Grave Endings

by Rochelle Krich

  Last night in my apartment he’d listened to me talk about Aggie for hours. I would have loved to lean against his shoulder, to take comfort in his arms. Solace, not sex. Sometimes the rules are hard to follow.

  I took the tissue and blew my nose. “I spent half an hour with Porter and learned almost nothing. I still don’t know what Creeley looked like. It probably doesn’t make sense, but I need to know.”

  Zack wrapped his hands around his coffee cup. “When my friend was murdered on the Jerusalem bus, I checked the papers every day to see the face of the suicide bomber who did it. I wanted to focus my anger on the person responsible for the horror.”

  Zack had almost been on that bus. From his somber voice and the distant look in his eyes I knew he was pondering the what-if, reliving the tragedy that had turned his life around and set him on the path to becoming a rabbi.

  “Did you ever see the bomber’s face?” I asked.

  Zack nodded. “He was average-looking, not someone you would’ve picked out from a crowd and said, ‘That guy’s going to blow himself up.’ He was twenty-three, my age at the time.”

  Another road not taken. “Did seeing it help?”

  “A little. Not enough.” He took a sip of coffee. “Doesn’t the detective have a mug shot of Creeley?”

  “Porter wouldn’t let me see it, or Creeley’s rap sheet. He did toss me a few crumbs.” I repeated what the detective had told me. “I understand why Creeley was afraid to sell the locket. But he’s not Jewish. Don’t you think it’s odd that he held on to it?”

  “It’s odd,” Zack agreed. “Unless he studied Kabbalah and learned about the significance of the red thread.”

  “Oh, please.” I picked at my tuna salad.

  “A lot of people are studying Kabbalah, Molly. Jews and non-Jews. It’s been getting a lot of press because of celebrities like Madonna and Guy Ritchie.”

  “And Roseanne and Sandra Bernhard and Demi Moore. I read People. But Creeley was a petty thief and drug addict. How would he end up at a Kabbalah center?”

  “Maybe he was looking for spirituality, for something other than drugs to fill a void. What did Porter say?”

  “He didn’t. He shrugged. He shrugs a lot. I think he enjoys showing off his pecs.” I exaggerated the detective’s shoulder movement, and we both laughed, something I hadn’t done in days, so it felt especially good.

  I worked on my tuna, which I alternated with sips of hot chocolate, and reviewed my conversation with Porter. I was still thinking about it when Zack finished his sandwich and took a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket.

  “I’m leaning toward ‘Adon Olam’ for me,” he said.

  My mind was still on Porter. “ ‘Adon Olam’?”

  “For the procession? We were going to decide on the songs today, remember? We have to tell the band no later than Wednesday.”

  I remembered. “ ‘Adon Olam’ is great. I love it.”

  “If you’re not up to deciding now, I can come to your place tonight, after mah-jongg. Or we can do it tomorrow.”

  “No, let’s get it over with.”

  He raised a brow. “ ‘Let’s get it over with’?”

  I blushed. “I meant we should decide so we can tell Neil.” The bandleader. “I care about the music, Zack. I was thinking about Creeley. I really do love ‘Adon Olam.’ ”

  “Why don’t we hum a few bars,” he said, but a smile played around his lips. “So what’s bothering you?”

  “For one thing, Creeley had a job around the time Aggie was killed. So why did he mug her?”

  “Last I heard, drug habits are expensive, Molly. It’s not as if he was a CEO making big money.”

  “But Creeley was never violent before. He was unarmed the first time he mugged someone. Why didn’t he grab Aggie’s wallet and run? She would have given him whatever he wanted. She didn’t care about material things.”

  “People don’t always react rationally when they’re frightened.” He gazed at me with interest. “Are you saying Creeley didn’t kill Aggie?”

  “Maybe.” The possibility had blossomed in my head sometime after I left Porter’s office.

  “Then how did he end up with her locket?”

  “He could have been looking in the Dumpster where the killer put her body and found the locket. Or someone could have planted it on him.”

  “Molly—”

  “Something’s off. It’s not just Creeley. It was Porter’s attitude when I asked basic questions he shouldn’t have minded answering. He was defensive. I think he’s sitting on something, Zack. I owe it to Aggie to find out what happened. I don’t want to let her down again.”

  “Aggie’s murder isn’t your fault, Molly,” Zack said, but I was rummaging in my purse for my cell phone. He took out a pen and scribbled something on his list. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed.

  Porter was, when he came on the line. “What now?” he said, his tone a close imitation of a seal’s bark.

  “Just a few more questions, Detective?” I said with enough sugar to reverse insulin shock. “Aggie wasn’t the kind of person to put up a fight. So why would Creeley kill her for her wallet and locket if he never killed before?”

  “Like I said, we don’t know that he didn’t kill before. Just that he wasn’t caught.”

  “But you told me he was unarmed when he committed the last burglary. And he had a job. And he stayed out of trouble for the past seven years. That says something.”

  “It says I shouldn’t have told you a damn thing, Blume. Believe me, it won’t happen again.”

  “Seriously, Detective. Doesn’t all this bother you?”

  “You bother me.” Porter’s voice was rising. I held the cell phone an inch away from my assaulted ear. “I told you Creeley had two strikes. If Aggie Lasher ID’d him, he could’ve been sentenced to life. He couldn’t take the risk.”

  Porter had a point, but I wasn’t convinced. “Still, the violence doesn’t fit his profile.”

  “When did you graduate from Quantico, Blume? It’s over. Case closed.”

  “What if Creeley was framed, Detective Porter? What if Aggie was deliberately targeted by someone else?”

  “What if cows were ducks? You want to know what I think, Blume?”

  “I’m sure you’re dying to tell me.”

  “You want it to be someone else, something bigger,” he said, not unkindly. “If you’d been with her that night, maybe Creeley would’ve mugged someone else. But if she was specifically targeted—well, even if you’d been with her, she would’ve been killed some other night. So you’re off the hook.”

  My face burned with anger. I wanted to yell at Porter and tell him he was wrong. But I didn’t, because on some level, he wasn’t.

  “Connors tells me you’re getting married in two weeks,” Porter said. “Why don’t you leave the police business to us and concentrate on your fiancé? I ought to send him a condolence card. The poor guy probably has no clue what he’s getting into.”

  “You don’t care if Creeley didn’t kill Aggie, do you?” I said before my mind could put the brakes on my mouth. “You want to close a cold case and up your solve ratio.”

  Porter hung up. The sound reverberated in my ear.

  I flipped my phone shut and dropped it into my purse. “Well, that was productive.” I managed a tight smile.

  Zack was frowning. “Do you really believe that the police are just interested in closing the case?”

  “Not really. Although Andy Connors is always telling me that the big brass are upset with the number of unsolved cases.” I tapped my fork against my plate. “Porter annoyed me. I wanted to annoy him back.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He felt sorry for you ’cause you’re getting stuck with me.” I made a face. “He said I should leave the police business to him and focus on you.”

  “I like the last part.” Zack smiled. “The focusing on me.”

  “You think I’m obsessing, don’t you?” I tend to be like a d
og with a bone. It’s a flaw or a virtue, depending on whom you talk to, or if you’re the bone.

  “That was a joke, Molly.”

  “But do you?”

  The furrow between his brows told me he was choosing his words. “When you care about something or someone, you get intensely involved,” he said. “It’s one of the qualities I love about you.”

  I braced myself. “But . . . ?”

  “What if there’s nothing to find out? You’ve been living with this for almost six years, so it’s hard to let go. But at some point you’ll have to, or this will eat at you forever.”

  I thought about one of Bubbie G’s Yiddish sayings. Az me laigt arein kadoches, nemt men arois a krenk. If you invest in a fever, you’ll realize a disease.

  Was I investing in a fever, or was the disease already there?

  four

  Tuesday, February 17. 11:40 A.M. Corner of Vermont Avenue and Sunset Boulevard. A robber approached a man from behind and put a knife to his stomach. He demanded the victim’s money and backpack. A second robber pushed the victim to the ground and the two fled with the victim’s wallet and $585. (Northeast)

  I HAD A SLUGGISH START TO MY DAY THAT A HALF HOUR on the treadmill and two cups of coffee didn’t help. After mah-jongg at Edie’s last night, Zack and I had stayed up past three finalizing the wedding music and cataloging the gifts that had usurped most of the space in my small apartment and would do so for several weeks until we closed on the house we had bought.

  I felt awkward about the gifts, especially those from people who had gifted Ron and me four years ago and might be wondering if this marriage would “take.” (Ron and I had lasted fourteen months.) I felt awkward about the wedding, too, which my parents have insisted on paying for, despite my repeated offers to use money from my divorce settlement. I would have preferred an intimate affair, but I couldn’t blame Zack’s parents for wanting to share the nuptials of their only child with all their family and friends. And of course Zack had to invite the entire congregation, including the Hoffmans (Ron’s parents), and Ron, who had been close with Zack in high school and sits on the synagogue board. The Hoffmans, not surprisingly, had written that they’d be out of town. Ron hadn’t responded. I couldn’t imagine that he’d want to watch his ex-wife standing under the chuppa with another man. My guess was that he wouldn’t come but was enjoying dragging out my discomfort.

  With a third cup of Taster’s Choice French Vanilla steaming my face and my new flat-panel computer screen, I began entering Crime Sheet data. I inherited the column four years ago from Amy Brod, a friend from a UCLA journalism extension course who suggested me as her replacement when she moved to the L.A. Times. Amy had warned that the data entering was mindnumbingly tedious, but two years of writing newsletters and brochures for corporations and fund-raising organizations had inured me to “boring,” and I’d had only modest success placing feature articles in magazines and local papers, including the Times. A weekly byline, I’d hoped, would give me exposure and credibility and a toe in the larger media door, along with access to detectives who could help me research the true-crime book I’d begun writing. Like my grandmother, I’ve always been fascinated and repelled by crime and criminals, real and fictional. Aggie’s murder had intensified my need for answers—not just the who, but the why.

  Amy was right about the data entering, particularly since my editor, George, discourages ironic commentary. But overall, the job is great. It’s been a window on the complex, layered identity of the city I love and from which Orthodox Judaism has insulated me most of my life. If you’re Orthodox, you tend to live in close-knit communities that provide the necessities: Orthodox private schools; kosher markets, butchers, and bakeries; a ritual bath; synagogues within walking distance. Until I strayed from Orthodox observance in my early twenties, most of my friends—many of whom I’d known since elementary school—were Orthodox, too.

  I also enjoy the camaraderie with many of the detectives I’ve come to know, and I still feel a thrill of anticipation when I step into a police station. The crimes I report are mostly repetitive and often mundane, but there are invariably entries that pique my interest. A few have taken me in unexpected directions in the quest for truth, and one, on a dark journey that almost cost me my life and still has me shaking when I allow myself to think about it.

  Today, though, my mind was on Creeley. The only crime that mattered to me was Aggie’s murder; the only truth, Creeley’s involvement. After an hour during which I found myself rereading the same crime data three or four times and making more typos than sense, I phoned Connors. He wasn’t in. I had no intention of contacting Porter, who probably wouldn’t take my call anyway. So I went online.

  My mailbox was cluttered with the usual variety of enticing offers: Russian mail-order brides; Viagra and other prescription drugs that you can get cheaper anywhere in the world than in this country (which, as you probably know, spends all the research and development dollars for said pharmaceuticals); fast-track college diplomas; enhancements for male genitalia (“Ladies, your man needs this bad!”); septic tank repair; “Bikini Zone” No Diets; tips to help stop annoying pop-ups; search engine secrets; LOWEST MORTGAGES IN 35 YEARS!; new technology that will enable you to find anyone (with the exception of the person sending you this offer); frightening, sordid, and pathetic invitations to engage in teen sex.

  When I’m particularly offended, or when I have writer’s block or am procrastinating, I report spam to my Internet service provider (ISP), which promises to block future posts from the offenders. But the ingenious, friendly folks who send spam seem to have all the time in the world along with an endless supply of e-mail addresses, and I’m pretty certain that my missives to my ISP end up in a virtual circular file. So most of the time, I press DELETE.

  That’s what I did now. Then I logged on to Google, a search engine that more than makes up for the spam, and typed, “Roland Creeley in Los Angeles, California.” Creeley is an unusual name—a plus for me—and there were only two hits: One was on Goldwyn Terrace, the second on Cherokee. A visit to MapQuest showed that Goldwyn Terrace was in Culver City. The Cherokee address was just north of Hollywood Boulevard.

  I assumed that the Culver City Creeley was Roland senior, and since Hollywood Division was handling Randy’s death, Cherokee Creeley was probably Roland junior. I wrote down both addresses and the phone numbers Google thoughtfully provided, then placed a call to Cherokee Creeley.

  I did it to try to verify that I had the right man. I did it because he might have left an answering machine message and I needed to hear his voice. I drummed my fingers on my desk and sat up straighter when a machine picked up after four rings and what seemed like an interminable wait.

  “. . . Randy Creeley. Leave a message and I’ll call you back. If you need to reach me right away, call me on my cell phone. . . . Peace and love.”

  My heart pounded as I listened to the pleasant timbre of a voice that belonged to a man now dead—a man who had wished his callers peace and love, though that didn’t prove anything, certainly not according to the police, who insisted that Creeley had killed my best friend and who could be right. I pressed REDIAL, listened to the message again, and copied down Creeley’s cell number.

  I had sheets of police reports with Crime Sheet data to enter. I had wedding favors to wrap, gifts to unwrap and record, a four o’clock appointment with the florist. Zack’s words echoed in my head, and I could hear Connors’s warning:

  Leave it alone, Molly.

  But as Smokey Robinson will tell you, nothing could keep me away from my guy.

  five

  LIKE SUNSET BOULEVARD TWO BLOCKS TO ITS SOUTH, Hollywood Boulevard is more a state of mind than a locale and has more personalities than Sybil. East of Vine it’s Anytown, USA, a wide street lined with industrial shops, groceries, and other stores that serve the needs of the area’s polyglot residents. At Gower there’s a car dealership where I get my Acura serviced and from whose lot you can see the famous HOL
LYWOOD sign (originally, HOLLYWOODLAND). And between La Brea and Highland is the Hollywood you’ve probably read about or may have visited, a giant marquee that has been flashing hope and promises of fame to thousands of would-be actors—among them, apparently, Randy Creeley—and that invites us all to watch the show, to believe in the magic.

  In recent years the magic had all but disappeared. Like an aging star desperate for roles in B movies she would have shunned in her prime, Hollywood had slipped into disrepair. The street that once was the scene of glamorous, red-carpeted premieres attended by paparazzi and crowds of exquisitely dressed celebrities and their fans was pocked with dozens of peep shows, tattoo parlors, and tawdry souvenir shops selling sleazy, overpriced products. Standing in for the celebrities and fans were prostitutes and their johns, the homeless, runaways, drug dealers, users. When the local citizens would complain, the LAPD would periodically chase the street people away, but without conviction, the way you halfheartedly swat at flies buzzing around your barbecued ribs and corn. You know the flies will be back the minute you stop waving your hand, and they know that you know that after a while you’ll get tired of waving.

  Lately Hollywood has undergone a face-lift. The boulevard will never be synonymous with subtle (there’s the new Erotic Museum, and Heidi Fleiss is opening Hollywood Madam), but the sordid souvenir shops are being replaced, slowly, with trendy eateries, boutiques, and nightclubs. And though the prostitutes and drug dealers do trickle back, along with the homeless, and it’s not a neighborhood you want to visit at night, and definitely not alone, the area has improved.

  The glitz is back. Turning right from La Brea onto the wide boulevard, I was greeted by the vertical “Hollywood” spire that topped a silver gazebo with life-size silver statues of four multicultural, evening-gowned stars: Mae West, Dolores Del Rio, Dorothy Dandridge, and Anna May Wong. Several blocks farther east I passed the $600 million–plus Hollywood & Highland project (new investors recently bought it at a fire sale for $200 million), a two-block structure with a Cecil B. DeMille– grand marble arch that invites you inside to an open-air entertainment complex with shops, restaurants, and the Kodak Theater. It’s the new home of the Academy Awards ceremony and is across the street from Oscar’s original residence, the refurbished Roosevelt Hotel.