Grave Endings (4 page)

I had startled her, but the shock turned to anger. She glowered at me. “Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?”

“I didn't know if you'd talk to me.”

“Uh-huh.” She studied me for a moment. “So that part about writin' a story on Randy, that's all lies. Not much difference between you and him, is there?”

Well, of course I felt myself blushing. “I may end up writing something about him. Right now I'm trying to find out what I can.”

“Uh-huh.” She cocked her head. “How do I know you're not givin' me another
story
?”

I took out my wallet and showed Gloria a photo Mrs. Lasher had taken of Aggie and me in the Lashers' backyard against a background of hot pink bougainvillea on a June day a month before she died. “That's my friend,” I told the manager. “Her name is Aggie. She was killed on July 23, almost six years ago. She was twenty-three.”

“An' the cops're sayin' Randy did it?” Gloria looked at the photo, then at me. Then back at the photo. “But you don't think so?”

“He could have. But you said he never fought and never gave you any trouble. And he never killed anyone before, as far as the police know.”

“I seen people do things when they drunk or on drugs they wouldn't do otherwise. Just 'cause a man brings candy to a child don't mean he can't turn ugly.”

She pinched her lips, and her eyes had a pained, far-away look. I wondered if she was reliving a memory.

“Ten minutes,” she told me.

“You can watch me the whole time, Mrs. Lamont.”

She dismissed my smile with a snort. “You got
that
right.”

six

AFTER GIVING STRICT INSTRUCTIONS TO JEROME NOT TO open the door to anyone (“Not even the chief of
po
lice!”) and promising she'd be back in ten minutes, Gloria took a ring of keys, locked her door, and led me through a narrow, musty hallway to a second-floor apartment at the back of the building.

“Randy's daddy was supposed to empty the apartment yesterday so's I can rent it, but he didn't show,” she said with annoyance as she unlocked the door and pushed it open. She flipped up a light switch. “Well, here it is.”

Stale air laced with an unpleasant odor I couldn't identify greeted me like a ghost. I followed Gloria into a generous-size L-shaped living-dining room. The “living” part said bachelor's pad: cushy red leather sofa, black area rug with a red-and-white swirling pattern, one-piece Lucite coffee table with curved ends. The sofa faced black speaker boxes the size of refrigerators that were hooked up to a sound system housed inside a black lacquer cabinet crammed with CDs, and the DVDs Randy would have viewed on the sixty-inch projection TV positioned between the speakers. Next to the sofa was a black lacquer desk whose working surface was taken up by magazines and a combination phone–answering machine and multipurpose fax machine.

“He got all that about five, six years ago,” Gloria said when I asked her about the TV, which ran over three grand four years ago when my ex, Ron, had lusted for one. “That and his Porsche.” She pronounced it “porch.” “Like I said, he made good money 'fore he took sick, but I think a lot of it went up his nose.”

She didn't know what kind of work Randy had done and didn't have the time right now—or the inclination, I thought—to look through her files to see where he'd worked. “Ask his daddy,” she said.

There was a black mug on the coffee table, which was piled with stacks of newspapers and magazines.
Variety,
the
Hollywood Reporter,
a church newsletter. More of the same on the desk. With Gloria breathing down my neck, I opened the drawers. Pens, paper clips, pencils. A rubber-banded stack of bills looked tempting, but Gloria said she didn't feel right letting me look at those, a man was entitled to his privacy, and I didn't even ask if I could STAR-69 the phone to find out to whom Randy had made his last phone call.

In the dining area, next to a kitchen not much bigger than my teeny galley, were a white bistro table and two white chairs with black vinyl seats, one of which was torn. A dinner plate on the beige-tiled kitchen counter bore the congealed remains of what looked like lasagna. Next to the plate were four empty Heineken cans, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's, and the glass, with a cloudy amber coating on the bottom, that he'd used in emptying it.

An eclectic mix of unframed movie posters brightened the ivory walls throughout the L.
The Sting. The Truman Show. Terminator 3. The Matrix. Braveheart. Lord
of the Rings. North by Northwest. Legends of the Fall.
In the center of the living room a green plastic bucket sat on the worn beige carpet, directly beneath a large, nasty-looking brown blister on the ceiling.

“Randy was goin' to take care of the leak, too,” Gloria said. I sensed she was sorry about his death and not just about the repairs he hadn't completed.

The bathroom off the living room was tiny. I didn't find anything of interest in the medicine cabinet, just the essentials. Creeley's bedroom, around ten by ten with a window not much larger than my eighteen-inch flatscreen computer panel, barely accommodated the king-sized platform bed and black lacquer nightstand. On the wall at the head of the bed, which was a tangle of brown sheets and a black comforter, Randy had hung a cross. From the rectangle of paint around it, lighter and fresher than the paint in the rest of the room, I could see that the cross was a recent addition.

The odor was stronger here, and I had no difficulty identifying it as vomit. Neither did Gloria.

She crinkled her nose. “I sprayed yesterday, but I'll have to get the carpet cleaned to get rid of the smell. That's where I found him,” she said with somber theatricality, pointing to a darkened area of matted carpet between the bed and the opposite wall.

I followed her finger with my eyes and pictured Creeley jerking on the floor, dying. Somehow it didn't give me the satisfaction I'd anticipated. I glanced at the walls, covered with more movie posters and a framed black-and-white headshot of a handsome young man whom Gloria identified as Randy Creeley.

“I tol' you he was good-lookin',” she said. “Sexy, too.”

He was. Artfully tussled longish blond hair with darker roots; large, expressive dark eyes; a chiseled nose; a strong, square chin. He didn't look like a killer, but neither had Ted Bundy or the man who had tried to choke me seven months ago.

I studied the photo a while longer, but if there were hidden clues to Randy's identity, they eluded me.

I looked through his closet. Randy's wardrobe had been mostly casual: a dozen pairs of jeans, a lineup of athletic shoes, flip-flops, and two pairs of dress shoes. A couple of Hawaiian print shirts looked especially gaudy next to the dress shirts, dark twill slacks, and black loafers that I assumed he wore to auditions. I flipped among the slacks and shirts but didn't find any clothing that would have belonged to the girlfriend. Unless Doreen had a key to Randy's apartment and had removed her things?

“She didn't have a key,” Gloria said when I asked. “If she did, she wouldn't of needed me to open his door, would she? I guess she didn't leave stuff after all.”

I returned to the books stacked on the nightstand. The top one was a thick text.
Alcoholics Anonymous.

“Can I look at these?” I pointed to the stack.

“I guess so, seein' as how the police are done.”

I picked up the book. It was well worn, I saw as I paged through it, with many passages highlighted in yellow. Serving as a bookmark in the middle of chapter nine were two color photos. One was of Randy with his arm around a pretty, petite, light-brown-haired, pony-tailed young woman in jeans and a T-shirt. The girlfriend?

“No, that's Randy's kid sister, Trina,” Gloria said when I showed her the photo. “She came by 'bout once a week, more when he took sick. Randy's momma died when he was just a kid.”

Dead to Randy, and to his family? It was probably less painful to say his mother had died than to deal with the complex emotions of being abandoned.

The other photo showed Randy as a stunning child (five or six?), cheek to cheek with a beautiful woman I assumed was his mother. There was something artificial about the pose and the smiles and the woman's long golden hair that seemed to blend in with her son's. Someone—Randy? his father?—had ripped the photo and Scotch-taped the parts together unevenly, creating a faint, jagged line that scarred her face.

I replaced the photos and shut the book. “Do you know where I can reach Trina, Mrs. Lamont?”

“She lives a couple of blocks from here. I don't know the address. I have her phone number, though. After Randy took sick, she gave it to me, just in case. Work
and
home numbers. I called her after the police and she came right over. She took it bad, poor thing.” The manager clucked.

I have three brothers and three sisters and can't imagine how I would deal with losing one of them. The thought made me shudder.

I checked the rest of Randy's reading material. A well-worn Bible, other books on addiction and self-help.

“It looks like Randy was serious about trying to quit drugs,” I said as we were leaving the apartment.

“Well, like I said, he was shook up bad when he almost died. He told me he was never gonna do that stuff again, and Trina, she watched him like a hawk. But once you hooked, it's hard to get free, you know?” She locked the door. “My daughter's husband swore ten times he was done with all that, and I believe he meant it, every time. Shirrel left him 'bout five months ago, and I hope she doesn't go back.”

seven

CONNORS WAS IN A HORIZONTAL POSITION WHEN I ENTERED the Hollywood Division detectives' room at one-thirty, his scuffed tan boots propped on his desk, his ankles crossed. He was engrossed in a phone conversation, and acknowledged me with a nod, minus his usual smile. Not a good sign.

I took off my peacoat, pulled up a chair, and inhaled the smell of coffee from the mug on his desk while I waited.

“The answer is no,” Connors said in his flat Boston accent when he put down the receiver.

“No, what?”

“No to whatever you're selling.”

“You're sure? I have Girl Scout Cookies, wrapping paper, Amway products, magazine subscriptions—”

“Cut it out.” He swung his long legs down from the desk and sat up straight.

“I take it Porter told you about our conversation.”

“He's ready to lock you up.” Connors scowled at me. “Why would you piss him off like that, Molly?”

“Because he was being stubborn, and he's a jerk.” I hesitated, a little nervous to test the water. “And maybe he
is
too eager to close Aggie's case.”

“Porter wouldn't do that.” There was a warning in Connors's voice and in his hazel eyes.

“Then why wouldn't he consider the possibility that Creeley didn't kill Aggie?”

“Because logic and the evidence say Creeley did it.”

“By
evidence
you mean the locket. Creeley could have gotten it from someone else, Andy. Or he could have found Aggie's body in the Dumpster and taken the locket.”

“The locket's only part of it.”

That was a surprise. “What else do you have?”

Connors shook his head. I could see from his expression that he regretted what he'd said.

“Come on, Andy. I won't let on that you told me.”

“Like Porter wouldn't figure it out?” He drained his coffee mug and set it on a stack of papers.

I wondered what other evidence there could be, and why Connors wouldn't share it with me, why Porter had been so evasive. “I spoke to the manager of the apartment building where Randy lived.”

Connors
tsk
ed. “
Only
the manager? You're usually so thorough.”

“I left my card with the other tenants.” Including the person who had been listening in on my conversation with Gloria. I'd rung his (her?) bell, knocked a few times. My eavesdropper had either left the building or turned shy. “The manager said Creeley reformed when he almost died eight or nine months ago after a drug episode gone bad. He swore to her that he stopped using.”

“Creeley wouldn't be the first to start using again, Molly. Rehab clinics are full of repeaters.”

“But he started going to church, Andy. He repaid money he'd borrowed. You were in his apartment, right? So you saw the books on his nightstand.
Alcoholics
Anonymous,
other books dealing with addiction and self-help.”

“I have
Atkins
on my nightstand and still eat too many carbs.”

“Show-off.” Connors is in his mid-thirties but has the metabolism of an eighteen-year-old and a stomach as flat as a marble countertop. I sucked in my own. “The manager told me Randy's girlfriend, Doreen, came by the day after he died to pick up some clothes she'd left at his place. There was crime-scene tape on the door, and she said she'd come back.” I paused.

“Is there a point here?”

“Doreen hasn't come back, and I didn't see any women's clothes in Randy's closet. The manager let me in,” I added in response to Connors's questioning look.

“Maybe Doreen came back and let herself in.” Connors picked up a pencil and rolled it between his palms.

“Apparently she didn't have a key. And if she
had
a key, why did she need the manager's help to get into Creeley's apartment?” No reaction from Connors. “There's not one feminine toiletry item in his medicine cabinet. Either Doreen never stayed overnight, or she cleaned out all her things. And when the manager, Mrs. Lamont, tried phoning her to tell her the police were done and she could come by, the person who answered said she didn't
know
Doreen.” I ended with a flourish that was wasted on Connors, judging from his deadpan expression.

“So Mrs. Lamont copied down the wrong number,” he said. “People do that all the time.”

“Maybe. But what if Doreen intentionally gave her the wrong number?” And why wasn't Connors wondering the same thing?

“And she would do that because . . . ?”

“Because she was involved with Randy's death,” I said, barely restraining my impatience. “Suppose she had a key but didn't want to be the one to find the body. Suppose she had to get into the apartment the next day to make sure she didn't leave any incriminating evidence.”

“Suppose Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction.” Connors put down the pencil. “Maybe Doreen
did
have a key. She found Creeley dead, but didn't want to be involved. So she left and then went back and had the manager open the apartment. And she gave her a wrong phone number.”

I had to admit that made sense. “Did they do the autopsy?”

“On Friday. Creeley overdosed, like I told you.”

“I didn't see any drug paraphernalia.”

“It was there. We took it. We just didn't think to give you an inventory,” he added. “Plus Creeley went to town on the booze. If you checked out his apartment, you must've seen the empties.”

“That doesn't mean he drank the stuff. Someone could have emptied the beer cans and half the whiskey.”

“Someone
could
have, but Creeley had enough alcohol in him to open a bar. A guy goes off the wagon, he usually does it in a big way.”

“I wouldn't know. Did they find fresh needle tracks?”

“You're watching too much
CSI.
Yeah, they did. Do yourself a favor and let it go, Molly. Creeley killed Aggie. He overdosed. It's over.”

“He never killed anyone before, Andy.”

“He never got caught.”

“If you say so.” I was playing a broken record and getting nowhere. I stood and returned the chair to the adjacent desk. “By the way, when's the funeral?”

“Ten o'clock Thursday morning.”

“Where?”

Connors named a cemetery in Downey. “What're you planning to do, open the casket and make Creeley tell you what happened?”

“I'd get more information from him than I've gotten from you guys.”

“Don't mess with the investigation, Molly.”

“What investigation?” I slipped on my jacket and slung my purse strap over my shoulder. “Creeley overdosed. He killed Aggie. Like you guys keep saying, the case is closed.”

“It
is
closed. There's stuff you don't know, Molly.”

“Because you won't tell me. This whole thing with Creeley doesn't feel right.”

“It doesn't
feel
right?”

“Why didn't Creeley leave Aggie where he killed her? Why did he take her body to a Dumpster behind a restaurant several miles away?” That had been puzzling me all along.

“What did Wilshire tell you?” There was a note of caution in Connors's voice.

“That Creeley wanted to delay discovery of the body. That moving a body can make it harder to pin down the time of death, and that helps the killer establish an alibi.”

Connors nodded. “So there's your answer.”

“What's going on, Andy? Why are you so uncomfortable?”

“You're asking questions about a six-year-old case that isn't mine and never
was
mine, Molly. If you want answers, go to Porter.”

“Yeah, right.” I sniffed.

Connors sighed. “Why do you have to make this so hard?”

“Because she was my
best friend
!” Heads turned our way. I lowered my voice. “What if Doreen killed Randy, or knows who did? Maybe she planted the locket so you guys would think he killed Aggie. And if Creeley was killed, maybe Aggie was a specific target, not a random victim. Have you even considered that? Of course not. You guys are
so
eager to wrap this up.”

Connors had risen from his chair and was inches away from me. “Do you have any reason to believe that Aggie was mixed up in something that would put her in danger?” he asked with an intensity that made me flinch.

“No. Of course not.”

“Was she worried about anything? Was she scared of anyone?”

“I answered all these—”

“
Was
she?”

This was a Connors I'd never seen. There have been times, when I've pressed too much, that he's told me to back off, but now he was angry. I had a glimpse of how intimidating and effective an interrogator he could be.

“Aggie wasn't scared,” I said. “She was happy. She loved her family, her life, her job. She loved helping people. If she was concerned, it was about her clients at Rachel's Tent. She took her work seriously.”

“Exactly.” Connors practically spit the word. In a calmer voice, he added, “So why the hell would someone kill her? And why frame Randy Creeley for it?”