The Crime Writer (21 page)

T
he .22 pressed reassuringly to the small of my back, I coasted down from Mulholland, leaving a message for Bill Kaden, Detective Three.

“Morton Frankel just got his car back from the shop today,” I said. “He was getting a ding on the right front wheel well repaired. He caught me following him around, and we almost got into a fistfight, but I gave him the slip. Then I figured out Kasey Broach didn’t take Xanax, and I found a kid who gave me an additional sighting of a brown Volvo, putting it at Broach’s apartment the night of the murder. He lives in the westernmost house backing on the parking lot. Tell his father I say hello. Oh—and I also have a gun the same kid found in his trash can the day after Broach was killed. I had it thoroughly and professionally processed. There are no adult prints, no nothing except for a hidden greeting where the serial number used to be. ‘Nice try,’ it says. So I’m hoping all this is sufficient to move Mort up on your lengthy list of priorities. Go interview him. Pluck a hair out of his misshapen skull and run it against the unidentified sample you took off Broach’s body. Whatever. But keep him from coming here. If he’s our guy, I’m guessing he saved the MapQuest directions from last time he drove over to carve up my foot. If he shows up again, I’m gonna shoot him. And I have a gun with a serial number scraped off, so you’ll never trace it to me.”

The beep cut me off.

There. It was out now. If Delveckio turned out to be involved in some way—admittedly a long shot—my keeping his partner informed might bring the heat. My instincts told me Kaden didn’t have anything to do with some frame-up. And my instincts were right at least 30 percent of the time.

A coyote trotted down the slope ahead of me, an escapee from a noir novel. He lunged up a neighbor’s hillside, his white-gray coat blending into the fog.

Not surprisingly, Kaden called back in a minute and a half.
“What?”
he said.

I pulled into my driveway, parked, and filled him in on the day’s adventures.

When I finished, there was a speechless pause. “How’d you get the pistol processed?”

“I know a guy.”

“Okay, this has been nice and diverting so far, but now I’ve hit the wall. If you tangle in this investigation any further—”

“You will arrest me for obstruction of justice.”

A pause. “That’s right. Ed and I are gonna come see you tomorrow, and we’re gonna take the pistol and back you out of this case or—”

“Throw my ass in jail.”

“It would be a mistake to take this as a bluff, Danner.”

“Why don’t you come get the gun tonight?”

Kaden covered the mouthpiece for a murmured consult, then said, “We’re outside Morton Frankel’s apartment.”

I felt a surge of excitement at having managed to get the proper authorities, or at least authorities, on what I hoped was the proper trail. If Delveckio and Frankel knew each other already, would Kaden pick up on it? What would he do even if he did?

“Is he there?” I asked.

“He is. We’re gonna take him in for interrogation.”

“Break him.”

“We will. We’re gonna sit on his pad for a few hours first.”

“Why wait?”

“See if he gets up to anything. Plus, they’re softened up when you wake them.”

I recalled SWAT crashing my house at 4:00
A.M.,
dragging my discombobulated ass from bed.

“I doubt Mort softens significantly.”

“Either way he’ll know we’re keeping an eye now.”

“I’ll sleep soundly.”

“Try not to murder anyone while you’re doing it.”

Now that I knew Frankel was taken care of for a few hours, I called Caroline, apologized for running late, and asked if she would like to come over. She agreed hesitantly, which I took as progress. I would’ve liked to have cooked, but my excursion to the crime lab had left me short on time, so I cruised down the hill to Simon’s Café. The eponymous owner, dapper, gray-haired, and with a black mustache, is everything you want a chef to be. A septualingual Moroccan export by way of Haifa, he makes a borek of three blended cheeses that, with its pickled lemon garnish, will make you speak in tongues. I ate at Simon’s last with Genevieve, a late-night dinner that left us stumbling, food drunk, into the warm Valley air afterward.

Diners are used to people-watching in L.A., and I took note of the heads rotating to observe my entrance. I approached the counter, mindful of the whispers, and paid for my order.

The familiar restaurant effaced the ten months since I’d seen Genevieve to what felt like hours. Our split, though not nasty, had been sharp with unspoken resentments, and we’d barely spoken afterward. It occurred to me that Genevieve had likely changed in my absence, the accelerated transformation people make after a breakup. The Genevieve I knew may not have been the one who died. A talk-show shrink I watched once ventured that people either get healthier or sicker emotionally as they grow older. They never stay the same. Under the conditions of this psychological parlor game, which route had Genevieve gone?

As I left with my to-go bags swinging about my knees, a woman met me at the door. Her face, wrinkled severely, looked more anguished than angry. “You shouldn’t be on the streets.”

I smiled politely. “How else will I find Nicole Simpson’s killer?”

I zipped home, leaving the packages on the kitchen counter and walking through the house clicking on lights and whistling for Xena.

The shredded remains of several of my throw pillows were strewn through the living room. Tufts of stuffing had settled about the carpet and in the fireplace.

My house had been searched? Again? For what?

A strand of toilet paper ran from the powder room, across the entryway and living room, disappearing into the dark family room. I drew the pistol and turned on the light. The couch itself had been massacred, the suede torn to pieces. I followed the toilet paper around the ottoman to where Xena lay, snoring contentedly, the end of the two-ply strip in her drooling mouth.

I lowered the gun, surveyed the damage. “Glad your fangs work for something.”

She awoke at my voice and scrambled to her feet, licking my hand, then followed me around contritely as I cursed and picked up the larger clumps of fabric.

As I plated dinner, I called Hope House and got Junior on the line.

“I gotta return Xena.”

“You can’t return no
dog.
”

“She chewed up half my house.”

“Homes, she just upset you leave her all day. You gots to think of your responsi
bilities.
”

I paused from setting the table. “My responsibilities?”

“Thass ride. I come talk to her, homes. Thass all you need.”

“I’m dropping her off. First thing tomorrow.”

“Where? Here? I can’t do nuthin’ with her.”

“Then we’ll take her back to your cousin’s.”

“That wasn’t my cousin.”

“Of course not. I’m coming tomorrow morning. With the dog. And we’re dropping her somewhere or I’m taking her to the pound.” I hung up and looked at Xena. The ropy strands of saliva dangling from either jowl made her look doleful. “I’m just bluffing. I would never take you to the pound.”

As I was lighting the candles on the table, my phone rang.

Junior said, “Look, homes, you wanted to know about Ms. Caroline. I tell you about Ms. Caroline.”

“What about her?”

“Her face. I heard my probation officer tell the story. I was in the hallway, but he leave the door open. Ms. Caroline used to work in a
prison.
Assessments, all that. I guess she was on the rapist ward when a riot broke out in another wing. Guards took off to help. They did a lockdown but forgot she was in there. Trapped in with a buncha rapers. For
days,
homes. They pulled a train on her, cut up her face good. You know what a train is?”

My throat was dry, so the words stuck at first. “I do.”

“She was barely alive when they found her. But she lived. That’s how tough Ms. Caroline is.” His tone changed—back to the cheery fourteen-year-old. “
Now
will you keep Xena?”

“Good-bye, Junior.” I stood over the table, the match burning down to my fingers. I shook it out and sat, watching the smoke curl and dissipate. The doorbell rang.

I took a moment, smoothed my shirtsleeves, and answered.

Caroline stood at the edge of the porch, gazing up at the house’s exterior. She wore jeans and a black button-up with cuffs, the pashmina thrown across her shoulders matching her eyes as if the designer had pulled the color from them.

She looked at me, her smile vanishing. “You found out what happened to me.” She leaned in close. “There’s a change around the eyes. Like pity, but worse.” She turned and started walking away.

I caught her at the curb, already in her car, about to swing her door closed.

“Let’s make a deal,” I said.

She stopped but kept her grip on the handle.

“Let’s for one night suspend all awkwardness and nervousness between us. Let’s just put it on hold and eat and talk and see what that feels like.”

“Easy enough for you.”

“Let’s not be arrogant.”

“You’re a fine one to talk.”

She closed the door. I knocked on the window.

“If you drive away, you’re gonna feel bad,” I said. “It’s just a familiar brand of bad.”

“I like my brand of bad.”

“So it’s gotta go this way, huh?”

She seemed to collapse into anger. “You want to play Prince Charming and rescue me from my tragic predicament? Well, I would say get in line, but I’ve scared away the rest of the line. And I’ll scare you away, too. So why don’t we just skip it and save ourselves some time?”

“Hey,”
I said, sharply enough that she jerked back to face me. “I know what it’s like to have people afraid of you. So drive off, fine, but don’t kid yourself into thinking you’re the only person drawing the wrong kind of stares in public.”

She squealed out from the curb, and I had to step back to keep my foot from getting run over.

I walked inside. Xena cocked her head, regarding me quizzically.

“Sometimes grown-ups fight,” I told her.

I blew out the candles. Recorked the wine. Started to clear the dishes when the doorbell rang. She was holding her hands clasped at her stomach, as if it hurt, and her face was flushed except at the scars.

“Do you mind if I come in?”

“I’d love you to.”

She came, not bothering to take in the view, and sat at the table. I took the chair opposite her.

“The facts are always less scary,” she said. “More containable.”

“When you can find them.”

“What did you discover? About me?”

I told her.

She said, “It was a correctional institute, not a prison. An interview room with a door that didn’t lock. There were three of them. Men. They were territorial toward the others, kept them out. It wasn’t days. It lasted two hours and forty-two minutes.” She kept her gaze unflinchingly on mine, reading my face. I did my best not to show any reaction but probably failed. She leaned forward so I could feel her faint breath across my cheeks. “Hey,” she said, “at least I got syphilis out of it.”

I studied her for a long time, thinking how she’d like to have me go running around my living room with my arms waving over my head.

Instead I said, “How about a drink?”

“I’m not going to talk about it with you. Not details. Not broad strokes. So don’t think we’ll get cozy and I’ll get all cathartic. Off-limits. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll have that drink now.”

I worked the cork free, poured two glasses, and handed her one. “In case you’re more pretentious than you look, I should tell you it’s a flinty, soil-driven sauvignon with a rich finish.” I buried my nose in the glass, inhaled the fumes.

“This is delicious.” She looked around, as if for the first time. “Spectacular view.”

“You’re not allowed to be gracious. I won’t recognize you.”

She bared her teeth at me. I retrieved the plates from the kitchen counter, and we dug in. We both had some trouble with the designer utensils, food dropping back to our plates before it reached our mouths. Finally she held up a MOMA fork, one tine separated by a gap. “I’m not adept at using this.”

“But isn’t it pretty?”

“It’s a fork. It exists to convey food to the mouth.”

“In our case clearly not.” I spun my fork around, regarding the design. “These really
do
suck, don’t they?”

She was smiling now, broadly. “You have something easier? Garden trowel, perhaps?”

“Chopsticks?”

“How about Ethiopian bread?”

“I’ll check the Mirte stove. In the meantime…” I took our forks and tossed them into the trash compactor. I found some plastic utensils, still bagged from my last round of takeout, and we reapproached our plates more successfully.