"Lost?" a nice looking cop asked. Nice until I looked deeper into a pair of cold eyes. He was there to protect the money and the movie stars who made Malibu home, a place where nobody walked. Period. A little brain birdie let me know not to say what I was thinking but to let the cop do the talking until I figured out when to mention I'd been missing for the past few days.
A second officer stepped out of the passenger side. "Okay, hold it right where you are." No Ma'am, or are you all right? or Looks like you took a spill. Did I appear dangerous? He came around the car, right hand at the butt of his gun, close enough for me to read his name tag: Officer Brown, like his eyes. Only he wasn't; both cops were white, and that didn't seem like a coincidence considering the neighborhood. "Nice and easy," he said as if he was talking to a spooked horse. I hadn't moved other than to turn my head in his direction. The sun chose that moment to pop over the hills, shining right into my eyes. I squinted. It must have been later than I thought, after six, maybe even going on seven. "Step back and put the bags down, nice and slow." He was overusing the word nice; better get the writers out here for a dialogue fix. I tried to tell myself this was real, but it wasn't working because at the moment nothing seemed real and hadn't for the longest time, and now things felt downright absurd. Plus, I'd taken a bullet— not quite, but Fits was going to howl over that one.
I placed the weekender on the ground and awkwardly lifted the purse off my shoulder and over my head. My arm started to pulse. I moved unsteadily. I probably looked drunk. Good thing there's no walking while intoxicated to go with the DWI or I'd be up on that suspicion too. I bet that rat runner who said he had no phone called the cops on me. The other officer, who'd watched the proceedings with a mixture of bored fatigue and slight interest (I was clearly not the usual pickup), unfolded himself out of the driver's seat. He was very tall. His name tag read, Roger.
Officer Brown was saying something, but I was noticing early rush hour cars slowing down to rubberneck our little side of the highway performance. Cop Roger hadn't bothered to pull all the way onto the shoulder. They never do. Cars had to maneuver around the cruiser's tail end, creating another potential hazard. That used to drive Joe mad, how the police stopped on a city street, sometimes more than one car, sometimes blocking an entire intersection, snarling traffic. But Joe and I were done. . . .
"Wake up, lady; I said to place your hands on the hood, legs apart."
"What for?"
Officers Brown and Roger exchanged bemused glances. "I'm going to have you dust the hood. Or maybe I'm going to search you. So spread 'em." It seemed to me the policeman lingered an extra couple of seconds at my crotch. When he tapped my left arm and I jumped in pain, all interest in my personal assets vanished. Hands were on guns. (More guns; what a world!) All of a sudden I felt so tired.
"What the hell!" Brown said, grabbing me by my right arm while reaching for his cuffs.
"Oh, no, please don't. I just got untied." I turned to face him.
"You better quiet down, lady." He pulled my arms behind me and was about to apply the cuffs when Officer Roger told him to hang on.
He was looking at my beat up, black- and- blue wrists. "What did she say just now about being tied up?"
"What?"
Officer Roger didn't look happy. " Cuffs in front, and keep 'em loose," he told his partner. He picked up my purse and began searching through the contents.
Officer Brown yanked my arms forward, and I was once again in bondage. "You gonna sit quiet if I put you in back?" I nodded. My arm was throbbing. He opened the door, and for the second time that morning my head was held as I was guided into a car.
"Can you tell me what time it is?" I asked. Neither cop replied. They were too busy with my purse.
"This yours, or did you steal it?" a surly Brown asked. He was out for blood.
" There should be a photo ID, New York state driver's license in the wallet. It will look like me," I said. I suddenly missed the calm of Sylvia's closet.
They found my license, held it up, conferred, and Officer Brown kept it. Next they rifl ed through the weekend bag. I knew there was nothing fishy in there, and I was growing impatient for my one phone call. Finally they put my bags in the trunk and got into the car. "What are you doing in Malibu, Ms. Thrush?"
I wondered if there was an APB out on me. I decided then and there not to cooperate.
"Officer Roger, will you please call Detective Devin Collins of the Beverly Hills precinct?"
Officer Brown snapped his head around. He was reading my license number, about to call in on me, see if I had any outstanding anythings attached that would give him an excuse to lock me up. "You were asked a question, Miss."
"What was it again?"
"Why are you walking the Pacific Highway at dawn with bruises on your face and arms? You into some kind of S/M shit or what?"
"I'd like a phone call."
"Don't get smart; you're in a world of trouble—"
I cut in on Officer Brown. "Officer Roger, will you please call Detective Collins of the Beverly Hills precinct?" Working actress that I'd been, I already had his cell phone number memorized. I recited it to Officer Roger.
"What's with Beverly Hills; we have a nice precinct right here near the shore," he said.
"He was working on my case." That came out wrong. Both cops turned to face me. "I thought I was being stalked, and he was handling the situation."
" Where you staying in Los Angeles, Ms. Thrush?"
"The Hotel Muse, in Hollywood. Please, make the call." I recited the number again.
They did, eventually, call Detective Collins, but not until taking forever to clear my name in their computer files of crooks, rapists, murderers and terrorists. I was hungry, and my arm was waking up to a world of pain, but I kept resolutely quiet, figuring anything I said would be held against me.
The search warrant was executed for seven a.m. By seven fifteen Detective Collins and Officers Berry and Bedford were inside Sylvia's apartment. Sylvia must have taken a jet back from the beach. She was in her peignoir, the bed mussed with sleep, shades down. If they thought to look at her car, they'd have found the engine was red hot.
"A little early for coffee, boys," she said at the door. "But come on in." Her wig was off, and all three men registered the chicken fl uff.
Detective Collins presented the search warrant. "Ms. Vernon, I'm going to ask you to sit in that chair and not move while we search your apartment. Do you comprehend?"
"No coffee, I take it." She sat down, crossing her legs demurely. Mucho had let up a steady stream of barking protest. The Detective looked at him, and Sylvia called the dog and got him quiet on her lap. "Am I allowed to ask why I'm so honored, Lieutenant?"
She was ignored. "Easy, boys, no damage," Detective Collins cautioned. Officer Berry was in the bathroom, the hamper turned upside down. Officer Bedford was turning over the couch cushions. The Detective walked to the bedroom, straight to the closet. He ran a finger along the fresh paint, over the holes where the chain and latch had recently been unscrewed. The paint was still tacky. He pulled out a doctored double- blade knife— one blade filed to an ice pick that could puncture a liver, an eye or a cheap old lock— and had Sylvia's closet picked open in three seconds. There wasn't so much as a crumb to indicate meals had been served and a prisoner held. Sylvia had sprayed the room with air freshener, and the window by the bed was open just enough.
The Detective's cell phone rang.
I heard the following from the backseat of the squad car: “Detective Collins, this is Officer Roy Roger of Malibu/Lost Hills. . . . Yeah, that's right, Roger . . . Agoura Road Precinct. Ah, we picked up an Ardennes Thrush walking along the Pacific Coast Highway. She says you been handling some stalking case. . . . No, a couple bruises, a little unsteady, but . . . yeah, she should be looked at. So, ah, what do you want us to do? . . . You mean here? In the car? No, it's not hot, but we gotta call it in. . . . Yeah, okay."
Officer Roger grunted. "He says to wait he
re. Seems she's been missing a few days. I don't like it. We should bring her in."
Officer Brown was waiting for a report. He was on his laptop playing a game while he waited.
"What the hell, Ralph. Take the cuffs off her." "Why?"
"Quit pissing around."
The computer boinged. Officer Brown read a short report. He shook his head, frowned. "I got nothing. Wait, looks like a missing- persons from Hollywood . . . Hang on; she's some kind of big deal actress. I never heard of her. You?"
She was me, sitting in the back. "Is he coming?" I asked.
Officer Roger's phone rang. "Yes, Detective . . . no . . . yeah." He got out of the car and opened the back door. "Detective Collins wants to talk to you." He handed me his phone.
I smiled as I took the phone with both hands, the cuffs clanking as I did. "Hi . . . no, I'm okay." Detective Collins said he was in his car, on his way. He wanted to know if I was hurt; he was going to get me to the hospital. "I'm a little wobbly. . . . I'll explain everything. I just need to catch my breath. Did you tell Andre?" He said not yet. He was driving hard to Malibu, the siren on, cars moving out of his way.
"Get here fast, okay? Both hands on the wheel."
Billy was all business. He outranked them, but that didn’t mean Officers Roger and Brown had to like their— what was I, not a suspect— pulled out of their hands. Billy wore a taupe suit and white button- down shirt open at the collar. Was he studying me the way I was him? Everything else moved to fade. It was just the two of us on the highway, a gorgeous day in Malibu. Sounds of the surf fade up to music . . . Are you sure you don't want to be a movie star, Billy? The burning in my arm, growing intense in waves, broke up my impossible fantasy—
No, Billy was not studying me, and Officer Roger was saying something. Billy didn't look too receptive. Officer Brown said they'd need to file a report; was he going to take responsibility? Detective Collins responded that he'd sign any damn report they filed, only now he needed to get me to the hospital. "And get those cuffs off her!"
He tossed my bags into his car; we were set to speed off. " Thank you, Officers," I said to Brown and Roger. "You've been very kind."
Officer Brown said, "You're removing evidence, Detective— just so you know."
"Evidence of what, Officer?" Billy said in a fl at voice that said everything and nothing while opening the passenger door for me. He gently closed the door behind me. He was done talking to the uniforms.
We didn't say much in the car. I drank what was left of Sylvia's water. "They were only doing their jobs," I said, embarrassed.
"Right. Those cops are dicks."
"Billy, couldn't we just go to a diner for breakfast?" I leaned into him, dirty underwear, bloody bruises and all.
He shook his head. "We need to make certain you're okay. Then you take your time and we'll sort this out. I know where she kept you, the closet, right—"
I sat back, faced front. "I won't press charges."
"No, of course not." He looked me over. I was afraid he'd touch me and afraid he wouldn't. I'd be a puddle if he did.
"Listen, Billy, I'm trying . . . I need to keep clear what matters— what I need to do. It's been a bizarre couple of days, but I'm all right."
The Detective, in full cop mode, glanced at the blood on my t- shirt, the not- quite- coagulated chin gash, the bruised cheek and wrists, the ruined left sleeve of my jacket. " Uh- huh."
It was a longish drive to Santa Monica– UCLA Medical Center. He'd already called in we were on our way and hit the lights and siren at the hospital's emergency entrance. We were met by a nurse and a young doctor who looked like he couldn't have been much older than twelve. They made me ride a gurney in, though I was perfectly capable of walking. We made quite a dramatic entrance.
The doctor seemed shy about feeling me all over. I told him things looked worse than they were, that I'd always bruised easily. He had no comment. A nurse drew blood while he asked a slew of questions. The doc was first interested in Mucho's bite, giving me a tetanus shot when I couldn't remember the last time I'd had one. He cleaned the chin cut and put one of those butterfl y stitches on to hold it closed. When he got to the arm he changed course. He removed my makeshift bandage and didn't like what he saw, cleaning the wound extra carefully with warm water and saline. I told him I'd put cold seawater on it. "Bet that hurt," he said briefl y meeting my eyes. "It was a smart move," he added. I looked at the wound; it was mean, like a thick worm had gouged a bloody red canal into my fl esh. He gave me another injection, antibiotic this time. As he was pushing the needle in my ears went funny. I shook my head and reached up to tap it.
"Ms. Thrush?" I couldn't hear him clearly. "Ms. Thrush?" Billy materialized, looking at me with gigantic concern on his handsome face. Odd, he doesn't know how good looking he is; very un- Hollywood. I could wrap my legs around that . . . can't imagine what his wife saw in the other guy— I tried to tap my head with the heel of my hand, but those bees needed to quit pulling cotton through my ears—
Ms. Thrush?” The doctor was shining a piercing light into my eyes. I shut them. "Can you hear me?"
I could! "I died for a minute," I said. I was fl at on my back. "Your blood pressure dropped. Nurse, start a fl uids drip." He
told me he'd be back in a minute. Where'd Billy go? How long was I out? I closed my eyes, I must have slept. I don't remember the nurse sticking an IV needle in. Maybe fifteen minutes passed, maybe two hours. The hospital was Sylvia's closet all over again but with a doctor treating me who looked like his mom still packed his lunch. I had only one thought: I have to get out of here.
A thin curtain separated me from the ER hyperactivity surrounding my bed. I felt the chaotic energy of the place like a current and wanted to yell, Stop. I called, "Detective?" The nurse showed up, telling me Detective Collins was making some calls. "Listen, I need to go home."
"That wouldn't be wise."
"Okay, how about if I have to go to the bathroom?" She helped me up. I was suddenly unsteady. She came with me, pulling the IV pole alongside us like a mechanical pet. The bathroom smelled of recent vomit and didn't look too clean. This time the spotting on my underwear was real. I told the nurse, and she gave me a couple of pads; the hospital didn't do tampons, she explained; toxic shock and all that. At least I didn't have that worry, about a pregnancy. Billy was standing guard when we returned to my cubicle. I smiled at him, but I'm not sure it came out that way. I felt as if I must look very pale. He was quiet.
Finally Boy- Doc returned. He and Billy stood at the foot of the bed. The doc said nothing terrible had shown up in my blood, no toxins or illicit narcotics, but there was diazepam and zolpidem.
" What- pidem?" I asked.
"Like Ambien," he said. "A sleeping dose." He didn't ask how it had gotten there. "If there's been sexual abuse," he suggested, avoiding my eyes, "the nurse will bring in a rape kit."
"No sex," I said, careful not to meet Billy's eyes.
The doc signaled to Billy and they moved beyond the curtain for a huddle, only not far enough that I couldn't hear. Young Doctor said the arm wound was not consistent with the others. "That tissue damage is no scrape, more like a bullet grazing."
"You're certain?"
"Certain enough."
"Can you prove it?"
"I looked at her jacket; the fabric appears to be burned, but the seawater she applied compromised any residue." He shook his head. "I'm not a forensics doctor. I do see it all, working the ER, but I can't prove that's a gunshot. I'll write it up as suspicious; best I can do."
They came back to me, sitting up on the bed, my feet hanging over the side. I was ready to go. Billy looked grim.
"I'd keep her overnight for observation, Detective," Boy- Doc said.
"Hello?" I said.
Apparently I wasn't to be addressed directly. I was a specimen, an oddity, a victim, and that seemed to imply an object to be handled at a remove, in the third person, as if victimhood created a discomfiting setback from the norm,
like maybe it was contagious or self- infl icted, and generally unhealthy. "I'm right here," I said. Boy- Doc's hands fell to his sides. Billy looked mostly at the curtain behind me. "I haven't been raped or beaten or starved or even verbally abused. I am hungry, however, so if you gentlemen will give me a moment's privacy I'll get dressed and, if the Detective is willing, some cafeteria food. My treat. You're welcome to join us, Doctor. After that I'm going home. Please take this needle out of my arm." It was a convincing act, if I do say so, because I felt like a piece of rotten meat.
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