Hollywood Boulevard (33 page)

    "Hey, I know Beverly Henry— well, I worked on a film she was on, good lady, talented," Fits said as he walked past Andre.

    "Have you got her information?"

    Fits was already punching into his iPhone. "I never toss a connection. Here it is, Detective." He showed him the number.

    " Would you mind calling? Keep it friendly . . . just how are you . . . Ardennes said something about going to Indio —"

    "Got it." He pushed talk and walked out onto the balcony. "Hey, is this Beverly, yeah, Fits here . . . you remember . . ." He moved out of earshot.

    Andre said, "I could use some coffee. I think there's some hotel brand. Detective? Carola?" They both nodded, and Andre went to the kitchen to put together a pot. Carola followed to help.

    Fits came back into the living room. He shook his head. "Beverly hasn't heard from Ardennes in a couple of years. When she dropped out— of acting— she kind of dropped out on her people out here too."

"But she spoke to you?"

    "Yeah, I looked her up after her agent, Harry Machin, died. We had a drink at Musso and Frank's the other day."

    "How was she then?"

    "Pretty lost." The Detective nodded. "So, ah, what's the Beverly Henry connection, if I can ask?"

    "She went to Indio with her after her last film, to a friend of Beverly's ranch out there."

    "So she's supposed to be in Indio now, but you don't think she is?"

    "She could be."

    "It's kind of nowhere down there, except for the Salton Sea, which most people think is a chemical dump. Not that many hotels to choose from. Not the best place to get lost in. Or maybe it is."

    "And conveniently close to the Mexican border."

    "You think maybe Mexicans have her?"

    The Detective shook his head. "I don't think anything and I think everything at this point."

    Carola put out four cups and a container of milk. Andre poured the coffee. "Detective?" he said, then paused. "I was thinking, there has been no request for ransom. There has been nothing."

    That remark brought forth no comment from the Detective. There was a brief silence while they drank their coffee. Detective Collins set his empty cup down on the side table. "Okay. You have my numbers. Mr. Lucerne, you hear the slightest peep, a hint of a peep, find me. You too, Ms. Santosa." He handed Fits a card after writing his cell and home phone numbers on it. "I'll report back after I check up a few things. All right?" He glanced all around. There were bashful nods. "Mr. Lucerne, you will go to the Hollywood precinct to file a missing- persons report, agreed?" Andre said he would go right away.

"Mind if I walk out with you, Detective?" Fits asked.

    The Detective nodded and they left together. On the steps Fits said, "What about a trace on her cell?"

    "Right. Outside of the movies, that doesn't happen like magic."

    "Ya know, some actors take off
after
they achieve big fame. Ardennes didn't— she wasn't super huge yet, but on her way, I'd say, and she just walked away."

    "And that bothered you?"

    "Huh? Well, yeah, it wasn't very polite to her friends. And I don't know why she did it."

    "Quit?"

    Fits put a hand up; a braided black leather band adorned a thick wrist. "Hold on, I just thought of something. Somebody sent Ardennes a bunch of dead flowers."

    "Oh?"

    "Yeah. She thought I did."

    "You didn't?"

    "My sense of humor's not that profound."

    "When was this?"

    "Two days ago . . . three. Wait a minute, my cell history. Yeah, here it is." He showed the Detective the time on his phone. "It was yesterday." The Detective glanced at Fits. "What? I have a recovering pothead's sense of time, okay?"

    Detective Collins suppressed a smile. "Okay. She say anything else?"

    "I wasn't paying real close attention until she mentioned the dead flowers. Then she had to go; someone was at the door."

    "What time was that again?"

    To the Detective, Fits's information meant someone had definitely been to see Ardennes
before
he arrived, and that someone had been female— he'd gotten that much from the lousy perfume Ardennes tried to pass off as the maid's cleaning products— and the dead roses had already been delivered.

    "You've been helpful. If you think of anything else . . ."

    "Yup."

    The detective and the actor got into their cars and drove off. Fits turned left, the Detective right, toward Beverly Hills. A block later he turned around and headed for the Enterprise Rent- a- Car on Ivar Avenue. It took over twenty minutes to find out that Ardennes's contract had been canceled, but not at that location. Another few minutes turned up LAX as the drop- off point, and she'd paid a fee for a different drop- off location. Ardennes's American Express card had been used, and the gas tank had not been full, another penalty. No one remembered seeing who'd dropped off the gray four- door Nissan Sentra. They'd gotten what they were owed; what did they care if the customer or her great- aunt Tillie paid up? The Enterprise employee name on the receipt was Dave, but that was from the Ivar location, where the car had been picked up. He came to the desk and said he remembered Ardennes. "She's some kind of actress, right? I thought I recognized her," he said.

    The Detective wondered that no one had recognized the actress at the airport location, but LAX was nonstop, and actors did come in. . . . Even for basic cars like the one in question? Sure. And they sometimes covered up with wigs and things. The key was that Ardennes Thrush had been with Andre and Carola, on their way back from Century City, around the time the car was being dropped off at LAX. The Detective thanked the clerk, gave him a fax number, and asked that a copy of the receipt be sent over to the Beverly Hills precinct. He asked one more question: Any damage to the vehicle, anything unusual inside? Negative on both counts.

    Unless Ardennes had wanted to take herself off, had gotten someone else to drop off the Nissan for her, then gone to another car- rental company or bought a plane ticket to Disappearsville, Detective Devin Collins had a missing person on his hands. He thanked the Enterprise people and entered his own vehicle for the trip back to Beverly Hills. How long would he be able to keep the case out of Hollywood's hands? More to the point, how much trouble was Ardennes facing? Attacked by a bird had to be a clue tied to Indio, he told himself, reasonably certain that was not where his victim was located. That was all he had to go on.

I 
did finally let it out that first night in the closet, cried myself to sleep, and I had no Kleenex but a few ragged bits from the bottom of my purse. I took an iota of revenge by blowing my nose on one of Sylvia's fuchsia- colored blouses, which I then tossed near the chamber pot. I cried like badly needed rain. It didn't change much, or maybe it did. I fell asleep trying to remember the last time I'd cried with such abandon, freely, fully, emptying the heart of poison and hurt. Maybe when Daddy died. After his death I put the brakes on that much raw emotion, as if feeling too much could kill me. There was Joe, the hell of that ending, but it was only when I acted that I let it out, where I was safe to let go what I refused to otherwise touch. And now? Now that I'm no longer an actor?

    A thin strip of gray light shone under the door when I woke up. Either it was raining or just dawn. The closet had turned cold in the night. The plaid pink flannel blanket was placed over my shoulders. Sylvia must have covered me, and I must have slept through it. The flashlight was off. I didn't remember clicking it off, so Sylvia must have done that too. Did she lie about the milk, or did I really sleep that soundly? Babies cry themselves to sleep why not grown- ups? Yeah. I'd bet the milk was spiked.

    I turned the flashlight on and stood up. I stretched as much as I could with my hands tied. I peed and drank what was left of the water. I did some squats and tried some crunches, turning my back and my neck this way and that. Take control, I told myself. I struggled with the little flannel blanket, to get it around my shoulders again when I was done stretching. Then I set to work with my loft keys to try to pick through the little diamonds of the fishnet stockings, one diamond at a time. They weren't silk or nylon but acrylic or some such sturdy stuff and tougher than I thought the material would be. I wasn't making much progress.

    When I heard Mucho sniffing at the door I hid the keys inside the pillowcase and sat very still. Sylvia turned on the closet light and opened the door up to the chain. Again she ordered me to the back, showing the gun.

    "The piss pot stinks, Sylvia."

    "Good morning," was her reply. She wore a long, gown-like robe with satin edging and feathers at the collar. I recognized it as the one she had on when I ran into her in the laundry. Her slippers were gold lamé ballet flats. She looked so small. I thought of rushing her as she pulled out the food tray from last night. "Don't move!" she barked, pointing the gun like she'd read my mind. She shoved a new tray in with her left hand. It held a raspberry cheese Danish, a pot of tea, a cup and a small pitcher of milk, a fresh bottle of water. Two teabags, so she knew I liked it strong even if she didn't have the real deal loose tea. In some ways Sylvia was a very considerate jailer. She re moved the chamber pot last.

    I watched these maneuvers from the back of the closet like a well- trained pet that wants to bite its mistress, to chew her arm off, but knows better than to try.

    "What if I refuse to eat?"

    "You won't," she said as she rechained the door, leaving it open and the light on.

    Day two of captivity.

F
its called the Detective's landline early, from his car on his way to the studio. "What's the time?" the Detective asked, sounding groggy. His nightstand clock read five twenty- eight a.m. He sat up, threw off the bedding so the cold, not- yet- light morning air would wake him all the way. A window was open. A car suddenly honked outside.

    "I thought of something in the night, waited till I was on my way to work— you never know when you'll get a break on set— you awake?"

    "Go ahead." "I remembered a phone conversation with Ardennes a couple of days ago. She told me there'd been a fire at the Hotel Muse, but it was like fifty
years
ago. She thought maybe some burlesque queen murdered an actress in the fire, something like that."

"What was the actress's name?"
"She didn't say. Maybe she was losing it, huh? Maybe she's
slipped off the deep end of the planet. . . ."
"What's the connection?"
"The stripper lives in the hotel. I think she called her Sally or
Salome, something with an S."

"All right. Thanks."

    "You find anything out yesterday?" The Detective was quiet. "I want to help if I can."

    "She turned in her rental car. Or somebody did."

    "Huh. Hard to get to Indio without wheels."

    " Think of anything else, call." The Detective clicked off. He sat up, covering his groin with the sheet, though he was alone in the room. Why would Ardennes care about a fifty- year- old crime? He glanced at the clock.