Anatomy of a Crossword (36 page)

“But whoever stole Rolly's address book may very well be on his way to Wanda's right now. And if that's who killed Chick—”

“Then that person's dangerous. No question about it. But I still don't believe Harriet's setting us up.”

“So her motive for having us hunt up Wanda Jorcrof is altruism, just like she said?” Belle asked.

“Now see, that's the Grand-Slam million-dollar question, isn't it?” was Rosco's reply. “Down … and across.”

CHAPTER 40

The drive to Zuma Beach and Wanda Jorcrof's one-room rental above a detached garage took Rosco and Belle west on the 101 Freeway to Malibu Canyon Road, which led them to the Pacific Coast Highway and the ocean. They followed the P.C.H. north for eleven miles until they turned briefly inland to a tiny surf-worshipping community that sat across the highway from Zuma's broad stretch of sand.

By the time they arrived at 6262 Ebbtide Way, the sun was already low in the sky, bathing the roadway, houses, and distant mountaintops in a heavy golden glow. As they pulled up to the curb, they were greeted by the sight of a teenage boy washing a late-model brown Volvo station wagon in the driveway fronting the garage. His surfboard leaned against a nearby wooden gate and had clearly been hosed down long before he'd decided to tackle the car. Rosco and Belle stepped from the Mustang as the kid looked up. “Nice ‘stang, dude,” he said with genuine admiration. “What're ya running, five-point-oh?”

“Running?” Rosco asked.

The boy craned his neck to look around Belle at the car—or more specifically, the chrome emblem attached to the front fender. “Yeah, runnin', dude. Like in engine? Displacement? Horsies? Where're you from, outer space?”

“No. Massachusetts.” Rosco said a little more sternly than he needed to, but his intensity seemed to elude the young man.

“Yeah, dude, that's the kinda wheels I need. I'm tired of this wagon my old man bought me. Safety, that's what he's always yammerin' about, but this thing makes me look like I'm, like, twenty-five, or something.”

“Ancient. Yeah, I can dig that,” Rosco said as Belle interrupted in a tone that sounded inadvertently schoolmarmish and prim.

“We're looking for a Ms. Jorcrof.”

“Oh, yeah, Wanda … Like, what's up with her anyways? Like, everybody's tryin' to find Wanda today.”

“Everybody?”

“Yeah, like, some dude in a suit was just here—drivin', like, a black Jag … Not a roadster, but, like, one of those sedans my granny has—and she's like, fifty, dude.”

“What'd this guy in the Jag look like?” Rosco asked, wincing slightly as he said the final word.

“Like? I don't know … like, he looked like a guy in a suit, like an agent, maybe.”

“A theatrical agent?”

“No, dude, like the
X-Files
. Like a suit and tie agent.”

Since the Jaguar, which was clearly Stan McKenet's, was nowhere in sight, Rosco surmised that Wanda Jorcrof probably wasn't around either. “I gather Wanda's not here. Do you know where she went?”

“Yeah, like, I told the other dude, she, like, took Gabby over to the beach.”

“Gabby?” Belle asked.

“Like, her dog, dude?”

Belle wasn't exactly sure that she qualified as a “dude,” but she let the comment pass. “What kind of dog is Gabby?” Her assumption, at this point, was that the boy might be better qualified to describe a dog than a woman or man.

“She's like, kind of, like, a poodle mixed with something else. Gray fur that's kinda curly and matted. Looks like a Rastafarian on a bad hair day.”

“Big?”

“Nah, small … like, thirty pounds, max.”

“Thanks,” Rosco said, and turned back to the Mustang.

“Hey, you dudes can, like, get to the beach by walking down that little road over there.” The boy pointed to his right. “I mean, like, that's how Wanda goes, so, maybe you'd, like, run into her. Besides, it's faster. The guy in the Jag wouldn't take my word for it—figured I was gonna like rip off his car or something. A sedan? Get real. Like, dude, who would want it?”

“Great. Thank you.”

Figuring the Mustang was Hertz's problem and not theirs, Belle and Rosco opted to walk. After about fifty yards, the lane dead-ended at the P.C.H. They jogged across the highway, and entered a large, empty parking lot. The winter winds had coated the surface with a layer of sand, and shallow drifts had formed against the curbs and the concrete road barriers. In summer, there wouldn't be a parking space available, but now, in February, at the close of the day, it was an eerie, empty slate. Standing in the extended dark shadow of the facility's deserted ticket booth, Belle and Rosco scanned the area, but both pavement and beach appeared devoid of human life. Stretching for miles in both directions, sand and sea were no longer the rosy gold of sunset but a soft pewter color that would soon turn leaden and chilly.

“I'd feel a whole lot better if you went back to the Mustang and waited,” Rosco said in a quiet tone. “You can talk to your new buddy—
dude”
.

“Why? I don't think we,
like
, have much in common.”

Rosco smiled, but his mouth was tight and worried. “We've got a killer around here somewhere, Belle. It's getting dark, and I'd rather you didn't get into the line of fire when he pops up.”

“And what about you? Don't I get to worry about you?”

“Worry all you
like
, but do it back at the Mustang … I'm a professional. I can handle McKenet.”

“I don't doubt that, but you've never seen him, Rosco. You can't identify him. I can—”

Belle's protest was curtailed as a compact gray dog darted down the beach toward a long, low-slung cinder block picnic/changing/restroom facility at the far end of the parking area. In the animal's wake was a woman who appeared to be in her late fifties. Her hair was a chopped, dark gray, and she was clad in a gray sweatshirt with gray sweatpants. In the waning light, her skin also appeared gray. She hurried after the dog shouting, “Gabby! Gabby! Come! Bad girl! Bad girl!”

Belle mouthed a hushed.

“Wanda.”

Gabby was clearly into a game of
chase;
she continued to race along the beach, a blur of fur flying along, seemingly suspended a foot above the surface of the sand. Gray Wanda was no match for her pet; she ran and stumbled after the dog, entreating Gabby to return, but the dog seemed intent upon reaching the empty building. Despite its ghostly appearance, it must have contained some remnant of beach-food pleasures that had arrested the animal's keen sense of smell.

“That must be him!” Belle suddenly gasped as she pointed toward a Jaguar sedan that was rolling slowly into the lot. Invisible within the shadow of the wooden ticket office, the couple watched the driver silently emerge from his car. “It's McKenet.”

At that moment, Gabby, barking loudly, barreled through an open door of the beach facility while Wanda, clearly winded, reached its broad concrete deck, and McKenet spotted his prey. He called out Wanda's name, but the sound of the dog's echoing yaps and yips drowned out his words. Oblivious to McKenet's presence, Wanda proceeded into the building; and the producer in his gleaming two-toned wingtips and expertly tailored suit hurried after her.

“Wait here,” Rosco said as he handed Belle his cell phone, “and call the cops. McKenet's probably armed … be sure to tell them that.”

“But—” Belle began.

“I know what I'm doing, Belle. I'll be careful.” Then he took off in swift pursuit of McKenet and Wanda.

As Rosco entered the nearly night-dark facility, the noise of the dog combined with Wanda's numerous entreaties almost, but not quite, drowned out McKenet's angry shouts. Then there was a pause, not in Gabby's insistent barks, but in Wanda's pleas to her wayward pet. McKenet's voice filled the void with Wanda suddenly arguing back. What the two were fighting about, Rosco couldn't discern—the words disappeared beneath Gabby's now quite-anxious yelps. Rosco followed the sounds, circling through the empty rooms in the hopes of taking McKenet unaware. The few windows and doors that hadn't been boarded up against winter storms provided the sole illumination for his search, but it was scant.

When Rosco finally spotted the pair, they were still separated by one long concrete hallway. McKenet's back was to the entry of a small changing area. Through the blackness, Rosco could make out that Gabby was now on a leash and bucking and straining and lunging at the producer, her pointed white teeth reflecting what little light there was. Wanda seemed unaware that a third person was approaching. She held the dog back with one hand while the other gesticulated wildly toward McKenet. A stalemate appeared to have been reached. Rosco moved stealthily forward, all the while trying to adjust his eyes to the ever-darkening air.

When he was within eight feet of the doorway and McKenet, Rosco saw the producer begin to reach inside his jacket for what he believed was a weapon. In an instant, Rosco shot forward, propelling himself toward McKenet like a linebacker making a last-gasp tackle on a scoring halfback. He wrapped an arm around McKenet's shoulders and slammed his body into the steel door jamb. A gasp of air escaped from Stan's lungs, and a sound of fear echoed from his mouth as he tumbled onto the concrete. Felled by the speed and surprise of Rosco's attack, McKenet lay on the gritty floor, his face in the dirt, his arms pinned to his sides, while Rosco knelt above him.

The producer winced in pain. Anger had replaced his initial sense of terror. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “What do you want?”

“Take it easy, McKenet. The cops are on their way. It's over. You'll be charged for the murder of Chick Darlessen.”

“Are you crazy?” was the stuttered reply. McKenet raised his head just enough to glower at Wanda. “She killed Darlessen. Didn't you hear her? I have it recorded on my Digital Voice Recorder. Who the hell are you?”

In his confusion, Rosco looked from McKenet to Wanda, back to McKenet, and then back again to Wanda who suddenly dropped her dog's leash. This time Gabby made no effort to escape.

“Who are you?” McKenet demanded for the third time.

Rosco released McKenet, and both men clambered to their feet. “Rosco Polycrates … I'm a private investigator.” He paused again and studied the other two for a moment. “I was hired by Debra Marcollo's lawyer to look into the Darlessen murder.”

“And you thought I killed him?” Stan said incredulously. “Where would you get such an inane idea?”

Seeing no evidence of the gun he believed the man possessed, Rosco ignored McKenet and turned to Wanda. “You shot Darlessen?”

Wanda's response was a stricken lowering of her head. “I just went there to talk, that's all … talk some sense into him. I needed that money. I didn't mean to … I just lost it.” Then she raised her chin defiantly. “Chick was a pig! He knew I was broke … He was making big money … And he knew what I was going through—that I'd have to give up my house if I didn't get my share of the winnings … He could have pressured McKenet.” She pointed at the producer. “And he did nothing. Nothing!”

Rosco looked at McKenet for corroboration while Wanda continued her tirade.

“Why couldn't you air the show, Stanley? I needed that money to survive. You and that creep Orso. You get your jollies stepping on the little people, don't you? Orso taunting me at the end of the show, digging it in … ‘Looks like you're
Down & Out
, Wanda …' Then you both make me beg for my loser's share? Come groveling for what amounts to lunch money for you two? You should all rot!”

Stan McKenet raised his right hand. In it was a crumpled envelope. He opened it, removed a cashier's check, and handed it to Rosco. “I was trying to give this to her. It's a check for her twenty-five thousand dollars. The consolation prize she would have won if the show was aired. I just wanted her off my back.” He shook his head. “And you thought I was pulling a gun, is that it?”

“It looked like that from the rear. I wasn't about to stop and ask questions.”

McKenet dusted the grit from his handsome suit, then glanced in dismay at his ruined wingtips. “I'm going to be honest with you here, fella. I have no intention of airing that blessed show—ever. Why should I? Why should I pay out a million bucks to some distant relative of Bartann Welner's who wouldn't know a crossword puzzle from a checkered flag? They don't deserve jack. Neither did Darlessen, as far as that goes, and I don't mind saying it … Look, I was here to dispose of Wanda once and for all, okay? Call it hush money if you want, I don't care. But she's the only person who could make my life miserable for not airing that show, so I decided to buy her off … I don't need my life being any more miserable than it already is.” Stan pulled a small Sony recording device from his breast pocket. “I have all of this on my DVR. I record everything anyone says to me. This is L.A., fella, I cover myself. Like you, I like to hang onto evidence.”

Rosco nodded slowly. “Right … Did you know the Bartann Welner shows were rigged?” he asked after a moment.

McKenet stared at him in disbelief mixed with horror. He quickly turned off his Digital Voice Recorder. “What?” he demanded. The word wobbled in his throat. “What do you mean,
rigged? Down & Across
has never been
rigged
. Never. Don't make accusations you can't back up. I'll have a lawyer down your throat before you know it.”

“Rolly Hoddal stole the correct answers from your office. He teamed up with Bartann Welner and Don Schruko, and they fixed the shows.”

“I knew it! I knew it!” Wanda began to rant again. She turned toward McKenet with hate in her eyes. “There's no way that old coot could have beaten me. I didn't win a single round in the Grand-Slam. It had to be fixed. I want my money! I want the whole million. He didn't beat me. I was cheated!”