by Nero Blanc
“Darlessen didn’t steal jack from me, I don’t care what Debra says … Okay, hell, I was in his house because I was still getting it on with her. I mean, why not, she’s nearby, right? She’d do in a pinch. And, yeah, she’s got problems with booze, but so what? Who doesn’t? … Wait here.” Lance stood and walked back into the house. He returned in less than a minute and tossed a key-ring to Rosco. “There. Those are the keys to Darlessen’s house. You don’t believe me, walk up there and give it a try. Who do you think gave those to me? It sure as hell wasn’t Chickie, I’ll tell you that much.”
Rosco studied the keys. “Why so many?”
“I don’t know. That’s what she gave me. The fat brass one opens the beachside door, on the deck. I don’t know what the others are for.”
“Do you want to go there now and find out?”
Again, Lance looked at his watch. “Nah, I told you, I’m expecting someone. He shoulda been here by now.”
“Forgive me for being blunt, Lance, but if you analyze the facts of this case, you look guilty as sin. Darlessen steals your girl, or borrows her, or whatever you want to term it. He keeps you from greeting a lead role in a major TV film, you live just south of him on the beach, you’ve got keys to his house, your prints are obviously all over the place … And, even if you didn’t kill him, how can you sit here and do nothing and let your ex-girlfriend—or your sometime girlfriend—take the fall for a crime she didn’t commit?”
Lance laughed. This time he seemed truly tickled. “That’s exactly what I told my agent on Monday! I mean, like almost verbatim … But, hey, my prints aren’t on that gun; Debra’s are. I don’t know what kind of crock she’s been feeding you, but she pulled that trigger, you can bet on it. Me? I’m just trying to make—” Lance was cut short by the ringing of the doorbell. “I gotta get that. Take a gander at the view, Rosco … stretch your legs … whatever … I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
Rosco stood, but Lance returned almost immediately. “Sorry about that … a little piece of business … Like I was saying, I’m just trying to make the most of a situation. That’s what you gotta do in my profession.” He lit another cigarette, then said, “Now, I’ve got a little surprise for you … If you know what’s good for you, don’t turn around.”
Naturally, Rosco began to swing his body around to see what Lance was looking at, but the actor growled, “I said, don’t turn your head.”
Rosco did as he was told.
“That’s better. See, Rosco, I got some friends in high places. Some people who’d like to see my career really take off. And I don’t mean just TV movies.”
“I gather I’ve got someone behind me, ready to shoot, in order to make sure your career stays on track?”
“You’re a smart guy. And that’s exactly the way I was gonna play you. Quick-witted, clever, intuitive … Like I said earlier, I’m gonna respect what you’ve got to do. But you have to respect what I have to do. I’m just sorry you’re not LAPD. It would make this a lot easier, and make a prettier picture … If you will.”
Lance raised his hands slowly until they were level with his shoulders, as if Rosco had a gun pointed at him. “Just sit still, my friend, this’ll be over in a second and you won’t feel a thing.” Lance looked past Rosco and added, “Are you all set, Carl?”
A voice said, “Ready when you are, Mr. diRusa.”
Lance tightened his jaw and said, “Then, let’s do it.”
Rosco recognized the sound immediately, having heard it at crime scenes more times than he could remember. It was the whirring and clicking of a 35 mm SLR camera with a motor drive attachment, most likely a Nikon. It went on for ten or fifteen seconds and abruptly stopped.
“Got it,” the voice behind Rosco said.
“Great!” Lance stood and walked across the deck to Carl. “Can we get this in on Monday? That’s what my agent’s looking for. Maybe with a headline like, PRIVATE DICK SHAKES DOWN DIRUSA OVER DARLESSEN MURDER?”
“That’s up to editorial, Mr. diRusa. I’m just the shooter.”
“Yeah, well, thanks, Carl, I’ll have my agent beam in with your editorial people.”
Carl ambled up the side walkway of the house and Lance returned to his chair and said, “Variety.”
“I gather you’re not talking about the spice of life?”
Lance laughed once again. “I like that … ‘variety is the …’ Good. That’s good. Look, Rosco, I told you that my agent and PR people expected some major press out of this situation, and we haven’t gotten even a squib in the Toluca Times. LAPD picks up Debra, and bang, it’s all over in a week or two. Well, no way, José. We had to make a move. I said I’d respect you, right? And I did. We got the back of your head and that’s it. We get my mug out there and you remain the mystery man. I respect what you do. You respect what I do. I’m a fair player.”
“The problem I have with all this, Lance, is someone died last weekend, and a murderer is walking around free because the police have the wrong person locked up for it.”
“Hey, you want to live in Fantasy Land, go down to Anaheim. I got work to do. I gave you a break here. End of interview.”
Rosco stood, walked through Lance’s house, and climbed into the Mustang without saying another word. He backed out onto the P.C.H. and headed north again. Anger at diRusa, at the whole publicity-hungry stunt made him strangely calm and focused. At least I have the keys to Chick Darlessen’s house, he reminded himself over and over. If I came away from this bogus interview with nothing else, at least I can return to square one without breaking and entering.
Rosco left the P.C.H., relocated Darlessen’s bungalow, and parked the Mustang on the road a hundred yards to the north of the house. Then he walked back along the beach where he climbed up to what had once been Chick’s and Debra’s second-story deck. Using the brass key, he unlocked the deck door and stepped inside into a central living/dining area with a galley kitchen at the rear. There was an open door revealing what had obviously been Chick and Debra’s ocean-view bedroom, and another door, closed, that Rosco assumed led to Chick’s small home office.
A cursory glance into the bedroom revealed little of interest, but the door to the second room was locked. Rosco tried the keys until he found the proper one, and swung the door open. There was a blood-splattered bullet hole on the wall; below it, on the couch, Darlessen’s blood had dried into a dark-brown shade. More of it had stained the carpet. It resembled a thick coating of mud, but the odor was acrid and strong. The smell of death—there was no mistaking it.
Rosco sat on the edge of the desk and studied the scene as he tried to visualize what had happened on the night Chick Darlessen had died. Did Darlessen catch Debra with Lance … or maybe someone else? he wondered. Did a fight ensue with either Debra or her lover wielding the murder weapon? Or was there some other issue at play? But then, why would the killer use Darlessen’s pistol unless he or she came to the house unprepared, which seems like an unlikely scenario? Or, did the killer possess another weapon and opt not to use it in order to pin the blame on Debra? Or has she been the guilty party all along?
Rosco groaned in frustration and leaned back on the desk where his left hand brushed against a brass cigarette box. He picked it up to read the engraving, “It’s never too late to quit.” He chuckled and shook the box. It made a rattling, metallic noise, nothing like the sound cigarettes make. He opened the box to find five weathered pebbles, each rubbed to a frosty sheen and nearly perfectly spherical in shape from years of tumbling through the Pacific surf. Rosco closed the box and set it back on the desk near Chick’s answering machine. It had been disconnected from the wall jack, most likely by the police, Rosco guessed, after they’d listened to the messages. He tapped the play button and a computer generated voice indicated that there were three messages, all dated the previous Sunday afternoon—before Chick had been shot and killed. Rosco recognized Debra’s voice on the first message:
“Hi, hon, I’m gonna be a little late. Gotta make
a quick pit stop. See ya soon. Kisses.”
The machine beeped and moved on to the second message:
“Hey, Chickie, it’s me. I was hoping for a progress report. Where do we stand? Give me a ring.”
The machine beeped for a third time:
“Chick, it’s Stan, you there? Pick up if you are. Look, fella, we need to talk. This ain’t chump-change … you know what I mean?”
CHAPTER 36
With her hand still clutching her favorite crossword-solving pen, Belle looked at Sara. “Putting aside logic for the moment—”
“Which I agree can be dramatically overrated, dear—”
“And Rosco’s conclusion that the mystery puzzles have no connection to Darlessen’s death—”
“Because, as you stated yesterday,” Sara interjected, “if they’re unrelated, how is it that the clues and solutions appear to have such uncanny bearing upon the case?”
To which Belle added a brief and gratified “Exactly!”
The two women were seated side by side on a beige ultra-suede love seat in Sara’s hotel suite. A room service cart bearing two hearty breakfasts had been pushed aside, and the balcony doors were thrown wide open to the pleasant mid-morning sun. Sara momentarily glanced away from the crossword spread on the table before her to gaze through the doors. She was still clad in her dressing gown, a rather grand satin-trimmed affair she deemed appropriate for her new status as Hollywood diva. Belle was in her favorite jeans. The generation gap between these two friends was apparent only in their clothing; in all other ways, they behaved like peers—even to finishing one another’s sentences. And sometimes each other’s thoughts.
“Famous Last Words,” Sara mused. “An ominous title—”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Belle replied. “And look at 36-Across: ‘_____dead body’___”
“And ADIOS AMIGOS at 61-Across … especially in light of last night’s dinner.”
Belle’s head jerked upward. “I know you think I’m crazy with my suspicions of international intrigue, Sara, but this crossword is full of foreign allusions … SAYONARA … ALOHA … CIAO … AU REVOIR—”
“The British TA TA at 12-Down—”
“I really don’t like this, Sara. I don’t like it one bit.” Belle sighed in worried frustration. “Besides, the puzzle has a sort of teasing tone that makes me wonder if the constructor is playing a game of cat and mouse. And again, it’s created on the same grid I used for Anatomy—just like the previous three.” Belle leaned her troubled face into her hand. “What if someone is intent on kidnapping you? Some foreign group? Or … or maybe the senator?”
“I still fail to—”
“But it’s possible, isn’t it, Sara? Just admit that to me? That it is a possibility? And this puzzle constructor is literally scared to death to come forward.”
“Well—”
“Wait! Let me get the other crosswords from my room. We’ll lay them out side by side, and try to find connections. I won’t be happy until we track down the constructor. Maybe I missed something in those earlier puzzles.”
“But they appeared to be quite innocent offerings, didn’t they, dear? Now, playing devil’s advocate for a moment, what if the crosswords are intended as a jest of some type?”
“Well, I’m not laughing. And I don’t believe you are, either. Famous Last Words doesn’t sound remotely like a joke to me.” Belle jumped up, spun toward the suite’s main door, then suddenly turned back to the balcony, hurried over, slammed the French doors, and locked them. “Don’t make a move till I get back. I’ll just be a second. And, don’t answer the door.”
“Belle, dear—”
“Or the phone.”
Sara laughed gently. “At the risk of sounding ungrateful … You’re not a very large person if it came to alien abductors rappelling down the side of the building—”
“I’m fierce though,” was Belle’s swift reply. “And I can talk almost anyone into a comatose state.”
As Belle and Sara huddled over the collection of mystery crosswords, Rosco was en route to Jillian Mawbry’s home in Glendale. The attorney had felt the progress report Rosco planned to deliver was better handled at home, rather than in a public office building where their relationship could be compromised or unwanted questions might be asked. And besides, Mawbry had explained, since his property was undergoing a “major hardscaping,” meeting with Rosco on Paula Avenue would afford him a chance to “keep an eye on the worker bees.”
The first thing Rosco noticed as he turned off Fairfield onto Paula was the black-and-gold pickup truck with the sign that read MARQUIS DE SOD LANDSCAPING—LET ME WHIP YOUR LAWN INTO SHAPE! He smiled to himself when he spotted Max Chugorro and one of his assistants. They were unloading a pallet of aged and weathered brick. Not a bad way to earn a living, Rosco thought. You were outside all day long, with different homes and different clients. And there was the creative side of it, too. Deciding which plants would thrive under what conditions, building a nurturing environment, working with your hands—to say nothing of the hours spent in hardware stores. That fact alone made the job appealing.
Rosco parked on the opposite side of the street, and crossed to the pickup’s tailgate where the two men were dealing with the bricks. Max glanced up, frowned, then returned his concentration to his task.
“Need any help?” Rosco asked. He was already rolling up his shirtsleeves in pleasant anticipation of using his muscles rather than a brain that seemed all-consumed with Chick Darlessen’s death.
“Mr. Mawbry’s not here.”
“Not here?” Rosco’s hands paused mid effort.
“That’s what I said.”
“He’s expecting me.”
“What can I say?”
“But—”
“Look, mister, I have a load of work to do. You got a cell phone? Give him a shout. Maybe he’s on his way.”
Rosco nodded to the air because Max had turned his back on him.
“I’ll just try the doorbell—”
“I’m telling you Mawbry’s not here.”
But Rosco had already begun walking up the sidewalk toward the house, and as he did, he came abreast of the pickup truck’s passenger seat. Sitting there, straight and quiet as a beanpole, was a small woman with pinkish-white hair. She was staring hard through the windshield; and Rosco had the distinct impression that something was wrong.
“Good morning,” he said with a benign and noninvasive smile. “Nice day, isn’t it?”
The woman didn’t reply, although the corners of her eyes crinkled and her lips pursed in a tighter line making Rosco believe that she’d heard him.
He looked back at Max Chugorro, and wondered what the situation was; Max was watching his movements very closely. If it hadn’t been for the sun, the warm skies, the presence of the landscaper’s two assistants, and a neighborhood packed with comfortable homes, Rosco might have suspected some felonious activity. Maybe even an old woman held against her will. He tried the friendly ploy again.
“Back east, where I come from … Massachusetts, that is, we’ve got a foot of snow on the ground … which makes this look like a real paradise—”
But Rosco’s affable effort was curtailed when Jillian Mawbry’s front door flew open, and the attorney himself barreled out. For such a physically frail specimen, he was moving with surprising determination and energy. His face was livid with anger. “You don’t let me know you’re here, Max? I’m sitting in the house watching C-SPAN for Pete’s sake. I’m waiting and waiting, and you don’t bother to inform me that you’ve finally returned with the right bricks, which I sincerely hope, this time around, are genuinely ‘aged.’ I told you from the beginning I didn’t want new, and I told you I didn’t want facsimile acid-aged or that tumbled junk, either.” Mawbry merely nodded at Rosco. His concentration was wholly devoted to the landscaper.
“I didn’t realize you were at home, Mr. Mawbry.”
“What? You can’t knock on the door like a normal person? You ca
n’t look in the garage?” Jillian nodded at Rosco. “I’m sitting in there twiddling my thumbs watching a bunch of D.C. hacks with comb-overs—and paying travel time for the Marquis, I might add. Maybe I should just start hanging out on the stoop like they do on the East Coast.”
“Sorry, Mr. Mawbry,” Max said. “I must have gotten my signals mixed. I thought you said you were driving home from the office.”
“Which I was! Didn’t we say you’d be here at 11 A.M.? Or was that my imagination? If you hadn’t diddled away the morning, you would have been here long before me.”
Max Chugorro’s eyes hardened. “The traffic—”
“I don’t want to hear about it.” The attorney spun on his heel, barked a quick, “Okay Polycrates, tell me what you’ve got,” then charged back toward the house.
Rosco glanced at Max and said, “Looks like we have an unhappy camper on our hands.”
The landscaper merely shrugged, so Rosco followed Mawbry into the house, where he found him directing the remote toward the TV. The lawyer tapped the mute button, silencing a balding defense department consultant but leaving on the screen his nervous, round, red face with its glued-in-place hair. He appeared to be testifying in front of a senate investigation panel.
“So much for that guy’s pearls of wisdom. Don’t you wish it was that easy to shut up these clowns?” Mawbry said with a world-weary sneer.
It took Rosco just over ten minutes to give the attorney his verbal report. He opted to leave out any reference to Belle’s strange crosswords, as he felt they would be of no interest to the lawyer. During the presentation, Mawbry interrupted several times in order to toss in impatient comments: “I keep telling you, I don’t care who killed Darlessen …”; “I’m only looking for reasonable doubt here …”; “You’re not out to collar a murderer, Polycrates; Leave that to the cops …”
When Rosco finished, Mawbry remained silent, nodding to himself twice as if ticking off a private list but in all other ways ignoring Rosco’s presence and the information he’d shared.