Pie A La Murder (34 page)

The police theory was that she had been murdered in a different location. It meant that whoever killed her had to move her car away from where she had been parked. It seemed logical to me that it hadn’t been moved too far away, or how could the killer have returned to his or her own vehicle, or residence, without using public transportation? He or she could have had an accomplice, but my guess was that Gretchen’s murder was a spontaneous reaction to a perceived threat, not something planned in advance.

Of course all of this was conjecture. I had no evidence, but trying to find Gretchen’s car was at least something proactive I could do. It beat staying home and worrying.

Driving east from my home in Santa Monica, I reached Brentwood first and began a slow cruise up and down streets, looking for that white Toyota Camry.

There were quite a few of them; I hadn’t realized what a popular vehicle it was.

Each time I spotted one, I stopped to read the license number. Just in case the plate had been switched with one from another car, I also looked for mismatched taillights.

This went on, block after block, for nearly an hour when my cell phone rang. A glance at the faceplate indicated it was Olivia, returning my call.

My phone was hands-free, but fearing I might miss Gretchen’s car if I tried talking and searching at the same time, I pulled over next to a fire hydrant and cut the motor.

When I answered, Olivia asked briskly, “What’s up?”

I told her that Nicholas and I had searched Gretchen Tully’s apartment in Hollywood and what we’d found.

“Nick filled me in about your little midnight B and E stunt. It was a stupid risk.”

“We didn’t
break
and enter because Nicholas had a key. We just entered.”

I went on to explain that I’d made a chart of the Reddings’ phone calls from the lists that Nicholas had found taped to the underside of her desk.

“Here’s why I called you,” I said. “Part One: I’d like to share with John what I’ve put together because I think it would help him, but I don’t know how to do that without destroying the police officer who stole the phone lists for Gretchen. Part Two: I want to know if John and Keller have found out anything that would eliminate Nicholas, Celeste, Tanis, Prince Freddie, Roxanne Redding, or Galen Light from suspicion of the Redding murder.”

“Part Two is easy to answer. No, they haven’t come up with anyone outside their viable suspect list. No jealous husbands, nobody to whom it would be dangerous to owe money, no women scorned.”

That was a surprise. “I don’t believe he was Mr. Clean.”

“Oh, no—he’d been a naughty boy. Redding sowed his ‘wild oats’ pretty liberally until about six months ago, but there’s no indication his wife knew about it. I have to give O’Hara and Weaver credit—they did a thorough job of questioning people who worked for the Reddings, their neighbors, and their business associates. Nobody saw or heard signs of marital discord. Everybody thought the Reddings were a happy couple. Several volunteered that they envied them, and thought the harmony was because Roxanne and Alec worked together. Of course, nobody knows what goes on behind closed doors.”

I told Olivia about Redding’s calls to the erectile dysfunction doctor.

“That could be why Redding-the-player quit playing; he was benched, so to speak.” Her tone was wry.

“Do they suspect Nicholas of killing Gretchen Tully?”

“Good news there. Nick was at the paper during the hours when Gretchen could have been killed. A dozen people saw him, worked with him. No way he could have slipped out, even if he had a motive to murder her, and nobody at the
Chronicle
thinks he did. But the not-good news is that Detective Keller is trying to get the two murders unlinked and treated as separate cases.”

“That’s ridiculous. How could he imagine they’re not connected?”

“I don’t know how his mind works, but he’s a glory hound who wants to clear the Tully case and knows he can’t pin it on Nick. He’s been grilling her boyfriend’s partner, Officer Willis, all day, trying to get him to say that Willis and Downey weren’t together for their whole shift.”

“Do you know if he succeeded?”

“I was still at Butler when he finally let Willis go. From the expression on their two faces, I could tell Keller struck out.” Olivia chuckled. “That Willis is one tough cookie. I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up chief someday, and if I were Keller, I’d damn well pray he doesn’t. Keller could find himself back in uniform, in one of those areas where white cops aren’t popular. Look, we’re wasting time. Re your Part One: Let me think about how to approach O’Hara regarding an informal deal for an information exchange. I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks, Olivia.”

She disconnected, and I continued cruising for one particular white Camry.

Another hour later, on a residential street called Mid-vale, south of Wilshire Boulevard, I found the car I’d been searching for. The right plate number and mismatched taillights. I’d almost missed it because it was parked under a tree that had shed leaves and purple berries all over it.

I steered the Jeep into the space between the back of the Toyota and the beginning of someone’s driveway and was about to get out when I remembered that I still had the latex burglar gloves. I glanced around to be sure no one was watching me. All clear. Slipping the gloves on, I approached the Camry and peered in through the driver’s side window.

Gretchen didn’t keep a “neat house” in her car. The front seat had several slips of paper, an empty McDonald’s box, a bottle of water, a
Thomas Guide
for Los Angeles, and an accordion-style map of Southern California that had been folded into a square.

I expected that the car would be locked, but I tried the door handle anyway.

The door opened.

A set of car keys lay on the floor below the driver’s seat, beside the gas pedal. I left them there; I had no intention of driving it, nor of getting in because I didn’t want to disturb any evidence—fibers, possibly, or traces of blood—that SID techs were equipped to find.

By bending over the front seat I saw that the road map had been folded, with a red highlighter tracing the route to San Clemente. April Zane lived in San Clemente. It looked as though Gretchen had thought it worthwhile to visit the actress whom Alec Redding had been phoning late at night. But had she actually made the long trip south—or was that something she had planned to do?

The
Thomas Guide
was closed, with no little pieces of paper sticking out of it to indicate what streets she might have looked up.

From the McDonald’s bag, it was obvious that she’d had at least one meal in her car. Of the pieces of paper, one was crumpled from a pad, another looked like a gas station receipt. Those might be useful to the police, but not to me.

I saw something metallic on the floor below the passenger seat. Only a bit of it was visible from the side I was on because the leafy tree under which the car was sitting had darkened the well on the passenger side. I couldn’t get any closer without getting into the car, so I closed the driver’s door and went around to the opposite side.

The floor on the passenger side was littered with empty packages of trail mix and flattened Starbucks cups, but just under the lip of the seat was the object I’d spotted: a camera.

Leaning in, I could see the camera was a Canon with a 55-250 mm zoom lens. It looked like Gretchen had been doing surveillance, which explained the empty food and coffee containers. I had to see if that was a film camera or digital, and if there was film in it, or pictures. Glad I was wearing the latex gloves, I picked it up. It was a single lens reflex. Digital, with a slot for the SD card.

But no card.

Gretchen must have been caught photographing, and whoever killed her must have stolen the record of what she shot.

“Is this your car, ma’ am?”

Startled, I turned to see a uniformed patrolman. So intent had I been on examining Gretchen’s camera that I hadn’t heard his car pull up and double-park beside my Jeep. He had one hand on his holstered weapon.

“My car? No. It belongs to a friend,” I said.

He stared at me, his expression grim. “Put that camera back in the car where you got it, ma’am, and let me see some ID.”

“I’ve been looking for this car, and I was about to call—”

“Hey! What’s that you’re wearing on your hands?”

Now he drew his weapon and pointed it at me.

He sees the latex gloves and thinks I’m a thief.
“Officer, I’m wearing these because I didn’t want to disturb any evidence.” I started to strip them off.

“Don’t do that,” he commanded. “Leave the gloves on. Just like that, put your hands on top of your head and lace your fingers together.”

“Please, Officer, I’m trying to tell you that I was about to call Lieutenant John O’Hara at West Bureau. This car belongs to a murder victim. He’ll want to have SID go over it.”

The patrol officer looked dubious. As well he might, I thought.

“Lieutenant O’Hara’s on my speed dial,” I said. “Just look at my phone.”

“Where is it?”

With my hands clasped on the top of my head I had to point my elbow in the direction of my Jeep. “In the cup holder. My driver’s license is in my wallet—in my handbag, on the passenger seat. Use my phone and call West Bureau and ask for Lieutenant O’Hara, or Detective Weaver. They need to know where this car is.”

He gave a quick glance back at my Jeep, but instead of going to it for my handbag, he kept his attention focused on me while he activated his mobile to call the station house and asked to speak to Lieutenant O’Hara or Detective Weaver.

Keeping my tone pleasant and trying to sound helpful, I said, “My name is Della Carmichael. They know me.”

I saw recognition flicker in his eyes and hoped that was a good sign. I said, “I’m not very comfortable like this. May I put my hands down?”

“Okay,” he said, “but place them flat on the trunk of the car where I can see them.”

Someone came on the other end of his line and I heard the officer tell whoever it was my name, and that he had “apprehended” me going through a car that wasn’t mine.

A moment of silence while the officer listened. He gave them Gretchen’s license plate number, then said, “Yes, sir,” and thrust the phone toward me. “Detective Weaver wants you.”

I took the phone. “Hello, Hugh? I found Gretchen Tully’s car and was about to call its location in when your officer came along.”

“Jeez, Della!” He gave an exasperated snort. “If our mayor finds out about all the stuff you do, he may think he can fix the city’s budget by laying off more of our guys.”

I ignored his sarcasm and told him where I was. “Gretchen Tully was watching someone, Hugh. I’m sure she saw something that got her killed.”

Weaver told me to stay put, and to give the phone back to the uniformed officer.

The patrolman listened for a minute, nodded, and said, “Yes, sir.” He hooked the phone on his belt and holstered his weapon.

“You’ve got to stay here until the detectives arrive, ma’am. Please go sit in your vehicle.”

A familiar unmarked Crown Victoria pulled up in front of Gretchen’s car and parked. I saw Hugh Weaver at the wheel, but it wasn’t John in the seat beside him; it was Detective Val Keller.

The uniformed officer, Judson—I’d seen his nameplate when I passed him to get into my Jeep—stepped away from Gretchen’s car to meet the detectives.

I got out and stood on the pavement just behind Gretchen’s mismatched taillights while the three of them conferred briefly, looking over at me.

Weaver and Keller pulled on their latex investigator’s gloves and Weaver gestured for me to join them. Officer Judson went to his patrol car.

Acknowledging Keller with a nod, I spoke mostly to Weaver. “Gretchen must have been doing surveillance.”

“So that’s what it looks like to
you.
” Keller’s voice had a nasty edge. “What did you do to mess up whatever evidence might be in that car?”