Perfect Sax (14 page)

“No. She lived alone. I know that for sure. But I saw her bring a lot of guys around, let me tell you. Suits, I would call them. Johns, probably.” And then Arnie let Waldo into his apartment and quietly shut the door.

I
’m parked in front of Albert Grasso’s house,” I told Wes. I was calling in from my cell phone. I had meant to simply drive by on Iris Circle to assure that the blasted box of papers had been safely found and brought inside. “The box is still sitting there.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” Wes suggested. “No one has stolen them.”

“Yes. I suppose.”

“And if you were concerned that Grasso was going nuts trying to get his hands on them again, this should reassure you that they are just, simply, a box of old papers. Nothing very pressing about them.”

“Yes.”

“But?”

“I found a good parking spot,” I said to Wes, getting out of the red rental SUV. “So I’m just going to look around the property.”

“MAD!”

“Wesley, I’m right up the street. The sun is shining. This will take ten minutes, tops. If you want, just walk up here and join me.” I pressed the end button on my cell phone before hearing his reply.

There was a short brick path to the front door of Albert
Grasso’s large stucco house. As on so many of the upscale residential streets in the Hollywood Hills, space was at a premium. The tightly packed homes on Iris Circle were set right on the street, all hugging the curb. While these homes lacked much in the way of front yards, there was a trade-off. Sloping hillside lots, such as these, provided wonderful rearward-facing views of the local canyons. Neighbors looked down upon scattered red-tile rooftops and aquamarine swimming pools, partially hidden by the feathery greens and grays of bushy palms and yucca trees and thick, spiky century plants.

Albert Grasso’s home was a large, English affair in the Tudor Revival style so popular in Southern California in the twenties and thirties. Wes had educated me on all the charming “faux” architectural details of that period, since older L.A. homes are his passion. The fanciful, storybook style of Grasso’s house, with its steep, complex roofline and smallpaned windows, was a version of Tudor Revival called the Cotswold cottage. His was quite a terrific specimen, although it looked in need of a serious rehab.

I approached the front entrance and rang the bell, hearing its muffled ring echo in the quiet interior. No one came to the door. I put my hands up to shield the sun from reflecting off the leaded-glass pane in the door. The old glass caused the image to blur, but I could see only the dark entry hall.

The floor plan of these Cotswold cottages tends to include numerous small, irregularly shaped rooms, and the upper rooms have sloping walls with dormers. I looked up but all was quiet. I checked more closely around the front of the house, walking to the side. There, I found the low gate had no lock. I unlatched it easily and followed the path around the corner to the backyard. I admired the home’s cedarshingle roof, even though I knew it wasn’t considered firesafe anymore for hillside homes to have them. Fires could
spread too easily, cinders flying from roof to roof. But Wes had told me those who owned these older houses were exempt from the new ordinances, at least until it was time to reroof. I guessed that Albert Grasso had been in this house a long time.

I was soon standing on the back patio, checking out Albert’s dusty potted garden, admiring the huge hot-pink-flowered bougainvillea bush growing all over the back of his garage, noting his pavers could use some sweeping, taking in his fabulous canyon view. All was quiet, save the swishing sound of a neighbor’s sprinklers. All was perfectly peaceful. As long as I was there, I thought I might as well knock on the back door. Perhaps Albert was working in a quieter part of the house and hadn’t yet heard me.

On the back door was a note in fine printing. It read:
ENTER
—
STUDIO DOWN THE HALL
.

I knocked. No response. And then I tried the door handle. The doorknob turned easily in my hand. Without thinking, I entered Albert Grasso’s dark kitchen.

Grasso must expect his students to let themselves in. I had an idea. Perhaps I should just go get that carton of papers and photos and leave them here, inside the kitchen door. Much safer.

I strode outside and rounded the corner, around front where the massive stucco chimney dominated the right side of the house. I grabbed the cardboard box that had once held champagne bottles and trotted back to the kitchen door. Once inside, I felt better. Surely Grasso would appreciate that I’d done my best to protect his bloody files. I could detect faint sounds now, coming from deeper in the house. Music. Singing. He’d find it all when his session was over.

But after I’d put up with Grasso’s extreme drama at the Black & White Ball, not to mention suffering a visit from Caroline on Albert Grasso’s behalf, to let this incident go
without giving the man a chance to apologize in person felt, well, unfinished. As the music continued in the background, I stood there, considering.

Grasso was down the hall in some almost-soundproof studio, working on his music, no doubt. Why shouldn’t I let him know I was here? I called out, “Mr. Grasso!”

There was no reply, so I stepped a little farther into the kitchen. A thin shaft of sun shone through the curtains and lit up a slice of the fairly nice-size room, although it was one that had not been remodeled since the fifties, if I was to guess. This was the sort of fixer house that would get Wesley’s creative juices flowing. Perhaps when all this business was settled and behind us, Albert Grasso would give Wes a tour.

I stepped into the back hall, calling more loudly: “Excuse me! Mr. Grasso! It’s Madeline Bean. Are you here?”

The music I heard was coming from this rear hallway. One of the rooms at the far end had its door closed. That must be the room Grasso used as his recording studio. Here, I could more clearly hear the music. It was the sound of a young woman’s voice going over the same musical phrase. The song was familiar. “Dancing Queen.” I had seen the musical version of
Mamma Mia!
in Las Vegas with Holly and Wesley. We’d loved it. Maybe Grasso was coaching a performer from one of the road companies.

I was just outside the door now, and it was fascinating how Grasso would give an instruction and the singer would repeat the phrase. In fact, now that I was just outside the door, I realized she was singing the word
li-i-i-fe,
over and over. She had a rich clear voice. And then I saw that the door wasn’t completely shut. I knocked, gently so as not to startle them, but the door swung open.

It was then that I realized my mistake. There was no vocal student in Albert Grasso’s recording studio. It was only a
voice on his Mac, playing and replaying a digital file. Her voice sang out again, “Li-i-i-fe.” And yet the room was not entirely empty.

Albert Grasso was sitting in an easy chair, his headphones askew. His eyes were open. His posture was slumped. A dark red stain ran down his forehead. A bullet had gone straight through his head.

T
he rest of the day went by in a blur.

Wesley had arrived almost immediately. He had already been on his way to Grasso’s house to see what was keeping me. Together, we called Honnett and then he took care of the rest.

I spoke to the homicide detectives, Baronowski and Hilts, again, as they had been assigned to investigate the new Grasso murder. The police department couldn’t ignore the possible connection between two deaths within two blocks in the same quiet neighborhood. The media were making a big stink. Our homeowners association was on the warpath, asking men in Whitley Heights to patrol the streets.

I tried to read between the lines as the investigators told Wes and me we could leave Grasso’s house, but we were not to leave the city. As we walked down to my house, I worried to Wesley about how the cops had reacted. There I was, somehow connected to two deaths of people I barely knew. I had felt their eyes on me, reassessing. Wesley told me I was imagining things, but he is not to be counted on for the harsh truth when there is the least temptation to sugarcoat something.

Wes had made a few good points. It helped some that I had been up front with the cops all along, telling Detective
Baronowski what I was up to. I had left several messages about my theories, about my visit from Caroline Rochette and her plunge into the pool, and I had dropped off copies of Grasso’s papers. I had frankly told the cops everything. Everything, that is, except my penchant for spur-of-the-moment breaking and entering.

I smiled feebly at Wesley. “I haven’t been arrested yet.”

“Mad,” he said, facing me seriously, giving my problems his full attention. “Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry,” I repeated.

“Be happy.”

“Don’t worry. Be happy. I’m working on those.”

Wes and Holly and I spent what was left of the day in the office, returning phone calls and paying bills. We were not our usual joking selves. Honnett came by to check up on me after spending most of the day on the periphery of the new investigation on Iris Circle. He couldn’t or wouldn’t tell us much about what was going on there. Wes took the cue to grab Holly and run out to do some errands, leaving me alone with Honnett on the back patio.

“You hate me,” I said to Honnett. “I keep getting mixed up with dead people. This has got to hurt you with your coworkers, you knowing a girl like me.”

When he sat down next to me on a teak bench, he sat closer than I would have expected, what with our relationship in suspended animation.

“How could I hate you?” he asked, watching me, checking me out closely. “You look like hell.”

“Ah.” I laughed. Not the complimentary sort, my guy Honnett. But observant. “The pity vote. And the sad thing is, I am grateful for it.”

He laughed at that.

“But now, Honnett, I have to ask a big favor. As you know,
two people have ended up dead. Shot. And as hard as I’ve tried, I can’t figure out what’s happening.”

“It will get itself sorted out,” he said.

“Someday. Maybe.” I chewed my lip and then caught myself acting anxious and stopped it. “Maybe it’s this house. Maybe it’s some instinct. But I don’t feel safe anymore.”

“You’re not staying here, are you?”

“No, but anyone who is looking for me can find me at Wesley’s house.” I shivered, even though the late afternoon was still warm. “Why are all these people dying? I feel like some shadow is following me, something I should see, and I’m just too dense to figure it out. I’m…nervous about staying at Wesley’s house,” I admitted. “What if I bring this trouble to him?”

We sat there quietly, Honnett and me. He looked deeply into my eyes and took a breath. “Move in with me.”

“What?”

“I am not staying with Sherrie anymore.”

“Since when?”

“I moved out the other night. We are not going to make it. She understands.”

I nodded, but was more confused than before. He had left his wife again, he was telling me. But I wasn’t happy. He left his sick wife. That made me feel like dancing all right.

“Maddie, I think you should stay with me.”

“I can’t.”

He stared at me. “Why not?”

“Where can I start here?”

We looked at each other, both a little wounded. I found it hard to stay focused, sitting there beside him. The physical closeness reminded me of our short time together as a couple. It had only been a few months, but we had gotten to that point of comfort with our bodies, comfort in knowing each
other’s points of pleasure, and the electricity between us was even now still hot. It was dangerous sitting so close to a former boyfriend. So many doors, previously opened, seemed to beckon. One step, one easy step. Back in his life, back in his arms, back in his bed.

“Why not?” he persisted, putting his arm around my shoulder. “I’d take care of you.”

I shook my head.

“Why not?”

“It’s not right. I wouldn’t be comfortable. You are married. I’m dating someone new. Pick one.”

Honnett pulled away and put his hand in the pocket of his jacket. Then he lifted his head and met my eyes. “So you want me to back off?”

“I don’t know what I want to do with you,” I said.

His eyes stayed on mine.

“You had your reasons for doing what you did. You were worried about your wife’s health. That’s honorable, Honnett.”

He smiled a sad smile. “Honorable.”

Our situation had become irreparably complicated and he seemed to be asking me for simple answers. I tried again. “Look, it’s nice of you to offer to share your apartment. It’s nice you want to look out for me. But don’t you know me better than that? Don’t you know how important it is for me to be strong on my own?”

He shook his head. “You
are
strong, Maddie. But do you have to think so damned much all the time? Can’t you go with your gut, here?”

“My gut?”

He nodded.

“My gut tells me stay away from you.”

He exhaled. I thought he had run out of things to say, but then he finally asked, “Why?”

I looked at his intelligent blue eyes, his long legs tucked
under the bench, and exhaled. “I’ve already been hurt enough, Honnett. It’s enough. You say you’ve left your wife again. You’ve moved out for good. But what does that really mean? We can’t just start up again like before. You’re not really free. These entanglements have a nasty habit of hanging on to us. They take time to resolve. And your wife, she’s been sick, right? And she probably hasn’t been working. So whose medical insurance is she on?”

He looked at me, but didn’t answer.

Health insurance ruled the universe. No one asks a woman in chemo to give up her husband
and
her medical coverage. That’s inhuman. And then, there was the real state of Honnett’s feelings to consider. Right now he wanted to protect me, but he had also wanted to take care of her. The time had come to call him on it.

“You may have moved out, but I know you still have feelings for her,” I said slowly. “You do. So stop pretending you are here for me. You aren’t. That’s the truth.”

He nodded and we sat there for a while, the sun moving far to the west and behind the house next door, leaving us in that perfect late-afternoon light.

“You look sad, Maddie,” he said, brushing my hair off my face.

“I’ve been sad about us for a long time,” I said softly. “First, I was pretty angry. Did some foolish things. That passed.” He didn’t comment and I went on. “So in a lot of ways, you are the last person I want to turn to for help right now, but the truth is, I do need you.”

“Anything.”

“I have given this a lot of thought. I want you to believe me, Chuck.”

“Okay.” He waited.

“Two people died. I don’t know why. And now I don’t believe I am safe.”

He didn’t challenge me or try to talk me out of my fears. He simply asked, “What can I do?”

I stood up and walked to the edge of my patio, grabbing a couple of bottles of water from a cooler, before I turned back to him. “I need a gun.”

“What?”

“A gun. You know.” I handed him one of the bottles of water. “A gun.”

“Do you know how to shoot one?”

“No.”

“Maddie, you aren’t making any sense. First, you can never get a concealed carry permit. You will probably end up getting yourself into trouble. If you aren’t going—”

“Hey. Stop. Time out.”

He stopped, but gave me a very concerned look.

“I need to be able to protect myself. Just in case. Look, I’m staying out at Wesley’s guest house. What if someone tries to get in? I mean, look what happened to Sara Jackson and Albert Grasso. They were inside houses and they were both shot to death.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t want to believe I was in danger.

“You told me to listen to my gut earlier; well, this is what my gut is telling me to do. I can’t get through this night and the next night and the next. I won’t be able to stand it. I need protection.”

“You want me to come over to Wesley’s every night and guard you? Because I will.”

“I need to protect myself, Honnett.”

“You want a gun? You?” Honnett looked upset.

“Why not me? I can go to the shooting range and practice. It can’t be that hard.”

“No, it’s not hard. It’s just so not you.”

“Don’t bet on it. I need a gun, Honnett.”

“You can buy one, I guess,” he said, not convinced.

“That takes weeks, doesn’t it?”

“You go in and pick out your gun and do the paperwork. The state just passed a bill that requires you to take a safety course and pass an exam. And then California has a two-week waiting period.”

I looked at him, frustrated. “That’s what I’m saying. Maybe I don’t have two weeks. Maybe someone will be knocking down my bedroom door tomorrow night, Honnett. I want a gun now.”

He looked down to see my hands clenched around the seat of the bench. I loosened them immediately, trying to appear less worked up and insane.

“Look,” I said, “can’t you lend me a gun? Until I can get my own. Maybe I’ll like what you give me and I can buy one just like it.”

He looked at me.

“See, I don’t know who else to turn to. I don’t know that many people who might have a gun. We’re kind of a peaceful crowd. And I figured you would understand about weapons.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a real ‘gunnie,’ Madeline. I don’t have dozens of firearms stored in my basement bunker, whatever you may think of me.”

“Can you lend me a gun or not?” I asked, staring at him, waiting. He had let me down before, so I was just thinking about what I would do if he refused to help me now.

“All right. I’ll bring you a gun. But only on the condition that you let me show you how to clean it and store it and that you really do take that safety course and go out to a pistol range and get some serious, professional instruction.”

“Thank you, Chuck,” I said, burying my face into his shoulder, hugging him hard. “I’ll be fine. I’ll practice. I’ll just have it for an emergency, you know?”

“Okay,” he said, hugging me back, but I could feel he wasn’t as happy about the gun as I was.

“Can we go get it now?” I asked.

He looked at me, uneasy. “I’ll bring it to you at Wesley’s.”

“When?”

“How about an hour, an hour and a half?”

“No later, okay?”

He kept looking at me. “And you promise you won’t take risks. You won’t take it out with you. You won’t—”

“Honnett! I won’t get you in trouble. I’ll be good.”

We stood up. Honnett looked apprehensive. Me, I practiced looking like an angel. An angel who would soon have a gun.