Trust Me (16 page)

CHAPTER 34

⍫

You think I’m a candidate, don’t you?”

“I don’t know, Joe. We keep a few seats warm for guys like you.”

They were sitting in a booth in the back of a restaurant bar on Wilshire Boulevard. It felt strange, coming from the bright daylight into the dim shadow of the bar’s interior. It could have been midnight or four in the morning. Sitting across a booth from the detective, Ron felt as if he were in a stage set from his own past; the smell of old smoke, a bartender wiping down the bar, a few guys in suits sitting solo at the tables, nursing their drinks. Kenny Rogers played “Lady” on the jukebox.

“You know, I went to some meetings once,” Joe announced.

“Oh yeah? When was that?” He wasn’t surprised. Joe always seemed familiar with the lingo: easy does it, one day at a time, shit happens.

“Back when Janey and I were splitting up. I thought, ‘Okay, nothing makes sense. I think I’m the same guy she fell in love with, so what gives?’ She was done with me.” He shrugged his shoulders and tipped his head to drain his bottle of Heineken. “She used to complain about my drinking, so I figured, I’ll do this thing. I’ll do the meetings and stop. For her. For Robbie. For Christ’s sake, he was only four at the time.”

“So that was five years ago.” He knew that Robbie was nine now.

“Five years ago. Jesus, you’re right. But you know what? She left anyway. Nothin’ to do with my drinking. She had another thing going—another cop. Son of a bitch drank twice as much as I did.” Joe raised his hand to signal the waitress for a new Heineken. “So you’re keepin’ a seat warm for me . . . guys like me.” He snorted a laugh, but it was a good-humored laugh.

Joe was a big, powerful man. His powder-blue sports coat stretched tight over his shoulders and his hands looked like they could break things better than they could fix them. Ron was fond of the man, glad to think of him as a friend.

“Joe, alcoholism is a self-proclaimed disorder. I honestly don’t know if you have a problem with booze. I’ve never seen you act drunk, behave inappropriately, fall down, any of that stuff. So it’s up to you to decide if your life works or not, and if it doesn’t, whether alcohol could have anything to do with it. Then—” he sipped at his soda and set the glass down “—the question becomes, can you stop on your own?”

The waitress brought the new bottle, the green glass frosted over.

Joe glanced at it, then made a small smile and spread his hands slightly. He then picked up the bottle by its neck and, pushing upward with the calloused tip of his thumb, popped off the top and took a swallow.

“One thing does come to mind though,” Ron said.

Joe leaned back into the burgundy Naugahyde, cocked his head, and raised an eyebrow.

“When you and Janey were splitting up?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “What about it?”

“If you wanted to prove a point about drinking, why didn’t you just stop?”

“What’s your point?”

“Just that only a certain kind of drinker makes a connection between quitting drinking and needing help.”

“Yeah, well.” Joe moved out of the booth. “Gotta hit the john. You know,”—he was standing now—“those were rough times. Haven’t felt like that since.”

Ron watched Joe walk away toward the rest room at the end of the bar. He turned and nudged open the latticed shutters and watched bars of sunlight slice through and catch the dust swirling lazily in and out of the shadow.

Somewhere out there, up in Petaluma, last he heard, was a seventeen-year-old girl. His ex-wife had never let him see the girl; the last he remembered was a crying two-year-old in Ellen’s arms, how the two of them looked so much alike with their alabaster skin and thick red hair. He had tried to make his peace with Ellen, gone to her in the spirit of amends, but forgiveness was not forthcoming, and the girl had remained a stranger.

He had hoped that at some point his daughter would take the lead and call him, if only in an adolescent fit of independence from her mother. Maybe when she was eighteen, he thought. Maybe then it would be time to look her up, make a gentle approach, give her the option to meet him somewhere, to talk. To find out that he was no longer what her mother had told her.

“Hey, be here now, ol’ buddy.” The detective’s voice broke in on his thoughts. He glanced up.

“You looked like you were off in another world.” The big man settled himself back into the booth and placed his hands palms down on the table. “So you got Jeff Fenner camped out at your place.”

“For the time being. Why, is Narcotics still after him?”

“Naw, the guy’s history.”

“Yeah,” Ron said. “I think he’s through.”

“So you’re going to turn this two-bit dope peddler that couldn’t keep his nose out of his own candy into a member of the civilized human race?” Joe picked up his Heineken and tilted it until half the contents disappeared.

“I didn’t think you believed there was such a thing, Joe. But no, I’m not going to turn him into anything.” He wondered where this conversation was headed. Joe had called him in the morning and arranged this meeting, without saying what for.

The detective shrugged and said, “Okay, okay.” Then he pulled a card out of his coat pocket and wrote something on it.

“You might just happen to be around here at ten tonight. You didn’t get this from me.” He handed the card to Ron.

“What’s up?” He took the card and glanced at the address that Joe had scrawled on its back: 1021 Stone Canyon Road.

“Got a break on the A-frame ODs.”

CHAPTER 35

⍫

The A-frame referred to a group of dedicated swinging couples from the tonier neighborhoods in the Westside and Hollywood.
They got their name from the previous decade’s locus of formalized upscale swinging, an actual A-frame home in the Hollywood Hills. It had been the site of a continuous, pay-to-play, members-only spouse-swapping party, complete with its own set of rules and formalities.

Ten years later the events had gone almost entirely underground; two of the original couples had regenerated the group—all new recruits—and turned it into a discreet upper-crust pot-luck, sex activities after the chocolate crème brûlée. Once a month, a different couple would host the occasion, and the various record company execs, corporate lawyers, and multi-media entrepreneurs, spouses in tow, would arrive in their German cars as though showing up at just another dinner party. Throw in a judge, an actress and her real-estate-developer husband, and one of the most powerful agents in Hollywood, and you had a heady mix of money, influence, and some stunning physical beauty.

It was an LA kind of thing, Ron mused as he headed down Lincoln Boulevard toward the freeway. He had lived in Los Angeles since he was five years old and was still amazed at some of the city’s dirty laundry—not just the tee-shirts-and-sweat-socks variety of Charlie Mansons and kiddie porn hustlers, racist cops, and the chicken hawks at the pier. It was the upper-crust laundry that got hung out to dry once in a while that showed that real human sickness cut across all the social boundaries. Wealth, status, education, political power—none made you exempt.

He had covered the gamut. It was the nature of his job to write unhappy stories, but the A-frame ODs had captured and held the public’s imagination for months before the trail went cold and the police back-burnered their investigation. He wrote up the original item for the
Times
. It had been over a year and a half ago, and Joe Greiner had been his conduit for the best police information available. Joe’s problem was being a homicide investigator in what everyone, including a grand jury, had declared a non-homicide.

It had been the A-frame group’s Valentine’s Day gala. For some reason Marty Resnick, the Hollywood agent, was the only one who was allowed to bring partners other than his wife. The rotation put his house in Stone Canyon as the site of the Valentine’s get-together.

When the paramedics arrived that night, dessert and coffee had just been consumed, and six people were dead—cardiac arrest and respiratory failure from heroin overdose. Marty and his date, a model from New York, were lying together on the tiled floor of the bathroom adjacent to the den. The actress and her real-estate-developer husband never even made it up from the den sofa, from which they had bent over the marble coffee table to snort the white powder they thought was Molly, the latest designer drug with a reputation for inducing enhanced sexuality. The owner of an independent record company that was in the process of being bought by one of the majors had staggered out the French doors into the cool February night, wife in hand, and together they collapsed at the foot of the brick barbecue.

By the time the police arrived, hot on the heels of the fire department’s paramedics, two attorneys from Harry Wise’s office were already at the scene, and the dinner guests had been quickly but thoroughly drilled so that their stories fit together as neatly as a jigsaw puzzle.

His cell phone rang just as he got off the Hollywood Freeway.

“Ron, hi. It’s six and I’m free.” It was Leanne, just off her shift at the Bicycle Café. He was glad to hear her voice; it brought to mind the other night, standing by his car, her face an inch from his, the first kiss out of the way and a new level of trust between them.

“Okay, listen, I’m taking the kid to a meeting at Fairfax and Fountain in an hour. We can get together afterward or, you know, there’s an Al-Anon meeting at the same time right next
door . . .” He paused.

“We could grab a bite from there,” she responded. “I’d like to meet your newcomer.”

“Great. We’ll be out front at about fifteen before seven. Oh, hey, listen to this . . .” He started to tell her about the A-frame break, but then decided that his cell phone wasn’t reliably private.

“I’ll fill you in at dinner. See you in forty-five minutes, southeast corner of Fairfax and Fountain.”

CHAPTER 36

⍫

When Jeff turned off the lawn mower, he heard music coming from the house.
So, Ron was home; soon they would be off to another meeting. He surveyed the small patch of lawn and the neat stripes that the mower had made. Sweat poured down his back and stomach, dampening the waistband of his shorts.

“Hey, into action. I like it.” Ron walked out onto the porch. “What happened? Sleep get too boring?” He grinned.

“It would help if I could get a solid night’s sleep. Christ, I lie there sweating like a pig and can’t stop my mind.” Jeff combed his hair back out of his eyes with his fingers. A salty bead of perspiration ran through his brow and down into his eye.

“Sounds like fun.” Ron seemed amused again.

“Yeah, right. Every shitty thing that ever happened to me, every embarrassing little moment gets replayed like some nightmare MTV loop. I mean, what’s going on, anyway?”

“I think it’s how the mind detoxifies. The body sweats out its poisons, and the mind collects and excretes its own toxic waste. It’ll pass. Anyway, nobody ever died from lack of sleep.”

“Did you ever feel like this?”

“I can remember like it was just yesterday. It passes.” Ron tapped Jeff’s shoulder and said, “Let’s go. And hey, thanks for doing the lawn.”

They stepped into the relative coolness of the house. Saxophone music filled the living room, cheerful in the otherwise gloomy waning of the light.

“Who is that playing?” Jeff asked.

“Lester Young.”

“It’s pretty cool.”

“Glad you like it,” Ron said, and turned into the hallway that led to his room.

⍫

The evening forgot to cool off. Dressed in baggy shorts, sandals, and a green tee shirt with a snowboard manufacturer’s logo on it, Jeff stepped into the Land Rover, still hot after a cold shower. He glanced over at Ron, who looked cool and fresh in his creased tan slacks and a sports shirt. His loafers had tassels and were buffed to a deep oxblood hue.

They drove in silence until Ron turned on Fountain.

His tee shirt clung to the perspiration on his chest. “Man, it’s fuckin’ hot.” He shifted in the seat and realized his back was damp too. “You know, I have to wear a fuckin’ suit to court next week. I don’t know if I can handle it. Christ, my fuckin’ car doesn’t even have air conditioning.”

Ron looked over at him, his eyebrows slightly raised, then glanced at his rearview before pulling a tight U and turning into a parking spot. They were next to a church, pink in the fading light, with a small group of people gathered at the stairway entrance.

Ron turned off the lights and pulled the key from the ignition.

“You know,” he said, “I just heard you say ‘fuckin’ this and ‘fuckin’ that’ three times in two sentences. You know what that means to me?”

“No, what?” He felt suddenly uncomfortable, defensive.

“It sounds like you don’t really know what you feel about anything. Just that it’s negative and you’ve got a vague catch-all word to show that you’re generally pissed off.” Ron opened the door and started to get out.

“So is Emily Post part of the curriculum here?” he shot back.

“No, Jeff, Emily Post is not part of the curriculum. I’m just trying to help you out. When you talk like that it sounds . . . inarticulate.” They stepped out of the car and Ron keyed the lock.

Over the roof Jeff said, “Inarticulate?”

“Sounds like shit, Jeff.” Ron headed toward the steps.

Furious at being chastised, he stayed at the curb and watched Ron shake hands, nodding and smiling as he joined the group at the entrance. He leaned against the Land Rover, a headache forming like a storm cloud just behind his temple.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a flash of color approaching from his left. He turned to see an extremely attractive woman in a summer dress the color of the blue hibiscus in Ron’s yard, with a deep magenta scarf around her neck. She looked right at him as she approached, stopping right in front of him and smiling as she put out her hand.

“You must be Jeff,” she said. Her gray eyes gazed at him levelly as she waited for him to respond. In a curious moment of clarity, he saw himself through her eyes, leaning back against the car, sulking over his wounded pride. It was comical, really, and she was inviting him to step out of it. He grinned and moved away from the Land Rover, shaking her hand.

“I’m Leanne. We’re having dinner together, I hear. Let’s go see Mr. Popular over there.”

After the meeting, they drove down to Melrose Avenue to a place called Nick’s Natural Deli. Everything was bright polished blond wood, even the ceiling fans, like someone had outfitted the whole place from one display at Ikea. Ron had ordered from a ponytailed blond waiter named Ben; the guy looked so healthy, Jeff wanted to yank on his earring.

The meal didn’t do much to improve his mood. Ron and Leanne attacked their baked vegetable and tofu on rice with gusto, talking cheerfully about their meetings as they chewed, while he picked at the bland carrots and tough, chewy rice in a bored funk.

“Hey, mopey, try some of this to jazz it up.” Ron pushed over a bottle of dark brown liquid. Jeff poured it back and forth across his meal as he had seen Ron and Leanne do; anything to add some flavor. He took a bite—it tasted terrific for a second—and looked up in disbelief as a fire spread throughout his mouth, his lips, and down his throat. His face felt hot.

“Jesus, Ron, what is that stuff?” He reached for his glass of water.

Ron speared a cube of shriveled tofu and a broccoli floret covered with the evil sauce and popped it in his mouth.

“That’s Nick’s Hot Sauce. Place is famous for it. Shoyu with extra garlic and cayenne. You’ll get used to it, right Leanne?”

Leanne scooped up a spoonful of rice drenched in the stuff. “It’s an acquired taste. Quick, take another bite.”

He took another bite. This time the flavor lasted longer, and the burning sensation receded to a background buzz. He ate again—even the tofu tasted pretty good.

“Man,” he said, his eyes watering, “this stuff is dangerous.” He couldn’t help laughing.

They ate in silence for the rest of the meal. He looked up when he was finished, surprised to see the other two watching him affectionately.

“Welcome to the clean plate club,” Leanne said, and they all laughed.

They ordered herbal tea as the pony-tailed waiter removed their dishes.

“So,” Ron said, “it turns out Jeff here used to be pretty handy with a camera.”

“Really?” Leanne turned to Jeff. “Did you work as a photographer?”

He made a self-deprecating gesture. “Years ago. I used to shoot pictures for a surfing magazine. Later I covered events for some of the entertainment weeklies.”

“They both sound like fun,” Leanne said.

“Yeah, I learned how to shoot from the hip when people didn’t want their pictures taken. I’d have a drink in one hand and my Nikon down here . . .” He put his right hand down by his waist and snapped an imaginary photo, making a little clicking sound under his tongue.

“So anyway,” Ron continued, “it looks like Jeff has a job offer as an assistant to a friend of mine—a professional photographer.”

“Yeah, at nine bucks an hour,” he complained.

“Oh, my,” Leanne chided. “And how much are you bringing in now?” There was that level stare of intelligent gray eyes again. He looked at Ron, who raised his brows slightly in amusement.

“You can barely eat on that amount, forget about paying rent. I’ve got two hundred dollars to my name. I’m going to have an attorney bill to pay—I mean, Christ, how am I going to make it all work?” He felt an inward shudder at the impossibility of it all; it came out as a slight twitch, surprising him like an electric shock.

“It seems to me that at this particular moment, you have a place to sleep tonight,”—Ron counted off on his fingers—“your belly is reasonably full, your attorney is willing to accept his pay in the future, and you have a job. So if you can keep your head out of the future—there’s nothing there anyway; it hasn’t happened yet—then you might find out that things are really pretty good.”

Jeff looked back at Leanne, who regarded him sympathetically and said nothing, but nodded slightly.

“Anyway,” Ron went on, “there’s a camera in my truck, and a nice little telephoto lens that should come in handy.”

“Handy for what?” Jeff asked in surprise.

“Well, how would you like to see tomorrow’s news happen tonight? Maybe even scoop it from behind the lens?”

“Really? What’s the deal?”

“They’re bringing in a suspect tonight in the A-frame affair. If we leave here in about—” Ron checked his watch, a stainless steel Heuer “—ten minutes, we should be right on time to catch the arrest.”

He rode in the back seat again as Ron drove West on Melrose, onto Santa Monica Boulevard, and then cut up to Sunset. When they turned up the dark entrance to Stone Canyon, Leanne said, “Isn’t this the house where those people died?”

“Sure is,” Ron replied. He kicked on his high beams; the road seemed to swallow the light.

“Whom would they be arresting up here?” Leanne seemed puzzled. Jeff leaned forward to hear the conversation.

“My guess,” Ron answered, “would be Marty Resnick’s widow, Joanie. Unless the butler did it.” He slowed as they got into the high nine hundreds. They had climbed up into the hills by now and the road had narrowed. Ron took a hard curve to the right and suddenly came upon three four-door sedans, with their parking lights on, edged up against an ivy-covered brick wall. The lead car was pulled partially into a driveway, blocked by a large iron gate.

Ron pulled the Land Rover to the side of the road behind the last of the police cars. The door of the lead car—the one by the gate—opened, and a burly man in a sports coat lumbered toward them out of the darkness. Ron rolled down his window.

“Welcome to the show,” the man said. “You’re right on time. We’re gonna wait out here until the suspect talks to her lawyer. He won’t be dumb enough to advise her to hole up in there, so I expect the gate to swing open in a few minutes.”

“Joe, Leanne, Jeff.” Leanne reached a hand across Ron’s chest to shake Joe’s hand through the open window. Jeff said, “Hey, Joe,” and in his mind thought,
where you goin’ with that gun in your hand?
It was fun meeting a cop like this.

“So here’s the deal. We go up, you follow. At the top of the driveway, it opens into a big circular area; got a fuckin’ fountain all lit up in the middle. You stay on this side of it ’til we bring her out and load her up. Then you follow us down. Okay?”

“Got it,” Ron said. “Mind if we happen to get a shot of you escorting her out the door?”

“It’s a free country, last time I looked.” Joe looked over at the gate—it was barely visible against the blackness behind it, but it clearly hadn’t moved yet.

Jeff leaned forward, the camera on his lap, the long lens cold and hard like the barrel of his nine millimeter. He mourned the loss of the gun for an instant and then realized he liked the camera better.

Ron said, “So what broke?” Joanie Resnick had already been questioned half a dozen times. She had been out of town when her husband died, vacationing in Hawaii. Jeff had read about her in
People
magazine or somewhere. For a few months she was a very public Celebrity in Mourning, the grieving widow of Bel Air.

Joe cleared his throat and then turned to spit into the darkness. In the silence there was an audible
plop
from the far side of the road. Jeff saw him turn back and then bend slightly to peer into the car, past Ron to where Leanne sat. After a moment’s pause, the detective said, “Excuse me,” and then turned back to Ron. “Seems the lady had a boyfriend. Younger guy, Tony Petracca. Calls himself a musician, but Narcotics picked him up for selling an ounce of meth at some nightclub. So guess what he offers up?”

Jeff wondered why the cop wasn’t cold out there. A fog had drifted up from the ocean and the air was chilly for the first time in months.

Ron shrugged. “Something pretty good, I imagine.”

“Check this. Joanie Resnick finds out her husband’s playing spin-the-bottle with the beautiful people, and that it’s gonna happen again, this time
in her house.
She knows Marty likes his designer drug ’cause they used to do it together, back when they used to do it together, if you follow what I’m saying.” He cleared his throat again, started to turn, but then continued with his story.

“Before she left for her trip, she checked out his stash spot and found a full vial of the stuff. So she goes to her boyfriend and tells him if he gets her a six-hundred-dollar gram of pure china white, she’ll give him a new Porsche.”

“And then,” Ron filled in, “she dumps out the ecstasy and substitutes the heroin. Perfect.”

“Hell, I doubt she threw out the sex powder. Probably humped Tony all the way to Maui. Picked up some extra frequent-flyer points in the mile-high club. Anyway, you’ll like this part, she strings him out for the Porsche all this time, until a month ago.”

A car whispered by, heading up the canyon.

“Then what?” Jeff asked, looking out at the detective from behind Ron’s seat.

Jeff saw the cop look back at him in amusement, like he was a six-year-old who hadn’t been invited to speak.

“Then she dumped him. Told him to take a hike. Said she had someone new. A broad—Diane Cammell—maybe you’ll see her tonight.”

“She dumped him for a woman?” Ron chuckled. “And lets him walk? Now that’s called leaving a very loose end.”

“Yeah, well, go figure. Hey—” There was motion from the driveway. The gate was opening, and one of the other cops flashed his headlights for an instant.

The driveway snaked uphill, flanked by enormous hedges that were black against the darkness. The four cars wound their way up and into the estate single file. Jeff looked out through the rear window and saw the gate slowly swing shut.

At the top of the driveway they broke into a large circular area, fully illuminated, paved in bricks. Water danced in a brightly lit fountain at the center. The house cast a warm glow out onto the drive—it was a large pink two-story affair, lights blazing from every window. To the side he saw two double car garage doors, in front of which several cars were parked haphazardly. A forest green Jaguar sat just beyond the fountain.