Pie A La Murder (30 page)

There was a second’s pause on her end before she asked, “Trouble in paradise?”

“No, but it’s a complicated time.”

“A surprise teenage daughter and an ex-wife on the scene, and now two murders? I’d say ‘complicated’ is an understatement. I’ll call you.” As usual, she hung up without saying good-bye.

I put the car in gear and drove a few blocks away from the police station before I stopped to use my phone again. Guessing that Olivia would be talking to Nicholas on his landline, I called his cell.

Four rings and the call went to voice mail. “I’m in my car and I have to talk to you,” I said to the recording.

In less than a minute, Nicholas called back. “What are you doing driving around so late?”

“Do you know about what happened to Gretchen Tully?”

“Of course I do. Just about everyone who’s still working at the paper has been called in. The front page is being torn apart for the murder story, with a feature piece inside about Gretchen. I can’t work on the story because I’ve been exiled to the rewrite desk until I’m no longer under suspicion.”

I told him about Gretchen’s unexpected visit, and how I’d persuaded her to look into the Redding murder. “I wanted to tell you about it last week, but you were out of touch. By the time you came to the house Sunday night, so much else had happened that I forgot about her. Are you at the office now?”

“I’m in my car, on my way to Gretchen’s apartment. If the police haven’t got there yet, I’m going to see if I can find out what she was doing that could have gotten her killed.”

“Are you crazy? What if the police think she might have been murdered at her place? They’ll be all over it.”

“I just checked. The lead detective is Val Keller. He’s still canvassing at the Olympia Grand.”

“I met him. He has the personality of a shark with a toothache. Tell me where Gretchen lived and I’ll meet you there.”

“No, Della—”

“Don’t fight me on this. Give me the address.”

“You’re crazy,” he said.

“Probably. What’s her address?”

I heard him sigh with resignation. “Four Twenty-three Hollywood Boulevard, just east of Laurel Canyon. I went through her desk at the office and found her spare key,” he said.

When I got to Gretchen Tully’s address, the first thing I looked for was—mercifully, absent—police or SID vehicles.

Gretchen lived in a three-story pink stucco apartment building on the north side of Hollywood Boulevard, in a line of small but well-kept multitenant structures. The apartment house had a name displayed in large letters above the main entrance: “The Holly Woods.” That was either an intentional pun, or an odd name for a building flanked by palm trees surrounded by low-lying flower beds, a landscaping choice that didn’t remotely resemble a “woods.”

There was an empty space a few doors east of the entrance. I pulled into it just as I saw Nicholas park his silver Maserati on the opposite side of Hollywood Boulevard. His wasn’t the perfect vehicle for going housebreaking, but at least he managed to wedge it in between two SUVs. He wasn’t near the streetlight, so his car wouldn’t be easy to spot unless one was looking for it.

After grabbing my flashlight from the glove compartment, I hurried to meet him in front of number 423.

Nicholas had a flashlight, too; he carried it down along the side of his thigh, pointing toward the ground, the way detectives carry their weapons when they don’t want it to be obvious that they’re armed.

We saw a pair of headlights coming toward us fast and stepped into the darkness close to the outside wall, behind a palm tree. To my relief, the car zoomed past us and swung right into Laurel Canyon.

Nicholas took something from his jacket pocket. When he opened his hand I saw he had two pairs of thin latex gloves, the kind worn by surgeons, detectives, medical examiners—and your smarter burglars.

“I stopped at an all-night drugstore on the way here,” he whispered.

I gave him a thumbs-up sign and he smiled.

We slipped on the gloves and he pointed to a narrow flagstone path running along the side of Gretchen’s building, concealed from the neighboring apartment house by a tall hedge.

“Her place is the ground floor rear, garden apartment on this side,” Nicholas whispered. “Let’s hope there’s no alarm system.” He gestured for me to follow him.

We didn’t need our flashlights on the path because the moon provided enough illumination until we reached Gretchen Tully’s door. Back there, the building next door blocked the moon and plunged us into inky blackness.

I shielded part of my flashlight’s beam and aimed it at the door. “No burglar alarm keypad,” I whispered.

“Turn off the light.”

I did, and in the darkness I heard the faint scrape of metal against metal, followed by a barely perceptible click.

Nicholas pushed the door open wide enough to enter. I followed him inside and quietly closed the door behind us.

We stood still, side by side, barely breathing. Listening. After a full minute during which we heard no sound inside the apartment, Nicholas snapped on his flashlight. He had it pointed down, toward the floor. I did the same, although I aimed my beam just a little higher.

As my eyes became accustomed to the minimal light, I saw that we were in a small living room. To the left, there was a kitchenette along the wall. It could be concealed by a screen, but the screen was folded back, exposing the stove, sink, counter space, and refrigerator. At the end of the room there was a sliding-glass door that opened onto a private patio. A shaft of moonlight showed the outline of two reclining chairs with a tiny table between them. Against the back wall of the patio were several large pots with some kind of plants in them.

There were two doors off to the right. The far one opened onto the bathroom and the nearer led to the bedroom. The space between the doors had been made into a little office area: a desk with a computer on it, a chair, and a two-drawer filing cabinet on the floor next to the desk.

By unspoken signals, we agreed that Nicholas should take the desk and I would go into the bedroom.

There was a window in the bedroom, but it was covered by slatted shutters. They were closed, but if I turned on a lamp bars of light would be visible from the outside. Partly shielding my flashlight’s beam with one hand, I surveyed the room: a double bed, made up with a floral-patterned comforter. Above the comforter were two pillows; both of them looked slept-on. So Gretchen either didn’t live alone, or had had a recent visitor.

There was a small table on either side of the bed, each with a lamp. Several thick books were on one surface. A copy of
Sports Illustrated
was on the other. Definitely, two people shared this bed. I didn’t know anything about her personal life, but she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring when she visited me.

An old-fashioned bureau with a mirror on top faced the bed. The bureau’s surface held two sets of combs and hairbrushes. One set was similar to what I had at home. Next to that was a pair of “military style” brushes that I guessed must belong to the man in Gretchen’s life.

Firmly shutting off that line of thought, I concentrated on looking for anything that might tell me who she was investigating.

I pulled the top drawer of the bureau open just enough to see that it contained female underwear and stockings, and only those things. The second drawer held sweaters, T-shirts, socks, and workout clothes. Kneeling down, I found that the bottom drawer was full of men’s sweaters, shirts, and underwear. Nothing hidden beneath the folded stacks.

As I straightened, the beam of my light caught something shiny on top of the bureau, beside an open box of facial tissues. Back against the bottom of the mirror was an object I hadn’t noticed during my first quick survey of the surface. It was a small silver picture frame. I picked it up to look closely and saw a picture of a man and a woman, smiling in sunlight, arms around each other. The young woman in the photo was Gretchen.

When I realized who the man was, I had to suppress a gasp.

Clutching the photo, I hissed, “Nicholas, come see what I found.”

He appeared in the doorway and held up an eight-inch-by-eleven-inch manila envelope.

“This was taped under her desk,” he whispered. “Look what’s in it.”

Our heads together, we bent over the top of the dresser to prevent the light from our torches from leaking out through the window. Nicholas pulled several pages out of the envelope; they were lists of phone numbers. I recognized immediately what these lists were, but before I could say anything, a hard voice behind us commanded:

“Hold it right there!”

The person flicked on the wall switch and the room was flooded with light.

“Put your hands up and turn around.”

I pivoted to see the barrel of a 9mm pistol pointed at us.

And above that weapon, I saw a familiar face.

The man holding the 9mm was as surprised to see us as we were to see him.

He mumbled, “Oh, crap.”

I said, “Officer Downey.” Downey was the big blond farm boy who was one of the first two uniforms on the scene of the Redding murder.

Nicholas recognized him, too. “Downey? What are you doing here?”

“Look.” I showed Nicholas the photograph of Gretchen and Downey, arms around each other, and said, “Now I know who Gretchen’s ‘source’ in the LAPD is.”
Was.
Past tense. That word caused a fresh pang of guilt in my heart.

Nicholas brandished the pages from the manila envelope. “So that’s how she got a copy of the Reddings’ phone call lists. Put your weapon away, son.”

Downey lowered the pistol and replaced it in his holster; he was still in uniform, but perhaps for not much longer.

“Leaking information on a police investigation can cost you your badge,” Nicholas said
.

Downey’s eyes started to water. He wiped them with the back of his hand. “I wasn’t betraying the department. I mean, it’s not like I was selling stuff to bad guys. All I did was try to help Gretch.” He sank down onto the edge of the bed and put his face in his hands, a picture of dejection.

“What else did you give her?” Nicholas asked.

“Nothing. Just a copy of the phone dumps.”

I asked, “When was the last time you saw Gretchen?”

“This morning—I mean yesterday morning. Tuesday. She was studying the phone numbers when I left to go to the gym.”

“Can you prove you were at the gym?”

“Sure. Everybody saw me. Wait a minute—you don’t think I killed her. Do you?” He stared at me, horrified, his face gray.

I said gently, “We’re just trying to sort things out.”

“When did you get back to the apartment?” Nicholas asked.

His eyes were watering again. “About eleven. Gretch was gone. She said she’d try to be here so we could have lunch together. I lay down to wait for her. When I woke up it was almost three and she wasn’t back. I had to hustle because I’m on the four to midnight.”

Nicholas said, “Do the cops know you two were living together?”

Downey shook his head. “No. I was just coming off duty when I heard about—heard her name. I didn’t believe it. I came right here. . . .”

“They’re going to find out about the two of you, and you’ll be under suspicion unless you can account for your time yesterday before you went on duty,” I said. “Can you?”

He frowned in thought, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “I was at the gym from eight o’clock. Lots of people saw me. I worked out with some guys. I told you I came home about eleven and fell asleep. When I woke up, I was hungry. I called Barry—that’s my partner, Officer Willis. We met at the Burger King near the station right about three fifteen. While we were eating, Gretch called, all excited. Said she was on her way to see somebody and would tell me about it when I got home. She wanted me to be sure to wake her up if she was sleeping.”