Hollywood Boulevard (42 page)

    Maybe five minutes had passed.

    I tried to scramble back up the cliff the way Sylvia had, but three days' immobility had left my muscles fl oppy. And the drugs were slowing me down too. Maybe that was why my arm didn't hurt. Or was that something the body does, endorphins kicking in, acting like morphine to ease the shock? I picked my way, holding the bags in my right hand. Halfway up I saw a blue- black metal object stuck between two rocks. The gun! Sylvia dropped it? Or tossed it? The handle was wedged. A couple of hard tugs and I had it in the palm of my hand. I turned the chamber, the way Dad had shown me, making sure the safety was on first. It wasn't. He'd wanted me to know how to handle a gun, just as a precaution, that a girl should never feel helpless. He made my mom learn too. The old army pistols from our house, last seen in a shoe box at Joe's . . .

    The chamber was empty. Either she had only one bullet or took only one with her. The gun looked old. Where'd she get it? Was she supposed to shoot me, or had Sylvia gone renegade on the plan? I couldn't see her premeditating to kill me; maybe her aim was no good or she didn't mean the gun to go off. I left the bags and climbed back down the rocks and threw the gun with all my might into the Pacific, far enough out, I think, that it would be a couple of days before it washed up, hopefully down toward Mexico.

    I climbed back up the rocks to the road, my purse over my right shoulder, the weekender in my right hand. I had to decide which way to go. Walk north to one of the Malibu houses to ask for help, where intruders were as welcome as mudslides and typhoons, or go back to Santa Monica to find an open coffee shop? The few cars on the highway were speeding in the just beginning to glow morning light. I headed for the houses. Even if I was seen as a threat and the police were called, I'd be better off than in a more public setting like a café. I walked for twenty minutes, growing warmer as I did. I kept my left hand in my jacket pocket to keep the arm still. A jogger came by from the opposite direction, meter thingy on his arm, formfitting spandex, and headband: the jogger statement. "Hello! Listen, please stop; can I use your phone?"

    "Don't have one on me!" he yelled as he ran by, giving me a wide berth.

    "Like hell," I yelled back at him. "Thanks!" He must have though I was a vagrant. Sure, a lady bum with cashmere around my throat. It was true I hadn't brushed my hair lately, or washed my face. I sat down on the rocks to rest a minute. I opened my purse and found Sylvia had put in a new bottle of water. She was full of contradictions. The seal was good. I snapped it open and took a long pull. A female jogger came toward me. She didn't see me until the last minute, running into the road when she did. I could have been a killer lying in wait. "You should be more careful, all alone like that," I called out.

    She swung her shoulder and gave me the finger. " Crazy person," she called back in a high- pitched, teenaged voice. What a nice bunch of caring people lived in Malibu. Once upon a lifetime ago I rented here.

    Cars were steadier now, a growing stream. Morning had stamped out the dark. I pushed myself up and started walking again. The houses were getting closer, and I was getting nervous. I wasn't sure what day it was, let alone how to approach a strange house, ring the doorbell and ask for help. Is this how I would be if I hadn't been Ardennes Thrush, successful actress? How, homeless? A nobody was the reply, and that idea did not sit happily. But I'd been chasing anonymity for two years, and I was not now walking with great purpose, not racing to the first house for help. This must be how guys were who rode the rails, moving across the country from job to job or bar to bar, seeing the world from the ground up as they roamed the landscape. There were the dry hills to my right: cactus, scruff plants and brown grass, the breath of wilderness under the city surface. And there was the sea to my left: rocks and surf, seagulls and dolphins, all under a cloudless sky. I walked, strolled really— almost enjoying an aimless freedom I knew had just about spun itself out— when a cruiser pulled up next to me.

    "Lost?" a nice looking cop asked. Nice until I looked deeper into a pair of cold eyes. He was there to protect the money and the movie stars who made Malibu home, a place where nobody walked. Period. A little brain birdie let me know not to say what I was thinking but to let the cop do the talking until I figured out when to mention I'd been missing for the past few days.

    A second officer stepped out of the passenger side. "Okay, hold it right where you are." No
Ma'am, or are you all right?
or
Looks like
you took a spill
. Did I appear dangerous? He came around the car, right hand at the butt of his gun, close enough for me to read his name tag: Officer Brown, like his eyes. Only he wasn't; both cops were white, and that didn't seem like a coincidence considering the neighborhood. "Nice and easy," he said as if he was talking to a spooked horse. I hadn't moved other than to turn my head in his direction. The sun chose that moment to pop over the hills, shining right into my eyes. I squinted. It must have been later than I thought, after six, maybe even going on seven. "Step back and put the bags down, nice and slow." He was overusing the word
nice
; better get the writers out here for a dialogue fix. I tried to tell myself this was real, but it wasn't working because at the moment nothing seemed real and hadn't for the longest time, and now things felt downright absurd. Plus, I'd taken a bullet— not quite, but Fits was going to howl over that one.

    I placed the weekender on the ground and awkwardly lifted the purse off my shoulder and over my head. My arm started to pulse. I moved unsteadily. I probably looked drunk. Good thing there's no walking while intoxicated to go with the DWI or I'd be up on that suspicion too. I bet that rat runner who said he had no phone called the cops on me. The other officer, who'd watched the proceedings with a mixture of bored fatigue and slight interest (I was clearly not the usual pickup), unfolded himself out of the driver's seat. He was very tall. His name tag read, Roger.

    Officer Brown was saying something, but I was noticing early rush hour cars slowing down to rubberneck our little side of the highway performance. Cop Roger hadn't bothered to pull all the way onto the shoulder. They never do. Cars had to maneuver around the cruiser's tail end, creating another potential hazard. That used to drive Joe mad, how the police stopped on a city street, sometimes more than one car, sometimes blocking an entire intersection, snarling traffic. But Joe and I were done. . . .

    "Wake up, lady; I said to place your hands on the hood, legs apart."

    "What for?"

    Officers Brown and Roger exchanged bemused glances. "I'm going to have you dust the hood. Or maybe I'm going to search you. So spread 'em." It seemed to me the policeman lingered an extra couple of seconds at my crotch. When he tapped my left arm and I jumped in pain, all interest in my personal assets vanished. Hands were on guns. (More guns; what a world!) All of a sudden I felt so tired.

    "What the hell!" Brown said, grabbing me by my right arm while reaching for his cuffs.

    "Oh, no, please don't. I just got untied." I turned to face him.

    "You better quiet down, lady." He pulled my arms behind me and was about to apply the cuffs when Officer Roger told him to hang on.

    He was looking at my beat up, black- and- blue wrists. "What did she say just now about being tied up?"

    "What?"

    Officer Roger didn't look happy. " Cuffs in front, and keep 'em loose," he told his partner. He picked up my purse and began searching through the contents.

    Officer Brown yanked my arms forward, and I was once again in bondage. "You gonna sit quiet if I put you in back?" I nodded. My arm was throbbing. He opened the door, and for the second time that morning my head was held as I was guided into a car.

    "Can you tell me what time it is?" I asked. Neither cop replied. They were too busy with my purse.

    "This yours, or did you steal it?" a surly Brown asked. He was out for blood.

    " There should be a photo ID, New York state driver's license in the wallet. It will look like me," I said. I suddenly missed the calm of Sylvia's closet.

    They found my license, held it up, conferred, and Officer Brown kept it. Next they rifl ed through the weekend bag. I knew there was nothing fishy in there, and I was growing impatient for my one phone call. Finally they put my bags in the trunk and got into the car. "What are you doing in Malibu, Ms. Thrush?"

    I wondered if there was an APB out on me. I decided then and there not to cooperate.

    "Officer Roger, will you please call Detective Devin Collins of the Beverly Hills precinct?"

    Officer Brown snapped his head around. He was reading my license number, about to call in on me, see if I had any outstanding anythings attached that would give him an excuse to lock me up. "You were asked a question, Miss."

    "What was it again?"

    "Why are you walking the Pacific Highway at dawn with bruises on your face and arms? You into some kind of S/M shit or what?"

    "I'd like a phone call."

    "Don't get smart; you're in a world of trouble—"

    I cut in on Officer Brown. "Officer Roger, will you please call Detective Collins of the Beverly Hills precinct?" Working actress that I'd been, I already had his cell phone number memorized. I recited it to Officer Roger.

    "What's with Beverly Hills; we have a nice precinct right here near the shore," he said.

    "He was working on my case." That came out wrong. Both cops turned to face me. "I thought I was being stalked, and he was handling the situation."

    " Where you staying in Los Angeles, Ms. Thrush?"

    "The Hotel Muse, in Hollywood. Please, make the call." I recited the number again.

    They did, eventually, call Detective Collins, but not until taking forever to clear my name in their computer files of crooks, rapists, murderers and terrorists. I was hungry, and my arm was waking up to a world of pain, but I kept resolutely quiet, figuring anything I said would be held against me.

T
he search warrant was executed for seven a.m. By seven fifteen Detective Collins and Officers Berry and Bedford were inside Sylvia's apartment. Sylvia must have taken a jet back from the beach. She was in her peignoir, the bed mussed with sleep, shades down. If they thought to look at her car, they'd have found the engine was red hot.

    "A little early for coffee, boys," she said at the door. "But come on in." Her wig was off, and all three men registered the chicken fl uff.

    Detective Collins presented the search warrant. "Ms. Vernon, I'm going to ask you to sit in that chair and not move while we search your apartment. Do you comprehend?"

    "No coffee, I take it." She sat down, crossing her legs demurely. Mucho had let up a steady stream of barking protest. The Detective looked at him, and Sylvia called the dog and got him quiet on her lap. "Am I allowed to ask why I'm so honored, Lieutenant?"

    She was ignored. "Easy, boys, no damage," Detective Collins cautioned. Officer Berry was in the bathroom, the hamper turned upside down. Officer Bedford was turning over the couch cushions. The Detective walked to the bedroom, straight to the closet. He ran a finger along the fresh paint, over the holes where the chain and latch had recently been unscrewed. The paint was still tacky. He pulled out a doctored double- blade knife— one blade filed to an ice pick that could puncture a liver, an eye or a cheap old lock— and had Sylvia's closet picked open in three seconds. There wasn't so much as a crumb to indicate meals had been served and a prisoner held. Sylvia had sprayed the room with air freshener, and the window by the bed was open just enough.

The Detective's cell phone rang.