadway exit, and from there to the building at 100 West First Street.
And what a building. A soaring slab of metal and concrete and tinted glass, it was said to be the most expensive police headquarters ever built in the United States. Barker could believe it. Certainly, it bore no resemblance to NYPD headquarters. Compared to this, the drab pile of stone in downtown Manhattan was like an oversized blockhouse.
He went into the lobby and presented credentials to the cop at the desk, saying he wanted to see the commander of the Detective Bureau. The cop made a call and then directed him to the sixth floor. On the way, Barker noted that the place was as sleek and clean as a hospital, and in fact more so than most of the ones he’d been in.
Up on six, there were about seventy people: male and female detectives in cubicles, secretaries out on the floor at desks, everything spick-and-span. This area, too, was far neater than what he was used to in New York.
The atmosphere was familiar, however. Detectives were working the phones and making notes, some typing reports, one guy talking to a suspect, two others shooting the shit about the Dodgers’ chances for winning the National League pennant.
The CO’s glass-walled office was on the opposite side of the floor. A sign on the door said his name was Deputy Chief Charles Swanson. Barker knocked and opened the door.
The occupant was a lanky guy with a thick black mustache. Unlike the detectives in his command, he was wearing a uniform rather than civvies, and there was a row of ribbons on his blouse.
“Afternoon, Chief,” Barker said. “My name’s Barker. I’m a detective from New York.” He reached across Swanson’s desk and shook his hand.
“Like to spend a few minutes with you,” Barker went on. “If you can spare the time.”
Swanson motioned him to a chair and spoke into an intercom. “Hey, Sam. Come on in here. We got a visitor from New York.”
Sam turned out to be a female detective. Her sandy hair was swept back, and she wore jeans and a striped shirt. A holster on her belt held a 9mm Glock.
“I’m Samantha Benziger,” she said. “What brings you to LA?”
“He wants to visit Disneyland,” Swanson said. “And maybe the La Brea tar pits.”
Benziger smiled. She sat down next to Barker and said, “This have to do with the Delure homicide?”
“It does. I’m a member of a task force that’s working on the case.”
“Don’t miss the Universal Studios Tour,” the CO said. “You’ll love it. Knott’s Berry Farm is also great.”
“How’s it going?” Sam asked.
“Slowly,” Barker said.
“Probably the biggest case you guys ever handled,” Swanson said. “Am I right?”
“One of them, anyway.”
“We’ve had some big ones here, too. O.J., Robert Blake, Phil Spector, just to name a few.”
“Yeah, so I understand.” Jesus, was Swanson actually playing can-you-top-this?
Benziger said to Barker, “Delure’s got everybody in an uproar. As you know, this is a movie town. So the murder of a star is huge. That’s made it a bonanza for the media. The cable channels all put out stories on it every night, and the LA Times runs at least one piece a day. Even when there’s nothing new.”
Swanson said, “She means even though you don’t seem to be getting anywhere with it. By the way, we already had a call about the case from a lieutenant on the Manhattan Homicide Squad. What was his name, Logan, Hogan?”
“That’s Lieutenant Dan Hogan,” Barker said. “He’s in charge of the task force.”
“Sam did some digging for him,” Swanson said. “He fill you in on what she found?”
“No.”
“A little communications problem there, huh?”
“A lot’s been going on,” Barker said. “Some things are bound to slip into the cracks.”
Swanson turned to Benziger. “Give us a rundown, will you, Sam?”
“There was only one incident where Delure was involved,” she said. “A few months back she had a fight with her ex-husband. He’s a financial guy, name of Ron Apperson. Seems they were at his house in Coldwater Canyon and had an argument. It got physical, and she left and was driving back to her place. Her Mercedes was weaving all over the road, and a motorcycle cop stopped her. At first he thought she was DUI, but she said Apperson had punched her in the gut and she was nauseated and feeling faint. The cop wanted to follow up on it, but she said she wouldn’t press charges, and that she’d deny ever telling him any such thing. The cop escorted her home and wrote it up, and that was the end of it.”
“We usually try to keep anything like that low-key when a celebrity’s involved,” Swanson said. “So the media never got hold of the story. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff that’s in our files. Movie stars involved in all kinds of incidents—shoplifting, trespassing, assault, and so on. But the public never hears a word about most of it. There’ve been exceptions, though. Like with Mel Gibson. Or Nick Nolte.”
“What about Apperson,” Barker asked. “Anything on him?”
“Couple of lawsuits,” Sam said. “But they were settled out of court. Also about four years ago his wife from a former marriage claimed he’d beat her up, but that was settled too.”
“You know what domestic violence cases are like,” Swanson said. “The only ones that get as far as a prosecutor are when the guy doesn’t have any money.”
“And even then the woman usually won’t testify,” Sam said.
“On the one with Delure and Apperson,” Barker said, “I assume you gave that to Lieutenant Hogan?”
“Yeah, but he didn’t seem to be much impressed. Said it sounded to him like nothing more than a marital squabble.”
“Can you do a check for me on a woman named Dana Laramie? She was Delure’s secretary.”
“That rings a bell,” Sam said. “She was a witness, wasn’t she? In the hotel?”
“Yes, she was. I want to locate her and talk to her.”
“Sure, I can help you there.”
Swanson then said to Barker, “Listen, I hope you understand our situation. We’re dealing with a stack of open homicide cases, most of them gang related. More than five hundred so far this year. The gangs rob civilians, prey on civilians, hijack cars, peddle dope, and fight wars with each other. Blacks against blacks, blacks against Latinos, Latinos against Latinos, Latinos against blacks.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“The California Department of Justice maintains a database that shows four hundred fifty gangs in LA, with a hundred forty thousand members. So if I seem preoccupied, you can see why.”
“I do see.”
“We’ve also got a number of high-profile cases. Last week, a vice president of the Los Angeles Bank and Trust Company was found shot to death in his bed in Brentwood. His wife’s our prime suspect, but she’s got a sharp lawyer and he won’t let her answer our questions. Then there’s another one where the vic was a would-be model. A photographer took her on location to Big Bear and strangled her. We’re looking for him now. Those are the kind of cases that get the public riled up and put more pressure on us. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I understand.”
“Point is, we’re overloaded. That’s not to say we don’t want to cooperate with your department in the Del
ure case. But I got the impression that Hogan is pretty sure the killer was a New York thief who was after Delure’s jewelry. Hogan says he most likely shot the two women to shut them up. We sent him rap sheets on robbers that might fit the profile of your perp, although none of them seemed like they could operate on that level. Compared to the one you want, these guys were nickel-shit.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Nevertheless, we’ll give you all the help we can.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Sam will be your contact. Anything you need, let her know and we’ll do our best to supply it, okay?”
“Thanks,” Barker said. He followed Sam out of the office.
She sat at her desk, and Barker sat beside her. She tapped on her computer keyboard, and after a moment said, “Nothing on Laramie in our Compstat files, so she’s clean.” She tapped some more. “I’ll give you her address and phone number.”
“Can you check on Apperson too?”
“No problem.” She looked it up and said, “Several complaints, but they all seem to be from investors claiming he screwed them. The charges were dismissed.” She put together both addresses and phone numbers, printed the information, and handed the sheet to Barker. “Anything else?”
“One thing. The killer shot Delure and her manager, but he didn’t use bullets. Instead he hit each of them with a fléchette. How he fired them we’re not sure, because the witnesses told us there was no noise. Naturally, we haven’t released that information.”
“Interesting. Sounds like he was pretty clever.”
“I’d say so, yeah. Anyway, our ballistics guys were unable to find a gun that would fire the fléchettes, which were about two inches long and almost half an inch thick. So in their opinion the weapon was probably custom-built.”
“That’s interesting too. Says the killer did some careful planning. And either built the thing himself or had it built for him.”
“That’s the way I see it, too,” Barker said. “But we don’t have information on anybody who could do that. Anyway, I’d appreciate it if you could ask your own ballistics experts whether they have a line on someone who has that kind of skill with weapons. It’s a slim chance, I know, but I’ll take anything I can get.”
“Sure, I’ll ask. Where are you staying?”
“The Sunset Inn.”
“Okay, I’ll call you there.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate your help.”
“You need anything else, just let me know.”
Once he was back in the Ford, Barker looked at the sheet. He decided it would be best to start with Laramie, even though she’d run when she caught sight of him at Delure’s funeral. Her address was on Wilshire Boulevard, in Beverly Hills. He fired up the engine and headed north.
16.
Dana Laramie drove her Honda Accord to the Delure house on North Crescent Drive in Beverly Hills. Two stories high with pale yellow siding, the house was set behind tall hedges that made it nearly invisible from the street. It was also surrounded by tall elms and oaks and several Persian silk trees. Snuggled up against the foundation were lush plantings of jacaranda and hibiscus and bougainvillea.
Dana used her remote to open the gate and pulled up to the front entrance. She parked her car and went to the door.
A man wearing a khaki uniform was standing nearby. An embroidered logo on his shirt identified him as security. Dana told him who she was, and he let her pass.
She rang the bell, and after a minute or so she heard footsteps and was aware of being inspected through the peephole. There was the sound of locks being undone, and Anna Sebowski, the housekeeper, swung the door open. She had on a white uniform, and there were tears in her eyes.
“Oh, Miz Laramie,” Anna said. “I’m glad to see you, but so sad.”
Dana put her arms around her and gave her a hug. It was no small task; Anna was almost as wide as she was tall.
“It’s good to see you too,” Dana said. “I just wish the circumstances were different.”
Anna stepped aside. “Please come in quick, before anybody sees us.”
Dana went past her into the foyer. “Who are you talking about? Who’s going to see us?”
The housekeeper shut the door and locked it. “Those awful reporters. They’ve been out there almost every day, taking pictures of the house. The security man tries to keep them away, but they don’t pay no attention. One of them got through the gate by riding in a delivery truck. She told me she wanted to come in and look around. I wouldn’t let her, of course, the pushy bitch. Excuse my language.”
“It’s okay,” Dana said. “I feel the same way about them.”
She and Anna went into the living room, which was furnished in a combination of French antiques and deeply upholstered sofas and chairs. A Matisse landscape hung over the fireplace, and on another wall was a portrait of Catherine Delure.
It was disconcerting for Dana to see the portrait; the painting had the uncanny effect of the subject’s gaze following her. As if Catherine were in the room, watching her move about.
A large dog suddenly bounded in from the hallway and began licking Dana’s hand. It was a golden retriever that had been much loved by Catherine. Dana scratched the dog behind its ears.
“Lulu!” Anna said. “You get back in the kitchen. You know you’re not allowed in here.”
The dog obediently left the room, and Dana said, “Is Marie here?” Marie had been Catherine’s maid.
“No. After she saw the news about what happened, she grabbed her clothes and left. I haven’t heard from her since.”
“Has anybody else been here?”
“Just Mr. Haynes.”
“The lawyer?”
“Yes. He said there were some documents he needed, to help settle the estate. He went into Miz Delure’s study and poked around in the desk drawers.”
“Did he take anything?”
“Maybe some papers, but I don’t know for sure.”
“Did he go in any of the other rooms?”
“No, just that one. He wasn’t here very long.”
“I’ll take a look.”
The study was down a hallway, at the rear of the house. Dana made her way to it and stepped inside. This room was decorated in French provincial, more pieces she knew Catherine had bought in Paris. There were impressionist paintings on the walls, one of them a prized Marc Chagall still life of a bouquet of flowers. An ancient Chinese Turkistan rug covered the floor.
The drawers of Catherine’s desk were pulled out, and empty. Including the file drawer. Haynes hadn’t even bothered to close them after he’d stripped them of their contents.
Dana went back to the front of the house and said to Anna, “I’m going to go up into Miss Delure’s bedroom. There are some notes up there that belong to me.”
“Can I get you anything? A cold drink or something?”
“No thanks, Anna. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
There was a curving staircase in the hall. Dana went up the steps two at a time, and at the top landing she turned right and entered the master bedroom.
Inside was a king-size bed, an armoire that contained a TV set, a chaise, and a boudoir chair, and seeing them gave her a twinge. The last time she’d been in the room, Catherine had been in that bed, suffering from a hangover. The actress had dictated a letter to her agent, which Dana had typed on her laptop and later mailed.
There was also a small white desk near the windows, and that was what Dana was interested in. It was where Catherine had kept her most personal things, and someone like Haynes wouldn’t have known that. She sat down and began looking through the desk.
What she found was a mess. Letters that Catherine had started and never finished, other letters she’d received from friends and lovers, engraved invitations, notes on scraps of paper and cocktail napkins, store receipts
, ticket stubs, and a scattering of old snapshots.
Dana knew at once she wouldn’t have time to go through it all. She’d want to take her time and study this stuff, which meant taking it back to her own place. But how to carry it?
She went into the dressing room and rummaged around, yet found nothing suitable. Next she opened one of the mirrored doors that led into a long walk-in closet, and peered at the rows of dresses and pants and suits and coats on hangers, the dozens of pairs of shoes in racks, the shelves crammed with sweaters and tops and countless handbags.
She spotted a Neiman Marcus shopping bag and picked it up. Inside was a blouse, still wrapped in tissue. That was Catherine for you; she not only hadn’t worn it, she hadn’t even taken it out of the bag.
Dana put the blouse on a hanger and went back to the desk in the bedroom. She shoved everything from the drawers into the bag and carried it back down the stairs.
Anna met her in the foyer. “Miz Laramie?”
“Yes?”
“What should I do? I mean, with Miz Delure gone, am I supposed to stay here, or what? I tried to ask Mr. Haynes, but he didn’t say.”
“For the time being,” Dana said, “you stay right here and keep on guarding the house. Don’t let anyone else in, no matter who they are or what they tell you. I’ll let the security man know that too. The only exceptions would be Mr. Haynes, and the police. If you have any doubts, or any questions, call me. You have my number, don’t you?”
“Yes, it’s on the list by the phone in the kitchen.”
Dana patted the housekeeper’s shoulder. “You’re doing fine, Anna. This is a tough time for everyone, but we’ll all get through it. Take care now, and I’ll see you later.”
She stepped out the door and told the security man the same thing she’d said to Anna about not letting anyone in. Then she got back into her car and drove south through Beverly Hills. When she reached Wilshire Boulevard she turned left, and two minutes later pulled into the garage beneath her apartment house.
Her abode was on the fifth floor. It consisted of three rooms and a bath and was mostly furnished in things she’d bought on sale in the Macy’s on West Seventh Street. Quite a contrast between her furniture and the pieces in the Delure house, she thought with a rueful smile. But the décor was passably tasteful, and most important, comfortable.
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