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The Proof is in the Pudding

Page 8

by Melinda Wells


  “There’s no such thing as a secret-if you’ve got friends who are cops,” Phil said. “I’m writing a press release that mentions your name, but doesn’t make it sound as though I’m using somebody’s death for publicity. It’s a delicate balancing act.”

  “Must you do that? It makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Sometimes effective PR is like making sausages-you shouldn’t see how it’s done,” Phil said.

  “I make my own sausages, and there’s nothing to hide.”

  “Talking about food is making me hungry. Listen, the story I’m writing says that you ruined a six-thousand-dollar Jorge Allesandro gown trying to save Keith Ingram’s life.”

  Six thousand dollars!

  “Two security men worked on him. You can’t give me credit for-”

  “My hotel source said you were the first to try to administer aid. Right or wrong?”

  “Well, I tried to stop the bleeding from his wound, but it was just for a second or two until the security men-”

  “But you tried. Right? And in thinking about Ingram, your dress was ruined.”

  It was useless to try to talk Phil out of doing his job as he saw it. I gave up and moved on to the subject I feared. “You said the dress cost six thousand dollars. Will Mr. Allesandro let me make partial payments over time?”

  I heard Phil chuckle. “Are you worried about that? Don’t be. Jorge won’t ask you for money. He’ll get many thousands of dollars of free publicity out of the fact that you were wearing his gown at the scene of a murder. Luckily, my photographer got pictures.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. There was so much going on, you probably didn’t notice.”

  “No, I didn’t.” A new thought occurred to me; it was about Phil’s boss and mine, Mickey Jordan. “Does Mickey know what happened tonight?”

  “No. He and Iva are sailing around the Greek Islands, and Greece is nine hours ahead of us. He makes his daily check in call at six PM his time, which is nine AM ours. I’ll tell him about it then.”

  “The trip is their second honeymoon. I hope this won’t make him cut it short.”

  “No reason for him to do that. You were just on the scene of a crime-you didn’t commit one.”

  Not yet, anyway.

  “Get some sleep,” Phil said. “You’ve got a live show to do tomorrow night. Actually, you’ll be going on the air about nineteen hours from now.”

  I agreed-but with my fingers crossed. Phil told me he would have the dress picked up sometime tomorrow, and we said good night.

  My second call was to Nicholas D’Martino’s cell phone. He answered in two rings, but sounded sleepy. When he heard my voice, he said, “Hi, Slugger. How’d the judging go?”

  “The contest was interrupted. Somebody threw a smoke bomb, and when everybody could see again we found that Keith Ingram had been stabbed to death.”

  “Details.” His tone was brisk, professional. All trace of sleepiness was gone from his voice.

  I told Nicholas everything I knew, including the fact that John had hit Ingram close to an hour before the murder. There was no way to keep that a secret to protect John because there had been too many witnesses. Because John was a decorated lieutenant in the LAPD, that detail was sure to be in every report of the crime.

  “Do you think O’Hara killed Ingram?”

  “No! And I’m not saying that because he’s my friend. John is not a murderer. In fact, he’s never even killed anyone in the line of duty.”

  “Okay, okay. Don’t get mad at me. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, but socking Ingram looks bad. It had something to do with Eileen, didn’t it?”

  I didn’t want to lie to Nicholas, but I wasn’t going to betray Eileen. Taking a middle course, I said, “Maybe John heard bad things about Ingram and women. Look, I can’t talk about this anymore right now. I have a live show to do tonight. When are you coming back?”

  “Friday morning. I’m going to call the paper now, see who’s on the Ingram story and work with him on follow-ups.”

  “See you Friday?”

  “Without fail.” His voice took on a caring tone. “Sleep well. I know it won’t be easy.” He added something sweet and we said good night.

  13

  It was nearly two o’clock in the morning when Liddy phoned from her car to tell me she was on her way. As we planned, she had waited until Bill was asleep, and then sneaked out.

  I grabbed the gym bag in which I’d packed the items I would need: a pencil flashlight, a roll of duct tape, a spray can of WD- 40, a hand towel, a fresh pair of the white cotton “beauty gloves” I wore when I went to sleep with my hands covered in cream-and an auto center punch. The final item was something I had taken from the glove compartment of my Jeep shortly after I got home. It was five inches long and half an inch in diameter: about the size of a stubby pencil. With its alloy steel point, it was the most crucial tool of my new trade: burglary.

  Even though I had committed to memory every inch of Eileen’s diagram of Ingram’s house, I didn’t want to risk the smallest mistake, so I folded the precious sheet of paper and shoved it into the pocket of my slacks.

  After petting Tuffy and Emma, and assuring them that I would be back soon, I slipped outside to wait in the darkness for Liddy. Lucky for me-for what I intended to do-there was only the tiniest sliver of new moon, and clouds obscured the stars.

  My neighborhood was quiet. None of the houses I could see from where I stood in the driveway showed the glow of interior lights. The dogs in this canine-friendly area weren’t barking. The only sounds I heard were faint traffic noises in the distance. I knew most of the vehicles carried people who were going to their work, or coming home. Or returning from late night revelry. I wondered if any of the motorists were heading toward commission of a felony. Given the most recent Los Angeles crime statistics, I guessed that there were probably a few villains among the innocent commuters.

  A pair of headlights turned onto my street from Montana Avenue, three blocks south. At that distance, I couldn’t tell who might be in the car, so to avoid arousing suspicion by standing outside at this hour I retreated to concealment behind the large weeping willow tree in my front yard.

  When the vehicle was half a block away, I recognized Liddy’s ivory Land Rover and hurried down to the sidewalk to wave at her. She stopped next to me, but didn’t cut the engine.

  As I climbed into the passenger seat and put the gym bag down next to my feet, she put one index finger to her lips. I nodded agreement to being silent, but when I fastened my seat belt the resulting click sounded almost as loud as a car backfiring.

  Liddy emitted a barely audible nervous titter. I held my breath. We scanned the nearest houses for any sudden turning on of lights.

  Nothing.

  … not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…

  Liddy put the car in gear but didn’t turn her lights on again until we came to Montana Avenue and she turned left, toward Hollywood.

  Even at this hour, there was strong illumination on Montana. For the first time I was able to get a good look at Liddy. I laughed, because we were dressed almost identically in black sweaters and black slacks. The only difference in our attire was that she wore a black knit cap covering her blonde hair. I’m a brunette, so I didn’t need a cap to make myself less noticeable, but I’d tied my shoulder-length hair back in a ponytail.

  “We look like twin cat burglars,” I said. “Maybe we should stop at a gas station and buy some black grease to cover our faces.”

  Liddy shuddered. “That would be awful for our skin. Open the glove compartment and take out the baggie.”

  I did as directed and removed a Ziploc bag. “What’s in here?”

  “Two pairs of Bill’s powder-free latex examination gloves. So we won’t leave fingerprints. He keeps a box in the bathroom. Aren’t they just like what the police use when they’re investigating?”

  “Yes. These are better than the white cotton gloves I brought. You have an
unexpected talent for crime, Liddy.”

  “Thanks.” In the headlights of cars coming toward us, I saw her grin with pride.

  ***

  With traffic moving swiftly on Sunset Boulevard at that time in the morning, we reached Laurel Canyon in twelve minutes. At my instruction, Liddy turned left and we headed up into the narrow, winding canyon.

  When we were about fifty yards from Kirkwood Drive, I said, “Slow down here.”

  Just below the Canyon Country Store, I directed Liddy to turn into the shallow turnaround at the foot of Rothdell Terrace. “Park here, in front of the dry cleaners, but face out toward Laurel.”

  Liddy maneuvered as I’d suggested, then stopped and turned off the engine. No cars were behind us on Laurel, nor, for the moment, were any coming from the valley toward Hollywood. We sat in the darkness for a few moments, listening for the sounds of footsteps, and watching for lights turned on in any of the nearby houses.

  When we were satisfied that the neighborhood was asleep, Liddy whispered, “What now?”

  “We walk up Rothdell and find Ingram’s little pseudo Swiss chalet.”

  “Walk? That road looks as though it goes almost straight up.”

  “It’s narrow, and I don’t know where it would be safe to park. Besides, if we have to get away fast it’s better to have the car down here, where we can get right onto Laurel Canyon.”

  To reduce the amount of noise we made, we opened only Liddy’s driver’s side door. After she got out quietly, I handed her my gym bag, then climbed over the gearbox, and stepped down onto the cement beside her. Liddy closed the Rover’s door with only the faintest clunk and locked the vehicle.

  Liddy whispered, “Did you bring those lock-picky things Mack gave you when you kept losing your keys?”

  Even at this tense moment, I had to smile at that old memory. “No. I have another plan for getting into Ingram’s house.”

  Walking as quietly as possible, we started up Rothdell. I was praying that we wouldn’t run into any foraging coyotes. The canyons were full of them, especially during a period of drought such as Southern California was currently experiencing. This was a fear I hadn’t mentioned to Liddy, who lived south of Sunset Boulevard, in the woods-less and coyote-free section of Beverly Hills.

  Another potential danger we faced was running into some predawn dog walker who would be likely to know we didn’t live in this area. In case we did, I’d prepared a story to tell: We’re middle-aged fans of the Doors, looking for the houses in which our musical heroes had stayed. It wasn’t a very credible excuse for being there, but it was better than admitting we were planning to commit burglary.

  Several houses up the steep lane I touched Liddy on the arm, signaling her to stop. I indicated a structure that resembled pictures I’d seen of Swiss chalets. Nothing else we’d passed looked like that residence. It was constructed of dark wood, with rectangular windows framed in white, each of which contained four to six small panes. The roof had three peaks. One faced front, a smaller one faced to the left, and the smallest was set toward the rear. All that was missing was a layer of snow blanketing the roof shingles, and a pair of skis leaning next to the front door.

  As Eileen had described it, this was a one-and-a-half-story house, with the upper level set a third of the way back from the ground floor. Keith Ingram’s bedroom was up there.

  Liddy whispered, “What do we do now?”

  “You hide in the shrubbery at the front while I go around to the back of the house. If I don’t manage to get inside in three or four minutes, I’ll come back. If I set off the burglar alarm, run fast as you can back to your car and get in. Drive across Laurel, go a few yards down Kirkwood Drive, cut your lights, and wait for me.”

  “What about the alarm system? He must have one.”

  “I have a plan,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. “Do you have your cell phone with you?”

  She patted the side pocket of her slacks. “It’s on vibrate.”

  “Mine is, too. Call me if you see anyone coming up to this house.”

  I put down my gym bag long enough to pull on the pair of Bill’s latex gloves Liddy had provided. We gave each other the thumbs-up sign.

  Carrying the bag, I made my way through the darkness around to the back of Keith Ingram’s silent house.

  There was just enough illumination from a streetlight in front of the next home for me to stay on the dirt path that led to the rear of the property. Eileen had alerted me to the fact that there was a wooden gate leading to the backyard, and told me where to feel for the latch.

  The house next door was separated from Ingram’s lot by a six-foot fence made of wooden slats. A backyard security light burned. Only a little light came over the fence, but it allowed me to see what I was doing. Careful to make no noise, I set the gym bag down, took out the can of WD-40, and squirted the gate’s metal hinges. Seconds later, testing the gate by easing it open a scant few inches, I was rewarded by a welcome silence.

  Bless you, whoever invented WD-40.

  Through the gate, I saw that the lot wasn’t a very deep one. There was just enough room for Ingram’s swimming pool and a narrow brick patio.

  I’d made it around to the back of the house without doing anything to arouse the neighbors. Fear of what I was doing made my heart pound. I stopped, stood still, and took a few deep breaths to calm myself. Extending my free hand, I was relieved to see that it was steady. A line from an old astronaut movie ran through my head: “All systems go.”

  “I’m going,” I said to myself.

  Studying the back of the house, I saw that Eileen’s rough sketch of the exterior had been accurate. Next to the rear door was one of the chalet’s vertical six-pane windows. It was set waist high. Three panes were on one side, and three on the other. Strips of white painted wood divided them.

  I ran the fingers of my other hand along the bottom of the window and felt the wires that meant an alarm would go off when the window was raised.

  But I had no intention of raising that window.

  I removed the duct tape from my bag, tore six pieces about eight inches in length. After I’d attached them to the glass panes and to the side of the house beside the window, I took the hand towel out of the bag, draped it over my right wrist, and gripped the item I had taken from my Jeep’s glove compartment: my auto center punch.

  Several years ago, I’d seen this little tool on a documentary about river rescues. It was used to break the windows of submerged cars. As soon as the program was over, I Googled “auto center punch” and found that they were sold on Amazon, for four dollars apiece, plus shipping. I immediately ordered six of them as presents for Eileen, Shannon, John, Liddy, Bill, and myself. I hoped everybody was keeping them in their cars, as I had been. Southern California is essentially a desert, but we do have floods sometimes, and whenever we have a storm, a car or two is swept into the Los Angeles River. For most of the time, it was a cement channel and a river in name only. There was so little water in it between storms that we called it the “ Los Angeles trickle,” but when there was a sudden deluge from the skies it was transformed into a deadly trap.

  At this moment, I had a more immediate danger right in front of me. Holding my breath and saying a little prayer, I knelt close to the window and positioned the tip of the auto punch near the bottom of the glass-as I had seen it demonstrated on television-and punched.

  I sighed with relief when the pane cracked down the center. The glass didn’t fall because it was held in place by the tape. Working faster now, I repeated the punching process five more times, then began removing the pieces of glass, and setting them on the patio beside me.

  Ouch! A shard sliced through the rubber glove on my right hand. There was just enough light coming from over the fence next door that I could see blood oozing through the slit. I tore the glove enough to expose the cut on my finger. It wasn’t too bad. I pressed the finger against the towel for a few seconds. The bleeding stopped. I went back to work removing
the panes.

  When all the glass was out of the window, I wrapped my right hand in the towel again. Using that hand, I pressed firmly against the center strip of wood that had held the six panes in place. It cracked. Another press and I’d loosened it enough to push it aside.

  No alarm shrieked.

  Eileen’s sketch had filled me with hope that I wouldn’t have to open a door or a window, that I could create my own entrance into the house. By going through the panes and not disturbing the outside frame, as far as the alarm circuits were concerned, that window had remained closed.

  I stuffed the towel back in the gym bag, removed my pencil flashlight, and dropped the bag into the house. I clicked on the pencil light, clamped it between my teeth so that my hands were free-and eased myself headfirst through the opening I’d made.

  And into the darkness below.

  14

  Stretching downward inch by inch, my gloved hands touched a tile floor. According to Eileen’s diagram, I was in the kitchen.

  When I’d maneuvered all of my body inside and twisted around so that I could stand, I transferred the pencil light from my mouth to one hand and aimed the slim beam around the room. Ingram had all the basic kitchen equipment, with everything neatly arranged for cooking convenience. The ubiquitous step stool-there was one in every kitchen that I’d ever seen-fit into a space beside the stove, safely out of the way of foot traffic. I wouldn’t be falling over it.

  So far, so good, but there wasn’t time to think about how well things had gone thus far. At any moment my luck might turn.

  Using the tiny beam to guide my way, I found the staircase and climbed.

  Ingram’s bedroom was a man’s lair: a king-size bed with a headboard carved from some dark wood. Above the bed was a wooden canopy, with little lights set into it.

  Opposite the bed, as Eileen had described, was a large armoire.

  Using the pencil light to examine it closely, I discovered a peephole disguised as part of the raised design. When I opened the door, I saw what had caused Eileen so much terror. There was a video camera, aimed through the peephole at the bed.

 

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