The Last Embrace (23 page)

“’S quite a coincidence, still,” he said, closing in. “You crossing paths with two suspicious deaths in less than one week.” He stared, trying to flush her untruths into the open.

Lily shrugged. “I can only hope it’s the last,” she said with utmost sincerity. “Now, if that’s all the questions you’ve got, Detective”—Lily looked at her watch—“I’ve got an appointment to look at a bungalow court in South Pasadena.”

“You can go,” Chubb said. “Magruder wants you, he knows where to find you.”

L
ily took the bus back to the rooming house and ran the press gauntlet. One photographer stared with predatory intensity. He was a new face, she hadn’t seen him before, and he aimed his camera right for her and snapped away like she was Kitty Hayden come back to life.

Inside, her anxiety spiked again when Mrs. Potter handed her a message to call Pico at once. Lily tucked the note inside her purse.

“Aren’t you going to see what he wants?” Mrs. Potter hovered by the hallway phone.

An icy wave of paranoia washed over Lily. “As soon as I freshen up,” she said.

And you’re gone,
she thought.

An unmarked cop car was parked outside her window when Lily came out of the shower. Magruder and Pico hadn’t wasted much time. Just this morning, she’d been eager to tell them about Max’s erratic behavior. Now she wanted to avoid them, but they were waiting downstairs.

Still, she dressed with care in the waning light, clipping on garnet earrings, even a splash of Kitty’s Arpège. Detective Pico was in the parlor, flipping through a movie magazine. Magruder wasn’t in sight. A fizzy warmth flooded through her. She knew she shouldn’t trust Pico any more than his partner after what she’d overheard today, but she couldn’t help it.

“Ah. Miss Kessler.” He rose, tossing aside the magazine. “Mrs. Potter said you didn’t answer your door when she knocked. Have you been hiding from me?” Hands clasped, gaze steady and impersonal.

“I was in the shower. And I…didn’t get the me—”

One eyebrow went up. “Mrs. Potter insists she relayed the message.”

“I mean, I was going to call you when—”

“Fine. Let’s go.” He gave her an inscrutable look, already heading for the door.

“Where are we going?”

To jail? she wondered. Would he arrest her for withholding evidence? Should she show him Keck’s letter now, get it over with?

She followed him, a million questions blooming, then dying, on her lips. When he stopped, they almost collided. He smelled like a canyon after thunderstorms have pummeled the wild thyme and rosemary. For a moment they regarded each other.

Then his mouth twitched. “You hungry?”

They were driving in his car again, and it was dark, the city lights sparkling like a pirate’s chest, and without even asking, he’d flipped on the heater, placing his large hand over the vent to test the air temperature. She had no coat tonight because she’d loaned it to Jinx. KNX was on low, the newscaster reporting that housewives from the Pasadena Women’s Club had marched through downtown wearing heels, pearls, and gas masks, demanding that the city clean up the smog.

“Where are you taking me?”

“I’m supposed to be following you, so I figured I’d make it easy on myself.”

So she’d been right the other day in Culver City.

Her nerves twanged like a plucked string. “Why?”

“Magruder thinks you’re going to lead us to the killer.”

“I thought you didn’t trust Magruder.”

Pico gave her a rueful look, like he regretted his earlier words. “I was wrong. Magruder’s an okay guy.”

“I see. So how am I going to lead you to the killer?”

One side of his mouth curled up. “Just keep nosing around and asking questions. He’ll find you.”

“I’m the bait?”

“Sure. But don’t worry, we’ll swoop down right before he strikes.”

Seeing her alarm, he added, “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

Had she imagined a husky tone creeping into his voice?

“Fumiko told us you found Max Vranizan crawling around in your shrubbery this morning,” Pico said after they’d driven awhile.

“It was worse than that. He was drunk as a skunk and tried to grab her.”

“I asked if she wanted to file charges, but she declined. We had a little talk with him anyway, told him it better not happen again. He knows we’re watching him.”

“What happened with Kirk Armstrong?” Lily asked.

“Nothing,” he said glumly. “He’s either a very good actor or he’s telling the truth.”

“Any word on Freddy Taunton?” Lily asked, thrilled at this rush of information.

“No, but his apartment manager, Mel Booker, was found shot to death this morning outside the Radcliffe Arms.”

Lily gasped. “I bet he tried to sell those photos to the wrong person. I’m telling you, it’s all connected. We just don’t know how yet.”

“You be sure to let us know when you figure it out,” Pico said.

He headed downtown and turned right onto Commercial Street. The tantalizing smell of baking bread filled the air.
TAIX FRENCH BAKERY,
the sign said. He pulled up to a yellow loading zone, not even making a pretense at parking legally. One more
droit de cop.

“Bakery?” she asked, making a pretense at gaiety. “Does that mean it’s bread and water and I’m your prisoner?”

“The restaurant’s next door.” Pico gave her an enigmatic look. “French. Figured you’d like a classy joint.” He fumbled for the door, held it open.

His awkward gestures, his thoughtfulness, touched her. Despite everything, she gave in to the voluptuous danger of trusting him. Not the uniform but the decency she sensed at the core of him.

The tables were set with red-and-white-checked cloths, an oil lamp, fresh carnations in a vase. The owner bustled over, bowing and inquiring about Pico’s family. He served them himself, and they ate crusty loaves of warm bread, coquilles St. Jacques in real scallop shells, gratinéed potatoes, a salad and cheese plate at the end of the meal. A bottle of red wine with no label, filled from a cask in back. Two tumblers.

“This is lovely,” she said, refusing to believe it was
The Last Supper.

He looked at her hungrily, buttered one last piece of bread, and chewed it solemnly.

“Topper and Chubb said they ran into you today,” he said.

Lily’s stomach turned over. How stupid she’d been, with her flights of fancy. She should have known the detectives would tell Pico and Magruder immediately.

“Oh my goodness, that was such a coincidence, I was—”

He looked almost sad that she would lie to him. “Detective Magruder and I would like to know why you showed up at Bernard Keck’s apartment shortly after he jumped to his death.”

He’d been clever, she saw now. Softening her up with food and drink. Playing on her insecurities.

“Do you really think he jumped?” Lily said.

“Do you?” Pico asked, after a moment’s hesitation.

“No,” Lily said.

“Why’d you go there?”

She had her story ready. “I found his name scrawled in the margin of an old newspaper in Kitty’s room, along with a phone number.”

Pico smacked his fist on the table. “Why didn’t you tell us right away?”

Lily turned large, frank eyes on him. “I didn’t know it was important, so I threw it in the incinerator. Then, last night when I was in bed, it hit me. Thank goodness I have a good memory.”

“How did you know where he lived?” Pico asked, convinced he’d caught her in a lie.

“It was a brilliant investigative feat: I looked him up in the phone book.”

“And you just happened to arrive right after he jumps? You’re lying,” he said, his voice rising with every word. “Now tell me the truth. How did you learn about Keck?”

Lily tried to look hurt and upset. “I
did
tell you the truth.”

Pico leaned over the table. “You had a narrow escape today. An hour earlier and you would have met Keck’s killer in his apartment. Do you realize that?”

“I thought you weren’t sure he’d been murdered.”

“I’m assuming the worst, for the sake of argument. Jeez.” He shook his head. “My first homicide, and it’s exploded into the most sensational murder case of the year.”

“They must really trust your detection skills,” Lily said, delighted to change the subject.

“Maybe they don’t want someone with a lot of experience digging into it.”

“Magruder’s got years of experience.”

“Yeah, well, there you go. He worked the Dahlia case. Great job they did with that one.”

“You just told me Magruder was okay. And lots of people tried to find Betty Short’s killer. It’s not his fault.” She paused. “You think Kitty’s murder could be related to the Dahlia?”

“Nobody in Homicide is saying that.”

“What are they saying?”

Pico’s eyes tightened almost imperceptibly. Then he shrugged and Lily realized the confidence was over. They got up to go. Mr. Taix came up, bowing and murmuring thanks in Franglais.

“You didn’t pay,” Lily said when they were on the sidewalk.

He looked at her lazily, clicked his teeth. “You just didn’t see me. Contrary to what people may think, we’re not all racketeering crooks.”

Lily remembered the insinuations of Topper and Chubb.

“Old Alfonse likes to have us in his restaurant. Makes him feel safe. He and the boys in blue have a long tradition. During Prohibition, even the Feds left this place alone.”

“They get paid off with coq au vin?”

“It was all out in the open. Alfonse sold plenty of wine. ‘For medicinal purposes only.’”

Flushed and warm from the food and drink, Lily laughed. “How do you know?”

His face darkened, and Lily felt the temperature plunge. “My father used to drink here.”

“Where’d you grow up?” she asked, eager to draw him out.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said abruptly.

Lily was confused. “What are you talking about? This was your idea.”

“You don’t want to get mixed up in this. Any of it. Me included.”

“Why shouldn’t I trust you?”

His face loomed in, angry and distorted in the yellow glare of the streetlight. “You don’t even know me. I could drive you to the railroad tracks right now, slit your throat, and throw your body on the slag heap, and no one would be the wiser.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Because I’m a cop?”

“Because you’re decent. I can tell.”

“People can’t tell anything. They delude themselves. Criminals, the ones who are sick inside, they know how to bury it so deep that even they don’t remember it, most of the time.”

“What are you telling me?”

“Nothing good will come of this.”

“Of what?”

A struggle played out across his face. He seemed to be deciding whether to tell her something. Then he kicked the car tire.

“I don’t always do the right thing. Like not paying for that dinner tonight. Like turning away when I see another cop do something wrong.”

“But that’s small stuff. Things you can fix.”

“Just because you put a uniform on a monster doesn’t make him any less of a monster.”

The vehemence with which he spoke made Lily afraid.

“Detective Pico,” she asked, “do you know who killed Kitty Hayden?”

“No, but I bet she was just like you. Thought she knew better. Now you’re running around town, doing the same thing, lying about—”

“I’m not going to get killed,” Lily interjected quickly.

“How do you know?” he said hoarsely.

“Because if I get into any trouble, you’ll bail me out,” Lily said, wondering if she was right.

He wouldn’t meet her gaze. For a long moment there was turbulent silence.

Then Lily said, “So are you going to tell me where you grew up?”

Her words seemed to break the black spell. Slowly his face lost its stormy expression.

“Whittier,” he said, staring at the sidewalk. “How about you?”

“Mar Vista. There were lima bean fields all around. One of our neighbors had a goat farm. The fog crept in at night. You’d see ghostly shapes moving and hear the tinkle of bells.” She sighed, recalling the changes. “What about Whittier?”

“It’s always had a pretty good-sized downtown. They used to call it Picoville.”

“Cuz so many Picos lived there?”

It was the wrong question again. She felt like she was walking on eggshells.

“No,” he finally said. “Just one.”

“Who was that?”

He stared at her, not seeing her, focused on something far away. His eyes were smoky pools. “My great-grandfather.”

“Your people have been here a long time, then?” Lily probed.

He flung open her car door and it creaked in protest. “It’s all dust in the wind now.”

She got in. Why was he so touchy? “I doubt that,” Lily said.

He leaned against the open car door, a sardonic look in his eyes. “Want to see for yourself?”

He expected her to decline. Fine, she’d call his bluff. She was curious about him.

“Sure,” she said.

Pico drove roughly, jerking the car, staring straight ahead, not saying anything. The car shot over an old Egyptianate bridge with curved serpent lampposts that spanned the L.A. River. Lily looked down and saw that the earthen banks where she’d once caught frogs, chased great blue herons, and marveled at hawks riding the thermals had disappeared. So had the willows, the wild roses, the biblical rushes. Mile by mile, the untamed river of her youth was being encased in a concrete channel. She recalled the floods of ’38, how they’d ravaged the city and killed dozens. This was necessary, she told herself. It was progress. And she was hardly sentimental. So why, she wondered with vague annoyance, did she feel a sense of loss?