Death in Eden

by Paul Heald

  “You’ll probably end up owning a strip club,” Janet laughed.

  “Yeah, maybe.” The redhead shrugged her shoulders and pulled a pack of light cigarettes out of her purse. “But I sure as hell won’t be dancing there.”

  Despite the scripted questions, the conversation kept coming back to retirement and life in the outside world. Janet paraphrased a question she once got from a psychology student at USC: “You say you want to quit. Aren’t you too fucked up now?”

  The thirty year old actress laughed. “Well, fuck you too!” She tapped out a cigarette and contemplated the question as she lit up. Janet looked at the no-smoking sign on the back of the hotel room door, shrugged, and lit one herself. “Well, I’ve never gotten any bad STDs, and I haven’t fucked up my sex life. Sarah and I are still cool, but we do live in this weird cocoon. Regular people don’t understand what we do. They think we’re perverts or ignore us. It’s really hard to think about living out there,” she jerked her thumb out the window, “or Pittsburgh or wherever, and chilling in the ‘burbs with the Stepford Wives. Even before I did my first film, I didn’t belong out there and it’s way worse now.” She took a long drag on her smoke. “You cross over a line when you do porn, and I don’t know if you get to cross back.”

  Janet nodded her head. Rejoining society was a pipedream, and what would you find when you got there? The brief fantasy of giving it a shot with Don, the two of them quitting and living like some normal couple, was now as dead as Jade Delilah.

  “You know,” Janet ventured after a moment’s pause, “the professor who’s doing this research says that people in most jobs feel the same way, like no one really understands what it’s like to, say, work in a factory or wait tables. No matter what kind of work, you get stuck and end up cut off from people not in that world.” She smiled at the expression on her friend’s face. “Of course, maybe he’s full of shit.”

  “No,” Singelica protested, “I like that. My dad worked in the steel mills in Pittsburgh, and when they shut down, he was totally lost. He and his friends spent all their time sitting around, drinking and talking about their old shitty jobs. I thought they were fuckin’ crazy, but the mills really were a world of their own. Once they closed, I don’t think the old guys ever fit back in.”

  “Well, try not to end up like your father,” Janet said.

  “Don’t worry,” she laughed. “That’s always been goal number one.”

  The two women shared another cigarette while they waited for the next interviewee to knock on the door, but Stiffany Lotz never arrived. Singelica looked at her watch and gave Janet a brief hug goodbye. The novice interviewer straightened up the room and organized the pile of digital memory cards sitting on the coffee table next to the bed. Each one was in a Ziploc sandwich baggie labeled with the name of the girl interviewed and date. She could see that Angela and Stanley had talked to eight women. She was familiar with all of them and had worked with most: Kristy, Dominique Wilde, Jenna Cartier, Sasha Likova, Allura Benz, and Katie Silver. A nice cross-section of some of the more prominent stars of the last five years. One name, however, stood out like a sore thumb. Sheila Easy had quit making movies more than five years earlier and hit the talk show circuit to expose the evils of the porn industry. What was she doing there?

  Curious, she popped the card into the camera and played the interview on the small screen in her hands. As she watched it, she became more and more angry as the self-proclaimed victim of porn repudiated the industry that had financed her soapbox.

  “You lying bitch,” she shouted at the camera as Sheila recounted tearfully how she had been forced to have oral sex. “I saw you film yourself doing it with a fucking German Shepherd!” Sheila had been willing to do anything with anybody (correction: any mammal) at any time. Now the poster girl for decency, she had conveniently forgotten what she had been eager to do for money. Janet watched the recording to the end and shook her head. Did the former star really believe what she said or had she just improved her acting skills?

  Don had a catch phrase for what she had just observed: Linda Lovelace Syndrome. The seventies porn icon had found Jesus in the nineties and suddenly acquired amnesia about the years before Deep Throat. Over the protests of her peers, she had convinced millions of people on nationally broadcast talk shows that she had been forced to perform sex acts with a gun to her head, a detail conspicuously absent from her first two autobiographies. While other porn tycoons accused her of lying to get publicity, Don had another theory. He was convinced that she really believed what she said. Her religious conversion was genuine, and her new self simply could not be reconciled with her old self. The mental conflict, he argued, was too great. The former Linda had simply ceased to exist.

  Sheila showed many of the same signs. In some ways, the ex-star was a perfect suspect, with one swing of the bat destroying an image of her former self and bringing down a cornerstone of the porn empire. Except that she had not been present at Eden Studio on the night of the murder. But neither had Chance Geary, as far as anyone knew, and Stanley was still pushing him as a bona fide suspect to the LAPD. There was no reason not to push Sheila too.

  XXVII.

  A STIFF

  The pile of purple fuzz grew steadily on the top of Stuart McCaffrey’s desk. The detective looked up at the demented professor who was pulling his pockets apart for yet more lint. He had seen many things in his career, but he had never witnessed a criminal investigator, even an amateur one, hand over what might be evidence of a colleague’s guilt. He motioned for Stanley to sit down.

  “Let me get this straight.” He pointed to the little purple mountain. “You pinched these off clothes you found in the Janet Stephens’s closet?” He looked up. “I probably shouldn’t ask this, but how did you get into her apartment?”

  “She let me in,” he replied. “I spent the night there.”

  “Of course,” commented the detective, upgrading his opinion of the professor from annoying twerp to devious bastard. “And what do you want me to do with it?”

  “I assume that you’ll want to examine the fibers and see if they match those left on the window sill in Don Johansson’s office the night of the murder. If you’ve got mysterious fibers sticking to an obvious escape route, they should be tested against the clothes of one of your prime suspects.”

  “My prime suspect is locked up in the County Jail,” McCaffrey replied laconically. “Do you even know which fibers come from which garment?”

  The professor had clearly anticipated this objection. “No, I couldn’t really catalog them, but if you get a match, wouldn’t that be grounds for a warrant to search her house?”

  The young man stated his case matter-of-factly, but he had a point. Since the evidence had come from her house legally from a non-police source, a match could get them a warrant for a complete search of the residence. “Probably,” he replied cautiously. “I’ll talk to the forensic people.”

  Stanley nodded with satisfaction and turned to leave. “Wait,” the detective said, “wait a second.” Seeing this new side of his adversary made him curious. “You really want to get your old friend off, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.” The professor paused for a moment and then elaborated. “But I’m at the point where I’d just like to see justice done. Someone brutalized Jade Delilah, and whoever did it should go to jail. If it’s Janet, then she should go. If it’s Chance Geary, then he should go. And if it’s Don,” he added with a shrug of his shoulders, “well, then he should go too.”

  “Even your friend?”

  “Yeah, even him.”

  “You’re sounding like a cop now.” The detective baited him.

  “Not really.” He offered a decent comeback. “The police don’t seem all that interested in finding the killer.” He pointed at the pile of fuzz on the desk. “It seems like I’m the only one looking for the truth.”

  McCaffrey parried the attack on his work ethic with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll run the tests. We’ll
know about Stephens’ hair in a couple of days too.”

  “One more thing.” The professor paused by the door and fired off one last question. “What have you heard about the fire at Eden Studio?”

  “Arson,” the detective replied. “Started in the one of the storage rooms.” The information elicited no sign of surprise. The guy was cool; he had to give him that much. “And if you run across Don Johansson’s secretary during your investigation, tell her we’d like to speak to her. She seems to have disappeared.”

  After the meeting with McCaffrey, Stanley went straight to the hotel interview room. Even without stopping to shower and get new clothes, he was an hour late. By the time he arrived, Janet had packed the equipment and tidied up the room.

  “Sorry!” He grabbed an armload of gear. “It took me a while to work through all of the college websites.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She picked up the tripod and a metal case and followed him down the stairs to the car. “Stiffany Lotz never showed, so I had time to contact some of the girls you interviewed before the murder. I made a couple of calls and watched Sheila Easy’s interview too.” She set her load on the pavement next to the car. “There’s something not right with that girl.”

  “What do you mean?” He flipped open the trunk.

  “Well, for one thing, she’s a liar. No one ever had to stick a gun to her head to make her do anything.” She put the items in the trunk and walked back to the room with her partner. “Have you ever heard of Linda Lovelace Syndrome?” As they took a quick look around the room to make sure that nothing was being forgotten, she described how Sheila seemed to be in denial about her past. “We should at least find out where she was at the time of the murder.”

  He shrugged. “Why not? The more the merrier . . . we can talk with her again after we track down Geary’s alibi and find Miriam.” He shut the trunk. “That’s all of it. Follow me back to my hotel. It’s not too far.”

  Before they drove away he looked up at the chipped green door of Room 204. When he had first driven up with Angela, they had been hopeful about the book project and dreaming of tenure and a big raise back at BFU. Now, the book seemed pointless, their marriage was rocky, and his academic career was in shambles. On the other hand, he was making progress on a hopeless murder case, and a beautiful porn star in a bright red convertible was following him on the way back to his hotel room. He failed to find an adequately phlegmatic comment to make on the turn of events.

  They arrived at the door of his room just as a Latina housekeeper was shutting it. He let them both in and slid open the door to his closet. “Just give me a second to change.”

  “Let me see the address of Geary’s alibi witness and I’ll figure out how to get to her place.” Janet sat down on the bed.

  He pulled a piece of paper out of his pants pocket and handed it to her.

  “Is there a phone number?” She asked.

  “Nope, McCaffrey just gave me the address and name: Mary Modriani.” He took a lightweight suit off of a hanger and headed toward the bathroom.

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “You gotta rethink the outfit.”

  “How come?”

  “Because I know where this place is.” She shook the paper. “It’s basically a slum full of addicts and whores, and you definitely don’t want to stroll in there looking like a narc.” She gestured to his suit. “Do you have any jeans or a t-shirt?”

  He threw a pair of worn jeans on the bed and then searched through his suitcase. He grinned and held up a brightly colored t-shirt that read, I survived Sociology 101 with Professor Hopkins. She laughed. “Sorry, but you need to look more like a pimp, not a geek. Don’t you have just a plain white t-shirt?”

  He pulled a wrinkled one from underneath his pillow. “I’ve got this, but I’ve been sleeping in it for a week.”

  “Perfect,” she said. “Now, get dressed and slick your back hair like a mean motherfucking whoremonger!” He did as he was told and stared at the unfamiliar image in the mirror. The t-shirt fit him snugly and showed off a decently trim waist and muscular chest. He had no brilliantine to comb into his hair, so he used a dab of body oil from the wicker basket next to the sink. Hopefully, pimps and drug dealers in the twenty-first century looked like characters out of Grease.

  When he stepped out of the bathroom, he stopped worrying about his own appearance—all eyes on the street would undoubtedly be glued to Janet. She had unbuttoned the side of her skirt past mid thigh and knotted her shirt just above her navel. A thick smear of blood red lipstick on her mouth and dark shadowing above her eyes completed the transformation from respectable, early middle-aged woman to jaw-dropping streetwalker. She pulled a pair of dark hose out of her purse as he stood dumbfounded.

  “Voila,” she stood up and gave a sexy shake, “instant whore!”

  “Oh my god,” he gasped.

  “You look pretty good yourself.” She took his arm with an amused smile and led them out the door. “Now, let’s go find Ms. Modriani.”

  As they drove to East Hollywood, he told her about his search for Miriam Wilhoit’s son. After spending several hours on the internet, he had discovered eight Wilhoits currently in college in the Los Angeles area. Five were girls. He got the local phone numbers for the remaining three and called each that morning, but none had answered. Presumably, Stanley, James, and Samuel Wilhoit were all in class at UCLA, USC, and Belle Meade College respectively. Before he left the condominium, he checked the phone book for addresses. The only listing was for Samuel, with an address in Belle Meade. The others, he presumed, either lived in dormitories, making them unlikely candidates for harboring the missing secretary, or were unlisted for some other reason.

  “Should we stop by Belle Meade this evening, on the off chance that Samuel Wilhoit is Miriam’s son?” As she sat, the slit in her skirt extended almost to the side of her panties. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the road as he nodded and answered.

  “Good idea,” he replied. “We’ve been focused on Geary, but Miriam’s a good suspect too. First, she hates the porn industry. Second, she may have been cooking the books at Eden. And third, she surely knew about Don’s back window. At worst, we need to press her harder about what went on the day of the murder, not to mention what she knows about Don and Jade’s relationship.”

  “In some ways, she’s at least as plausible as Geary and Sheila Easy,” she agreed.

  “Sheila?” He looked over when she spoke, and got a distracting eyeful of the diamond stud and pendent set in the button of Janet’s firm belly. “I know you think she’s crazy, but is she really that strong a suspect?”

  Janet pulled out a cigarette and cracked open the window. “She might be. Anyone who’s that erratic and hates the porn industry that much has the motivation.”

  “Motivation, maybe. But what about the opportunity? Surely, she didn’t attend the party.”

  “Probably not, but it’s still worth checking out.” She took a drag and blew the smoke in a narrow stream that was quickly sucked out the window. “Anyone could have gotten in that window.”

  “I suppose.” He looked cautiously around him as the neighborhood grew seedier. “How much farther do we have to go?”

  She gave him directions as they drove past several blocks of pawn shops and liquor stores. It seemed to him that half the people on the street were pushing shopping carts, while the other half looked ready to sell drugs, buy them, or knock him over the head to get money for some. Hookers too, he thought, when he spotted a tall woman in a tiger print miniskirt leaning against the corner of a building. “How do you know this neighborhood?”

  “I lived here when I first came to Los Angeles. I had no money, and this is about as cheap as it gets.”

  He looked at her and offered his sympathy.

  “And the answer to the hooking question is ‘never,’” she added, “just so you don’t have to ask.”

  She pointed her finger at a dingy, two-story, cinder block building on their immediate right. �
�That’s it, number two fifty-one. Find a place to park wherever.” This was easier said than done. Many of the spaces were filled with cars that looked like they had been abandoned, while other spaces were saved with garbage cans or stolen cones with stenciled lettering proclaiming “Property of the Los Angeles Public Works Division.” The paint on the curbs in front of the derelict businesses and apartment complexes was so faded that it was impossible to tell where it was legal to park. About three blocks past Modriani’s apartment, Stanley spotted a space in front of a crumbling flop house.

  “What do you think?” He was less concerned about the legality of the spot than the casual menace of the two muscular Hispanic men standing in front of the building.

  “Go for it,” she replied as if the guys were uniformed doormen instead of crack dealers. His first attempt at parallel parking failed and he had to pull out and try again a second time. A tricked-out Eldorado honked at him as he struggled to squeeze the front end of the car into the space. Janet stepped out onto the curb while he waited a moment for the traffic to pass. When he got out and locked the car, he avoided making eye contact with the two characters who had been observing his parking debacle. He worked his way around the car, put his hand on Janet’s bare back, and strolled away as casually as possible. Her skin was cool and his fingers curled easily around her waist.

  “Hey! Joe NASCAR!” The shorter of the two men shouted. Stanley paused for a moment but kept walking. “Hey! I’m talking to you.” This statement carried enough latent violence that he stopped and turned around. Both of the men sauntered toward them. “Does Jorge know that you’re working a woman on this side of the street?” His blood ran cold. If he were alone, he would have considered running, but Janet spoke before he could concoct an answer.

  “Don’t be talkin’ to my bitch like that!” she yelled. “You need to keep straight who’s working who on this street.” Stanley turned red with embarrassment. She ignored him and continued. “Now if you guys like his ass,” she offered, as she spun him clumsily around, “we might be able to arrange something.”