The Double-Time Slide: A Dieselpunk Adventure (The Crossover Case Files Book 2)

by Richard Levesque

  After at least two minutes of silence, there was a click on the line. Then I heard Beadle say, “I’ve got it, Edward. Thank you.” Another click followed. Beadle cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Strait?”

  “Mr. Beadle.”

  “I hope you’re calling to say you’ve had another exciting experience,” he said, alluding to his desire to pay for “proof” of the crossover experiences he’d built his little cult around.

  “Well, you could call it an exciting experience,” I said. “But I’m afraid it’s not the kind of thing you’re hoping to hear about.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Your Nazi girlfriend paid me a visit last night. She did a little damage. I’d like to settle up with her, and I’d like you to tell me where she is.”

  Beadle sighed on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry, Mr. Strait, but I haven’t seen Elsa in at least two months.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  I didn’t believe him. Cosmo Beadle wasn’t quite as slippery as Elsa Schwartz, but he was still plenty slick. Lies spilled out of his mouth with incredible ease.

  “And if I was to swear out a complaint with the LAPD and tell them I had good reason to believe she was holed up out there on Catalina, what do you suppose they’d find?” I asked.

  Beadle chuckled at this. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Mr. Strait. First of all, I doubt the police would be able to get a warrant based solely on your accusations. I do still have friends in high places, after all. But let’s say there was a search…Honestly, Mr. Strait, I have nothing to hide. In fact, you could come out to the mansion this afternoon if you like. Look around all you want. I’ve got some interesting houseguests. They’d love to hear about your exploits.”

  I let his denials roll around in my head for a moment before I spoke again.

  “Some other time,” I said.

  “Are you saying you believe me about Elsa?”

  “For now.” I looked at the dripping faucet for a few more seconds and then added, “I’d believe you a lot more if you told me where you thought she might be.”

  He chuckled again. “I really have no idea. Frankly, I’m a little surprised to hear that she’s still in the vicinity. She tired of my company, you see, when it turned out I couldn’t give her what she wanted.”

  “Which was?”

  “Secrets. Power.”

  “You have plenty of both.”

  “And I keep them for myself. Such things are not wisely given away too freely.”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “So…no ideas at all?”

  He was silent for a moment and then said, “Elsa loved hearing me tell tales about the silent film days. If I were you, I’d scout around in some of those dilapidated mansions up in the Hollywood Hills. The kind of place where you might expect to find a ghost or two; look closely enough and you’ll probably find Elsa instead.”

  “Hmm. Nostalgia doesn’t seem to suit her. You sure about that?”

  “Oh, certainly. I took her up to Gold Rush Gulch last summer and showed her where we shot The Lone Star. That was Mickey Blaine’s biggest picture, you know. Elsa found the whole thing fascinating. She said that Hitler was a big fan of mine, if you can believe that.”

  “It certainly adds another piece to the puzzle,” I said. “This Gold Rush Gulch is…what, old locations?”

  “Yes. A complete western town. There’s a lot of history up there. It’s a bit off the beaten track, though.”

  “Not some place where she’d hide out?”

  “Oh, goodness no. It’s a movie set, Mr. Strait, not a hotel. It’s mostly facades. Elsa likes her creature comforts. You find a good real estate agent who’s willing to be bribed, and you’ll track her down in the Hollywood Hills. I can almost guarantee it.”

  “Mm-hmm. You wouldn’t be inclined to call her as soon as we’re done here, would you? Give her a little warning that I’m trying to track her down?”

  “No, no. Honestly, Mr. Strait, I don’t know how to reach her. And I don’t know how else to convince you.”

  “I’m a hard man to convince. You’ve done admirably well. But if you’re lying to me, Cosmo…”

  “I’m not.”

  “I hold a grudge.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  I thanked him for his time and hung up the phone, wondering whether his idea about slipping a few bills to an unscrupulous real estate agent would be worth the trouble. I decided to let it go for now, as I was expecting Carmelita to emerge from the bathroom at any moment, and I’d have no more privacy on the phone at that point.

  With an hour to kill before we had to leave, I tried taking my mind off of things by picking up the guitar and getting in a little practice, but strumming the strings made me nervous. I couldn’t get past warming up a little. Everything I tried to play after that made me worried that I was going to slip free of this world again, like I had in the High Note. Things had been so busy since then that I’m almost been able to push the picture of the wounded and crazed Carmelita from my mind, but now the guitar—the one thing I could usually count on to relax me—was bringing those images right back where I didn’t want them.

  So, when Carmelita told me it was time to go, I put the Harmon back into its case without any of the regret I usually felt at locking it away again, and we headed out.

  It should have been an easy drive from Echo Park to Hollywood, but we ran into roadblocks as soon I tried turning onto Sunset Boulevard. This meant turning around and retracing our route, heading farther north and trying again, only to meet another police barricade.

  Half hoping there might be some sort of traffic tangle that would require Carmelita and me to break our date with Mullen Peale, I pulled up to a bored looking LAPD officer who was manning the roadblock.

  “Excuse me, officer,” I said as I rolled the window down.

  He took a few languid steps toward the car, an eyebrow raised by way of acknowledging me.

  I waved my hand toward the roadblock and then in the air to indicate all the barricades in the area. “What’s all this about? Is there a parade coming through or something?”

  He rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t read the papers much, do you?”

  I shrugged. “I’ll work on developing the habit,” I said and then looked expectantly at him for some explanation.

  After a moment, he gave me what I wanted. “Nixon’s coming to town this afternoon. We’ve been told to keep Sunset blocked off up to Santa Monica for the whole day.”

  “Ah,” I said. From the cop’s body language and the fact that he’d simply said “Nixon” rather than “The President,” I could tell the officer wasn’t a fan of our new executive leader. I didn’t much care one way or the other. The California native had won the election in the fall of ’48, not long after I’d come west, and he’d held the office for a little more than two months now, already ruffling a few feathers from what I understood—just not mine until now.

  Looking at the roadblock, I said, “We’re trying to get over to Hollywood, but we can’t seem to make it through.”

  “Yeah. That’s the way of it. You’re going to have to work your way up to Fountain and cut over.”

  Given that every other driver in the area was going to be attempting the same thing, this sounded like an ordeal.

  “There’s no way you could be persuaded to just let us through?” I ventured. “I promise we won’t tell.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, pal. It’d be my job.”

  I told him I understood, and rolled the window up.

  “What do you say we cancel?” I asked Carmelita.

  “We could just go to Guillermo’s instead. Get his truck and fly to Hollywood. How would that be?” she responded, her smile mischievous.

  “I like that idea less,” I said.

  “Let’s try and head up to Fountain, then,” she suggested.

  Letting out a sigh, I said, “All right. Just for you, though.”

 
And so, we drove on.

  Chapter Eleven

  Barker House was a fancy restaurant built on the ground floor of an old house at the west end of Hollywood Boulevard, in the space between the major commercial district and the area where the road starts its windy way up into the hills. Despite the roadblock and traffic, Carmelita and I arrived before Mullen Peale and were shown to our table, a nice one near a window with a view of a rose garden outside.

  My head still felt fragile, so I ordered coffee and took a look at the place while I waited for it to arrive. Sitting in what once must have been the great room of an old Hollywood mansion made me think more about what Beadle had said regarding tracking Elsa down in a place such as this. If no other ideas came to me, I planned on following up the next day.

  Mullen Peale was ten minutes late for the reservation he’d set up himself. This irritated me, in part because I didn’t see the point of being there and also because my hangover was making me short-tempered. When he did show up, however, he wasn’t alone. A woman came in with him; she was well-dressed and pretty where Peale was unkempt and a bit awkward. It was clear to me they weren’t a couple. Even from across the room I could see she was out of his league. When they got closer, though, I realized that the woman was Ginny Flynn.

  I had spent plenty of time watching her through binoculars the last couple of weeks while camped out in front of her house or her parents’ house up in the valley. Plus, there’d been the publicity shot of Miss Flynn that Peale had provided me when he’d hired me to tail his rival. So, she was easy to recognize even with her dark brown hair partly tucked under a smart little hat; she had a trim little nose, a bit pointier than most, and wide blue eyes. Although a little on the short side, she was not as petite as Mercy Attentater had been, nor as voluptuous.

  Ginny Flynn looked uncomfortable walking in with Mullen Peale. For his part, the other screenwriter looked somewhat giddy; it was like he was secretly pleased with himself—to the point that he could no longer keep secret whatever devilishness had built up inside him.

  “Ginny Flynn,” he said as they stopped in front of the table. “I’d like you to meet Mr. Jed Strait and his assistant, Miss Carmelita Garcia. Mr. Strait, Miss Garcia, this is Ginny Flynn, my co-worker in the writing department at Paragon Pictures.”

  Not understanding what was happening, I nevertheless stuck with protocol and stood up to welcome this woman whom I wasn’t supposed to know. I shook her hand and then Peale’s. Her hand was warm and firm while Peale’s was clammy and limp.

  The pair sat across from Carmelita and me, Peale’s face split with a self-satisfied grin.

  Before I could ask why Peale had brought the subject of our investigation with him, our waiter descended on the table, giving out menus and asking if there was anything we wanted to start with. I held up my coffee cup, indicating the need for a refill, while Mullen and Ginny both asked for mimosas.

  When the waiter looked at Carmelita, she said, “I’ll just have water, please.”

  As the waiter left, Carmelita gave the whole table a smile and said, “I’m really not hungry, I’m afraid. I was starving earlier so I grabbed a bite before we left.”

  We’d spent the whole morning together and I hadn’t seen her nibble—let alone bite—anything. But I let it go. There was no point.

  Clearing my throat, I said, “So, Mullen, you wanted to meet…”

  “Yes. Yes, I did.” The smile hadn’t faded. “Miss Flynn here is dealing with some difficulties right now, and I told her you might be able to help her.”

  I shifted my gaze from one to the other of them and then to Carmelita, wondering if she had some clue as to Mullen’s odd behavior. Carmelita looked just as puzzled as I felt, however.

  “And how exactly do you think we can help?” I asked.

  “Well, Miss Flynn had something very unfortunate happen at her home yesterday morning.”

  Ginny, appearing exasperated with her companion’s tone and manner, jumped in at that point. Where Mullen was practically gushing, she was all business.

  “A man was murdered at my home,” she said. “Our boss, actually. Felix Madrigal.”

  “That’s terrible,” Carmelita said, giving no indication that she already knew. I reminded myself to congratulate her later on the acting job. “I can’t imagine how upsetting that must be for you.”

  Ginny regarded Carmelita for a moment and then broke eye contact, dropping her gaze to the napkin in her lap. She seemed like the kind of person not given over to talking about her emotions or displaying them publicly, and here she was fighting back a strong reaction in this fancy restaurant in front of people she’d just met. “Thank you,” she said after a moment and then looked up again. “It’s been…quite disturbing.”

  The waiter brought their drinks and a fresh cup of coffee for me. Then he took lunch orders. Ginny wanted only the tomato soup, a choice that Mullen echoed. I decided I’d try feeding my hangover in the hope that it would fade with food, so I opted for a steak with mashed potatoes. Carmelita opted out, of course.

  When the waiter had gone, I started the ball rolling again. “Can I ask what happened?”

  Ginny didn’t hesitate. She laid it out as though she’d already had to explain multiple times. The story didn’t sound rehearsed, but it didn’t sound as upsetting as I might have expected. “I came home yesterday morning after visiting my parents up in the valley,” she began. “And after I parked my car in the garage like I always do, I went up to my back porch and found my kitchen door unlocked. I thought I must have forgotten to lock it when I left the day before, but still I was a little nervous opening the door in case I was about to disturb a prowler. What I found was much worse. Felix was there in a kitchen chair. He’d been shot. In the head. The gun…the gun was still in his hand.”

  She let out a little sigh and sipped her mimosa, set the glass down, and then took another drink, longer this time.

  “Suicide?” I asked.

  “It looked like that to me. There was a note on the kitchen table.”

  “Did you read it?”

  “I…” She shook her head, clearly upset at recalling the details. “I looked for just a second. This was after I called the police—which I did right away, of course. I was very upset, as you can imagine, so I ran out to the back porch and waited until the police came. They asked me so many questions. I could tell they were trying to trip me up, like they thought I had done it.”

  “Can the police do that?” Mullen asked me. “Treat an innocent person so callously?” He sounded indignant, as though he thought his colleague had an opportunity to make things ugly for the police if she could get a good lawyer.

  Remembering something O’Neal had said to me once, I answered him. “They’re the LAPD, Mr. Peale. They can do whatever they want to do.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “That’s LA.” I turned my attention back to Ginny. “Was the note hand-written?”

  She shook her head. “Typed. But…Felix had signed it in ink.”

  I nodded. “The part you read…what did it say?’

  She sighed. “That…that he was in love with me. That he couldn’t go on if I couldn’t return his feelings.”

  “Was that something he’d told you about before? Did you reject his advances?”

  Ginny opened her purse and took out a handkerchief, dabbing at the corners of her eyes before continuing. “Felix had told me he loved me. More than once. But…he had a wife. I didn’t want anything to do with a married man. I told him as much. I guess…I guess he couldn’t take it.”

  “As far as you know, was anyone else aware of these feelings he had or the way you responded? Were there any witnesses to those conversations?”

  “No,” she said quietly, looking down at her napkin again.

  “Did you tell the police about his advances?”

  She nodded but said nothing.

  “And yet they still seemed to think you had something more to do with his death?”

&nb
sp; “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  She took another pull at her drink before answering. “The bullet wound was on the left side of his head, the gun in his left hand.”

  She didn’t have to say the rest for me to understand the story the police had started putting together almost as soon as they found the body at Ginny’s kitchen table. “But Madrigal was right-handed, wasn’t he?” I asked.

  She nodded. “They asked me if he was left or right-handed, and I honestly couldn’t remember. I was so upset.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” Mullen chimed.

  Ginny ignored him and went on. “They called Felix’s wife, poor woman. They got her to say he was right-handed even before they told her he was dead.”

  “So, someone else shot him and put the gun in his hand to make it look like he’d done it himself, but they bungled it,” I said. “Shot him on the wrong side and then put the gun in that hand, maybe without even thinking about whether he was left or right-handed.”

  Ginny nodded. “I don’t know exactly what the police are thinking. They’re…not sharing their theories with me. But what you’re describing…that seems to be what the police suspect.”

  The food came then. The waiter put the bowls of soup down and then my steak. I had ordered my steak medium rare before hearing about Felix Madrigal’s cause of death. Now, I felt a little odd about slicing into the piece of meat and having bloody juice spill out in front of Ginny Flynn, so I opted to start with the mashed potatoes instead.

  Once we were to ourselves again, Ginny said, “They’re not calling me a suspect in Felix’s murder, but they’ve told me not to leave town.”

  “And this is where you come in,” Mullen said after swallowing a spoonful of tomato soup. It also made me think of blood.

  “I’m still not sure how,” I offered.

  “This is where I have a little confession to make to Ginny,” Mullen said. Half turning toward her in his chair, he said, “This is going to sound terrible, Ginny. Especially now, with what’s happened to Felix and everything. But…for the last few months I’ve had the strong suspicion that you were going behind my back in the writer’s pool and, well, currying favor with Felix to get the better assignments. You have to admit you’ve gotten more than your share of screen credits lately.”