All That Glitters (19 page)

When he left, Pat Lonigan slipped from the back row and joined me. In a three-piece gray suit and his familiar straw hat, he lit a cigarette, inhaled, and blew out a cloud of smoke. He stared toward the canopy of mourners, but from his vacant gaze I could tell he was thinking of his father's funeral many years ago. “Jake, what was my old man doing in an off-campus alley at midnight?”

He'd spent two decades searching for the truth, but deep down I doubted he wanted to hear the real story. “Meeting a colleague, a student…”

“Not in an alley.”

“A person meets someone in an alley if they don't want to be seen.”

For a moment, Pat didn't reply. He sucked in another long drag from his cigarette and let the smoke curl from his mouth. “Maybe a lover, a bookie, a loan shark, a drug dealer—”

“A blackmailer.”

Pat crushed his cigarette with his heel. “I'm sorry. I really should let it go.”

“I wouldn't.”

When the minister finished his remarks, most of the attendees approached the Carvilles to pay their respects. Laura gazed around, probably looking for me.

I set my hat on my head. “You're writing about the Carville case every day.”

“Unfortunately the cops and I hit a roadblock. What about you?”

I couldn't tell him about Leo the Barber's bank account. “I spent some time with Slick Ray Gambino and a thug named Leo De Palma.”

“Leo the Barber?” Pat's face blanched. “That how you got the slice above your eye?”

I'd nearly forgotten about the cut. “That's from a car accident.”

Pat studied my face as if I wasn't being truthful. “Jake, don't make an enemy of either. Gambino's a mobster. Leo's a monster, an educated one. Graduated from Chicago Loyola.”

“I thought he might be from Chicago.”

He nodded. “Leo's occupation is a hit man. He fell out of favor with Al Capone and somehow survived. Ever met someone who thinks he's the smartest person in the room? That's Leo.”

A hit man who worked for Capone could be the triggerman, but Gambino might have ordered the hit. “Gambino wasn't at the party, and there's a reason he's called Slick Ray. He wouldn't dirty his hands.”

“Have you even been listening to me? Gambino could've paid Leo to kill Eric.”

Annabelle and Gus emerged into the sunlight. Even in a black dress, Annabelle still came across as a cop, like she had a holster strapped to her back.

“Annabelle Church”—Pat had a hint of regret in his voice—“is the best-looking detective I've ever seen.”

Back in the day, I'd suspected Pat had a crush on Annabelle, but obviously, I understood little about crushes and infatuations.

Gus, for once in a well-pressed suit, caught my eye and nodded toward a ten-foot stone angel.

I shook Pat's hand. I headed down the gravel pathway, knowing Gus would give me a hard time about my behavior at Gambino's speakeasy.

Gus's head looked ready to explode. He stood so close I could smell what he had for breakfast and several meals before that. He spewed an obscenity-laced tirade that would make a marine blush. “If we weren't in a cemetery, Donovan, I'd pound you into a bloody mess.”

I held up both hands. “I can explain.”

“If Annabelle wasn't around, I'd slap bracelets on you, take you downtown, and work you over in a back room.”

I'd had enough of his threats and intimidation. “You mean you'd try.”

Gus sucked in a slow, deep breath. “Hanging out with a well-known mobster is a strange way to make your case you're not a cold-blooded killer.”

“Gambino's boys ran Laura and me off the road.”

“Then why—”

“I wanted to learn if there's a connection between Gambino and Eric's death.”

Gus ran a hand through his oily hair. “Okay, I'll play along for a minute. You come up with anything?”

Information about Leo's bankbook might be enough to fend off my impending arrest. “I came across something that would interest you and Annabelle, but I can't talk here.”

Gus squinted with one eye. “You bluffing, Donovan?”

I couldn't prove anything about the deposits in Leo's account, but maybe the cops could. “I think I have evidence Eric's murder might have been a mob hit.”

“I'll tell Anna…Sergeant Church. We'll give you a call and see what you've got.”

“Gus, let's clear the air about our past.”

“Yeah?”

“You know I was just doing my job investigating your pals.”

Gus dropped to a cement bench beside the stone angel. “I came to terms with that years ago.”

Then why all the bad blood between us since that first day? I sat beside him and waited for Gus to summon the strength to level with me.

He ran a hand over his chin. “Your fiancée has some crazy notion Annabelle sees me as more than a partner. Is she nuts?”

Sometimes. “You and Annabelle ever…”

“One night after a Christmas party we went back to her apartment. Do you know she has five cats?”

Nothing about Annabelle surprised me.

“Anyway, after that night, we went out a few times. I thought things were going well, but then you came back into the picture….”

“I was never in the picture.”

Gus stared at his shoes for a moment. “It's obvious she's still got a thing for you.”

Gus pulled a flask from his suit coat and took a swallow. He held it out to me.

I sipped what might pass for scotch and handed the flask back. “Annabelle told me you want her off the force.”

“What?” He cocked his head. “Naah. She works too hard climbing the ladder of success, you know? I just suggested she take some time off. She deserves a life. Anyway, that didn't go over so good.”

“You should set things straight with her. Look, I know we've had our differences, but life's too short. I waited far too long to work things out with Laura, and now that we're together, I realize I should've fixed things years ago.”

“But me and Annabelle? She's smart, intelligent, and a real looker. I'm…”

“I doubt if you've changed much from back in the day when you were a good cop. It might help if you'd lose that chip glued to your shoulder. You like living alone in a small apartment? You think Annabelle likes living with five cats?”

Gus shrugged. He rose as Annabelle approached. “Looking forward to the evidence you've found.”

He walked off and led Annabelle away.

I found Laura beside the Gambino Chevrolet, standing with her arms folded.

“I can explain.”

“Explain? Explain why you left me alone again!” She climbed into the front seat and slammed the door.

I slipped behind the wheel and started the car. “I'm sorry. Can I take you to lunch?”

Laura folded her arms again and stared out the passenger window. “We're expected at Todd Carville's. You would've known that had you bothered to pay your respects to the family.”

It was a long drive to Todd Carville's.

Thanks to my cemetery chat with Gus, I suspected Laura and I might be the last to arrive at Todd Carville's. Ten long minutes after we left the cemetery, Laura slid closer to me and laid her head on my shoulder.

I swept an arm around her as I drove. In spite of our more than occasional squabbles, I couldn't imagine life without her. What a lucky guy I was.

We approached the Beverly Hills address listed on the slip of paper in Laura's hand, and I let out a low whistle. The one-story Spanish-style home had white stucco with red tiled arches that rose from two acres of perfectly manicured grass and thick pine trees. Perfectly manicured hedges surrounded the grounds. We drove through the open gate and parked in the circular drive behind Christine's blue roadster.

Laura took my arm while we made our way up the redbrick walkway. We'd come to pay our respects to Eric's brother and father. No matter what kind of son of a bitch Eric was, Norman and Todd surely felt their loss.

Inside, the arches cast shadows over Saltillo tile. Silver conquistador armor complete with a jeweled sword stood at the door of an atrium in the center of the house. Was a Spanish conqueror the image Todd had of himself?

He greeted Laura with a kiss on her cheek and shook my hand. Like he was hosting a dinner party, he pointed out twenty or more authentic swords mounted on one wall of a high-ceilinged room at the back of the house. I took my eyes off his private collection a moment. Fewer than a couple dozen people gathered at tables, a bar, and a long buffet table.

I moved from room to room and noted the expensive art, paintings and sculptures. Todd enjoyed surrounding himself with the best that money could buy, whether it was his car collection or priceless artwork—the same man who would no doubt begrudge people from Oklahoma a hot meal or decent job.

At the front of the room, Louella Parsons was bending Norman's ear. Leaning on his cane, the old man's sagging jowls made him appear ten years older than the day he put the squeeze on me at his mansion. The swagger and intimidation were a distant memory.

I'd attended plenty of memorable wakes in my day, but this wasn't one of them. With only an occasional murmur, the room was as quiet as a chapel at an old folks' home. It might have been my imagination, but the place seemed to grow even quieter when Laura and I made our way across the floor.

Todd stopped and pointed to an outdoor patio. “Laura, might I have a few minutes of your time?”

She let go of my arm. “Of course.”

Todd escorted her outside to talk film business, no doubt. The buffet table, with the smell of hot roast beef and ham, beckoned. I stood before steaming platters of sliced meat, a spread that would make the owner of The Yankee Club, Gino Santoro, proud. I grabbed a place setting and scanned a tray of warm fragrant rye, pumpernickel, and other breads. I loaded up enough rye and ham for two sandwiches.

I turned and froze. Several sets of eyes met my gaze then darted away. Perhaps being a suspect in a murder case made me imagine people were giving me the evil eye.

I carried the plate to a nearly empty corner table, where Sonny Burkheart sat beside his mother. Ignoring a plate of food, he sifted through a collection of baseball cards.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Sure, Jake.” Sonny, in a black suit, for once was dressed like a teenager. He slid out a chair with his foot.

Far different from when we met, Angie ignored me. While Sonny turned over a Babe Ruth card and read the stats, I sat beside him. “Did I mention I met The Babe a few weeks ago?”

Sonny dropped the card. “Did you really? What's he like?”

“Actually, he wanted to take a poke at me.”

Angie shot her son a disapproving shake of the head. He stuffed the cards into his suit coat pocket and clasped his hands together on the table.

“Hold on to those. They'll be worth a fortune someday.”

“I guess.”

For several painful minutes, no one spoke. I assembled a sandwich, took a bite, and waited for Laura.

While Angie pushed her food around on her plate, Sonny leaned closer to me and lowered his voice. “Eric was a real louse, and Hollywood's better off without him. I don't care if you did plug him.”

“Sonny!” Angie called out.

I set my sandwich on the plate. “I didn't kill Eric.”

Sonny shrugged. The evil eyes now made sense. Sonny, his mother, and most of the others in the room thought I killed Eric Carville. When did opinions change? Someone must be spreading word I was a suspect. Surely not Annabelle. Gus? Maybe.

My temples throbbed. I needed fresh air. I rose and left my plate. “I hope you'll excuse me, Sonny.” I tipped my hat. “Miss Burkheart.”

I avoided everyone else, although several people whispered and pointed at me while others just turned their backs. On the front porch, I leaned forward with my hands on my knees. Who would be spreading such a vicious a lie?

From the side of the house, a tan cocker spaniel trotted up and stopped beside me. At least I'd encountered one friendly face. He lifted his leg. I pulled my shoe back just in time.

He left a puddle on the cement then scampered off with an unmistakable look of satisfaction.

The door opened, and Louella Parsons raised the black veil from her flowered hat. Her eyes lacked the suspicion of the others inside, but they weren't as friendly as they had been at the Brown Derby. “Jake, I have some bad news.”

Was there any other kind lately?

“Let me get right to the point. My next column will mention you're the prime suspect in Eric Carville's murder.”

I thought I might faint. “Louella—”

“I saw one of the homicide detectives talking to you at the cemetery. When you got up from your chair at the gravesite service, you didn't score any points. Those who suspect you're guilty imagined you couldn't face seeing a man you'd killed lowered into the ground.”

“You think I shot Eric?”

Louella shrugged. “From day one, my money's been on Slick Ray Gambino.”

“I didn't kill Eric. Plenty of people can testify what time Laura and I left—”

“Jake.” She held up a white-gloved hand. “The longer the cops drag out this investigation, the better the chances they'll talk to witnesses whose memories have started to fade. Your once-solid alibi will sink like the last soufflé I tried to bake.”

She was right, of course.

“I also know the lead detective, Annabelle Church, used to be in love with you, and probably still is. In spite of that, it seems you're the prime suspect in Eric Carville's murder. That's what my next column will say. God help me, I love my job!”

Once Louella's column hit the streets, other papers would pile on. Scandals sold newspapers, and what better scandal than the headline F
IANCÉ OF
A
CTRESS
Q
UESTIONED IN
M
URDER OF
S
TUDIO
E
XEC
?

“When's your deadline?”

“Tomorrow, nine p.m.” She cocked her head. “Why?”

“I'm about to crack this case and reveal who killed Eric. I thought you might want to know.” I wasn't close to solving the murder, but I always worked best under deadlines.

“You're going to solve the murder in”—she checked her watch—“thirty hours?”

I had no choice. “I'm close now.”

“What have you got?”

I couldn't show her Leo's bankbook before I shared the information with Annabelle and Gus. I didn't want them reading about it in the newspaper either. I patted my suit coat pocket. “I have evidence linking someone in the mob with Eric's killing.”

Louella snorted. “Sure you do.” She patted her suit coat pocket like I'd done. “What are you, some politician?”

“They're financial records that show a payoff for a mob hit.”

“Can I take a look?”

“I can't share at the moment.”

“I like you, Jake.” The gossip columnist squinted. “Tell you what, I'll hold off submitting until the deadline. You have thirty hours.”

“You won't be sorry.”

“For what it's worth, I doubt you had anything to do with Eric's murder, but if I don't go with the story, someone else will.” She waved to a driver standing beside a blue Ford sedan.

In the past twenty-fours, the mob-hit theory had gained credibility. “How well do you know Gambino?”

“Not as well as I know his pal Al Capone.”

Pal? Not according to Gambino. “What makes you so sure they're friends?”

“Capone told me. Don't look so shocked.” Louella laughed as the Ford stopped beside her. “A few years ago he came to L.A. for a holiday, but the real reason was to talk about expanding his influence west. Organized crime wasn't as powerful as it was in Chicago or New York. By that time, Prohibition had flooded Capone's operation with bootleg liquor revenue. He had plenty of cash to elbow his way into California. Gambino had a reputation as an up-and-comer, so Capone called Gambino and they set up a meeting.”

“They met?”

Louella held up one hand to her driver, who remained behind the wheel. “They'd barely started their get-together at Gambino's speakeasy. Before Capone and Gambino could agree on a distribution of profits, the cops broke down the door. The mayor and police chief didn't want Capone in their city, so the police chief drove him to Union Station and put him on a train to Chicago.”

“Now he's in the big house for tax evasion.”

“I've heard rumors Capone controls Gambino even from the pen, but I haven't confirmed anything. We're not close, like I was with Capone.”

“You do lead an interesting life, Louella.”

“That I do.” She waved toward her car.

The driver got out and opened the rear door. Louella climbed in and rolled down the window. “Good luck, Jake.”

They drove off.

I mumbled to myself, “Thirty hours.”

I'd had enough. I went inside to find Laura.

There was no sign of Laura or Todd, but Norman sat in the atrium alone on a cement bench set in a small circle of red bricks. With hunched shoulders, he stared at his shoes.

It was clear the old man wanted a private moment. However, I was running out of time.

I slipped past the conquistador and went inside. The unmistakable heavy scent of white gardenias greeted me. Norman reached for his cane beside the bench.

“Don't get up.” I sat beside him. “What a peaceful place.”

“This is my favorite part of Todd's house.”

“I want to extend my deepest sympathies.”

“A man shouldn't outlive his sons.” He dabbed his eyes with a wrinkled handkerchief. “Eric was a good boy, playful and mischievous. It must've been tough growing up. I didn't realize it back then, but he felt abandoned. First, by a mother who returned to her homeland and then by a father who was at work when he woke up and didn't return most nights until well after he fell asleep.”

“You were building your studio for your sons.”

“Was I?” He clamped his eyes shut. “That's what I told myself.”

I left him alone with his thoughts a moment. Then I cleared my throat. “You're going to hear something troubling, and I'd prefer it come from me. Louella Parsons's column is going to say I'm a suspect in Eric's murder. I also wanted to look you in the eye and tell you I had nothing to do with your son's murder.”

“Louella gets things wrong half the time.”

“People believe her.”

Norman gave a wave of his hand. “I've heard the theory. You had Eric's blood on your shirt, you showed up at the party with a woman he was dating, and he was sore you were being hired to rewrite his screenplay, so you came to blows. Still, in spite of these key details, there's one fact that's even more important. You didn't do it.”

What made him so certain? Did Norman know who really killed his son?

He glanced around the atrium then lowered his voice. “I don't want an innocent man to go to jail. I haven't even told this to the police.”

Right now, I'd settle for him telling whatever it was to Louella.

He placed a wrinkled hand on my arm. “The night of the party—”

“There you are.” The atrium door opened, and James, the butler, entered and shot the old man a disapproving look. “Sir, you should be resting.”

Later. He can rest later!

Norman's hand trembled. “I'm talking to Mr. Donovan.”

Hoping to get a break in the case from the deceased's father, I rose to give James the bum's rush.

Before I made a move, Laura, Todd, and Christine entered the atrium. All three appeared solemn.

It had to be more than the funeral. Laura's face was white. “Jake, we have to go.”

“In a minute, dear. I'm chatting with Mr. Carville.”

Her exasperated expression told me how desperately she wanted to leave. However, I wasn't going anywhere, not until I heard what the old man wanted to share.

Laura reached a hand to Norman. “Are you all right? You don't look well. You should get some rest.”

James held out both hands. “That's what I was telling him.”

“I can rest later.” Norman reached for his cane, leaned forward to rise and toppled over.

I caught him before his head struck the unforgiving bricks. Ever so gently, I laid him on his back and loosened his tie. His eyes fluttered closed, his lips turned blue, and the rest of his face was a ghastly white. I shouted, “Get some help!”

Todd, Christine, and James didn't move.

Laura ran through the atrium door. “We need a doctor!”