To Die in Beverly Hills (29 page)

Delsey looked puzzled. "That doesn't make sense."

"Nothing makes any sense in police work."

"What are you going to do?" She poked him gently. "Really," she said when he didn't answer, "what are you going to do?"

"Let them make their move," he said without taking his eyes off the road. "I'm going to let them make the next move."

The Sheriff's Department Records Bureau had the musty smell of a library. As if on a track, female clerks and Sheriff's cadets moved about between tall shelves containing manila files. There was the muffled sound of rock music coming from a radio on a windowsill.

Carr watched the computer screen as Della Trane tapped keys. She had greeted him with friendly talk and made no mention of their last date. Her hair was pulled back into a handsome chignon and her khaki uniform was starched and neatly pressed. She wore an even layer of makeup and her lipstick was generously and meticulously applied. Carr thought she looked more attractive than he'd seen her in years.

"One more time," she said without taking her eyes off the computer screen. "You want all burglary reports with silver listed as stolen property for the last ninety days?" She turned and gave him a quizzical glance.

"With victims whose addresses are listed in Beverly Hills," Carr said.

She tapped the keys for a moment. BevH printed out on the screen in green electronic letters.

"Anything else?"

Carr shook his head.

Delia Trane punched a key. The teleprinter raced. She stood up and stretched, arching her back. Her profile was striking. Carr offered her a cigarette, which she accepted. He gave her a light and lit one himself.

"I hope things worked out with your girl friend," she said.

Before he could answer, she turned to the teleprinter and adjusted the paper and handed it to him. "The funny part is, that wasn't the first ... not even the
second
time that has happened to me. And I don't even go out that much. That's the funny part. I don't have that many dates. It's like if a piece of plaster was to fall from the ceiling at any given moment in time, it would probably fall directly on my head." They both chuckled.

Carr examined the computer printout. There were at least twenty-five names and addresses on the list. He folded it and stuffed it in his coat pocket.

"I have forty-five minutes for lunch," Della said, glancing at her wristwatch.

"Olvera Street okay?"

Nodding in agreement, she slipped her arm in his as they strolled out of the building and down Spring Street to a Mexican restaurant sandwiched between some Olvera Street tourist gift shops. A young waiter wearing a serape showed them to a table on the patio.

During a quick lunch of tacos and chile rellenos, Della drank three margaritas.

Afterward, Carr walked her back to the Hall of Justice and headed to the Field Office. To avoid No Waves, he entered through the back door.

At his desk, he circled six names on he list that started with W, dug a telephone book out of a filing cabinet and thumbed through for the names. As he expected, the names, like the names of most affluent people, were not listed. Having lit a cigarette, he dialed the number of the Pacific Telephone Company Security Office. The woman who answered asked for his agency code number. He read a seven-digit number that was scribbled on his desk's ink blotter.

"Lemme have the name," the woman said as if she were half asleep.

"I have six of them," Carr said.

"I can only take two names at a time. Rules."

Since he knew there was no use arguing, he gave her two of the names. She flipped pages and read off two phone numbers. The phone clicked. After two more calls (she made him repeat his agency code number each time), he had compiled a list of six unlisted phone numbers.

He dialed one of the numbers. A man answered.

"Is this Mr. Waterford?" Carr said.

"Speaking."

"I'm Special Agent Carr, U.S. Treasury Department. I'm calling about the burglary."

"Which one?"

"The one that occurred within the last three months."

"Treasury Department?" Waterford said. "Does this have something to do with my income tax?"

"No, sir. I just need to know if your silver that was stolen in the burglary had a W engraved on each plate."

"No," the man said. "There was nothing engraved on it. What's this all about?"

"Just a routine crime survey."

"Another way to waste the taxpayer's money."

"Thank you for your time-"

The phone clicked, Carr set the receiver down. He drew a line through Waterford's name and address, then dialed the next number on the list.

****

FIFTEEN

CARR SAT on a sofa. He wanted to smoke but he couldn't decide whether the crystal upturned hand on the coffee table in front of him was an ashtray. Gertrude Wallace sat across from him in a thronelike chair. She examined the silver plate.

"Yes," she said. "It's ours. It's
definitely
ours. Our jeweler engraved them. I must call my husband and tell him ... Where are the other pieces? Will we get them back?"

"Yes," Carr said, "but it may take some time."

"I hope it's by the end of the month. We have an important dinner planned. My husband and I have invited the Danish and the Swedish consuls and a whole group of studio people. You see, my husband's last movie was filmed on location in Denmark and Sweden-"

"Do you suspect anyone of having committed the burglary?" He gave the glass hand another inquisitive glance.

"It's an ashtray if you'd like to smoke,"

"Thanks." Carr lit a cigarette and dropped the match in his hand.

"I used to smoke but I quit. I've never felt better in my whole life."

Carr acknowledged her remark with a smile.

"We thought the maid had stolen our things," she went on, "and Detective Bailey pointed out to us that domestics are often involved in burglaries. We fired her the day after it happened. She made a big fuss."

"Was there anything she did that caused you to suspect her?"

"She was in need of money to get her mother across the border. She'd been working next door at the Redfords on her days off in order to save money. I guess the temptation finally became too much for her."

Carr puffed. He turned his head away from Gertrude Wallace and blew out smoke.

"It's funny," she said. "I smoked for many years, but I can sit here and watch you smoke and I haven't the slightest urge. Not the slightest."

"Thinking back to a month or so before the burglary occurred ... other than close friends and relatives, who visited your home?"

Gertrude Wallace touched the palm of her hand to her cheek. She sat that way for a moment. "Come to think of it," she said finally, "I had just hired a new man to clean the pool. But I'd used him before, off and on, and never had any problems ... and there was a group of ladies from the Cancer Foundation. I showed them all through the house. Certainly it couldn't have been them."

"I agree," Carr said. "Was there anyone else?"

"Just my therapist. He's the one who cured me of my smoking. He's a psychiatrist."

"How long have you known him?"

"Just for a few weeks, but he was recommended to me by a close friend. He's very well thought of ... the highest recommendations. He's highly respected in his field."

"I see. Had you ever met Detective Bailey before the burglary?"

She shook her head. "We've never been burglarized before."

Carr stood up. He took a final puff and carefully mashed the cigarette into the delicate ashtray. Having slipped a business card out of his shirt pocket, he handed it to her. "If you remember anything else," he said, "I'd appreciate a call."

"Certainly." She rose and followed him to the door.

"You're at the right age to quit smoking," she told Carr as he opened the door. "Mature people have more self-discipline. Dr. Kreuzer told me some of his best patients were-"

"What did you say his name is?" Carr interrupted. He felt his heart race.

"Kreuzer," she said. "Dr. Emil Kreuzer. He's a hypnotherapist. He's been a savior to me ... a real savior. I used to smoke until I had a sore throat."

"How would I get in touch with him?" Carr tried to avoid sounding too eager. Could Emil Kreuzer have been released from prison already?

"Just a moment." Gertrude Wallace returned to the living room.

As Carr stood in the hallway he remembered being told by a veteran T-man more than twenty years ago to never be surprised when investigation after investigation ended up focusing on the same crooks. As the old trooper told him,
"There are only so many bad guys in town. So when a case gets tough, check your old arrest cards."

Gertrude Wallace quickly returned and handed Carr a business card with Kreuzer's name and a Wilshire Boulevard office address. Carr slipped it in his shirt pocket.

"I must warn you though," she said pleasantly, "he's always booked up weeks in advance, but he's worth the wait."

Carr stepped off the elevator in the office building. He wandered down a hallway to a pair of high polished wooden doors bearing brass letters that read Probe Incorporated-Doctor E. Kreuzer.

Carr opened the door and stepped into a reception area furnished with leather sofas. A young girl who looked to be high school age sat at the reception desk. She hurriedly shoved the paperback book (nurse hugging handsome man on the cover) she was reading into a desk drawer.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked, as she'd obviously been trained to do.

Carr shook his head and showed her his badge. She looked up at him in awe. "Wow."

"I'd like to see Doctor Kreuzer for a moment," Carr said.

"Is that like the FBI?"

Carr nodded. The girl hurried into another room. On a wall behind one of the sofas Carr noticed a framed photograph of Emil Kreuzer shaking hands with the president of the United States. He could tell by the slight blurring of the hands that the photo was a composite fake.

Moments later Emil Kreuzer followed the girl out of the room. He approached Carr.

"Remember me?" Carr said with a disarming smile.

Kreuzer smiled back. "Of course."

As they shook hands, Carr noticed a flicker in the con man's carotid artery. His palm was sweaty.

Kreuzer ushered him into another office and closed the door. There was a large desk and a black leather Danish-modern sofa with a matching pillow. The walls were decorated with hypnotist's spirals and framed diplomas. Kreuzer offered him a chair.

"How's business?" Carr said, sitting down in front of a large desk.

"Emotion still rules reason," Kreuzer said. He laughed nervously.

"Seen any of your old friends since you've been out?"

"As a matter of fact I haven't. And I'm not just saying that. I've broken all the old ties. I guess it's because of my age. Doing a deuce or a trey in the joint didn't seem like much of a jolt when I was thirty, but it seems like one
hell
of a lot at this stage in life. Believe it or not, I've cleaned up my act."