“That’s bribing the jury,” she said.
“What is it you need to know about me? I’m an open book here.”
“It’s not a matter of words.”
“You want to spend more time with me?”
“Yes. I do. A lot.”
“Done. Only tell me you’ll marry me.”
“Ty—”
“And we’ll do it this way. We’ll make marriage the default. And if I do anything to blow it, you can say, That’s it.”
She paused.
“I won’t do anything to blow it,” I said. “I know this is supposed to be.”
“What about me? Don’t you want to know more about me?”
“No. I mean, not to marry you. I know all I need to know.”
“Marriage is supposed to be for life, you know.”
“So is that a yes?”
“No!”
“So it’s no?”
“Stop.”
“Is it wait?”
“All right, Buchanan.” She faced me full on. “We’ll get married. We’ll jump into it. But you and I are going to be together a lot. And we’re going to talk. About a lot of things.”
“That’s just what I—”
She put her index finger on my lips. “But not now. Not at this moment. Now you can kiss me.”
I did and made it count.
Six weeks later, she was dead.
50
BACK IN MY office I shut the door and looked out the window for a while. The view from the twentieth floor of the Stafford Building was, on a clear day, something for a booster’s postcard collection. Today, with gray over the city, it was more like a sad song.
Westwood Village still looked quaint from up here, and beyond were the red tile roofs of UCLA, the original brick and cast stone buildings that went up in the twenties.
Then, up in the hills behind the campus, in the rarified oxygen of Bel-Air, was some of the most expensive real estate in the world.
But behind the wrought-iron gates and manicured lawns there were all sorts of stories being played out. Some of them were as much a part of the fabric of the city as billboards and Du-pars pancakes.
Over on Benedict Canyon, back in 1969, a pregnant Sharon Tate, wife of Roman Polanski, was stabbed sixteen times by an acid-laced Charles Manson acolyte named Susan Atkins. You could actually get maps to famous murder sites from street vendors or on the Net. They’d direct you to Leimert Park down near Crenshaw, where the body of Elizabeth Short was found, cut in half, in the infamous—and unsolved—Black Dahlia case.
Or to the address in Beverly Hills where Lana Turner’s fourteen-year-old daughter stabbed Johnny Stompanato to death, or another where mobsters rubbed out Bugsy Siegel.
I didn’t believe in ghosts, but there was always this shadow hanging in my mind when I looked out at the city. Things happened under the surface, sending ripples and even shock waves that you never saw coming and couldn’t prepare for.
If anybody knew that now, it was me.
The phone rang. My assistant said it was Channing Westerbrook.
“I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed lunch the other day,” she said.
“Yeah. Very nice.”
“I mean, a lot. You know, I don’t often get a chance to sit down with people I do stories on, so that was a really cool thing.”
“Thanks.”
Pause. “So how’s it going?”
“It’s going.”
“Can we get together again?”
“You want to?”
“That’s why I asked. Are you all right?”
Not in the mood for a long conversation with a reporter. “I’m a little busy right now. Can we make it another time?”
“Sure, but let’s do it soon.”
“Right.”
“I mean, real soon. I mean, as in let’s make an appointment right now.”
Her tone was a little demanding and rubbed me wrong. “How about I call you?”
“Are you trying to put me off or something?”
“No, no. I had kind of a rough day today, and I—”
“Rough? How?”
“Later.”
“When?”
“Let me call you.”
“If you don’t, I’ll come looking for you.” Playful now, but with an edge.
I hung up and looked back out the window. That’s all I felt like doing at the moment. There was a snarl down on Wilshire, a big line of cars. I followed the line down to Veteran and saw there was an accident there. Some SUV was diagonal across the intersection with a little red hatchback—now made smaller by impact—off to the side.
Not good. Some impatient people were going to be very upset. Some were going to end up in fender benders of their own. Some things never changed.
51
AL BOUGHT ME dinner at Sagebrush Cantina in Calabasas. He thought I needed it because of the slapdown I got from McDonough. I never turn down free Mexican food. I met him at seven. A large basket of warm tortilla chips and fresh guacamole got us started. Al was already on his second Foster’s. I sipped water.
“You freaking walked on Walbert’s conference table?” Al said with a mix of mirth and admiration.
“Danced.”
“Oh I wish I could have seen that. You da man.”
“I’m a man on the block,” I said. “Got a feeling McDonough doesn’t want to back me anymore.”
“You’ll make partner, no prob.”
“Not so sure, bud.”
“Look, if it makes you feel any better, McDonough ripped me, too.”
“You? Why?”
“He’s got a wedgie about the Blumberg litigation. I don’t think he likes me.”
“Come on.”
“I mean it, man. You’re the fair-haired boy at Gunther. You got nothing to worry about.”
“McDonough’s hard to read sometimes,” I said.
“All I’m saying, don’t get your goodies in a knot about it. Relax. Eat. You’ll feel better.”
He was right, of course. Sagebrush was a good place for getting out of your head. We had a patio table, the night was pleasant. Always a good crowd here, and being with people made me think that there was an island of normalcy somewhere.
“And don’t think I’m not here for a reason,” Al said. “Gives me a good excuse not to go home.” Al drained his beer.
“Yeah? More trouble?”
Al shrugged. “I don’t know how much more I can take.”
“Come on. You guys have been married, what?”
“Seven years. Wasn’t there a movie about that?”
“You mean The Seven Year Itch?”
“Was that the one? Had Marilyn Monroe in it?”
“That’s the one. But come on, you don’t want to throw that away.”
“Throw what away? She’s . . . I don’t know what she is.”
“Let me give you a chip’s worth of advice,” I said. “Keep it. Just keep it. Grit your teeth and work through it. You don’t know what you have. When it’s gone, then you’ll know.”
“Fine for you to say. You had Jacqueline. I mean, she was perfect.”
I scooped up some guac. “Adrienne’s got a heck of a lot going for her.”
“A lot of money.”
“Don’t be so cynical.”
“And her old man. The old man. He’d have my head on a platter.”
Adrienne’s father was one of the big lawyers in town. He had gotten Al plugged in at Gunther, McDonough & Longyear when Al—he once admitted to me—wouldn’t have made the grade on his own.
Al sighed. “Maybe I should just suck it up and stay with the kids and get something going on the side.”
“Don’t be a jerk.”
“Why not? If life is a pool of warm spit, I should be able to choose who I swim with.”
“That’s just beautiful.”
“Life reeks of bodies, dead on the beach.”
“Now you’re getting really boring. Like Bukowski.”
&n
bsp; Al looked at me with eyes starting to glaze. “Man, can you look at me and tell me, after what you’ve been through, that there’s a point to all this? I mean we go in every day, and we try to make money and we try to figure out ways to make somebody else lose money and then we go home. You go home to an empty house, I go home to a house I wish was empty. Or at least had a babe waiting for me who actually wants me. Where does it say this whole life deal is a good thing? Does my life have any meaning at all?”
I thought about that for the length of time it took me to dip another chip and pop it in my mouth. I talked through the chip. “Jacqueline thought so. I never gave her much of a chance to talk to me about it. I was putting it off. I was thinking maybe I could avoid it. Maybe I was thinking she was too good for me, and if she started talking about things that matter she’d realize that.”
“Interesting theory,” Al said. “Everybody has to believe something, so I believe I’ll have another beer. You?”
“You better take it easy.”
“I have to get out of this thing.”
“Shut up.”
“But—”
“Just don’t give me that.” My voice was carrying over the din of the usual Sagebrush crowd. “You keep what you got. You got marriage. You got two kids.”
“I better order two beers.”
“Jerk.”
“If I get drunk, will you drive me home?”
“No.”
“So who’s the jerk?”
“You want to get hammered? Here’s what you do. You walk the half mile to Domino’s, order yourself a pizza, and when they go to deliver it, ask for a ride home.”
One of our fine Southern California women appeared to take our order. I opted for a chicken quesadilla and wondered when I’d ever be interested in another woman. How long is grief supposed to last?
“If I tell you something,” I said, “can you keep your pie hole shut?”
“You know me.”
“That’s why I’m asking.”
“Fire away, Charley.”
“What do you think of Channing Westerbrook?”
He raised an eyebrow. “The TV reporter?”
“No, the hockey goalie.”
“Yada yada. She’s pretty hot.”
“I mean as a reporter.”
Al bobbed his eyebrows. “Does anyone care how good a reporter she is?”
“Come on, man.”
“Sure. Why not? I haven’t really studied her career. Why?”
“I’ve been talking to her.”
Al leaned forward. “What’s up with that?”
“She covered the accident, and then I talked to her about it. She kind of got a jones for the story.”
“No way. She going to put you on the air?”
“Nah. Maybe a book. We’re sort of using each other.”
He thought about that one. “How far does this use extend?”
“Nothing like that.”
“You could do worse.”
“I’m not interested in doing anybody, okay?”
“That’ll change.”
“Shut it, why don’t you?”
“You brought her up.”
“You know what Al? Your life does have meaning.”
He looked at me. “What is it?”
“To serve as a warning for others.”
52
IT WAS ALMOST nine o’clock when I drove home.
The moon was incredibly bright. It was right out in front of me as I drove east on the 101, and I just kept thinking about how I avoided talking about deeper things with Jacqueline. I thought there would be much more time. All our lives. I’m sure after we were married, she would have said something like, The moon is a sign of something bigger than ourselves. I would have said, That’s great. Let’s make love.
I pulled off the freeway at Valley View, and the surface was jammed with cars. Great. The freeway had moved smoothly, but now there was a traffic jam in my own neighborhood. Sometimes L.A. was nothing but a floating gridlock game. Usually an accident. Maybe some kid had plowed into a tree or something. In fact, I could see some flashing red lights up ahead.
It would take me about ten minutes to get home from here, so I turned to classic rock. Heard Keith Moon rattling his cage. Great! Listened to Roger Daltry scream. Thought maybe that was the way to get through my days—scream like Daltry once every hour.
The flashing lights were coming from somewhere on Hamlin, my street. A cop was standing in the intersection waving cars away. He was not allowing traffic through.
I rolled down my window. “I live up there.”
The cop shook his head. “Not right now. Can’t get any cars in there.”
“Why not?”
“Fire.”
“What?”
“Move on, please.”
I pulled to the right, over to the curb, parked, and got out. I ran up the hill.
And saw that it was my house.
In the night and flashes of red, the outside of the house looked like a scarred face. No flames now, but plenty of black licks smearing the cream-colored paint. Bits of smoke still rose from the east end creating hovering dark plumes.
A small crowd of neighbors stood around watching, not even noticing I was there now. A couple of firemen went about their business with calm efficiency, pulling back a long tube from the front door. From the body language the worst was apparently over.
For me it was just beginning.
I walked fast, then ran past the firemen with the tubing.
“Hey!”
“Get outta there!”
Ignoring them I got inside, smelling the wet on burned wood and chemical foam, feeling the dying emanations of heat.
The inside looked like a model of an acid stomach for some antacid commercial. Clots of foam dripping from ceiling and walls. Everything looking like burnt toast.
What I was after was in my bedroom, and I was shaking as I ran for it, slipping once on the tile. Voices behind me were yelling like crazy to get me to turn around. I didn’t.
The master bedroom was more of the same. In the past I probably would have been stressing over my now melted Bose system, the plasma TV, the collection of suits. All could be replaced.
But one thing couldn’t.
Almost diving into the closet, I skidded on my knees across crispy carpet and saw it in the corner. Smoke damage was obvious on my Armani and Brooks Brothers collection of clothes. But the box had not ignited.
The box with Jacqueline’s journals. I took it in my arms just as a fireman entered the room.
“You idiot, get out of there. Come on.”
“I’m coming.”
“Don’t take anything.”
“I’m taking this,” I said.
“You’ll have time—”
“I said I’m taking this. Get out of the way.”
53
“YOU’RE GOING TO have to help us,” Rebson said. He’d introduced himself as a sheriff’s office arson investigator. Dressed in a dark blue coat and tie, I was sitting on the curb, the box between my legs, holding a random journal, then putting it back. Numb to everything else.
“Mr. Buchanan?”
I said nothing.
“I know how you must feel, but if you could just give me a moment.”
I shook my head.
“Can you think of anyone who might have a reason to do this?”
I shrugged.
“What kind of stuff are you into?”
“Nothing.”
“Mr. Buchanan, that is not true. Somebody torched your house.”
“That’s obvious.”
“So who was it? Who has a reason to do this to an upstanding citizen like yourself?”
“Maybe it was random.”
“Maybe O’Reilly’s humble.”
“What?”
“Not bloody likely, sir. Think about it. Who have you ticked off lately?”
Should I tell him? Part of me wanted to. But most of me knew the sheriff
or LAPD would want to drag me further into things. I didn’t want to be dragged. Not yet. I wanted this on my terms.
“Not anything that would result in a Molotov cocktail in my house,” I said.
“What line of work are you in?”
“I’m a lawyer. I tick off a lot of people.”
“What kind of law do you practice?”
“Civil litigation.”
“You have anything going on right now that might be a bone of contention with someone?”
“I want to be left alone right now.”
“I’m not inclined to do that.”
Rebson just stood there like an unwelcome guest, a guy who won’t leave even after you’ve turned off the lights.
I stood up and faced him. “I’m not really interested in what you’re inclined to do or not, now—”
A voice from behind me said, “I’ll take it from here.”
I turned around and almost jumped out of my shirt.
It was the guy who’d picked me up outside Mrs. Salazar’s house. The guardian angel who’d held a knife to my face.
54
HE WAS DRESSED in business casual. Rebson, the arson investigator, backed off immediately. He flashed me an annoyed look before walking away.
My mouth was stuck between open and closed.
“How’s your car?” the guy said.
My mind, already mashed, was sliding into a bizarre realm. “What is this?”
“Name’s Cisneros,” he said. He took out a leather case and flashed me a credential. I saw his picture, the name Rubén Cisneros, and United States Secret Service.
I looked back up at him. “I don’t believe this.”
“Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
“First tell me what’s happening.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “Come on. You’ve had a shock.”
I didn’t know if he meant my house or my talking to a knife-wielding Secret Service agent.
“What are you doing here?” I said. “Homeland security or something? The president in town?”
“Hang in there,” he said.
“Why doesn’t anybody tell me anything?”
“Because, Mr. Buchanan, we don’t want you to get hurt.”
He kept it buttoned for the rest of the ride. Took me to a Denny’s on Ventura. We settled in a booth in the back, and he ordered us some coffees. Good. I needed a clear head.
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