Alone (7 page)

“Lieutenant Padilla says he could have pressed Akers’ fingers to the bust after he was dead. I guess the same goes for the letter. He might have had the time, since we can’t pinpoint the exact moment of death because nobody heard the shot.”

“For that matter, getting Akers to handle the letter when he was alive wouldn’t have been much of a challenge. He was Rankin’s assistant, after all. Which leaves just the letter. The contents, I mean.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘just.’ If your graphologist confirms it was written by Greta Garbo, it would go a long way toward exonerating Rankin. An extortionist couldn’t hope for better material.

“We ran into a snag there,” she said. “He needs authenticated samples of her writing for comparison. We tried MGM, but all they have is her signature on old contracts on file. That’s not enough. None of the movie museums we tried could help us. What was she, illiterate?”

“No, just very, very private. For years, MGM kept one of her friends on the payroll because they couldn’t make contact with Garbo except through her.”

“Her own studio? Why’d they put up with it?”

He stroked his thumb with a forefinger. There was a bruise under the nail where he’d smacked it with the hammer. “Money in the bank. She saved the studio twice: when she signed with it, and when talkies came along and she was the only player under contract who didn’t sound like Mickey Mouse.”

“There’s a name for that kind of behavior. Sociopathic.”

“Or maybe she was just ahead of her time. With all the paparazzi running around these days, celebrities have to live in armed compounds and never go outside without a platoon of bodyguards. But she did go to extraordinary lengths to avoid autograph hunters. I had one glimpse years ago of a brief inscription on an early photo. George Washington’s easier. Did you try the Swedish military archives?”

“Why military?”

“She never gave up her native citizenship, visited home often, and my guess is she was impressed by army security, so she donated her personal documents there.”

“Okay, we’ll get them on the horn and have them fax samples.”

“Law enforcement’s certainly come a long way since
The Asphalt Jungle.”

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” she said. “Our guy has doubts.”

“Your graphologist? How can he, without the samples in hand?”

She swiveled the paper on the table and slid it toward him. “Anything about this strike you as odd?”

He studied the hand, which was simple but delicate. Finally he sat back shaking his head. “I’m an expert in one thing, and this isn’t it. And the only Swedish I know is
Smörgasbord.”

“Smörgasbord,”
she corrected; but he couldn’t hear any difference in her pronunciation. “Remember, I said Garbo was human. We’re imperfect creatures. No one writes a character in cursive exactly the same way twice in succession. The shape and slant vary, so does the thickness of the line. But look at this.”

She drew the plastic straw from her drink cup and used it as a pointer, leaving droplets of diluted cola wherever it touched the paper. “All these
s
’s are identical. Same goes for the
t
’s and
y
’s
and the rest of the alphabet. Even the commas are the same. And don’t get me started on the umlauts.”

“By all means, let’s forget the umlauts.” He bent closer to the letter. “It’s obvious, when you point it out. I’m impressed.”

“Stop trying to butter me up. I’m not over my mad. It was the graphologist who spotted it. One of the supernerds in Cyber Crime came up with the explanation. Did you know it’s possible to create your own font, even from something as personal as handwriting? You know what a font is?”

“The shape of a letter. I’m not a complete Luddite.”

“All you have to do is scan it in, and if you’re handy with a mouse you can sculpt the alphabet in upper and lower case and all the punctuation, type it up on the keyboard, and print it out.”

“Akers handled all of Rankin’s correspondence. He must have spent a lot of time at the computer. Experience is a great teacher.”

“My eight-year-old cousin designed the logo for her mother’s home business. She flunked recess.”

“But assuming the forgery fooled Rankin, he must have known it was printed out on a computer. A pen makes an uneven texture you can feel with your fingers.”

“All he ever saw was a photocopy. There never was an original.”

“Rankin may not have invented the microchip, but he was one of the first to recognize its importance. You’d think he’d have noticed the suspicious consistency of the characters.”

“I
didn’t,” she said, “until it was pointed out to me. Neither did you, and we’re both trained to spot fakes. He was predisposed to accept it as genuine, based on his wife’s close ties with Garbo and his own fears for her good name. Maybe he suspected there was more to their friendship than met the eye.”

“Maybe he knew there was.” He was glum.

She snapped her fingers, startling him. “Do us all a favor and get a grip on the twenty-first century, okay? She’s dead, Andrea’s dead, and Roger Akers is dead as hell. Matthew Rankin is alive and looking at prison or worse. If you’re serious about helping him, you need to stay out of soft focus.”

“If Akers faked the letter, maybe the program’s still in his computer.”

“Now you’re cooking. Padilla confiscated and tagged every modem in the house for evidence. That’s standard procedure. Beverly Hills has the edge on us when it comes to computer specialists. We gave them everything I’ve told you. If he didn’t wipe out the hard drive—and I mean times ten; you’d be surprised how much those geeks can squeeze out of one that’s been erased—they’ll turn it. But it’ll take time if he made a decent job of it.”

“How much time?”

Her smile was sour. “Time enough for you to get a good dose of what your idol spent most of her life running away from. Rankin, too.”

“It’s too late to help him with that,” he said. “How’d you like to quit this job and come to work for me as my reverse press agent? Keep me out of the spotlight instead of put me in it?”

“Hang on to that good humor. You’ll need it when you find yourself wading neck deep in media just to get to a public toilet. Now.” She scrutinized the cola spots on the photocopy, then crumpled it and used it to wipe her hands. “In order to forge this letter, Akers had to have had access to something fairly lengthy written by Garbo in her own hand, providing him with a complete alphabet and punctuation. You can write a lot of letters without using everything. Which brings us back around to the problem of securing samples. Where’d he get them? Padilla’s crew tossed the house and found nothing.”

“Rankin told me his wife destroyed Garbo’s letters to her as a favor to her friend. But he also said this one might have escaped to fall into Akers’ hands.”

“Too convenient, just the one he needed? That should have been a red flag.”

“How important is it to clear up all the loose ends?”

She sat back and crossed her arms. “How do you like it when you’re deep into a screening and all of a sudden a card pops up saying ‘scene missing’?”

“I hate it. It takes me right out of the story.”

“That’s just how a jury feels.”

**

CHAPTER

7

ANARCHY WAS TOO conservative a term to apply to life in the Broadhead household. The situation teetered somewhere between eternal revolution and a full rout.

To show his appreciation for putting him up, Valentino stopped at Safeway after his talk with Harriet, bought a precooked rotisserie chicken, potato salad, and tossed greens from the deli section and a fresh apple pie from the bakery, and finding the house unoccupied dressed the table and set out the spread in the dining room, which he suspected hadn’t been used since the death of Broadhead’s wife four years before; Swanson and Mrs. Paul reigned in the freezer and a folding tray table exercised squatter’s rights in the living room. He chilled a bottle of Chardonnay and was drawing the cork when the front door opened and shut.

“Hi, honey, I’m home. Whoa! Someone’s been channeling Martha Stewart.”

Valentino left the kitchen carrying two full wineglasses to find his housemate standing in the entrance to the dining room, a half-eaten taco in one hand and a jumbo milk shake in the other. He’d traded his overalls for an old tweed coat and unpressed slacks and plunked on his favorite cloth cap.

“It’s ten to six,” Valentino said. “I’d hoped by serving dinner early to avoid this very thing.”

“I eat when I’m hungry, sleep when I’m tired. I let my watch wind down and threw it away. The stove’s been broken for two years. Don’t tell me you fixed it. You practically had to call Bob Vila to slap up a piece of plywood.”

“I bought everything prepared. My fault; I should have checked with you.” Valentino set down the glasses. “Why don’t you drink some wine and watch me eat?”

Broadhead parked the remains of his meal on a plate, picked up one of the glasses, and drained it standing up. “Thanks.” He put it down. “Can’t stay. Fanta’s picking me up in a few minutes.” He strode toward his bedroom, peeling out of his coat.

He came back out as Valentino was finishing his salad. Now he had on pleated khakis and a sport shirt that clashed with his cap. “How do I look?”

“That depends. Are you playing golf with Porky Pig?”

“We’re going to the rec center. She’s taking me rollerblading.”

“You rollerblade?”

“I don’t know. I never tried.”

“I hope your hospitalization plan is better than mine. Want to catch the Lakers game later? We can sit in front of the tube and eat cold chicken sandwiches.”

“Sorry.
Battleship Potemkin’s
playing tonight at the art museum. She’s never seen it.”

“Don’t talk during the Odessa Steps sequence.” Valentino helped himself to chicken and potato salad.

“Since when do you watch basketball?”

“I decided to take your advice and broaden my interests.”

“I hate to leave you alone your first evening. Why don’t you—”

Valentino held up his fork, stopping him. “If you finish that sentence, you’ll never make it out of the rec center alive. Fanta will see to that. I’ll be fine. I’m just grateful to have a roof over my head.”

“You’re not by any chance a morning person, are you?”

“Aren’t you? You’re always in your office when I get to work.”

“Yes, but I don’t sleep more than two hours a night since Elaine died, and they’re not always back to back. If you’re the kind that goes to bed early, I’m going to disturb you with my nocturnal habits.”

“What do you do, clog dance?”

“Let’s just say the things that go bump in the night are terrified of me.”

Valentino wanted to pursue this line of conversation, but the doorbell rang. He had a clear view from his place at the table when Broadhead answered it and Fanta came in. She had the professor in both arms and a leglock before she saw they weren’t alone. She unwound herself and flashed Valentino a broad, unabashed grin. She was a willowy twenty with long straight glossy black hair and a tan that promised to go well beyond her halter top and shorts. Her feet were stuck in clunky black combat boots.

“Hey,” she greeted. She took in the table setting. “Radical. Very Oprah.”

“I said Martha Stewart,” Broadhead said.

“Right. I get them mixed up.”

“It’s easy to mistake a short fat black woman for a tall blonde ex-convict.”

Valentino stood. “Hello, Fanta. How are you getting along with the law?”

“Why, has my parole officer been looking for me?”

“She’s in the top one percent of her class.” Broadhead tucked in his shirt, which had come out when she’d mauled him. “She just started her internship and the firm she works for wants her to report to them first thing she clears the bar.”

“I said no,” she said. “I’m going to work directly for the studios, trying cases of copyright infringement.”

Valentino said, “I hope you talk them into spending part of your first big settlement on film preservation.”

“I will. I’m still jazzed from our excellent
Greed
adventure. Any big finds lately? That lost reel of
Metropolis?
The alternate ending to
Casablanca,
Bergman ditches Paul Henreid and flies off with Bogie?”

“At the moment I’m shooting for an eighty-year-old promo for a department store.”

The grin faded. She shrugged. “I guess they can’t all be special. I hear you’re bunking with Kyle. Spooks run you out of the Oracle?”

“No, just the L.A. County Building Inspection Department.”

“Ooh, scary.” She turned to Broadhead. “You ready to bust some moves?”

He nodded. “I just hope that’s where the busting stops.”

She got to the door first and opened it for him. As he passed through, she swept the cap off his head, sent it sailing toward the sofa, waved to Valentino, and followed Broadhead out, pulling the door shut behind her.

Alone in the quiet house, Valentino finished his meal, decided against the apple pie, put the leftovers in the refrigerator, and washed dishes. Later, sunk among the tired springs in Broadhead’s old armchair, he watched the Lakers play for three minutes, then flipped around until he found
The Postman Always Rings Twice
on TCM, but he got restless after a half hour and surfed through the rest of the channels; he’d always considered the film a pale shadow of
Double Indemnity,
and in any case Lana Turner was no distraction when one’s mind was racing with Greta Garbo. But there was no sign of the Swedish Sphinx on any of the movie channels and he switched off the TV and cable box. He drank a second glass of wine and went to bed.