by Alice Sabo
Ellie had seen him in costume, sweats and stark naked; he shouldn't have to worry about dressing for her. He settled on jeans for comfort and a button down shirt for confidence. He caught himself smiling in the elevator. George approved of her. This time, he didn't have to question his own perceptions as to whether it was a safe bet.
She greeted him with a smile and kissed him on the lips. "You look pretty good for a guy who's had way too many hours in interrogation." Her clothes were form fitting, showing off her slender figure. The clingy top nearly matched the blue of her eyes. The tight skirt, a shade darker, was disappointingly long, but slit up the side. Asher pulled his eyes away.
"Bledsoe and Smythe are old friends now. I get regular bathroom breaks and all the lukewarm tap water I want."
She took his arm and pointed him toward the restaurant adjacent to the lobby. "I'm sorry about Larissa. George filled me in."
Asher shook his head, a puzzled frown on his face. "She's younger than me, and she looked like hell."
"Drugs and booze'll do that to you. She made her choices. They didn't end well."
As they were seated, he searched her face to see if there was some insinuation he should counter. A waiter came and poured coffee for them, and they placed their orders. Asher steered the conversation away from the bloody elephant in the room. "I ate a bunch of ice cream last night. Sorry."
Ellie patted his hand. "Sweetheart, I'm not the sugar police. It's your body and your choices."
That made him think of Larissa, again. He didn't want to talk about any of that. He squeezed her hand and realized he didn't want to let go. With a force of will, he released her and cupped the cast with his good hand.
"I've been so wrapped up in all this, I haven't asked about you. Tell me what you've been up to, Ellie. You look like you're doing well." He meant it in every sense of the word. She looked polished and confident. They had both come a long way from the party days of too much money and drugs. She'd made her choices, and they'd obviously been good ones.
She sipped her coffee. "I am. I'm doing some producing, and I've been very lucky."
"Excellent." He expected details, but she didn't elaborate. As the moment stretched, she fussed with her napkin. A dark, creeping dread settled into him. "You and your husband?"
She shot him a startled look. "I've never married."
Relief flooded through him. "So, you're single?"
She studied him. "I don't jump into bed with just anyone these days."
It was his turn to fuss with his napkin. "I didn't mean... I wasn't trying..."
The omelets arrived, giving him a moment to sort himself out. The waiter refilled their coffee cups and water glasses.
"Ellie, I'm sorry if that sounded inappropriate." He peppered the eggs vigorously. "It seems I've developed a bit of a crush on you," he said, keeping his eyes on the food, and waiting for the biting words he knew would come.
"Ash."
He looked up. Her blue-blue eyes were watching him.
"I love you, too."
His heart speeded up, and his hands started to shake. "But not like, I mean, do you mean, um..."
She pulled her purse into her lap and rummaged through, pulling out a photo of a child, which she handed him.
"This is Thomas. He's first in my heart."
Asher took the photo. The boy looked to be four or five years old. "He's a cute kid. Blue eyes like his mom." He handed it back. "Dad's not around?"
She ignored the question. "That's why you didn't hear from me, Ash. I was busy with my boy." She placed the photo face up on the table.
He poked his eggs. "So you're saying he's the man in your life right now."
"No, I'm saying we're a package deal."
"Oh." He looked at her, but she was busy buttering her toast. "Can I meet him?"
"Maybe once the police business is over."
He nodded. That seemed reasonable. "I used to be good with kids."
"I know. Remember Father to None?"
It took a moment for the memory to gel. When it came to him, he erupted into hearty laughter. "I had a blast on that set."
"I think everyone did. Happy times," she said with a warm smile.
"Those kids were amazing. I wonder what they're up to now?"
"Three of them are in sitcoms, two dropped out of the business and Timmy signed with Disney."
"He was brilliant."
"Still is."
"Do you want Thomas in the business?"
"Right now he's into dinosaurs. So, I'm encouraging archeology."
"Wow, a kid." He raised his water glass to toast her. "Congratulations! You started a family."
She clinked her glass against his. "Thanks."
He concentrated on his breakfast for a few minutes, wolfing down the food. Ellie was similarly quiet. It was a relief to realize she wasn't watching and evaluating him. He relaxed muscles he hadn't known were tense. The waiter cruised by, topping off their water glasses. Ellie moved the photo away from the condensation on the table.
"I always thought I'd have a wife and kids and look at me. God, I'm so glad I haven't twisted up anybody's childhood."
She gave him an odd look. "It's frightening when you think about the baggage you can create."
"How do you manage it?"
"You just love them with all your heart."
He gulped coffee against the sudden ache in his throat, feeling a powerful jealousy of that little boy.
Chapter 35
Several vans and trucks for repair services had already lined the street in front of his house by the time Asher arrived by cab later that morning. A radio blared out classic rock accompanied by the whine of power tools and pounding of hammers as the workmen made the house secure against thieves and weather. He paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk inspecting. The smell of fresh lumber and the sounds of construction made him feel like he was on a soundstage. Didn't he do a rom-com that took place in a ranch like this?
"This noise is unacceptable!"
Asher jumped. If he'd seen the old man coming, he would have avoided him. The beet-red flush of fury on Knudson's face made him back up a step.
"Sorry. I’ll ask them to lose the radio."
"It isn’t just the radio. The power tools, the men yelling. It’s unacceptable!"
Asher took a deep breath and counted to ten. Yelling back at Knudson would just escalate this into a shouting match. Asher was holding so much down right now; he'd probably burst into tears. And that would be the exact moment that the paparazzi arrived.
"I’m sorry, Mr. Knudson, but as you can see, my house needs repairs."
The old man practically wiggled with over-brimming emotions. Shoulders hunched, he clenched his fists and shook them at Asher. "You have no consideration for the rest of us, do you? Things going on all day and night. Loud parties, wild women—"
"Whoa, what parties?" Asher frowned at him. Now the old guy was making things up. "I’m in bed by eleven most nights."
Knudson scowled, backing away, he shook a finger at Asher. "I know your type. I know what you’re capable of."
Asher cocked his head. "Do you?"
"Hollywood scum!"
With a sinking feeling, Asher looked around, absolutely sure that there was an audience collecting. Only Mrs. Browning, weeding her flowers, was watching. She gave him a commiserating smile. Asher crossed the street to her fence.
"Morning."
She stood up with a handful of weeds in her pink gloved hands. "Morning."
"Sorry about the noise."
"Oh, I don’t mind." She pointed to the bare-chested roofers. "I enjoy the show." There was an appreciative twinkle in her eye. "There was quite a parade of reporters here this morning, too. Everyone poking around looking for you."
Asher cringed. "Sorry about that."
"I don't need any apologies." She shucked off her gloves and dusted her knees with them. "I always enjoy a little excitement."
He smiled at her. "How do I make it up t
o..." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.
"Don’t pay any attention to Joshua. He’s just a bitter old man."
A car door slammed. Asher looked back to see the workmen leaving. A very tanned man in low-slung shorts and a toolbelt sauntered over.
"Gotta hit another job. We’ll be back tomorrow." He raised a hand in farewell and vaulted into the back of a pickup truck.
Mrs. Browning made a purr-like sound that made Asher chuckle.
"I'll get up early for that," she said.
Asher looked over at Knudson's manicured yard. The old man was ostensibly inspecting his roses, but he was actually peeking through the leaves watching them. "He doesn’t look that old."
Mrs. Browning sighed, a slight wheeze in her throat. "Losing his daughter aged him. Losing his wife nearly killed him."
"I’m sorry."
"Why? It wasn’t your fault."
Asher shook his head. "Lately, seems like everything's my fault."
A strangling sound caught his attention. He looked back to see Knudson bent over, gasping.
"Oh, no. Call 911," he yelled at Mrs. Browning as he dashed for the old man.
"Get....away!" Knudson's words panted out as he struggled for breath.
"Easy, easy there." Asher took his arm and backed him over to the steps. "Have a seat. Do you have asthma?"
"No! Go away!"
"Pain in the left arm? Jaw? That's the heart. Do you take any medication?"
Knudson's breathing got worse. Asher lifted him up the last two steps and tried to help him lie down on the porch. "Just think about breathing. Nice and calm. In and out."
The old man gasped and struggled to sit up. Sweat dripped down his face and soaked into the starched collar of his white shirt. Asher put an arm around him to support him.
Mrs. Browning arrived out of breath. "They're on their way. Is he having a heart attack?"
"Probably. We need his medication and maybe some aspirin."
She sprinted past him into the house. Knudson snarled, waving a hand in her direction.
"Just breathe." Asher patted the man's hand.
She popped out again with a bottle of generic aspirin and a glass of water. "I don't see any medication. Joshua, where are your pills?"
"I don't need any," he snapped. "Leave me alone." But he allowed Mrs. Browning to shake some aspirin into his trembling hand.
"11:35." Asher held up his watch. "We need to tell the EMTs when he took the aspirin."
They stayed with him until the paramedics arrived, and watched until the ambulance left. Mrs. Browning locked up the house to the old man's specifications. It was only then that Asher thought of possible repercussions. Would Knudson sue him for something? Had he done the right thing, or brought more legal trouble down on himself? Given a quiet moment to think, he came to the conclusion that he'd do the same again. It was the right thing to do. If Knudson sued, he'd deal with it then.
His heart still pounding, he sat on Knudson's steps and checked out the street. The view from here was edifying. His little ranch was the only house on the block that hadn't been altered. He could see that there had been only a few basic designs, probably from the 1970s. Garages had turned into extra rooms, porches were enclosed, a couple had put on second floors. His house no longer fit in this neighborhood. It was battered and rundown, out of style. The yard was even worse. The shrubs were old, boney and nearly leafless now that the landscapers had cut them back. Bald spots in the lawn showed patches of dry, sandy soil. From here he could see a path worn into the knee-high weeds that ran in a strip beyond the garage. That sparked his curiosity.
He crossed the street and followed the trail. It wound through side yards and backyards three blocks over and into a small park with graffiti marked trash cans and a couple of decrepit benches. A small pack of tattooed and pierced teenagers smoked in the shade of a dying eucalyptus tree. They turned to look at him with the surreal synchronicity of a school of fish. He turned around and took the path back. The weeds that edged it were littered with beer cans and cigarette butts. Maybe the fire was simply an accident, kids smoking and drinking in his garage.
He wandered back to the house, mulling over the possibility of a red herring in his plot. Coming around the corner of the garage, he startled someone on the front porch. A man took off running.
"Hey!" Asher took two steps and halted. He was staring into the sun and couldn't get a good look at the person. It was most likely just a nosy kid. If he gave chase, he'd probably be arrested as a sexual predator. He locked the front door, wondering if it was an adequate deterrent with all the damage to the rest of the house. Since the house phone wasn't working, he headed toward Hawthorne to catch a cab back to the hotel. When he had a minute, he needed to call George and tell him the garage fire might be accidental.
Chapter 36
"Got 'em!" Smythe smacked her fingers against a phone message slip.
"Who?" Bledsoe asked.
"Alanna Wesley's attacker."
"Ah, finally." Bledsoe's eyes lit up. "Where'd they pick him up?"
"Hospital—hit and run. The facial injuries were bad enough that they didn't realize his eyes were swollen shut from the pepper spray Wesley used on him. He walked into traffic a couple blocks from the mall. And since he came in as a victim, no one looked at him for the attacker."
Bledsoe grabbed his jacket. "Where is he now?"
Smythe picked up her keys. "Still in the hospital."
* * *
Smythe and Bledsoe stood at the bedside of the mugger. A crushed nose and long gash on his neck verified Alanna's claim of fighting back. He was a junkie and more than willing to trade information for a lighter sentence. Bledsoe had to do some sweet talking to get his partner to agree. Smythe let him start the interrogation. She'd keep her anger in reserve.
"That wasn't how it was supposed to go down, man. That woman was nuts!"
"Why her?" Bledsoe asked.
"I didn't pick 'er. That's just who he said to do."
"Who told you?"
"Fayer."
"And who's he?"
"He's my dealer, ya know? He said go do this broad, and he'd have a little somethin' extra for me."
"'Do her' as in 'kill her?'"
"Yeah, I guess."
"What did he actually say?" Bledsoe asked.
"I dunno. I was having a good time, y'know?"
"Hmph." Smythe folded her arms and glared at the kid.
Bledsoe gave her a warning look, then turned back to the junkie. "What's his full name?"
"Don't know. Just Fayer. That's what he calls himself."
Bledsoe pocketed his notebook. On the way out, Smythe stopped in the doorway and pointed at a pile of clothes in a clear bag on the floor. Bledsoe pulled out a ratty, pseudo-military jacket with a tear where a unit badge might have been.
"Hey, that's mine!"
"Who gave it to you?" Bledsoe asked.
"It's mine, man. I worked my ass off to get that at the Pasadena convention. I wanted it in gold, but they only had the red. Red shirts, man, they're unlucky."
"So, you're one of Blaine's fans?"
"Did you see how he took out the Rigellan in the orbiter?"
Smythe shook her head. Bledsoe sighed, and they left without another word. She didn't speak until the elevator doors closed. "That was next to useless. Who the hell is Fayer?"
"Maybe one of White's aliases? We should run the name anyway." Bledsoe took out his phone, but it rang before he could make a call. "Bledsoe," he answered it. "Shit!"
"What?" she asked as soon as he hung up.
"They just found crack in Asher's bathroom."
Smythe stared at him. "Crack, really? Who found it? When?"
"Building inspector found it when he went to check the house. Called it in to a buddy in narcotics. Let's go, the arrest warrant is waiting for us."
"This feels a little off," Smythe admitted.
"That's why I want us to be the arresting officers."
* * *
Bledsoe and Smythe settled in chairs in front of Captain Ritter's desk while he finished a phone call.
"No fingerprints." Bledsoe handed Ritter the report on the crack.
"I don’t trust him, and I don’t like him. But the tox screen is clean. Again. And he never did crack before." Smythe sighed. "This is totally out of character."
Ritter pulled the file in front of him. "The hotel room was clean. Nothing stronger than aspirin in the house, aside from the large bag of crack in the bathroom closet. Is this guy Teflon? You can't get anything to stick."
Smythe forced a smile for the worn joke. "It doesn't track."
"Crack isn’t falling off the wagon, it’s jumping in front of a train," Bledsoe said. "It wasn't there the other day when we did a walk through after the fire. I checked both bathrooms. Blaine's at the hotel now, so why leave a stash at the house?"
"Why no prints on the bag?" Ritter asked, tapping the file.
Smythe exchanged a glance with her partner. "Because it was planted," she said. "I talked to O'Shaunessy in Vice. He's heard of a guy named Fayer or Feather. Bits and pieces, but he sounds like a piece of work. If White hired him to go after Blaine, there's a good chance he planted the crack."
Ritter pulled another file and added it to stack in front of him. "Where are we on the gun from the Mitchells case?"
Bledsoe took out his notebook and flipped back a few pages. "It was paid for by money order. The memorabilia guy says he had no idea that the gun was real. He never opened the case, makes it more valuable that way. He got the highest bid online from AsherLover42, and when he got the money order, shipped it to a PO Box in Venice Beach. Got a request in for search warrants on that and the money order receipt. "
"And the knife?" Ritter asked.
Smythe shook her head. "Dead end. We have testimony that White had possession of the knife at one point, but that was years ago."
"No leads at all?"
Bledsoe put his notebook away. "No credit cards, bank accounts or utilities for our Scott White."
"And Fayer?"
"We're running it now."
"What about Blaine?" Smythe asked, reluctantly.
Ritter shook his head, "Cut him loose."
* * *