Chapter 44
Rita Shafer followed Jimmy to the front door, keeping the pink terrycloth robe closed with one hand. The morning sun was harsh on her face. She looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, and he thought of the raccoon at lovers’ lane last night. “You think Harlen’s dead, don’t you?”
“I’ve been wrong too many times to say for sure.”
“I saw the way you looked when I told you about Harlen’s l’il devil tattoo. You think he’s dead.”
Jimmy nodded. “I’m sorry.”
Rita clutched at her robe. “I shouldn’t be surprised.” She wiped at her eyes. “Was it painful the way he died? Don’t bother—I know you wouldn’t tell me if he died hard. You’re too good a man to tell me the truth.”
Jimmy wanted to go. He needed to be in Malibu in a couple hours, by eleven or so, and there were things he had to do first.
“Somebody paid my utility bills.” Rita blew back a strand of hair away from her face. “I called up the electric company to ask them for some more time, and they said it had been taken care of. Same thing with the phone company. That was you, wasn’t it?”
“I have to go.”
“
Had
to be you.” The kids were fighting in the apartment, bouncing on the sofa, but Rita ignored them. “I thought at first maybe it was Harlen done it, but now, well, it couldn’t have been him, could it?”
Jimmy patted her shoulder. She was all bones and sharp edges. “I just did it to try and balance out the bad shit I pull.”
Rita smiled. She deserved the medal of honor for it. “That’s just the kind of thing Harlen would say. The first time he sold a pound of skunkweed—couldn’t have been older then fifteen—he bought me a pair of red shoes and a Max Factor lipstick.”
“That’s a nice memory. You should hang on to that one.”
“You got to go, don’t you?”
Jimmy hugged her, and she hugged him back so hard, he thought he was going to be wearing her imprint on his chest.
Sugar leaned over the side of his boat, one hand keeping the line taut, the other one scooping up the tarpon with a net, cradling the steel-gray fish as he lifted it out of the water. It was a beauty, still thrashing in the netting, black eyes bright. It had taken him almost a half-hour to land the tarpon. They weren’t such good eating, but they were ferocious fighters. An honorable creature.
He felt the same way about Stephanie. Killing her yesterday had been hard, hard for him, hard for her, but they both had done their duty. She was a good mama. If there were more like her, the world would be a better place. He didn’t like doing it, but now the killing was over and done with.
All
of it. No witnesses left now. Those barking dogs could go back to sleep again, and Sugar could get back to his fishing.
The tarpon shuddered and snapped at him. Sugar clipped the line with a pair of needle-nose pliers, set down his rod and reel, and hefted the net, careful not to damage the scales. Twelve pounds at least. It was a beautiful morning, the sun high, the sky clear and blue, the deck gently rolling under his feet. He was bare-chested, wearing baggy shorts and deck shoes that any sane man would have replaced months ago, but he liked the feel of familiar things. He winked at the tarpon and carefully removed the hook in its mouth with the pliers. It was almost noon now, time to release the fish and head back home for lunch. The two of them would live to fight another day.
The phone in his pocket was ringing.
Sugar had a moment of indecision, then finally flipped open the phone, still holding the fish in the net. “Hello?”
“Detective Brimley?”
Sugar started at the phone. He didn’t recognize the woman’s voice. “That’s what they tell me. Who am I speaking to?”
“Katz. Helen Katz. I’m a detective with the Anaheim PD.”
Jimmy waited until the horse and rider had crested the top of the slope and started down the rugged path before peddling the mountain bike up toward them, wanting to make sure that they were out of sight from the mansion on the hill.
The rider pulled the horse back, giving Jimmy plenty of room to pass, but he stopped a few feet away and flipped back his helmet so she could see his face. He had watched her for the last ten minutes, paralleling her movements on the network of trails that crisscrossed the Malibu hills. “Mrs. Danziger?”
Brooke Danziger eyed him warily as the horse snorted, sidestepping on the path, the two of them dappled with fine gray dust.
“I’m Jimmy Gage.”
“How nice for you.”
Jimmy stared at Brooke. For weeks now he’d been searching for the good wife, trying to figure out who she was, trying to imagine what she would look like. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. The passionate ravishing beauty Walsh had risked his career for and thought it a good bet? The all-devouring Kali with a blue dress who had cost Heather Grimm her life? Jimmy hadn’t expected the good wife to look like Brooke Danziger.
She was attractive, beautiful even, but southern California was filled with beautiful women, true heartbreakers, women who honed their looks, used them as weapons. Brooke was no beach bunny or fashion queen. She was a warm one, an outdoors type with creases around her eyes and a wide full mouth, a woman who looked at home in jeans and cowboy shirt. She sat astride the horse now, aware of his scrutiny without being bothered by it, the reins loose in her hands, her hair in a thick braid. Walsh had had his pick of any starlet in Hollywood, but he loved Brooke. Too bad Michael Danziger had married her first, married her and then maybe killed to keep her. Jimmy still wasn’t sure about that.
“I’ve seen you on television recently, Mr. Gage. You beat up that Mick Packard at a pet store. My husband said it was a publicity stunt, but I thought it was real.”
“You win.”
“Good for you. Are you looking for my husband? He doesn’t ride.”
“No.”
The horse sneezed, but Brooke didn’t react.
“I called the Wild Side Spa and asked for you. I told them I was with your husband’s production company. I was half-expecting the receptionist to hang up on me, but she said you had your weekly appointment yesterday. That’s when I knew for sure what really happened at the koi pond.”
Brooke continued to watch him, one hand lightly holding the reins, slightly amused. She was a deeply tanned brunette wearing well-worn boots and faded jeans, an embroidered denim shirt with the sleeves rolled.
“You go for the full treatment at the spa?” said Jimmy. “Manicure, pedicure, salt massage, and Brazilian wax. Yeah, I bet your husband likes you all sleek and smooth. I bet Walsh does too. Walsh couldn’t call you at home, but he knew he could reach you at the spa every week. Same time, same place.”
Jimmy had hoped to get a rise out of her, but Brooke just looked over her shoulder, back in the direction of her house on the hill.
“Take me to Walsh.”
She started to speak, but stopped herself. He liked her for that. She had been about to lie, about to deny what they both knew was the truth, but she was smart enough to know that it wasn’t going to work. “I can’t.” She jerked her head toward the house again. “Michael is expecting me back in about an hour or so.”
“I want to see Walsh. If you can’t do it, or won’t do it, I go to the cops.”
Brooke Danziger looked down at him. “Men. You
love
giving ultimatums to women.”
“Think of it as a promise.”
“I’ll bring you to see him tomorrow.”
“Today.”
“My husband has plans for us today. I can’t get out of them.” Jimmy watched her. “
Tomorrow,
then.”
The horse stirred, but she kept him in place with a gentle tug on the reins, still watching Jimmy. Her eyes were a deep brown. “Garrett was very impressed with you, Mr. Gage. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t thought you could get the job done.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
Brooke Danziger almost smiled. “I warned Garrett. I told him if you were intelligent and tenacious enough to be useful, you were also bright enough to be dangerous. He said it was worth the risk.” She leaned forward, the saddle creaking. “You’ll have to ask him when you see him if he
still
thinks it was worth it.”
“I just don’t know how I can help you, detective,” said Sugar. “It’s been a long time ago. Everything I know about the case is part of the public record.”
“Don’t shit me,” said Katz, her voice breaking up over the phone. “One cop to another, we always save the best stuff for each other. Let’s get together and kick things around.”
Sugar opened his cooler with his foot, gently laid the tarpon onto the bed of cracked ice, and tossed the net aside. “From what I read in the paper, Walsh’s death was ruled an accident.” The fish flopped against the ice. “I thought the case was closed.”
“This damn case has given me an itch. You know what that’s like. I want you to help me scratch it.”
Sugar looked out to the blue horizon. “I don’t know. I’m kind of busy.”
“You’re retired, Brimley. How busy can you be?”
Sugar watched the waves. “How about lunch tomorrow?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Sugar wrote down her phone number and said he’d call her tomorrow morning and give her directions. He snapped the phone shut, tucked it back into his pocket. It seemed like all the sound in the world had been turned off. No sound, no color, no feeling. Just Sugar out there on the high seas, trying to maintain his balance on a shifting deck. He turned to the cooler and stared at the tarpon. His fist thudded against the fish without him even being aware of the desire to hit it. Ice sprayed against his bare chest as he beat the tarpon. Blood and scales drifted slowly through the air, and the only sound that Sugar could hear was his howling in his heart.
Chapter 45
“I bet you
hated
leaving your lucky sunglasses in the koi pond,” said Jimmy.
“You don’t forget a thing, do you?” Walsh poked at the hot dogs smoldering on the hibachi with a fork, a joint stuck in the corner of his mouth. “I was wearing those Wayfarers the night I won the two Oscars, kept them with me through thick and thin. But I tossed them in the water next to Harlen and was glad to do it. Even stuck the linoleum knife in his back pocket. Whatever it took to convince you.”
“Is that what it was all about, convincing me?”
“Convince you, convince the cops. One way or the other I figured it was healthier for me to be dead than alive.” Walsh’s grin exposed a chipped front tooth. He slid his tongue across the rough edge, aware that Jimmy had noticed. “Busted it the night Harlen drowned. Fell right on my face and never felt a thing. The two of us were so wasted.”
“Did he drown on his own, or did he have help?”
“You think I killed him?” Walsh was wreathed in smoke. “You got a mind like a corkscrew, tough guy. That’s what they used to say about me, because they could never tell what I was up to. No wonder I like you.”
Jimmy didn’t return the sentiment. The two of them leaned against the railing of Walsh’s balcony, a concrete slab overlooking the Dumpsters in the alley. The apartment itself was a by-the-week rental in Manhattan Beach, a small studio with orange shag carpeting, a toilet that never stopped running, and cast-off furniture from previous tenants. The unit was located just a couple of miles and a half-million dollars from the cottage where Heather Grimm had died. Jimmy had driven right past the Kreamy Krullers shop, thought of Sugar, and almost stopped for a dozen.
Walsh rubbed a hand across his scruffy beard. It was a lousy disguise, more vanity than anything else, thinking the world was full of fans who would recognize him. He squatted on his haunches now, wearing baggy shorts and a new red cowboy shirt with bucking broncos on the yoke. The shirt was unbuttoned in the afternoon heat, the pits stained with sweat. He balled up some newspaper and pushed it onto the coals, the flames flaring up, the hot dogs popping. “I’ve always been impatient,” he said, stabbing the dogs with the fork. “Me and Harlen stood in the middle of the koi pond that night, pissing on the fishies. I finished first and staggered back across the rocks, in a hurry to get back to the crack pipe. I woke up at dawn, eyes swollen half shut and spitting teeth, but I still looked better than Harlen. Damn fish had already nibbled away his eyeballs when I rolled him over.” He dragged again at the joint and flicked the roach off the balcony. “Put me off my Froot Loops, that’s for certain.”
“Don’t make jokes, Garrett.” Brooke sat inside on one of two mismatched kitchen chairs, wearing sandals and a short sundress the color of ground mustard. Her legs were long and tan, her toes daubed with coral. “You’re going to give Jimmy the wrong idea.”
“Jimmy knows I didn’t kill Harlen.” A truck rumbled past on the street outside, rattling the windows. “Jimmy doesn’t give me that much credit.”
“You’d be surprised, Walsh. I’m more impressed with you now than ever.”
“The feeling is mutual.” Walsh speared one of the burned hot dogs and held it up to his lips, blowing on it. “You sure you don’t want one?” He shrugged. “Just for curiosity’s sake, what clued you in that I was still alive? Was it this?” He reached inside his shirt and flicked the gold ring through his right nipple. “I thought about it after I left, but I didn’t want to go back and try sticking it on Harlen’s tit. Tell you the truth, after a couple days, I didn’t want to touch him.”
“No, I missed that, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He didn’t have any nipples left by the time they ran the autopsy.”
Brooke winced at the image, but Walsh seemed unaffected, finishing the first hot dog and reaching for the other one. “What was it, then?”
“Your last two calls were to Vacaville.”
“How did you know that? I used a prepaid cell phone. They’re untraceable.”
“Not anymore.”
Walsh stopped chewing. It wasn’t being caught that bothered him. It was the realization that everything had changed in the seven years he had been gone.
“I thought maybe you had been killed on some prison contract and the killer was just checking in afterward. I never considered that it wasn’t you dead in the koi pond. The police had a dental match, and there was the devil tattoo. Then a friend of mine mentioned these gangbangers she had seen, and they all had the same tattoo. It made me rethink things.”
“So you just got lucky?” Walsh turned to Brooke. “He just got lucky, that’s all.”
Brooke crossed her legs. “I don’t believe in luck.”
Walsh watched Brooke, dreamy-eyed. “Look at her, tough guy. She’s something, isn’t she? Seven years is a long time, but she was worth the wait.”
“You had somebody at the prison switch your dental records with Harlen Shafer’s,” said Jimmy. “That’s what the two phone calls were about. One to make the request, the next to confirm that it had been done.”
Walsh applauded.
“Was it a guard who made the switch, or a trustee with another one of those devil tattoos?”
“A trustee, one of the boys. Vacaville is computerizing their medical records, but the state doesn’t have enough money to hire out the job, so they use brainiac inmates.” Walsh picked at his teeth with a fingernail. “That kind of arrangement, they’re just
asking
for trouble.”
“So you didn’t kill Shafer. Maybe you just saw him slip and knock himself senseless on the rocks. Maybe you even started to help him, and then thought about it. Knee deep in the stink, fish going crazy— I bet you worked through the possibilities fast. You knew you weren’t going to have visitors for weeks.”
“You trying to make me mad?” The fork was still in Walsh’s hand, held casually, as though he had forgotten it was there.
Jimmy smiled and slightly shifted position to block the strike if it came.
“Listen, tough guy, my first day inside, strung out and so scared I couldn’t even talk, Harlen slipped me a quaalude, told me to hang on, said we got pie for dessert every Friday.” Walsh shook his head. “Fucking Harlen couldn’t read without moving his lips. He never walked past a pay phone without checking the change return. But he kept my back, and I kept his.” He gripped the fork tighter. “I wouldn’t have let him drown without doing something about it.”
“Once he was dead though, you decided to take advantage.”
“You think Harlen cared? The only good thing about dying is you don’t give a shit anymore.” Walsh tossed the fork aside. “You’re just mad because I played you. Well, don’t feel bad, I’ve played better men than you.”
“You’re going to have to get that tooth fixed. It makes you look like one of those peckerwoods from
Deliverance.
”
Walsh hung on to the grin. “Make jokes. All I know is when you wanted to find me, you went to Brooke. If you figured out she’s the good wife, that means you got the goods on Danziger, you know he set me up. You know he had that girl killed.” He winked at Brooke. “Didn’t I tell you he could do it? Jimmy here is a real bird dog.”
Sugar Brimley had called Jimmy the same thing. He didn’t like it any better coming from Walsh.
“You should be thanking me, Jimmy—I’ve given you the biggest story of your career. I’m going to make you famous.” Walsh leaned closer to Jimmy and went to pat him on the back, then thought better of it. “I tried to play boy detective myself, but I didn’t have the aptitude. I made phone calls, I drove around asking questions, but nobody would talk to me, and when they did, I didn’t know what to do with the information. You, though—after you and Rollo left that night, I checked you out. You’re the real deal. Smack dealers, stock hustlers, assorted fuckwads and phonies—once you sink your teeth in, you don’t let go. You even went after your own brother.” He shook his head. “A man who sends up his own brother, that’s the man I want on my side. I tried to come up with something that would get you interested.” He glanced over at Brooke. “I asked her to call you, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Flat out refused.”
“I had no intention of letting myself be used,” said Brooke. “You’re the storyteller. If you couldn’t convince Jimmy, then I wasn’t about to try.”
“Women, Jimmy. They love us, but they never love us enough.”
“Getting me to dig around in Heather Grimm’s murder might have brought down some trouble,” said Jimmy. “You could have gotten me killed.”
Walsh spread his hands. “That’s a risk I had to take.”
“Of course, if I had gotten killed, that would have really made your day. Killing a reporter—that’s better than killing a cop if you want to attract media attention. Every newspaper in town would have assigned somebody to cover the case, just to teach the lesson that you don’t fuck with somebody with a typewriter and a printing press.”
“Sad but true.”
“You don’t look sad to me.”
“I’m crying on the inside, Jimmy.”
“Well, you better crank up the tears, because I can’t prove that Danziger had Heather Grimm killed. I can’t even prove he set you up. I
think
he did. I think he had her bump into you at the beach, and I think he had somebody call the cops, but I still don’t know what really happened in the beach house that night. Not yet.”
“Well, I sure as fuck didn’t do it.”
“You told me you didn’t remember. You said you were doing dope all afternoon.”
“Dope and sex,” snapped Brooke.
“I told you I was sorry about that,” Walsh said to her. “
You
were the one who needed time to think. Maybe if you hadn’t run back to hubby—”
“I needed time to make a decision, and I made it,” said Brooke. “I had an appointment with a divorce attorney scheduled for Friday. Wednesday night you were arrested. You couldn’t wait for me to decide.”
“I didn’t plan on this little cupcake showing up on my doorstep.”
“I hate to interrupt the blame game just as we’re entering the lightning round, but if you didn’t kill Heather, who did?” said Jimmy.
Walsh shook his head. “I wish I knew.”
Jimmy turned to Brooke. “Do
you
know?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Brooke.
“It wasn’t your husband. A guy like him—he doesn’t pick up a phone or flush his own toilet.” Jimmy stared at Brooke. “Did Michael have anyone on the payroll who could have murdered Heather? Someone who might have done some security work, or maybe body-guarded the two of you at some special event?”
“There—there were always a lot of people vying for Michael’s attention back then. He greenlighted a lot of action films when he ran the studio, and men came up to him at social functions, trying to impress him, bragging about working for the mob. We used to laugh about it afterward.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Jimmy,” said Walsh. “I’m waiting around for you to get the goods on Danziger, and all you can tell me is you don’t have proof.”
“ ‘Not yet.’” Brooke looked up. “He said he didn’t have the proof
yet,
Garrett.” She watched Jimmy, her mouth set, just like when she reined in her horse yesterday. “Jimmy’s got a plan.”
“That’s right, Mrs. Danziger.” Jimmy enjoyed the way she reacted when he called her that. “You’re not going to like it, though.”
“It doesn’t matter what she likes.” Walsh gestured at the kitchen table behind Brooke, where a ream of paper was stacked neatly beside an electric typewriter. “I finished two treatments and a shooting script since I moved in. Best stuff I ever wrote too. Clean and sober, Jimmy, just a little weed to keep me loose. You clear my name, and every producer in Hollywood is going to be unzipping me.”
“When we talked in the trailer, you said Brooke overheard her husband listening to tapes of the two of you making love,” said Jimmy. “Danziger’s a diligent man. Cautious. Patient. You think he suddenly
stopped
taping once he knew about the affair?”
Walsh was blank for a moment, then smiled.
“Once I listen to the tape from the night Heather Grimm was murdered,
then
I’ll have proof,” said Jimmy. “It may not be the kind of proof you want, though. Maybe Danziger didn’t have anyone working for him. Maybe you really did kill her. You’ve already done the time, but if you’re guilty as charged, forget lunch at the Ivy.”
“I’ll take my chances,” said Walsh.
“What about you, Brooke? Do you just want to know the truth too?”
“I never heard anything that sounded like that girl being murdered,” said Brooke.
Jimmy watched Brooke. She said she didn’t believe in luck, but her timing was perfect. She had first heard her husband listening to the tapes just before Walsh was due to be released. Not during his first month of incarceration, or his first year—that would have been lucky for
Walsh.
No, she found out about the tapes seven years later, after Danziger’s production deal had run out. After she and Danziger had started reneging on their charity pledges. Walsh had a devious sensibility, able to plot out the most cynical and intricate storylines, but when it came to Brooke, he was as trusting as a bridegroom.
“You can’t be sure such a tape exists,” said Brooke.
“It exists. I just have to find it. Where does your husband listen to the tapes?”
“The screening room.”
“Then it’s more than an audiotape. If it was just audio, he’d slip on a pair of headphones and listen to the two of you while he walked on the beach or drove in his car. No, if he has to get up in the middle of the night to replay your greatest hits, he’s
watching
it too.”
Walsh and Brooke turned to each other.
“Is there a storage locker in the screening room? A locked cabinet?”
“Yes, of course.” Brooke lowered her eyes. “If Michael is watching
movies
of us, it’s even worse somehow.”
“The premiere of
My Girl Trouble
is tomorrow night,” said Jimmy. “I assume you and your husband are attending. Will there be anyone left in the house?”
Brooke shook her head. “Raymond used to live in, but he goes home at five now.” She crossed her legs. “I don’t have a key to the film cabinet. Michael’s very territorial.”