All That Glitters (14 page)

All I had were suspicions, impressions, and instincts, but I wanted to give Annabelle enough to keep her and Gus busy for a few days. “The studio was having financial problems; Eric had some gambling debts.”

The smoke curled from the cigarette. “I didn't come over just to talk about the Eric Carville murder.” She took another puff. “We were both uncomfortable yesterday. I thought we should clear the air…”

I enjoyed talking about feelings like a jockey liked to talk hair design.

“…about our past.”

“Our past?” I leaped to my feet and gripped the railing, my knuckles white. “Annabelle, you remember the past differently than I do. We only had one date—”

She stood beside me. “We went out dozens of times!”

“Damn it, we had drinks after work with friends and coworkers. I drank more often with Gus than you, and he and I don't have a past.”

Tears welled and threatened to slide down her face. “You broke my heart when you moved to New York.”

“I didn't know.”

Annabelle chuckled. “When did you give me a chance to say anything?”

If I told her the truth that I'd never really cared for her, merely considered her one of my drinking buddies, I risked turning her against me. “I'm sorry.”

Her words sounded clipped and angry. “Oh, okay, then everything's square between you and me, 'cause you're sorry.”

“It was ten years ago.”

“I didn't carry a torch for ten years. Two years after you took off, I married a handsome, ambitious guy in the DA's office.”

“Congratul
ations.”

“His ambitions extended to bedding women in his office.”

She and Gus both had failed marriages. “I'm sorry.”

“Quit saying ‘I'm sorry'!” Annabelle crushed the cigarette next to the two others and went inside.

She stood beside the dining-room table with a grim twist to her mouth. “Jake, we need you to give a statement.”

“Because the victim's blood was on my shirt?” Or because I'd hurt her feelings?

“Because we're taking statements from everyone at the party and haven't taken yours yet.” Annabelle let out a sigh. “It would be easier if you came in voluntarily. Don't forget to bring your fiancée.”

“I spend most of my time helping the director with Laura's movie. I'll drop by in the morning, but I don't want a photo of Laura entering a police station to show up in the papers. You can take her statement at the studio.”

“Fair enough.” Annabelle yanked the blanket off the dining-room table, revealing the suspects diagram. “Looks like your fiancée's movie isn't the only thing keeping you busy. You don't think we can identify Eric's killer?”

“Gus has his sights set on me.”

“A lot of his buddies lost their jobs because of you.”

“His buddies lost their jobs because they were dirty cops. I'm a suspect in a murder case because I was doing my job.”

Her face softened. “I feel bad I dragged you into this case. If you hadn't agreed to help us, we'd be closing the books on a suicide. No matter how you feel about me, I'm on your side. Your story checks out—”

“It's not a
story,
Annabelle
.
You think I'm the kind of guy who'd plug someone I'd just met?”

“I don't know. I don't know you at all.” She turned her back to me and headed for the door.

Not even Gus could come up with a motive for me to shoot Eric Carville. “What kind of genius would jeopardize a career and a relationship with a successful actress like Laura Wilson because some pip-squeak rubbed him the wrong way?”

She cocked her head. “She's that wonderful?”

“She is.”

“I owe you and my ex a debt of gratitude.” She pounded her fist against the door. “After my divorce, I threw myself into my career. I became L.A.'s second female homicide detective. Every day, I have to prove myself. Every fucking day!”

Perhaps she'd thrown herself into her work a bit too much. “Maybe you're working too hard on your career.”

Her eyes widened. “Why do you say that?”

“You just seem…”

“Seem what, Jake? You want me to resign, like Gus and the others?”

Gus wanted her to resign? “I want to help
you
solve Eric Carville's murder.”

In an instant, her face softened. Annabelle checked her watch, opened the door and stood in the doorway. “At least we'll be spending time together.”

Just when I thought I'd gotten things straight with her, she started acting crazy again. I didn't have a clue how to deal with a wacky homicide detective who carried a gun and a torch for me.

I stood in the doorway as Annabelle walked away. I was dealing with a goofy dame from my past and another dick putting the squeeze on me. I had to find who killed Eric Carville, and fast.

Movement at the end of the hallway caught my eye. The door to the stairs closed. Was it Gus? Had he been listening at the door?

I ran after him and flung the door open. In the stairwell, I caught a glimpse of a man's shoulder. Too thin to be Gus. He pounded down the stairs.

I went after him taking two steps at a time. On the second-floor landing, the man's straw hat fell off.

“Pat!”

Pat Lonigan bent over, catching his breath. He pointed up the stairs. “That was a touching scene.”

How much had he heard?

He snatched his hat. Like I'd seen him do dozens of times, Pat flipped it in the air. It landed perfectly on his head. “I seem to recall the two of you had a past. What I didn't know was she appears to want a present.”

“Annabelle thinks we had a past. We didn't.”

“Dames.”

“You're not going to write about this, are you?”

Pat didn't answer right away. He lit a cigarette. “Got anything better?”

“Annabelle thinks I'm feeding you information.”

“You haven't fed me anything, which is why I dropped by. I was about to knock when I heard voices.”

I had to give him something. “The cops talked to the hotel staff and confirmed I wasn't anywhere near the Carville Estate when Eric was shot.”

“I did the same thing. Talked to the desk clerk and a blond maid with a snug caboose. I guess you're off the hook.”

“I hope someone tells Gus.”

“That bum still sore about that investigation you did ten years ago?”

“You know how it is. Why don't you get some rest? You work too many hours. Always did.”

“Crime doesn't take a break.”

“Before you go, you want to tell me about the possibility Eric's death might have been a mob hit?”

He snorted with laughter. “You got the wrong idea, Jake. You agreed to help me get to the truth so I can write about it. Then my employer can print the story and sell papers with plenty of ads. People shop in stores that place the ads and buy stuff. Stores hire more workers. Before you know it, the Depression's only a memory.”

“I already handed you a scoop. I didn't kill Eric Carville.”

Pat took a final puff. He crushed the butt and pushed through the stairwell door. “See you around, Jake.”

I had no doubt.

I typed up three pages of notes about my encounters with Norman, Roland, and Sonny and Angie Burkheart. I'd only completed a paragraph about my Todd Carville impressions when the phone rang. It was my editor, Mildred, calling from her office.

She wanted an update on my progress with my new novel. I hadn't worked on the manuscript since I'd stepped off the train, so I summarized the first chapter I wrote on the trip.

Apparently satisfied, Mildred began a monologue about the scheduled October release of my Blackie Doyle novel
Blackie Doyle's Revenge
. Excitement rose in her voice as she talked about a California book tour, encouraging me to get publicity.

I considered telling her my name had landed on the front page, but she'd want me to send her the article. Her reaction wouldn't be pleasant.

I didn't want to mention Eric Carville's murder. She'd suspect, rightfully so, I'd somehow get involved in a murder investigation, but she'd never guess I'd become a person of interest.

Mildred finally took a breath, and I managed to mention my engagement to Laura. A brief pause confirmed she still disliked Laura, thinking she kept me from focusing on my Blackie Doyle series. If she only knew.

When Mildred hung up, I yanked the notes I'd typed up about Todd Carville. I knew little about him, which led to a call to the hotel's front desk.

The clerk slipped me the number of his uncle who worked at a Ford dealership. The man was a straight shooter and could hook me up with a rental car. An hour later, Uncle Ned showed me just what I wanted, nothing flashy, something nondescript—a car few would pay attention to. Nothing like a black Model T to blend into the scenery.

An hour later, I parked a half block from the entrance to Carville Studios. I munched on a bag of peanuts I bought from a street vendor as the late-afternoon sun dipped below the horizon. The strikers gradually dispersed, giving me a clear line of vision to the front gate.

Laura stood beside a guard in front of the entrance. When she checked her watch, I suspected she was waiting for a cab.

I started the car. The engine coughed and strained before turning over. I put her in gear, and she backfired but chugged forward. I pulled up in front of Laura and rolled down the window. “Need a lift, doll?”

The guard tipped his cap to Laura and returned to the front gate.

Laura's lip curled like she'd swallowed a lemon. She grabbed a hankie from her purse, placed it on the door handle, and pulled. Straining, she yanked again. The passenger door opened, squeaking like flophouse bedsprings. “You bought a…a…?”

“A car. Ain't she a beaut!”

“You expect me to ride in this?”

“Come on, you've always looked stunning in black. Get in, please, I don't want too many people to notice us in this heap.”

“Oh yeah, no one will notice us in this car.” She sat beside me, brushing a few peanut shells onto the floorboard. “Let's go eat. I'm starved. I was so nervous I skipped breakfast. Lunch came and went while I was rehearsing.”

I held out the bag. “Peanut?”

“I was thinking something a bit more elegant, much like I expected our first car to be.” She stuck her hands between the cushions. “There's probably better food hidden here.”

“Now, sweetheart, don't be droll. You said you wanted to help with the investigat
ion.” I put the car in gear, and drove off with another backfire and a puff of dirty blue smoke curling from the tailpipe.

I parked in a dimly lit loading dock of an abandoned storefront a half block from the studio. I shut off the engine and shook the peanut bag. “You sure you don't want one? We might be awhile.”

She crossed her arms and stared straight ahead.

“Why don't you tell me about your day?”

When her stomach growled, she grabbed a peanut and cracked the shell. She popped the nut in her mouth and threw the shell at me. “Why'd you buy this heap, though calling it a heap is an insult to heaps everywhere?”

“Everyone's been telling me we need a car in L.A.”

“Have you seen Christine's blue roadster? Of course you have…Now, that's a car. This clunker must be ten years old.”

“Twelve. The good news is, it's a rental. The salesman assured me we can exchange this for something newer any time.”

She cocked her head. “You believed him?”

“He's a used car salesman. Of course I believe him.”

She grabbed another peanut. “He's probably still laughing over fleecing a New York City rube. Why are we sitting a half block from the entrance to the studio eating peanuts?”

“We're on a stakeout.”

“A stakeout.” She sat up straight, took a handful, and began to get serious about the nuts.

“They're addictive, aren't they?” I pulled the engagement ring from my suit coat pocket, slipped it on her left hand, and kissed her fingers.

She ignored the gesture and gazed toward the front gate. “Who are we staking out?”

I knew little about Christine's or Todd's activities away from work. “I'm not sure yet.”

Christine's blue roadster squealed tires and headed toward us.

“Get down.” I lowered my head below the dash.

Laura did the same. “You're still buying me dinner!”

When Christine's car raced by, we sat up. Before I could turn the key, Todd Carville's red coupé drove from the studio in the opposite direction. “Let's follow him instead.”

“I doubt if you'd catch Christine in this anyway.”

I patted the dash. “Don't listen to her, honey. Laura will come around when I let her drive.”

“You do recall I drove a Packard in New York.”

I remember it well, but a Packard or a fancy car like Christine's would attract attention. “You do understand, don't you?”

“Of course I understand, but I don't like it.”

The starter coughed and wouldn't cooperate. I tried again without result.

“You want me to get out and crank the starter?”

An empty stomach always fed Laura's sarcasm. The car rumbled to life. The clutch slipped. I chugged away from the curb, shifted, and followed Todd's taillights as he drove through Hollywood.

While Laura nibbled on the peanuts, I managed to keep Todd in sight as he sped through traffic. He appeared to be a man in a hurry, and the Model T had trouble keeping up with his sporty red car.

Laura shrieked and spilled the peanuts when I ran a red light. We followed as Todd turned on Sunset Boulevard. Just past La Brea Avenue, he pulled up to what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse.

Unlike my rental, his flashy red car stood out on the dimly lit street. He climbed out and tugged his hat over his eyes as if he didn't want to be identified. He hurried to the front door, knocked, and went inside when the door opened.

Laura smiled. “I bet you tonight's dinner, if we ever get around to dinner, that that's a speakeasy.”

“You're probably right, but how would you know?”

Laughter burst from her mouth. “You think I spent the entire two years you were in Florida in my apartment?”

I parked down the street in sight of Todd's car.

“Nothing hinky about stopping for an after-work drink,” Laura said. “I'm starved.”

I wasn't concerned over Todd having a drink, but I wanted to know the identity of the person he might be meeting. I had to learn more about the speakeasy.

Laura's eyes dropped to the bag on her lap. “Darling, I never finished telling you about…about the two years you were gone.”

I had no business knowing what went on after I left her and ran off to Florida.

“Six months after you left, William Powell came to New York. I'd just started a new play, and I'd given up hearing from you—”

A firm rap on the driver's-side window interrupted the story I feared hearing. I rolled down the window. “What!”

It was a tall thug with a boxer's scars over both brows, but his fierce eyes suggested he gave better than he received.

As he peered at Laura, I leaned forward and blocked his view. “May I help you?”

The man's suit showed a bulge under his coat where someone might carry a holstered rod. “I noticed the two of you looking toward those doors.” His educated voice didn't fit his tough-guy appearance. “I work there.”

Laura poked her head around my shoulder. “Is it a speakeasy? Wait till the girls back home hear about this.”

I went along with her act. “My fiancée and I are from out of town. We got a tip we could get a drink in the neighborhood.”

“It's a private club. A person needs a referral from a member.”

I pulled a twenty from my wallet. “This good enough?”

He opened his suit coat and showed me a pistol sitting in a holster. He might be educated, but I knew my share of educated tough guys.

Message received. I thought about mentioning Todd's name, but I didn't want to play my hand. Besides, it was time to go.

I squeezed Laura's hand. “Let's go somewhere else, Lois. Maybe a soda fountain.”

Laura pulled her hand back. “A soda fountain? They have soda fountains in Des Moines!”

“I'm from the Midwest myself.” The man smacked the roof of the car. “Enjoy your vacation.”

“Thanks for your advice. We hadn't expected curbside service.”

For the first time, the car started right off. We drove away, and Laura glanced back at him. “He seems nice.”

“Don't think so.” I drove around the block and parked in an alley down Sunset Boulevard, hoping to pick up Todd's car when he left the speakeasy. “If we don't spot Todd, what do you say I take you to the Brown Derby? It's not far.”

“I say let's eat now. You can snoop around and find out about Todd's speakeasy hangout in the morning.”

Todd's car sped past the entrance to the alley.

Laura smacked the seat between us. “Son of a…gun.”

I turned the key, and the starter strained three, four times. With Laura glaring at me, I pumped the pedal and tried again. “Come on baby, come to daddy.”

The car started, and we drove off. I spotted Todd's car and followed him for several miles as he drove to an older neighborhood of small houses and palm-tree-lined streets. He parked in front of a house with no lights on.

We slowed as Todd got out and put the top up on his convertible. He walked half a block and knocked on the door of a small ranch house. I drove past as Laura let out a gasp. “Sonny Burkheart answered the door.” She scrunched down in the seat. “Get down.”

“While I'm driving?” I let out a chuckle.

Todd obviously didn't want his car to be seen in front of the Burkhearts's house. I was certain he wasn't there to visit Sonny.

I drove to the end of the block, made a U-turn, and parked several houses away.

Laura shielded her face with her hand. “I feel like a peeping Tom.”

“That's how you know a stakeout is going well.”

“Really?”

“That's a Blackie Doyle line from my first novel.” I focused my attention on her. “You have read my novels, haven't you?”

She paused for just a moment. “Of course, darling.”

Laura leaned forward and peered through the windshield. A light at the end of the street illuminated heavy blue-gray clouds. “Looks like rain.”

I chuckled. “It never rains this time of year in L.A.”

“I think I read that in one of your novels, too.” She rolled down the window. “Smells like rain.”

I shook my head. “I lived here almost two years. I think—”

Raindrops splattered the windshield with dime-sized circles. A minute later, torrents of rain swept the neighborhood, bending nearby trees and buffeting the car. The water made the black paint look like fresh lacquer.

I felt a sprinkle of water below my ear. As Laura chuckled, I wiped my neck with a handkerchief. The driver's window didn't close entirely, so I stuffed the cloth into the gap.

The Burkheart door opened and Todd stepped out, holding an umbrella. He'd been inside for six minutes. The visit wasn't for the purpose I'd imagined.

Laura must've been thinking the same thing. “What's that vulgar term Blackie Doyle uses, a ‘quickie'?”

“Todd's supposed to be efficient, but I doubt if he's that quick.”

In the doorway, Angie placed her hands over her face. When she turned her back on him, Todd reached for her hand and kissed her neck under the umbrella. Lovers' quarrel.

Angie threw her arms around Todd. She kissed him like she meant it then handed him his hat.

He hurried back to his car. Windshield wipers slapping rain off his windshield, Todd made a U-turn and headed back in the direction he'd come from.

After two attempts, the Model T coughed and sputtered to life. I pulled away from the curb and turned the windshield wiper switch. Nothing. I slapped the dash, trying to peer through the rain-swept glass.