The Last Embrace (22 page)

“That’s quite all right,” Armstrong said. “Yes, Detective, that is correct.”

“Mr. Armstrong, do you have a trailer on the set?”

“Of course.”

“You’re out of line, Detective,” Jones said.

Pico threw up his hands. “I just want to determine if Kitty Hayden ever went inside his trailer.”

Kirk Armstrong turned his expressive eyes onto Pico. There was something in them now that hadn’t been there earlier.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen. I’ve told you all that I know. I was not personally acquainted with the deceased. My heart goes out to her and her family. She was a promising young actress who showed great talent, and her death is a tragedy.”

“Brilliant, Mr. Armstrong,” the publicist said, jotting his words down on a legal pad. “I’ll make sure the trades get a copy of your comments, especially how you volunteered to speak to the police. Make it clear we have nothing to hide.”

“Nothing at all,” Armstrong said, beaming at the room. “I’m a family man. Happily married. Three little girls.”

“Well put, Mr. Armstrong,” Jones said. “We have nothing to hide.”

Magruder waited until they were in the parking lot to lay into him.

“What the hell was all that about? You were supposed to keep your trap shut and let me do the talking.”

Pico shrugged. The slick way things had been handled made him uneasy. “I didn’t think the kid-gloves treatment was appropriate.”

“Kid gloves? He’s a movie star. And he came to us. Remember that, Pico.”

“Only because he knew the crapola had hit the fan. They were desperate to put the studio spin on it. Make themselves look good.”

“And they did. This afternoon, every paper in the city will praise Kirk Armstrong for coming forth to clear his name.”

“So he’s cleared his name? That’s it?”

“You heard the man. I’m satisfied he had nothing to do with the Hayden murder. Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Pico said moodily. “Aren’t we going to interview everyone on the set? See if they saw anything different?”

“I don’t think there’s any need. And it would cost the studio money if they had to stop filming. Bad for business.”

“Who cares? We have a murder to solve.”

“Listen, Pico. All those little grips and makeup artists and extras are going to read the paper today and if he’s lying, someone will call us. But I’m betting they won’t. Armstrong has a reputation to keep up. He wouldn’t lie about a thing like this.”

“He would if the alternative was the San Quentin hot seat,” Pico said.

T
he
Confidential
story had brought the reporters back in droves. They milled just over the hedge, lounging against their cars, and Lily was relieved that they hadn’t been around earlier to witness Max’s drunken performance.

From the backyard, Lily heard the scrape of a metal rake, smelled the incinerator burning leaves. Reducing autumn to ash. A giant swallowtail butterfly fluttered among the bougainvillea outside the window. Shouldn’t it be migrating by now? She’d seen flocks of small black birds triangulating south, squirrels burying acorns, apples ripening on trees, the only signs by which Angelenos knew winter was gathering over the Tehachapi Range, preparing to pounce.

“Ooh, there’s a nip in the air today,” Jinx said, looking flushed and happy. “I should have gotten my winter coat out of storage. Now I’m going to freeze down in La Jolla.”

“Borrow mine.” Lily tossed it to her.

“Gosh, thanks. We’ve all been admiring it.”

A honk came from out front.

“Oops, gotta run. Thanks, Lily of the Valley. Wish me luck.”

She winked and ran out. Lily went to the window and saw two heads leaning together for a smooch as a little convertible roared off. Jinxie had a date!

The mailman strode up the street, and Lily couldn’t help staring. He was six feet tall and sun-bronzed, with chiseled features and muscles that moved under his uniform. He might have been an actor playing a mailman. Soon he was hiking up the rooming house stairs, pulling out letters and a brown package that would never fit inside the mailbox.

Lily cracked the door and offered to bring it inside.

“Sure, miss.” The mailman beamed a thousand-watt smile. “Say hello to Jeanne for me.”

The package was for Mrs. Potter. Lily shuffled through the letters. An envelope addressed to Doreen Croggan on official L.A. County stationery caught her eye. It had been stamped and rerouted because it bore the wrong address. Lily checked the postmark, saw it went back ten days.

She was still staring when Mrs. Potter came in from the yard. Her hair was gathered up in a kerchief. A smoky fire smell clung to her clothes.

“I’ll take the mail.”

Lily slid the letter into her skirt pocket. Then she handed over the package and the rest of the mail. “Is that all?” Mrs. Potter glanced suspiciously at Lily.

“Yes. I gave a friend this address and she’s already written, bless her heart.”

“Awfully fast for the mail,” Mrs. Potter said skeptically, but her attention wandered as she shook her package. “It’s from my sister. Wonder what could it be.” She walked out.

Lily waited until Mrs. Potter’s footsteps receded. Then she ran upstairs, sat at her vanity table, and examined the envelope more closely.

District attorney’s office, read the return address. With the name
B. Keck
above.

Lily slid a nail under the flap of the envelope and slit it open. She pulled out the watermarked sheet, unfolded it, and read:

Lily read the letter twice. It was dated only days before Kitty disappeared. She knew that the district attorney’s office prosecuted crimes in L.A. County. What had Kitty discussed with Bernard Keck? Could it have triggered her murder?

She closed her eyes and considered her next step. Rummaging through her suitcase, she found a notepad and copied the letter. Then she tore out the page, folded it, and stuck it inside a Bible on Kitty’s bookshelf, placing the original in her purse. Going downstairs, she picked up the phone, then thought better of it. Someone in this house had almost certainly blabbed to
Confidential.
Had that person also kept the DA investigator’s messages from reaching Kitty? Lily flashed again to Mrs. Potter, hand outstretched for the mail.

When she stepped outside, the pack of journalists moved like a primitive ectoplasm toward her. She ignored them and hurried to the drugstore where she ate most of her meals, heading for the wooden phone booth in the back. When she found the directory listing for the district attorney, she thumbed in a nickel and asked to speak to Bernard Keck.

“He’s out sick,” a secretary said.

“Has he been ill long?”

“Who’s calling?”

“This is Li—this is a friend of his. I’ve been trying to reach him.”

“He’s been out since October twelfth with a respiratory bug.”

The day Kitty’s body was discovered.

Lily swallowed. “Can I reach him at home?”

“He sure ain’t in Reno.”

“All right. Well. Thank you.” Lily pursed her lips, nodded. “Ah, miss, would you by chance happen to have his home—”

“No, I don’t.” Lily heard the phone being replaced in its cradle.

She looked around, saw a man just outside the booth, watching her. He had a shifty look to him. Was he following her? Had he been listening in?

The man stuck his face against the glass. He tapped his foot. “Lady, you gonna spend all day in there?”

Flustered, she walked out. The man went in, muttering about crazy dames who think life is a coffee klatch.

Lily retreated to the powder room. When she came out, the booth was empty. With relief, she hurried back in. She flipped to the residential section of the phone book this time and found an address and phone number for Bernard Keck. She jotted it down, then inserted another nickel and dialed.

“Hello?” said a gruff male voice.

“Mr. Keck?”

“Who’s this?”

“Is this Mr. Keck?”

The line went dead. Lily frowned and called again. This time it rang and rang.

Lily hung up. A new thread had emerged in the pattern, was growing more discernible with each step she took.

She didn’t want to go to Bernard Keck’s house alone, but a glance at her watch told her Pico would still be at Warner Brothers. She reread what she’d jotted down: 817 Park Place. The telephone prefix indicated MacArthur Park. It was the middle of the day. What could happen in broad daylight?

There were children feeding stale bread to the ducks at MacArthur Park and men playing chess at the tables. A vet in a wheelchair, some kind of medal pinned to his chest, pushed himself along. Several pensioners with canes sat on benches overlooking the lake. Flanking the park on all sides were apartment buildings. Some were elegant and well kept, with awnings and liveried doormen, and others looked like they needed a new coat of paint and masonry repairs.

Lily hopped off the trolley and found Keck’s building. It was one of the nicer ones, flowers growing in coffee cans, lace curtains billowing in the afternoon breeze. She looked up the tenant roster, found a listing for B. Keck. Apartment 706. She entered. The elevator was decorated with Art Deco tulips etched in brass. She closed the metal accordion door and pushed the button for the seventh floor. The old elevator lurched up.

She emerged into a hallway and followed the numbers to Keck’s apartment. The door was ajar. She stood there nervously, then knocked. A uniformed policeman came out.

“Who are you?” the man said. “What are you doing here?”

“Pardon me.” Lily didn’t like the look of things. “I must have the wrong apartment.”

She turned to leave, but the policeman asked her to step inside, where a second policeman was going through the pockets of a man’s coat.

“What’s the matter, Officer?” Lily asked.

“I’ll tell you what’s the matter.” He turned to the other cop. “Sarge, this girl was snooping outside Keck’s door.”

The sergeant turned. He had a narrow face and deep-set eyes that crinkled suspiciously.

“I was not snooping,” Lily said with indignation.

“You live in this building?”

“I’m apartment-hunting. I must have the wrong place, though. So I’ll just be going.”

“Wait just a minute.”

“Why can’t I go? Who’s Keck, anyway, and what are you doing in his apartment?”

“He’s dead,” the sergeant said shortly. “Took a walk out his living room window an hour ago.”

“What?” Kitty pressed her hands to her cheeks.

“You a friend of his?”

“No. I told you—”

The sergeant put his hands on his hips. “Yeah, you told me. The detectives will want a word with you. Meeks, escort the lady downstairs.”

Lily went back down in the elevator with Officer Meeks. From the lobby, they cut through a courtyard and out into an alley where a queasy-looking cop stood guard over a bulky tarp. Lily saw concentric rings of splattered blood and something more solid where the body had landed. The warm unpleasant smell of viscera filled the air. Lily turned, her gorge rising.

Meeks led Lily to two detectives named Topper and Chubb who were taking statements from neighbors. There were also several reporters and a news photographer. Lily was disappointed not to see Harry Jack. She would have appreciated a friendly face.

Meeks described her sudden appearance and Topper asked what the hell she’d been doing in the building.

“I told the other officer, I’m apartment-hunting and I must have lost my bearings and ended up at the wrong one. The numbers are so poorly marked around—”

“Did you know Bernard Keck?” Topper interrupted.

“No,” Lily said truthfully.

“ID, please,” Topper said in a bored tone.

She pulled out her passport. His eyes flicked over it, then up at her. “What brings you to Los Angeles, Miss Kessler?”

“I grew up here. Came back to see if I wanted to stay.”

“Well, you sure don’t want to settle in this building. Fellow named Bernard Keck just jumped off the seventh floor. Or was pushed, we’re not sure yet.”

“Good heavens.”

“Where you staying, Miss Kessler, in case we need to ask you further questions?”

Lily bit her lip. “Hollywood.”

“Address, please.”

In a low voice, she rattled it off.

The muscles around Topper’s mouth twitched. “That address sounds mighty familiar. Now, why would that be?”

She looked levelly at him. “I don’t know.”

Topper snapped his fingers. “Chubb,” he called, “I need you here a minute.”

When the other detective arrived, Topper rattled off the Wilcox Street address. “Isn’t that where the Scarlet Sandal lived?”

“That a boardinghouse?” Chubb asked, sticking his little finger in his ear and twisting vigorously. Lily wondered if it stimulated his memory.

“Yes,” she admitted with reluctance.

The two detectives drew closer.
They’re about to put two and two together,
Lily thought.
They’ll go back to the bullpen and tell Magruder and Pico and they’ll grill me and I’ll end up having to tell them everything.
Lily clutched her purse where the letter nestled.

“Did you know that dead broad?” Topper asked.

“Was she as good-looking as her va-va-voom publicity photos?” Chubb added.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Lily saw her escape hatch. She made her face guileless.

“I never met her,” she said. “I just moved in the other day.”

“Must’ve met our buddy Magruder, then.” Topper grinned. “And his wet-behind-the-ears partner.”

“That Sam Pico’s kid?” Chubb said.

Topper nodded. “The fix was in on that one.”

They chortled, then turned back to her. “They talk to you yet?”

“Briefly,” Lily said, her cheeks scarlet. “But since I didn’t know Kitty Hayden, I didn’t have anything to tell them.”

They gave her the cold stares of seasoned pros who smell a liar. It was her unexplained presence here, her halting answers, the sick look plastered across her face. They must not have been aware of Keck’s connection to Kitty or they would already have bundled her off to headquarters for questioning. What had the DA investigator learned? Something explosive enough to get him killed? All of a sudden Lily was afraid. She’d planned to tell Pico about the letter, but these detectives had just hinted that he was dirty too.

The fix was in on that one.

And Pico himself had warned her not to trust Magruder. So who
could
she trust? Until she figured that out, she’d better keep quiet or risk the fate of poor departed Bernard Keck.

“If you’ve got a place in Hollywood, why you looking to move?” Topper asked, sniffing out her lies.

Lily tried to look pious. “Not being an actress, I don’t have much in common with those girls.”