The Ticket Out (26 page)

She was pointing across the lobby to the accounting office. Three strange men were inside; they had briefcases open and calculators out. The
Millennium's
head accountant hovered over them, and the desks were stacked with files.

I said, “Is that why you guys are huddled up here?”

Mark whispered, “There's a rumor going around that the paper's for sale.”

I said, “That rumor's been going around since the Hollywood gang recruited Barry for—”

I stopped because I'd remembered something. I'd remembered the fragments of conversation I overheard between Barry and Hannah Silverman: father, asking price, midwifing the sale.

I said, “Who does Jules Silverman know who would want to buy the paper?”

Vivian said, “Jules Silverman?” Mark raised his eyebrows and started humming the theme to
The Godfather.

Vivian nodded. “Jules Silverman knows everyone in the country with that kind of dough.”

Mark stopped humming. “If the rumor is true, it explains why Barry wants to mainstream the film section. He's trying to make the paper more attractive to buyers.”

Vivian said, “Why do you think Silverman's involved?”

A banging noise interrupted us; it came from the far side of the lobby. We turned to look, and Barry came rushing down the stairs from his office.

Vivian whispered, “Doug Lockwood was just here with another detective—they just left.”

Barry had his car keys in his teeth and he was zipping his coat. I stuck my hand out to grab him. I said, “Wait—you wanted the names of those reporters—”

Barry brushed past us. “Not now, Ann!”

He ran across the lobby and out the front door. I waved at Mark and Vivian and ran after him.

I saw him pull out of the parking lot and bomb by, going south. He didn't see me. I raced to my car, jumped in, gunned it, and followed him.

He rolled through the stop sign at Franklin and turned left, then right on Vermont. I turned left, then right, and stayed in the curb lane three car-lengths back. He was driving crazy. He zigzagged through traffic, changing lanes, not signaling, cutting people off. I was forced to do the same. People honked their horns and yelled at both of us.

He was still driving like that as we hit the Hollywood Freeway. He turned left at the entrance, southbound, and accelerated down the ramp. I hit the ramp two cars behind him. I had broken a sweat.

He hopped lanes all the way into downtown. It wasn't easy for me to keep up. Traffic was heavy, and Barry had a new Lexus. He could punch it through openings where I couldn't.

The freeway split up at the downtown interchange. I stayed in the middle lane, since I didn't know where we were going. At the last minute Barry swooped into the right lane. I floored the gas, cut over, and kept him in sight. We curved south and hit the Santa Monica Freeway going west. Barry stepped on it, started to change lanes, and almost sideswiped another car. They honked and swerved apart. Barry slowed way down. I watched him wait, then ease into the fast lane when it was clear. He sped up to seventy and held it there.

I stayed behind him two lanes over. I didn't need to be that careful—Barry wasn't paying attention. Once he hit cruising speed he picked up his car phone and started to talk. He talked and drove, talked and drove: it went on for miles. And it wasn't just one call. He must have redialed eight or ten times.

We kept going west. We passed exit after exit. By La Cienega I was sure where we were headed.

Barry shot off the freeway at the Robertson exit. I was prepared for it and dropped back to follow him. A red light stopped us at the bottom of the ramp. The light took awhile to change. I'd learned something about car chases. They weren't fun or exciting: they made you sweaty, and sick to your stomach.

The light turned green and Barry turned south on Robertson. He'd calmed down and was driving the speed limit. I still kept two cars between us. He turned onto Washington Boulevard going west. We were in Culver City now. Barry's state only showed at intersections. He ran two yellow lights, which forced me to run the reds. I almost hit a motorcycle at one of them.

Barry pulled up in front of the Casa de Amor. He jumped out of the car, left his door open, and ran under the arch. I pulled over and stopped at the end of the block. There was a new surveillance team parked across the street. Their heads turned to watch Barry.

He reappeared inside a minute. He jumped back in his car and took off down Washington. I pulled out behind him.

This time he sailed right through a red. I got there late and had to slam on my brakes: the cross traffic was too heavy.

I sat and watched Barry's taillights shrink. But Washington Boulevard was flat and straight, and I could see a good distance. He turned north at Overland.

My light turned green. I floored it up to Overland and made the right. Barry had pulled into the Starbucks on the corner. He left his car in a loading zone and went inside. I parked behind a pole and watched him through the plate glass. He checked every table and counter seat, and came out alone. He stood in the lot and clawed his hair. He scanned the parked cars and the passing traffic.

I ducked down and peeked over the dash.

He got in his car and took Overland north again. There was construction on both shoulders. The street narrowed down to one lane, and Barry was boxed into a line of cars doing twenty-five. I slowed down to twenty-five myself. He worked his way up to Isabelle Pavich's place in West Hollywood. It took us half an hour on surface streets and I kept thinking I'd lose him, but I never did. It was safe to follow him close; he was absorbed by the road in front of him. I watched him get out and buzz at Pavich's security gate. He was not let in.

From Pavich's he drove to Neil John Phillips's duplex. He knocked at Phillips's front door, then walked around to the back. He wasn't gone very long—two minutes tops. I couldn't see what he did, but I figured he hit the logical points: kitchen door, garage, maybe upstairs neighbor.

After two minutes he walked around front and climbed into his car. I saw him start dialing his car phone again. I hoped it would be another marathon. I picked up my phone to call Lockwood; he should know what his visit did to Barry. But Barry pulled out before I finished Lockwood's number.

I dropped my phone and followed him.

We took surface streets out to Burbank. Barry skirted the Warner lot and parked at a building across from the studio entrance. I recognized the address. I rolled past slowly and watched Barry walk inside. I gave him time to get upstairs, parked around the corner, ran into the building, and checked the directory to make sure. Yes, suite 219: Arnold Tolback and AT Productions.

I ran back and hid at the corner. Barry came out of the building five minutes later. He was not happy. He kicked his car, got into it, and squealed off.

I ran to my car and followed him.

He was driving fast again. I sped up and tried to keep two cars between us, but sometimes it was four or five. He got on the Ventura Freeway going west. Traffic was bad, like normal, and it was easy to keep him in view. I wanted this to end, but I couldn't give up now. I stopped thinking, I stopped worrying, I just drove.

Barry got off at a canyon exit and took back roads through the hills to Malibu. I checked my gas gauge. We were covering a lot of territory.

Barry turned right at the coast highway, and right again at Jules Silverman's street. I made both rights and pulled over to the side of the road. There was no traffic on Ramirez Canyon—no cars to hide behind.

I counted a minute on my watch, then floored it. Silverman's gates were just closing by the time I arrived. I saw Barry's taillights swing around a bend and disappear.

This time I was going in.

I parked and ran to the fence. I checked the pillars for surveillance cameras: none. I picked up a rock and rubbed the iron to see if it sparked. It didn't. I hoped that meant it wasn't electric.

I braced myself and grabbed two bars, but didn't get zapped. Sticking one foot through, I squeezed between the bars. I dropped to a crouch and listened for alarms or dogs. All I heard was the ocean breeze.

I started to run. The trees were great cover.

Silverman's property was immense. The drive switched back and forth as it climbed the hillside. The hill was too steep to cut straight up. I slowed down and jogged parallel to the drive for half a mile. Finally I saw a clearing. I ducked and crept up to the edge of the tree line. I was breathing hard.

The drive leveled out into an immense paved forecourt. A huge stone fountain stood in the middle; it was carved with dolphins and nymphs. A monster house sat on the far side of the fountain. It was all glass and granite and looked like a first-class chain hotel. The view was unbelievable—south to Catalina, west to the horizon. We were way high in the air.

Barry was talking to two people on the terrace of the house. I couldn't hear what they said because the fountain was too loud. But I could see them perfectly.

One: Hannah Silverman. Wearing a terry-cloth robe and thongs, holding a glass of carrot juice. Her hair was tied back with a sweat sock. She stamped her foot while Barry talked.

Two: an old man. Thin and tall; tanned to a crisp; one arm linked through Hannah's. Wearing a terry-cloth robe and thongs, holding a glass of carrot juice.

I'd never seen Jules Silverman in person. He never appeared in public anymore, and the press always ran archive shots of him as a younger man.

Silverman turned his head my way.

He looked different with clothes on, and he wasn't wearing the dark wig or sunglasses. But he
was
the guy in Greta's picture—the old guy getting spanked in the dinosaur bedroom.

S
HERIFF'S
H
OMICIDE
was in a retail park in the City of Commerce east of downtown. It had taken me two tries to locate it.

When the Silvermans invited Barry inside, I decided not to hang around. I'd driven to the Malibu Sheriff's substation to find the detectives who handled Edward Abadi's murder. There were no detectives there. A deputy informed me that the Sheriff's wasn't the LAPD; it had one central homicide bureau instead of homicide teams at every station. He'd given me directions to City of Commerce and told me that parking was easy.

Maybe parking was easy, but the drive from the ocean was hellish. I walked into the lobby in a bad mood. The offices had generic white walls and industrial floor covering. A plainclothes cop at the front desk asked if he could help. I peeked into a big room behind him. It had long rows of desks buried under paper and computer terminals. Circulars, charts, and chalkboards covered the walls. The room was pretty empty; six or so detectives sat around talking into telephones. The quiet surprised me.

The desk cop had a pizza box beside him. I could smell the hot pizza and it made me hungry.

I said, “I'm interested in two unsolved murders. One's from 1944 and—”

“Sheriff's case?”

“I think so. It happened in West Hollywood.”

The guy pointed through a doorway to the right of the desk. “Through there. You can't miss it.”

I thanked him and followed his directions. “It” turned out to be a separate room with
UNSOLVED
stenciled on the door.

I knocked and walked in. The room was tiny; three desks took up all the space. The nameplates on the desks read
SGT. MCMANUS, DEP. GADTKE, SGT. SCARBORO
.

None of them were in.

I stood looking around. There was a corkboard on the wall, covered with tacked memoranda. Among them was a color enlargement of
my
DMV photo. Below it was Edward Abadi's name, date of death, and Sheriff's case number. Below that was Lockwood's name and telephone numbers.

I looked closer and burst out laughing. Some joker had defaced the display. He'd printed, “ACHTUNG!” at the top of the page. He'd given me pointy ears and vampire fangs, and written, “She Walks By Night!” above my head. Over my shoulder was a coffin with the lid open. The lid said, “Bloodsucking Liberal Media!” Next to Lockwood's name, the comedian wrote, “LAPD Sucks Donkey Dick!” Below it was a cartoon of a donkey with an obscene erection dragging the ground. A photo of Bernard Parks was pasted under the donkey's belly. Parks had his mouth open, as if to swallow the donkey's appendage.

I couldn't resist. I got out my pen and drew a thought balloon by the donkey. Inside it I wrote, “I hope he's better than Sheriff Baca!” I drew a frown on the donkey, too. The donkey should be worried.

I walked back to the front desk and told the cop there was nobody in Unsolved. He checked his watch. “Then they've left for the day. Give me your name and number and they'll call you tomorrow.”

I said, “It's more urgent than that. Can you page them?”

A second deputy heard me; he'd come for a slice of pizza. He said, “Stevens Steak House.”

I said, “Where is that?”

He gave me the address; it was close by. “McManus and Gadtke will be there.”

“What do they look like?”

“You'll know Gadtke. He puts plastic vomit on the floor by his bar stool.”

I said, “Jesus.” Both cops smiled and nodded.

I walked out, checked the directions on my map, and drove to the restaurant. It sat on a frontage road off Atlantic Avenue. I parked in back and used the rear entrance like other people were doing. Inside it was dark: dark red and dark wood paneling. I stood in a large room filled with booths, and a bar along the wall to my left. Male and female cops jammed the place. Everybody looked like a cop, except the women who looked like secretaries just off work. It was a big swinging scene.

I laughed to myself. Before Greta, I had no idea that the law enforcement community was so profligate; journalists had nothing on them. I cruised the bar area, looking down for plastic vomit. The bar was crowded and the light was bad...