Shamus In The Green Room (13 page)

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The thing was, when Spade caught up with Flitcraft, it was

several years later. He’d settled in Spokane and he’d married.

His second wife didn’t look much like the first, but they were

more alike than different. Spade explained it by saying that

Flitcraft adjusted himself to beams falling, and then no more

of them fell, so he adjusted himself to them not falling.

It was a good story. But its meaning still eluded me, all

these years later.

Are we all chameleons, able to turn on a dime? Or creatures

of habit, doomed to repeat past mistakes? Are chameleons the

consummate creatures of habit?

I didn’t know. It was a mystery. And Maren had somehow

become part of it. I didn’t understand the woman—not yet, at

least. But this much I suspected: a beam had fallen near her,

and she had adjusted herself accordingly.

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

Iwas still thinking about Flitcraft later that evening.

“Literary analysis,” I explained to Buster, “is complex.”

He wasn’t listening. He had his nose down to the ground.

Sniffing enthralled him as I never could.

“Stories,” I pressed on, “can have multiple, even contradic-

tory meanings. Like people.”

The Doberman from around the corner approached Buster

respectfully. The big ones have manners. The little ones get all

up in your face.

“How about you?” I asked, turning to Gambino. “Are you

listening to me?”

“No,” he answered, shoving his cell phone into his pocket.

“I was checking for messages.”

“Are you expecting someone?”

“Tico,” he said quickly. “He hasn’t called back.”

I glanced at Gambino’s watch. Ten-thirty was too late to be

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walking the dog, but we’d needed to go to the market anyway.

There was nothing in the house for breakfast. “He probably

went straight to sleep. It’s been a long day.”

“Probably helped the kids with their homework, then

watched the fight on HBO.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying. People are who they are.” I

took his arm. “You and Tico are good cops. You did everything

right. He’s a scumbag who’s done everything wrong.”

“I know that and you know that,” Gambino said. “Every-

body knows that, but I guess it isn’t the point.”

At approximately eight in the morning on May 17, Gam-

bino and Tico executed a search warrant for cocaine and drug

paraphernalia at Julio Gonzalez’s small, two-bedroom West-

wood apartment. The warrant was based on information, cor-

roborated by a controlled buy, that Gonzalez was selling cocaine

out of his home. Gambino and Tico positioned themselves at

the front door, then knocked and announced themselves. After

waiting approximately twenty seconds and getting no response,

they forcibly entered the apartment, where they discovered

Gonzalez in the altogether, having just emerged from the

shower.

Their search of the premises yielded a number of loaded

weapons, a bulletproof vest, rock and crack cocaine, and four

scales. Gonzalez was charged with possession of a controlled

substance with intent to distribute, possession of firearms as an

unlawful drug user, and, when one of those firearms was iden-

tified as the weapon used to kill police informant Bram Moscone

two weeks earlier, murder in the first degree.

The question was whether the officers had failed to wait a

reasonable amount of time before entering the apartment,

thereby violating Gonzalez’s Fourth Amendment rights. If the

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search was deemed illegal, there’d be no more case. Nothing

taken out of the apartment could be used. Fruit of the poi-

soned tree. Nobody knew what was going to happen.

We tied Buster up to the New York Times box. I used to

sneak him into the market inside my purse, but that was before

the incident at the seafood counter.

“I’ll get the eggs,” Gambino volunteered.

“Organic,” I reminded him.

“In Buffalo, you can buy a house for what those cost a

dozen.”

Gambino was from Buffalo. This explained many things

about him. His workaholism, for example. People from Buffalo

work very hard so they don’t have to return to Buffalo.

“What’s the average temperature in western New York ten

months of the year?” I asked.

“Below zero.”

“What’s the average age of the members of the Friar’s

Club?” We liked to play this game.

“Dead.”

I kissed him on the cheek. “You get the eggs, I’ll get the

mangos.”

In the produce section, I ran into my neighbor Butch, who

had embarked upon a major landscaping project. He was cur-

rently having huge boulders and small cast-iron statues of In-

dian goddesses positioned in front of his house, in and around

the multicolored ivy. For the hundredth time, he offered me

the use of his back garden for my wedding. He’d done it up

last year in a kind of English-country idiom, with four over-

flowing wheelbarrows and an artful array of dried-fruit wreaths

and straw picture hats bolted to the garage wall. I reminded

him that we hadn’t even set a date.

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“Why the hell not?” he asked. “Don’t you want to make an

honest woman of Cece?” He directed the last question to

Gambino, who was just then walking our way, one hand hold-

ing the phone to his ear, the other holding a red plastic basket

piled high with stuff we didn’t need.

“What?” Gambino asked distractedly, shoving his phone

back in his pocket.

“Your wedding!” Butch slapped him on the back, hard.

Helpless, I watched half a dozen organic eggs topple out of

the red basket and onto the floor.

“There goes my retirement,” Gambino muttered.

“Honey,” I said.

“Wet spill on aisle six,” went out over the loudspeaker.

“At least you can get married,” Butch said, sighing.

t

G a m b i n o l e f t t h e n e x t m o r n i n g a f t e r b e -

ing fortified with huevos rancheros and mango con limón.

We’d lived in L.A. long enough that it felt about as exotic as

cornflakes.

I poured myself another cup of coffee and opened the front

page. Then I closed it and picked up the phone.

“What city and listing?”

“Palos Verdes. Lisa Lapelt.” She’d told me her last name the

day we’d met, down by the water. “It’s a residence.”

A human being got on the line. “Can you spell that,

please?”

I did my best.

“I’m sorry. We have nothing listed.”

“Any Lapelt, anywhere in the South Bay?” I pleaded.

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“One moment, please.”

Maren was going to lead me to the dead woman. But first I

had to get to Maren.

“I’m sorry. We have nothing listed.”

Was Lapelt her married name? Her maiden name? Not that

it mattered. Lapelt was the name she was using. “How about a

business?” I tried.

“I have a Lapelt Industries in Long Beach.”

“I’ll take that.”

I pressed one to be connected.

Another recording.

I didn’t know the extension of the party I wished to speak

to, so I waited for the menu. Press one for institutional investors.

Press two for sales. Press three for research and development.

Press four for career opportunities. Impatient, I pressed zero for

I have no idea whatsoever.

“How may I direct your call?”

“Lisa Lapelt, please,” I said.

“One moment.”

“What kind of company is this, by the way?”

“I’ll put you through to public relations, if you’d like.”

“No,” I said quickly, “that won’t be necessary.”

Another voice, brisk and efficient: “Office of the president.”

First the Mayor, now the president. “Is she in?”

“She who?”

“The president,” I said. “Lisa Lapelt.”

“Do you mean Mr. Lapelt’s daughter?”

Ah. “Yes.”

“Let me connect you to her husband’s secretary. One mo-

ment, please.”

Another voice, this one more brusque: “Sales floor.”

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The plot thickens.

“I’m trying to get in touch with Lisa Lapelt,” I said. “I un -

derstand this is her husband’s number.”

“Would you like to speak to Mr. Scofield?”

“No, I don’t want to bother Richard while he’s working.”

“Stephen.”

That was too easy. “Actually, I’m a friend of a friend of

Stephen’s wife, Lisa, from high school. The one I was actually

hoping to speak to was her. Do you think I could get their

home phone number?”

It was a simple request. All she could do was hang up on me.

She hung up on me.

Damn.

The phone rang. I snatched it up.

“Hello?”

It was Rafe, wondering if I’d happened to find his keys.

He’d lost them again. But luckily he had two sets. He also

wanted to know if I’d given any thought to our last conversa-

tion. I told him I had. Then he said something I couldn’t

make out.

“Where are you?” I asked. “I’m losing you.”

“Sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m on a soundstage.

We’re doing pickup shots. Listen, I’ve gotta go. They’re calling

me. Wardrobe. Can we keep working together, Cece? I’d really

like to finish what we started.”

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Which

one was he?

I told him I wasn’t feeling well. It was that time of year. To-

morrow would be better. I’d take a double dose of Claritin. He

recommended a visit to his nutritionist, Siri, which I promised

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to take him up on if the pharmaceuticals failed, which in my

experience they rarely do.

We set up a date for eleven a.m. the following day at the

Beverly Wilshire Hotel in Beverly Hills. During the thirties,

while under contract to MGM, Hammett had lived there, off

and on, in a six-bedroom penthouse that rented back then for

two thousand bucks a month. He rode around in limousines,

usually leased, and kept a chauffeur companion. There was

much to discuss.

I sneezed a couple more times for emphasis before hanging

up. Then I called information again. This time I asked for the

Stephen Scofield residence, anywhere in Los Angeles or Or-

ange County. And an address, too, if available.

Within seconds, I had an address in Redondo Beach and

had been connected.

No answer. No machine.

I cracked open the breakfast-room window. I could hear the

birds chirping and the local strays meowing. A pair of chip-

munks was playing tag in my next-door neighbor’s lemon tree.

The sky was blue and the air felt cool and dry. Which didn’t

bother me in the slightest because I didn’t have allergies, of

course. What I did have was a case of wanderlust.

A drive to Redondo Beach would certainly remedy that.

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

Lisa Lapelt Scofield lived in a modest Cape Cod–style

house, with green clapboard siding and red and white im-

patiens lining the brick path up to the door.

There were two cars parked in the driveway.

One was a green Honda Odyssey.

The other was Rafe Simic’s convertible.

Stunned, I swerved toward the curb, almost plowing into a

hulking Lou’s Fireplaces van parked across the street from the

house.

I turned off the engine and tried to catch my breath.

Some soundstage. Well, I already knew the man was a liar.

Maybe Lisa was a liar, too. Poor Stephen Scofield. What would

he say if he knew that while he was hard at work selling god

knows what, his wife was home entertaining men? Sexy, rich,

famous men (one, at least) who could do a lot more than buy

her a chubby minivan with fifteen cup holders, enough for

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seven passengers to double up, plus a bottle for the baby (Lael

had recited the stats to me more than once; she was dying for

someone to buy her a Honda Odyssey).

It could be perfectly innocent. Two old friends comforting

each other. Suicide devastates the survivors. Only, Lisa seemed

to know very well that Maren hadn’t killed herself. Maybe she

knew a lot more than that. Maybe she knew everything.

Suddenly, I slumped in my seat. Not getting caught was a

priority here. There wasn’t any good way to explain my current

whereabouts. Researching post–WWII housing tracts was

hardly plausible.

Then my cell phone rang. I practically jumped out of my

skin. I fished it out of my purse and looked at the glowing dis-

play. Annie.

“Hi, honey,” I whispered. “I’m kind of in the middle of

something. Can I call you later?” I started up the car and

turned at the corner.

“It’s Alexander, Mom. He was up all last night again.”

“Is he sick?” I parked in the shade of a massive oak tree.

There was no way they could see me all the way over here, but

I had a perfect view of the front door.

“It’s nightmares. He keeps seeing his mom, he says, and

she’s caught in a terrible fire and he wants to save her, but he

can’t. I don’t know what to do for him.”

“I could kill that woman,” I said. “Have you heard any-

thing from her?”

“Not a word. Vincent says she’s spacey.”