by Jerry Ludwig
“Sure as hell smells like it to me!”
“Well, despite what you say, I take my job seriously. I’m not running this show the way you would? Well, I’m in charge and you’re not. It’s my responsibility to allocate resources to get the best results. Told you before, I didn’t think Weaver’s booze tour alibi was even worth listening to. Now, about your independent check of six Blacklisted guys—did they have decent alibis?”
“Yeah, they all did, but you couldn’t know that because—”
“Because I’m a shitheel. I’m sorry we missed contacting those two guys, don’t know how that happened. But we did check out twenty-seven others. All kosher. So, sue me, I concentrated efforts on the hot lead—that’s Weaver. That’s how we turned up a police report on a party brawl up in Silver Lake a few Saturday nights ago. Weaver faced off with a trio of crashers—and he creamed ’em all. Kid’s a juggernaut, huh?”
“That’s what you’ve been investigating? You’ve still got nothing. Just character material. All circumstantial stuff. Not one piece of hard evidence!”
“Hey, I’ve gotten convictions on circumstantial evidence—and so have you. C’mon, McKenna, be straight with me. What’s really eating you?”
“The whole damn situation stinks! Every time anything happens, there’s a trail of bread crumbs leading the same way—back to the Weaver kid. That’s what spooks me. If he really is our guy, how can he be doing such a lousy a job covering his tracks?”
“Who knows? Suppose he’s one of those weird ‘Stop me before I kill again’ freaks. A kid who’s crying out for someone to put him out of his misery. How do I know? I’m not a shrink, I’m a cop! And so are you! Our job is to bag the bad guys. Period.”
“And you’re perfectly okay with that?” I feel like I’m arguing with Declan. We start out with the answers, and the questions don’t matter. But now Alcalay leans in on me.
“Don’t make me the heavy, McKenna. Like I’m ramming something through. Pulling a fast one.”
“Aren’t you?” I feel the vein throbbing in my forehead.
Alcalay looks disgusted. “We’re in the same business, whether you like it or not. We’re sanitation workers. Garbage men. We keep the streets clean. That’s what our bosses—and the public, the nice people—all want us to do. We hope we’re doing it right. They just prefer we do it fast.”
I don’t know what to say to him. Because these thoughts also have been swirling in my head. Contradictory. Ambivalent. Worst of all, expedient. Ashley’s face flashes. I push it aside.
“I just follow the clues,” Alcalay says. “Go where they take me.”
Now he sounds like me. “Doesn’t it bother you? Just a little? Doesn’t it seem too neat? Too easy?”
“Hey, why can’t it be easy for once?” He looks me in the eye. “So just tell me what you would do now if you were me?”
Before I can come up with an answer, we hear Kobata calling Alcalay. They’re ready to take the body down from the gallows. Alcalay goes off, I trail a few steps, enough so I can see the paramedics lower the body onto their gurney. Before they draw the blanket over his face, I catch another glimpse of Leo’s bug eyes. When I was a kid I saw a dumb B movie in a fleabag theater in the Loop. It was about a photographer who invented a camera that could take a picture of the final image in a murder victim’s eyes. Identifying your killer from the great beyond. Proof positive. If only it was that simple.
While they load Leo into the ambulance and Alcalay is talking with Kobata, I walk slowly to where Ott and Heritage are waiting and watching.
“The Weaver kid wouldn’t happen to have been around the lot tonight, would he?” I wearily ask them.
“As a matter of fact,” Heritage says, “the picture he’s working on is shooting late on Stage Four. I already called over. He was there earlier and left. No one’s sure exactly when.”
Alcalay has come up behind me. “Does he have an office?”
* * *
When we get to the publicity building the lights are off and the front door is locked.
“Want to look inside?” Ott asks.
“I don’t have a search warrant,” Alcalay says.
“You don’t need one. Mi casa, es su casa.” Ott nods at Heritage, who produces a master key. Both of them ready to grease the skids for David Weaver. Tidy up Panorama’s mess.
We flick on the lights and locate Weaver’s office. Ott and Heritage stand outside in the corridor as I go in and watch Alcalay search the desk. In the bottom drawer he finds a half-empty bottle of Dewar’s scotch and tucked away in the back a hand-tooled Italian leather wallet. Alcalay takes it out carefully with a handkerchief. He flips it open and we both stare at it. Alcalay gives me a head tilt, indicating Ott and Heritage, who are rubbernecking from the doorway.
I turn to them. “Guys, you mind waiting outside the building?”
They shrug. I’m not sure if they saw what we saw, but they go. I shut the office door. We wait until their footsteps fade and hear the sound of the outer door closing. Then Alcalay flips the wallet open again on the desk. So we both can gaze at the driver’s license with photo.
“Now we know where Shannon’s missing wallet went to,” he says. “Now this is what I call hard evidence, don’t you?”
The itch I feel is still there. “Yeah, but—”
He laughs harshly. “Why did I know those were gonna be the first words out of your face?”
But I plow on. “Why would Weaver take away a prime piece of incriminating dynamite—and stash it here?”
Alcalay instantly dismisses that. “Kid’s a certified psycho. Who knows what goes through that type of brain. Probably a ghoulish souvenir. Some killers collect scalps, he likes wallets. It fits with the purse and jewelry taken from Wendy Travers. C’mon, Mac, whaddayasay?”
I know he wants me on his side. My future is on the line with this case, but so is his. He’s willing to share the glory, because he wants me to shoulder a big chunk of the responsibility. He needs the imprimatur of the Bureau, He’s worried about going it alone.
Truth to tell, despite the hostility I feel for him, the cop side of me adds it up the way he does. The way Hoover and Tolson do from three thousand miles away. I look at Alcalay. He’s waiting for an answer. So I give it to him.
“Okay, let’s go for the Weaver kid.”
Alcalay grabs the phone and calls in an all-points bulletin to be broadcast immediately for the arrest of David Weaver. May be armed, should be considered dangerous. It’s official, no room left for questions or qualifiers. The machine is moving into high gear. David Weaver is going down.
Alcalay hangs up the phone and gazes at me. “Still fretting over why the wallet’s here?” I nod. “Well, we can ask the kid when we see him.”
He thinks that’s funny. I wish I did. But then I feel a spike of relief. It’s over. Hoover will be doing cartwheels. And then a series of snapshots appear in my head. My new big office in D.C. A beautiful apartment in Georgetown. With Ashley waiting for me there.
CHAPTER
39
DAVID
Late this afternoon I phoned Jana from my soundstage to apologize for getting into that hassle with Leo. Let’s go some place special for dinner. She said, “I’m bushed, David, just gonna head home to my place and hit the sack.” She meant alone. “I’m just so tired of thinking about all this,” she said, “I need a night off.”
So I hung around the set a while, then grabbed a sandwich and went to see Jean Renoir’s antiwar classic, Grand Illusion, at the Vagabond. It was powerful and depressing.
When the show lets out, I drive back to the Chateau and come up the back steps from the parking lot. As I enter my room I notice a pink message envelope that’s been slipped under the door. From Jana! I’m sure of it. Probably a message to call her, maybe come over to where she’s house-sitting. I rip the envelope open.
It says:
David,
Regret argument this afternoon. Know we can work out all problems bet
ween us. Man-to-man. Please come my house tonight whenever you get in. I’ll be working very late but most anxious see you soonest and settle matters.
Thanks,
Uncle Leo.
Uncle Leo? When did he come back into my life? The only invitation I’d expect from him is to face a firing squad. But he’s talking about settling things. What’s that mean? For Jana’s sake I’d love to scale the heat down. If that’s possible. I don’t see how, but—I glance at my watch, it’s only 11:20. What the hell? Why not?
* * *
When I pull up near the Vardian house on Stone Canyon I don’t see any lights. I turn off my motor and sit there. I’m still wondering what in hell Leo and I are going to say to each other. Can a bridge really be built over this divide?
Looking across, I think maybe he is inside and the thick drapes are concealing the light. So I ring the bell. Then try knocking. Maybe he’s around back. Fiddling with his movie in the private projection room. So I stroll up the side path to the rear. The underwater lights in the kidney-shaped pool are on, so are the sprinklers in the flower beds. I see a cabana next to the pool. Showers, sauna, steam room, and changing cubicles on one side. With a private screening room on the other. I knock, no response here either. Try the handle, it’s locked. What do I do now? Leo must’ve been delayed at the studio. Should I wait? Be dopey not to. Drove all the way over in the middle of the night.
I see a lounge chair almost surrounded by foliage near the diving board. Good spot to observe the house and the projection room while waiting. I stretch out. I’m so tired and feel so alone. I close my eyes and drift off to the whisper of the sprinklers.
My eyes pop open! Staring into near-total darkness. Been asleep. Where am I and why? Oh yeah. Pool lights now off, sprinklers off. And I know what woke me up. Sounds. Footsteps and the murmur of a voice. Approaching on the side path I came up on. Preceded by a flashlight beam. Must be Leo, but I hear other voices. Thought this was going to be a private meeting, just the two of us. Man-to-man.
Four figures appear from the path, dimly silhouetted by a heavy-duty flashlight and the sliver of moon above. They seem not to expect anyone to be around. So I stay still, I think I’m invisible unless they aim their light across the pool at me. They walk to the entrance to the projection room and the flashlight beam focuses on the door. A hand reaches for the handle, yanks, confirms it’s locked.
“Your first challenge of the night, doctor,” Barney Ott’s voice says.
I hear chuckles from the man with the flashlight—now I can identify Jack Heritage. He illuminates one of the other two guys, who is dressed like a workman and snaps open a toolbox, takes out a pair of lock picks. The back of his shirt reads LESTER THE LOCKSMITH.
In a minute, with a flourish, he opens the door. It swings out. He reaches in and finds the light switch. I’m still beyond the illuminated area but I see them enter. The locksmith followed by Ott and Heritage. Keeler Barnes is trailing behind.
What the hell’s he doing here? I thought Leo fired him. What are they all doing here? Something’s wrong about all this and my instinct says get the hell out.
I hear Ott’s voice from inside saying: “Check the projection booth, Keeler, maybe it’ll be that easy.”
Yeah, of course. They’re looking for the stolen sound track! I hear shuffling sounds, a moment, then Keeler’s voice says, “Not here.”
“Then it’s up to you, Lester,” Ott says.
“Well, I’m not sure I can,” the locksmith whines.
“Sure you can!” Heritage snaps. “You installed the fuckin’ vault.”
The vault. Jana had mentioned the studio built one for Leo when they put in the projection room. For his wine collection and prints of his old movies. Perfect place to stash a stolen sound track. I hear Lester grumble that Mr. Vardian probably changed the combination and the vault’s got a complicated time lock and—
Ott doesn’t want any of that. “Open sesame. Get on it.”
They all move into another section of the windowless room. I can’t see any of them. My curiosity propels me closer. One peek before I take off. I manage to sneak up behind the open door so I can peer in through the slit made by the hinges.
The locksmith has a stethoscope pressed to the vault door while he slowly turns the dial and tries to hear the tumblers. Ott and Keeler sit in cushy projection room seats watching him work. Heritage hangs over Lester’s shoulder to apply intimidation. Now Lester yanks the stethoscope out of his ears frustrated.
“No good, I’ll have to drill.”
“If you gotta, you gotta,” Heritage says.
Lester digs for the equipment. I wonder where in hell these guys are getting their nerve from? Aren’t they worried Leo will walk in on them and yell for the cops to book ’em all for breaking and entering? Maybe I ought to get to a phone and call it in, though it surprises me I’m thinking as if I’m still on Leo’s team. I only have an instant to mull that, as Heritage is starting to light up a cigarette. Lester warns him. “No smoking in here, I’ve got flammable stuff.”
“Take it outside, Jackie,” Ott says.
So now Heritage is walking up the aisle heading straight toward me. I hug the wall behind the door as he emerges. Hold my breath. There’s a flare as he lights his cigarette, tosses the match on the ground. I hear him puffing and smell the aroma. I wait for him to finish and go back inside, so I can tiptoe away and go home. All this is getting way too complicated.
Ott calls, “Hey, Jack, we’ve got it open.”
“Be right there,” Heritage calls back. I see the half-smoked cigarette when it hits the Spanish tiled deck. Heritage’s foot reaches into view to step on it—but the damn butt rolls. So he takes another step to get it, moving closer to me. He grinds his heel on the butt and when he looks up he sees me.
“What’re you doin’ here?” As if I’m the last person in the world he expected.
“Could ask you the same, why’re—”
I stop because he’s whipped a short-barreled police .38 out of the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. On pure reflex, I leap in and chop the heel of my hand across his wrist. The gun goes flying and we clinch. As we tussle Heritage gropes into his back pocket and confirms the rumor that he still carries a blackjack. He swings at me and misses my head. But with his follow through he smashes the blackjack into the left side of my rib cage. A really solid shot, but I have no time to register pain. I grab his arm now, twist it behind him and manage to heave him into the pool. He screams “Barney!” as he goes in with a great splash.
Ott calls, “Hey, what’s happening out there?” I slam the screening room door shut and shove a big potted plant over to block it. And I race for the pathway to the street.
A glance back as I reach the corner of the house shows me that Ott has burst out of the projection room and Heritage is climbing out of the pool. Keeler is in the doorway, staring over at me. “Get the gun,” Heritage yells to Ott.
I keep going up the pathway and now I hear pursuing footsteps. But I’m into my car and rolling away by the time Ott and Heritage appear. “You can run but you can’t hide, you little cocksucker, we’ll getcha!” Heritage screams after me, while Ott races for his Cadillac in the driveway near the front door.
I floor the accelerator and fly down the road and round the curve and yank the wheel and screech into the dark deserted overflow parking lot of the Hotel Bel-Air. Cut motor and lights. Then I stare through the foliage at the road. The Cadillac speeds by and keeps going. Soon as it disappears, I rev up and pull out, go back the way I just came. I know a series of back roads deep in the canyon that wind up and over the mountain into the San Fernando Valley.
I’m elated to have lost them and stunned that crazy Jack Heritage really seemed ready to kill me. I can’t believe they’re this vicious over a fuckin’ petty studio squabble. What’s going on? But by now the adrenaline high is wearing off and the pain hits me. The sharp ache in my rib cage reminds me I haven’t gotten away unscathed. All I want to do now
is go home and swallow a bunch of painkillers and sleep it off. But the Chateau would be the next place they come looking for me.
So I have to go somewhere safe.
* * *
Hollywood is calling it a night. The neon signs just went out on the movie marquees and most of the storefronts along the brassy boulevard are already darkened.
The tour bus with a MOVIELAND BY NIGHT banner on it rolls up to Grauman’s Chinese right on time from its last run. The tourists, the guide and driver, debark. For a few moments the bus door stays unattended, and no one notices as I slip on board, clutching my side, swaying down the empty aisle, and collapse into a seat at the rear. My throbbing ribs scream with pain. I hope I don’t pass out.
My eyes droop shut, but I fight it. I force my eyes open in time to see the driver return to the bus reading a newspaper. Zacharias climbs into the driver’s seat. Levers the front door closed, turns on the motor, adjusts the rear view mirror, and his hand freezes. I give a small wave and he turns to stare back at me. He walks down the long aisle. When he reaches me he doesn’t like what he sees.
“Hey, what the hell happened?”
“Don’t ask me.” I try for a snicker. It comes out a wheeze.
“But I gotta ask you, Duveed!” Zacharias unfolds the newspaper to display the front page of the bulldog edition of the L.A. Times. The war-declared-size headline shouts:
HOLLYWOOD DIRECTOR SLAIN
POLICE HUNT BLACKLIST KILLER
Featured beneath it there is a studio portrait of Leo next to a lousy photo from my Army ID card. I look squinty-eyed and mean. Perfect casting for the role of a demented killer. Then the blackness of the night envelops me.
CHAPTER
40
MCKENNA
Alcalay and I are searching David Weaver’s tiny room at the Chateau Marmont and finding nothing. Well, actually a lot, just not evidence. There are His and Hers toiletries in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Some of Jana’s clothes in the closet and a smattering of her undies and tops in a dresser drawer. An Olivetti portable typewriter on the table with a half-used ream of paper and a script about World War II. Everything neat and tidy, maybe the chambermaid’s doing, but no stacks of disarray.