by Helen Knode
The problem was they couldn’t take the photograph. My break-in at Hannah Silverman’s wasn’t lawful; any seizure they based on an illegal search would be thrown out in court. There was no way around it.
They’d talked to Silverman two days ago, I learned. She had an alibi for the night of Stenholm’s murder. It was the same alibi she’d had for Edward Abadi’s murder: she spent the night with her father. She still accused Stenholm of killing Abadi. Her big theory now was that Arnold Tolback murdered Stenholm. A lover’s quarrel, Silverman told the cops.
But Lockwood had talked to Tolback at the Chateau Marmont last night. Tolback could prove his whereabouts during the time of the murder. He also denied Silverman’s claim that he was having sex with Greta Stenholm. He denied it categorically, and Lockwood couldn’t budge him.
I spoke up.
Tolback moved out of Silverman’s house just five days before Stenholm died. There had to be a connection. I’d heard Silverman call him a faithless son of a bitch. And according to Penny Proft’s gossip, Tolback and Stenholm were sleeping together. Either Tolback was lying or Silverman was imagining things.
I’d asked Lockwood once before: why would Greta Stenholm want to mess with Hannah Silverman? I’d since learned the answer. Because she thought that Silverman murdered Edward Abadi. Reason enough to seduce Arnold Tolback, I argued.
Lockwood nodded his head. He said the point was logical but not necessarily reflective of actual events. They had yet to discover evidence of a Tolback-Stenholm affair. Smith said they were still looking.
I shut my mouth and they went back to the Dale Denney problem.
It’d be premature to brace Hannah Silverman about Denney; they agreed on that. But he was a link to Greta Stenholm and the blackmail, and he had a history of violent crime: they needed to find him now. They thought he was probably hiding out, and they’d have to start “doorknocking” his known associates. Doorknock was a police verb, I guessed. They said that doorknocking Denney’s KAs would take time and manpower.
I listened to their talk while I watched the walkway outside. Listening to them, a crazy plan popped into my head. It was not only crazy, it was dangerous. But it seemed like an effective shortcut to Dale Denney. I thought it over, weighing the pros against the cons. The pros won. At a break in conversation I spoke up again and offered myself as bait.
Lockwood and Smith just looked at me. I explained what I had in mind.
Dale Denney was a desperate man. Whoever hired him for the blackmail drop wanted their money back. His reputation, maybe even his life, hinged on getting it back. He’d followed me from home that morning, and he’d stake me out again, maybe as early as tonight. He’d come after me for sure—if it seemed safe.
Here was the deal, I said. I’d go home to the pool house. I’d leave the driveway gates open, my car out, the yard lights off. Unmarked surveillance cars could cover the street. Lockwood could come through the vacant lot and climb the back wall; we’d time it to arrive at the pool house together. Lockwood could hide in the kitchen, or somewhere, while I puttered around the front room. I’d open the doors and windows and light all the lights. I’d be a superbly vulnerable target.
Lockwood and Smith didn’t even think it over: they vetoed the plan flat. Lockwood cited my injuries from last night and asked if I wanted to risk another attempt on my life. I said I didn’t see the risk if he was right there. They remained adamant, so I tried a bluff. I said I would do it with or without their help. I didn’t give a damn who I flushed out. I was tired of being jumped, chased, punched, and almost drowned. And I had nonlethal weapons to defend myself.
Lockwood shook his head N-O—emphatic. Smith gave me a patronizing smile, like I was some plucky young chick, too cute for brains.
I reminded them that the doorknock approach took time and manpower. I reminded them—
They ignored me, stood up together, and went to search the rest of the apartment.
I could hear them talking. They found garish clothes and more skin magazines in the bedroom; condoms and drugstore cologne in the medicine cabinet; eight cans of malt liquor and a carton of cigarettes in the fridge. They didn’t find an address book, or any letters or bills. There was nothing to tie Denney to anyone or anyone to Denney—except the picture of “Shelly.”
I argued for my plan on the ride downtown. It was a one-sided argument: neither Lockwood or Smith would discuss it. They filed the results of their search at the county courthouse, drove me to the minimal], and dropped me at my car.
I climbed out of the backseat. I was thinking that my bluff had been called and I was on my own. Screw them, was my next thought; I’d prove I had the chops to trap Dale Denney myself.
I started to slam the door. Lockwood looked at his watch and said, “Meet me by your back wall at nine o’clock.”
LOCKWOOD APPEARED at 9:00 P.M. sharp. I’d stopped to eat, swung by the office to check in, and was only a few minutes ahead of him. I heard a low whistle from behind the wall. I whistled back, and he came up and over. The hanging ivy made too good a ladder—I’d have to get it trimmed. Or sprinkle broken glass along the top of the wall.
I waved. Lockwood crossed the lawn to meet me, looking around the whole time. It was dark; but he scanned side to side as if he had the yard gridded in his head. He spent longest on the trees and bushes. The shadows there were the darkest.
He said low, “We checked Denney’s prints against the latents in the pool house and the back office. No match.”
“I didn’t think there would be.” I pointed to the street. “What about extra help?”
“I have three unmarked units in the area—yours, plus two more. Nobody’s seen Denney’s car. You still want to do this?”
He reached for my hand and held it a second. His hand was warm; mine was clammy. He said, “You’re sure?”
I started to walk away. He took my arm and walked along with me. I was waiting for final comments or instructions, but he didn’t say a word.
I went into the pool house first. He let go of me and headed for the bathroom. He had his bearings, I noticed; he didn’t trip over anything in the dark. I heard the bathroom louver squeak. He’d set up to watch the front drive.
I dumped my bag, turned on all the lights, started coffee, and played my messages.
Sis had called to ask if she and Father could come by. She also wanted to talk about her interview with Lockwood; she wanted to know how I’d gotten involved in a murder case. I pressed fastforward before she finished. Barry called four consecutive times, demanding to know where the fuck I was and what the fuck I was doing. He was in a twist. He’d never nagged me about a piece before.
Barry’s messages were the last. The reporters had given up, for one day at least. There was no return call from Scott Dolgin, and no calls from Isabelle Pavich. I was surprised by that. I thought for sure I’d hear from her by now; she’d struck me as the pest type.
I poured some coffee and took a few sips. It wasn’t what I wanted; I wanted to lie down. I kicked off my shoes and stretched out on the daybed. The minute I was horizontal, a dizzy spell hit. I was getting used to the spells—I’d felt dizzy off and on since last night. After it passed, I wedged the can of Mace under my leg and took deep breaths to relax. A night breeze blew in the screen door. I stared out into the dark. My eyelids got heavy and my mind began to drift....
A noise—
My eyes jerked open.
The noise came from the driveway side of the pool house. Something had brushed against the bushes.
I checked the clock: 10:05. I wrapped my fingers around the Mace.
A dark shape on the porch. The stink of cologne.
Dale Denney was suddenly at the screen. He yanked it open and lunged for me.
I had no time to think. I pulled up my knees and kicked out. I hit him in the chest and knocked him back. Lockwood came running from the bathroom. Denney smashed into him. They tipped over a chair and crashed to the floor.
I jumped off the
daybed, grabbed my sap, and started swinging. I couldn’t get a clear shot at Denney. He was tangled in with Lockwood.
They rolled and thrashed and banged the furniture. Lockwood was tall and fit, but Denney was one compact muscle. My bookcase pitched over. A lamp smashed against the wall. The shade exploded; glass flew. Lockwood ducked it, raised up, and kicked Denney in the groin. It was a vicious kick. Denney screeched and bent double. Lockwood knee-dropped him in the back. Denney hit the floor, spitting blood.
Lockwood grabbed Denney’s fingers and bent them backward. He said, “Don’t move or I’ll break them.” He was breathing hard.
Denney coughed blood and lay still. Lockwood kept him pinned, trying to catch his breath. Blood oozed from cuts on his face and neck. Suddenly I felt sick. I weaved and sat down on the daybed. The room was tilting out of focus.
Denney said, “She stole my money.”
Lockwood bent his fingers back. Denney squirmed. Lockwood leaned into his kidneys. Denney arched and lay still again.
Lockwood pulled out his badge. He hung it in front of Denney’s face. Denney whispered, “Cunt.”
I’d had it with that. I leaped up and swung the sap at him. My ears started to ring. I missed Denney, lost my balance, dropped the sap, and reached for Lockwood. He put an arm out to catch me.
Denney saw his chance and shook loose. He staggered to his feet, snatched a chair, and swung it at Lockwood. A leg caught Lockwood in the head. He sprawled into me and knocked us both to the floor. Denney kicked Lockwood in the ribs and took off running.
The last thing I heard was “Cunt!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE DOCTOR at Hollywood Presbyterian said that I had a mild concussion and bruised bones in my right wrist. He prescribed Percodan, plus a day in the hospital for observation.
It ended up being longer than one day. I’d never taken prescription painkillers before and I dug the warm, woolly high; but I was so exhausted from nerves and everything else that it wiped me out completely. I could hardly think straight by Saturday night, much less get up and go home. To tell the truth, I was also happy to sleep somewhere safe for two nights.
Lockwood came by three separate times to check on me. He hadn’t been hurt in the fight with Denney. I heard this from a nurse; I was asleep and missed him all three times. The last time, he left a note on my bed stand. It said that Denney had escaped. The unmarked units picked him up outside my place, then lost him on the downtown freeways. They’d found the Trans Am later, abandoned in South Pasadena, and were now checking stolen-car reports. Denney’s apartment was under surveillance, and they were trying to locate his known associates. Rest, Lockwood wrote—rest and feel better. He’d had an officer drive my car to the hospital; I’d find the keys at the nurse’s station.
By Sunday morning I was better and ready to be gone. The weekend was half over and I had a lot to do. I had to shelve Greta Stenholm and start serious work on the Lockwood piece. If I didn’t get my research done that day, I’d never make Barry’s Tuesday deadline. And so far I had nothing publishable on him—not a thing.
I drove home and found a pair of men installed in the mansion. They said that Lockwood had copied my keys and put the two of them there. They were anonymous-looking cops from Metro Squad whose job was to watch for bad guys and protect me. On Lockwood’s instructions, they’d moved my stuff out of the pool house into the bedroom I used as caretaker. I found everything I needed upstairs: my computer, my books, my clothes. My writing desk and reading chair were arranged like I liked them. They’d put my soap and towels in the adjoining bathroom. They’d even brought up the telephone, fax, and coffeemaker, and plugged them in.
I couldn’t resent Lockwood’s interference.
While I was tripping on the Percodan, I’d had a few revelations. One: I’d been nuts to use myself as bait for Dale Denney. Smith and Lockwood were right to try and stop me. It was a dumb, reckless idea, and I was lucky that Lockwood and I weren’t seriously injured. If Denney’d had a knife or a gun, anything might have happened.
Two: I was afraid.
I was physically sore from all the attacks and I didn’t look forward to more pain, or worse pain. But my fear wasn’t just physical. I was afraid because I didn’t know what the hell was going on.
Greta Stenholm wasn’t murdered by her blackmail victim. Lockwood’s attempt to justify that theory was flimsy and convoluted. Hannah Silverman hadn’t murdered her either. Silverman might have murdered Edward Abadi out of jealousy—that remained to be proved. And she might have murdered Stenholm, in theory, for the same reason. But I wasn’t jumped at the pool house by Hannah Silverman. I’d seen her pictures and I’d seen her live; even in the dark, I could tell the difference between a tall, stringy, middle-aged woman and an average-sized man. The man might have been hired by Silverman. That was always a possibility, since the pool house attack happened the same night I searched her beach house. She could have seen me or my license plate and hired a killer. But the killer was not Dale Denney; Denney’s cologne was too unmistakable.
Or there might be a third motive. Not blackmail or romantic revenge—a third reason for Stenholm’s death that I had no hint of. And I couldn’t defend myself from something I had no hint of. Someone was going to try to kill me again—and I didn’t know what or who to look out for.
But I wouldn’t let the fear paralyze me; I refused to let it. And Lockwood’s Metro Squad guys were a comfort. They’d set up watching posts at both ends of the second floor. One watched the front yard and street, the other watched the back. My room was in the middle, between them, but the house was so big that we couldn’t see or hear each other. Anyway, they weren’t there to confine me or keep tabs on my movements. They’d said so when I asked.
I showered off the hospital smell, changed into fresh clothes, and went straight to work. I must have needed the rest. I felt stronger and clearer than I’d felt since Denney punched me in the face.
Vivian was still asleep when I called. She answered on a groggy, “What is it?”
I said, “I need a strategy for Lockwood.”
Vivian’s voice got louder. “I’m not helping you, sister, until you tell me your news. I’m tired of being pumped for information with no quid pro quo.”
I could trust her with confidential stuff, so I told her my news, every last bit except the part about my crush on him. For once in our five-year friendship, Vivian was speechless. I used the silence to talk. “Did you get anything out of those reporters—”
Vivian blurted, “Shit!”
“—who wouldn’t—”
“No, I mean really, shit, Ann. Maybe you shouldn’t—”
I stopped her because I knew what she was about to say. “Would you give it up if you were me?”
There was another silence. I heard domestic noises in the background; it sounded like Vivian was out of bed, making coffee. She came back on the line, wide-awake. “You have to talk to a copgroupie named Karen. I met her at the Ray Perez trial—she’s older and sort of a groupie doyenne.”
“What about those reporters who wouldn’t talk to me?”
“They wouldn’t talk to me either. They wanted information and I wouldn’t play.”
“Then I thought I’d try Parker Center and the police academy—”
“Ann, it’s Sunday, and besides, random polling is the most frustrating and time-consuming way to do research. Talk to Karen. She’s Lockwood’s oversexed admirer I wrote you about—the one who provided the 'divine but unfuckable’ quote. Those groupies know things, and Doug Lockwood is their idol.”
I DIDN’T TAKE Vivian’s advice right away. I should have, but I didn’t believe her and didn’t have enough reporting experience to know better.
I drove to Parker Center, then to the police academy in Elysian Park. There weren’t a lot of people around and the people who were around wouldn’t talk to me.
At Parker Center they wouldn’t let me up to Robbery-Homicide. Anyway, I was told, the offices were closed.
I spoke to a secretary in Personnel who was catching up on work; she was polite but not helpful. In the parking lot I tried some patrol cops. They were willing to flirt but not to talk about Lockwood.
At the police academy, I found some guys practicing at the outdoor pistol range. I never made it to my first question. The name of my newspaper alone got me three deadpan stares, a shrug, and a rude suggestion.
Like Vivian said, it was frustrating and time-consuming. I wasted the morning and part of the afternoon, and finally called Karen-the-groupie. She lived in Reseda, way out in the Valley. Her roommate said that Karen wasn’t home; she was at a bar in Elysian Park called The Short Stop. The roommate started to tell me the cross street. I said thanks, I knew it.
The Short Stop was only a few blocks down Sunset from the police academy. The pink sign said COCKTAILS, and the exterior was boarded-up white. I walked in and let my eyes adjust to the lighting. It was almost empty on a Sunday afternoon, and the guys at the bar were definitely not cops. They looked more like neobeatniks, readers of the Millennium. I checked the booths for someone with very long hair. That’s how Karen’s roommate had described her.
There were three women giggling in the booth nearest the door. All three wore navy blue LAPD windbreakers, tight jeans, and dress shoes with heels. One was noticeably older and had long, streaky blond hair. Peroxide had turned it the texture of straw.
I walked over to the booth and said, “Karen?”
They stopped giggling and looked at me. I got the female onceover, then Karen looked at her two colleagues. They were glossy little Latinas wearing press-on nails and gold bracelets. Barely out of their teens, I guessed. A telepathic message passed among the three: I didn’t meet any of their standards for beauty or fashion, therefore I was no threat. They burst out giggling again.