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the place started firing, and Mandy got shot in the back.
Shot in the spine.”
Nina looked at Tremaine, sympathy and shock in her eyes.
“She was brought to the hospital—she went into a coma.
I flew back immediately, but by the time I got to the hospital, she was gone. Dead. I never returned to the tour.”
“Donald . . .”
Tremaine knew what she was going to say. It’s not your fault, you were young, pursuing your dreams, things like this happen, it’s not your fault. But no soothing remarks, no it’s-not-your-fault-think-about-it-sentiments, nothing rational, could put an end to the three things Tremaine lived with.
Guilt. Pain. Fear.
Guilt for being selfish, for putting himself before someone he loved, for being macho, preening, while she was back home getting killed. Pain that comes with losing someone you loved, forever. And fear. Fear that if you get close again, you’ll get stabbed in the gut twice as hard. Is that why he’d never gotten close enough to Susan? Of course.
He knew it was ironic—he had pushed Mandy away and
that’s
when she got killed. So wouldn’t it make sense to try to get close to someone so that wouldn’t happen again?
Nah, life doesn’t work that way. Just the opposite, in fact.
Tremaine said, meaning it, “It’s all right Nina, you don’t have to say anything.”
Back at the Old Colony Trailer Park, Nina sat in her car, ready to leave.
She said, “Thanks for telling me that, Tremaine.”
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“I’ll talk to you soon, Nina.”
Nina said, “I came to you because I wanted to do something good. Is that why you became a P.I.? Because after Mandy, you wanted to do something good?”
Tremaine said, “I became a P.I. because I needed a job.
After Mandy, I didn’t do much for a while. Like, years.
Finally, John Lopez came to me and started giving me work.”
But he thought,
doing something good
, maybe that is why.
Nina said, “John had to know you could handle intense situations.”
“Yeah, I guess. And he trusted me. That, for us, for me and John, is what life is all about. And because he’s a friend, he knew doing something, anything, would help me. Anyway, I got into it, and here we are.”
“Here we are,” she said.
Then she said, “Come here.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
He leaned over and she kissed him on the cheek.
“Thanks for taking me out. That was fun,” she said.
Tremaine stood there, right where he was when she kissed him, and watched Nina Aldeen drive off, down the hill, toward the PCH.
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C H A P T E R 3 3
The next day, driving toward the Hollywood Hills, toward Dean Latham’s, Tremaine, in his most optimistic daydreaming, was trying to envision situations in which this guy Dean Latham could fit into the Roger Gale case.
Was this the desperate daydreaming of a frustrated P.I., or was Tremaine simply following the leads he had, never ignoring a clue, allowing the tiniest of leads to capture his attention? That’s what good P.I.s did, right? That’s what he’d always done. But it was a fine line. Chase too many bad leads and you’re a fool.
Dean Latham, sure, he could have absolutely no relevance to anything Tremaine was interested in. But what if he was the key, the connection? Could it be that Roger Gale had a drug habit, and Dean Latham and Kelly Burch B O D Y C O P Y
somehow played a part in that? Kelly being into drugs.
Roger Gale being, at the very least, mysterious. The medical examiners didn’t find anything in Roger Gale’s blood during the autopsy, but maybe Roger Gale owed a drug debt from the past. Maybe he’d kicked but never paid off his suppliers. Or maybe Kelly Burch and Dean Latham were somehow connected to the karate place. The karate place where Gale may or may not have enjoyed a sex show.
Jesus
, Tremaine thought,
who knows?
It could be anything or nothing. The more Tremaine thought about it, the closer he came to actually confronting Dean Latham, the less likely it seemed. His mind just kept going back to the most sensible possibility. The one that Lopez had ribbed him about. That he was chasing a bunk hunch.
Tremaine was cruising down Santa Monica, just looking around at the buzz of Hollywood on the weekend, when his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number but didn’t worry about it, either. He just picked up the phone and said, “Tremaine.”
“It’s Vicky Fong.”
“Hi, Vicky. What’s up?”
“You know how I was saying I needed to clean up that storage room a little? The one where all the boxes were?”
“Yeah,” Tremaine said. “But I gotta be honest, I didn’t think it looked too bad.”
“Oh, yes it did. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
Both Tremaine and Vicky knew that’s not why she was calling, but neither one of them acknowledged that fact.
It was a segue to something else, just a piece of innocuous conversation.
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“I found something when I was cleaning up. I think you should come over and see.”
“I’m actually near your apartment,” Tremaine said. “I’ll be right there.”
Vicky was waiting for Tremaine, the door to her building already open when he pulled up. He got out of his car, walked into the building, then into her apartment.
Vicky stood in her living room anticipating his arrival, like before, but this time she held an envelope in her hand.
She said, “Hi, Donald.”
“Hi, Vicky.”
“I found this when I was straightening up. There was an old guitar case in there, I guess it was Kelly’s. It’s just been sitting in there and I thought it belonged to one of the other tenants, but I wanted to check. So, I opened it up and took out the guitar. And behind it was this envelope, just loose in there.”
She handed it to Tremaine. Just like before with the box, he went in the adjoining kitchen and sat down at the table.
He opened up the envelope and inside it there were two letters. Tremaine pulled them out, splayed them out on the table, and looked at them. Both typed. And both with the same signature, in blue pen, at the bottom.
I love you, Dean,
they both were signed.
Tremaine read the letters.
After no more than two sentences, Tremaine realized they were what he figured they were: love letters to Kelly.
They were intense, well written, and overtly sexual. Riddled, in fact, with references to sex, and the incredible, intense sex between the two of them. But there was a sweetness to the letters, too—Dean saying he truly loved her, that they’d be 234
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together one day, that he felt, looking at her across a table at a crowded restaurant, that he was alone on the planet, alone with just her.
Tremaine finished the letters and turned to Vicky, who was standing there, still and quiet. Tremaine said, “Dean Latham. I’m on my way to see him.”
“Does this help you?” Vicky said.
“Yeah, it does,” Tremaine said.
He didn’t know quite how it helped, but he knew it did.
“Thank you, Vicky. Thank you for calling.”
“You’re welcome,” Vicky said, standing there, still, like a little statue.
Tremaine pulled the Cutlass into the Country Store right there on Laurel Canyon, right near the road that would take him up to Dean Latham’s. Tremaine went in—what a great little old-fashioned grocery store—bought himself a bottled water and replenished his smokes, thinking it might be nice to have a smoke on the way home and think things over. He got back in his car, and before he cranked her up, he put the love letters in his glove. He wasn’t going to take them in to Dean’s house with him. He wasn’t going to show Dean what he had. No, this visit was just to feel things out.
Tremaine pulled out of the Country Store and headed up Laurel Canyon for a stoplight, then hung the Cutlass left onto Lookout Mountain, then up, up, up into the Hollywood Hills. Way up on the left was 2512, plenty of parking, too.
There was a tall fence surrounding Latham’s yard, but 235
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the gate wasn’t locked, so Tremaine opened it and went in. Inside, there was a big yard with a garden. The house was a small, cottage-type house toward the back of the lot.
This wasn’t the home of a rich man. But it was a nice, well kept house tucked deep in the famous Hollywood Hills, a neighborhood many people loved and most people associ-ated with high-quality, hip living. Houses, bungalows, even mansions, all tucked away amid the trees and the hills. It was like living on a mini-mountain, right in L.A. Tremaine looked around the yard, nice, but, Tremaine thought, too land-locked for me, you’re looking at an hour minimum before you’re in the ocean . . .
There were three steps up to the front door, but before Tremaine got there, it swung open and there was Dean Latham. About five-ten, short dark hair, but a hip cut, glasses, and a little heavy, a little out of shape. Probably forty-five.
Tremaine studied Latham. Just standing there on his front stoop wearing a silk robe over his pants and shirt, holding in his right hand a drink, looked like booze.
Jesus, Tremaine thought, guy’s in his pajamas.
“Donald Tremaine,” Latham said.
Tremaine nodded.
“You’re the surfer.”
Tremaine nodded again.
“I’m a movie producer. My company, my
former
company, wanted to do a surfing movie years ago, so we all did a little research on surfers. I remember your name.”
Tremaine gave the obligatory polite smile. Then Latham said, “Come in.”
As they walked in, Latham said, “Sorry about the mess.”
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But it wasn’t too bad, Tremaine noticed. Vicky Fong might think it was a mess, but it was really just a little disheveled. The house was dark—dark walls, dark furniture. There was a lot of Japanese art on the walls, mixed with big sprawling movie posters all over the place. Mostly old movies—Bogart pictures. Cary Grant pictures. Billy Wilder films. It was an odd combination, Japanese art and Hollywood posters . . .
“Do you still produce movies?” Tremaine said.
“Are you implying that I’m washed up?” Latham said with a wry grin.
“You said your ‘former company.’ I think
you
implied it.”
Latham plopped down on a big couch, let out a big exaggerated breath and took a sip of his drink. “I really don’t produce anymore. It’s been years since I’ve had a deal with any studio. But in this business, you’re only one script away.”
Latham stared straight ahead for a minute, like he was thinking about his career, his former career, then said to Tremaine, “Can I get you a drink?”
“No, thanks,” Tremaine said.
Latham looked at Tremaine and said, “So, what do you want to know?”
“Are you married?” Tremaine said, wondering if there might be a spouse around.
“Used to be. Divorced. Twice. No kids.” Then Latham said, “So, who got killed?”
Tremaine looked at Dean Latham. There was a kind of confidence to this bizarre man. He sported the robe and the cocktail. Kind of relished talking about his present 237
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failures, as if to suggest he used to be a big shot. Probably had some dough and was content to sit up here in his house and drink booze and watch movies. Yeah, this guy had some stories, this guy’s seen some late nights. But was he a bad guy? Couldn’t tell yet. Not from simple chit-chat.
Tremaine said, “Two people got killed. I want to ask you about both of them. One of them went by the name of Kelly Burch. Do you know anybody by that name?”
Dean Latham took a sip of his drink and then contorted his face as if to show Tremaine he was really thinking and then said, “No. Who was she?”
“She was an out-of-work actress who lived not too far from here.”
“So why are you asking me about her?”
“Kelly Burch was in contact with a man named Dean Latham.”
“Hmm,” Latham said. “Wasn’t me.”
“You’ve never heard the name Kelly Burch?” Tremaine asked.
“Like I said, no,” Dean said, this time quickly. “Who was the other person?”
“The other person was a man named Roger Gale.”
“The ad guy?”
“That’s right.
“I remember reading about his murder. They never caught the guy who killed him?”
“No, they never arrested anyone. Guy or girl.”
“Is there a connection between Roger Gale and the girl?”
“Kelly Burch,” Tremaine said.
“Right,” Latham said.
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“I don’t know,” Tremaine said. “Did you ever meet Roger Gale?”
“No. Read about him. Even before he was killed. But never met him. That’s an interesting thing about this town.
You would think that there would be more communica-tion between the ad business and show business. But there isn’t. Two industries, both dedicated in many ways to pop culture. But not much interaction. I remember reading about Roger Gale and thinking, there’s a guy with a big brain full of ideas. And I remember wondering whether he cared about Hollywood.”
“But you never met him?”
“No. I would have liked to.”
Tremaine studied Dean Latham. The guy seemed calm, almost interested in keeping the conversation going. No nerves. Maybe some loneliness, though. Might be one of those guys who tries to keep the telemarketers on the line.
Tremaine looked around the room the two of them sat in. Lots of pictures of people, friends and family probably, but not many pictures of Dean Latham, not many pictures of himself. Unusual, Tremaine thought, most of these Hollywood guys like to have their likeness all over the place.
“Not many pictures of you around here.”
“No,” Latham said. “They depress me. I’m not one of those people who likes to have a photo library of all that was.”
“Live in the moment.”
“Right.”
Tremaine informed Dean Latham of the week that both Roger Gale and Kelly Burch were killed. And then he 239
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asked him if he could remember what he was doing that week, what he was up to.