“Suppose he’s got them hidden in some old speakeasy or an old basement cellar of some kind. It’d be the perfect hideaway, or maybe just a way of coming and going from inside a hotel without being detected. Some of those tunnels were pretty elaborate.”
“Except the W’s a new hotel,” Sheri said. “It was built just a couple of years ago. If there were a hidden club or any kind of tunnel there before it’s not there now.”
“But the Roosevelt down the street’s not new. It’s nearly a hundred years old.” I needed to do a little research on the hotel’s history, and I asked Sheri to call the W and see if she could find out if Diamond was a resident.
“But I’m afraid it’s not going to be that easy,” I said. I had already checked with their front desk and they had a strict policy about revealing the identities of their residents. “It’s very high end. They pride themselves on their chichi clientele—superstars, athletes and the like who maintain a residence at the W when they’re in town and value their privacy.”
“Well then.” Sheri poured herself another glass of wine. “You’ve asked the right person. That’s easy. Celebs are my expertise. Hand me the phone.”
Sheri’s father, the source of her worry-free lifestyle, had been a major player in the movie business going back nearly forty years. She’d grown up around Hollywood stars and knew every paparazzi scheme anyone ever pulled.
“Trust me.” Sheri stood up and tossed her scarf over her shoulder. “Places like the W have interior designers running in and out like ambulance chasers with chemise sheers thrown over their shoulders, like their clients were in need of life-saving surgery.”
What? I was beginning to think Sheri had too much to drink.
“CC.” I started to rise and she pointed at me to stay seated. “I’ve got this covered. Who’s to say we’re not there to measure Mr. Diamond’s flat for something?”
I listened as I continued to Google the history of the old Roosevelt Hotel, while Sheri placed a call to the W. She explained she was a decorator, doing some work for Dr. Diamond. Her voice took on an immediate lilt, a very affected tone.
“Hi-i-i, this is Karen Fine with KFA Interiors. I’m sure you’re familiar with our firm’s work. We’ve done several penthouse suites in the tower, and I’m working on a project for Dr. Diamond; he’s one of your tenants.” Sheri paused, looked up at me with a hopeful gleam in her eye and motioned for a refill of her wine glass.
“Yes, yes, that’s him. Tall. Good-looking. A little Clark Gable-ish.” She rolled her eyes. “But with glasses and without the mustache, of course.” She paused and listened to the person on the end of the line, then squelched a laugh as I refilled her glass. “Oh, please. I know. He’s quite the cad, isn’t he?”
Sheri had made a connection. Whoever it was on the other end of the line knew exactly who Dr. Diamond was, and judging from Sheri’s response, had been quite charmed by his manner.
“Yes, well, you see, I’ve been doing some work for the doctor, and, silly me, I left my cellphone inside his apartment when we were measuring for his new étagère. I had my assistant call, but you know how difficult it is to get help today, and I’m afraid your front desk couldn’t find Dr. Diamond’s name among the list of residents. I simply must get my phone back as soon as possible. I’d call the doctor myself but his contact information’s on my phone, and as you can tell, I’m lost without it. I thought perhaps you could help.”
Again another pause, then laughter. “Ah, but of course, no wonder. It’s listed under his business’s name. Dream Maker, Inc. How could I forget that?”
Sheri looked at me. I gave her a thumbs-up. Dream Maker. Of course. The same name he had on the Rolls. Finally, I had a connection.
“Just one more thing.” Sheri smiled at me like a Cheshire cat. “Any chance I might come by this afternoon with my assistant? I need to pick up my phone; as I said, I’m lost—totally lost—without it. I realize you could just give it to me, but I was hoping while I’m there, we might go in and measure the master bedroom, one more time. Dr. Diamond would be fine with it. He gave me a passkey, but, wouldn’t you know, it’s on the table with my phone.” Sheri put her wine glass down on the bar and traced the stem with her index finger while she waited. Seconds seemed like hours, then, “Yes, yes, of course, that would be fine. Thank you.”
I could tell from her enthusiastic tone she had done it. She picked her glass up and tipped it to mine. “They’re expecting us within the hour. If we leave now, we could be back in time for the boys’ game tonight.”
I grabbed her wine glass. “I’ll drive.”
CHAPTER 26
My cell rang as Sheri and I drove into Hollywood. Caller ID identified the caller as Agent Delfino. I knew he’d be very careful with what he could share with me concerning the investigation, and I didn’t want to share with him what Sheri and I were about to do. I had little doubt he’d try to talk me out of it. And besides, some of what I had in mind I knew wasn’t legal. I let the call go to voicemail.
Our first stop was the old Roosevelt Hotel.
We left my embarrassingly dirty Jeep, the windows streaked with grime, with the valet and then entered the hotel through the grand lobby. The Roosevelt is an old, historic Spanish Colonial, dating back to the early part of the twentieth century. Overhead a gigantic wrought iron chandelier hung from intricately carved wooden beams two stories above. Beneath our feet marble floors were surrounded by a colonnade of gently domed columns that opened onto sweeping hallways leading to dining areas and smaller rooms for receptions. The hotel was the site of the first Academy Awards Show and rumored to still be haunted with the ghosts of Marilyn Monroe, Cliff Montgomery, Errol Flynn, and of course Clark Gable and Carol Lombard. The front desk kept a record of mysterious phone calls from nonexistent rooms and guest sightings—apparitions—of former residents. I grabbed Sheri’s hand and we headed directly through the lobby to a bank of elevators, their doors polished like satin.
Inside the elevator, brass buttons indicated the number of floors. Twelve floors up, including the penthouse, and three floors down. The markings for those down indicated LL for lower lobby, LB for the Library Bar, the current hot night spot, and a third button, marked LLB. I assumed LLB meant lower level basement, and I knew from my research that this had once been the location for the Roosevelt’s original speakeasy. But on top of the button marked LLB, someone had placed a piece of silver duct tape with the words “temporarily closed” written on top of it.
I glanced at Sheri. You ready for this? She nodded and I pushed the taped button on the elevator wall and we descended to the lower level basement, somewhere beneath the hotel. With a slight shudder, the elevator stopped and the shiny brass doors opened on to a dimly lit construction site.
In front of us, a bare cement floor was dusty with the smell of concrete and damp earth. Yellow tape marked caution in big black letters blocked our entrance. Directly behind it was a workmen’s bench. A hardhat and tool bag lay on top as though someone had just wandered away. It was difficult to see beyond the bench. A small shop light above the bench provided what little light there was, but not enough to indicate what lay beyond the yellow-taped area behind it. From what I could see, with the exception of a number of support girders and concrete pillars laced with overhead ducting and wires, the space appeared empty.
I lifted the tape, and using my cellphone to light the way, we ventured further into the darkness. I was determined to find some evidence of a tunnel. My idea that Diamond might be hiding the missing girls here was clearly out of the question.
Nobody could possibly be living here. It was cold and damp with a thin layer of concrete dust everywhere. I shined my light down on the floor. Evidence of footprints showed everywhere in the dust. But not the heavy patterned soles from that of a construction worker’s boot, but rather the smooth sole of a man’s dress shoe. A large sized print, and with it was that of a woman’s hig
h heel, a small, narrow toe-box with a tiny dot behind it. I’d seen imprints like this, dozens of times, just feet above my head on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. But these weren’t the prints of famous stars. These were the footprints of a couple, rushing through the basement, coming from the direction of the W hotel, directly east of us.
I tried to flash a picture with my phone, but the light was too dark, the image blurry. It was no use. I moved farther into the darkness. A cold whisper of wind rushed past me. I looked back at Sheri. A tunnel entrance maybe? She shook her head and pointed at my feet. There lying on the ground was a red feather. Like something that might have been affixed to a ladies evening gown or maybe a costume. This had to be Diamond’s tunnel. This was how he secreted his girls from one hotel to the other without being seen. Perhaps he came through here, dressed as Clark Gable, with one of the missing girls, and maybe the red feather was from a costume one of the girls had worn. Maybe they were all dressed as impersonators, Diamond as Gable and the girls as Carol Lombard, or Judy Garland, or maybe Marilyn Monroe. It would be the perfect disguise. As a builder and developer Diamond would know the service elevators, the hidden staircases the hotel no longer used, the back-end entrances to the clubs and restaurants. Nobody would stop a Clark Gable or Carol Lombard passing through a lobby. They would assume they were impersonators on the way to a gig and allow them to pass without incident. Or perhaps, if their presence surprised residents in the hallway, they’d think they’d seen ghosts. No wonder the hotel had a reputation for being haunted.
I grabbed Sheri’s hand and we were about to venture farther into the hotel’s cavernous underpinnings when I heard a voice.
“Someone back there?” From behind us a construction worker approached. He was dressed in yellow overalls, carrying a wrench in his hand and wearing a hard hat. “You ladies lost?”
I whispered to Sheri, “Play along.” I put my arm around her shoulder.
“I’m so sorry. We must have gotten off on the wrong floor.” I tried to sound a little tipsy. “We were looking for the club. The old speakeasy? I’m afraid my friend’s had a little too much to drink and pressed the wrong button.”
“Ah. You want the Library. Next floor up. You shouldn’t be down here; let me call the elevator.” He pushed the button, waited for the car to arrive, then watched as Sheri and I got in. “You two have a nice night now, and take it easy on the martinis.” He tipped his hat and smiled as the door closed.
On the ride up I told Sheri I was convinced, whether we’d seen it or not, that there was a tunnel running beneath Hollywood Boulevard from the basement of the old Roosevelt to somewhere either beneath or close to the W Hotel. LA’s new subway had a station right next door to the W. “It might even connect into that,” I said. “But one thing I do know: that red feather we saw on the floor, it had to belong to one of the girls Diamond’s hiding.” I felt like I was getting closer.
From the Roosevelt, Sheri and I walked down the street to the W. It was a little less than a mile, and I reviewed my options, questioning the wisdom of exposing my best friend to any unknown dangers.
“You’re certain you’re up for this? I mean, you don’t have to go along. I’m fine doing this alone. Nobody’s going to know I’m not the decorator or your assistant for that matter, stopping by to get your key.”
Sheri stopped mid-step and looked at me.
“You think for two seconds anyone at the W’s going to believe you’re a decorator and let you into Diamond’s apartment? I don’t think so. Look how you’re dressed.”
Sheri was right. I didn’t look the part. I was dressed in my mom jeans, flats, and a standby blue blazer I had grabbed earlier that morning for my interview with Tanya. My sensible outfit made me looked like I’d been outfitted at Target, hardly designer-like. Sheri, on the other hand, never left the house if she wasn’t dressed like she was prepared for a photo op—the result of growing up with a famous father—and today was no different. She had on a smart-looking little black felt fedora and shawl, and with her jeans tucked inside a pair of soft burgundy leather boots, she shrieked attitude.
“Besides, I know this world,” she said.
We left my Jeep at the valet and headed into the residential tower. Fifteen stories of opulence with a separate grand entrance from the famed hotel of the same name. It was clearly in a world of its own.
Sheri led the way to reception.
From twenty feet away I watched as she plopped her large Hermes bag—a gift from her father—on the counter and introduced herself. I stood back in awe. All those acting classes she had taken as a child were paying off, big time.
“Hi, I’m Karen Fine, the interior designer. I spoke to one of your people a few minutes ago. They’re expecting me. I need the key to the Dream Maker suite.” She held out her hand, palm up. There was no question she expected the young, inexperienced girl behind the counter to hand her the key.
Which she did.
Sheri turned back to me and finger-waved like I was some lowly assistant, then smiled. “Follow me.”
Like a scribe I followed Sheri with my head down. Not that anyone might recognize me, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I shuffled, feet behind her, as she sidled up to the elevator, like some diva in her overly large dark glasses, and punched the button impatiently for the fifteenth floor.
Alone, inside the elevator, we high-fived each other and laughed nervously.
“You could still back out. I’ve no idea what we might be walking into.” I was relatively certain, since it was almost mid-morning, that a busy man like Diamond wouldn’t be there. But what if he were? I didn’t want to subject my best friend to anything dangerous. “You could wait downstairs. I just need a minute to go in. Look around. See if I can find anything to connect Diamond to the missing girls.”
“How about I stand guard and hold the elevator? In case we need to make a quick run for it.”
“Not a bad idea.” I took the key from Sheri’s hand and headed down the hall towards the Dream Maker suite, my heart pounding.
Suite fifteen-oh-one. I knocked softly. Just to make sure nobody was home. Waited. Then inserted the key. I had never done anything like this before. I could feel beads of perspiration on my brow. My head felt warm, the brass knob, cool in my hand. Nerves, dammit. I took a deep breath and turned the key. I could feel the pins click into place. The lock released. Then, suddenly, without any effort, the door swung open.
“Hello, Carol.”
I looked up to see Dr. Diamond standing in front of me.
CHAPTER 27
I was arrested.
Diamond had outsmarted me. Not only that, he must have had the police on speed dial, because I wasn’t inside his apartment for more than ten minutes before they arrived.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to spend the night in jail. I was allowed one call, but the arresting officer told me I probably didn’t need it. My attorney and someone from the radio station would be along shortly.
I knew without a doubt that Sheri must have realized as soon as Diamond had pulled me into his apartment, something was wrong. She immediately alerted Tyler, and Tyler did exactly what I expected. He called Mr. King, the station’s attorney.
As a courtesy to the radio station, I was told they were not taking me back to a holding cell. Whatever that was. I envisioned a jail cell full of transients and worse. I was thankful they decided instead to cuff me to a metal chair in the administrative area. I was allowed to sit there with the desk sergeant as my monitor until Mr. King and Tyler arrived. It was just now six p.m.
I could see King through the bulletproof glass doors as he came lumbering into the Hollywood Police Station. He was winded and mopping his brow, his tan trench coat wrinkled and stretched across his thick middle. He looked at me sternly as he approached the counter.
“I don’t think I need to remind you, Carol, not to say anything.”
I
responded with my eyes glued to his, my lips tight.
“But you need to understand, I’m here officially for the radio station—not for you. Much as I like you, Carol, Dr. Diamond is a client of mine, and as such, I am here only because the attorney I’m going to assign this case to is unable to be here right at this moment, and I don’t like the idea of your spending the night in jail.”
For the next few minutes, there was a nervous exchange between King and the arresting officers. I got the feeling, based on the fact I’d been cooling my heels here for well over three hours, that they had very little patience for anyone stupid enough to break into the personal residence of one of their own. Particularly the residence of one of LAPD’s police commissioners. I could see King was doing his best to keep them from transferring me down to the city jail. Then, just when it looked like he was about to convince them to release me into his custody, Tyler walked in.
Tyler was outraged. His presence was like adding fresh kindling to a smoldering fire. He was dressed in skinny jeans, high top sneakers and a yellow t-shirt that read, “Question Authority!” He started yelling that the police had arrested me on some trumped-up charge and demanding I be set free. For a moment I thought there might be a scuffle. Several officers approached Tyler, but King quickly got between them and ordered Tyler to take a seat.
Since I had no priors and there had been no physical damage to Diamond’s apartment, I was hopeful King would be able to negotiate bail, and I’d be released on my own recognizance. I watched, my lips sealed, not saying a word, as King continued talking to the arresting officers, then returned to Tyler.
“You bring the check?”
Tyler nodded, mentioned the radio station had agreed to post bond, then reached into his backpack for a slim envelope.
Beyond a Doubt Page 15