A flicker of disapproval flitted across his face so quickly that I almost missed it. Reston had been out of town Friday night, too. I wondered if the police would find that as interesting as I did. I flashed to Scott Peterson, who had beseeched the public to help him find his missing eight-months-pregnant wife, Laci, and was now awaiting trial for her murder.
“What about Professor Linney?”
“He was asleep for the night, and in the morning, Margaret was gone. He blamed himself.” Tim sighed. “I kept telling him he couldn't have saved her. And if he'd tried, he probably would've been killed.”
And now he was dead anyway. When trouble comes, Bubbie G says, it often doesn't come alone. “Who reported her missing?”
“I did,” Bolt said, somber. “The Professor pounded on my door at six in the morning. He couldn't find Margaret, her room was a mess, he was afraid something had happened to her. He wasn't making sense, and I thought she'd run to the market or something. But then I saw the bedroom.” He grimaced, as though he were reliving the discovery.
“No one on the block heard anything? No one saw any strange people or cars that didn't belong?”
Tim shook his head. “It happened in the middle of the night. Margaret kept her car at the end of the driveway, near the garage. So if she was kidnapped, the kidnapper could have taken her out the back door and no one would have seen.”
Bolt's choice of words interested me. “You're not sure she was kidnapped?”
“I guess she was. They were waiting for a ransom demand—Hank has money—but it never came.”
I sensed he was holding back. Reporter's intuition. That and his earlier disapproval; his slight, uneasy hesitation; the fact that he wasn't making eye contact. I thought about the mocking tone of the woman I'd heard talking to Reston, about Reston's anger directed at her and possibly the architect. What was his name? Dorn. Jeremy Dorn.
“I heard people talking about this case just the other night,” I lied. “I didn't realize they were talking about Margaret Linney. They seemed to think the husband was a suspect in the disappearance.”
Tim shrugged. “You'd have to ask the police.”
Not exactly a denial. “What about Jeremy Dorn? Was there something going on between him and Margaret Reston?”
He stiffened. “I've known Margaret all my life. She was a beautiful person, inside and out. People like to say nasty things, but that doesn't make them true.” His face was flushed with anger.
So there had been talk. “Did she know Jeremy Dorn?”
“They both did. Hank and Margaret were building their dream house. Dorn was the architect.”
“The other day Professor Linney asked you if Margaret still hated him. What was that all about?”
“I really can't say.” Bolt glanced toward the stairs visible through the arched doorway and stood. “I'd better check on Peggy.”
Couldn't say, or wouldn't? I stood, too. “I appreciate your talking to me, Tim. One more question? Was Professor Linney the head of the HARP board when he served on it?”
Tim looked at me with curiosity. “I don't think so. What's the difference? Either way, he's dead,” he said quietly. “That sad old man is dead.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
ZACK WAS ROCKING ON MY PORCH GLIDER, HIS HANDS IN the pockets of his black leather jacket, when I pulled into my driveway.
He met me at the trunk of my car.
“Another five minutes, and I would've been the first cryonically preserved rabbi. Who said L.A. doesn't get cold?” He smiled. “Shavua tov, Molly.” Have a good week.
“Shavua tov. Why didn't you call first?”
“I did. You weren't home, and your cell phone wasn't on. Your mom said you left right after havdalah, so I figured I'd pick you up at seven.”
He lifted out my roll-aboard overnighter and wheeled it along the pavement and up the steps to the porch.
I checked my watch. It was five after. “Did we have a date?” I took out a bag with the quart of Baskin-Robbins Pralines 'n Cream I'd bought after leaving Tim Bolt's.
Zack turned and gave me a quizzical look. “We always go out Saturday night. Why would tonight be different?”
I shut the trunk and joined him on the porch. “You didn't mention it on Friday. And you didn't walk over last night, or this afternoon. So I wasn't sure.”
“My cousins are visiting from New York. Remember?”
“Not really.” Now that he said it, I did remember something about relatives coming. All that worry . . .
The apartment smelled musty. I opened a window in the breakfast nook, where I left Zack while I wheeled my luggage to my bedroom and took off my jacket. When I returned he was in my tiny kitchen, rearranging frozen vegetables in my freezer to find a spot for the ice cream.
“I need five minutes,” I said. “Where are we going?”
“There's an eight-thirty showing of the new Tom Hanks film at The Grove. How does that sound?” He removed his jacket and slipped it around a dinette chair.
“Fine.”
I'm a big fan of Tom's, though not of war movies, which this was. But it was “kosher”—no steamy sex, no nudity, little or no profanity. Aside from animated films, action flicks, selected thrillers, and romantic comedies (my favorite), there's not much out there for a Modern Orthodox rabbi to see.
“Where were you, by the way?” he asked. “Aside from Baskin-Robbins.”
“Interviewing someone about the death of an old man who died in a fire last night on Fuller. I happened to give him a ride a few days ago.” I told him what had happened, my heart heavy with sadness for Oscar Linney.
“That poor old man.” Zack shook his head. “People were talking about the fire in shul. According to the news, the police suspect arson. So what was he like?”
“Cranky, confused. Lonely, sad. Looking for a daughter who's missing and is probably dead.” I repeated what Tim Bolt had told me, felt another twinge of pity for the old man.
Zack sighed. “Not knowing is worse than knowing, isn't it? The pain must be unbearable. You hear about people with missing spouses, kids. Look at Yakov and Yosef.” Jacob and Joseph. “Yakov spent twenty-two years mourning for his son, not wanting to accept that he was dead even though he'd seen the blood on Yosef's coat.”
I still have trouble believing that this man who slips so naturally into talk of Judaism and Jewish ancestors was the jock I'd necked with in high school. Zack had made a 180-degree turn. If anything, I'd turned a few degrees in the opposite direction.
He was studying me. “You're frowning. Is something wrong, Molly?”
This is why I can't bluff at poker. “It's my Times story.” Not really a lie. “The house that was torched, where the old man died? It was his house, and he was on the HARP board. But I don't think he chaired the board.”
Zack looked puzzled. “And that's a problem because . . . ?”
I told him what I'd left out of my piece. “So if Oscar Linney's house was targeted, that doesn't fit the pattern.”
“So maybe the pattern's a little different. It's still a HARP connection, right? And you didn't mention this other pattern in your story, so there's nothing to retract.”
Thanks to Connors. He'd never let me forget. “There was a pattern, Zack. Seven out of twelve chairpersons targeted in a two-month period can't be a coincidence.”
“You're right.” Zack rubbed his chin. He does that when he's thinking hard.
“We're not going to solve it tonight. I'm going to change.” I took a step toward the hall and turned around. “Okay if I wear pants?” I could see that the question surprised him. I'd surprised myself.
“You don't need my permission.”
“But would it bother you?”
He cocked his head. “Is this a test?”
“It's a question.” I was beginning to be sorry I'd asked. I sat down at the dinette table.
“Well, if you're asking, I'd be more comfortable if you didn't.”
“You were uncomfortable at the HARP meeting when th
e Hammers saw us together, weren't you?”
“Not in the least.”
He was making me nervous, standing there. “Aren't you going to sit down?”
“Do I need an attorney?”
I felt myself blush. “Sorry.”
He took the seat across from me. “Is that why you were so distant on the way home, and the next night, when we talked on the phone?”
“I wasn't distant. You were distant.”
“I was trying not to get in your way, Molly. You were thinking about a dead bird. You had a deadline.”
I had to admit that was true. “I told you on our first date that I wasn't right for you.”
“And I said, ‘Let's get to know each other, see what happens.' Unless I'm totally clueless, things are great between us.” He gazed at me intently. “Aren't they?”
“Yes.” God, yes. My face felt warm. “That first date, were you figuring that if we hit it off, I'd change the way I dress?”
“I wasn't figuring anything. I felt incredibly lucky that we'd reconnected, and then you made it clear you weren't interested. But I couldn't stop thinking about you, and then I saw you in shul. And, well, here we are.”
“And my skirts and sleeves are still too short.” I smiled to lighten the moment.
He smiled, too. “You're hardly Jennifer Lopez in short shorts or a sheer Versace. But you're right,” he said, suddenly serious. “As a rabbi, I'm expected to follow the rules, and people look at who I'm with. Human nature.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I'm saying I believe in the rules. I live my life by them.” He leaned toward me, his arms folded on the table. “I'm saying you're the best thing that's happened to me, Molly, and I can't imagine not having you in my life, and I hope we can work it all out. What are you saying?”
He was so close that I could smell the musk of his aftershave. I had an urge to trace the contours of his face with my finger, to lean closer and press my lips against his. What would that feel like after twelve years?
“I'm saying you're the best thing that's happened to me, and I can't imagine not having you in my life,” I repeated softly. My face was tingling. “But I'm not good with having rules forced on me. That's what pushed me away before. And I don't want to give up my individuality.”
“And your individuality is defined by your hemline?”
“Among other things.”
“Orthodox Judaism has a lot of rules, Molly, most of which you have no problem following.” He leaned back against the chair. “Is this going to be a problem?”
“I don't want it to be.”
He nodded. “Maybe this isn't about hemlines.”
Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was about not knowing whether I could trust my feelings. I'd been wrong before. I'd thought Ron and I would last forever, but our marriage had expired before the warranty on our large-screen TV.
“I guess I need some time,” I said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Monday, November 10. 9:24 A.M. 100 block of North Croft Avenue. A woman reported that a man called her six times and hung up without saying anything, then called back and said, “I will kill you and eat your heart with mushrooms.” (Wilshire)
VINCE PORTER SHOWED UP AT MY DOOR WITH ENRICO Hernandez, a Wilshire detective I'd seen at the station. I had just stepped out of the shower after a long date with my treadmill—penance for the weekend. A jumbo bucket of popcorn during Tom's movie, followed by hot dogs and fries at The Grove's kosher kiosk; Sunday dinner with Zack at an Italian restaurant that makes irresistible olive bread with a garlic spread and great veal scallopini. And tonight was mah jongg at Mindy's—more nosh.
I threw on a sweater and jeans that felt tighter than they had three days ago and towel-dried my hair. I almost felt sorry for Porter and Hernandez, who were probably being grilled by Isaac, my thrice-widowed, seventy-seven-year-old landlord. He'd been engaged in his favorite pastime when they arrived—people-watching while drinking coffee and rocking on the front porch glider. I heard him clack his dentures with excitement as I invited the detectives inside, and he'd probably have given me a month's free rent to be in on the conversation so that he could report it to his “boys” at their weekly poker game.
Porter is tall and muscular with surfer wavy blond hair and swimming-pool blue eyes that have probably taken in a lot of suspects, especially of the female gender. The eyes, not surprisingly, weren't all that friendly this morning. Hernandez is a few inches shorter and leaner and has thick straight black hair and eyes the color of dark chocolate.
They sat on the taupe sofa in my sparsely furnished living room, and I sank into the cushy chintz armchair facing them. I'd been expecting a visit from Porter. I wasn't exactly nervous, but there is something unsettling about having police detectives in your home. The last time had been five years ago in a different apartment, when detectives had questioned me about the murder of my best friend Aggie.
Hernandez began. “As you may know, Miss Blume, Friday night a man died in a fire. We're assisting the fire department in the investigation of his death.”
“Has arson been determined?” I asked.
Porter gave me a we're-asking-the-questions scowl, but Hernandez didn't seem perturbed.
“They found traces of an accelerant,” he said.
I'm a sucker for accents and I loved his—Hispanic, soft and musical. “Where was Professor Linney found?”
“I'm afraid I can't answer that. I can tell you he was on the local HARP board, which suggests that this incident is connected to the recent vandalisms you so kindly brought to the department's attention.” A hint of a smile played around his lips.
Porter, I saw, was not amused. “Did Linney chair the board?”
“As a matter of fact, he did, a year ago.”
That fit the pattern, then. But would the vandal have known that? And why would he strike twice in the same area?
Hernandez took out a small spiral notepad. “We have a few questions about the HARP meeting Wednesday night.”
“The one you wrote about in your piece in the Times.” Porter's sneer and grating chalk-on-a-blackboard tone indicated what he thought of my journalistic efforts.
There went my Pulitzer. “What would you like to know?” I asked Hernandez.
“Let's begin with the bird.”
I was sick of the damn bird. “There's not much to tell. It was a medium-size bird.” I held up my hands about eight inches apart. “Kind of a grayish brown. A woman found it hanging on the ledge of an easel holding up a poster. She knocked down the easel and screamed.”
“What time was that?” Porter asked.
I considered. “Around eight-fifteen.” I was hungry and craved coffee, but it would be rude to drink alone, and I wasn't inclined to play hostess to Porter.
“Any idea who placed it there?” Hernandez asked.
I shook my head. “I must have passed the easel half a dozen times during the evening, but I only looked at it when I first arrived. That was around seven-twenty. I was across the room talking to people when the woman screamed.”
“Which people?”
They were eliminating suspects. “Linda Cobern. She's with Councilman Harrington's office. And Jeremy Dorn. He's spearheading the Hancock Park HARP drive.”
Hernandez wrote down the names. “Anyone else?”
“There was a gray-haired man talking to Cobern and Dorn. He left after I walked over and was near the easel when the woman screamed. He was furious about HARP.”
“What's his name?” Porter was a tiger pouncing on his prey.
I blanked for a second, then remembered. “Arnold Seltzer. I quoted him in the Times article.”
“Who else had access to the easel?” Hernandez asked.
“Everyone. And the room was cold, so a lot of people were wearing jackets or coats. It wouldn't have been hard for someone to hide the bird and put it on the easel's ledge when no one was looking. I think that's why the organizers decided not to call the police.” And
because they didn't want the negative publicity.
“What about Roger Modine? Was he there?” Porter asked.
Connors must have given him the contractor's name. “Yes.” I'd asked my dad. He'd never met Modine, but had heard of him: decent work, but something of a hothead. I decided to keep that to myself.
“Was he wearing a jacket?”
“I think so.” I tried to visualize the contractor. “Brown corduroy, bulky. Seltzer was wearing a black parka.” I hoped Roger Modine had a solid alibi for Friday night.
“You're very observant, Miss Blume.” Hernandez smiled. “We're fortunate that you were there.”
He was the “good” cop. He was flattering me, and I knew it, but what the hell? I smiled back.
“What about your sister?” Porter asked. “Edie Borman,” he prompted when I didn't respond.
“I know my sister's name,” I said before my better judgment kicked in. There was no advantage in being snippy with Porter. “What about her?”
“We understand that she was at the meeting, and that she's very involved with the Hancock Park anti-HARP drive. She could have put the dead bird on the easel.”
Edie won't open a carton of cottage cheese that's a day past its expiration date, let alone touch a dead bird. But that wouldn't impress Porter. “So could half the people in the room,” I said. “I could have, too.”
“Did you?”
Forget better judgment. “Sure, I always carry a dead bird in my purse. You never know when you're going to need one to liven up a party.”
“Or a story. Maybe you figured it would punch up your ending.” Porter smirked.
I decided not to dignify that with a response.
Hernandez frowned at Porter, probably for my benefit. “Timothy Bolt told us you gave Professor Linney a ride to the Fuller house,” he said. “When was that?”
“Tuesday morning, around eleven-thirty.” I described the circumstances. “Apparently, Professor Linney had wandered out of his son-in-law's house several times before, looking for his daughter's house.”
“How do you know that?” Porter demanded.
I was tempted to say I'd used a crystal ball. “Tim Bolt said so. So did the son-in-law, Hank Reston. I overheard him at the HARP meeting talking about Linney. Reston was very concerned.” I faced Hernandez, knowing it would annoy Porter. “Why all these questions, Detective?”
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