“Mr. Addams, in my line of work, people often do things that are considered unlikely.”
People began to gather around, sensing the drama. Bodies crowded nearer and a few came in close behind me. I just kept smiling as I realized my reaction to the sudden surrounding and closing in was to draw my gun. I couldn’t get a handle on why I was so angry. I could hear people whispering. Addams watched the rising tide.
“I’m glad you joined us, Joan,” said Addams, changing his tone. “Next time I’ll send you an invitation. You’re off duty, right?”
“No, I’m working.”
I surveyed the faces around us but didn’t see anybody I recognized.
“In any case, I insist you and your partner…”
“Detective Gus Van Chek.”
“The two of you must stay for the unveiling.”
“I love unveilings,” I said. “You could say they’re my passion.”
It was a duel now and I would play it out. Besides, legally he had invited us. Anything I learned from this visit would be admissible in court. A woman had engaged Gus in conversation. He nodded politely at her, still keeping an eye out on me. I wanted to scream at these people, to let them know that Dani was dead. Surely, one of them had information that could help our investigation. The question was, did any of them care? Odds were good that the answer was no.
“It’s a new piece of artwork for my collection,” Addams continued. “Music and drama are all part of the presentation. It’s quite entertaining if a bit spooky.
“What kind of artwork?” I asked.
To say I felt self-conscious would be an understatement. My conservative nature and reserve were like a naked canvas for their wild-colored theatrics. I had learned from a young age to make a face a blank screen. As I had this thought, I spotted an ornate African mask on the wall across from me. It was red and black with nails for eyebrows.
“You’ll like it, Detective Lambert, don’t worry. You’ll find it actually relates to your own line of work. It’s an ancient tribal instrument used to tell the truth. It has the ability to point,” and then he pointed from person to person, “to the guilty party.”
He ended with his finger in my face. The crowd laughed and sniggered. They were good at it.
I heard one of the guests say, “What do you think she’s guilty of?” and then another, “She sure looks guilty to me.”
“Sounds like it’s right up my alley,” I said.
Addams bowed dramatically and turned away from me. Our little scene was over, I guessed. I hadn’t even heard anyone call out, “Cut.”
I sighed, and since I saw several people smoking, I pulled out one of the last of my stale Marlboros. I was looking for a match when a strong masculine hand sparked up a military-gear-like lighter in front of my nose. I glanced up into the serious brown eyes of Eduardo, aka Coastal Eddy.
“Hello, Joan.”
He was wearing loose-fit jeans and a burgundy sweater. He looked casual, enticing. I was sure I looked grim, unyielding.
“Yeah, hi,” I said. “You were rude last time we met.”
“I’m afraid we got off on the wrong foot,” he said.
“Let me say right now that if you so much as look like you’re going to put your arm around me, I’m taking you down and I’ll put my foot on your neck.” As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn’t.
“Forgive me.” He seemed to mean it. “You’re a lady,” he continued, “I had a few too many that night. I behaved inappropriately.” He turned away from me and looked at the crowd which had begun to stir. “The show is about to begin.”
I turned around as well, trying to remember the last time anyone had ever described me as a lady.
The distinct sound of conga drums and a Latin beat, accented with African rhythm, fused into a percussive explosion. A procession began of stately black women dressed in traditional fabrics and head wraps. They each held a staff with flames burning at the end. Good thing the place had high ceilings or it would’ve caught on fire. The drumming was accompaniment to their sensual, hypnotic movements. I was reminded of the Marlene Dietrich scene that Autumn had in the DVD player in her bungalow. Connie, the receptionist, nobody really, had said that this party had been planned extensively by Autumn. It was a thought-provoking connection, to say the least.
A striking woman, dressed in ceremonial spectacle which could only be described as African empress, presented an artifact to the room. It was about three feet high and made of wood, fabric, and some kind of animal or human hair. It was ancient, according to the woman’s announcement, and handed down from many previous owners. It was the depiction of a small man with a cruel, amazingly cruel, expression on his face. He had long arms and especially long fingers. It was infused with evil, embodied with malice. This was evident even before the regal woman explained its ritual use.
The woman spoke with a French accent. She explained that the man doll, as she called it, was used in ceremonies to reveal the truth and to point to the guilty party whenever there was a dispute in the Congo. The power of the ceremony was often abused. Innocent people were pointed out. Villagers feared the ceremony and of alienating the appointed personalities involved, to the point of distraction and sometimes insanity. The vile ritual created a paranoia that empowered the whole process even more.
The African empress took a deep breath, made a dramatic gesture of presenting the man doll for a demonstration, and pointed first at me. I swallowed. The doll’s long finger stayed on me unwavering. I knew that the woman was controlling it. Still, it unnerved me. The women then pointed the doll’s finger at Addams and he began to cry. The guy was something. La Crisia was there with a handkerchief. The doll moved on. One by one, the woman continued to point the doll at each person at the party. It caused quite a stir.
Everyone had a different reaction, mostly of aversion.
I understood this whole presentation to be therapeutic, cathartic for Addams. I was sure he felt guilty for not loving Autumn the way she needed to be loved. The man certainly had pulled Autumn Riley into a subterranean crowd. I thought maybe he overestimated his influence. The Autumn that was emerging for me was of a bold and defiant character, not a dog on a leash and not a victim. Not Addams’s victim, anyway. Maybe I was wrong. I’d have to wait until I met her. I had every intention of doing that, and soon, too. Thing was, I needed to find her first. I didn’t want to get to her too late.
Dani’s death had set off a bit of a panic in my chest. I looked at Coastal Eddy who was thoughtfully watching the demonstration. His gaze settled on the weeping Glenn Addams.
In that instant, I understood an incredible irony. I knew it was true that I was guilty. That Addams was guilty, but not of murder. I also understood that in some strange way, I belonged with these people and their dark, perverse ways. I didn’t want to belong. I wanted to be better than them, but I wasn’t. I was in the black snake pit right beside them and time would tell who was stronger, or smarter, or meaner. But regardless, I was a slithering life form squiggling in the primordial slime just like them. I knew it and they knew it, too. They accepted me and now, albeit uncomfortably, I accepted them.
Percussionists entered from another room, playing their drums that hung from leather straps over their shoulders. The party was moving into full roar.
A tall, overly muscular man moved away from the gathering. I hadn’t noticed him before.
“Excuse me,” I said to Coastal as I put down my drink and stood up.
“Be careful. You’re vulnerable,” he said.
I’ve been accused of a lot of things. Being vulnerable ain’t even on the list. Why would he say that? A vulnerable lady?
“You don’t know anything. I’m hardly even human,” I said.
“You’re funny.”
“Do you always hang with this crowd?”
“When can I see you again?” he asked.
“No telling. Everywhere I go, you magically appear,” I said. “Truth is, I’d like for us to have a chat so I
can find out more about you.” I gave him my card. He looked at it.
“No fair,” he said, “no home number.”
“And you claim to be an investigator,” I said and crossed the room, not waiting for another comeback.
I was following the trail of what I assumed was a steroid-fed man, all dressed in black. His muscles bulged unnaturally against the confines of his black T-shirt, jeans, and combat boots. He had a tattoo of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle that glistened on the recently oiled skin of his forearm. The bodyguard that had escorted Autumn to the photo shoot appeared out of my imagination and was walking down a hallway.
I wanted to get to Steroid Boy before he got away. He ducked into a bathroom and closed the door. I waited for a moment, then knocked. I heard him cursing. I kicked in the door. He was leaning over the sink, shooting up in a vein of his armpit.
“I want to talk to you,” I said simply.
He finished shooting the drug into the vein, “So talk. Shit! What is it?”
I closed the door behind me. His eyes bulged.
“What the fuck?”
He put his paraphernalia into a slick-looking black leather container. His look was deranged. His forehead broke with sweat.
“I’m Detective Lambert.” I flashed him the badge. “You know an Autumn Riley?”
He looked like a kid who’d just been told that his mother was outside and wanted to see him. “Sure, she’s the producer’s main squeeze.”
“You ever give her any drugs?”
“Not to my recollection.”
“You’re sounding very presidential; you know that?”
“What is the problem? I heard this morning she was shopping for new clothes on Melrose. What’s all the fuss?” I felt like dragging Steroid Boy out to my car for a more intense interrogation.
“Who told you Autumn was shopping for clothes on Melrose?”
“Aw, man, everybody is talking ‘bout it, I don’t know who.”
“You got a friend from Haiti named Dewey, right?”
“Why are you asking my life history?”
“Answer the question.”
“I may have met the guy somewheres.”
I pulled out the photo of Dani from the murder scene. “Maybe you recognize Autumn’s best friend from Australia.”
Hector looked at the photo, took it in. “Never seen her.”
“Where’d you meet The Barb?”
“The Barb?” he laughed. “I don’t really know him.”
“I heard you were close.”
“You heard wrong. Man, you know, this is a private party.”
“And man, you know, you’re under arrest.”
I could sense that the guests took our leaving at that particular moment as having some sort of significance. I got a lot of party pooper attitude. Even though Steroid Boy came willingly, I insisted on the cuffs. Gus broke off his conversation and fell in behind me and I waved a goodbye to Addams on the way out. He didn’t wave back.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ONCE WE HAD STEROID Boy back at Parker Center and cooling it in the interview room, we did a background check on him. Turned out, his name was Hector Cardona and he was on our records as being on probation for burglary with a previous history as a runaway foster kid. He was clearly of age now, having grown up on the streets of Hollywood. I called his old Juvie officer, Freda Dietz, a personal friend of mine who gave me more information than was the normal policy.
My purpose for doing that was to get a handle on young Hector Cardona’s head. Freda explained that at one point, while still a juvenile, Hector was suspected of killing his foster mother, Grace Cardona. I got goose bumps over my scalp.
“What was Grace like?”
“The woman was a saint,” said Freda. “Grace was known for taking in foster kids, forty-three in all. Hector, her last foster kid, stayed with her the longest. She had a reputation for turning kids around. She treated them like her own and her style was to inform them of the realities of crime, of the statistics. She told it like it was. Grace didn’t coddle her foster kids, she held them accountable, taught them to take responsibility for their lives, showed them a future.”
There weren’t too many like Grace in the world. Freda’s description of Grace reminded me of Donna Paynt, my own foster mom. Foster homes have notorious reps for conditions worse than the child’s original home. Horror stories about foster homes tell a lot about why runaways prefer the streets.
“So, what happened?” I asked.
“Grace had officially adopted Hector and had even changed his last name to hers. But then Grace and her husband were both murdered within the same week.”
“By Hector?”
“Who knows. We couldn’t prove anything and Hector disappeared into the streets after that.”
We let Hector wait in the interrogation room for an hour, then Gus decided I should work him.
“Okay,” I said, “Let’s go get lied to.”
The small room had one table and two chairs. Hector sat in one and I took off his cuffs, handed him a cold Diet Pepsi, and sat down across from him. I noticed he wore one of those international watches that indicate the time in Japan and other parts of the world. He drank the soda down in one long gulping action, then crunched the can. It sat between us like a statement. Seeing him up close, he didn’t look so tough, more like a teddy bear with a scowl on his face. One of his brown eyes was slightly smaller and the color was darker, almost black. Gus leaned against the wall but didn’t say anything.
“Okay, Hector. I’d like this to go smoothly. You cool with that? You need a smoke?”
“Don’t smoke.”
“That’s great. Wish I could say the same. I quit but got back started again.”
“Sorry to hear that, Detective Lambert.”
“Call me Joan. When you think of me, always think of me as Joan. Okay?”
“You want me to call you Joan? Not officer or detective?”
“That’s right. Just Joan.”
“That’s an outdated name. You look too young for a name like Joan. Sounds so Beaver Cleaver.”
“I’m from the Ozarks, Hector. They’re kind of old-fashioned back there. ‘Course, Hector is not exactly a cutting-edge name, either. Gus, where’s that name come from? I tell you what, Hector, Gus knows everything. I got the smartest goddamn partner on the planet.”
“Hector,” Gus obliged. “Hecuba’s son, hero of Troy. Hector was killed by Achilles in retribution for murdering Achilles’s lover, Patroculus.”
“Oh, not such a good ending,” I said.
Hector deadpanned me.
“Which ninja turtle is that?” I asked.
A crooked smile flickered across Hector’s face. “It’s Rafael,” he said, then covered it with his hand as if to protect it from me.
“Oh, is that the one that eats a lot of pizza?” I asked.
“Yeah, it is.”
All the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles ate pizza. But Rafael was the smart ninja turtle, the one who always figured out the game plan.
“Hector, you sure know a lot of different kinds of people, you move in a lot of different social strata for a runaway foster kid who came to age in the streets of Hollywood. Movie directors, music producers, et cetera.”
“Does that impress you, Joan?”
“In fact, it does. I have to wonder… What is the common thread between all these people? What’s the connection? You know us detectives think like that.”
“Fascinating.”
“What happened to Grace?” I asked.
“Wha? Why you bring that up?”
“Did you kill her?”
“No.” There was a long pause before he spoke again. “Everybody said I did.”
“Why did they say that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who killed her?”
“I think it was George.”
“George?”
“Her husband, but they couldn’t prove it.”
“Why not?�
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“Why not? Because George died.”
“How did he die?”
“How did he die? Somebody mugged him or something, I was a kid. I don’t remember.”
“I think you do remember. I think you could recall certain details. You killed him, right?”
“I had an alibi, and you must know that, you know everything else, so don’t even start with that shit.”
“Good thing you had an alibi. Boy, you had to learn the ins and outs of the justice system early, didn’t you? I bet you’re an intelligent and clever person. I mean, how else could you survive all those years on the streets, just a kid?”
“I’m not dumb. I can survive. Not too many make it.”
“No, that’s right. What’s the average survival period for a kid on the streets?” I waited for him to answer.
“Two years.”
“Where’d you learn that?” I asked.
“Read it somewheres.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. When I was a kid.”
“I bet you read that in the National Institute of Justice Journal.”
“Maybe that was it. I don’t remember.”
“Who gave you that to read?”
“Grace.”
“She cared about you, didn’t she? She wanted to help you, make you understand things.”
He nodded and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them he gave me a look of deep resentment and looked pointedly at the international watch wrapped around his wrist.
“She the only one?”
“Only one what?”
“That cared about you.”
He closed his eyes again, took a deep breath then answered, “Yes.”
“See there, I know that, Hector. I know you, I got it down. I say that because I just want you to understand that I got you all figured out. That’s all I’m trying to say here. You’re grown up now, got yourself all buffed up and nobody can touch you. But I know you, okay? You don’t fool me. You’re strong, I’ll give you that, but I know your weaknesses. I don’t care about George, or who killed him. He’s long dead and he sounds like a bastard anyway. If I had been in your situation I might have done the same. I’m not here to talk to you about George except to say I understand certain things. Maybe you fooled some folks along the way, and maybe some other people got the wrong idea about you. But I don’t belong in either of those categories.”
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