Scavenger Hunt (27 page)

Walsh walked over to Brooke, put his arms around her, and buried his face in her hair. He finally stood up. “You’re good, Jimmy. Nice to see a man who knows what he’s doing.” He fumbled another joint out of his pocket and fired it up. “If none of this had happened—if Heather hadn’t shown up at my house that afternoon—
everything
would be different. Brooke and I would be living in a mansion in the clouds, happily married and rolling around on satin sheets. I’d have a few more gold boys on my mantel, and you would have interviewed me about my latest movie, the one with all the buzz, and if I was in a good mood, we might have hit it off.” He was lost behind the smoke again, his voice barely audible. “I don’t know . . . we might have had some fun, you and me.”

Chapter 46

“You can really pack it away,” said Brimley.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Katz, putting down the last of the second Whataburger Deluxe with extra bacon and triple cheese.

“No offense.” Brimley wiped sauce from the corner of his mouth with his pinkie. “I like a woman who can keep up with me.” He dabbed a cluster of four French fries in the pool of ketchup on his paper plate. “Most lady cops I knew were always worried about their weight. You carry yours real well.”

Katz eyed him and nibbled at the soggy bun and burger, then thought what the hell and popped it in her mouth.

“That vanilla malt as good as I told you?” beamed Brimley. “Best in the city, am I right? I may not have been the smartest cop, but I could always find a good meal.”

They sat at an outside table of the drive-in joint in East L.A., the umbrella drooping, speckled with bird crap, the drive-in walls thick with graffiti and posters in Spanish. Music from the parked cars provided a salsa soundtrack to their meal, a Tijuana radio station cranked and banked. Homeboys slouched in their high-polished rides, their eyes hidden behind shades as they chowed down on fishburgers and fries, onion rings heaped high and crispy, dripping with grease, the homies watching Brimley and Katz as they ate, the only Anglos for miles.

“Thanks for meeting me halfway,” said Brimley. “I usually like to come to the lady, but I’m not much for driving.”

“You’re the one doing me a favor, Brimley. By rights, you shouldn’t have to drive.”

“I told you, Helen, please call me Sugar.”

“I’m not calling a grown man
Sugar.
”

“Be difficult.” Brimley smiled. “It looks good on you.”

The compliment confused Katz for a moment. She sucked on her vanilla malt, thinking about it, trying to figure out what he was up to. Good-looking man, brush cut at attention, a big man with a big man’s quiet confidence, wearing pressed chinos and an egg-yolk-yellow button-down shirt with a little polo player on the pocket. Like they were on a date, for God’s sake—but still, it was a nice thought. Brimley was right about one thing. It was the best malt she had ever had.

“I wish I could have been more help,” said Brimley. “It was such a long time ago. You really think Walsh was murdered? I read in the paper he drowned in some fishpond. Didn’t read nothing about the investigation being reopened.”

“It’s
not
reopened, not officially, and that’s the way it’s going to stay,” warned Katz.

Brimley put his hands up. “I can keep a secret. One cop to another, you got my word of honor on that.” He pushed his fries toward her. “Peace offering to seal the bargain.”

Katz hesitated, then picked up a couple of drooping salt-crusted fries. She slipped one hand under the table, and undid the top button of her pants, giving herself a little breathing room. The man’s brown suit was strictly thrift store, but the cut accommodated her frame better than anything from the women’s department.

“What changed your mind about Walsh?” asked Brimley.

“My mind hasn’t been changed. I’m just open to the idea that he was murdered.”

“I keep trying to remember somebody special who might have had it in for Walsh,” said Brimley, adding more ketchup to her plate. “Somebody who wanted him bad enough to wait all those years. Like I told you, Heather Grimm didn’t have a boyfriend carrying a torch or any family to speak of.”

“Maybe you got a letter after Walsh was sentenced, saying Walsh got off too easy.”

“I got boxes of letters like that. Heckfire, Helen, Walsh
did
get off too easy.”

“Any of those letters stand out? One that you kept, even though you weren’t sure why?”

“I don’t know.” Brimley rubbed his head, thinking. He looked like a big kid taking an algebra exam. “Heather had a fan club, did you know that?”

Katz leaned forward.

“It started up after she died. Like the world had lost this big star who died before she had a chance to shine. They had a newsletter and everything. Even made me an honorary member.”

“Did you keep any of their material?”

“I—I don’t think so. I got a whole storage locker full of junk though. Anything is possible. I could take a look if you want.”

“I’d appreciate it. Maybe you could see if there’s any of those angry letters too.”

“Sure.” A low-rider rumbled past, music blasting, and Brimley wobbled to the beat, still sitting down but right there with the music. “You ever been to Brazil? I’m going to get there one of these days— just listen to salsa, drink beer, and fish. You like to dance, Helen?”

“You must be out of your fucking mind.”

Brimley laughed. “Now you’re getting it.”

Katz laughed too.

Brimley watched her finish the last of the fries. “You want to go do something?”

Katz blotted her mouth with a napkin more carefully than usual. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. I guess dancing is out.”

“We could go to a movie.” It popped out before Katz could stop herself.

Chapter 47

Danziger’s gray Mercedes rolled down the gravel road just after dusk, the headlights sending grasshoppers jumping across the high beams, beating against the grillwork. Jimmy thought again of the professor and his research project at the koi pond, imagining a scientific article that began, “Start with a recently killed fifty-pound pig.” Parked well off the road, shielded by trees and brush, Jimmy watched the sedan pass. Michael Danziger was in a tuxedo, and Brooke was in a sequined dress, her hair up. He waited until the Mercedes’s red taillights disappeared over a rise in the road before starting his car.

“Where are you?” said Sugar.

The phone crackled. “I’m on my way to the premiere,” Danziger said, classical music in the background—that NPR station that all the moguls listened to so everyone knew they had taste.

Sugar stood in a phone booth on Malibu Drive. “Can you think of any reason our boy is parked about a mile from your house?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Our boy is staking out your place. Are you as bothered by that as I am?”

Danziger must have turned up the CD player in his Mercedes. “Maybe—maybe it has something to do with the premiere,” he said, speaking softly into the receiver. “He said he might be interested in an interview.”

“He’s been there for an hour. I started driving over as soon as I realized where he was.”

“How did you know he was there?”

“That’s not important.” Sugar could see the tracking device on the front seat of his car, the pulsing red light moving now, edging across the map grid. “Darn. He just started moving. He’s headed toward your house.”

“You said you had taken care of things.”

“I thought I did.”

“You
assured
me.”

“Trouble?” It was Brooke Danziger.

“Just the usual last-minute glitches,” Danziger said to her.

“I’m sorry about last night,” said Brooke. “I don’t know what got into me.”

“We’re all a little tense,” said Danziger. “Opening night jitters.”

“What do you think our boy is looking for in
casa del Danziger?
” said Sugar.

“I really wouldn’t know.”

“Is that right?” said Sugar. “Well, it’s been my experience that when someone tells me that they
really
don’t know something, it means that they
really
do.”

“Is there a problem with the theater?” said Brooke. “Or is it the caterer? I didn’t like him or his fake accent, and the idea of insisting on being paid in advance.”

“Your instincts are impeccable as ever,” said Danziger. “Marcel only prepared
four
dozen tiger prawns instead of eight, so he’s going to double up on the sashimi.” A horn blared in the distance. “Just sit back, darling, I’ve got everything under control.”

“You may be able to convince her but not me,” said Sugar. “If our boy’s going into your house, it’s because there’s something there he wants.”

“I have no idea what that could be,” Danziger murmured.

I bet you don’t,
thought Sugar. He wasn’t worried. “I’m about a half-hour out of Malibu. You keep a spare key hidden outside someplace in case you get locked out?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Danziger.

“It’s not, but it’s the only idea I have,” said Sugar.

Chapter 48

Jimmy punched in the access code that Brooke Danziger had given him, and the elevator doors opened. He rode it to the top level of the Malibu house, his stomach doing flip-flops as much from nerves as from the swiftness of the ascent. The doors opened, and he crossed the deck quickly. The hydraulic lap pool was covered now, bubbles visible under the slats of the decking, the smell of chlorine rising into the cool night air.

He hesitated at the front door, feeling the familiar nervous tingle in his fingertips. It was always like this when he was about to walk into someplace he wasn’t supposed to be. He had been breaking and entering since he was a teenager; even grown up he still liked slipping past doormen and security guards like the invisible man. The front door lock was easy, a Schlage lever tumbler. Jimmy whipped the pick gun out of his black leather jacket, a spring-loaded contraption with various picks and tension settings. It took him less than eight seconds to open the front door. He didn’t leave a scratch on the lock, but eight seconds—he was out of practice.

He had made his first pick gun in high school, using a locksmith’s manual, a coat hanger, and two clothespins. It was big and awkward, but it had worked well enough for him to break into the Griffith Observatory and give his science class a late-night tour. The one he was using now was a model formerly used by the FBI—he had bought it legally over the Internet. He stepped inside, crossed to the alarm keypad on the wall, and entered the five-digit number. The house echoed with the easy-listening music that was supposed to make potential burglars think someone was home.

Brooke had said that the screening room was on the lower level, down the first set of stairs and to the right, but he did a quick walk-through of the house. He had time—between the premiere of
My Girl
Trouble
and the party afterward, the Danzigers would be gone five or six hours at least.

The kitchen featured brushed-chrome industrial appliances, polished copper pots and pans, and a two-hundred-year-old French butcher block. Six different brands of mineral water lined the refrigerator door, and the produce bins overflowed with exotic fruits and baby vegetables. The guest bedrooms smelled musty, but the master suite had a king-sized canopy bed, a built-in sauna, and a pink marble Jacuzzi overlooking the ocean. Photos of Michael and Brooke with A-list stars and Hollywood power players covered the walls. Brooke looked bored.

Jimmy walked downstairs to the screening room, fumbled around, and switched on the overhead lights. It was a large room with high ceilings, a THX sound system, and thirty-six rocking-chair seats with velvet cushions and wide armrests: four rows of offset seats, nine to a row, each one offering a perfect sight line to the quartz-light screen. At the rear of the room, behind an acoustic-glass partition, a smaller room housed two 35-millimeter projectors.

He started with the film storage unit, a six-foot-high steel cabinet, probably fire resistant and earthquake proof. He pulled out a small flashlight and checked out the lock. Damn. Wafer tumbler, very high quality. He made a minute adjustment in the pick gun, gently inserted it into the lock, and rocked it. Five minutes later he was soaked with sweat and the lock was still cold. He stopped, listening. The music in the house seemed louder. He opened the door of the projection room. Nothing. He left the door wide, then went back to the cabinet and adjusted the pick gun again. The trick was to make just enough contact with the beaded wafers inside the lock to engage the mechanism without sliding off. It took him almost twenty minutes to pop it.

Danziger had a 35-millimeter print of every film he had produced or greenlighted, plus DVDs of the top hundred films of all time. Jimmy checked every DVD, opened every aluminum film can, opened every drawer and compartment; it took him almost a half-hour. Nothing. No surveillance videotapes, CDs, DVDs, or Polaroids. No microfilms, holograms, or infrared satellite images of Brooke and Walsh fucking like rabid weasels. Nothing. Jimmy closed the cabinet, locked it again, then started a search of the room, looking for something out of place.

Yesterday Brooke had told him that Danziger was up late every night now, listening to the love tapes in the screening room, while Brooke was supposedly sound asleep, overmedicated on downers. Jimmy had told her to wait until he had been in there for an hour last night, then beat on the door, hysterical, full of bad dreams and desperation. She was to cling to him and insist he take her back to bed and stay with her. A man like Danziger would have a routine, a mental checklist for putting away his stash—Brooke’s interruption might make him careless.

Jimmy walked the aisles, even plucked at the carpet, searching for a hidden storage area. He paid particular attention to the seat in the middle of the first row, obviously Danziger’s command center, with a CD-DVD player within easy reach. On the right armrest of his seat was a control panel, allowing him to adjust volume, start, stop, fast-forward, and reverse. On the left side was a console containing two one-liter bottles of mineral water. He lifted a bottle, checked inside, then replaced it. Too bad. He started toward the projection room, then stopped. He
definitely
heard something upstairs.

He took the steps two at a time, grabbed a large knife from the kitchen, and went through every room. There was no one there. No one on the deck either. His car was alone in the driveway. He walked back into the kitchen and replaced the knife, then heard the noise again. He had left the refrigerator door ajar—the motor kept kicking in, trying to maintain temperature. Sheepish now, he walked over and closed the door. Then he opened it again and stared at the bottles of mineral water. There were bottles with bubbles and without, waters from Poland, France, New York, and Finland. Glacial water, spring water, geyser water—every bottle was icy cold.

Jimmy walked back down to the screening room. He opened the console beside Danziger’s seat and felt the bottles of mineral water. Room temperature. His heart beating faster now, he removed the bottles and lifted the metal sleeve from the console’s base. There was an electrical connection in the sleeve to a refrigeration unit, but it had been disconnected. Danziger
had
been in a hurry last night. Jimmy reached down into the container, into a hidden compartment, and pulled out a small box. The box was filled with DVDs labeled by date and placed in chronological order. The last one was dated September 24, the day Heather Grimm had been murdered. His hand trembling, he slipped the DVD into the player in front of Danziger’s chair.

He turned down the overhead lights from the seat. There was no prologue, no title, no credits. Just the empty living room of Walsh’s bungalow, then Walsh walking back through the frame, closing the curtains in the front window. The image quality was rough, a slightly distorted wide-angle shot, but the sound was crisp—Jimmy could clearly hear the hiss of Walsh’s butane lighter as he fired up a joint. He wandered back through the frame and out of sight into the kitchen. Jimmy could pick out details in the room now: a Baggie of weed and a script on the coffee table, a rumpled bed to the left, and there, gleaming on the fireplace mantel, Walsh’s two Oscars.

Jimmy heard the back door of the bungalow open, heard the creaking of the hinges. The wind off the ocean whistled through the room, rippling the top pages of the script. He heard voices from the kitchen now, Walsh languid, and another voice, girlish. Heather Grimm showing up at the beginning of the disk was an indication that Danziger had either edited it or had been watching the house and knew when to start recording. For about five minutes Jimmy listened to their playful banter. Then Walsh backed into the room, followed by Heather Grimm.

Jimmy sat forward in his seat. He had seen photos of Heather before, grainy newspaper shots and her Young Miss Whittier coronation glossy, but he had never seen her . . . alive. And she
was
alive. She wore a lilac bikini, her hair curling around her shoulders. Her tan line showed at the edges of her breasts and the tops of her thighs as she sat on the bed, bouncing gently. Even with the poor image quality, she was so beautiful—coquettish and innocent at the same time, and aware enough to use both of those qualities.

Walsh bent down beside her and took her foot in his hand, examining the Band-Aid he had put on her wound. He kissed her toes while she giggled. She got up suddenly and walked over to the mantel and picked up one of the Oscars.

Jimmy fast-forwarded through the mutual seduction and saw Walsh offer her cognac and pot. Heather held the joint delicately between her thumb and forefinger. Their clothes came off sometime after that, he didn’t know how long exactly, but the afternoon shadows were deeper now, and Walsh was laying out rails of cocaine on the coffee table. Later they had sex on that rumpled bed, Heather riding him like a cowgirl, calling him “Horsie” and laughing as he bucked and whinnied under her. Jimmy raced past, feeling ashamed for her, ashamed of himself for having to watch.

The DVD played on: Walsh pulled the drapes and turned on the fireplace; the flames were reflected on their sweaty skin. Walsh snorted coke off Heather’s belly, then smoked brown heroin off a wrinkled square of aluminum foil. Heather asked to try the heroin, but Walsh refused, just like he had told Jimmy in the trailer.

Jimmy raced through the disk. Walsh was sluggish, dressed in a purple robe, Heather in a T-shirt and panties. Walsh smoked more heroin, shaky now; he spilled smoldering junk onto his bare thigh, and Heather laughed as he jumped up, the robe flapping around him. It made Walsh angry. He grabbed her by the hair and shook her, and she slapped him. They struggled on the bed and rolled onto the floor, and Jimmy wondered if Walsh was going to bash her brains out with the statue next. After all his investigating, all he had dug up, it wouldn’t surprise him if Walsh had killed her.

Walsh staggered to his feet, his cheek bleeding where Heather had scratched him. He came after her, but he was slow and unsteady. He flopped down on the bed after a few moments, staring at the ceiling. Heather looked down at him, drool running down his chin, then disappeared out of the frame.

Jimmy fast-forwarded until Heather reappeared, her hair in pigtails, her T-shirt torn now. She stood in front of the mirror. It took Jimmy a few moments to realize she was twisting her face up, trying to cry. A knock on the door interrupted her efforts. Jimmy jerked, and so did Heather. She checked the mirror, then left the frame again. Jimmy heard her talking with someone, sobbing. He turned the sound up louder and heard a familiar voice identifying himself as a police officer.

Heather walked into view with Sugar Brimley beside her. Sugar looked not that much different than he did today, dressed in a gray suit. “There
—there
he is,” she said, lower lip quivering as she pointed at Walsh on the bed. “He’s the one r-r-raped me.”

Brimley laid a big hand on Heather’s shoulder. She shook him off, but he put his hand back on her again.

Jimmy clenched his teeth.

“I cut my foot on a piece of broken glass under the sand. He said he would take care of it,” said Heather. “He seemed so nice at first.”

“Don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault,” said Sugar.

“My mom is going to be
so
mad,” said Heather. “I’m not supposed to take the car.”

“She’s just going to be happy that you’re safe.” Sugar’s hand had drifted to the back of her neck, between her pigtails. He let the loose blond strands float through his fingers.

Jimmy’s chest hurt.

Sugar kicked the edge of the bed. “Wake up.” He kicked it again, harder, and sent Walsh bouncing. “Hey you, you’re under arrest.”

Walsh slept on.

“How am I doing?” Heather was bent over the coffee table, her pinkie nail filled with cocaine, poised halfway to her nose. She looked back at him. “Was that r-r-rape thing a little over the top?”

“What?”

Heather snorted the cocaine and licked her fingernail. “Should I be crying more, or go with the brave-little-girl reading?” She dipped into the mound of coke on the table again and stood up, her eyes bright as supernovas. “I want to get it right for the cameras. You think the TV people will want to interview me here or at the hospital?”

Sugar crossed over to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “What’s going on?”

Heather squirmed and waited until he let her go, one bare breast peeking out through the torn T-shirt. “Knock it off, pops. April told me about you.”

“April?”

“Like you don’t know.” Heather glanced at the bed again. “I’m a good actress, really,
really
good, but cops make me nervous. I was freaking this morning, almost backed out, but April said not to worry, she had taken care of everything. Our little secret, that’s what she called it. Like we were spies or something.” She eyed the cocaine but decided against it. “Should I get dressed?”

Sugar took a long time answering. “No, not yet.”

Jimmy’s hands ached from gripping the arms of the chair. He could have switched off the recording, could have slipped the DVD into his pocket with utter certainty of what was about to happen, but he let it play.

Sugar walked to the mantel and took down one of the Oscars. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Isn’t it
cool
?” Heather turned toward Walsh snoring on the bed. “He is just
so
famous. You wouldn’t think to look at him now, but he’s got like this . . . scent, and when he kisses—”

Sugar swung the Oscar down onto her head—not full force but hard enough that she crumpled to the floor. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.” He stared at the little gold man in his hand as though it had a mind of its own.

Walsh stirred on the crumpled sheets.

Sugar checked his suit for blood, checked his trousers and his shoes too, then went to the bed, lifted Walsh up under the arms, and carried him over to Heather.

Heather groaned and got to her feet, groggy. She rubbed the back of her head, blood dripping down her ponytail, then looked at Sugar. “What
happened
?”

Walsh mumbled something as Sugar put the Oscar into his hand, wrapped his own mitt around it, and then swung the statue against Heather’s head again, swung it as hard as he could, and caught her just above the eyebrow. Blood sprayed across Walsh’s face, his robe, his bare feet. The director jerked in the warm rain. Heather slid to the floor, but Sugar helped Walsh give her a few more whacks anyway. He needed to be sure.