The Detective & The Pipe Girl: A Mystery

by Michael Craven

  I looked at her with total seriousness, “I cut myself shaving.”

  “You shave the area above your eye?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at me skeptically. But we continued walking around the generic, sparkling clean lot, and she didn’t seem to have an issue with resuming our chat. I said, “So, how’d you meet Suzanne?”

  “I met her at an industry function. A party for The Danny Baker Show. I think it was celebrating the one thousandth episode or something.”

  “Why was she there? Who was she with?”

  “I really don’t know. Girls like Suzanne can go to any party they want. And she knew Danny somehow. We met in the line at the bar, and she was one of those people who you like immediately. Well, you knew her. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We had fun that night.” She laughed at the memory. “Definitely had a few drinks. And we stayed in touch.”

  “Did you know that Suzanne had a relationship with Jimmy Yates?”

  “What? The movie star?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  It seemed like she was telling the truth. Because she was surprised, but not that surprised. Like, surprised that it was such a big star but also, yeah, Suzanne was a babe, we’re in L.A., shit happens.

  “Did you ever go to Suzanne’s condo in Santa Monica?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did she buy that, do you know?”

  I was testing her. Did she really know Suzanne? Had Suzanne told her the truth? Which if Marlon the Marlin was correct would be a conversation she would die for if Neese found out. Jenny looked at me with her soft brown eyes. They had feeling in them.

  “I don’t know,” Jenny said. “I was a friend, but she didn’t tell me everything. Like how she bought that place. Family money, I don’t know. Suzanne was so . . . warm, in a way. But she had a secretive side. She could engage you and keep you away at the same time, if that makes sense.”

  I was going in. “Did you ever think some rich L.A. guy was keeping her comfortable? You know, like a Jimmy Yates? Somebody like that?”

  After a pause. “Yeah, it occurred to me. But I never thought about it that much. We were friends, but you know, it’s not like we talked every day. I didn’t really care about where she got her money. I didn’t want to give it that much consideration. We just had fun sometimes. Then I’d come back to work on Monday and I wouldn’t really think about it.”

  “Did you ever think she might be a prostitute?”

  Jenny stopped walking. “What? No. No way. She didn’t have to do that. If Suzanne was going to sell her soul she could have just married somebody. Believe me, she had plenty of opportunities. Like I said, maybe she had some help or whatever. But an actual prostitute? No. Not possible.”

  “Who else did she date? I told you about Jimmy Yates. Who are these opportunities you are talking about? Can you think of anyone specifically?”

  She paused, briefly, and then said, “She told me she went on some dates with Arthur Vonz, the director.”

  “Well, he could certainly afford to buy her a place I would imagine. Or help her out.”

  “Yeah. I guess. Listen,” she said. “I didn’t even tell the police that. Maybe it’s no big deal. Suzanne went out with guys all the time. I didn’t give them a list of every guy she ever went out with. They didn’t ask. They didn’t ask me that much really. More just had I talked to Suzanne lately, did she mention being afraid of anyone, did she have enemies, that kind of thing.”

  “It’s okay. You answered their questions. But those are some good ones. Did she ever mention any enemies? Being afraid of anyone? Scared of what might happen?”

  “No, she didn’t. Which is what I told them.”

  I looked at her. The marrying type. She was really pretty. She, like Suzanne, had a specialness about her. A quality that made you feel good. That made you want to get to know her more, know more about her.

  I said, “Thanks for talking to me, Jenny.”

  She said, without any smile at all, “You might want to be more careful next time you shave.”

  30

  So. Suzanne’s friend didn’t know too much, or she wasn’t telling me if she did. That’s the thing. If the girls aren’t allowed to reveal that they are Pipe Girls, then if, if they had ever said anything to a friend, like Jenny Bickford, then the friend sure as shit wouldn’t admit to knowing it either. She’d be afraid for her life. Especially if the girl who told her was now in a drawer at the morgue.

  Yet, she had been honest with me about Arthur Vonz. She had parted with something that was probably told to her in confidence. Something that she didn’t know I knew. So she had tried to help me. I think. Maybe Lane. Parked there again. Guessing at stuff. Yeah, guessing at stuff. But I’m a good guesser.

  Back at my desk in my office. Toast had popped by, which always made me happy. I held him for a moment. Pet him. Talked to him a bit. Then I put him right up on my desk, where he quickly let the eyelids drop.

  I jumped online and looked at some photos of Danny Baker. At social events. At news events. Stills of him interviewing guests on his show. He had the anchorman face, only a little more tired-looking than most. But he had that classic, handsome, timeless look, but with a touch of California. He was tan, with stylish hair that was just beginning to go gray. And was just a bit longer than your average talk-show anchorman type.

  I read up on him. It was easy to find articles all over the Web. And it was easy to find out where this “shameless workaholic” had lunch every day. At a modest little deli in Beverly Hills. Larry King–style. His production offices were in Manhattan Beach, but he taped his show every day in a modest, nondescript building in Beverly Hills. Thus the daily lunch spot.

  In the Cobalt, on the road, at the deli.

  I ordered the “famous” tuna sandwich, sat down at a corner table with a red and white checked plastic tablecloth, and waited. Damn, the tuna was good. I asked one of the people who worked there why it was so good. She smiled and said, “We put little bread crumbs in it. That’s the secret. But don’t tell anyone.”

  And then, there was Danny Baker. Just like all the articles said. It’s amazing how many of us are creatures of habit. Myself included. I liked to drink three to four cold, cheap American beers at night and then play a few games of Ping-Pong. Danny Baker liked to come to this little deli and have lunch before heading off to interview dignitaries, politicians, artists, and experts.

  He went through the little line, said some pleasantries to the people behind the counter who recognized him, then went outside and sat down at one of the little tables right on Beverly Drive. He got right to work on his, yep, you guessed it, tuna sandwich.

  He was midbite when I emerged from inside and sat down at his table right across from him. And then, there I was staring at this face I’d seen a million times on TV. The handsome anchorman face, with the tired lines and the longish hair. Just long enough that you’d go: His hair is kind of long for someone who’s interviewed the president many times. But it’s not so long that you’d go: Were you ever in Whitesnake?

  I said, “Don’t worry, I’m not a paparazzo, or some crazy fan. I like your show though. Really one of the best shows on TV.”

  I was confusing him a bit—intentionally. You have to. It tends to scare people, catches them off guard. I do like his show, quite a bit. That part wasn’t gamesmanship.

  I continued, “I have some information that I think you’ll find interesting.”

  He was calm. So if he was a little caught off guard he wasn’t showing it much. Which annoyed me.

  He said, “Is this a tip? Are you a source?”

  He took a sip of his icy brown beverage.

  “Diet Coke?” I said.

  He nodded and frowned a bit, showing a fair amount of confusion.

  “I love Diet Coke.” And then, “Am I a source? Well, sort of, in that I have a story for you.”

  Now he was nodding,
the frown replaced with an engaged look. He eyed me like I was one of his guests. Interested. Or really good at faking it.

  I continued, “It’s a story about you, in fact.”

  A little shift in his eyes and in his body language. Maybe he was starting to tense up. I was now less annoyed.

  “I’m not sure I follow you,” he said.

  It really seemed like I was on his show. Sitting across from him. Sitting across from a now leaning-in, more-interested-than-ever Danny Baker.

  I thought for a moment, here on The Danny Baker Show. I decided to throw out a guess. A dangerous guess. But like I said, I’m a good guesser.

  I said, “I know about you and one of the Pipe Girls. Suzanne Neal. Now, what I don’t know is how often you, let’s say, got together with her. And another thing I don’t know is if you know that she is dead.”

  His face went white. Adrenaline coursing through his veins—for sure. His whole appearance now different. Another astonishing transformation as white-hot thoughts about his career being forever changed or over, about what kind of trouble he might be in, about how his life might never be the same, all at once ramming around in his brain.

  Folks, I think my guess was right.

  He started to get up and said, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

  “Sit down.”

  He did.

  “Why are you going to the bathroom?”

  “I thought I was about to throw up.”

  “Do you still think that?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Take a sip of your refreshing, crisp Diet Coke.”

  He did. And then he sat there again. Some color came back to his face. But his mouth hung open just a bit. He looked like he had been stunned, shocked, unplugged.

  “Okay,” he said. “What do you . . . What do you want to talk about?”

  “Did you know she was dead?”

  “Yes. I did. Listen, can we go somewhere else? I come here every day. And . . .”

  “I get it. Let’s get in my car.”

  The Cobalt was less than ten yards away. We threw out our lunches and walked over to the Cobalt. He got to the passenger side door and hesitated.

  I said, “Get in. We’ll just drive to the park a couple blocks away.”

  He nodded and got in. I headed to a small public park at the intersection of Santa Monica and Rodeo Drive, less than a three-minute drive. I parked in some shade.

  “Do you want to get out?”

  Danny shook his head. And then: “Who are you?”

  “My name is John Darvelle. I’m a detective.”

  I told him I was private, but that the cops were also investigating the case. I told him I was helping them out. Which, in my own way, was true. But also remember: Just the mention of the actual cops was sure to throw him off a bit, to tighten up that sphincter just a touch.

  I said, “How did you know Suzanne?”

  He took a breath. “I met her at an industry party. She was there with . . . you know, I don’t know who she was there with. It doesn’t matter. She was a beautiful, charming girl. We ended up having some mutual friends and over the years I got to know her a bit. Never that well. But I did consider her a friend. I don’t know what happened at the deli. But suddenly the fact that she’s dead just hit me. Oh man. But . . . but . . . what were you saying, Pipe Girl? What is that?”

  Okay. Okay. I saw what was happening. Danny wanted to get away from his local deli so he could lie to me. Because he wasn’t sure how I would react, better go someplace private.

  Yes. Danny Baker hadn’t admitted anything to me yet. He had reacted in a way that said a lot, but he hadn’t actually said anything. He’d only told me that he knew Suzanne Neal and that he knew she was dead.

  Hmm. So what was I going to do? I was almost certain, no, I was certain, he was a Pipe Girl customer. But the question was: Was now the time to Jimmy Yates him? To force him to tell me he had used a prostitute? To force him to tell me what he knew about Richard Neese?

  Wasn’t Danny Baker simply going to tell me the exact same thing that Jimmy Yates had? What was I going to get out of that? More confirmation that Richard Neese ran a ring?

  Here I was again.

  I needed something that related to the killing.

  Shit, I had jumped the gun. I had gotten too excited and had prematurely confronted Danny Baker.

  I cut the interview.

  But I did have one question. “Danny, when was the last time you saw Suzanne?”

  “When was the last time?” he repeated.

  Jesus. Lying, for sure. I mean, repeating the question? Classic.

  “Two months ago. At a premiere party. I think.”

  I looked at him for a long time, then said, “Okay.”

  I asked for his number. He gave it to me without hesitation. Yeah, of course, nothing to hide, call me if you need to, no problem. I drove him back to the deli. He took a deep breath as he was getting out of my car. And this time he looked at me. And he said, “I hope I helped. And that you, or the cops, or whoever gets to the bottom of this.”

  But his eyes said, “I know a lot more than I’m telling you.”

  I went back to my office. Okay. Neese is a bad guy. That is for sure. Neese runs a ring. Neese may enforce his ring’s special qualities through murder. Probably does.

  Okay.

  So here were the questions.

  Did Suzanne tell someone, or threaten to tell someone, that she was a Pipe Girl?

  Did Suzanne tell Neese she was hanging it up, and that somehow led to her murder?

  Was one of the men who used the Pipe Girl service somehow responsible for Suzanne’s death?

  Those were the questions.

  But Neese. Neese was at the center of this story. His form of punishment for squealing was at the center of this story. But I needed something more than a rumor from a guy on a boat named Marlon the Marlin.

  That’s when Jenny Bickford called me.

  “Hi, Jenny,” I said.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Well, I thought of something that might help you.”

  31

  Now, people of the story. I’m a private detective. I bullshit people a lot. And I try to detect bullshit a lot. This, whatever it was about to be, felt like something she wanted to tell me before and didn’t. And that usually means it’s worth looking into.

  “Great,” I said. “Thanks for calling. What’s up?”

  “Well, this may not help,” sounding very casual. Just so casual. “But Suzanne has . . . Suzanne has this friend who you may want to talk to.”

  “Okay. What’s her name?”

  “Her name is Allison Tarber. And the reason I think she might be helpful is . . . Well, you’re a man, so this might not make sense.”

  “Try me.”

  “Well, you know when you have a good friend who has a good friend but you and the other friend don’t ever really connect?”

  “Sure. I know when that happens.”

  “Well, that’s the way this is. The three of us were only together a few times, but I just remember that when I was around them it felt like they were in on an inside joke that I wasn’t a part of. That they had another kind of relationship. You know what I’m saying? You know that feeling?”

  Yeah I knew that feeling. Everyone knows that feeling. It’s a terrible feeling.

  I said, “Yeah. Like maybe this girl Allison has a nice apartment somewhere that someone might have bought her?”

  Jenny didn’t respond. She just said. “I don’t know about that. I’m just saying maybe she knows something, or knew a side of Suzanne that I didn’t. I don’t know. Just thought it was something that might help you.”

  I thought about Jenny. There was a sincerity to her that you don’t see that often anymore. Like she couldn’t help being a good person.

  I love people like that.

  “Do you know how to contact Allison? Know where she lives? Where she�
�s from?”

  “I really don’t. You know, we never connected. Like, as friends. But also literally—we never got together or anything. It’s funny, I think I remember her being from Alaska. I don’t know if that helps.”

  “It helps. Thanks, Jenny. Call me if anything else pops into your head. Or for anything you might need.”

  Long pause. “Yeah, okay, John.”

  Normally I might have been discouraged by this. You could look at it like it was a trail up a different mountain— a trail taking me further away from the epicenter of my story. My case getting diluted. But I had to try. Because I had to get to the murder. And, what else did I have right at this moment?

  Right. There was that.

  Before I called Ken Booth to see if maybe she was an actress, or called Larry Frenette to see if he could look through the paper’s computer, or called Linda Robbie to see if this Allison Tarber had any high-dollar real estate in her name, I decided to do a little amateur-level looking around. Facebook. Google. The way normal people all over the place investigate each other these days.

  Facebook. Nothing that looked promising. Google. A few matches but quite frankly none of them looked like I assumed Allison Tarber should look. Because, like you, I’d assumed she was another Pipe Girl. Like Suzanne Neal. And the cool-under-pressure, steely-eyed Rebecca Heath.

  Then I tried: Allison Tarber, Los Angeles. And less than a second later I was looking at a link that would take me to an L.A. Times newspaper headline. I clicked on the link. And here’s what the headline said: “Hiker in Santa Monica Canyon Falls to Death.”

  Hey, Jenny Bickford. Yeah. Looks like this might help. Because Allison Tarber is, you know, dead.

  There was a brief article dating back just over a year. And a picture next to it of a very young and very pretty girl. The picture looked like a headshot. Probably was. I read the article. It was simple, factual. It said that Los Angeles resident Allison Tarber, an aspiring actress, was hiking in the Santa Monica Mountains, slipped near the top of the trail she was hiking on, and fell about fifty feet into the canyon, hitting her head fatally on the way down.