Grave Endings (20 page)

twenty-nine

GLORIA LAMONT WAS WEARING DUCKS TODAY. I KNEW my stock had risen when she invited me into her living room and offered me a seat on a green velvet sofa while she took the beige armchair that looked worn, in a comfortable way. I was happy to sit. After leaving Horton Enterprises a little after ten, I'd spent two hours collecting
Crime Sheet
data from the Northeast and Wilshire Divisions, and my feet ached from the high heels I'd worn to go with the black power suit I'd decided would impress Horton, though I can't say he even noticed.

“You doin' okay?” Gloria asked, her brown eyes filled with concern.

“Pretty okay. I have a favor to ask, Mrs. Lamont. I know you keep files on all the tenants, and I'm wondering if I could take a peek at Randy's.”

The manager frowned. “I don't know that I can do that. What would you be needing to see it for, anyway?”

“I'm trying to help his sister.”

“That poor girl.” Gloria
tsk
ed. “She looked something awful at the funeral. How is she?”

“I haven't heard from her since yesterday.”

I'd phoned Frederick's and learned that Trina had taken a leave of absence. I'd left a message on her phone but wasn't surprised that she hadn't returned my call. She probably didn't want a babysitter.

“Trina gave me Randy's cell phone.” I took the phone from my purse, turned it on, and showed it to the manager. “See the message box? There are two voice messages, and Trina wants to hear them, in case they're important.”

Gloria eyed me, dubious. “Important how? Randy's dead, honey. It don't matter who called him. An' why isn't Randy's sister here askin' me? Why did she send you?”

“Somebody trashed her apartment. She's staying in a hotel, I don't know which one, until she figures things out. She thinks the person who did it killed Randy.”

“Randy
killed
?” Gloria put her hand to her mouth. Then she narrowed her eyes and dropped her hand. “Is this one of your
stories
?”

“No, ma'am.” I told her about Trina's Saturday-night call for help.

“So what all do you need from Randy's file?”

“His social security number. If I have that, I can call the cell phone company, change the password, and listen to the voice messages.”

Gloria chewed on her lip. “It don't seem right.”

“Like you said, Randy's dead. It's not as though his social security number means anything to him anymore.”

“You really think someone killed him?”

“I'm not sure,” I admitted. “Trina thinks so. Did you see anybody coming to his apartment the night he died, Mrs. Lamont?”

“I was asleep before nine o'clock. I had a cold and took some of that NyQuil. I was dead to the world. Randy's girlfriend had to ring my bell twenty times before I heard her and dragged myself out of bed.”

“So can I take a look at his application, Mrs. Lamont? No one will even know. I promise.”

Gloria tugged on the sleeves of her sweater. I could see the uncertainty in her eyes and was surprised a moment later when she nodded.

“I've got a box full of files. It'll take me a few minutes.”

While she was gone, I looked around the room. There was a small brown spinet and some framed photos, one of a pretty woman who looked like a younger version of Gloria. Probably the daughter, Shirrel. Several more of Shirrel's son and daughter. Cute kids.

“Well, here it is,” Gloria said as she came back to the living room. She handed me the application form.

I took out my notepad and pen and wrote down Randy's social security number. “I can't thank you enough, Mrs. Lamont.”

“I hope you're wrong about Randy being killed,” she said as I was leaving. “I don't like thinkin' something like that could happen right here.”

She shut the door. I heard the sound of a dead bolt as I walked down the hall to Mike's apartment. I rang his bell.

“Hey,” he said when he opened the door in shorts and a black T-shirt. “What's up?”

It was almost one o'clock, but from his tousled hair and rumpled appearance, I could tell I'd woken him up. “Sorry to bother you. The night Randy died, Mike, did you see him?”

It was the first question I'd asked days ago when we were talking on the front lawn. I'd been sidetracked when he told me about Randy's drunken confession and hadn't realized until an hour ago that he'd never given me an answer.

“Yeah, for a minute,” he said. “I was leaving to grab a bite and catch a movie when the Domino's guy showed. I invited him to come. Randy, not pizza man.” Mike's smile stretched into a yawn. “He said he was meeting someone at eight, and Doreen later. He looked uptight. I thought maybe they weren't getting along.”

“What time was this?”

Mike scratched his head. “Seven-ten, -fifteen? The movie was nine-thirty. That was the last time I saw him. But his Porsche was in his spot when I came back before midnight.”

From Hollywood I drove to Burbank and barely got there in time for my one-thirty next-to-final fitting for my gown—a simple, full-length ivory satin slip dress with echoes of Vera Wang, a modest jewel neckline, and long, fitted sleeves.

“You lose more weight.” My dressmaker, a tiny Asian woman who made me look tall, clucked. “Okay. I take in here and here.” She pinched the fabric at my waist and hips and inserted a few straight pins, which she pulled from her mouth. “I don't want touch here, line is beautiful.” She ran her hand across my chest. “You bring two padded bras Thursday, okay? We see which one better. Length is good?”

The length was fine. Two or three millimeters too short for the three-inch-heel ivory satin pumps I was wearing, but no one would notice. And after the chuppa, I'd be wearing the new white tennis shoes Liora had dressed up with pearls, rhinestones, and lace appliqués. It's what many Orthodox brides do, and their mothers and other women in the bridal party. I love my heels, but they're not made for the high-energy Israeli dancing we'd be doing throughout the dinner reception.

“You eat,” the dressmaker instructed as I was leaving. “But not too much.”

Back in my apartment I changed into comfortable clothes and fixed myself a tuna sandwich. I phoned Trina and left another message.

I contacted Randy's cell phone service. I gave them Randy's cell number, told them I'd forgotten my password and couldn't access my voice messages, and supplied the necessary ID: Randy's social security number and his mother's maiden name, which after some hard thinking this morning, I'd remembered was Jasper.

When I hung up a minute later I had Randy's new password, and a problem. If I accessed the voice mail via my phone, I'd be eliminating a received call, the one at the bottom of the screen.

I accessed the screen and scrolled down to the last number. That was the call from Max, the NA sponsor. At least I didn't have to identify the caller. I jotted down Max's name and the time of the call.

I shut off Randy's cell and dialed his number on my phone. I felt eerie listening to his message, but when he was finished, I pressed the pound button, then the new password, then 1.

“You have two unheard messages,”
a recorded voice informed me.
“First message, sent on Wednesday, three
twenty-two P.M.”

“Randy, I'm asking you to reconsider before you do something you'll be sorry for later. Call me.”

“End of message.”

Alice Creeley. That was a surprise.

“To erase this message, press seven. To save the message, press nine.”

I pressed 9.

“Next message, sent on Thursday, 12:41 A.M.”

“Randy, why aren't you answering? Randy? Do they know?”

“End of message. To erase this message—”

I pressed 9. I would have liked to play the message again, to listen to the woman caller's voice, but I didn't want to erase any more phone numbers. Even without hearing it again, I was fairly certain the caller was my redhead.

thirty

“YOU DIDN'T CALL BACK, BUT I FIGURED YOU'D HAVE TO talk to me today or tomorrow,” Connors said when I was sitting next to his desk. “Give me a minute, and I'll get you the DO sheets.”

Connors is one of the detectives who make my life easier by giving me sanitized photocopies of the Daily Occurrence sheets for my column. At many police stations, including Wilshire, I have to copy the data.

“Thanks, but that's not the only reason I'm here.” I took the cell phone from my purse and placed it on his desk.

“A little early for my birthday,” he said. “Plus I have my own, thanks.”

“That's Randy's. His sister took it from the apartment the night he died. She gave it to me. I figured you might want to know who Randy talked to before he died.”

Connors leaned way back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. “And why would I be interested in that?”

I told him about Trina's trashed apartment and the threatening calls from Jim. “I kept pushing her to contact you, but Jim warned her not to. She's convinced that someone killed Randy—maybe Jim. She says the police don't believe her, and that they don't care about Randy because he was an ex-con, or about her. I tried to tell her otherwise, but she wasn't buying it.”

Connors had listened with interest. His hands came down. “My guess? The package is drugs, Molly. Randy was dealing, Jim was his supplier. Now that Randy's dead, Jim wants his stuff back. That doesn't mean Jim killed him. Just the opposite.”

“Randy was in NA.”

Connors shrugged. “He got sucked back in. Doesn't take long. He didn't have money to buy the stuff. His pal Jim says, Why don't you sell, you'll have money.”

I had to admit that that sounded plausible. “So you're not interested in knowing who Randy talked to?”

“Doesn't hurt to find out. I assume you already know?” Connors said wryly.

“Trina and I checked out the calls yesterday. It wasn't evidence, Andy,” I said before Connors could object. “Just a phone belonging to a dead man who overdosed.”

Connors turned on the phone and accessed the screens of incoming and sent calls. “Can I assume you know who these unidentified numbers belong to, Miss Marple?”

I handed him a copy of the revised list I'd made.

CALLS RANDY MADE:
Wednesday, 9:01 A.M.—
Horton Enterprises
Wednesday, 9:29 A.M.—
San Diego Brian (last name?)
Wednesday, 9:43 A.M.—
626 call (?)
Wednesday, 10:08 A.M.—
Max
Wednesday, 12:03 P.M.—
Rachel's Tent
Wednesday, 12:19 P.M.—
Dad
Wednesday, 1:17 P.M.—
Rachel's Tent
Wednesday, 5:33 P.M.—
Trina
Wednesday, 6:42 P.M.—
Domino's Pizza

CALLS RANDY RECEIVED:
Wednesday, 8:12 A.M.—
Max
Wednesday, 9:17 A.M.—
619 call (?)
Wednesday, 2:33 P.M.—
Jerry Luna, Randy's agent
Wednesday, 3:14 P.M.—
Rachel's Tent
Wednesday, 4:42 P.M.—
626 (?), same as sent
9:43 A.M.
Wednesday, 5:17 P.M.—
Dad
Wednesday, 5:44 P.M.—
Trina
Wednesday, 9:16 P.M.—
Doreen
Thursday, 12:14 A.M.—
Doreen
Thursday, 12:38 A.M.—
619 same as 9:17 above (un-
known)

Connors studied the list. “What's Randy's connection with Horton Enterprises?”

“They fund Rachel's Tent. Anthony Horton is the founder.” I repeated the business mogul's story. “I met with him and his son this morning. Randy phoned Horton the morning he died, but Horton wasn't able to take the call. Now he feels bad.”

“Does Horton have any idea why Creeley wanted to talk to him?”

“He didn't, but I did.”

Connors gave me a crooked smile. “Why am I not surprised?”

“According to Trina, Randy was making amends to people he'd wronged over the years. He was writing them letters. I know he asked forgiveness from his father and stepmother.”

“Like the letter he was writing the Lashers.” Connors nodded. “But why would he ask forgiveness from Horton?”

“Horton got him the job at Rachel's Tent. Maybe Randy wanted to thank him again, and apologize for not living up to Horton's expectations. Horton said Randy disappointed him.” I didn't feel right telling Connors about Randy's drug dealing. That had happened a year ago, and I'd promised Horton to keep it off the record.

Connors glanced at my list. “Ditto for the calls to Rachel's Tent, huh? Who's Brian in San Diego?”

“I don't know. At the funeral I saw a redheaded woman who I thought might be Doreen. I followed her.” I ignored Connors's sigh and told him what had happened, watched his interest darken to annoyance, then anger.

“I should lock you up for your own good,” he said when I was done. “Do you have a death wish or something?”

“I got caught up in the thing, Andy. I had no idea she'd pull a gun.” The memory of the cold steel was still vivid. I suppressed a shudder. “She thought people sent me to follow her.”

“Which people?”

“She didn't identify them. She said, ‘The ones who killed Aggie, the ones who killed me.' ”

Connors grunted. “Sounds like she was stoned or missing a few screws.”

“I don't know. I
do
know she was terrified. And she knew who Aggie was—she identified her in a picture she found in my wallet—and that I'd given Aggie the locket.”

“Things Randy's girlfriend might know,” Connors said. “I don't get this redhead's connection to the 619 Brian.”

“I tried reaching her on her cell phone and got a voice message: ‘Hi, this is Brian.' Then, when I tried the 619 call on Randy's cell, the guy who answered said he was Brian. Same voice, same guy. He didn't know a Doreen.”

“How did you get her cell number?” Connors asked.

I told him about the Russian limo driver.

“Very enterprising,” he said. “The driver, I mean.”

I figured he was too annoyed to give me points. “I don't understand how this woman got Brian's cell phone, Andy. Unless she stole it. She probably lives in the San Diego area, because someone made two calls from the 619 area to Randy, and she had Brian's phone.”

“If she stole his phone, she didn't necessarily do it when she was in San Diego. And anybody could have made the 619 calls. For all we know, Randy had business dealings with someone in San Diego, and with Brian. Or Brian could be a friend. Did you ask him if he knew Randy?”

I shook my head. Dumb of me. “I was focused on finding out about Doreen.”

Connors drummed his fingers on his desk. “So Randy made calls. To his dad, his sister, a pizza shop, his agent, his girlfriend. Nothing unusual. You're probably right about the calls to Rachel's Tent and Horton. He wanted to make amends. And the calls verify what the girlfriend said, that Randy didn't show for their date and she got worried. Thanks anyway, Molly. I'll hold on to the phone and get it back to Randy's sister.”

I could leave now, I thought. If Connors was interested, he could obtain a list of all the calls Randy had made and received. . . .

“Something else?” Connors asked.

“I accidentally eliminated a call Randy made to the Lashers,” I said, the color and heat rising in my face like one of my mother's hot flashes. “I didn't include it on the list I gave you. Randy phoned the Lashers the Tuesday night before he died, but I don't have the exact time.”

Connors was quiet for half a minute or so, swiveling back and forth in his chair. “Were you considering not telling me?” he asked when the chair had come to a stop.

“I
did
tell you, didn't I?” Not really an answer. “I spoke to Dr. Lasher last night, Andy.” I repeated what Aggie's father had told me. “He thought Randy might talk more openly to him than to the police, but Thursday morning he phoned Wilshire anyway. Porter wasn't in. And then you showed up at their house with the locket.”

“I have to talk to him, Molly.” Connors looked unhappy. “You know that. I wish he'd told me right away.”

“He didn't see the point. You told him Randy had overdosed.”

Connors sat up straight and leaned toward me. “The
point
is, Molly, and you know it as well as I do or you wouldn't have had second thoughts about telling me about the call, the
point
is that Lasher had two conversations with the man who killed his daughter, and he had the last one a few hours before the man died.”

“Of a self-inflicted overdose,” I said. “It's what you keep telling me.”

Connors gave me a hard look, I think to see if I was mocking him, which I wasn't. Then he sighed.

“I know it wasn't easy for you to come here with this, Molly. I think you know you did the right thing.”

I hoped so. “I told Dr. Lasher I had to tell you about the phone call. He didn't try to talk me out of it.”

Connors nodded, but I could tell he wasn't impressed, or focused. His mind was elsewhere, probably on Dr. Lasher.

“I have a few questions, Andy, and a favor to ask.”

He grunted. “So the phone is gonna cost me, huh?”

“And the list,” I said. “You have to admit it'll save you some time.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Randy killed Aggie somewhere between Alcott, where she parked her car, and the synagogue hall, which is on Pico off Livonia. Why did he move her body to a Dumpster behind a restaurant a mile away? And don't tell me to ask Porter. He won't give me a straight answer.”

“You and I are friends, Molly, not partners.”

“What difference does it make if you tell me? Aggie's dead. Creeley's dead.”

Connors swiveled again in his chair. “I'll talk to Porter and see what he says. That's the best I can do. What else?”

“I want to know who made the 619 calls to Randy.”

Connors shook his head.

“I'm not asking for the address. Just a name.”

“Can't do it.”

“What about Brian? Can you find out if his cell phone was stolen?”

“Let me think about it. If I can, I'll let you know.”

“One more thing? Randy has two voice mails and—”

“And you want me to tell you what they are?” Connors sighed. “Again, I can't do it, Molly.”

“Actually, I heard them. One is from his stepmother, Alice,” I said before Connors could make a snippy comment. “The other one is from my redhead.”

That perked Connors's interest. “How'd you get the password? Scratch that,” he said. “I don't want to know, or I might have to arrest you.” His eyes said he was only half joking. “You're sure it's the redhead?”

“Pretty sure. I wanted to compare her voice with Doreen's, but I didn't want to eliminate any more calls on Randy's phone.”

“Very considerate,” he said dryly. He picked up Randy's phone, glanced at my list, and accessed the screen for received calls. He selected DOREEN and pressed SEND.

“Leave your number, I'll call you back.”

Using his desk phone, which he placed on speaker, he dialed Randy's cell, waited for the prompt, and pressed the pound button. “What's the password?” he asked me.

I told him.

He punched in the four numbers, waited for a prompt, and pressed 1. We listened to Alice Creeley. Connors saved the message. A moment later we heard the woman's voice.

“Randy, why aren't you answering? Randy? Do they know?”

Connors played it again and looked at me.

“It's not Doreen,” I said.

He nodded.