Hollywood Boulevard (37 page)

    He pulled the black rhinestone cigarette holder out of his pocket. "This belong to you?" Sylvia considered the question before answering. "A simple yes or no, Ms. Vernon."

    "I was thinking, where did I lose that darn thing? Where'd you find it?"

    "In Ardennes Thrush's desk drawer; any idea how it got there?"

    "She must have found it. I stopped smoking, you know. I only hold the cigarette, unlit. I miss it awfully, but the doctor— well, you don't want to hear about all that. Can I have it back?"

    "Not yet. The actor Matthew Fitzgerald, that's the man you say you saw with Ms. Thrush, says you're fictionalizing about them having an argument. Two days ago was the first time he was ever here."

    "And which of us do you believe, Detective?"

    "I hear management wants to convert all the units up top to hotel rooms, eliminate the apartments. That could be problematic for you, living on a retired stripper's pension. Or don't strippers get pensions? I forget."

    "Renters are protected in Los Angeles, Detective. The law is on my side."

    "That's a good place to keep it, Ms. Vernon." He tossed the cigarette holder into the air and caught it. "I'll get this back to you once the case is closed. Thanks again for your time. Oh, enjoy the dinner party."

    Sylvia followed Detective Collins to the door. "I still don't know what this is. . . . Oh, my, things do look serious," she said, eyeing the two uniformed cops who'd brought Fits to the hotel, lingering in the hallway. "Hello, boys. Care for a cup of coffee?" The cops looked to Detective Collins, who made a "no" tick with his right forefinger. They said no, thanks. " Knock twice if you change your mind," Sylvia said before closing and chaining the door.

I 
couldn't hear a thing, but I could tell something was up. Was attention finally being focused on Sylvia? I heard her tell Mucho to shut up. She opened the closet door and told me some new actors had arrived. She said one had rung her doorbell by mistake. She'd gone out on the balcony to see the fresh young faces. "Lookers too," she said. " Think what you're missing all locked up."

    "What do I have to do to get un– locked up?" "Don't you know?"

    "Give me a hint."

    "What do you want?"

    "Keep asking me that!" Dammit, she was annoying. She turned to leave. "Wait! I
want
to go outside, into the sunlight. That's what I want." I sounded pathetic.

    "I have to check my stove," she said, dismissing me. Sylvia stirred her stew, then filled an oversized bowl with hot water. With a bar of soap and a washcloth in her apron pocket and a fresh towel over her arm she walked slowly, carrying the bowl on a tray, into the bedroom and then to the closet. The usual instructions followed, and I hovered in the back while she pushed the tray in, water sloshing as she did.

    The water wasn't very hot by the time the chain was back on. She gave me my privacy to bathe. I crawled to the bowl. I wasn't standing up much anymore, moving on the ground instead, like a caged animal on all fours. I rinsed my face and under my arms and ran the cloth between my legs after removing my panties. I patted myself dry as best I could with tied hands. My T- shirt was damp, and so was my fishnet binding. Nothing I could do about it. I had two clean pairs of underwear, I put one pair on and tucked the dirty pair into my bag— why the modesty; who cared? I took a bottle of water— she'd left three this time— and brushed my teeth for the first time since my captivity. I wondered about lunch. Something smelled good when she opened the door. What a civilizing effect even a miserable facsimile of a bath and a change of panties can bring. I sat back in my lair. I picked up the Salinger and managed to read a few pages before dozing off. Zooey and his mom were still in the bathroom.

D
etective Collins spent the afternoon of day three poking around the hotel. The staff was already abuzz that something was up. He'd fill out the picture, though he didn't count on learning much. Something was eating at him from his last visit to Sylvia Vernon's apartment. He was pretty sure he'd caught a whiff of the same cheap perfume he'd smelled in Ardennes's suite. Was the former Vegas stripper up to no good, beyond being a hard- boiled old broad? It looked as if she might have made up that yarn about Fits and Ardennes arguing. Why?

    First he had a chat with the hotel manager, Doug Warren, who was newly placed. This was unfortunate for the Detective because Warren didn't yet have his hands on things in a way that would have been helpful, the nuances and details of the hotel that can reveal so much. Tall and pimply, as if his sebaceous glands hadn't quite made it out of high school, he wore glasses that slipped down an oily nose at regular intervals. Fortunately he'd inherited a loyal staff, and a hardworking assistant manager in Mary Kay Alton, a natural blond who knew how to handle her staff and any tricky guests.

    Doug Warren said he'd only met Ms. Thrush once, when she'd first arrived. He rarely went to the upper- level rooms himself.

    "I hear you're planning on turning the apartments up top into rentals. Business is good, then?"

    The manager shook his head. "They're a complete loss. Rent control is killing us."

    "Yeah, those pesky protections. You buying out leases?"

    "We don't quite have the budget in place for that at the moment. But as people look to leave—"

    "Sure, apply a little pressure—"

    "No, nothing like harassment. Not at all. Ours is a reputable establishment, Detective Collins."

    The Detective placed the manager as Canadian or Minnesotan. " There are some vacant apartments; Ms. Vernon in 304 seems to be one of a couple of holdouts in that wing. Why not begin renovating around them?"

    Mr. Warren lowered his voice, though they were alone in his of fice with the door securely closed. "Detective Collins, the family that owns the Hotel Muse property is looking to sell. Those units are currently worth more sitting idle."

    "I see; so it's lucky you have Andre Lucerne's crew taking up so many rooms and suites."

    The manager shook his head, adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses. "Frankly, my predecessor gave them rather too sweetheart a deal." He shifted in his swivel chair. "Water?" He reached into a small refrigerator behind his desk and pulled out two bottles of spring water.

    The Detective nodded. "Thanks." He reached across the desk for one of the bottles.

    "I have to say, Detective, I'm not quite certain what the problem here is. You say Ms. Thrush has gone missing?"

    "It's not certain." He looked significantly across the water bottle, still at his lips.

    "Then in what way can I help? Negative publicity if a guest
were
to go missing from the property— well, you see where this could lead, I'm sure."

    "Right. This town is all about image. But you will arrange for me to talk—
quietly
— to some of your staff. The maids who work up top, the desk people . . ."

    "Of course, of course." He hit a number on his phone. "Mary Kay? Can you come into my office? Yes, now." The assistant manager materialized in a matter of seconds. The manager made the introductions. She was pretty enough, if just the wrong side of missing her gym days, and looked like she could use a couple of days off or what the locker- room gents might call in need of a good plugging by her boyfriend; bring some color to her cheeks. The Detective stood up. "There's a little problem—"

    "I'll take it from here, Mr. Warren," the Detective said without looking at the manager. "Ms. Alton, have you seen Ardennes Thrush in the past, say, three days?"

    "I heard something was wrong . . . but no, I haven't. She doesn't come down much anymore now they have Internet up top. Is she in any danger?"

    "How did you find her when you last saw her?"

    "Oh, lovely; she's a lovely person, not a stuck– up, actressy bone to her." She leaned in as if confiding. "And, you know, she was nominated for an Oscar? I'd say there's an inwardness or solitariness— yes, that's the word I'd use; she's a solitary person." She nodded her head as if to indicate she was done making her point.

    "Not upset or distracted?"

    The assistant manager considered the question, wrinkling her nose, scrunching together a constellation of pale freckles. The Detective saw Mary Kay Alton as one who'd had other plans— perhaps to be an actress herself. Probably something creative that would fade as she did. "No, I don't think so," she said.

    Doug Warren guarded no hidden ambition; he was content managing a boutique hotel and all its personnel; the job gave him just the amount of authority necessary to face the bathroom mirror each day. The Detective knew the type. At the same time as he sized up the inconsequential manager, he decided Fits was squeaky clean, at least with regard to Ardennes's current circumstance. And that made Sylvia look bad again. The cop in him didn't care as long as his case was solved and Ardennes Thrush was safe. But Devin Collins— private citizen— preferred Fits to be clean and— for reasons he couldn't satisfactorily explain— did not want Sylvia to be as dirty as she was beginning to look. Was it the old cliché of the stripper and the law? The soft spot for a girl who'd turned hard by years of exposure to johnny- boys who only saw her as a ticket to self- pleasure? He didn't know and was not about to spend time guessing. He just didn't see Sylvia Vernon as a determined criminal.

    "Okay, Ms. Alton, thanks. I'll talk to the desk personnel now."

    "Oh, I just remembered, Ms. Thrush was going to join the gym, L.A. Fitness. We have an arrangement with our guests to use the facility. She seemed excited about that."

    "Did she join?"

    "I can check for reimbursement receipts, but I don't think there would have been time, I only passed her the information the other day, a note in her mailbox. She called me back to inquire."

    "Will you check on that for me? Now, the desk people . . ."

    "Sharif is on today," Mary Kay Alton explained in a brisk, businesslike tone. "And Christine, but Christie's in back. We have two clerks on at each shift, though usually only one is actually present at the desk." She moved toward the door.

    The Detective thanked the manager, who'd stood up. Mr. Warren let him know he hoped nothing was seriously the matter. Security was good at the Hotel Muse; he wanted Detective Collins to be assured of that.

    The Detective nodded. "Sure, adverse publicity. I got it."

    Sharif snapped to attention, ready for the grand jury. Whatever the Detective might ask he'd have details to spare, taking matters very much to heart. "She's a beautiful woman. I confess I have a small crush. Last time I saw her . . . let's see . . . a few days ago. I miss her so at breakfast, we had such nice little chats." He smiled conspiratorially. He told the Detective about Eddie Tompkins's curious visit, not adding much to what Detective Collins already knew. "Ms. Thrush didn't seem to know who he was. An aggressive fan, I supposed. These actresses can't be too careful, and Ardennes— er, Ms. Thrush— wasn't very."

"Careful?"

    "I don't think so. . . . So, the last time I saw her? Yes, I remember. She was locked out—
again
. Wait a minute; she hurt her ankle— was that before or after?"

    The Detective leaned an elbow on the reception desk. "To the best of your recollection."

    "After, I think. Yes, she was on her way out and twisted her ankle— Ms. Thrush likes to walk, a real New Yorker. Anyhow, she limped back into the lobby. She seemed very bothered by it. I asked if she needed a doctor. She didn't, but she wanted a ride back up to her suite. I had Manuel— no, Arturo drove her, and later I sent a box of Epsom salts up for her to soak her foot. Epsom salt is the elixir for
so
many woes, Detective. Hermie took it up— that's Hermie Martinez, our head of housekeeping. She left it at the door because Ms. Thrush had gone out in her car, which surprised me. In fact, I was worried; using the ankle seemed like a bad idea. She has fantastic legs!" He paused to breathe.