I brought out the coffees, skim milk, sugar and a couple of croissants from the lobby breakfast I'd stuck in the freezer, they micro- waved soft in a hurry. I had packets of the hotel cherry jam too, napkins; a nice little setup.
" These from below? They don't let us in on those goodies either," Sylvia said, eyeing the croissants. She helped herself, smearing each bite with jam.
"Sylvia, did you know . . . I heard there'd been a fire next door— years ago — and I think an actress died."
"What of it?"
"Just curious." I went for nonchalance.
"I watched a couple of your films the other day," she said, changing the subject. "You weren't bad." She didn't look at me while paying the compliment.
"So they say."
"Mucho, come here!" The dog was not letting go of the bedroom doors, sniffing at the carpeted threshold like he was on to a bag of bones. He did not obey his mistress but began to dig at the carpet. Sylvia took a hard pull on her unlit cigarette. " There was a fire all right," she said, as if she hadn't just shifted topics. "I stayed with Lucille sometimes when I came in from Vegas. That was the actress who died, Lucille Trevor. We first hooked up when she came out to the casino for a film, a revue number. I coached the gals how to dance in pasties and boas. She was the lead dancer but only a bit part in the movie."
"So she could still dance?"
Sylvia's eyes met mine, hers silvery blue and cold as ice. I lowered mine to the floor. I was caught red- handed, and stupid to boot.
"Then you already knew about Lucille? Why ask me?"
Let's see if I could act my way out of this one. Play it cool, hold her gaze, steady, calm. I forced my eyes to stay on hers. They burned, and I fought not to blink. "I'm working on a book, well, researching one, about Hollywood actresses." I glanced at the dog still sniffing the bedroom doors. "Not the famous ones . . . more, what about all those girls who come out here with a dream only to end badly?"
"Plenty of dreams don't make it, probably most. What happened to yours?"
I was beginning to see the brassy side of Sylvia Vernon. I glanced up at the clock on top of the TV cabinet. The Detective would be here soon. I had to get rid of her. "Mustn't have been all that interesting," I said, going for I- couldn' t- care- less.
"And Lucille's was?" She tossed me that icy stare again.
I stood up. "Sylvia, I have an appointment. . . . I'm sorry to cut this short. . . ." (What a rotten exit line: an appointment?)
Sylvia stood too and Mucho came running. She bent down to pick him up. "No worries. You should stop by, visit the scene of the— accident. If you stand in the closet with the door closed tight, you can faintly smell smoke still stuck in the walls." She angled her head back, looking up at me, watching my face. I turned and walked to the door.
"She was a beauty," Sylvia said, stopping in the doorway. "Thanks for the hospitality," she added, her tone more snarl than farewell.
I closed the door quietly behind her. Oh, boy, did I blow it. "Dammit, Ardennes!" I quickly gathered the coffee cups and plates and loaded them into the sink. I ran to the bedroom to carry the box of dead roses back into the sitting room. My cell phone rang and I left the white box on the bed to find the phone on the dining table. I dropped the brown mailing carton on a chair as I said hello.
Detective Collins was on the other end. "I'll be there in ten minutes," he said.
"You remember the gate combination?"
"Of course."
I put the phone down on the side table and saw Sylvia's rhinestone cigarette holder, almost hidden behind the vase of lilies. One of the long white petals had fallen off. The cigarette was gone. I remembered her placing it on the saucer, wasting a perfectly good smoke. I ran to the bedroom and dropped the holder into the desk drawer. Then I ran to the kitchen to wash the dishes to be rid of any trace of Sylvia's visit. I'd disobeyed the Detective by letting her in. Curiosity— Lucille— had killed that cat. The last of the crumbs was wiped away when the Detective tapped lightly on the door.
The same thing happened when I opened the door to Detective Collins as the last time: the size and presence of the man caught me. He wasn't that big; there was just that . . . je ne sais quoi. I smiled and waved him in, thanking him again for coming.
He looked around. I guess cops do that automatically, like thieves who can't help casing any room they enter. "You have company?"
"What?"
"That stink's not your perfume."
"Oh. The maid must have sprayed something." Now I was lying to him. That would be the maid he'd told me not to have in. "Yesterday, I mean."
" Uh- huh. So, where's this package got you all hopped up?"
It was on the rumpled bed I'd lingered in, exposed now like an invitation to random lust. "I'll bring it here," I said, moving quickly to the bedroom.
"No, you will not," he said, following me just as fast. He lightly pushed me aside and leaned over the box and the tangled bed. The lid was only resting, not all the way closed. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves picked out of his pocket and gingerly lifted the lid, which he placed next to the box. He fished around carefully inside. Dried petals fell at the slightest touch. He felt beneath the green florist's paper. "No note?"
I shook my head. " Watch the thorns." A couple more petals fell away as he lifted one of the Day of the Dead dolls. "I sort of collect those," I volunteered.
He gave me a hard look and replaced the doll. "No name on the box. This how it was delivered?"
"No, it was mailed. That box is on the chair." I indicated the dining chair by the balcony door.
The Detective nodded. He walked over to the mailing carton with me following like a nervous cat. "Any return address?"
I was close enough to him to feel his body heat. "Nothing familiar." There was a Los Angeles postmark, but the last digit was blurry. The return address was from down toward San Diego, Corona Del Mar.
"Probably fake," the Detective said of the address. "Unless you know anyone from there?" I did not. He took out a pad and pen and copied the post office numbers and return address.
"What about fingerprints?" I asked.
The Detective removed the latex gloves and put them back into his pocket. "Too many people touched things to bother. And, look, anonymously sent dead flowers don't constitute a crime." He paused as if to punctuate what came next. "Okay, here's the deal: I talked to my boss—" My brows went together; I made a gesture, a pushing- something- away motion with my hands. "Just hear me for a second." There was a slight eagerness in his tone, just a fragment. "He caught on before I did: Sure, it was Harry Machin's death brought you to Beverly Hills precinct, but you're— were— an actor and felt safer talking to a cop you'd already had dealings with—"
"I thought you said there was no crime. Eddie was nothing, the phone calls are nothing, and maybe my husband sent the flowers!" I was speaking way too loud.
" Could he have?"
"No!"
"What you need is discretion and to feel safe, and I've got the okay to do that."
"You've got the okay from your captain to make me feel safe? What does that mean?"
"You're afraid."
"I am not afraid." But that wasn't true. I was, right down to my knees, into my skin, my DNA, and he knew it before I did. I felt a case of the hiccups coming on. I suddenly wanted to talk to Joe. I wanted his suspicions of the system, wanted him to tell me what did I expect from the vicious world I'd chosen; why was I even talking to the cops? Fits had just said it: a business full of phonies, and now someone was sending me dead flowers and hanging up on me and who knew what with Eddie . . . Harry dead like that! It wasn't until the Detective was standing next to me holding up a paper napkin from the table that I realized tears were streaming down my face. This must be what they call weeping. I hiccupped. "I'm sorry," I whispered. I took the napkin and blew my nose and shook my head. "I'm sorry," I said again. Apparently that was all I could think of to say.
"What do you have to be so sorry about?"<
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Was that the cop talking? I looked up, I couldn't be sure if he was seriously concerned or being on- duty polite. Sincere won, I guess, because he took my chin in his hand. He did it with such authority. Hold me, I thought. I did not say those words out loud, but he folded me into his arms and did just that. I pretty much did the rest, responding to him with everything I had.
He placed his hands on my hips and ran them up, then down my torso, slowly, like a blind man reading Braille, his fingertips taking in my length, my curves, my folds. His hands were warm over my sweater. He moved lower onto my loose linen pants and the sides of my thighs. I pulled away. He pulled me back, firmly, and I got a good whiff of whatever he put on in the morning: shaving cream, deodorant, and maybe cologne. I was glad I'd closed the curtains. His back faced the balcony door; one of the dining chairs was pushing into my back, or I was being pushed into it. That was when I saw Grant Stuart's passkey lying innocently on the table.
"Not in here," I said, my voice low. The Detective put his mouth over mine, and I ate into his greedily. "Hang on, Billy," I said when we were done with the kiss.
"Billy?"
"No one ever told you you look like William Holden?"
"No."
I held Grant's passkey up for him to see. I grabbed my passkey and said, "Come with me." The Detective hesitated. I stood by the door, opened it and checked both directions. To get into Grant's room we would be briefly exposed at the landing; it couldn't be helped. For all I knew Alma was in the room right now cleaning. There was the chance Grant was not on set and was in there himself. I'd say I was coming for the printer if he was. For someone who'd been reasonably faithful, I was suddenly scheming like a pro. The Detective came to the doorway. I held up my palm, then fast- walked to Grant's door and inserted the key. The green light came on, and I pushed the door open.
His room was a large single, a small sitting area with two stuffed armchairs, a couple of low tables, and a TV cabinet like mine. The wall to the left was full- length mirrored closet doors ending in a tiny kitchen alcove with a sink, countertop two- burner stove, coffee maker, and below- the- counter refrigerator. The bathroom came next, and the king- sized bed opposite, behind the sitting area. The balcony drapes were closed. A small desk on that side of the room held papers and the printer. Grant was a very neat guy, not a single personal item lying around. I turned and waved the Detective in. I watched him slink down the corridor like a big tomcat on the hunt. He hooked the do- not- disturb sign on the door, closed and locked it. The bed was made, but the Detective chose the floor.
My heart raced as he removed my top and next the linen pants. I stood still while he got out of the overcoat and jacket. I hadn't seen the gun before this. He yanked off the holster and laid the piece carefully over his jacket. I loosened his tie while he unbuttoned his shirt.
We made good use of the carpeted floor. When he entered me, easy at first, I was a tingle of open nerves, a mix of excitement and feel- bad all over because this was a strange body inside my body. Why the hell I thought of Joe at that particular moment when it was Andre I was betraying is anybody's guess, but none of that lasted too long because I wanted what the strange body was doing like a desert wants rain. I could feel as lousy as I wished to later on.
I didn't count on him being so tender when it was over, but he was. He got up and found a towel in the bathroom for me to use. He sat back down on the floor next to me and watched my face like a man, not a cop. I was afraid he'd say something, but he didn't. He touched my hair and finally did say, "You have a lot of it, a brown halo."
I lay with my head on my arm, looking up at him. "What is your name?"
"Devin— Irish, of course, a cop. The Gaelic is fawn, stag, or ox."
" Which are you?"
"Take your pick, depending on the time of day."
"My first husband was Irish. . . . I don't know why I said that."
"No crime in it."
I laughed.
He reached for his shorts and white undershirt and stood up. He looked even more Billy Holden in his underwear. I was partially covered with the bath towel, but he studied what he could see of me as he dressed. He'd lifted the tie over his head, so he only had to loop it back on and tighten it. I watched him replace the holster and the gun and then the jacket. He was back on the job.
He helped me to my feet and I looked around for my panties, but froze hearing a voice outside. Someone had stopped just outside the door. I felt my heart fall about a mile and thump as it landed. I pictured Grant walking in on the director's wife, naked as sin next to a man wearing a gun. Then I heard Sylvia say, "Mucho, quiet," real low. She seemed to linger at the door. The Detective moved next to the wall, so if the door opened he would be ready. I heard the low clack of Sylvia's heels on the landing, then die down on the carpeted corridor to her apartment, past my suite, and then her door bang shut.
"Just my neighbor and her dog," I whispered. Now all the Detective and I had to do was sneak back to my rooms. Well, I did anyhow.
Once I was dressed he signaled me to be quiet. He opened the door a crack, then wider, and gave me the okay, wordlessly telling me to go first and open my door. I ran back for the sex- soiled towel and took it with me. He waited until my door was unlocked and I was inside. There was no noise from Sylvia, so I waved him in, but he waited a minute before coming down the corridor. I was thinking, now what? I'd just done a cop on my husband's second assistant director's floor. I had to hand it to myself for knowing how to complicate my life. I watched the complication walk toward me; at least I'd picked a hot one.
The Detective walked inside and I shut us in, quiet as I could. He went out on the balcony and looked over the railing wall in both directions. He came back in and asked if I wanted to get some coffee. I asked about the box of dead flowers. We put them back in the mailing box and tucked the lot up on a high back shelf in the walk- in closet, all the while not saying a word to each other. I grabbed a hat, scarf, key, wallet and my phone, and we walked outside. I was on automatic pilot. I'd wanted to replace Grant's towel with a clean one of mine, but the Detective said to do it later. We walked to his car in the visitor's slot, and he opened the passenger- side door for me to get in. Just then Alma came out of one of the rooms opposite, where there was a landing and a short flight of stairs to the driveway. She was holding a bundle of dirty white sheets. Our eyes met; she smiled. I waved. She took in the Detective as she closed the door behind her. Great.
We drove past Highland and left onto Ivar, then up to Yucca, where the Detective parked illegally, placing an LAPD card in the window. We walked to an old- time coffee shop just off the corner, a place only an insider would know about. A line of booths, long lunch counter, and wide blinds along the windows to keep the sun out. The decor was Formica and plastic, and either lunch was over or business was slow. We took a booth, and a puffy blond waitress came over with two menus. "Haven't seen the likes of you around here lately, Dev." She smiled as she spoke, not wide so much as knowing.
He nodded. "I don't get over here much anymore."
The waitress passed me a hard- to- read but not unfriendly glance as she handed me a menu. "You want to know what's good today?"
"Nah. Cheeseburger, fries, coffee. A couple'a extra pickles," the Detective said, handing back the menu.
She turned her waiting eyes on me. I don't eat much red meat. Andre eats none, but I was suddenly hungry as a wild beast for hard- core protein. "I'll have the same, only no coffee. Do you make shakes?" She nodded. "Vanilla, please."
"How do you like that burger done?" She meant me; apparently she didn't need to ask Devin Collins how he liked his.
"Medium," I said.
Now what? Were we supposed to make small talk, like what just happened on the hotel floor hadn't happened? Were we supposed to explore its meaning, linger in its glow? Or should we discuss what was going on with me and how I was going to be made to feel safe? It was pretty clear discreet was out.
"I lived over here," th
e Detective said. I felt he was letting me know he hadn't slept with the waitress. If he hadn't. I didn't say anything to the news. "I was downtown— homicide— and it wasn't a bad commute."
"What happened before . . ." I started to say, but I didn't know what to call him: Devin, Detective, Billy?
He cut in, not done yet with what he had to say: "I shot a guy, a known killer wanted for a list as long as my arm. Trouble is, he was unarmed, his gun just out of reach. I didn't aim to kill, only to take his shooting arm out. Police commissioner thought my actions a little too Harry Callahan and moved me over to Beverly Hills burglary. No one was sorry to see the bad guy go down, only nobody else wanted to do the job."
I didn't know anyone who shot at people. At least not for real, I only knew movie bullets. For a second I thought he was making it up; that would be the tone deafness actors can get for real events. "Did he die?"
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