Dream House (7 page)

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

Monday, November 10. 9:24
A.M.
100 block of North Croft Avenue. A woman reported that a man called her six times and hung up without saying anything, then called back and said, “I will kill you and eat your heart with mushrooms.” (Wilshire)

V
INCE PORTER SHOWED UP AT MY DOOR WITH ENRICO
Hernandez, a Wilshire detective I'd seen at the station. I had just stepped out of the shower after a long date with my treadmill—penance for the weekend. A jumbo bucket of popcorn during Tom's movie, followed by hot dogs and fries at The Grove's kosher kiosk; Sunday dinner with Zack at an Italian restaurant that makes irresistible olive bread with a garlic spread and great veal scallopini. And tonight was mah jongg at Mindy's—more nosh.

I threw on a sweater and jeans that felt tighter than they had three days ago and towel-dried my hair. I almost felt sorry for Porter and Hernandez, who were probably being grilled by Isaac, my thrice-widowed, seventy-seven-year-old landlord. He'd been engaged in his favorite pastime when they arrived—people-watching while drinking coffee and rocking on the front porch glider. I heard him clack his dentures with excitement as I invited the detectives inside, and he'd probably have given me a month's free rent to be in on the conversation so that he could report it to his “boys” at their weekly poker game.

Porter is tall and muscular with surfer wavy blond hair and swimming-pool blue eyes that have probably taken in a lot of suspects, especially of the female gender. The eyes, not surprisingly, weren't all that friendly this morning. Hernandez is a few inches shorter and leaner and has thick straight black hair and eyes the color of dark chocolate.

They sat on the taupe sofa in my sparsely furnished living room, and I sank into the cushy chintz armchair facing them. I'd been expecting a visit from Porter. I wasn't exactly nervous, but there is something unsettling about having police detectives in your home. The last time had been five years ago in a different apartment, when detectives had questioned me about the murder of my best friend Aggie.

Hernandez began. “As you may know, Miss Blume, Friday night a man died in a fire. We're assisting the fire department in the investigation of his death.”

“Has arson been determined?” I asked.

Porter gave me a we're-asking-the-questions scowl, but Hernandez didn't seem perturbed.

“They found traces of an accelerant,” he said.

I'm a sucker for accents and I loved his—Hispanic, soft and musical. “Where was Professor Linney found?”

“I'm afraid I can't answer that. I
can
tell you he was on the local HARP board, which suggests that this incident is connected to the recent vandalisms you so kindly brought to the department's attention.” A hint of a smile played around his lips.

Porter, I saw, was not amused. “Did Linney chair the board?”

“As a matter of fact, he did, a year ago.”

That fit the pattern, then. But would the vandal have known that? And why would he strike twice in the same area?

Hernandez took out a small spiral notepad. “We have a few questions about the HARP meeting Wednesday night.”

“The one you wrote about in your piece in the
Times.
” Porter's sneer and grating chalk-on-a-blackboard tone indicated what he thought of my journalistic efforts.

There went my Pulitzer. “What would you like to know?” I asked Hernandez.

“Let's begin with the bird.”

I was sick of the damn bird. “There's not much to tell. It was a medium-size bird.” I held up my hands about eight inches apart. “Kind of a grayish brown. A woman found it hanging on the ledge of an easel holding up a poster. She knocked down the easel and screamed.”

“What time was that?” Porter asked.

I considered. “Around eight-fifteen.” I was hungry and craved coffee, but it would be rude to drink alone, and I wasn't inclined to play hostess to Porter.

“Any idea who placed it there?” Hernandez asked.

I shook my head. “I must have passed the easel half a dozen times during the evening, but I only looked at it when I first arrived. That was around seven-twenty. I was across the room talking to people when the woman screamed.”

“Which people?”

They were eliminating suspects. “Linda Cobern. She's with Councilman Harrington's office. And Jeremy Dorn. He's spearheading the Hancock Park HARP drive.”

Hernandez wrote down the names. “Anyone else?”

“There was a gray-haired man talking to Cobern and Dorn. He left after I walked over and was near the easel when the woman screamed. He was furious about HARP.”

“What's his name?” Porter was a tiger pouncing on his prey.

I blanked for a second, then remembered. “Arnold Seltzer. I quoted him in the
Times
article.”

“Who else had access to the easel?” Hernandez asked.

“Everyone. And the room was cold, so a lot of people were wearing jackets or coats. It wouldn't have been hard for someone to hide the bird and put it on the easel's ledge when no one was looking. I think that's why the organizers decided not to call the police.” And because they didn't want the negative publicity.

“What about Roger Modine? Was he there?” Porter asked.

Connors must have given him the contractor's name. “Yes.” I'd asked my dad. He'd never met Modine, but had heard of him: decent work, but something of a hothead. I decided to keep that to myself.

“Was he wearing a jacket?”

“I think so.” I tried to visualize the contractor. “Brown corduroy, bulky. Seltzer was wearing a black parka.” I hoped Roger Modine had a solid alibi for Friday night.

“You're very observant, Miss Blume.” Hernandez smiled. “We're fortunate that you were there.”

He was the “good” cop. He was flattering me, and I knew it, but what the hell? I smiled back.

“What about your sister?” Porter asked. “Edie Borman,” he prompted when I didn't respond.

“I know my sister's name,” I said before my better judgment kicked in. There was no advantage in being snippy with Porter. “What about her?”

“We understand that she was at the meeting, and that she's very involved with the Hancock Park anti-HARP drive. She could have put the dead bird on the easel.”

Edie won't open a carton of cottage cheese that's a day past its expiration date, let alone touch a dead bird. But that wouldn't impress Porter. “So could half the people in the room,” I said. “I could have, too.”

“Did you?”

Forget better judgment. “Sure, I always carry a dead bird in my purse. You never know when you're going to need one to liven up a party.”

“Or a story. Maybe you figured it would punch up your ending.” Porter smirked.

I decided not to dignify that with a response.

Hernandez frowned at Porter, probably for my benefit. “Timothy Bolt told us you gave Professor Linney a ride to the Fuller house,” he said. “When was that?”

“Tuesday morning, around eleven-thirty.” I described the circumstances. “Apparently, Professor Linney had wandered out of his son-in-law's house several times before, looking for his daughter's house.”

“How do you know that?” Porter demanded.

I was tempted to say I'd used a crystal ball. “Tim Bolt said so. So did the son-in-law, Hank Reston. I overheard him at the HARP meeting talking about Linney. Reston was very concerned.” I faced Hernandez, knowing it would annoy Porter. “Why all these questions, Detective?”

“We're trying to establish how Professor Linney happened to be at the Fuller house. So what you're telling us is helpful. It corroborates a pattern.”

“Miss Blume
loves
patterns,” Porter said.

I smiled at him and silently invoked a Yiddish curse: May you grow like an onion, with your head in the ground. Maybe that's what the Mona Lisa was thinking, too.

“Did Professor Linney tell you why he wanted to go to his daughter's house?” Hernandez asked.

“No. But when he was pounding on the door, trying to get in, he said that he hoped she didn't hate him, that he'd done what he had because he loved her. He was crying.” I felt a wave of sadness for the old man.

“What do you think he meant?”

“I have no idea.” I wondered again whether Bolt knew. I debated telling the detectives that Linney hadn't wanted to return to his son-in-law's house but decided not to sic Porter on Reston.

“You told us Linney was pounding on the door,” Porter said. “He didn't have a key?”

“He said he forgot it.”

“Did he seem lucid, Miss Blume?” Hernandez asked.

“Lucid, but confused. He thought his daughter still lived in the house. And as I said, he was agitated.”

“Did he say anything else?” Porter asked in that same grating tone that made me grit my teeth.

Hank's a mean son of a bitch.
I shook my head. Partly because Porter was getting on my nerves. Partly because I suspected there was more to Hernandez's questions than he'd admitted. Intuition, a sixth sense. It's worked for me before. Other times, of course, it's led me nowhere.

“You mentioned that Mr. Reston was at the HARP meeting,” Hernandez said. “Was he pro or anti?”

“I don't know. I didn't have a chance to ask him. I overheard him telling a woman that he'd come to the meeting because he'd promised to give Linney a report.”

“Was he wearing a jacket, by the way?”

I pictured Reston. “He had a black leather jacket and an oversize sweater. I remember thinking it made him look larger than he was.”

Hernandez flipped a page of his notepad. “You interviewed many people for your article. Did any of them speculate as to who was responsible for the vandalisms?”

I shook my head. “Are you assuming that the person who placed the bird started the fire in the Fuller house?”

“It's a strong possibility. You probably didn't use all your interview material in your
Times
article, correct? Something in your notes might give us a lead.”

I didn't like where this was heading. “I don't think so, but I'll check them again.”

“If we could take a look . . . I'm sure you want to help us apprehend the person responsible for Professor Linney's death.”

“Absolutely.” I nodded. “But I'm not comfortable handing over my notes.” I had nothing to hide and no one to protect, but my notes were as private as my underwear.

Hernandez looked disappointed but not angry, unlike Porter, who was glaring. “At some point, Miss Blume, we may have to insist,” Hernandez said, a pleasant but unapologetic warning in his musical voice. “So please take good care of your notes. Thanks for your time.” He stood. “If we have more questions—”

“About Professor Linney,” I said. “Tim Bolt told me Margaret Reston disappeared several months ago. What's happening with that case?” I'd accessed the
Times
archives yesterday but had found only a few small paragraphs in the “California” section stating the bare facts and asking anyone who had information about the missing woman to contact the police.

“After five months, the trail is cold. But of course, if we get any leads, we follow up.”

“Do you think she's dead, Detective?”

“Probably. But without a body, we can't be certain.”

“Is her husband a suspect?”

“I can't discuss the Reston case, just as you can't share your notes.” Hernandez smiled. “I'm sure you understand.”

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

“I
F YOU HAVE ANY MORE
PATTERNS,
YOU SHOULD
consider taking up knitting,” Connors said when I finally reached him on the phone a little after two.

I hadn't talked to him since Thursday morning. He hadn't been at the station today when I'd stopped by on my rounds for my column, and he hadn't returned any of my calls. I knew he was pissed.

“I didn't mention that the chairpersons were being targeted, Andy.” I filled a glass with tap water and downed half. My fourth glass of the day—I was trying to be good but felt like an inflated flotation device.

“I asked you not to mention the bird, Molly. I asked you not to mention the board members
at all.
”

“I did what I thought was right.” There was no point in beating a dead horse—or bird, in this case. And that wasn't why I'd phoned. “I had a visit from Vince Porter and Enrico Hernandez this morning. Do you know Hernandez?”

“I know Rico. He's a good man.”

“They wanted to know all about the HARP meeting. And they asked me about the man who died, Oscar Linney.”

“Why would they ask you?”

“Porter didn't tell you? I gave Linney a ride to his daughter's house the other day.” I sighed. “I can't get the old man out of my mind, Andy.”

“You see dead people,” Connors said in a droll monotone. “How'd you know Linney?” he asked, more serious.

“I didn't
know
him. We met in front of my car.” I gave Connors the details. “Bolt told me it wasn't the first time Linney showed up looking for his daughter. I imagine he told Porter the same thing. So I'm wondering why he and Hernandez are asking so many questions.”

“Ask
them.
”

“I did. Hernandez said they're trying to establish how Linney got to Fuller from his son-in-law's house Friday.”

“There you go, Molly. Mystery's solved. We return you to our regularly scheduled program.”

“I had the feeling there was more to it. Did Porter tell you what's going on, Andy?”

“He's Wilshire, I'm Hollywood. Believe me, I have enough on my own plate.”

Not really an answer. “But the vandalisms crossed divisions, Andy. Are you telling me you haven't talked to Porter since the fire?”

Connors hesitated. “I've talked to him.”

“I heard that the accelerant was lighter fluid. Is that true?”

“No, it's not.”

That surprised me. “It's not? What was it?”

“You really should talk to Porter, Molly. It's his case. The fire department's, actually. But Porter and Hernandez are helping.”

I frowned. “Why are you shutting me out, Andy?”

“Maybe because I don't want to read about it in tomorrow's
Times.
Maybe I like my job and being able to pay the bills.”

“I won't write anything until you say I can. You have my word.” I paused to give my promise weight. “What was the accelerant?” I downed the rest of the water. “Andy?”

“Paint thinner.”

Interesting. “Where was Linney when they found him?”

“At the bottom of the staircase. His cane was in an upstairs bedroom. From the impression on the bed, they're guessing he was asleep when the fire started.”

“I wonder why he didn't call the fire department.”

“You said he had Alzheimer's, right? He was probably confused. He panicked and fell trying to get downstairs. If he'd stayed up there, he probably would've been okay. There was very little damage to the second story.”

That made his death even sadder. “How do they know he wasn't hurrying up the stairs to get away from the flames?”

“From the position of the body and the injuries. Possible broken neck. They found contusions on his face and bruises on his legs. The M.E. is doing the autopsy, probably tomorrow morning. Until they get the results, they won't know what killed him, the fall or the fire.”

I pictured the old man as he got into my car. I saw the robe open, the exposed bony knees. “The bruises were there when I met him.” I told Connors what I'd seen.

“Tell Porter or Hernandez, not me.”

With my ironing board set up in my bedroom and Elton John belting out “Rocket Man,” I tackled the first of half a dozen blouses I'd laundered the other day. My sisters think I'm crazy, but I'm one of those people who find ironing relaxing. I also—don't laugh—derive pleasure from turning something wrinkled into something lovely, if only temporarily so. Plus I do some of my best thinking when my mind wanders and my only concern is not burning my fingers.

I ran the hot Rowenta over a striped sleeve (if you're going to spend quality time with an iron, use a good one) and reviewed my session with Porter and Hernandez. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that they hadn't come to ask me about the HARP meeting. It was Linney they were interested in.

I finished the blouse and phoned Connors.

“All the questions Hernandez and Porter asked me?” I said when he came on the line. “‘What did Linney say? What was he like?' They're wondering whether Linney happened to be at the house when it was torched, or whether the house was torched because he was there.”

“Molly.” Connors sighed.

“It's because Margaret Reston disappeared, isn't it? Linney's daughter, but I assume you know that. She's gone, presumed dead. Now
he's
dead, too.”

“The two incidents aren't necessarily connected.”

“Linney doesn't fit the pattern, Andy. Why would the vandal strike the Miracle Mile area a second time?”

“Why
wouldn't
he? Porter told me Linney headed the HARP board, so he definitely fits the pattern.”

“Linney chaired the board a
year
ago. How would the vandal have known that?”

“The information's not hard to get. He could've found it on-line.
You
did. Or he could've asked a HARP member.”

“And waited a year to strike?” I flipped another blouse onto the board and ran the iron across the collar. “Excluding Linney, six chairpersons' homes were vandalized. Plus Fennel, who was chair until his term was up a month ago. The first chairperson was vandalized a month ago, too,” I continued, thinking it through as I spoke, “so when the vandal made his target list, Fennel was on it.”

“And Linney wasn't.” Connors sounded thoughtful.

“No, but someone tried to make it look like he was part of the pattern. Whoever torched the house took advantage of the fact that someone was targeting HARP board members, but he didn't know that the vandal was targeting the chairpersons.” The significance of what I'd said hit me.
A copycat. My fault.
I think the knowledge was there from the moment I'd watched Linney's house burn. I just hadn't wanted to face it.

Connors was silent. The iron hissed steam.

“I know what you're thinking,” I said. “If I hadn't written the article, if I hadn't mentioned the board members . . . Linney might be alive.” Tears smarted my eyes. I bit my lips.

“You're being hard on yourself, Molly,” Connors said quietly, his kindness worse than an I-told-you-so. “You're assuming he was the target. This
could
be the work of the same guy who vandalized the other places. Maybe Linney just happened to be there.”

“A man's daughter disappears, and five months later he dies in a fire started by arson? Porter and Hernandez are suspicious. I would be, too. So are you.”

“I've heard of stranger coincidences, Molly.”

“He didn't want to go up the stairs,” I said.

“What?”

“I just remembered. The day I drove Linney to his daughter's house? The neighbor invited him to rest at his place, and Linney said he didn't want to climb the stairs because he was afraid he'd fall and break his hip. So what was he doing in an upstairs bedroom Friday night?”