A vague idea plucked at my brain but refused to materialize.
Clancy reached behind and pulled up a smallish square camera, weighted down with a howitzer of a telephoto lens.
At my questioning look, he volunteered, “Canon Mark IV. This baby burst shoots at up to ten frames per second. It’s a beautiful thing.”
“What about the tuba on top?”
“I like keeping a low profile. With this 500mm Sigma and a 2x extender I can shoot from a quarter mile away if I want to.” He patted his lens. “eBay,” he said, “back when I still had scratch.”
“Can I see the shots?”
“Sure. No other paps around, that I can see. They must have moved on to greener pastures. So far I’ve caught maybe twenty-five in-and-outs. Here.”
Clancy pulled the compact flash card from his camera, plugged it into an adapter and slotted it into a laptop he’d retrieved from the back seat. Soon, a series of images marched in little squares across his screen. Sure enough, here comes Harper up the sidewalk, checking over her shoulder. Punching a code into the apartment entrance pad. Maybe talking to someone, couldn’t tell from the back. Entering. A few men and women of various ages and ethnicities followed, entering or exiting the Robinsgrove. They alternated between the elderly and the young-and-hip, what Mike calls doo-dah metrosexuals. And then Harper, leaving, head down, hat pulled low.
Clancy started to close the laptop.
“Wait,” I said. I scrolled ahead to a familiar pair.
Sully and Mack: bent close to the security speaker by the entrance, and then pushing through the front entrance, buzzed in by the manager, no doubt. How did they do it? They were famous for always showing up right after last call at the bar, or just missing the moment when the bad guy confessed. And these were the lead detectives on Marv’s case. Poor Bill. A few photographs later, out they came again, scowling. I wasn’t interested in the S & M show, though. It was the other residents who piqued my curiosity.
“Really good work,” I said. “Now, I have a big favor to ask you. It may be a dead end, but . . . “
I passed over the printouts of significant people from Marv’s past, downloaded from Mike’s research.
“These are the major players in Marv’s world. Producers. Actors. That kind of thing.”
He shuffled through the images. “Okay?”
“Any chance you can stick around here for a while longer? See if these jibe with anyone?”
“You mean figure out who let Harper in?”
“Smart man.”
“Why not?” Clancy stretched and smiled. “Beats circling Keith Connor’s hideaway or Brad Pitt’s gated estate 24/7, dodging fucking security guards,” he said. “It’s all good. I have a hunch about this whole deal.”
“A hunch?”
Clancy glanced at me, then away.
“I . . . I get these, premonitions sometimes,” he said. “Or I used to, when I was still kicking ass, nailing exclusives. Before Marv fucked things up for me. It’s like . . . I wake up early, barely have time to scratch my balls, much less kiss the wife, when I get yanked out of bed by a righteous thought. Like, one morning it was: Angie’s going to be at the Farmer’s Market in less than an hour. So off I go, and sure enough, there’s Angie, hiding behind sunglasses the size of Frisbees, kids hanging off every limb. Another time? I’m eating dinner with my wife and little girl when an image pops in my head: Tom, treating little Suri to Sunday brunch at the Scientology Celebrity Center. Sunday morning, swear to God, I positioned myself on Franklin Avenue—it’s all about the set up, man, staying three steps ahead—and boom. There they were, slipping into the back gates. Once in a while I doubt myself. Two days later I’ll open InTouch, and I’d see it. Same exact shot as I’d imagined, courtesy of some other lucky fucker’s camera.”
As he talked, Clancy kept one eye on the late afternoon traffic moving up and down Rossmore. “I mean, I was raised Baptist, but this is more, like, spiritual, you feel me?”
“Yes,” I said. “I feel you. I feel you a lot.” I considered telling him about my number one rule, to trust intuitive flashes, but it sounded like he was already living his own version of it.
Clancy’s eyes narrowed as a luxury SUV with darkened windows sped past us.
“Bieber’s people,” he said. “He’s in town all week. Access Hollywood, Leno. Full court press. Christmas album coming out.”
“No kidding.” I wasn’t sure who “Bieber” was, much less what “his people” drove, but I was still impressed. The more time I spent with Clancy, the more I realized how complimentary our jobs were and what an asset he could be.
“I got at least four hundred license plates in my head,” he added. “Lot of good it does me now.” He sighed. “Anyway, like I said, Ten, I’m betting tonight’s the night.”
“But we don’t even know who we’re looking for,” I said.
“Tonight,” he repeated. “Believe it.”
Before I climbed out of his car, I tried to recall my earlier thought-twinge, but nothing clear materialized. I’d figure it out later.
Meantime, party time.
I had planned my arrival at the restaurant carefully: early enough not to miss the main event, but late enough to avoid the awkward, prefood small talk. My hope was to slip in unnoticed.
The elderly host at the front had a wide smile and a stooped back. As he led me through the raucous crowd of diners, I glanced up at the hanging clusters of straw-covered Chianti bottles. They looked like they hadn’t been dusted since the restaurant opened—1949, or so the neon sign proclaimed.
The walls were lined with old-school Hollywood glamour shots, and the tables sported red-checkered tablecloths and flickering votive candles. A man was banging away at a grand piano parked on a raised dais in the center of the room. As I wove between crowded tables and booths, I caught a glimpse of Heather, wearing a party hat, sitting at the end of a long table in the far corner. She looked up, and her eyes met mine. Then hers widened. Before I could wonder why, a perky waitress sashayed to my side, microphone in hand. I caught the words teaser and burning. She was joined by two other waitresses. They surrounded me, wagging their fingers at my frozen face as they warbled about a dancing queen in three-part harmony. Martha’s entire birthday group burst into cheers and applause. So much for slipping in unnoticed.
Maude and Lola, up way past their bedtimes, sat in wooden high chairs on either side of Martha. Maude’s face was covered with red sauce. Lola gnawed on a piece of gummy bread. Martha, cheeks flushed with Chianti, appeared shell-shocked. She looked at the tables, filled with people who loved her, as if she didn’t know quite what to do. I added my present to the pile.
“Happy birthday, my friend,” I said, and kissed her cheek.
“Thanks,” she answered. “This one’s a little hard to process. But we’re having fun now,” she flung her arms around the twins, “aren’t we, girls? Look! It’s Uncle Ten!”
“Unh Tey! Unh Tey!” Maude chortled.
“Can you believe these monkeys are almost two years old?” she said. Both girls threw back their heads. “Chee, chee, chee!” they chattered. Martha hugged them close.
“I love you, you know,” she said, and planted one kiss each on their rosy, reachable cheeks.
I gave the girls their sparkling headbands. Maude grabbed hers, yanked off her party hat and stuck the band on her head. It nestled in her cloud of red hair like a tiara. Eighteen months old, and she already knew her headgear. Lola, ever the thoughtful one, studied her headband, turning it this way and that. She felt her head, confirming that it was already occupied. Then, as if coming to a major decision, she hung my present around her neck like a collar.
“That works, too,” I said.
“Say thank you to Uncle Ten,” Martha said.
“Ta, Unh Tey.”
“You’re most welcome,” I said. I wish all communication with girls could be this simple and satisfying. Bill walked up, two steins of beer in hand. “Dancing queen,” he croone
d in my ear.
“Very funny.”
“It was.” Bill handed over one of the beers. “This’ll take the edge off.” He ushered me to an empty chair at the other end of the booth, right next to Heather.
I sat.
“Hi,” Heather said.
“Hi.”
Bill squatted between us. “So Heather, what do you think of my friend Ten?” he said.
“Don’t answer that,” I said to Heather. Luckily, she was laughing. “Exactly how much have you had to drink, Bill?” But Bill had already spotted another latecomer and was off.
“I hope it’s okay. I ordered you the veggie lasagna,” she said.
“Perfect. How’d you know?”
“I’m psychic, didn’t I tell you?” she said. “Well, and a little birdie may have also told me you don’t eat meat.”
We surveyed the group. I pointed out a group of detectives I knew from Robbery/Homicide, as well as Martha’s mother and stepfather. I knew Bill and Martha were part of some sort of parents-of-twins support group, and I guessed another table consisted of couples from there. I deduced this for two reasons. One, a second set of twins, little boys, also in high chairs, were the center of attention. Two, the adults surrounding them wore the same stunned we-don’t-get-out-much-anymore looks on their faces as Martha. As I watched, one of the little boys accidentally dropped a slice of salami on the floor. His lip trembled. The probable mother comforted him as the probable father snagged him another slice from the antipasti platter. No shaming involved. Remarkable.
Heather let out a big sigh. “I am so happy to be here. This week has been rough.”
“Marv?”
“Marv, plus rotations, plus another autopsy. A thirty-five-year-old mother of two. No mystery there. She died from a thorn-prick on her arm. She was gardening, deadheading roses. The site got infected, and sepsis set in before she realized how bad it was and started on antibiotics. Sometimes you just have to wonder.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well . . . “ Heather seemed to shake the heaviness off. “I knew the job was tough when I signed on for it! Like I said, glad I’m here. Thanks for the Martha tip, by the way.” She lightly touched my arm. “I went with a Pinot Noir.”
I liked how her hand felt, resting on my wrist. I impulsively covered it with my own. My heart beat harder against my chest. Now what?
“Now what” was a waiter sliding two plates of steaming hot lasagna, bubbling with cheese, in front of us. Rescued by pasta. We concentrated on the lasagna, which was piping hot, stuffed with spinach, ricotta, and mozzarella cheese, drenched in a fresh marinara sauce, and very delicious.
Heather used a hunk of garlic bread to sop up the extra sauce. I did the same. Heather was a hearty eater. I smiled. I like a girl with a good appetite. Another waiter, a tenor, belted out a song about sending in clowns. For a song about clowns, it was pretty sad.
Bill staggered back with an empty bottle of Bell’agio Chianti, its woven straw covering now scribbled with messages. He set it down, and handed me a Magic Marker. “Write a birthday wish for Martha,” he said. “Keep it clean.”
I thought and wrote, “May you live with ease.” Not so original for an ex-monk, but heartfelt. I handed the pen to Heather. She rotated the bottle until she found a blank spot. She studied it, tilting her head, catching her lovely lower lip between her teeth. Finally, she drew a small, drippy pizza, decorated it with tiny candles, in the shape of a heart, and wrote love inside it. She caught my eye.
“When in doubt, make it cheesy,” she explained. I laughed.
Bill reappeared, fresh beer in hand. He squatted between us again. Uh oh.
“So, Dr. Magnuson,” Bill said. “I know you’re a very hard worker. What do you do for fun? And don’t say go to Dodger games, because the team is fuckin’ bankrupt.” Bill winked at me, and I realized this was his slightly clumsy way of giving me an opening.
“You mean outside of carving up corpses? Let’s see. Once in a while I like to go dancing,” Heather said. “But mostly I’m pretty happy curling up in bed with a good book.”
I liked the sound of that, too.
“I knew it! You and Ten here are kindred spirits. Aren’t you, Ten?” Bill was eyeballing me. Leap! his eyes said. Hard to leap, when you’re legs are made of lead. A familiar jumble of thoughts piled on: too smart, too beautiful, you’re not ready, you’ll never be ready.
A waiter pulled Bill away. Heather picked up her fork and pushed it around her plate.
“Heather,” I said. Her eyes met mine, and I glimpsed a little girl peeking out. She’s just as scared as I am.
I jumped, lead legs and all.
“I’d really like to see you sometime. Maybe have dinner, or something.”
I waited. Breathe. Breathe.
“Okay,” she said. “Yes, I’d like that, Ten.”
We smiled at each other, suddenly shy.
Heather leaned close. Was she going to kiss me?
“Be right back,” she said. “Pit stop.”
She disappeared into the back of the restaurant.
Someone clinked on a glass as a dozen waiters and waitresses formed a semicircle around Martha. Maude started yipping and bouncing in her high chair, and Lola popped her right middle fingers into her mouth and sucked furiously, as Bill set a big blue-and-white cake shaped like a Dodger cap in front of Martha, ablaze with forty candles, plus one. I guess he hadn’t completely given up on his team. Martha found me with her eyes. She lifted one corner of my birthday shawl, wrapped around her neck, glowing orange in the candlelight. She waved it at me. She looked spectacular.
“Thank you,” she mouthed. The piano player banged out a crescendo of cascading notes, and it was on. The birthday song rocked the rafters, and the entire restaurant joined in.
Heather slipped back in her seat. My nose picked up the minty scent of toothpaste.
Uh oh, was she was one of those obsessive brush-after-every-meal types? She leaned against my shoulder, singing lustily. I decided I couldn’t care less.
Raucous cheers and claps greeted Martha’s blowing out of the candles. Lola shrank in her seat from the din and started to wail. I watched as Bill plucked her out of her high chair and held her tight to his chest, covering her ears, kissing the top of her head. What a good father. Martha leaned over to blow out the candles, and Maude, headband askew, poofed up her cheeks, a perfect little mimic. I laughed again, and my eyes filled.
Remember this. This is family.
Heather reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I had to let her hand, and the moment, go. “Sorry,” I said, and I was.
I checked my phone. It was a text from Clancy.
GOT SOMETHING.
I caught Bill’s eye. Pointed to my phone and the door. He pointed to Martha and the girls. Priorities. We both understood. I explained things to Heather and said I’d call about getting together soon. If she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. I didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but I was in a hurry to go, so I dismissed it from my mind.
Within half an hour, I was sitting next to Clancy as he clicked through another series of close-ups, this time of a slight figure leaving the Robinsgrove. Click, click, click. Tiny incremental shifts, stepping outside, looking up and down the street. Click. Click.
Clancy angled his computer screen closer to me.
“Here,” he said. “Here’s the best one.”
“Can you make it bigger?”
He expanded the image. I squinted at the slight young woman, dark hair hanging straight down her back like a curtain, face creased with anxiety.
My pulse quickened.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s her. Really good work, Clancy.”
Two years ago, Marv Rudolph, in a bold move, had cast an unknown to play the lead in Loving Hagar. I was looking at his Hagar. Tovah Fields, with an “s.”
“What happened after this?”
He showed the
next sequence of images. She turned right, walked along the sidewalk maybe ten yards, and turned right again into a canted entryway. She was wheeling a large suitcase.
“That’s the Robinsgrove’s outside lot,” Clancy said. Moments later, a series of photographs showed a white Toyota Scion pulling out and driving north on Rossmore, toward who knew where.
I had found the link between Marv, Harper, and the Robinsgrove. And maybe, just maybe, I had found the key to his death. Click.
Driving home, I was surprised to note a dull ache behind my heart. I inhaled, feeling my way past it to what hid behind. Sadness. Loss.
What do you have to be sad about? You were laughing, eating cake with a beautiful woman a short while ago. What’s wrong with you? Get a grip!
I was doing it again. How many times had my father chided me with that exact tone? Don’t feel that. Don’t think that. Don’t be that.
I was attacking myself with the same behavior I despised in my father. Limiting myself, now that he was no longer there to do it for me. Second rule, Ten.
I took a second, deeper breath. Let. It. Go.
I focused instead on the sadness, allowing it to just be, with no mind-story attached. The experience was quite painful, and my breath caught. But then, the ache softened.
I imagined cradling my sore heart, like Bill. . . .
Yes. Like Bill, holding Lola close, kissing her. The image plucked a dull, untuned string deep inside me, the source of the hurt. To have a father like that: one who guided you, protected you. Whose face lit up whenever he saw you.
To have a father like that.
I couldn’t remember my father ever smiling at me, except maybe the day I told him I was moving to Los Angeles. That smile didn’t count for much: It was twisted, full of disapproval and contempt. It was confirmation that I’d never amount to anything.
The Second Rule of Ten Page 9