Death Was in the Picture (25 page)

“That one’s not much of a looker,” she sniffed, indicating Joe. “The other one’s not bad. A bit beefier than I usually like, but he sure smells good.”

I laughed, despite myself. “He does at that.”

“I’ll go see what I can find out,” she said suddenly, surprising me and leaving her half-eaten sandwich as she crossed the dining room, engaging one of the young men bussing tables in earnest conversation. This, then, would be the person at the commissary she’d said she knew. I wondered if he was an actor, too. I figured he probably was.

After Rosalyn had spoken to him for a while, he went into the kitchen and she stood outside the door. While I waited to find out what she was up to, I focused hard on the conversation
at the next table, even surreptitiously moving my chair slightly closer to them, trying to catch a different air current, one that would do a better job of bringing their words to me.

The little I heard made no sense. “Dead is dead” was one phrase I caught and I thought I heard “won’t stay bought,” but this might have been my imagination. When I heard a long, low whistle coming from their table, I figured Rosalyn was heading back. I watched as she looked at them coquettishly and, when she reached me, she stopped quickly and dropped a bag on the table. “Bones for my dog,” she said, then kept going, sitting herself down with them and engaging them in conversation.

I figured now that the visit with her kitchen pal had been a ruse to put distance between herself and the men at the next table. She’d wanted to make eye contact, I guessed. Establish a connection before she sat down with them. Maybe she’d also wanted bones for her dog.

I was flabbergasted at this bold move on her part, not quite sure what to make of it, and though I strained like mad to discover where all of
this
might be going, I could hear next to nothing beyond Rosalyn’s laugh; a warm, merry sound like rain on glass. Then I could hear the cadence of her voice, the texture of it, but I couldn’t make out a single word.

After a while, I heard the scrape of her chair as she rejoined me.

She smiled. A beautiful smile. Her teeth were extraordinarily white. “So I asked them.”

“Of course you did. And?”

“They said they’re just business pals, here having a late lunch.”

“‘Natch,” I said.

“But the not-so-good-looking one? Not the fat one, but the other? Joe? He says he’s only been out here a little while. I think he was fixing to work up the courage to ask me on a date.” She made a face. “He’s from Chicago. Used to be.”

“You got all that?” I asked, incredulous.

“Sure. A bit more, too. Like, I don’t know that the big guy works for him, but I kind of got that, do you know what I mean?”

Sure I did. That had been my impression as well.

“I also got that they go way back. But how far and to where I really couldn’t say. But listen,” she started collecting her things, “maybe I can fill you in later if I get more. You got a number?”

I dug in my purse quickly for paper and a pen so I could write down the office number. “Sure. But why? Where you going all of a sudden?”

She looked sheepish for a second, but only just. “Joe’s gonna give me a ride home. Since I live out in Tarzana, it’ll save me about three years on the streetcar.”

I handed the number across to her. “Do call me. I’ve enjoyed your company,” I said. She took it, but I stopped her when she would have been on her way. “And Rosalyn, please. Be careful. I think … well, I’m not sure but I think he might be dangerous.”

“Honey,” she said with a smile, “all men are dangerous. I’m always careful. I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Let you know what’s what.”

Then she picked up her bag of bones and was gone, and they were gone, too. I sat in the commissary feeling oddly bereft. As though I’d allowed something to happen. Allowed something to swing out of control.

WHEN I BACKTRACKED my way past the office where I’d seen Dex, he was gone. Mustard and the car were gone, too. I had no way of knowing if they were still on the lot somewhere or if they’d headed on their way. I regretted that; I would have liked to have caught up with them. After the day I’d had, it would have been nice to hitch a ride.

By the time I found the right streetcar, it was after seven and quite dark. I thought about going back to the office and seeing if the guys were there or if they’d left any notes but once I was underway I realized I was bone tired and just wanted to go home. If anything exciting was happening, it could keep until the morning. I needed my bed and a bath and a bowl of Marjorie’s good soup.

The following morning, there was something nice about being in the office. Something pleasant and reassuring. It seemed that, lately, everything had been so very busy, I’d barely had a moment to myself. So it was satisfying to spend half an hour alone in the office’s morning quiet, straightening the already tidy rooms, making coffee and trying not to listen through the open window to Hartounian’s secretary on the phone with her boyfriend.

When the phone rang, I answered it cheerfully. “Good morning, Dexter Theroux’s office. How can I help you?”

“Help me, sheesh! But do I need help.” I hadn’t known her long, but I recognized her voice right away.

“Hey, Rosalyn, I’m glad to hear you got home safely.”

“Boy, but barely. Your man Breen is quite the piece of work.”

“Breen?”

“Yeah. Joe. I thought you knew him.”

“I’ve
met
him. I barely know him. And don’t call him ‘mine.’ I was avoiding him yesterday, remember?”

“I can see why.”

“You can? Why? What happened?”

“You know, it’s a pretty long drive out to Tarzana.”

“I’ll say,” I told her. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to live out there.”

“It’s pretty. And I have a dog. And family, you know. But, yeah: it takes plenty long on the streetcar. That’s why I was glad of the offer of the ride.”

“I worried about that, though,” I admitted. “Busy guy wears a suit like that, he’s important. He doesn’t just give rides for nothing. Especially out to
the moon.”

“Tarzana is
not
the moon but, yeah, I know. There was something about him, all right?”

“Well, it wasn’t his looks.”

“No,” she agreed, “it wasn’t his looks. But I got the feeling he was someone with some weight to throw around, you know? And I could tell right away that he liked the looks of me just fine.”

What was there not to like? Rosalyn Steele was the very picture of a starlet. She even had that extra dash of something. She was slender and tall and blond and beautiful. Funny and smart, too. It didn’t take much imagination to work out why a man like Breen would be quickly smitten. Rosalyn was the whole package. I figured it was possible that one day she’d be a star.

“Yeah,” I said wryly, “I could see that part wasn’t going to be a problem.”

“So we’re driving out there and we’re chatting, you know, like people do when they’re in a car and they’re getting to know each other.”

“Sure.”

“And he sez to me, he sez,” here she pitched her voice low in a terrible approximation of Breen’s way of speaking,” ‘So, you’re an actress, huh? Have I seen you in anything?’ And I tell him yeah and I tell him what in, but I also tell him they were small parts, right? And I’m waiting for my big break. And he nods like he knows a thing or two about that and he puts his hand on my knee while he says, ‘Well, maybe that’s something I can help you with.’”

“He did not,” I said.

“He did! And, I’ll be honest with you, Kitty: that’s what I was there for. You know that, right? I mean, I figured he was someone could do me some good and now he was telling me that was so. Everything was just fine. And a girl can always close her eyes.”

“But you said.

“Wait. I’m getting to it. So we’re driving along. We’re getting pretty close to home by now. And his hand is inching up my thigh. And I’m letting it, right? I know where this is going. I’m a big girl. Only he’s a talker, right? And he starts making conversation.”

“What do you mean? A talker?”

“You don’t get out much, do you? Never mind. A talker is a guy what likes to hear his own voice. Breen was like that. It wasn’t enough he’s got his hand moving ever closer to my place of business, now he’s gotta yak.”

“About what?” I said, still inwardly shuddering over the ‘place of business’ remark.

“Empty yakking. Just to fill up the space with the sound of his voice. Breen seems to like his voice just fine. So he sez at one point, he sez, ‘Well, Rosalyn Steele. That’s a real pretty name. A blueblood name. Where do you hail from?’ Something like that. And I laughed, of course, and I tell him my real name and tell him I was born on the Lower East Side but my family
moved out here when I was a kid. And, Kitty, I tell him this and his hand drops right off my lap. And he says, ‘You’re a kike?’”

“He did not!”

“He did. And not like he’s asking, you know, but like he can’t believe he sullied his hand. And came close to sullying other things.”

“What did you say?”

“What could I say? I drew myself up and I said, ‘I
am
a daughter of Israel.’ I wish my mother would have been there to see it. Well, not the hand in lap part. But the part where I said that with pride. It would have surprised her, I think.”

“And then what happened?”

“Not too much, let me tell you. He pulled the car over to the side of the road—pitch black it is, out in the middle of nowhere, someplace on Ventura. He pulls over and he sez, ‘Get out.’ All cold like. And just that. ‘Get out.’“ She made the impression sound dark and ominous now, though it still didn’t sound much like Breen.

“So what did you do?”

“What do you think I did? I got out. Slammed the car door as hard as I could—not that he cared. And he hurtled off into the night, leaving me out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Hurtled?”

“Absolutely. I left Steve’s bones in the car, too.”

“Steve?”

“My dog.”

“Your dog is named Steve? Sorry. Never mind. So, then what?”

“Then what? What do you think? I ankled it off toward Tarzana. Not a lot of traffic heading out that way that time of night, but I stuck my thumb out and I got a lift before long. Some nice couple coming back from the city. I was lucky they came along: you saw my shoes. They weren’t meant for hiking.”

I thanked Rosalyn for calling with the update and we said we’d get together for coffee soon. I meant it, too. Even though we were geared pretty differently, I genuinely liked her and figured we could be friends. We were about to hang up, when she interrupted our good-byes.

“Oh geez, I nearly forgot something. That guy he was with yesterday. The big one?”

“Xander Dean.”

“Yeah. When we first got going, I asked how they knew each other. Were they friends or whatever. I figured you’d want to know.”

“You’re right. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Anyway, he didn’t say much, just said the guy was nobody. ‘Just hired muscle,’ was what he said. Now I’m no dope, Kitty. I know a guy can lie about a thing like that to a dame to make himself look bigger. But you pretty much figured that anyway, didn’t you? So I kinda thought that confirms it.”

She was right, it did. After we hung up on another promise of coffee or perhaps lunch, I thought about it. The fact that Xander worked for Breen came as no surprise. But, as Rosalyn had said, it confirmed things. I tucked the information away to tell Dex when he came in.

I had just given my attention back to my now nearly cold coffee when the phone rang again. Ours is not generally a busy office, so two phone calls back to back were cause for a raised eyebrow.

“Dexter Theroux’s office,” I said. “How can I help you?”

“Hi there, is Dex in?” A masculine voice.

“I’m sorry. No. Can I take a message?”

“Yes. OK. Yes. Thank you. This is Samuel Marcus from the
Courier.
Dex and I spoke a few days ago.”

“Mr. Theroux mentioned the conversation to me.”

“He did? Ah, well. In that case, please tell him that he probably won’t be able to get me on the phone all day.”

“All right, I’ll tell him.”

“And that, near as I can tell, there’s nothing to that theory of his. That mean anything to you?”

“Yes, actually, it does.”

“Good, good. Well then, also tell him this: for what it’s worth, the people in
my
office are taking bets that it ain’t Wyndham at all.”

“‘Not Wyndham,’” I repeated as I wrote it down. “All right. Go on.”

“Yeah. The smart money here is on a broad.”

“What? But there hasn’t been even a hint of that. Where does
that
come from?”

“Well, the figuring is this: the killing was coldly calculated, yet wouldn’t have taken a lot of strength.”

“I don’t know …” I said.

“We’ve talked it all around. Here’s the thing though: your boss is on the case, right? If he finds anything, he has to call me up and give me the straight dope. I mean, he knows that. We talked about it. But that was our deal and that’s why I’m calling. You got all that down, sugar?”

“Sure, sure,” I said, looking down at my notes. “No newspaper conspiracy. Not Wyndham. Money’s on a broad. I got it all.”

“Great, well that’s just jake. Tell him to call and leave a message any time. I’ll get back to him fast.”

Mustard arrived noisily just as I was hanging up the phone. Two telephone calls and now a personal visit?

“It’s like a train station around here today,” I said by way of greeting.

“Huh,” Mustard said, looking over both shoulders theatrically. “I don’t see any rattlers around here, do you?”

“No, Mustard, I didn’t mean there were actual trains around here. It’s just that… never mind. What can I do for you?”

“Ask not what you can do for me …” he said mysteriously,
then plunked a folder the color of clotted cream onto my desk. It was about an inch thick, held together with an elastic band. The package looked as though it had seen some miles. The corners of the folder were dog-eared and I could see what appeared to be a coffee stain on the side facing me.

“What’s this?” I said, inexplicably reluctant to touch the thing.