by A. W. Gray
Sharon continued on to stand on the curb, set her satchel on the ground, and watched the traffic roll by. She folded her upper arms, frowning impatiently, peering up the road for the limo.
A tenor male voice said from behind her, “The bastards. The rotten bastards.”
Sharon turned.
It was the guard, who’d come out from his station and followed her to the curb. He had a paunch which strained the buttons on his shirt. “The bastards,” he said again.
Sharon blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“See it every day, these poor little girls,” he said.
“Bastards didn’t even offer you a ride.” He had a kind face, which was wreathed in a smile of sympathy.
Sharon looked back toward the movie lot, then at the guard. She got it. She said, “Oh. I’m not—”
“Let them come in with their hopes, you think they give a damn?” The guard was practically in tears.
Sharon relaxed. “I suppose they don’t.”
“Hell, no, they don’t,” the guard said. “For what it’s worth, I’ve seen ‘em come and go. It’s no life, hon. No life at all, even for the ones that make it big. You’ll be better off, go back to your hometown, marry the local druggist, teacher. No life at all.”
Sharon pictured Rob, playing the role even in public. And Darla, who, if she got out of jail, would live alone in her mansion by the sea. “I’m learning it isn’t much of a life,” she said.
The guard pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. He stuffed the hanky away, then jammed his hand into his pants pocket. “Listen, if you need cab fare,” he said.
24
Sharon spent the next five minutes trying to convince the guard that she didn’t want his money, then watched his jaw drop in surprise as the Lincoln stretch pulled to the curb and Lyndon Gray hopped out to open the door for her. Just before she entered the limo, she stopped and offered the guard a little curtsy. “See. I didn’t need their old part anyway,” she said.
She sat on cushioned leather and swung her legs inside as Gray slammed the door and moved up to sit behind the wheel. Her gaze shifted to the right, the empty front passenger seat. “You’re missing a sidekick.” Gray’s clear hazel eyes were visible in the rearview. “Benny won’t be with us this evening, miss. He had an emergency, to see his sister in the Valley.”
Sharon wondered suddenly about Melanie, how her day had gone. “We all need more time for family,” she said. “Hopefully when this is over we can all take a month.” She unfolded the slip of paper, squinting to read Marissa Cudmore’s handwriting, and dictated Harlon Swain’s address through the opening. “Take us there, please,” she said.
The Englishman frowned at her through the open panel. “Where, miss?”
Sharon tucked the slip of paper away. “A writer’s place. He wrote Dead On.”
“What?” Gray seemed even more puzzled than before.
“A … novel. Just get us there, please. I’ll fill you in later.”
“Certainly, miss. But you should know, it isn’t a nice neighborhood.”
Sharon fastened her seat belt. “Why am I not surprised.” She offered the Brit a devilish smile. “Wherever else would you expect a schmuck to live?” As Gray hummed the partition closed, he scratched his head.
As the limo rolled onto the Hollywood Freeway, Sharon got busy on the cell phone. Rob answered on the second ring. “Hi, it’s Sharon,” she said, making her tone friendly, but curling her lip in spite of herself. “Couldn’t we have dealt with this this afternoon?”
Rob was testy, his words slightly slurred. God, he’d been drinking again.
Sharon’s manner changed at once, icicles hanging from her every syllable. “I can’t talk on the phone in the middle of a hearing. If you can’t understand that, well, tough.”
“This had better be important, Muffin. Do you know how many people you’ve made me keep waiting?”
“It should be important to you. Have you noticed much fluctuation in your bank balance lately?”
Rob assumed a petulant tone. “My bank balance is none of your business. If that’s all you—”
“As of last Friday it was fourteen bucks,” Sharon said.
There was sudden total silence, static on the line.
“They gave me some hassle, negotiating your check at the bank,” Sharon said. “But finally it cleared.”
“There must be some mistake.” Rob’s voice caught, the barest of tremors; almost unnoticeable.
“They say computers don’t lie, though I’ve known people who would argue the point. Don’t you reconcile your statements?”
“I … don’t see my statements.” Rob was obviously stunned, sobering as if doused in the face with cold water.
“Not surprising. They go to Curtis Nussbaum, right?”
“My agent. He …”
“Does all that,” Sharon said. “I know, you told me at the restaurant the other night. I’d assume you’d know it if your bills weren’t being paid.”
“My bills go to Curt.”
“So as long as your phone works and no one shuts off the electricity, you’re completely in the dark as to your financial condition. Rob, do you have the vaguest idea how much money you have in the bank?”
“Must be a lot. I get fifty thousand a week from the show. Plus some endorsements, those Dodge commercials …”
“All of which goes to your agent.” Sharon looked off to her left, at lights twinkling in the Hollywood Hills under a curtain of smog. The limo’s radials clickthud-ed over freeway expansion joints. She inhaled and said, “I want you in court tomorrow.”
“Now, hold on, Muffin. I’ve already told you, I can’t afford to get involved in Darla’s criminal problems.”
Sharon tried to calm herself as anger coursed through her. She lost it. “Goddammit, Rob, I refuse to believe that you’ve turned into such a horse’s ass. Darla’s responsible for your major break, don’t you remember? And you distancing yourself from her at a time like this is the ultimate slap in the face.”
There was a pause. Now Rob’s voice was childlike, an apologetic whine. “Not my choice.”
“Whose choice is it, then?” Sharon sagged in the seat as realization dawned. She held the phone at arm’s length, then jammed the receiver against her ear. “Your agent’s orders, right? Your fucking agent?”
There was a choking sound over the line. Rob said, “He told me it would be professional suicide.”
Sharon wondered how much she could safely tell him. The limo cruised past Normandie Avenue, the downtown skyscrapers visible over Gray’s broad shoulders in the front seat. Sharon said, “If one word of what I’m about to tell you gets out … Well, if you don’t get my drift, you’ve gotten dumber as you’ve fallen more in love with yourself. I think your agent has been stealing you blind, and I also think he may have had David Spencer killed.”
Rob uttered a sharp gasp. “David was his number one meal ticket. Compared to David’s income, I’m just a minnow in the stream.”
“Which means Nussbaum would have had his fanny in a pretty tight crack to jeopardize that relationship, right? I think that’s just what happened, Rob. Prepare yourself for a string of rapid-fire questions. Have you ever heard of a book project called Dead On?”
A five-second pause. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” Rob said.
“I don’t suppose that’s surprising. Even the studio wants that one under wraps. How about a novelist, Harlon Swain?”
“No. What are you—?”
“Try Chuck Hager. That name do anything?”
“Sure. Curt’s pilot and security man. He’s been at my beck and call, mine and a few more of Curt’s clients. We shot a mountain chase scene once, and Chuck took me on location in a helicopter.”
“A real flyboy. Think back to last Friday. Did you talk to your agent on Friday?
”
“I talk to him most days. I may have.”
Sharon slowed down, thinking. “Try, Rob,” she said. “Anything at all about last Friday which might’ve pinpointed this Hager’s whereabouts.”
“Well, there was…” Rob sounded sincere, completely sober now. “No,” he said. “That was on Thursday.”
Sharon sat up straight. “What was on Thursday?” “Well, a friend and I had thought about going to Puerto Vallarta for the weekend. I’d called Monday to see if Chuck could ferry us down.” There was a guilty pause. “I’ve got a confession to make, Muffin. It was a lady friend.”
Sharon tightly closed her eyes. “If you think I give two shits what bimbo you were…never mind. Good old Chuck wasn’t available, right?”
“Curt’s assistant called on Thursday. Said Hager would be out of town. But if we wanted, Curt could arrange for a commercial flight. Muffin, these women don’t mean a—”
“Thing to you. Jesus Christ. And for the thousandth time, it’s Sharon. Be at the Criminal Courts Building at eleven in the morning.”
“I don’t know. Would I have to testify in front of the camera?”
“You’d have to testify in front of whatever I tell you to, including all these women you don’t care about. I don’t suppose you know what clients’ bank accounts Nussbaum handles besides yours.”
“Not a clue,” Rob said.
“Of course you don’t, Nussbaum wouldn’t…Never mind, I can find out on my own. Eleven a.m., Rob. Stand me up, and some sheriffs will call on you. Right on the set, wouldn’t it be loverly?”
Sharon disconnected, feeling her weight shift as the limo curved around the elevated portion of the freeway. Downtown buildings looked close enough for her to reach out and touch, lights glowing through windows as lawyers and accountants burned nighttime oil.
She rapped on the glass. As the partition hummed open, she leaned forward and said, “Did you get that number I wanted, Mr. Gray? Mathis Security?”
The Brit reached inside his coat. “Right here, miss.”
He handed a folded slip of paper over the seat. The partition hummed closed.
Sharon flipped on the interior overhead and held the slip of paper at arm’s length as she punched in the number. She put the phone to her ear in time to hear a click, followed by an electronic voice saying,
“You have reached Mathis Security. Our office hours are from seven a.m. to six p.m. If you wish to leave a message, wait for the tone. If this is an emergency, please call 555-7878.” There was another click, followed by a high-pitched beep.
Sharon disconnected and called the emergency number. This time the voice told her that if she’d leave her number, someone would get back to her within the half hour. She waited for the beep, then said, “This message is for Chuck Hager. Please have him call Sharon Hays at…” She left the cell phone number and disconnected once again. She didn’t expect Hager to call her back but suspected that the message would cause an immediate conference with Curtis Nussbaum. Which was exactly what she wanted to happen.
She tossed the phone aside, crossed her legs, and leaned her head against the cushions. Gray had negotiated the interchange and steered onto the Harbor Freeway, headed south, and Sharon recognized the outline of the Criminal Courts Building sandwiched in between a couple of skyscrapers. She relaxed in thought, her eyes misting slightly as she moved her gaze to the county jail. She pictured Darla Cowan beyond one of the lighted windows, alone and afraid, sleeping restlessly inside her cell.
25
When he’d said that Harton Swain didn’t live in a nice neighborhood, Lyndon Gray was being kind. The row of shotgun wooden houses sat behind tiny yards infested with weeds. Weeds, that is, if there was any vegetation at all; a couple of the lawns were bare clay with rocks jutting above the surface. Apparently the L.A. Sanitation Department serviced the area on a catch-as-catch-can basis; there were overflowing garbage containers lining the sidewalks and crammed-full plastic bags sitting in the driveways.
Sharon’s eyes bulged in horror as they passed two rats fighting over a chicken bone, their tails lashing, their vicious bites punctuated with bloodthirsty squeals.
The writer’s house was even more dilapidated than most of the hovels in the block, an ancient two-story whose roof had split in two, and whose foundation was lower at one end than at the other. Wild vines twisted around the railing of a rotted wooden porch. Gray parked the limo behind a fairly new four-door sedan. A single lamp glowed in one ground-floor window. As Sharon alighted to the curb, her scalp tingled. The air was cool, bordering on cold, and there was a dampness here that she hadn’t felt in Malibu, downtown at the courts, or at the studio in Universal City. She pictured the house where the Munsters lived.
Gray escorted Sharon up the cracked and broken sidewalk. The Englishman’s bulk offered some comfort, though not nearly enough. Boards creaked dangerously as they climbed the steps onto the porch. Gray looked around for a doorbell, found none, then rapped his knuckles on rotting wood. They stood back and waited. Sharon folded her hands in front and rose on tiptoes to tighten her. calves. Thirty seconds passed. The Englishman knocked again.
Heavy footsteps sounded inside, then the door handle rattled and turned. There was a squeak of hinges, and light slanted from inside onto the porch. Sharon glanced at Gray, then stepped forward and said, “Hi, I’m Sharon …” She trailed off in mid-sentence and her muscles tensed. She was looking down the barrel of a gun.
Slowly, cautiously, Sharon backed away as a man came outside. His features weren’t distinguishable in the dimness, but he wore a suit and was a couple of inches taller than she. He held the pistol at waist level, but didn’t seem particularly menacing. He used his free hand to reach inside his coat and exhibited an open wallet. “Police,” he said. “You have ID?”
Sharon breathed a sigh of relief. “In my …” She raised her handbag.
“Get it, please,” the man said. As Sharon dug inside her purse, Gray reached carefully for his wallet. The cop held Sharon’s driver’s license and Gray’s billfold in one hand, and backed into the light from inside to look them over. He holstered his weapon, said over his shoulder, “All right, David,” then nodded to Sharon and said, “Could you explain what you’re doing here?”
A second man came onto the porch lowering a shotgun. He wore a lighter-colored suit than the first guy, and stood idly by while cop number one returned Sharon’s and Gray’s identification.
Now that her fear had passed, Sharon was more than a little nettled. She said to the head policeman, “And you are … ?”
“Detective Leeds. L.A. Homicide.” Leeds glanced down at the shotgun, which the other man held with its barrel pointed down. “Excuse the informalities,” Leeds said, “but this is a murder scene.”
Sharon looked out into the yard. “Shouldn’t there be some yellow tape or something?”
“There was, on Saturday. We’re doing a follow-up visit. I apologize again, ma’am, but when people come up on you in a place like this, you use caution.” Leeds stood back and pinched his chin. “Once again, do you mind if I ask what you’re doing here?”
Sharon tried to peer inside the house. Visible in the glow from the lamp was a threadbare rug and one end of a worn sofa. She said, “We’re trying to find Harlon Swain.”
The policeman looked down, then back up, his expression changing to one of sympathy. It was the standard bad-news-bearer’s look. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Are you related?”
“No, just business. I assume Mr. Swain is the deceased?”
Leeds nodded curtly, his look of sympathy gone. “At the morgue. Mind if I ask what you wanted with Mr. Swain?”
“I’m a lawyer. He could have been a potential witness in a case I’m defending.”
Leeds brightened in recognition. “I thought I’d heard that name. Sharon Hays. Hey, David, this is the lady on television.”
The shotgun toter seemed impressed, leaning his weapon against the wall and extending his hand. “Detective David White,” he said.
Sharon shook the man’s hand, then rose on tiptoes once again to peer inside the house. “Are your CSU’s finished in there?”
“Several days ago,” Leeds said. “Look, maybe we can help each other. This guy is somehow connected to David Spencer?”
Sharon glanced at Gray, who remained quietly in the shadows. She said to the cop, “He was a writer.”
“And how.” Leeds gestured to the interior of the house. “Manuscripts piled all over inside. Bet that’s the only computer in the neighborhood.”
“He wrote a book,” Sharon said, “that was supposed to get made into a movie with Spencer as the star. It didn’t pan out.”
Leeds gazed out at the trash-strewn lawn. “I guess it didn’t.”
Sharon stepped over the threshold. “Do you mind?” Leeds exchanged a look with his partner. “I don’t suppose. The lab guys dusted and vacuumed. I wouldn’t be touching things.”
Sharon nodded in thanks, then led the way inside the house. She inhaled a noseful of dust and sneezed. The place was a mess. A lone ancient floor lamp cast its glow over ragged chairs, a pile of manuscripts held together with rubber bands, an empty pizza carton on a folding table. As Sharon passed through the foyer, something scuttled and squeaked inside the wall. She stepped over a circular stain in the rug, probably blood.
A pristine work station sat against waterstained wallpaper, as out of place as a hooker in a nunnery. Atop the work station was a glistening Compaq with its monitor on. The screen saver was a garden scene, flowers waving in the computerized breeze and raindrops drifting lazily down and occasionally jellying the view. Sharon turned to Detective Leeds. “I’m curious,” she said.