Palindrome (21 page)

This is pretty nice, he thought; roomy and nicely decorated. He called downstairs and found that the night concierge came on at eight. With the three-hour time change, it was only midafternoon locally, and he became a tourist. On foot, following directions from the deskman at the hotel, he found the Chinese Theatre, which represented to him everything he had loved about the movies all his life. He fitted his feet into the prints of Gary Cooper and James Stewart; he wandered past those of Judy Garland and Clark Gable and Marlene Dietrich; he wallowed in what could never be again. Then, content, he wandered back to the hotel and took a nap. His wake-up call came at seven-thirty; he showered, shaved, and changed into a blazer and open shirt—he had been told that things are pretty informal in Hollywood—then he went downstairs in search of the night concierge.

The man was tall and vaguely handsome, and Williams wondered if he had once been an actor. He identified himself. "Remember when the Atlanta Bobcats were here to play the Rams a few weeks ago?"

"Sure, a lot of the teams stay here."

"Remember Bake Ramsey?"

"Sure, Bake got hurt that game."

"Bake tells me that he had dinner in his room the night before the game with a girl named Brenda. Remember anything about that?"

"I remember him coming in with her early that evening," the man said, "but I don't remember her leaving." He grinned. "Probably she didn't leave until the next morning, when I had gone off duty."

"And they had dinner in the room?"

"You'll have to check with the room-service captain on that."

"One more thing: when I checked in they parked my car downstairs in the garage and gave me a plastic card to get in and out with. Does every guest with a car have that same arrangement?"

"Yes, everybody."

"So, in order to get his car out of the garage, Ramsey could have just gone downstairs and driven away, then come back later without having to see a parking attendant or anybody else?"

"That's right."

"Tell me, did you arrange for Bake to meet Brenda?" The man shook his head.

"Look, I'm from out of town; I'm not looking to make trouble for you; I just have to know how it was."

"I didn't set him up. My best guess is a bar on Melrose called the Goal Post. It's a sports bar, and a lot of girls hang out there."

"Thanks," Williams said, slipping the man ten bucks. He found the room-service captain and the waiter who had served Ramsey and the girl. On Ramsey's instructions, the waiter had not been back for the tray until the following morning; he checked the fire stairs and found that Ramsey could have walked down to the garage without being seen by anybody, and that his room key would have let him back into the fire stairs. Ramsey could have left Le Parc, gone to the Beverly Hills Hotel, and returned, unnoticed. So far, so good. At nine o'clock the Goal Post was not crowded. Williams took a seat at the end of the bar, near the waiters' station, and ordered a beer. A soccer match was on the TV above the bar. "That's a lousy game," he said to the bartender.

The bartender shrugged. "It's all that's on. The owner wants sports on the TV and that's all the sports there is tonight."

"Not very crowded, huh?"

"It'll pick up. Nobody much comes in before ten. I don't know where the hell they go this time of night." He moved away to serve another customer. A moment later he was back. "You from out of town?" he asked.

"Atlanta. My first trip here."

"Business?"

"What else?"

"Well, we run a pretty good joint here. Drop in whenever you're in town."

"Thanks, I'll do that."

"You want something to eat?"

"Can I eat at the bar?"

"Sure, anything you want." He handed Williams a menu. "The beef is good."

"I'll have the New York strip, medium, loaded baked potato, any salad dressing you got." The place was starting to fill up, now, and most of the customers seemed to know the place well. "You get mostly regulars, do you?"

"Yeah, we're a little off the tourist track. How'd you find us?"

"The concierge at Le Parc."

"Harry? Yeah, I know him. Used to be an actor, once. So did I for that matter."

"Tough line, huh?"

"I make more here in a night than I ever made in a week as an actor. Williams's steak came, and he ate hungrily. He kept an eye on the bar, and soon there were three single girls bellied up. "Pretty good talent," he said to the bartender.

"Yeah, we get a lot of jocks; they get a lot of girls."

"Say, were you working the night before the Rams' game I with the Bobcats a few weeks back?"

"Sure, I always work on Saturdays."

"You know Bake Ramsey when you see him?"

"Yeah, Bake's always pussy hunting in here when he's in town."

"You remember who he ended up with that night?"

"Oh, yeah, he picked up Brenda."

"Is Brenda in here a lot?"

"You're a cop, aren't you?"

"You made me, pal."

"I can always tell. Took me a little longer with you, though; guess it's because you're an out-of-towner."

"I guess so. Tell me about Brenda."

"Why don't you get Brenda to do that?"

"Huh?" The bartender nodded at a blonde half a dozen stools away.

"That's Brenda," he said. She had been there for three-quarters of an hour, Williams realized. 

"Send Brenda a drink on me," he said. Here came the tricky part. How did Brenda feel about black guys? Not bad, apparently. She toasted him with her new drink and gave him a little smile. She's nice looking, even if she is hanging out in bars, Williams thought. She wasn't a flashy dresser, didn't look like a bimbo. The bartender came back.

"Funny about you being a cop," he said.

"How's that?"

"So's Brenda." Williams burst out laughing. That was going to save a lot of time and a lot of charm he wasn't sure he had anymore. He got up and walked down the bar to where she sat.

"Hi," he said, smiling. "I'm Lee Williams. The bartender tells me you're a cop."

"He tells me you're one, too," she said, pleasantly. "Listen, no offense, and thanks for the drink, but I just spent ten hours in a black-and-white with a cop; I used to be married to a cop; I spend my whole fucking life with cops. That's why I come in here; to meet somebody who's not a cop."

"Oh," Williams said. "Well, this isn't entirely social. I'm on the job."

"You work West Hollywood?" she asked, looking bored. "What division?"

"I work homicide out of Atlanta, Georgia."

"Well, you're a long way from home, Lee. All right, sit down and tell me about it. You on an extradition out here or something?"

"No, Brenda, believe it or not, I came all the way from Atlanta just to find you." He smiled. "And here you are."

"Lee," she said, "you are full of enough shit to be an LA cop, you know that?"

"Brenda, I wouldn't shit a fellow cop. I came out here to find you and talk to you about Bake Ramsey.

She stared at him disbelievingly. "No shit?"

"No shit. Can I sit down?"

"You sure can, Lee. This is the greatest line I ever heard in my life."

He sat down. "It's no line," he said. "Let me prove it to you. The night before the Rams game with the Bobcats, you came in here and met Bake Ramsey."

"Sammy could have told you that," she said, nodding toward the bartender. "Then you had dinner with him in his suite at Le Parc the following night."

She looked at him narrowly. "You're a better cop than I thought."

"And later that night—very late, in fact—you and Bake had a drink at the Beverly Hills Hotel."

"You were tailing us, weren't you?" she asked.

"Brenda," he said, "can I buy you another drink at the Polo Lounge?"

"Let's take my car," she said. She drove a Japanese sports car and drove it well.

Shifting down for a corner, she said, "I'm six years on the job. I just passed the exam for detective, and I want homicide so bad I can taste it."

"Well, Brenda, this is your lucky day. Tonight, you're on a homicide case."

She grinned broadly. "No shit?"

They were given a table in the Polo Lounge. "This is a movie business hot spot," Brenda said. "Look over there."

Williams looked. There were two couples in a booth. One of the men was Charlton Heston.

"Jesus Christ," he said. "And the other guy looks familiar, too."

"I don't know him," she said. "Maybe he's from Atlanta."

"You come here a lot?"

"Whenever I can get somebody to bring me. The headwaiter knows I'm a cop, and he gives me a good table."

"So I'm not only in Hollywood, I'm at a good table in the Polo Lounge."

"You're in Beverly Hills."

"It's all Hollywood to me, kid."

"So, how'd you know I brought Bake Ramsey here?"

"Elementary, my dear Brenda. He had to be here, because he's my suspect. I'll bet he didn't know you were a cop.

"Nope. I always tell them I'm an assistant casting director at Paramount. All jocks want to be in the movies."

Williams laughed. "You're a trip, Brenda. Jocks are your thing, huh?"

"I won't be coy with you, Lee. I like sex. I like jocks. I like sex with jocks. They're always in good shape, and they're a lot safer than your average guy in a bar; they've got reputations to lose. Did you say Bake is your suspect?"

"Ramsey left the table for a while when you were here, didn't he?"

"Yeah. I went to the ladies'—that's right out in the hall there. I took my time, and when I came back, he wasn't at the table. I figured he had to go, too; he came back after a few minutes."

"How long for your trip to the john, plus the time he took to return to the table?" She stared into the middle distance for a moment. "No less than fifteen, no more than twenty minutes."

"That's time enough."

"Time enough for what?"

Williams took two photographs from his coat pocket. One was of Ramsey; he showed her the other. "Think back to that night. Did you see this man in the Polo Lounge? Or anywhere in the hotel?"

She stared at Al Schaefer. "Yes," she said, "he was sitting right over there, by himself." She pointed to a table near the outside terrace. "And he got up and went out those doors, right before I went to the ladies.

"Brenda, you've got a cop's memory," Williams said, "and I love you for it. Is there anything else unusual about that night?"

"You mean here, or later?"

"Either."

She stared away for a moment. "Bake spilled a drink, a glass of water. It was all over his shirtfront when he came back from the men's room, and he was dabbing at it with a handkerchief. That's the only unusual thing I can remember."

"That's just wonderful, Brenda."

"Now tell me what the fuck is going on," she said.

"Well, it's like this, it's the wildest sort of coincidence, but they happen sometimes. You came in here with Bake Ramsey. The guy in the photograph was Albert Schaefer, an Atlanta lawyer who represented Bake's ex-wife in a divorce action. Bake must have hated him, because Schaefer got up and went outside—who knows why? And as soon as you left the table, Ramsey followed him, and he drowned Al Schaefer in the hotel swimming pool."

"Christ, I read about that drowning; it was made as accidental. I didn't realize it was the same night."

"Well, Brenda, I've got some really good news for you. I'm going to nail Ramsey for two other murders in Atlanta, and when I'm through with him, he'll be available for extradition to California, and I'm going to see that you get a piece of him. That ought to help you get into homicide."

She beamed at him. "Listen, Lee, you're staying at Le Parc?"

"Yes."

"Why don't we go back to your place?"

Williams smiled at her gratefully. "Sugar, I'd just love it, I really would, but I've got this wife that scares the living shit out of me. She has me believing that if I got in bed with another woman in any hotel in the world, she would be there to kick the door down and kill us both in our sleep. I'd never be able to do it, believe me."

"I don't," she said, patting his cheek, "but I like you for thinking about your wife."

CHAPTER 32

The helicopter's blades slowed, and the engine wound down. Before the rotors had stopped, a man of about forty dressed in khaki shirt and trousers and a Stetson hat stepped to the ground. "Good afternoon, Bob," Germaine said as he approached the front porch of the inn, where she and Liz were waiting. "Why don't you come around back?"

"All right," he said, eyeing the guests who littered the front porch. He waited until they were out of sight of the guests before asking any questions. "Now, why don't you tell me exactly what happened, Germaine?"

"Bob, this is Liz Barwick; she's living up at Stafford Beach Cottage. Liz, this is Bob Walden, our sheriff."

"Hey," the sheriff said.

"Nice to meet you," Liz replied.

They reached Liz's Jeep. "Liz had better tell you about it," Germaine said. "She's the one who found it." Liz explained how she caught sight of her find at Lake Whitney. She went to the rear of the Jeep, popped the tailgate, and pointed at a sheet of green plastic.

"That's it." As the sheriff approached the Jeep, Liz and Germaine involuntarily moved back a step.

"I don't want to see this, do I?" Germaine said.

"Probably not," Liz replied.

Sheriff Walden gingerly unrolled the plastic and looked at the arm. "Jesus Christ," he said softly. "I never saw anything like that before."

"And I never want to see anything like that again," Liz said, turning away.

"Miz Barwick, why did you bring it with you? Why didn't you leave it where you found it and get some help?"

"I thought there was a man attached to it, and I tried to pull him out of the grass," Liz said. "When I realized what had happened, I thought I'd better bring it with me, or it might not be there when I got back with help."

"You sound like you know what happened," the sheriff said. "I'd like to know, too; tell me about it."

"It had to be Goliath," Liz said.

"Goliath?"

Germaine spoke up. "We've got a big gator in a lake on the north part of the island."