Perfect Sax (17 page)

A
few days passed as Holly, Wes, and I got down to work, planning the two parties we had squeezed into our already well-booked lineup. Frankly, it was hard to concentrate on burger trucks and flowerpots. I had begun to believe that someone was watching me. I was convinced that the chain of shootings hadn’t ended.

Each night I lay in Wesley’s spare bedroom, thinking of the loaded revolver I had put in the nightstand drawer, getting up several times to check on it, eventually leaving the drawer open all night, fearful that someone was out there in the dark, waiting to catch me off guard. Each morning, I closed the drawer again, wondering if any of this effort was necessary or if I was going nuts, wondering if I would ever feel completely safe again.

By Friday, the police were no closer to naming a suspect, as far as we knew, in any of the crimes that had plagued us. There were no breaks on the murder of Sara Jackson. No breaks on the murder of Albert Grasso. After three days of empty dramatic announcements that there were “still no arrests in the linked murders in Whitley Heights,” even our local news channels had let the story cool down. And no one but me seemed to give much thought, any longer, to the theft of the vintage tenor saxophone, even though I had dutifully
called Detective Baronowski and reported what I had learned from Connie Hutson about the insurance. The policy had been obtained properly, high premiums had been paid, and the Woodburn didn’t seem to be out a dime on that one, so perhaps no one was still upset over it. No one except Bill Knight, I thought.

So life went on in that way it always does. After the police allowed us back into my house, it was only a matter of hours before Wes had his crew over there, tearing out the upstairs rooms. I knew I could never sleep in my bedroom again. I didn’t even want to climb the stairs. Demolition, Wes had often maintained, was good for the soul. It fulfilled the classic cycle, he said. Death and rebirth. Destruction and rebuilding. He could get pretty Zen over the demo stage of his projects.

Wes had drawn up plans several years ago when I first purchased the property. At the time, we went ahead with construction on the commercial kitchen and office area downstairs but put a hold on spending any more money. Now, however, I was seriously thinking about selling my home. Despite all of Wesley’s good intentions, it had been violated in a way no remodel could fix.

I couldn’t talk about it. I couldn’t even think about it. Wes and Holly didn’t know what was going on with me, but the truth was I felt guilty for grieving. My pain was nothing compared with the real suffering around me, of the people who had died and the people who had lost them. Of course I knew that. But this had been my first house. I had thought I’d stay here forever. I had loved this house.

So the demolition stage went on with Wes leading the assault. And the odd thing was, it got a little better after that. Like Wes, I am a fixer and a salvager. It felt like the right thing to do, to repair the house. All this looking over my shoulder and worry was definitely not like me. A redesigned
second story, rebuilt from the studs out, might help me to recover my equilibrium. It was possible. And if not, the remodel would make it easier to sell the house quickly and move on.

And then, sometimes, I couldn’t even believe the murder of Sara Jackson was real. As I worked with my friends in the large, white-tiled kitchen, the violence that had occurred upstairs six nights before seemed utterly impossible. We had hardly known Sara. How had she come to die in my room?

My mind would wander like that. Off to the unknown and the deadly. And then I snapped back to the present. Holly was laughing about how her hair had turned out. Her straight white-blond hair was gelled back off her forehead with magenta-colored gel. She hadn’t intended to get the streaked look, she was saying, but she was philosophical. Holly was always willing to sacrifice herself in the exploration of a new fashion edge.

Wes looked up at me. “You thinking about what happened here?”

“I can’t help it,” I said. “I’m becoming obsessed. I feel responsible for Sara being here Sunday morning. And yet…”

They had that patient look. It wasn’t the first time I had made them listen to this.

“And yet, what am I doing now to help? There must be something I can do.” I trusted my instincts. I could see connections. I had a great track record for spotting liars and understanding motives. None of these alleged gifts had helped me this time.

“Did the police ever find her boyfriend?” Holly asked as we unpacked the vases we had selected for the Woodburn luncheon. They were fluted cement urns, heavy, classically designed, with a ten-inch diameter.

“I am not getting regular updates,” I answered. “The detectives
on the case don’t return my calls. And Honnett may know something, but he and I are in a transitional period.”

Wes looked up at me across the center island where we were working. “Transitioning in or out?”

“I can’t tell,” I said, opening several large boxes with my box cutter. “It’s a mess. His wife is going through a rough time. He’s had to help her more than he was expecting, I have been told.”

Holly looked up at me. She was on her knees, pulling planters out of the boxes and lining them up on the floor. “A rough time?”

“Mastectomy. Chemo.”

“Oh,” Wes said.

“I mean, if she really needs him, how can he abandon her?”

No one, it seemed, could argue with cancer. My friends looked worried but said nothing and I began to open boxes of oasis foam and other floral supplies.

“So you never found Sara’s boyfriend,” Holly prompted again. “Did she just make that up? I can’t believe she was lying to me on Saturday night about having to get home to him. She had this whole story down, you know? How he was at home waiting for her. How he was freaking over his Ph. bloody D. What was up with that?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. But I had learned that if one is not expecting to be lied to, one often misses a whopper.

“Oh, Mad. I picked up your Wagoneer,” Wes said, suddenly remembering. “You know they were bugging us to come and get it.” He sounded apologetic.

“Thanks, Wes. I couldn’t face it. The bedroom. The Jeep. All my things have been ruined.”

Holly quickly sprang up and gave me a hug, a jumble of long arms surrounding me in friendship. She was wearing very short shorts and flip-flops.

“I want to get rid of the Jeep,” I told Wes. I waited for him to try to talk me out of it. Wes is sensible. He didn’t give in to fear. He was still talking to me every day about giving Honnett back the damned gun.

“That’s probably not a bad idea,” he said slowly.

I met his eyes. “Why? Did they find something?”

“They had to cut out some of the rear-seat upholstery fabric,” he said.

“What?” I stood there, with Holly’s arm still draped lightly on my shoulder.

“They found some stains and they had to check them out,” he said.

“Ew.” Holly got grossed out easily.

“What kind of stains? Blood?” My head raced to the most horrible things these days.

“They wouldn’t tell me,” Wes answered. “I called that guy at the forensics lab who likes you. Sanchez. Remember? I got nada.”

I picked up the phone and dialed the number for Detective Baronowski. To my surprise, he answered his own phone on the first ring.

“Detective, this is Madeline Bean.”

“Hello.”

“I have just been hearing from my partner that you found stains in my truck.”

He didn’t answer at once. After a long pause he said, “And?”

“What kind of stains? What’s going on?”

“I was planning to call you, Ms. Bean. I’ve got paperwork stacked up like you can’t believe. My partner came down with the flu, by the way. Great timing.”

“About my truck…”

“I’m getting to that. Give me a second to find my notes.”

I waited.

“Okay,” he said, and I waited a few more seconds. “Several samples were taken from the rear seat. You understand, when we find anything in your truck, we’re going to have to be pretty clear on what was there before you loaned the Jeep to the victim and what may have been brought to the vehicle by Sara or possibly someone who was accompanying Sara. That’s where we need your help. We’ve got to determine if any of the forensics evidence that has been removed from your vehicle belongs to you and your friends. You understand?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Right. And this may strike you as a delicate question, Ms. Bean, but I’m going to ask if you can think of anyone who might have left a semen stain in the backseat of your Jeep.”

He had to be joking.

When I didn’t answer, he spoke up. “I don’t make this stuff up. We found fresh—”

“Listen, Lieutenant, it’s not that I’m squeamish. I’m not the shockable type. But this is a conversation I never expected to have, in my entire life, with the police or anyone else.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Let me just say, for the record, that I have done nothing more horrible than lend my truck to an employee who told me she needed to get home fast.”

“We know that.”

“As my reward, my home was broken into, a young woman was shot to death in my bed, my Jeep was confiscated, a neighbor was killed, and now you’re asking me which of my friends might have left his semen on the upholstery. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

Could it, I wondered, get any more freaking odd than this? I had to smile. What gives with this crazy world?

Baronowski couldn’t keep the chuckle in now. “If you don’t mind,” he said. “You know, for the record.”

“I know of no one who would fit that description.”

“No boyfriend, perhaps. Think back.”

“I hate you,” I said, beginning to laugh. “No. No one. Not my style, Detective.”

“I realize this may seem strange, but we need to rule out any possible, uh, legitimate stains.”

The absurdity. The complete absurdity of my life began to crash in on me. I think he was waiting for me to confirm I had no knowledge of a backseat stain.

“I’m twenty-nine years old, Lieutenant. My friends are old enough to ride in my car without spilling anything.”

“Okay, good,” he said. I had passed some test, apparently, because his voice sounded more inclusive than it ever had. I took the opportunity to ask a question of my own.

“Look, did you ever track down Sara Jackson’s boyfriend?”

“Why?”

“If you stop laughing at me, and start sharing some information, I might do the same. I’ve learned a few more things about Sara myself.”

“Such as?”

“You first. Did you find her boyfriend, the grad student?”

“We did.”

“What? Who is he? Does he live in her apartment downtown?” I was shocked. I had decided Sara was a nutcase, and dismissed her as a terrific liar. But if she really had a boyfriend, perhaps I had misjudged her again.

“His name is Brett Hurley. Lives in Silverlake. They shared an older cottage there. I can’t tell you any more.”

“Is he a suspect?”

I received silence for my answer. “So do you have anything to tell me, Ms. Bean?”

“I tried to find Sara’s boyfriend myself, but struck out. Last Monday. I wanted to offer him my help, if he needed it. I felt terrible and was trying to do the right thing.”

“And?”

“I went to the address Sara had given us on her employee application. It was an apartment downtown.”

“We checked it out. Didn’t look like she stayed there a lot. Maybe she rented it, but she seemed to live out in Silverlake with Hurley the last six months at least.”

“I see. Well, I got to talking to one of her neighbors.”

“We canvassed her floor, Ms. Bean. No one knew her very well. Lot of folks move in and out of those kinds of buildings. Lot of foreign students, that kind of thing.”

“I met a guy who lives on another floor. He had the impression Sara was a call girl.”

“A hooker? How’d he get that idea?”

Wesley and Holly were watching me, listening to my side of the conversation. They were stunned.

“This guy tried to come on to Sara, but she shined him on.”

“So that makes her a hooker?” Baronowski seemed skeptical.

“He saw Sara going into the elevator with a lot of different guys.”

Detective Baronowski asked for the name of the man I talked with and I gave it to him, along with his apartment location.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll check into it.”

“And I’d like to talk to Brett Hurley. Come on, Detective. Can’t you give me his phone number?”

I received silence.

“Then would you call him and give him mine?” I gave Baronowski my cell number as well.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

“Good. You know, ‘cause I’m thinking about those traces of semen that were found in my truck.”

“They don’t belong to the boyfriend. We checked. But you’re thinking Sara had a ‘date’ in the backseat? Anything is possible.”

I looked from Holly to Wesley as I hung up the phone.

“From what we just overheard,” Wes said sagely, “you are definitely selling that Jeep.”

I
t was the rare Friday night when I didn’t have to work an event. Weekends get booked up early, but not this Friday. Wes and I had been careful to keep our schedule clear in the aftermath of the big Black & White Ball. We had figured we might need downtime. It was with true relief I found I only had to do minimal prep for Saturday’s birthday party for Ryan Swinden and then I could actually go out on a Friday night date.

Dexter Wyatt had tried to see me every day that week. He had left charming messages on my answering machine. He had called my cell phone a few times, too. He stopped by the office on Thursday afternoon, unannounced, and when it appeared I wouldn’t be back anytime soon, he took Holly out to a late lunch and pumped her for insider information about me. She claims it only took a ride in his BMW Z4 with the top down, two mimosas, and a grilled-shrimp Caesar to get her to divulge all my darkest secrets. Those included the fact that I was free on Friday night.

I liked Dex. I liked him all too well. But he interfered with my thought processes. I needed to keep my brain focused. I had to sort out our problems. Things were still terribly wrong. I could feel it but I still couldn’t figure it out in my head. Sara had been in trouble. Grasso had been in trouble. And now maybe I was in trouble.

I could hardly get to sleep at night, thinking about all that had happened in the last week. I had a hard enough time giving myself a break on the best of weeks. On the worst, such as this one, it was unthinkable. In the meantime, I busied myself with my work while my brain took on tangents of its own, spinning away, trying to solve all the world’s problems and my own nasty ones in particular.

After cleaning up the kitchen, I was ready to put the last flourishes on Ryan’s birthday cake. Wes had baked the cake that morning and frosted it that afternoon. It turned out great. The enormous, three-layer masterpiece in the shape of a tenor saxophone now rested on the kitchen counter. It had been a challenge for Wesley, the swoop of the bell, the detail of every valve, the fine edge of the narrow, graceful neck and mouthpiece, but he has exquisite pattern-cutting skills. Wes is an artist. Holly looked at it earlier and exclaimed, as she does after every cake he produces, “This is your finest work, man.”

Both Holly and Wes had been at the house all day, but left to run additional errands. Soon after they departed, the upstairs construction crew stopped by to tell me they were knocking off for the weekend. I checked the clock: 5:25. I said thanks and good-bye. It wasn’t until after they took off that I realized I was now all alone. Alone in my house for the very first time since the break-in. I went about my tasks, self-conscious and alert. Overall, I was surprised at how fine I was. I would work another fifteen minutes and then drive back to Wesley’s place and get ready for my date.

I looked down at the cake, set out on the counter, and concentrated. It had been smoothly frosted in cream frosting tinted the color of pale brass. Using my most steady hand, I laid down the final frosting details, applying gentle even pressure on the pastry bag. Before me, a thin and perfect trail of black piping outlined each perfectly shaped brass saxophone
key. I finished up in a tour de force of outlining technique, edging the entire instrument in one perfect unbroken line of icing. It was complete.

Wes had constructed the cake on a huge cardboard platter covered in black foil. The platter rested inside a flat, unfolded bakery box. I quickly folded the thin pink cardboard to construct the box’s sides and top and closed the lid, carefully moving the box to the walk-in refrigerator to keep it cool until the next day.

I then roamed through my house, turning off lights, feeling remarkably good. Perhaps the prospect of seeing Dex again was keeping my mind off other troubles. Perhaps I’m just sickeningly upbeat. Either way, I was pretty happy.

I turned to lock my front door and descended the flight of stairs to the street. I was still driving the rental SUV, and as I turned the ignition, I thought about what sort of car I should buy to replace my old Jeep Grand Wagoneer. Car shopping would be fun. Maybe Dexter would have some suggestions on what I should test-drive.

The traffic was what one expects here, considering it was a Friday during rush hour, which only added to the usual summer crowds of Hollywood tourists. I made my way south and west, looking for side streets that would help me avoid the worst intersections. I turned right on red on Franklin and noticed a black sedan on my tail. I had remembered seeing the same sort of car when I had pulled out of Whitley onto Cahuenga, but I was determined not to give in to my low-simmering, weeklong hysteria. I checked the mirror again. The sedan continued to follow my path as I zigzagged right and left around Highland, staying on Franklin. Nothing unusual about that, but I kept my eyes on my rearview mirror.

Sometimes I get nervous like that. I’ll become aware of a certain car. I’ll become alarmed if it seems to be taking all
the same turns as I do. You live in the city, you should notice these things. I am not going to drive straight to my house, when I’m driving alone, if I’m suspicious. Most of the time, before I can really get spooked, the car that’s making me nervous will turn off and be gone. I’m not the best at identifying cars in my rearview mirror, but I was pretty sure the dark sedan was a Honda Accord. I tried to check the license plate but none was displayed in front.

Normally, I’d take Franklin west to La Brea, where almost everyone makes a sort of swing left onto the major southbound street. But I decided to test my nerves. I got in the left-turn lane, just like I always do, and put on my signal. The dark Accord was two cars behind me, also waiting for the left-turn arrow. This is a popular place to turn, as going straight onto Franklin Place leads nowhere. Besides, it gets dark and quiet on Franklin just past this intersection. As the green arrow lit up, permitting left turns, I pulled forward and then veered sharply to the right, changing lanes at the last second to go straight through the intersection. The woman who was driving the Volkswagen Jetta to my right looked scared out of her wits as she careened out of my way.

In my rearview, I saw the car that had been behind me complete his left turn. However, just as the light was changing to red, the dark Accord behind him jutted over to the right, pulling the same boneheaded traffic stunt as I had just done, coming right up behind me on dark and quiet Franklin Place.

Bad driving was a given in L.A. But my senses were now on hyperalert. I was looking into my mirror more than I was looking where I was going. I tried to see into the windshield of the car behind me, but I was driving directly into the setting sun and the combination of the glare the sun produced and the dark tint on the Accord’s windshield kept me from
seeing much. It looked like there wasn’t a passenger, just the driver. But I couldn’t see more.

I turned left on the first small street I could, Fuller, and gunned my engine. The Trailblazer took off, so I had to get on the brakes fast or risk smashing into the Camry ahead of me. I glanced at my rearview mirror. There was no car at all behind me. The dark Accord hadn’t turned. It wasn’t following me.

Oh, man. It can give me a knot in my stomach every time. But the relief to find it had only been my stupid imagination was immense.

I zigged and zagged across Hollywood, keeping an occasional eye on my mirror. I had one brief scare, one missed heartbeat, when I thought I saw the same Accord. Dark color. Tinted windshield. No front plates. But I was mistaken. It’s a popular model and not everyone has his or her front plates on. This black Accord suddenly came into view as it turned the corner from Larchmont, going east onto Beverly, but it was heading in the opposite direction I was. When it passed me, I admit I was startled. But I got a pretty good look at the driver. It was just a woman in her midforties. Thick red hair, cut in layers. Pretty. She didn’t even look my way. I relaxed a bit more after that.

By the time I pulled into the driveway of Wesley’s house on Hudson, I was sure no one was paying attention to me. I loved feeling anonymous in the big city. And there was Wesley’s new Jaguar, parked in the garage, so I was safe. More or less.

“You going out?” Wes asked, an hour later, sitting on the sofa in the small living room. He looked up and watched me as I stepped into my high heels, freshly showered, changed and made up like I cared how I looked.

I hadn’t been sure Wesley would approve of my date with Dexter. Normally, the idea of Wes passing judgment was not an issue between us. But it felt different now that I was living in his house.

“I told Dex I would come over to his place and cook him dinner.”

Wes looked impressed. In our line of work, that was shorthand for seduction.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Wes.”

“Hey, I’m just asking,” he said conversationally. His eyes took in my tight little white linen skirt and low-cut black shirt. “This is the guy you said lacks a little life direction, right? The guy who is too cool for prep school. The one who got mixed up in some art theft you were telling me about?”

I finished putting gold hoops onto my ears and gave Wesley a pained look. “I have enough ‘life direction’ for ten people. I might like to play with cool prep school boys. And I am going there tonight to find out more about the art theft. This is purely investigational.”

“Uh-huh.” Wes looked at me thoughtfully. “What are you cooking?”

Now, that was a leading question and Wes knew it. I got a little defensive. “I’ve made a lot of the dishes in advance,” I said, waving nonchalantly to the packed bags I had waiting on the kitchen counter.

“Menu,” Wes requested.

“Chilled avocado soup with lime cream, pork carnitas tacos, black-bean-and-corn salad, cilantro-lime rice, Mexican chocolate cake.”

“So you’re going to bed with him?” Wes knew I meant business when I took the time to bake a flourless chocolate cake.

“I’m not making any comment on that,” I said. “If he turns out not to be a con artist or a thief or a murderer, why not?”

“Will you at least do me one favor?” Wes asked, looking more concerned than I would have thought.

“What? Call you at midnight? Let you know I’m safe?”

“No, I was going to say when you make the lime cream, would you
please
thin the sour cream down with some heavy cream first?”

Cooks! It’s amazing the two of us could live under the same roof for this long. I threw my little beaded bag over my shoulder and picked up my satchels of groceries and precooked items.

Wes watched me, but couldn’t leave well enough alone. “And did you make up fresh salsa?”

“Wes. Of course. Now make up your mind. Do you want to save me from the clutches of a tomcat or do you want to advise me on how much jalapeño I should have used?”

“Both,” he said, smiling. “And I’ll leave the light on for you tonight.”

“Thanks, Dad.” That would get him. I smiled as I closed the door behind me.

It took me about twenty minutes to drive to Dexter’s house, which was located up on Stone Canyon Road in the hills of Bel Air north of Sunset. He had given me clear directions because it’s easy to get lost up on those winding streets. I parked in his driveway, up off the street, and checked out his home.

Some folks really hate the kind of boxy-room, lowceiling, ranch-style homes that were built by the thousands around Los Angeles in the fifties. Others now call it “Midcentury” design and boast about it in their real estate listings. I wasn’t sure where I stood on the debate, but I found I really liked Dexter’s relaxed, uncluttered environment.

He met me at the door and smiled his laid-back smile. “Hey, you made it,” he said. “Here, let me take those bags. Want a tour?”

He had bought the place a little less than three years ago, he said. His house had four bedrooms, two fireplaces, and the requisite white cabinet/black granite kitchen. As he pointed out this and that, I noticed that he was neat or had a very well-trained housekeeper. His furniture was authentic fifties stuff, with a lot of white upholstered pieces and those cool black leather chairs.

In one hallway, I was struck by a series of black-and-white photos along the wall. Dirty faces of very poor children. Groups of boys playing soccer in a Mexican village square. A heartbreakingly beautiful close-up of a mother holding a small girl.

“Did you take these?” I asked.

He looked embarrassed. “I forgot I told you I liked to take pictures.”

“They are amazing, Dex.”

“You can’t take a bad shot of those kids.”

He slid open a large glass door, and I walked outside onto the crosshatched used brick of his rear deck. A top realtor would call the scene from his pool patio “all-around endless views” and I was impressed.

“I’m actually out here most of the time,” he said.

“I can understand why.”

The sun was just setting and the sky was tangerine and orange and deeper rust. “Pretty,” I said, admiring the peaceful dusk.

“I agree,” he said.

I looked over at him, a little surprised. “Most people feel compelled to tell me it’s really smog.”

“Those who choose to be so freaking literal often miss the beauty of life entirely,” Dex said.

“That’s true.”

“We should pity them.” He looked at me, expressing equanimity.

“I do.” The in-the-treetops perch of his patio made me feel like I was on top of the world. I reluctantly turned back to the house. “I’d better get our dinner started.”

“Can I help?” he asked.

“Can you cook?”

“Nope.”

“Then, sure, if you don’t mind a few helpful hints.”

Dex had dropped the bags off earlier on the granite counter of his open kitchen. He followed me back into the kitchen.

“I can open a bottle of wine,” he said, acting a little more like a host than I had expected.

“How about I mix something fresh for us to drink?” I offered. “You have a blender?”

“I knew there was a reason I bought one of those.” He smiled and led me to a shelf of appliances stored neatly in his pantry. I found a brand-new blender and plugged it into a socket next to the sink.