“Divorced.”
“Is he seeing anyone?”
“Not that I know.”
Oliver said, “I’m in the room, ladies. You can talk to me directly.”
Brenda waved him off. “I never ask the men these questions. They always lie.” She looked at Oliver. “You promise me dinner, you might break through my ball-breaking exterior.”
Oliver broke into a big grin. “I’d be happy to buy you dinner, Ms. Miller. But it won’t be at Estelle’s.”
Brenda said, “How about Crab and Barrel?”
“A little rich for my wallet…” Oliver looked dubious.
“Maybe you could make it work.”
Brenda said, “When?”
“Pick a night.”
“Friday?”
“You’re on.”
Marge said, “Tell us about Wendy Culligan and Harlan Manz.”
Brenda turned serious. “They went out for drinks a couple of times. Nothing serious because he had a girlfriend, she had a boyfriend. I told her she was crazy. Yeah, Harlan was good-looking, better-looking than her boyfriend, that was for sure. But Ken—that’s her boyfriend—he’s got a job, he’s got his own car, he’s got his own condo…he’s got a future. Harlan was a loser. I guess Wendy caught on because they stopped seeing each other…remained on good terms according to her—”
“She spoke to you about this?” Marge said.
“Yes. When I came to visit her, she immediately pulled me aside and begged me not to tell anyone. First off, she didn’t want her boyfriend finding out. Second, she didn’t want to be associated with him. Can you blame her?”
“No,” Marge said. “But she should have been truthful with the police—”
“Are you going to call her up?” Brenda was nervous. “Ask her about it?”
“Yes,” Marge said. “But I don’t have to say it came from you.”
“I’d appreciate it.” Brenda sighed. “I didn’t tell you to be a fink. I told you because I didn’t want anyone else to make more of it than it was.”
“You have anyone specifically in mind?” Marge asked.
“No, and that’s the God’s honest truth. But you know people talk. After something like Estelle’s, they feel nervous…helpless. Sometimes they make up stuff. Poor Wendy doesn’t need shit like this after what she’s been through.”
“You did the right thing,” Oliver said soothingly.
“Honestly, Detective. Wendy’s a straight arrow. She says it was only a couple of times, it was only a couple of times. If she says it was no big deal, it was no big deal.”
“Maybe to her it was no big deal,” Marge said. “But to Harlan it could have been a very big deal!”
Oliver dropped a fistful of pumpkin seeds into his mouth, smirked. He was very proud of himself. Marge rolled her eyes, opened the passenger door to the unmarked. Oliver slid in, leaned over and opened the driver’s door from the inside. When she got in, he made a point of going through his wallet.
“Well, I got three dollars to my name. Maybe it’ll buy Brenda a glass of house wine.”
“I know what I make, I know what you make.” Marge started the engine. “I’m not falling for that, Scotty.”
Oliver laughed, offered Marge pumpkin seeds. Marge shook her head no and backed the car out of the parking lot. She headed for the 405 Freeway, turned into the north on-ramp, revving up the motor until they were flying. She said, “We might be onto something. Harlan knew Wendy. More than knew her. They dated.”
“But Wendy isn’t dead, Marge.”
“So Harlan aimed at her, but missed.”
“Meanwhile, he caught thirteen other people in the process, including two men at her own table?” Oliver was skeptical.
“Maybe he was showing off for her. ‘Look what you drove me to.’”
“Why would there be two shooters at the scene if Harlan just wanted to show off to Wendy? He could have done that without help.”
“We don’t know that there were definitely two shooters.”
“But we’re leaning in that direction.”
“Frankly, I don’t know what we’re leaning toward. Because we don’t know what we’re looking for.”
Oliver was quiet. Then he said, “Before we came here, I talked to Bert about Walter Skinner’s widow. She’s fond of Arsenic and Old Lace.”
“The movie?”
“Yeah, the movie.”
“I can see why she’d like it. Central characters are two old ladies.”
“Two old ladies who kill people.”
“People at Estelle’s were shot, Scott. Not poisoned.”
“Still, it gets you thinking. Her old man was stepping out on her.”
“Did Bert say she acted psycho about that point?”
“No, he didn’t. He said she seemed to bounce back and forth between being pissed at Walter for messing around and feeling truly sad about his death.”
“Sounds normal to me,” Marge said. “Only thing about the case that does sound normal.”
“Yeah, it’s getting complicated.” Oliver ate more pumpkin seeds. “You hungry, Marge? These morsels ain’t cutting the pangs.”
“I could use a bite.”
“How about Oscar’s Deli?”
“Where is that? Woodley and Ventura?”
“A block west.” Oliver ate the last batch of pumpkin seeds. “You can pay. I have to save up my dimes for Crab and Barrel.”
12
Jeanine Garrison was a hard person to reach. Decker was put on hold, talked to a series of secretaries and assistants, all of it puzzling to him because he was not sure exactly what Jeanine did that required a staff. Marge had mentioned something about her being a patron of the arts and being involved in charity work. But how she earned her keep was anyone’s guess. When she finally did come on the phone, she sounded polite enough. They made an appointment to meet at her office, which was one of those retro-Victorian numbers with stained-glass and mullioned windows. Like Greenvale. Decker wondered if the same architect had designed them both.
Her office was the penthouse suite. The waiting room was small but posh, paneled in high-polished walnut; a burnished chesterfield, flanked by two tray tables, rested against the wall. One table held fresh-cut flowers; the other was topped with local weekly newspapers featuring Valley notables on the front pages, and several issues of Architectural Digest. A fortysomething secretary told Decker to have a seat, that Jeanine would be right there. “Right there” turned out to be a half hour later. But if Decker had been a single guy, he would have felt it was worth the wait.
Because the woman was very, very nice.
A lovely face with an excellent figure. Shoulder-length blond hair that shimmered and swayed as she walked. Wide-set aqua eyes—an unnatural shade, probably enhanced by contact lenses. An oval face, high-set cheekbones, and lips coated with something that made them look wet and sexy. Statuesque—around five eight with shapely legs. She might be—or have been—a dancer. Tapered ankles and slender feet. Pale, flawless skin, pale hands. She was dressed modestly in a black double-breasted skirt suit, a bright, almost garish, Versace scarf draped around her neck.
Her eyes hooked into his, hands delicately wrapping around his fingers. She sighed heavily. “Would you think I was too terrible if I asked you to come back in an hour?”
Decker broke physical contact. “Not at all. Something come up?”
“Something always comes up, doesn’t it?” She looked away, her face troubled ever so slightly. “You’re a love. I’ll see you in an hour then.”
A love? Decker thought.
“Certainly,” Decker said.
Without another word, she turned and walked away…very slowly…hips sashaying with a beat.
Decker went back to the car, aware that he had become hot…confused.
Who was that woman?
What did that matter?
An hour to kill. Might as well go back to work.
Easier to sustain bodily injuries than to dea
l with ex-wives.
Having done both, Decker knew this to be true.
Five messages from Jan.
He made himself comfortable at his desk, stared at the phone. Grimacing, he punched in the numbers, wincing at each ring. When he heard his daughter’s voice, he breathed instant relief. She was cool to him. As to be expected. But he didn’t care. Too steeped in gratitude.
“I was actually returning your mother’s calls.”
“She’s not home.”
“Tell her I called. Tell her I’m swamped and I’ll try to get back to her tomorrow. So she can stop calling the station house—”
“How many times did she call?”
“Five.”
“I’ll speak to her—”
“Don’t get in the middle, Cynthia. You don’t need any more grief.”
A pause over the line. “I started the whole thing.”
“I appreciate your help, but please don’t take sides. It will make both our lives more difficult.” Decker turned quiet. “Are you mad at me?”
“I love you very much, Dad.”
Her voice remained chilly, but on the verge of a thaw. He said, “Cin, I want to apologize. You were very civil last night. I wasn’t.”
“You were angry.”
“Yes.”
“And hurt that I didn’t talk it over with you first.”
“A bit.”
“Frustrated?”
“Definitely. I haven’t changed my mind. I’m still against your decision. But you are twenty-four. If I can’t talk you out of it, maybe we could have lunch next week. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind a few pointers from a veteran. Tell me again when you’re scheduled to start?”
“Right after the first of the year.”
“Too bad baseball season is over,” Decker said. “You’re a stone’s throw away from the Dodgers box office.”
Cindy laughed over the line. “Daddy, I have a request.”
“Shoot.”
“I’d love to hear what you have to say. I respect you not only as a father but very much as a cop. But don’t run interference for me, all right? Don’t call up the Academy. Don’t talk to my supervisors or my sergeants or my teachers or whomever and ask about me. I really thought hard about using Mom’s maiden name because I didn’t want people to know we’re related. I’ll have enough problems as it is. Everyone comparing me to you—”
“Whoa, this sounds serious.”
“You’re patronizing me. That’s all right. Patronize all you want. Just as long as you actually honor my request. Then we’ll both be fine.”
Decker paused, realizing his little girl was in fact a young woman who needed and deserved independence and respect. The transition was excruciating.
“I’ll do my best, Cynthia.”
There was silence over the phone. Even with all the pain, it was still infinitely better than talking to Jan.
She said, “So we’re squared away on this?”
“I wouldn’t say squared away. I’m not actively fighting you anymore.”
“I’ll call you later, Daddy. Take care of yourself.”
“I love you, princess.”
“Love you, too. Bye.”
Abruptly, she hung up the phone. For a moment, Decker sat, receiver in hand, dial tone humming in his ear. Finally, he disconnected and turned on his computer and modem, hooking into the L.A. public libraries’ data banks. One of the splurges from last year’s tight budget. It had saved the squad room infinite hours of tedium. After logging in, presenting the passwords, he was offered a menu. A few minutes of searching and he found what he was looking for—back issues of the local West Valley throwaways.
Punching up the name Jeanine Garrison. Searching for the information. Most of the data came from society columns and articles relating to charity events. Some of the older issues—ten years prior—showed pictures of the slain parents, Ray and Linda Garrison. A handsome couple. Linda had been blond and beautiful. Kindly eyes. A warm mouth. Young-looking. From the pictures, Decker could hardly believe she had been forty-three at that time. Looked more like twenty-three. Ray had shown his age even then. Salt-and-pepper hair, craggy complexion. Ruggedly handsome. Type of father a girl would have adored.
Decker continued to scan the columns.
Jeanine was first mentioned on her own at her “coming out” party. A debutante ball. Decker could hardly believe they still did things like that, especially in Los Angeles. But there she was in her full glory. A stunning eighteen-year-old in a gown that was anything but virginal. A long, form-fitting job with a seductive center slit to mid-thigh and a plunging neckline. It plunged into plenty of womanly pulchritude.
Decker took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. For some reason, he found reading a monitor more taxing than a newspaper. Maybe it was the stiff position. He put on his glasses, continued to glean through the electronic print. Jeanine and her parents hosting a charity fete for Children’s Services. Jeanine and her father organizing a dinner for a local old-age home.
Increasingly, the articles had more of Jeanine and less of her parents. Jeanine and her charity parties. Lots of them and all for good community causes. Celebrity-studded. Not A-list people, mostly retired character actors—has-beens hoping for a resurrection. But they had turned out. Not only stars, but Strapp and the mayor. Jeanine sandwiched between the two, giving the photographer a mouth full of ivories.
Again, Decker rubbed his eyes, checked his watch.
A full hour had passed. Now he was late for the appointment.
What the hey. He’d just tell her that something came up.
Because something always does come up.
David Garrison opened the door wearing a bathrobe, pajama bottoms, and slippers, leaving Webster to wonder if this was his normal dress or if he had actually woken the man up at three in the afternoon. The detective presented his badge, and a pair of anxious hazel eyes scanned the ID as well as the cop. Red-rimmed eyes. Garrison was pale and thin and sported a day’s growth of beard. His head held a blond thicket of unkempt oily tresses and dark shadows sat under sunken orbs. Musta been one hell of a party last night.
“May I come in?” Webster asked. “Unless you’d prefer to talk out here.”
The door opened and Webster went inside. Garrison had yet to speak.
An incredible view. Two walls of glass framing canyons as well as the Valley skyline. The place had been done up as sleek as a leopard, everything cold and unyielding and achromatic. A scheme of gray, white, and black. Marble floors. Start white walls holding abstract art. Black leather sofas devoid of adornment. Glass tables. A stereo system resting in ebony bookshelves. Metal blinds instead of wooden shutters or cloth curtains. The only hint of color came from the outdoor vistas.
“Did I wake you, sir?” Webster asked, politely.
Garrison shook his head. “Wish it were so. And call me Dave. Sir is…was…exclusively reserved for my father.”
“All right.” Webster strolled over to the stereo, regarded the CDs. Classical works. Good pieces and good recording editions. His eyes swept over the titles. “This is interesting.”
“My little hobby.” Garrison’s voice was bored.
Webster said, “I specifically meant this ’62 Bernstein release of Sibelius’s The Oceanides. I have the vinyl. When did they master it for CD?”
A pause. Garrison said, “It’s a new edition.”
“Obviously.” Webster smiled. “Been doing a lot of overtime. I know where I’m going as soon as my working hours are up. Can I take a seat?”
Garrison pointed to the couch. “Get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Mind if I take something?”
Webster said, “It’s your house, Mr. Garrison. You’re doin’ me the favor.”
“Well put.” Garrison walked over to a mirrored wet bar. He took out a cut-crystal tumbler. “Would you like to hear the CD?”
“You put it on, reckon I won’t object.”
�
�So I reckon I’ll put it on.” He poured himself a double shot of Johnnie Walker Blue straight up. “You work that Southern Boy shit very effectively. It must bring you an ample supply of pussy.”
Webster grinned. “Ah suppose it did when ah was single.”
The young man took a swig, then removed the cassette from the disc player and slipped in the Sibelius CD. “And now you’re a faithful married man as well as a hardworking, dedicated cop.”
“Correct.”
Garrison turned on the receiver. Instantly, the room filled with pastoral beauty. What Webster wanted to do was close his eyes and be swept away. Instead, he took out his notepad, waited for Garrison to finish his booze and sit down. After polishing off the Scotch, the young man refilled his glass and sat in a slouch leather chair. His bathrobe had fallen open, revealing a thin upper torso tufted with fine chest hair. He sat with his legs spread apart, revealing the partially opened fly of his pajama bottoms.
The man weren’t wearin’ underpants.
Webster said, “I’m sorry for your loss. Mr. Garrison.”
David looked directly at him. “Don’t feel too bad on my account.”
Webster digested his response. “Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”
“Phrasing it as if I have a choice.” He smiled. “Do I?”
“Just a couple of questions, sir.”
“Whatever is your wish, suh.”
Webster smiled. “You’re a toughie.”
“Ply me with enough alcohol and I’m putty.” Garrison winked, laughed. “Going through a little panic, suh? Don’t worry. You’re not my type.” He leaned in close. “I’ve done lots of experimenting, but alas, I am a dull, dull boy. Much to my Bohemian nature’s dismay, I really do prefer girls. Pity. Except for this one minor flaw, I might have made a most excellent queer.”
He finished off his booze, got up, and poured himself another shot. “In reality, I’m just a boring, bisexual drunkard.”
“Do you work?” Webster asked.
Garrison swallowed liquor. “Set design. I just finished Tosca at the Dorothy Chandler. Berticelli’s conducting if you’re interested.”
“I don’t know the man.”
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