Hollywood Boulevard (36 page)

D
etective Collins informed Andre that his wife's cell phone was off or out of commission; for the moment untraceable. It was noon of the third day. He'd been all over the place looking for leads. He'd sat on the phone at the precinct to check flights to New York, with no luck. He didn't request manifests for all the flights out of Los Angeles, which would get to be Homeland Security- complicated so he went with his gut feeling that Ardennes would fly to New York,
if
she took a flight out. He'd gone to Enterprise Rent- a- Car at LAX to show Ardennes Thrush's picture around, then to the other car rentals, but came up empty. All a waste of time, but the gumshoe work couldn't be avoided. His boss would need to know every avenue had been walked. He was losing time when every minute might matter.

    Andre Lucerne and Detective Devin Collins were seated at the cluttered table, an unlikely pair. The balcony door was closed against a cool day, the seesawing of spring making up its mind. "The last activity was the morning she went missing." He didn't mention any calls made to or from him. He let Andre know Ardennes's car had been returned to Enterprise at LAX and that, as far as he could tell, she hadn't replaced it with another car.

    Andre nodded. "Why LAX, I wonder, if she didn't take a flight out?" He stood up to open the balcony door, to let a little air in, the two men at the table making a heavy presence. He did not sit down again. The Detective watched him. "I wanted to say— I thought about it in the night— she would not have left without her blue and white teapot. She drags that black tea everywhere. The pot is here, on the shelf. I feel surer now my wife is missing."

    "Good for you, Mr. Lucerne. Ready to face facts, are we? Have you recast your film?"

    "No, I have not. Your position is important, Officer, but the significance of the situation may escape you, used as you must be to this sort of thing."

    " Still worried about the press, huh?"

    At this point Andre made a visible effort to control himself. "If my wife has been taken against her will, what do they want with her if not money?"

    "Any number of things: sex, torture, murder, thrills . . . use your imagination." Andre was paying close attention. The Detective softened his tone. "It's also possible none of the above and she just wanted out."

    "You mean flew off somewhere?"

    "Not on an airplane. We checked as far as we could, unless she went someplace exotic and unexpected." No need to go into details— or the lack.

    "What do we do now?" Andre asked. He looked to be struggling, as if he were not certain how to react. That was how Detective Collins saw it.

    "We see what Matthew Fitzgerald has to say. I've had him picked up. He won't like it."

    "You suspect him?"

    "Currently I suspect everyone." He looked at Andre to be certain he understood that by everyone he meant
everyone
. His cell phone rang. "Yeah? Okay, bring him up. Fits is here, and not too happy."

    There was a commotion at the door. Two uniformed officers brought a raucous Fits into the suite. Detective Collins nodded to the officers and told them to wait outside.

    "What's the idea, Detective? You want to get me fired or what?"

    "Sit down, Fits. Quietly, please."

    "Yeah, well, screw you. This better be good." He slumped down onto the couch and shoved his hair off his face with both hands.

    "The lady next door says you had an argument with Ms. Thrush. She heard you below her balcony."

    "Oh, yeah, and when was that?"

    "You tell me."

    "You send cops over to my set; they don't arrest me but drag me over here. You could have asked me this on the phone."

    "The waiter at Musso and Frank's also said you had an argument with Ms. Thrush, that you left in a huff without finishing your drink."

    "I'm not that much of a drinker." The Detective was quiet. "We met at Musso's, yeah. I was angry with Ardennes, sure, for quitting, for throwing her talent away. But I don't qualify that as a fight. Not even close. And I tipped that old goat of a waiter well."

Andre was seated at the table, listening. " Where is my wife, Fits?"

"In my hip pocket. I could ask you the same; she's
your
wife."

    The Detective stepped in: "You're saying you did not argue with Ms. Thrush here at the hotel, a few days ago?"

    "Yesterday was the first time I was ever at this hotel— or whatever day that was. You got the wrong guy, copper."

    "It's been three days, Detective. Do you think this man is lying and that he is involved in Ardennes's disappearance?"

    "Oh, not so fast, director- face. Besides, why would I take her; she's missing, that's certain? ' Cause where I left off, that was just speculation."

    "Someone is lying, Fits. Either you or the lady next door."

    "Try the lady next door," Fits told the Detective. He rubbed his hands over his chaotic head of hair. "This is fucking bullshit. . . . I'll go talk to the cunt myself." He stood up.

    "
Sit
down, Fits." It was as close as the Detective came to raising his voice.

T
o me Sylvia was the eccentric at the other end of Mucho's leash. I didn't picture her on the telephone or shopping or bathing or doing much of anything other than dressing large and walking her dog. So when her phone rang and she slammed the door and locked it, I had to adjust my image of her.

    She must have walked out of the bedroom with the phone. I heard her smoky laugh and something like "You do know how to get a gal interested. . . ." But that was all. A short time later she was back, unlocking the closet door, opening it to the chain. She sat on the little cushioned vanity chair, crossing her legs. I could just see her left profile from my bed of rags, where I'd retreated when she'd gone for the phone.

    "Yup, looks like your crew is going back to work; that fellow Olive let me know just now. You'll be glad to know the long faces are gone."

    "
Who?
Do you mean Olav, the Norwegian, the sound guy? And they're not my crew, Sylvia; it's my husband's movie. I have nothing to do with it. Sorry to disappoint."

    "Sound? I thought he was props?" I lifted my hands, palms open, and shrugged. "He
said
his name was Olive. That's what I've been calling him. . . . Anyway, he asked me for a drink."

    "Olav did?"

    She primped her never- out- of- place, plastic- looking hair, reached for the leopard- patterned cigarette holder, installed a fresh smoke but thankfully did not light up. "You think I'm too old? It so happens Olive and I went to the Hollywood Bowl just the other week."

    My eyes were bugging. How did I miss Olav and Sylvia? I also wondered about her hearing, or maybe she just didn't listen too well.

    "Of course he's gay as the day is long, but I take it unkindly you think my pubic hairs are too gray to entice."

    "I don't think anything of the sort. And Olav is not gay. His girlfriend came out for a long weekend just before shooting began. So better watch your panties." Apparently old Sylvia still enjoyed the idea of turning men on.

    "Not gay? Could've fooled me. Bi, then. Well, they
are
going back to work."

    My guess was Sylvia was only guessing, or outright lying, trying to rattle me. But she must have talked to Olav, and maybe they had gone to a concert. Still, all Andre could do was work scenes that didn't involve the lead; even if he had replaced Luce Bouclé, the new actress couldn't possibly be ready. Sylvia's point, of course, was Andre going back to work with me still missing, her little game of torturing the prisoner. Or did he believe my message about Indio, and did Billy buy that too, and absolutely no one was looking for me? I felt fury rising up into my throat. Shouldn't Sylvia have made some sort of ransom demand by now? "What do you want with me, Sylvia? If you plan on killing me I ask that you get it over with; otherwise, tell me what it is you fucking want!"

    "Such melodrama. Who said anything about killing anybody?" She harrumphed. "You actresses are all alike. You know, it was a wartime buddy of Lucille's father who brought her out to Hollywood, took pity— according to Lucy. He stepped into her daddy's shoes after the car crash. Helped himself is what I saw. He was a start- up director; she was all of eighteen. He paid her train ticket, gave her a screen test, and found her a bit part. After that she signed a slave- wage contract with MGM, and he moved her in here."

    "So this
was
her flat? And her father died in the accident. And you
did
meet in Las Vegas?"

    Sylvia wasn't angry this time that I knew so much. She warmed up. "Lucy watched my revue and asked me to teach her for a B part she wanted badly— only because of the dancing. I took one look at her legs and told her she was nuts. She cussed me good: 'Just teach me to sex dance, you whore.' They let me be her body double— which didn't leave her much to do. 'Course, I didn't take any pay. I did it as a favor, and after that she thought she owed me. Lucille didn't owe me a thing, I'd have body- doubled her whole life if I could have." Sylvia stopped talking. She held the unlit cigarette to her lips. Mucho watched her, his small body trembling the way those tiny dogs do.

    My own body ached all over from inactivity, sleeping on the floor and being tied up. I was beginning to disappear. I would soon be forgotten, a cold case. I didn't know why Sylvia was taking me down memory lane with Lucille Trevor's story— a need to confess, maybe— but I decided keeping on her friendly side was in my best interests.

    "You think she was abused by her daddy's pal?"

    "I
know
she was." She pressed her lips shut tight, and we were quiet a couple of minutes.

    I figured she was in a softened frame of mind and took a chance. "Listen, Sylvia, any chance of a shower?"

    She thought about my request. "I'll bring you a bowl of hot water and a soap sponge."

    "I can't exactly change my shirt all tied up like this, can I?"

    "I'm not running a hotel!" she snapped.

    "I didn't ask to check in!" I snapped back. If she was going to relent and untie me, it would be a mistake. "How about it, Sylvia? I'm becoming a health hazard."

    Instead of answering, she bolted up and slammed the closet door shut, locked it and turned out the light.

    "Sylvia?" I called out. "I only wanted to wash up." I heard the bedroom door slam. A minute or two later there was frantic barking from Mucho, apparently stuck in the bedroom.

D
etective Collins rang her bell a second time. The chain was on; Sylvia opened the door and peered out. Mucho continued to bark in the bedroom.

    "Back for more, Detective?" She closed the door, undid the chain and opened the door, pulling off a bright magenta dish glove that she'd grabbed from the sink before opening the door. "Forgot something?"

    "Mind if I come in?"

    Sylvia pulled the door open all the way. "As you wish."

    The curtains were open on the balcony, flooding the place with light. Skies were intermittent sun and clouds, but Sylvia's white shag rug and white decor caused a glare. The Detective needed a second to adjust his eyes. There was slow jazz playing from a radio in the living room. Detective Collins glanced around. Stew was simmering on the stove in a large red Le Creuset pot.

    He lifted the lid. "Company coming?"

    "You're welcome to join me."

    "Smells good. Nice little home you have here."

    "What can I do for you— again, Officer?"