Chapter 40
Darn
it. Sugar slowly pulled the splinter out from the tender flesh between his thumb and forefinger, then flicked it out into the weeds surrounding the playhouse. He sucked at the wound and tasted copper. He smiled at the double entendre.
The playhouse was a small structure with a peaked roof about ten feet off the ground, with a ladder on one side and a long slide on the other. It was built of raw boards painted to look like logs, blistered by the sun now. FORT APACHE was stenciled onto the sides. There was room for about four or five kids, but Sugar filled it up, lying there on his belly, his legs sticking out the back as he peeked out the front entrance. Down the street he could see Jimmy Gage standing on the front porch of the blue rambler, talking to a woman in jeans and a white blouse. She looked familiar.
Sugar had followed Jimmy all the way from Huntington Beach to this godforsaken bump in the road, keeping fifteen or twenty miles back. He didn’t even play the radio, listening instead to the beeping from the locator-receiver on the passenger seat. The transmitter attached to the undercarriage of Jimmy’s car sent out a steady signal.
One of Sugar’s old cop buddies had retired and gone to work for LoJack, an electronic tracking service that retrieved stolen cars equipped with the device. Last year Sugar had traded Vince a cooler full of bonita for one, and a demonstration of how to use it. Vince had winked, asked if Sugar had a girlfriend he thought was fooling around on him. Sugar had winked back, said you never knew when fancy gear would come in handy. It
had
come in handy too. After saving Jimmy’s bacon that day at the marina, then driving him home when he was too beat up to drive himself, Sugar had hooked up Jimmy’s car.
Sugar had been keeping tabs on Jimmy ever since. He just had to turn on the receiver in his own car and follow the blinking light on the map readout to know where Jimmy was. Following Jimmy over hill and dale, from one end of the county to the other was too much like work, though, and Sugar was
retired.
Catching those yellowjack a few nights ago, well, it was just flat-out relaxing hooking that first fish, hearing the line spool out as it headed off to freedom. Particularly after dealing with that Felix the Cat fellow.
Sugar adjusted his position, making sure that he stayed in the shadows, careful of splinters now. The playground was deserted, the basketball hoops bent, the swings rusted. Half the houses on the block were empty. He had spotted Jimmy’s car parked in front of the blue rambler, made a U-turn, and parked on the next street, taking up his position in the clubhouse, where he had a good view and privacy. The houses on either side were boarded up. He didn’t have to wait long until the front door opened and the two of them came out, dragging out their good-byes. Sugar rested his chin in his hands. He just
knew
he had seen the woman before.
Chapter 41
“Danziger residence.”
Jimmy drove with one hand on the wheel, thinking.
“Danziger residence, may I
help
you?”
Jimmy disconnected the call. He wanted to talk to Danziger’s wife, but not enough to go through the butler or whatever the hell Raymond was. He punched in the main switchboard of SLAP, then the extension for the magazine’s gossip columnist.
“This is Miss Chatterbox, talkee-talkee.”
“Hi, Ann, it’s Jimmy.” He kicked the Saab up to eighty-five and passed the silver Toyota 4x4. The kid behind the wheel was in a backward Lakers hat and toasted Jimmy with a beer. “Do you know anything—”
“I know you’re in heap big trouble. Napitano has been looking for you all day.”
“Yeah, I got a couple of his messages.”
“He’s been cursing in Italian.”
“Ann, do you know anything about Michael Danziger and his wife?”
“Film producer, right? Used to be somebody?”
“Used to be head of Epic International.”
“Oh, yes, I remember him now. Got canned five or six years ago.
Taurus Rising
finished him, if memory serves. Budgeted at eighty million and did less than five million at the box office. Sayonara, Mikey.”
Jimmy could hear Ann flipping through her Rolodex. She was one of the old-school gossip columnists who preferred card files to computer directories. There were plenty of Hollywood big shots who April McCoy could have been working for, plenty of executives who could have promised a film career for Heather Grimm, but Michael Danziger was the one who had hired Walsh, the one who showed up on set halfway through the shoot. He’d been keeping an eye on the production, he had told Jimmy. Maybe. Jimmy remembered Danziger swimming against the jets in his lap pool, swimming hard and steady, his workout routine precisely calibrated. Yeah, there were plenty of suspects, but like Jane said, when your investigation stalls, start with what you have in front of you.
“Michael and Brooke Danziger,” Ann must have been reading it off the card, “married twelve, no make that thirteen years ago. No children. The usual charities, Cedars-Sinai, AIDS America, Lupus, Parkinson’s. I see them at parties and fund-raisers once in a while. He’s a smoothie, handsome as the day is long, always shaking hands. Perrier drinker, vegetarian . . . Oh, this is interesting. I made a note to myself a few months ago. Seems Michael’s last two—no, three charity pledges haven’t been honored. I was going to run it, but I decided to wait until he had another hit. How
is
his new movie?
My
Troubled Girl, Trouble with My Girl,
something like that. Can I run with my item?”
“You’re going to have to keep waiting.” The Saab’s steering wheel vibrated in his grip, and Jimmy slowed slightly. The road was nearly empty going back to the city, but he backed off the gas. The Highway Patrol had radar units and helicopters, and he didn’t want to waste another Saturday in traffic school. “What about the wife?”
“Ummmmm, Brooke’s not really part of the business. I remember seeing her at the Academy Awards a few times, but she seemed a little out of place. She always sticks close to Michael. Oh, she was evidently an equestrian champion before she was married. Rode in the Rose Parade for several years—a real Dale Evans.”
“Do you have a photo?”
“I smell a scoop here, Jimmy. I told you where Samantha Packard worked out, and the next thing I knew you’re on TV being attacked by that jealous ass of a husband. Now you want to know about Brooke Danziger. If you’re on some Hollywood wives scavenger hunt, I want an exclusive.”
“You overestimate me.” Jimmy checked his rearview mirror. The Toyota pickup was a silver speck in the distance. He thought of Stephanie Panagopolis miles away now, with her memories of guppies and the goose that was going to lay the golden eggs. He should have bought something from her, apricot bath gel for Jane, or a water filter. He could have put it on his expense account, see what Napitano said about that.
“What’s this all about, Jimmy?”
“Just a minute, Ann, I’ve got another call. Hello?”
“Jimmy? Michael Danziger here. You just called the house but didn’t say anything. I was wondering if there was some kind of problem?”
Jimmy hated Caller ID. He was going to have to find another way to contact Brooke Danziger. “Thanks for following up, Michael. The battery in my cell phone is running low and kept cutting out. Just wanted to ask, when is the premiere of
My Girl Trouble
?”
“How
lovely,
” said Danziger. “This Friday at the Regency. I’ll messenger you over some VIP passes.”
“I’m cutting out here,” said Jimmy, switching back to the other line. “Sorry, Ann. One last question. When you saw the Danzigers at parties, did you get any sense of trouble between them?”
“Darling, there’s
always
trouble between man and wife in this town. What do you really want to know?”
Jimmy jerked as a green dragonfly slammed into the windshield, disintegrating, one lacy wing caught for a moment under the wiper. He thought about the professor back at the koi pond and wondered if he would have been able to identify the exact species of dragonfly in the instant before it was blown to pieces.
“Jimmy? What’s going on?”
Jimmy glanced over at the accordion file-folder on the floor of the car, the worn cardboard file bulging with his notes on the Garrett Walsh story. “I’ll let you know as soon as I figure it out,” he said, accelerating.
Chapter 42
Jimmy set down the beer, and the bottle fell over on the uneven ground, bubbling toward where his notes were spread. “Son of a
bitch.
” He picked up the printout of Walsh’s phone records and shook them off. He knew there was something important about the professor’s reconfigured time of death, something that set off bells without him knowing why. He turned away from the printout, looking down at the distant koi pond. He had a headache from thinking.
The midafternoon sun was hotter than the morning, but he didn’t notice. He sat in the shade of a scrawny lemon tree safely upwind from the stink, alone with his unfocused suspicions. Rollo and the professor were long gone. Just Jimmy now. He watched the bloated pig carcass bob serenely in the brown water and thought of Michael Danziger swimming against the tide in that little pool of his, never reaching the far side.
Sugar pressed the buzzer and heard some Greek melody. Nice. He had probably rung as many doorbells as any cop—a little personal touch was appreciated. He squared his shoulders. He had brushed off the dirt from the playhouse, then gotten in his car and driven to the nearest mall, stolen a license plate from one of the cars parked outside the movie theater, and stuck it on top of his own plate with a couple dabs of Super Glue. The Super Glue would keep the fake plate in place, but he could remove it on the way home with a strong tug, The LoJack indicated that Jimmy was well on his way back to L.A.—that boy better be careful, the Highway Patrol was hell on speeders. He rang the bell again. That Greek tune could grow on a fellow. He adjusted his navy blue sport coat, the one he always kept in the trunk of the car, for official purposes. He smiled at the peephole.
The door opened, the security chain taut. “Yes?” The woman was suspicious, which he thought was an attractive quality in a female, and she was wearing a frilly blue apron, which really won his heart.
Sugar flipped open his wallet and let her take a good look at his gold shield while he took a good look at her. “Detective Leonard Brimley.” He left the wallet open, like he was holding open the Red Sea with it. He grinned at her. “You can call me Sugar, Stephanie. Everybody else does.”
Stephanie glanced at his car parked in the driveway, a five-year-old Ford with a little salt corrosion on the chrome. “Do I know you, officer?”
“Not yet, but we’ll fix that.” She had lost a lot of weight. They had never been introduced, but Sugar had seen her leaving April’s office on three or four different occasions, watching her from the darkness of the stairwell as she trudged down the hall toward the elevator. She must have lost fifty pounds, but she still slumped. “I need to talk to you about your gentleman caller earlier today.”
Stephanie slowly unchained the door. “My daughter gets home from school at three. I like to meet her at the bus stop.”
“You’re a good mama, but don’t you fret, we’ll be done by then.” Sugar sniffed. “Something good’s cooking.”
Stephanie wiped her hands on her apron. “I just finished making cookies.”
“Let’s talk in the kitchen then.” Sugar beamed. “Nice to see that there’s still women out there who bake from scratch instead of opening up a bag of store-bought.”
Stephanie clutched the apron. “I’m not much of a cook. I just wanted to whip up something my daughter could bring to class. The other kids have been picking on her.”
“Kids can be so cruel. Nothing like passing out cookies to make everyone your friend.”
“That’s just what I was thinking.”
Sugar followed her into the kitchen. It was small but neat and clean, real shipshape. A carton of eggs was on the counter, next to open bags of flour and sugar and a stick of butter. The mixing bowl was almost empty. Crayon drawings were magneted to the refrigerator. Two batches of cookies were cooling on a wire rack. The stove was gas.
“Can I get you some water, detective?” Stephanie let the tap run while she got out two tall glasses. She handed him his glass a moment later, ice cubes clinking. She looked surprised, noticing his thin leather gloves for the first time.
“Eczema,” explained Sugar, taking a long drink. “Ah.” He smacked his lips. “Nothing like cold water on a hot day.”
“Filtered water.” Stephanie took a demure sip from her own glass and wiped her lips with a pinky. “I used to drink five or six cans of soda pop a day, but now I just drink water.” She blushed. “I used to have a weight problem. My whole metabolism was out of kilter.”
“I find that hard to believe.” Sugar ran the spatula around the rim of the mixing bowl and tasted it, gauging her reaction. “Ummm, chocolate chip—everybody’s favorite.” She didn’t look annoyed, she looked pleased.
“I limit myself to just one cookie per batch. They used to be one of my trigger foods. Chocolate of any kind is my weakness.” Stephanie broke a corner off one of the cookies and surreptitiously placed it into her mouth. “Do you take vitamins?”
“Can’t say as I do.”
“You really should, detective.”
“Call me Sugar.”
“You really should, Sugar. I’m a distributor for some of the best chelated vitamins on the market. No sugars, no starches, no fillers. They boost your energy level
naturally.
”
“I guess we could all use a little more energy.” Sugar leaned against the oven. It was warm but not hot. “You’re a real good businesswoman. I like that. Shows character.”
“It’s not really a choice.” Stephanie broke another piece of cookie off. “I’m a single parent. Somebody’s got to pay the bills.”
“Maybe I’ll pick up a couple bottles of vitamin C when we’re done here. I don’t know much about vitamins, but I heard that’s good for colds.”
“I have a very good thousand-milligram time-release C available. If you buy two bottles, the third one is free. I also have some aloe vera gel that will help that eczema of yours.”
Sugar grinned at her. “Looks like this is my lucky day. I almost hate to have to talk business with you, but I have to.” She took a longer drink, and he watched her white throat shiver as she swallowed. “This gentleman you were talking to”—he flipped through his notebook—“Jimmy Gage. What exactly did he ask you about?”
Stephanie drooped like a week-old daisy. “I’m not in any trouble, am I?”
Sugar patted her arm. “I’ve got the inside track with the district attorney. Not to brag, but if I say you’re a friend of the department, that will pretty much settle things.”
“I really never knew what was going on. Not until it was too late. Could you write that down?”
Sugar wrote it down in his notebook, while Stephanie leaned over to watch. “You told that to Mr. Gage?”
“Yes, I did. I certainly did.”
“You said you didn’t know what was going on until it was too late. So later you
did
realize what was going on?”
“Well, yes, but by then—”
“By then it was too late. Not your fault.” Sugar wrote that down too.
“Jimmy said I was going to be an unnamed source. He
promised
me.”
“Jimmy Gage is interfering in a police investigation. He can’t promise you anything.”
“I see.” Stephanie’s hand shook. “You meet someone, you think you can trust them . . . It’s my own fault. As I said, I used to be mildly obese. A fat girl, she always trusts a man who smiles at her. I guess, deep down, I’m still a fat girl.”
“Stephanie, I need to know exactly what you told him. The whole investigation could be compromised. I’m sure he mentioned a photographer that April McCoy used.”
“Willard Burton. Yes, Jimmy knew all about him.”
Sugar looked up from his notes. “Would you mind pulling the drapes? I’m getting a wicked reflection off the window.” He waited until Stephanie had closed the drapes and returned to the sofa. The room was darker now, cooler.
“Jimmy wasn’t really that interested in Willard Burton,” said Stephanie.
“No, I expect he was interested in Heather Grimm. He thinks somebody put her up to going to Garrett Walsh’s beach house.”
“Well, actually he knows that
April
sent her there.” Stephanie drank the last of her water, the ice cubes tumbling against her upper lip. She looked pleased with herself. Nothing nicer than being able to correct a police officer. “What he wanted from me was who it was put April up to it.”
Sugar took it all down. “And who did put April up to it?”
“I have no idea. That’s what I told him.”
“Was that the truth?”
“Yes, sir, it was.”
“I know this Jimmy Gage, Stephanie. He doesn’t take no for an answer. I’m sure you must have told him something he could use.”
“Well, I told him that April put Heather under contract. He seemed excited by that. April said Heather had a real career in front of her. She had her lined up for a big part, a real movie, with stars and everything. Then she got killed.”
“Did April ever tell you what the movie was?”
“That’s just what Jimmy wanted to know.” Stephanie shook her head.
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him I couldn’t remember. It was the truth too.”
It didn’t matter. If Jimmy asked the question, he was already halfway to the answer. Sugar saw her glance at her watch. “What time does your daughter get off the bus?”
“Quarter to three.”
Sugar closed his notebook. “I’d like some of that fancy vitamin C.”
Stephanie beamed and headed toward the back of the house. “How about some aloe vera too?” she called over her shoulder. “No reason you should have to wear those hot gloves all the time.”
“Sold.” Sugar followed her into the hallway and waited until she disappeared, then went back into the kitchen. He stared at the child’s drawings taped on the refrigerator: a stick-figure picture of a girl and a woman riding bicycles under a smiling, yellow sun. It made his stomach hurt. He turned away, opened the stove, slid out the wire shelves, and laid them against the wall. On one knee now, he blew out the pilot light and closed the oven door. He thought for a second, then snagged a small cushion off one of the kitchen chairs, laid it in the bottom of the oven, and closed the door again. He turned on the gas full blast, listening to it hiss. “Stephanie? Make it
two
tubes of that aloe vera gel.”
“You got it, detective,” Stephanie called from the rear of the house.
Sugar listened to the hissing oven for a few more minutes, then strolled back down the hallway and saw Stephanie coming out of a bedroom holding a paper bag.
“I put in a few skin-care samples. I know a big strong man like you doesn’t care about things like that, but the lady in your life will appreciate it.”
“There is no lady in my life.”
Stephanie cocked her head. “Really?”
Sugar smiled. “I’ve never been much of a ladies’ man.”
“I find that hard to believe, detective.”
Sugar looked inside the bag. “You really think these pills and potions will help me?”
Stephanie sniffed. “I smell gas.”
Sugar followed her into the kitchen and found her holding the door to the oven open, waving at the rank air. He stopped her as she went to turn off the gas.
“What are you doing?”
Sugar closed the door. “We have to talk.”
Stephanie lunged again for the stove dial. “The pilot light must have gone out again.”
Sugar held her tightly against him, felt her struggle, and the heat and friction aroused him. “Listen. Just listen. Stephanie,
listen.
That’s better,” he said, as she stopped for a moment. “I want you to know, this is not my fault.”
“What’s not your fault?”
“What’s going to happen next.”
“Detective, you’re scaring me.”
“Not as bad as I scare myself.”
Stephanie moistened her lips. “I want you to turn off the gas.” Sugar shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Stephanie bolted for the back door, but Sugar caught her, She kicked and struggled, screaming now, her voice high-pitched and shrill.
Sugar pushed her face against his chest as she screamed, his flesh muffling her cries. He patted her head, endured her kicks, and kept on talking, his voice soft and soothing. “I don’t blame you. It’s a lousy thing to happen to a good woman like you, coming out of the blue like this, but that’s the way it’s got to be.”
Stephanie pulled half away from him, howling for help, but there were no neighbors to hear her, they both knew that.
Sugar drew her closer and wrapped his big arms around her. “Shhhhh.”
Stephanie kneed him, but he had been kneed by experts, and it hadn’t stopped him.
“We haven’t got time for this,” said Sugar, his lips brushing against the pink shell of her ear. “Your little girl is going to be home soon. You don’t want me to be here when she comes in through the door.” He felt her shudder. “She’s going to walk in, call your name, maybe ask why you weren’t there at the bus stop—and then she’s going to see me, and I’m not going to be able to stop myself.”
Stephanie whimpered and pulled away. She was stronger than she looked. “Why are you
doing
this?”
“Don’t concern yourself with that. It’s your little girl you should be worried about.”
“Please don’t hurt her.”
“I’m not a monster. It’s Jimmy you should be mad at, not me.” Stephanie scratched at him, but he turned his face away and held her close.
“You keep that up, you’re just going to make it worse.” Sugar’s voice was calm and steady. He had taken a course in hostage negotiation once; the instructor said he had the perfect voice, reassuring and nonthreatening. “If you keep fighting, you’re going to bang yourself up, and you’re not going to make a believable suicide. That changes everything. Then it’s got to be a break-in; I’ll have to spend time rifling the house, going through your purse, and when your daughter walks in and finds me here—”
Stephanie sagged. Please—please, don’t.” You would have thought someone had pulled a cork in her belly and her insides had poured out onto the floor. It never ceased to amaze him how it worked sometimes. “Please don’t hurt her.”
“That’s up to you.” The gas smell was stronger now, even with the oven door closed. His head was throbbing. “If your little girl comes home when I’m still here—well, it’s going to give me indigestion for the rest of my life. Don’t do that to me.”