There was the Infiniti. He had not forgotten his keys. The car started right up, like it always did, superlative Japanese technology. He took Hawthorne to its light on La Brea. Then crossed La Brea, continued on Hawthorne, turned left after passing the back side of the Roosevelt Hotel. No red lights in his mirror. He headed up Orange, made a right into the heavy Hollywood Boulevard traffic. No lights, no guns, no nothing. Home free.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Violet Brown
Pussy Grace was in a good mood, considering. In the sack on the front seat of her 2004 Honda Accord were two roast beef sandwiches and a six-pack of Heineken from Greenblatt’s. And last night she had acquired an eighth ounce of Purple Kush from Compassionate Friends, and Violet would have already rolled a fattie. It would take her mind off Art. And all that frightening shit that had gone down. It would be an afternoon of gossip and laughter. She needed a little laughter.
She parked in front of her house and went in. Something was wrong.
She stopped in her tracks. In the dining area, where she could see around the counter, the rug was pushed up and crumpled. She heard a fly buzzing.
“Violet?” The kitchen floor was splattered with redness. Redness that ran down the cabinets in streaks. “Violet?” Her voice had gone weak and watery. As had her knees. She tottered forward.
There was a person. A woman. Lying on her back, arms out. The face—wasn’t a face anymore.
The paper bag from Greenblatt’s slipped through her fingers and crashed to the ground. Beer flowed from the bag, mixing in with the redness. Who was this? C-c-could it possibly be Violet? Who did this? Were . . . they . . . still . . . here?
Her knees gave way completely and she sank down into the mess. Bile came up in her throat and she retched. Flies. More flies. She crawled back the way she had come, red smears on the hardwood flooring.
The Caddy rolled west on the Sunset Strip. It was going to be a very good day.
I’d gone out to run some errands and came home to find a message from Kiyoko. I never really knew which end was up with her. Things would be going along fine and then, out of the blue, I would do something that blew the ship out of the water. Once in disgrace I was in disgrace until I wasn’t. Then the sun came out from behind the clouds as if there’d never been rain.
I called her back and the day was sunny at her end. I suggested a trip to the Getty Museum. She accepted.
Any man is improved by the atmosphere of a museum. He doesn’t even need to talk. In fact, it may be better if he doesn’t.
All that’s required is a thoughtful perusal of things he may or may not understand. Then a nod of appreciation, a chuckle of insight, the low whistle of incredulity. If you can’t whistle, substitute the head shake. The side-to-sider. Stick to this regimen, exactly, and it is possible to be mistaken for a man of depth and sensitivity.
I was hoping for some Kostabi, coincidentally one of Kiyoko’s favorites, but the net told me that Impressionists were currently holding sway. In fact, the current program was the contrast and comparison of Cézanne and Pissarro. With a minor in Monet and Millet. I was pretty sure Monet was Mo-nay, but was Millet Mill-ay? Or was he a common grain, millet?
Who cared? I would shut my piehole and peruse.
My cell rang. It was Kiyoko. “Hello, darling Kiyoko,” I said. I was filled with a golden optimism.
“Hi, Dick. You are on the way?”
“Twenty minutes down the road.”
“Hurry, Dick.”
Yes, my darling. I will hurry. I heard a siren.
“What’s that, Dick?” asked Kiyoko.
“It’s the police.”
“Are they after you?”
“They can’t be. I’m as innocent as the rain. I’ll talk to you later.”
As soon as I hung up it rang again. Puss. I had no time for her now.
But the cops were after me. I crossed over from West Hollywood, entered Beverly Hills, pulled to the side. Suddenly I was surrounded and guns were in my face.
“Get out of the car, asshole. Real slow. And keep those hands where I can see ’em.”
I tried to be a nice guy in the middle of a big mistake but the guys were dead serious and weren’t buying. I was handcuffed, dragged to the rat wagon, taken to the Beverly Hills lockup.
I hadn’t been there since all the shit went down with Artie Benjamin. The place hadn’t improved.
No doubt this was part of the Art Lewis caper. Which would be why Pussy had tried to call me. They jacked her up, got her talking, and she started spilling beans. Even imaginary beans. Then she’d loyally called to warn me. Or, loyal to the police, called to lure me in. I tried to get my thoughts in order.
Art Lewis was dead. Or I had seen him die. I had nothing to do with it. But I had known about it and had done nothing. Conspiracy after the fact.
Art was dead. Or I had seen him die. Then I had seen Puss knock out Nursie with a cane. I had done nothing and run away. Conspiracy after the fact, flight to avoid.
I had stolen a Gas Company van, impersonated a Gas Company employee. Art was dead or I had seen him die. I allowed or directed Puss to assault Nursie. Then I split. Theft, impersonation, assault, conspiracy, flight to avoid.
I’d stolen the van. I’d impersonated personnel. I told Pussy to attack the nurse. I watched Art die. Then I split. Then I engineered a wedding with a dead groom. With plans to drain his bank accounts. Theft, impersonation, assault, depraved indifference, flight to avoid, conspiracy, fiscal and marital malfeasance. Then, surely, they would add the sinister, Orwellian condition my music-business friend, Tom Sturges, a nonlawyer, had concocted: third-party prior knowledge of fact.
In other words, I was fucked. No. In those very words. Theft, impersonation, assault, depraved indifference, flight to avoid, conspiracy, fiscal and marital malfeasance, third-party prior.
I was cooked. An apple in my mouth.
Well, I had my one phone call coming. I’d be calling Andy Rigrod.
I was taken to an interrogation room. It was cold and bright, and I sat there thinking of Kiyoko. Certainly, this was the final end.
The door opened and someone walked in. I knew him by the sound of his shoes. It would be Lew Peedner, my former friend and partner. I looked over. Lieutenant Ferguson was with him.
He sat at the other end of the table. He looked at me, shook his head. “Here we are again, Dick.”
I said nothing.
The science of interrogation is based on the fact that bullshit, ordinary or purposeful, eventually reveals facts and attitudes of the speaker. Just get the guy to talk. And keep him talking. Eventually he’ll hang himself.
High in the ceiling, cameras were recording the interview.
“Here we are again, Dick,” Peedner repeated. “In another big pile of shit.”
Again, I said nothing.
“So, where do you fit in, Dick?”
I shrugged.
“You have no idea why you’re here?”
“I was dragged here.”
“Another sheer coincidence.”
I shrugged again.
“This time, Dick, I think I’ve got you dead to rights.”
“Then you better read me my rights, Lew.”
Lew’s life had been hell since I’d punched Elton Reese’s ticket. He’d never forgiven me. And had the situation been reversed, I doubted if I could have forgiven him. Though Elton Reese, child killer, richly deserved to die, he was not a white man and his genetic inheritance became the center of the matter.
“Read Mr. Henry his rights, Lieutenant.”
Ferguson set in. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney and have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided at government expense. Have I made myself clear, Mr. Henry?”
What a country. In my mind I could see Lewis stone dead, could feel that CPR perspiration rolling dow
n my back.
“Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them, do you wish to talk to us at this time?”
I saw Pussy step from the shadows and whack Nursie across the head.
You should never, ever talk to the police, but I wanted to know where they were coming from. I could always clam up and call Rigrod.
“Let’s talk,” I said.
Ferguson broke out paper and pen. Lew Peedner stared at me. “When was the last time you saw Pussy Grace?”
“Couple of days ago.” It’s called spontaneous combustion, Dick.
“Where were you?”
“Third and Fairfax, Farmers Market.”
“When was the last time you were at her house?”
“I don’t know. A week? A week ago?”
“Where were you between twelve-forty-five and one-thirty this afternoon?”
This afternoon. The image of dead Art and unconscious Nursie fell to pieces in my mind. “Today? Where was I between twelve-forty-five and one-thirty today?”
“Where were you?”
“At my house. Laurel Canyon.”
“Were you with anybody?”
“No.”
“Nobody?”
“No. Wait. The mail lady delivered. I talked to her.”
Peedner and Ferguson looked at one another.
“Will you submit to a luminol test?” asked Ferguson.
“Bring it on.” Had something happened to Puss?
Lew held up a plastic baggie. “Know what this is?”
It looked like a Zippo lighter. “Looks like a Zippo.”
“It has your name on it, Dick. ‘To Dick, love always, G.’”
“That’s mine. Where’d you find it?”
“At the murder scene.”
I shot to my feet. “Puss? No!”
Peedner shook his head. “Pussy’s alright. You know Violet Brown?”
I had a sick feeling in my gut. “Of course, I do. Friend of Puss. Girlfriend of a friend. Is she—”
“She was murdered this afternoon. At Pussy’s.”
My mind spun through the possibilities.
Peedner honed right in with the instincts that made him such a good cop. “Do you think Violet Brown was the intended victim of this crime?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know if Violet Brown was not the intended victim of this crime?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
“What do you know?” I could feel his eyes on me. “You know something.”
I shrugged, spread my hands.
“You’re not planning to leave town anytime soon, are you Dick?”
“Nowhere to go.” Which was the sad truth.
I looked up at Lew. “How ya been, Lew?”
“I’ve been, Dick.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
You Like Animals?
An hour and half after the luminol came back negative I was released. Puss was in the lobby. She looked like hell. She rushed into my arms and I held her.
Puss gave me a ride, so I could get the Caddy out of impound on Fuller. The impound-lot secretary was a little surly. I was only trying to be friendly with the old battleax, but her humor had leaked out a long time ago.
“You look better every time I come to visit,” I said cheerfully.
“Oh, yeah?” she rasped, sucking on a Lucky Strike, then stabbing it out. “Maybe you should try not to get your vehicle impounded so often.”
“I only get my car impounded when I get accused of murder,” I pointed out coldly.
My comment did nothing for her disposition. But it did make her shut up and think.
As I waited for the Caddy to be released, I called Doc Peach.
He sounded relaxed. Which meant his office was stuffed with blue-haired ladies, blue poodles, and the occasional little girl, blue, with her overfed hamster. Her blue hamster. “Can I do something for you, Dick?” asked Peach.
I told him. How a friend of mine, Penelope Grafton, had come home to find a murder scene. I wondered if he still had the little apartment above the clinic?
Yes, he did. And it was empty, basically. Boxes of records. He was eager to help. “Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. Bring her right over.”
Three scenarios.
First, a grudge killing. Violet, in the photos I’d been shown, looked like she’d been beaten by someone who hated her. But who knew she was at Puss’s place?
Second. Mistaken identity. The killer had come for Puss, found Violet, didn’t know the difference. But why the unmerciful beating, why the unprofessional rage?
Third. Some evil, boulevard dope fiend wandered into Puss’s by chance, attacked and killed Violet for spare change and carry-away junk. Remember to ask Puss if anything was missing.
There wasn’t a fourth scenario. But all the same I wondered. Was this connected to Art Lewis?
Twenty-five minutes later Puss and I arrived at Abbot Kinney, parked behind the building. Clark came out to meet her. I don’t know what he expected. Well, yes I do. He expected Penelope Grafton. A thickly spectacled librarian with a mortuary tan, no figure, bad posture, and bad skin. Instead, he met Pussy Grace.
Pussy, on her worst day, which this may have been, was a seven-sector call-out, a thionite dream. Even shrouded in shock and sorrow, her feminine radiance could not be concealed.
“Dr. Peach,” I said gravely, “this is Miss Penelope Grafton. Penelope, this is Dr. Peach.”
“How do you do, P-penelope?” Doc Peach was staggered. He put out his hand, Puss took it. Dick Henry had entirely disappeared from his mind.
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Puss quietly. “I won’t be a bother.”
The doc quickly recovered his sea legs. “A bother? How would that be possible? No bother at all.”
He turned to me, recalling I had been in the vicinity. “Just leave her with me. Maybe she can help me out around here a little bit.”
He turned to Puss. “What do you say? You like animals?”
I left the clinic, walked to Electric Avenue, found Dennis Donnelly’s house. I called first. “Just wanted to stop by a second.”
I could tell by his voice he already was lost in what had gone down. “Come in, dude,” he said.
Dennis was drinking and smoking but it was no use. Wherever he turned, she wasn’t. I said all the right things. All of them ridiculous and stupid. Finally, mercifully, he nodded out. I laid him back on his couch, covered him with a blanket.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Recriminations
From the kitchen window Harry could see the waves rush onto the shore. He’d figured it out. One hundred seventeen feet of waterfront, for which he paid $7 million, meant he’d paid $59,829 per foot. How many times had he actually walked the beach? Maybe ten. Six of those in the first two weeks. Now the place was killing him.
He and Ellen were having a light meal. Salads and BLTs on sourdough. But still he felt queasy.
He had never felt quite so unsettled, so off-balance, in his life. For chrissake, he, Judge Harold J. Glidden, was involved in a criminal conspiracy. He didn’t understand how real criminals did this. Lived with the doubts, the fears, much less the recriminations. Maybe they didn’t recriminate. Because they were criminals. Harold J. Glidden couldn’t help it.
Ellen’s nonchalance bewildered him. He looked across the table. What had he been thinking? He didn’t know this woman. Marry in haste, repent at leisure. But he couldn’t have done that. He was Harold J. Glidden.
Yet right this second, right this second, Art Lewis, stiff as a country ham, lay in his own walk-in freezer. Surrounded by steaks and chops and vegetables that would never be eaten. Frost would be slowly accumulating in his ears, in his nostrils.
And the marriage! He’d performed a marriage for a dead man. Of course they’d hadn’t bothered to pretend. But, alibi in mind, they’d joyfully bought a thousand dollars’ worth of champagne from Jerry’s Liquor Barn and left Jerry a huge tip for luck. Jerry coul
d testify to their happiness. Eileen, married at last!
Eileen was not only dull, deadly dull, she was the cause of dullness in others. Art Lewis, in a million years, would never have married her. He would have married the maid first. Or even the gardener.
Ellen swallowed a forkful of arugula with honey mustard. Harry was worrying again. What was the good of worrying? The dice had been cast and things would happen as they were meant to occur. God helped those who helped themselves. And that’s what they were doing. Helping themselves. Before the ESP/UFO/reincarnation phonies helped themselves. Why should those charlatans rake it in?
She needed a smoke. “What’s wrong, Harry? There a bug in your salad?”
“Bill Archibald asked me about the wedding today.”
“What did you say?”
“That it was touching.”
Instinct told her he’d hadn’t stopped there. “What else did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“What kind of nothing?”
“I said how much Art seemed to love Eileen.”
Ellen shook her head. “You just can’t shut up. I’m going to puke.”
“Bill seemed to think it was a little sudden.”
“It was sudden, Harold. He was dead.”
The judge drained his wine. “I keep running into his friends, for chrissake. I didn’t know he had so many.”
She lit up. “Well, just shut up. That’s all you have to do.” She turned on the TV. “They’re just pissed you were invited and they weren’t.”
She unmuted the set as the cameras pushed in on Clark Kent’s brother, Ted Sargent. “Good evening, everyone, I’m Ted Sargent,” said Ted Sargent. Ted was as earnest as a brake shoe and just as smart.
“Welcome to the ten o’clock news. Our top story tonight—a gruesome murder in Hollywood.”
Six cop cars, lights flashing, came up on screen. Ellen recognized an older section of Tinseltown. Square-jaw continued, “This afternoon police were summoned to 1544 North Sierra Bonita Avenue, where the body of a woman was found.”
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