Authors: Chris Frank,Skip Press
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #mystery, #Hard-Boiled
“What about them?”
“Did you check all the houses to see if Marty grew up around there?”
“We spoke to as many people in the neighborhood as we could, nothing. The problem is that with the real estate market being what it was, there was a huge turnover of homes in West Covina over the past few years and a ton of people are new to the area and don’t know their neighbors. No one remembers a man with a bad limp.”
Lisa put down her fork. Jim looked over at her.
“What’s the matter?” Jim asked.
“I bet Alice Edwards would have remembered.”
Jim grabbed her hand.
“Stop it. What’s done is done. It was a momentary lapse of judgment. You’ve got to stop beating yourself up over that.”
Lisa had tears in her eyes.
“I got that woman killed, Jim. That woman is dead because I had to have a story.”
Jim did not let go of her hand but he did not disagree either.
“We’ll get through this. Together.”
“Will we, Jim?”
“Yes”
“How?” Lisa begged.
“We’ll get through this because…” Jim looked deep in her eyes. “Lisa, I love you. You don’t have to say it. I understand it’s fast.”
“Shut up.”
Lisa jumped up from her chair and threw her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him to the floor.
“I love you so much,” she cried. “I’m so happy and I’m so sorry, can you forgive me?”
Jim sighed. If he had answered Alice Edwards’ first call on Christmas morning, she might still be alive and Lisa would not have to bear her guilt.
“Don’t be sorry. If you want me, of all people, to forgive you, then consider yourself forgiven.”
Lisa grabbed Jim hard around the neck and whispered into his ear.
“Thank you. I am going to make you so happy.”
Jim kissed her.
“You already do.”
“But how much I am helping you, just hanging around your place like this?”
He started to laugh, then put on a serious face.
“Well, if you’re feeling guilty, we’ll have to get you a French maid outfit and see what you can do.”
He loved the way she smiled.
Chapter Nine: Death Dance
Day 6: 9:39 p.m.
He entered the lobby of the Arclight with a ticket for the 10:05 showing of
Dance With Death
, the story of a ballerina who wins her greatest part only to lose her life. He thought that the movie’s theme was ironic, given how many people throughout the Southland had performed a dance of doom to his orchestrations in the past week. He was in line for popcorn when he saw David Swanza ripping the tickets for a young couple that, from the way they were touching each other, were not planning on dissecting the fine points of their chosen flick.
He paid for his meal and walked towards the Ethiopian and handed him his ticket. As they looked into each other’s eyes, Lord saw no sign of recognition from their brief encounter in the alley. He took his stub and walked to theatre seven, knowing that at a little after midnight, in that very room, someone’s dance would be over.
Day 6: 10:16 p.m.
Lisa lay flat on her stomach on Jim’s bed, watching the news that she had once produced. She was touched by Stacy’s report of the Giselle An killing and twice found herself wiping tears from her eyes. She wanted to do something to help, so while Jim finished his shower, she grabbed a copy of the phone book and started to read. She also had not realized how common the names Swan and Swanson were. She was about to look up the commercial listings for the beautiful white bird when she saw the name. Jim entered the bedroom, still drying his hair with a towel, when he saw her on the bed with the white pages.
“See anything interesting?”
Jim nuzzled her playfully.
Lisa giggled, “As a matter of fact, I did, Detective.”
“Please enlighten me.”
Jim walked to his dresser and pulled out a pair of shorts to wear to bed.
“Well,” began Lisa. “There are many Swans in the book and even more Swansons but there is only one Swanza, a David Swanza who lives on Franklin in Hollywood. That would be something Marty would seize upon, wouldn’t it, Swanza swimming, get it?”
Jim raced over to the bed and saw the entry.
Lisa looked concerned.
“What’s the matter? Jim? You talked to him, didn’t you?”
Jim looked at her, then at the page again.
Lisa stood up.
“Are you fucking kidding me? There is a guy named Swanza in the white pages and you guys missed it?”
“You’re the best,” he told her.
Jim grabbed his cell phone and called Captain Jones and then central dispatch; he told them to send everyone available to the Franklin Avenue address of David Swanza. Jim looked at his watch as he put on his clothes. There was still over an hour left to Day 6; maybe this time they could get there on time.
Day 6: 10:35 p.m.
Marty was not enjoying the movie at all; his mind kept wandering as he became more and more fixated on the job ahead. His right hand was now virtually useless, as though it were in a perpetual state of slumber. He shook and shook the lifeless limb, hoping that with an increased blood flow to his extremity, his hand might become functional again, but it wasn’t happening. He imagined a racecar blowing a tire and spinning out into a tailspin just before crossing the finish line.
Work, goddamned body, work!
Apparently, he was making quite a scene with his hand, as the Ethiopian appeared out of nowhere to see if he was all right.
“I’m fine,” he mumbled. He informed the usher that he was suffering from a severe case of carpal tunnel syndrome and it was acting up.
The Ethiopian was very kind and asked if there was anything that he could do to help.
“Nothing right now, but if you could check back in an hour, it would be greatly appreciated.”
“My pleasure, sir,” said the black man, and he left theatre number seven to continue his rounds.
Day 6: 10:37 p.m.
They were ready this time. There had to be over fifty police officers and federal agents poised to move on the Franklin Avenue home of David Swanza. Jim Jovian stood in the middle of the pack, behind SWAT and the FBI guys. The agents up front knocked loudly on apartment 2B but received no answer. When a second knock and announcement went unheeded, the SWAT team leader took the key borrowed from the manager and swung open the door. The all-clear call was immediately trumpeted through the ranks.
David Swanza lived in a one-bedroom flat with very few hiding places. Jim entered the apartment as his colleagues turned the place upside-down, looking for signs of trouble. There did not appear to be any signs of a struggle or blood, so if Marty Lord had confronted David Swanza, he didn’t do it there. Jim was about to exit when Captain Jones filled the doorway with his mighty frame.
“Anything?”
Jim looked back at the agents rummaging through David’s home.
“Nothing. Doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary. I really thought this might be the next victim,”
“It still might be. Maybe we’re just too late.”
Jim looked at his watch.
“Or too early, Skip, it’s only a quarter to eleven. We still have time.”
“If Swanza is the guy, maybe Lord has grabbed him and is sitting on him,” Captain Jones offered. “Or if it’s ‘Swanza swimming’ has anyone checked on any late-night place where he might be swimming?”
“Not that I know of…”
“Well, if Lord isn’t sitting on the guy, where the fuck is he? It’s almost midnight.”
“Don’t know, Captain. Maybe he’s out on a date, grabbing dinner. Maybe he’s at a late movie or sleeping over at his girlfriend’s house.”
Jim was clearly frustrated.
“What do we know about this Swanza?” asked the Captain.
Jim looked at his notes.
“Not much. He’s got no criminal record, he doesn’t own a car, but he has a driver’s license.”
“Do we know what he does for a living?”
“We got nothing so far. He’s from Africa. Maybe he’s a gypsy cab driver,” Jim said.
“I’ll put aside the racist overtone and we can start with that; contact all the cab companies and pass his photo around. Maybe he’s working tonight. Hopefully we can get a hit.”
“Okay, Skip. I’ll set it up. I’m going to ask the neighbors a few questions; see if they know anything about him.”
For the first time, Jim noticed a round sheaf of papers in the big man’s hand.
“What’s that you’re holding.”
The Captain snorted derisively and unfolded the papers.
“It’s what supposed to be a screenplay. Written by one Marty Lord, about a serial killer.”
“Where’d you get that?
The Captain looked around and then leaned close to Jim.
“I know some people at the Writer’s Guild. Helps to be Captain.”
Jim laughed.
“Well, is it any good?”
The Captain winced.
“It’s terrible. And there’s a fake address on the title page and registration. This script is so bad, if they made this movie, I’d find the guy that wrote it and kill him myself.”
He rolled the script back up.
“So let’s find this Swanza guy.”
Captain Jones turned on his heel then turned back.
“Oh, detective.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nice work. You continue to surprise me.”
“Thank you, Captain, sir.”
Jim didn’t have the nerve to tell his boss that all the credit should be going to his girlfriend. Maybe she should be the detective, he thought. Jim grabbed his pen and notebook and went downstairs and knocked on the door to apartment 1A. A tall, thin Hispanic man with a dancer’s body answered the door.
“Good evening, sir, I’m Detective James Jovian of the Los Angeles Police Department. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
The dancer looked at him askance.
“What’s this all about?”
“I wonder, sir, do you know your neighbor, David Swanza?”
“Yes, did he do something?”
Jim did not like the dancer.
“No, sir, he did not.”
The resident of 1A put his hands on his hips.
“Well, then why is 5-0 busting in his place and making all this ruckus on a Sunday night? Some of us have to work in the morning.”
“I’m aware of that sir. What can you tell me about Mr. Swanza?”
The dancer gave Jim a harrumph.
“He’s a quiet guy, he never plays loud music, and he has a bird. The landlord won’t let us have pets, but I never considered a bird to be a pet, do you?”
Jim ignored the question.
“Do you know what Mr. Swanza does for a living?”
“I know that he works at night. I usually hear him coming home around 1:00, 1:30 in the morning.”
“Do you know where he works?”
“No, but he wears a uniform.”
Jim’s eyebrows rose.
“What kind of uniform?”
“I don’t know. One of those red velvet numbers, with the tassels on the sleeves. And he has a hat.”
Jim was pressing now.
“Red velvet uniform and a hat. Like a uniform that a doorman would wear?”
“I suppose, can you please tell me what this is about?”
“We think he could be a potential murder victim.”
The man looked terrified.
“I’m sorry, that’s all I know about him. Except, he’s always talking about movies. Is there anything else?”
“Thank you sir, you’ve been very helpful.”