Bannerman's Law (27 page)

Molly nodded, not in agreement but trusting that this
was somehow relevant.

“
The story is
,”
DiDi went on,
“
he showed up in Hol
lywood around 1920. A whole slew of Italian actors, direc
tors, and technicians came here at about that time because
the Italian film industry was collapsing. Everyone wanted
American pictures, which was actually ironic
.”

“
Uh
.
.
.
why
?”

Molly regretted the question almost instantl
y
. She had
blundered onto a theme that was DiDi
Fenerty's
passion.

“
The Italians were the real pioneers
,”
she proclaimed.
“
Not Hollywood. They
invented
the costume epic. Used
enormous sets, thousands of extras. Used real lions in
Quo
Vadis,
1912. They made
El Cid, Macbeth,
and
The Last
Days of Pompeii
while we were doing the Keystone Kops.
They had a tremendous influence on DeMille and Griffith.
If you want to be astonished, see
Cabiria.
Greatest film
ever made up to that point. It had Hannibal's elephants
crossing the Alps, the siege of Syracus
e—”

“
DiDi
.
.
.
” Molly raised a hand.

“
Oh. Sorry
.”

“
You said Victor D'A
r
conte was a sleaze
.”

“
Oh, yeah
,”
she nodded.
“
Big time. The Count was
a drug pusher. People don't realize it but heroin and espe
cially cocaine were just as common in early Hollywood as they are now. One story says that D'Arconte was already a
morphine addict because of the hip and started dealing to
support his own habit but
M
ecklenberg says he never touched it. Says he just saw more money in dealing than
he did in acting
.”

DiDi flipped a page.
“
D'Arconte
,”
she said, reading,
“
used to fly the cocaine in from Mexico himself. Heroin
came from the Chinese but he had a piece of that action too. He used to deal in broad daylight on the corner of
Fourth and Spring. The police never bothered him because
they thought he provided a service. Kept the stars going,
working twelve-hour days. Mecklenberg says you could
stand on that corner and see half of the biggest names
in Hollywood
.”

Molly was afraid she'd name them
.
“
What happened to him
?”
she asked.

“
Someone tried to shoot him. Once on his corner and
once in his car. The police couldn't ignore it anymore so
he was busted, and indicted. He dropped out of sight in
1930, maybe back to Italy. But in those ten years he ruined
more lives than talkies. There was
.
.
.
”

Molly blinked so that her eyes would not glaze.

”.
.
.
Wallace Reid, Alma Rubens, Barbara La Ma
rr
.
Big stars. His junk killed all three. La Marr was only
twenty-nine. Reid died in a padded cell at thirty. It ended the careers of about a dozen more. Mabel No
rm
and, Jua
nita Hansen
.
.
.
”

“
Nellie Da
m
eon
?”

DiDi shook her head.
“
If she did drugs, I never
heard it
.”

And yet, according to Lisa's notes, thought Molly, Nel
lie had mentioned his name.
“
Would she have known
him otherwise
?”

“
Of him, at least. Sure
.”

“
This man who died in a padded cell
.
.
.
”

“
Wallace Reid
.”

“
Might that have been at Sur La Mer
?”

”
I don't know. Maybe
.”

“
You said Victor D'A
r
conte skipped in 1930. How old
would he have been
?”

DiDi looked at her notes. A flier in World War I. A
working actor before that.
“
Around forty, I guess
.
What
are you thinking
?”

Molly took a long breath. ”I don't know. Just fishing.
Looking for a way that this might all tie together
.”

“
As in Victor hiding out at Sur La Mer
?”

“
Something like that
.”

DiDi made a face. It suggested not so much doubt as
indifference.
“
It's an interesting thought. But if he did,
who would care now? The guy's got to be long dead
.”

Molly chewed her pencil, thoughtfully.
“
Let's play with that for a minute. How would he swing it
?”

“
Get some doctor to commi
t
him, I guess. Say the
doctor was a junkie. One of his customers
.’'

“
Doctors don't need dealers
.”

“
They don't need to have their addictions made public,
either. He could have blackmailed one
.”

“
Okay
,”
Molly nodded.
“
But how long could he have
fooled the staff at Sur La Mer
?”

A small shrug.
“
He was an actor. Maybe a good one
.”

“
Fine. And, given the indictment, he would have
changed his name. But the place was full of other actors,
including Nellie Da
m
eon. Wouldn't they have recog
nized him
?”

“
Nellie wasn't talking. The others were batty, or at
least past caring. Which brings me back to my question.
Who would care now
?”

Molly sighed.

More circles.

DiDi, she felt sure, was almost certainly right. Let's
say, she thought, that Victor D'Arconte did hide out at
Sur La Mer. Let's say he bribed o
r
blackmailed whoever
was running the place. Let's even say he took the name
Dunv
i
lle.

Wait. Where did that come from?

Oh, yes. According to Lisa's notes, Nellie Da
m
eon
thought she had a son, last name possibly D'A
r
conte or possibly Dunville.

Okay. Let's say that she's not entirely crazy. Let's say
that she had a so
n—n
ot to mention a daughter with a
strawberry mark and hair like Lisa'
s—a
nd that the father
was the drug-dealing actor D'Arconte.

Let's say all that's true, keeping in mind there's no sign
that Lisa suspected any such thing. What have you got?

An interesting footnote to Hollywood history. That's
all. Of interest solely to people like DiDi and her professor. No real scandal. No reputations to be ruined because
all of the principals, except Nellie, are long dead. The
kids, if they exist, would be in their sixties. If they're not
at Sur La Mer, which they're obviously not if Nellie asked
Lisa to find them, they were probably given up for adop
tion and would have no idea who their real parents were.
And might not care.

Circles.

“
I'd better get going
,”
she said.
“
Ca
rl
a really
shouldn't be alone
.”

“
Anything else I can do
?”

Molly shook her head. She began erasing the copied
files.
“
Just remember what I said about staying out of
this. I took these disks. You have no idea what's on them.
But let me know who asks
.”

“
Will I see you again
?”

“
Sure. On Thursday. I assume you'll be there
.”

DiDi nodded.
“
Mr. Benedict asked me to speak.
Molly
?”

”
Uh-uh
?”
The last of the files winked off.

“
Why don't you just drive up to Sur La Mer? Ask
them straight out
.”

”I might just do that
.”

With Molly gone, the house seemed suddenly empty.
The computer even more so. One minute it had Lisa in i
t—
her words, her thoughts and dreams. The next it was blank.

DiDi wished she had been more help. It was hard to
imagine Molly Fa
rr
ell, no matter how good she was, going
out and finding a killer that an army of police had been
hunting for the better part of two years. But at least she
might find the son of a bitch who robbed her afterward.

Maybe, thought DiDi, she'd do a little detective work
herself. Make a call or two. Save Molly the trip.

The phone was right there.

She dialed Santa Barbara information.

₂₂

“
Wait. Don't hang up
.”

Su
mn
er Domme
ri
ch heard the shouted plea from Lisa's
sister as he lowered the phone. He hesitated.

“
There's no way I can trace this
,”
she called.
“
There's
no risk to you
.”

He knew that. He was at a public phone on Victory
Boulevard in Burba
n
k. At an Exxon station. He didn't
mind talking to her but there was always the chance that
the man who had pissed on his car and slapped him would
go out again. He had gone into a small mission-style apartment building just across the street. It had to be where he
lived. He had taken mail from a box as he entered. The
man, Hickey, had stopped just in time. Dommerich
’
s gas
gauge had hovered on empty most of the way back from
Santa Barbara.

”
I
.
.
.
don't know what else I can tell you
,”
he
said,
returning the phone to his lips. He had told her he didn't
do it. That Lisa had been nice to him. He had told her
about the man in the silver Honda who had been following h
er and taking her picture with a video camera. He had
given her his license number but not his name. Tracing
the license would take time. Domme
ri
ch needed that time
to decide how best to make him pay.

”
I don't know either
,”
Lisa
'
s sister was saying.
“
But
you must know something. You can help me find out who
did it
.”

”
I just know it wasn't me
.”

“
You said you were her
f
riend. I need a
f
riend too
.”

Dommerich shook his head. He hadn't said that, ex
actly. All he said was that he liked Lisa and she liked
him. Or at least she smiled at him. The one thing he hardly
ever did was lie. Except for today. Today he had called
in sick at work because he had to follow that man. They
didn't even care that much.

“
Did y
o
u read the papers
?”
he asked.

“
You mean about Lisa
?”

“
About me. Almost none of what they said about me
was right
.”

Dommerich could hear a change in the rhythm of her
breathing. He heard, or sensed, movement on the other end. Probably the other woman. The ta
l
l one.

“
Listen
.
.
.
Wait. My name is Ca
rl
a
.
Give me some
thing to call you
.”

He knew what she was doing. He saw on television
once that serial killers mostly think of their victims as
things.
Not real people. It's the same with rapists. So if
you're going to be raped or killed you should try to talk to the guy, tell him your name,
try to tell
him about any
good things you do and try to get him talking about himself. They were wrong about that too. Once it started, he
never even heard what they wer
e
saying. He
'
d hear a
voice. A mean and hateful voice. But it wasn't theirs.

“
How about Claude
?”
Dommerich suggested. It had
just popped into his head. Claude Rains. The Invisible Man. He had to smile.

“
Claude, could you give me some kind of proof
?”
she asked.

“
About what
?”

“
That you
'
re really who you say you are. That this
isn't some sick practical joke. Or that you're not just trying
to blame someone else for what you did
.”

He thought about hanging up again. This one was not
as nice as her sister. ”I never once tried to blame someone
else
,”
he told her.
”
I always did it so they knew it was me
.”

“
Did you always rob them
?”

”
I never robbed them
,”
he said. The question offended
him. The other thing he hardly ever did was steal.

“
Someone robbed Lisa. There were things missing
from her apartment
.”

”
I didn't take them. All I ever took was hair
.”

A silence. Domme
ri
ch understood it. Lisa's sister didn't
know he did that. It was never in the papers.

“
You know who I bet did
?”
he asked.

“
Who
?”

“
The man who was following you
.”

“
Why do you think so
?”

”I don't know. Because he's a pig
.”
Dommerich was
tempted to tell her about him urinating on his car. And
smacking him with fingers that had piss on them. But the
operator came on wanting another quarter. Lisa's sister
said don't go. Please. He found one. It gonged and the
line sounded clear again.

“
I'm still here. But I do have to go
.”

“
Claude
.
.
.
that man. Did you ever see him near her
apartment before
?”

“
No
.”
Dommerich chewed his lip. He had to be careful
here, even if it meant telling a lie.
“
But I don't live
around there
.”

“
Does he
?”

“
No. But he was watching the place this morning. And then he was watching you. Maybe he was watching Lisa
before that
”

“
Claude
.
.
.
” Her voice changed. It got very quiet.
“
Where is he right this minute
?”

He didn't answer.

“
You know where he lives, don't you, Claude. You're
near there right now
.”

“
No, I'm
...
hold on a minute
.”
He held the telephone
against his chest. He covered the mouthpiece. She was
smart, he realized. She knew he'd been following that man. And she'd heard him say that the man didn't live
near Lisa. He could only know that if
...”I
have to
go
.”
he said.

“
Claude
.
.
.
” The same quiet voice.
“
He might be
the one. He might have killed Lisa
.”

Dommerich took a breath. It made a whistling sound.

“
Claude? Do you hear me? You liked Lisa and that
man might have killed her. Tell me who he is and I promise you I'll make him
talk. I'll carve the fucker up in ways
you never dreamed up
.”

”I
.
.
.
have to go
.”

“
Claude? Don't hang up. You owe it to
.
.
.
”

He missed the cradle twice, finally using his hand to
break the connection. He saw Lisa in his mind. She was jogging toward him, up Alameda, carrying her breakfast
muffin. He waved at her. Said hi. She waved back. Big smile. He watched her go. She had almost reached the
wooden stairs to her apartment when something made her
stop and look up. That man, Hickey, was coming down. He was carrying her television set and her cable box.
Stealing them.

She looked around for help. She yelled
.
He dropped
the television and grabbed her. He began choking her.
Dommerich wanted to help but he couldn't. There was a
glass wall, the wall of the phone booth, between them.
She was on the sidewalk now, not moving. Hickey looked
up. He saw Dommerich. He raised a hand as if to smack
him again but there was a glass wall. Seeing Dommerich
seemed to give him an idea. He pulled out a knife and
bent over Lisa. He stuck one thumb in the corner of her
mouth, pulling her cheek up. Then he stuck the knife under
his thumb and he
...

Dommerich screamed.

He screamed and he banged until the man from the
gas pumps came, wide-eyed, and forced open the door.
Domme
ri
ch ran to his car. He drove away. He drove al
most a mile before the voice could be heard through the
screams in his head. It was a mean voice. Hateful. But,
as always, it began to calm him.

Dommerich slowed and stopped. His heart slowed as well. He saw his hat in the well of the passenger seat. He
put it on.

He was all right now.

He was invisible again.

Dommerich drove back the way he came.

Nellie had returned in time for tea.

Barbara Weinberg, more than her husband, had become
accustomed to Nellie's journeys into the past. She de
lighted in the stories Nellie would tell.

But it was different this time. Nellie had not gone to a
party or a picnic, she had not gone camping with Tom,
she had not gone dancing on the Venice pier. She had
tried, this time, to go back to that part of her life that
remained in shadows.

She told Barbara about her children. Two of them. Perhaps four. She told her what the psychiatrist had said. That
she'd had only one, born dead. Still, she said, it was all
very odd. There were other young members, over the
years, who felt as she did. That they'd had children. The
doctor's answer was always the same. These were dreams.
Delusions. Not at all uncommon.

One of those members, she recalled, then asked the psychiatrist how it was that she had stretch marks on her breasts and on her belly. Then the doctor would admit
,
reluctantly, that another member, long deceased, had taken
advantag
e
of her. How very convenient, thought Nellie. Whenever pressed, the doctor always seemed able to pro
duce a randy male patient who subsequently died but
whom no one else seemed to remember.

She asked Barbara's help in learning the truth. Barbara
promised it, but asked for patience. She could not very
well ask Ca
r
leton Dunville. Doing so would reveal that
Nellie was lucid. Perhaps, thought Barbara, she might get
another chance at that office safe. She had seen that it
contained records concerning the members but these had
not interested her at the time.

Tea was served in a common room just down the hall
from Nellie's suite. It was a formal affair, elegantly poured
from a silver service into Wedgwood china cups. Cakes
and scones were provided on Limoges platters with real
Devonshire cream on the side. Alan saw little likelihood
that the tea or the cakes had been drugged but, still, he
and Barbara had chosen to partake of all meals on an alternate basis so that one might have a chance of re
maining alert.

All of the members had gathered. A staff nurse, dressed as a maid for the occasion, served those unable to serve
themselves. There were five men, the rest women, none
under seventy. All wore glazed expressions. None seemed
to notice the MP-5 submachine gun that Alan Weinberg
held across his chest as his wife and Nellie sipped their
tea. But the eyes, Barbara knew, would come alive when
the nurse left the room. They would exchange smiles.
They would whisper. The old man, Ha
r
land, would tip his
yachting cap to Nellie and to Barbara in turn. But the
nurse, this time, did not leave. She approached Alan, forc
ing a nervous smile. Nellie blinked away.