They're Watching (2010) (6 page)

Behind me, Ariana said faintly, "Detectives? I assumed they'd just send a couple patrolmen."

"Bel Air service." Richards hoisted her belt, weighed down with a hip-holstered Glock and a flashlight. "The surveillance tape sounded bizarre, so Dispatch kicked it to us. Plus, we're bored. West L.A. station. There's only so much Starbucks you can drink. Even the doughnuts aren't doughnuts. They're gourmet cupcakes."

Valentine blinked twice, displeased.

Ariana had called them to protect me from Don's guns, but now that they were here, they required an explanation of some sort. I ushered them in. We sat at the dining table like it was some sort of social visit. Richards's gaze caught on my bruised knuckles. I dropped my hand quickly into my lap.

"Would you like something to drink?" Ariana asked.

Valentine shook his head, but Richards smiled brightly. "I would love something to drink. Glass of water. With a spoon."

Ariana arched an eyebrow but brought both over. Richards plucked three Sweet'N Lows from her inside lapel pocket and shook the pink packets down. She tore off the ends, dumped the sweetener in, and stirred. "Don't ask. It's a fucking diet so I can fit into a boat tarp by beach season. Now, what's going on here?"

I ran through it all for them, Richards quietly noting Ariana's surprise at some of the revelations. Halfway through, Valentine got up and stood at the kitchen window, staring out despite the fact that the blinds were closed. After I finished, Richards knocked the table twice and said, "Let's take a look at these DVDs, then."

I fed in the first disc, Richards and Valentine exchanging a glance over my tissue-handling of the evidence. We stood before the flat-screen, all four of us, arms crossed, scouts watching batting practice. After the last one finished, Richards said, "Well, well."

Back to the dining table. She sat, and Ariana and I followed suit. Valentine stayed in the family room, poking through the cabinets. Ariana glanced over her shoulder at him a few times, nervously. I realized, with approval, that Richards had taken a chair on the far side so Ariana and I would wind up sitting with our backs to her partner as he snooped.

Richards smoothed her hands across the lacquered surface. "This one of your designs?"

Ariana said, "How did you . . . ?"

"Stacks of trade mags on the table by the front door. Sketch pad on the stairs, there. Charcoal smear on your left sleeve. Lefty--creative. And your hands"--Richards reached across the table, took Ariana by the wrists, like a fortune-teller--"rougher than suburban. These hands work with abrasives, I'd guess. So: a furniture designer."

Ariana withdrew her hands.

Valentine was behind us. "You keep a house key outside somewhere? Hidden?"

"Fake rock by the driveway," I answered. "But like I said, I probably left the back door unlocked myself."

"But you're not certain," he told me.

"No."

"Alarm? You got two signs out front, stickers in the windows."

"Just the signs. From the last owner. As deterrents. We dropped the service."

Valentine made a noise in the back of his throat.

Richards asked, "Why?"

"Expensive."

Valentine looked around with pursed lips, presumably at the nice furnishings.

"Okay," I said, "we'll call the company, get it hooked up again."

He asked, "It work by code or keys?"

"Both."

"How many keys?"

"Two."

"You still have 'em?"

I walked over, pulled them from the back of the silverware drawer. "Yes."

"Anyone else know where those keys are?"

"No."

Valentine took them from me and dropped them into the trash can. "Get new ones. Change your code. Don't tell anyone. Not the cleaning lady, not your Aunt Hilda, nobody." His flat stare was unreadable. "Only you two should know."

Richards stood, winked at me. "Let's take a look outside, Patrick." Ariana started to stand, and Richards said, "It's cold out there. Why don't you wait inside with Detective Valentine?"

Ariana eyed her a beat too long. "Fine. I'll go get the key in the fake rock, then."

Richards gave me an after-you flourish of the hand, and we went through the rear door. Outside, she crouched, studied the knob.

"Detective Richards--"

"Please. Sally."

"Okay, Sally. Why was he wearing latex gloves?"

"Leather ones leave distinctive marks, just like fingerprints."

"So if the guy used leather gloves twice, you'd be able to ID them."

She cocked her head, taking me in from an angle. "Screenwriter, yeah?"

I grinned. Her Sherlock routine in the kitchen with Ariana's charcoaled sleeve was probably just stage dressing on a Google search. "Teacher, really."

" 'Guy,' " she noted. "You said 'the guy.' "

"Better odds for an intruder. Plus, the gloved hand looked masculine."

"Just a little big, really. Maybe it's a woman retaining water."

I crouched next to her. "He used his right hand to open the door. So I'm guessing he's left-handed."

She paused in her examination of the doorframe, just for a split second, but I knew I'd surprised her. "Ah," she said, "because you figure he'd use his dominant hand for the camcorder." Another sideways glance at me. "Glad to see you're not obsessing about this."

A faint mark in the thin layer of dirt on the rear step caught her attention. The edge of a footprint. She swept me back and leaned over it, fists on her knees.

My heart quickened. "What can you tell?"

"It was made by a Mexican male, six-two, goes about a buck ninety, had a backpack slung over his right shoulder."

"Really?"

"No. It's a fucking footprint."

I laughed, and her eyes crinkled a bit at the edges; it seemed she found me as amusing as I did her.

But there'd be no lingering in our joint fondness. "Lemme see your shoe," she said. "No, take it off."

I tugged my sneaker off. She held it over the imprint. A perfect match. "Square one."

"How 'bout that."

She stood, arched to crack her back. It didn't crack, but she got in a good groan. Clicking on her Mag-Lite, she started along the wall, reversing the course the camera had traveled. "Any problems with your left-handed wife?"

Don and Martinique's bedroom light was still on. "All couples have problems," I said.

"Any serious disputes with anyone else?"

"Keith Conner. And Summit Pictures. There's a lawsuit--it was all over the tabloids. . . ."

"I don't read The Enquirer much. Tell me about it."

"The judge issued a gag order until the matter's resolved. The studio didn't want any bad press circulating."

She looked mildly disappointed in me, as if I were a dog that messed the carpet. "Maybe that's not so important right about now."

"It's so stupid you wouldn't believe it."

"I probably would. I had to arrest a director last month for taking a dump in his agent's pool. I can't mention any names, but it was Jamie Passal." She looked at me flatly, not pushing.

I drew in a breath of cool air. Then I told her about the confrontation with Keith, how he'd slipped and banged his jaw on the counter, how he'd lied and said I'd hit him, how the studio had joined him in suing what was left of my ass.

When I finished, she looked unmoved. "Money disputes are our bread and butter." She looked at me, then added, "And stupid domestic disputes." She ran her fingers along the wall, as if checking for wet paint. "So this thing with Summit and Keith is ongoing."

"Right."

"And expensive."

Right.

"Seems like a pretty elaborate and time-consuming method for an actor or a studio to harass you," she said.

I pressed my lips together and nodded. I'd considered the same.

"Besides," she said, "what would they hope to gain by this?"

"Maybe they're wearing me down in preparation for a demand of some sort."

It sounded thin, and Sally's face showed that she thought so, too.

"Let's get back to Ariana." Sally had maneuvered our exchange so we were looking through the window into the family room. "She have any enemies?"

We stood side by side, a big-screen view of the blanket and pillow on the couch. I took a deep breath. "Aside from the neighbor's wife?"

"Okay," Sally said. "I see." A pause. "I'm not gonna find out anything about those bruised knuckles that makes me mad, am I?"

"No, no. I hit the dashboard now and again. When I'm alone. Don't ask."

"Make you feel better?"

"Not yet. I don't know of Ariana's having any real enemies. Her only sin is being overfriendly."

"Often?" she hazarded.

"Once."

"People can surprise you."

"All the time." Following her out across the lawn to the sumac, I stayed on the underlying question. "Ariana doesn't lie well. Her eyes are too expressive."

"How long until she told you about the neighbor?"

We'd established an easy rapport, Sally and I. She seemed trustworthy, genuinely interested in my take on the matter at hand. Or was she just a skilled detective at work, making me feel special so I'd keep flapping my mouth about personal matters? Either way, I heard myself answer again: "About six hours."

"What took so long?"

"I was on a flight. She picked me up at the airport. After I didn't punch Keith."

"Six hours is good. I wonder if she's taking longer to tell you something else." She shoved aside the sumac branches. No footprints on the spongy ground beneath. She shot the light through the plastic sheeting of the greenhouse shed. Row after row of flowers poking up from the sagging wooden shelves. "Lilies?"

"Yeah. Mostly mariposas."

She whistled. "Those are hell."

"Three to five years from seed to grow the bulb up. Everything eats them."

"Plant 'em a foot deep and pray."

"Like the dear departed."

"Progressive the way you take an interest in your wife and her activities." She hoisted her considerable frame onto our rear fence, peered across at the quiet street beyond. "Could've hopped over from here."

I nodded at the other fence, the drooping one dividing our backyard from the Millers'. "Or there."

"Or there," she conceded. She dropped back down with a huff of breath, and we started along the property line.

"Now what?" I asked, a bit anxiously.

"Neighbor's name?"

"Don Miller." Saying it made my mouth sour.

"It was shot from his roof. I'll have to talk to him."

I stopped in my tracks, looking across at the Millers' property. "Shouldn't be hard."

"Why's that?"

"He's still awake." I pointed over the sagging fence at his silhouette in the bedroom window.

He stepped away from the curtain, but Sally kept her stare on the house. "We'll be back in a jiffy, Patrick. Go be with Ariana. She's scared. Those expressive eyes." She turned her back on me politely, starting for our house to retrieve her partner.

Ariana and I watched the DVDs again, all three, one after another. The hand in the latex glove did look masculine. The cuff of the black sweatshirt had been tucked into the glove so no skin would show, but I freeze-framed forward just to make sure.

"I'm sorry I called the cops without talking to you. You lied to me, but still. I thought you were out of your head and going to do something stupid that would get you shot." Ariana was pacing around the couch, her hands laced on her head. "It's amazing how little it takes to make someone suspicious. A misinterpretation, a white handkerchief, and a few well-placed nudges, right?"

I watched the scoop of tan skin at her neckline. "Is there anyone you can think of . . . ?"

"No. Please. I don't know anyone that interesting."

"I'm serious. Are there any other men who--"

"Who what?" Pink crept along her throat into her face. When Ari got flustered, she was usually a half step away from anger.

"Who've taken an interest," I said evenly. "At the showroom, the grocery store, wherever."

"I don't have a clue," she said. "He was prying at me about that. Detective Valentine. Who the hell does something like this? It's gotta be someone from the studio. Or that asshole Conner." More pacing. A glance at the clock--it was nearly 2:00 A.M. "They're gonna take the DVDs into evidence. We should copy them." She held up a hand to stop me. "I know, I'll handle them with an oven mitt."

While she picked up the disc carefully by the edges, I went upstairs and searched the Internet for Keith Conner. It didn't take long to find a picture that included his hands. He wore a great old Baume & Mercier on his right wrist, so he was likely left-handed. I pulled an image into Photoshop and enlarged his right hand. Was this how celebrity stalkers whiled away their lonesome evenings? Keith's hand looked like most men's, like the hand used to open my back door. But even if he was behind this, he would have outsourced the break-in.