“Just a stack of paper?” Katz shook her head, disgusted. “I guess a million dollars doesn’t buy much in Hollywood.”
Chapter 7
“I have no intention of running phone numbers for you,” said Jane Holt, keeping a steady pace in spite of the twinge in her left ham-string, the one that was always tight.
Jimmy didn’t answer.
“I’m not going to do it,” Holt repeated. Seagulls screamed overhead as she ran along the waterline. Her dark hair was pulled back, elegant somehow, even in nylon shorts and a Catalina marathon T-shirt, but her legs were too muscular for the debutante she had once been. The T-shirt was untucked, covering the .380 auto clipped to the waistband along her back, and the handgun would have been out of place at a deb ball too. “You know I can’t.”
“I wouldn’t ask except I’m having trouble pulling—”
“Is
that
why you came this morning?” Holt stopped now, confronting him.
“I’m having a hard time pulling up Walsh’s cell phone calls,” said Jimmy, not answering the question. “He didn’t have credit, so he had to use prepaid cards, and they’re hard to trace. Rollo says you have to go through central billing, and—”
“Private citizens aren’t
supposed
to trace calls. Even police have to get a court order.”
“I don’t think Walsh is going to complain that we violated his civil rights.”
“That’s not the point.” Holt adjusted her weapon—a tiny callus had long since formed where it rubbed against the small of her back. Jimmy had noticed the small roughened patch of skin the first night they made love and tenderly kissed it, guessing exactly the cause. The first lover of hers who had figured it out. Maybe if she dated cops once in a while . . . But she didn’t like mixing business with pleasure. Until Jimmy. He wasn’t police, but he had the same heightened survival instincts and street smarts as a good cop. Or a good crook. She sometimes thought his journalism was just an excuse to work the middle ground between right and wrong, an opportunity to keep company with the dregs and the desperadoes, the high and the mighty too. Getting involved with him was a bad career move, particularly for someone as ambitious as she was. She didn’t care. She didn’t have to explain things to him, didn’t have to make excuses for her silences, didn’t have to hide her anger and frustration with the job. Plus, he was wicked in bed—and even better, he allowed her to be wicked too. Holt started running again, wanting to change the subject. “Sergeant Leighton asked me today if you would autograph this month’s copy of SLAP for him.”
“I
told
you, I had no idea that Polaroid was going to make it into print—”
“One of the detectives posted your page on the bulletin board. They drew a crown on your head. Do you want to know what they drew on the twins?” Holt made it sound like good times in the squad room, but she knew that the other detectives lionized Jimmy only to humiliate her. “What
is
it, this thing men have about twins? Is it the challenge?”
“More like a death wish.” Jimmy tried to keep up. “I need your help, Jane.”
“You have to let Helen Katz work the case. You don’t even know if it’s a homicide or not.”
“Walsh was murdered.”
“It’s only been four days. Wait until the coroner’s report is released,
then
you’ll know.” Holt started running again, increasing her pace, forcing him to push himself to keep up with her. She was tan and fit, in her mid-thirties, crow’s-feet starting at the corners of her eyes, and some serious vertical lines in her forehead from thinking too much about things that thinking couldn’t do anything about. They had been together almost a year now. Jimmy liked her wrinkles, but a couple of weeks ago she had looked in the mirror and actually started thinking about getting botox injections.
Jane, you’ve been living too
long in southern California.
She could hear Jimmy a couple of steps behind her, breathing hard. She ran faster.
A Rhode Island WASP with breeding and a law degree, Holt had intended to become a prosecutor, entering the police academy more for the training, an adjunct to her legal career rather than an end in itself, but after graduating second in her class, she gave up all thoughts of the courtroom. Being a prosecutor was all about making deals and taking long lunches with boring people, she had told Jimmy. If she wanted that, she would have gone to work at her father’s hedge fund. Holt was a detective now, a by-the-book cop with a designer wardrobe and the best arrest-to-conviction ratio in the department.
“If it was an accident, what happened to the screenplay?” said Jimmy.
“I don’t know. Neither do you.”
“I know Walsh was killed for it,
that’s
what I know.”
“Walsh could have hidden the script where it wouldn’t be found. He could have given it to someone else to read, someone he thought could help him more than you.” Holt’s explanations made perfect sense, but she knew that Jimmy wasn’t going to give up. He never quit—it was one of the things about him that she was attracted to.
The thing about her job that never ceased to amaze her was the look of relief on so many suspects’ faces when she arrested them. Some of them actually sighed when she read them their rights. There was no real pleasure in arresting them. Other suspects though, smart ones with plenty of career options, rich ones, thought the law was their servant, something to keep the little people in check and ensure that no one stole their Porsche. The smart ones were always shocked when she arrested them; they insisted that she had made a mistake, politely at first, then threatening her with lawsuits and calls to the mayor, then finally, when they realized it was really happening, happening to
them,
the fear took over. She enjoyed that.
Jimmy’s brother, Jonathan
—he
had been a special case. Smarter than anyone else Holt had ever arrested, a successful plastic surgeon, handsome, urbane—and a serial killer who called himself the Eggman. He had written Jimmy an anonymous letter at SLAP, taking credit for his kills, taunting him. A police task force had concluded that the Eggman was a hoax, but Jimmy wouldn’t be dissuaded. Those instincts of his again, those lovely instincts. Jonathan had been startled when she arrested him, but it hadn’t lasted long. As she snapped on the handcuffs, he had looked at her with contempt, as though he knew something she didn’t. Maybe he did. He should have gotten life without parole, minimum, but after a hung jury at his first trial, Jonathan had pled guilty to one count of homicide,
second degree
nonetheless, and was sentenced to an indeterminate stay at a facility for the criminally insane. A “facility”—that was how the judge referred to it.
Running full out, Jimmy stumbled, tumbling onto the beach.
Holt looked back, and he was already on his feet, sand stuck to one side of his face. She slowed to a walk and allowed him to catch up with her.
“The husband murdered Walsh, either by himself or by hire,” Jimmy gasped, breathing through his mouth. “Killed him and took the screenplay he was working on—the screenplay and all his notes. Maybe the husband was just taking care of loose ends, but if he found out that the wife suspected him, she could be in danger.”
That got Holt’s attention.
Jimmy bent forward, trying to catch his breath. “A few days before he was murdered, Walsh sat across the table from me and told me he was innocent. He said that the man who had framed him was going to kill him. Walsh was an arrogant man, but he was scared that night, too scared to hide it. He begged me to save him, but I didn’t believe him then. Now . . . now I do.”
“Then let the authorities handle it.”
“The authorities? Give me a fucking break.” Jimmy stood up, still holding his side. “I clean up after myself.”
Holt took his hand. “All I’m saying is that until there’s an official finding on the cause of death, you’re just spinning your wheels. If you’re right and Walsh was murdered, then I’m sure Detective Katz is up to the task. She’ll find the wife before anything happens to her. Helen Katz is a good cop.” She smiled. “Crude but thorough.”
“Katz doesn’t know about the wife.”
Holt stopped in midstride. “I beg your pardon?”
“I didn’t tell her about the wife or the letter she sent. I just told her Walsh was working on a screenplay.”
“You withheld evidence in a possible homicide?”
“Yes, I did, detective.”
“That’s not funny. It’s a
crime.
”
“I told her all she needed to know.”
“
You
decided what she needs to know?” Holt shook her head. “I’m required to inform Detective Katz about this. Otherwise, I’m as culpable as you are.”
“Let your conscience be your guide. That’s what I do.”
“That’s not the way the law works.”
“The law is written by judges, and judges are just lawyers who kissed the right ass. I don’t need laws to tell me what I should do.”
“Perhaps—perhaps you were just speculating about the existence of a letter. Of the wife and the husband when you told me about them.”
“Yeah—perhaps.”
Holt adjusted her automatic as she looked up and down the beach. It was barely past sunup. There were just a few other runners far down the strand. The hard core. Like her. She had only a few ironclad principles. One was to never have a drink before five P.M. Another was, no matter what happened the night before, get her run in the next morning. She used to have another ironclad principle, following not just the letter of the law but the spirit too. She looked at Jimmy, but he didn’t flinch.
“I let Walsh down,” Jimmy said. “Seven years he sat in prison, thinking he had murdered a high-school girl. Murdered his future too. I think about what it must have felt like to read that letter from the wife after all that time inside, after all the things he had seen. Just the chance that he hadn’t really killed Heather Grimm—that he could reclaim everything that had been taken from him,
everything,
Jane.”
Holt wanted to smooth the pain from Jimmy’s face, but she didn’t make a move, still angry at him for implicating her in the suppression of evidence.
“Walsh was a mess the night I met him, so loaded he could hardly stand, but he sized me up right away. I was on a scavenger hunt, but so was Walsh. He was looking for someone to change his luck, to turn the tables on the man who had put him away. Walsh had a con’s instincts: Seize the advantage—that’s how you survive in the joint, you don’t waste any opportunity, you take your best shot because you might not get another. That’s why he told me about the letter. He thought I was going to help him.” Jimmy looked like he wanted to hit somebody. “I guess he was a bad judge of character.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t do
anything.
”
“If the coroner’s report rules Walsh’s death a homicide, you have to tell Katz.”
“Katz could get the wife killed. Cops don’t have to move quietly, they just have to get results. Katz will elbow her way into people’s lives, hauling them in for questioning, insisting on answers. Me, I’ll move light and easy.”
“Tell her what you know, Jimmy. If you don’t, I will.”
Jimmy looked into her eyes, slowly shook his head.
Chapter 8
“Filet mignon, bloody, baked potato with the works, asparagus tips,” ordered Detective Helen Katz, the waiter scribbling to keep up. She shoved her empty cocktail glass across the white linen tablecloth. “Another double bourbon too. One cube.”
“I’ll have the tuna,” said Jimmy. “Rare, please.”
“Must be nice to have an expense account—go anyplace you want, order anything you want, and stick somebody else with the bill,” said Katz. “I always wanted to eat here”—she watched the waiter hurry off—“but they don’t give a police discount, and the steak costs more than a tank of gas.”
“What’s the ME’s report going to say about cause of death?”
“Hold your horses, Pancho. You don’t want to rush a lady.”
Jimmy started to laugh but then thought better of it. Katz was wearing a blue suit and white dress shirt, her necktie the height of cop chic with a pistols-and-handcuffs pattern, her dirty-blond hair swept back into a ducktail. For all he knew, she considered this a working date.
“You going to finish your appetizer?” Katz grabbed the rest of his onion soup before he could answer. “You bring Holt here sometimes?” Strings of mozzarella hung from her spoon. “Special occasions?”
“No.”
“What’s the matter, her ladyship not a meat eater?”
Jimmy wished Katz would have just told him the results of the autopsy over the phone, but she had insisted on giving him the news here. He hated the Grove. The food was overpriced, the menu was geared to induce coronary thrombosis, and the decor was Hollywood circa the time when Buddy Hackett was considered funny. At least the ancient tuxedoed waiters didn’t introduce themselves. Lately the Grove had made a retro-chic comeback, frequented now by twenty-something hipsters and bitter, retired executives chewing unlit cigars and talking about how good things used to be and how lousy they were now.
“I’m just giving you shit about Holt,” said Katz, picking at her teeth with a fingernail. “She’s a good cop. Not my kind of cop, but a good cop just the same.”
“I’ll tell her she has your seal of approval.”
“That supposed to be put-down?”
“Yeah, that’s what it was.”
Katz grinned again. “See, just when I’m ready to write you off as a scumbag with gainful employment, you go ahead and give me an honest answer. Makes me almost like you.” She looked around the dark, wood-paneled restaurant from the shelter of their rolled red leather booth, her head bobbing in approval.
“So . . . what did the ME decide?”
“That’s right, I almost forgot what we were here for.” Katz slurped the last of the soup. “The ME said that person or persons unknown shoved something long and sharp through Walsh’s ear canal.” The spoon banged against the bottom of the bowl as Katz chased the last drop. “Doc almost didn’t catch it.” She ran a thick finger around the rim of the bowl and put it in her mouth. “You don’t look surprised.” Jimmy didn’t respond, but it didn’t seem to bother her. “Me, I was surprised, I admit it, but I’m just a big dumb cop.” She barely covered a belch. “So, who do you think did it?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you got an idea.” Katz gently swirled her double bourbon, the single ice cube clinking against the heavy crystal as she waited for an answer.
“Walsh was afraid of someone, I know that much. When I met him at the trailer, he was jumping out of his skin, but I thought he was just hustling me for some ink.”
“Guess we were both wrong.” Katz looked around for the waiter.
Jimmy rearranged his silverware, not sure of how much to reveal. Maybe Jane was right. Katz was working the case as a homicide now, so there was no reason to keep information from her. No reason except he liked having an edge, liked having room to maneuver. “Walsh said he got a letter in prison. The writer suggested that Walsh didn’t really kill Heather Grimm. That he had been set up.”
Katz laughed. “Manson has pen pals too, all of them convinced he’s innocent.”
“Walsh took this letter seriously. Maybe he wanted to believe. He confessed to killing Heather Grimm, but he didn’t remember doing it, so after he got the letter, he was determined to prove his innocence. He didn’t really know how to do it, but he was making all the right noises. The screenplay he was working on was going to lay it all out. That’s what he said, anyway.”
Katz idly stirred her drink with a forefinger.
“Walsh’s lawyers hired a private investigator to do a background on Heather Grimm, but his plea bargain stopped all that. Walsh had a copy of the raw notes—he was hoping to use them to find out the truth. I already contacted the attorney. They won’t even acknowledge that the file exists, but if you got a subpoena—”
“I didn’t find any notes,” said Katz, still stirring her drink.
“Neither did I.”
“A letter, raw files.” Katz flicked her finger and sprayed him with bourbon. “Why didn’t you tell me all this at the crime scene?”
Jimmy wiped his face. “I have a hard time sharing my toys. It’s a personality defect, but I’m working on it.”
“I got a few personality defects myself, but I’m not touching them—why mess with success?” Katz waited in vain for him to disagree with her. “Who wrote this letter to Walsh?”
“I don’t know.” There was no reason for Jimmy to keep the existence of the good wife from Katz, no reason other than the fact that he wanted to find her first. Jane said he liked saving the damsel in distress, liked playing the hero, but Jimmy knew better. “I asked Walsh, but he wouldn’t give it up.”
“How convenient.” Katz drained her drink, banged it onto the white linen tablecloth. “Well, I searched the trailer myself, and I didn’t find anything. No letter. No notes. No screenplay. Poof, disappeared. I did find nine empty prescription bottles of assorted painkillers. Found a quarter-ounce of crank taped under the bathroom sink too, but you probably don’t care about that.”
Jimmy leaned forward over the table. “Walsh wasn’t murdered over a dope deal. If you want to find out who killed him, find out who set him up for killing Heather Grimm.”
The white-haired waiter appeared at their table, and Jimmy sat back as the man laid another double bourbon and steak in front of Katz. The man moved so precisely that he didn’t disturb the air molecules. He set down Jimmy’s plate next, shaking out his napkin before handing it to Jimmy.
“Hey, gramps,” said Katz. “Where’s the Thousand Island dressing?”
The waiter acted like his pacemaker had just started sparking inside his chest. “The Grove asparagus spears are served only with soft-boiled eggs and lemon wedges, madame,” he croaked. “It’s one of our signature dishes.”
“You ever hear the phrase ‘The customer is always right’?” People at the surrounding tables glanced over, but Katz was oblivious. “Just bring me the Thousand.” She shook her head as the waiter retreated, then sliced into her steak, the knife clicking on the thick china plate. “We dusted the trailer for prints, every inch of it.” She brought the forkful of meat to her mouth, blood running down the tines. “Got some hits too.”
“Yeah?” Jimmy forced himself to be careful. Something wasn’t right.
“Yeah.
Yours.
” Katz chewed with her mouth open. “Good cow,” she pronounced, washing it down with a swallow of bourbon. She took the knife to the steak again. “Rollo’s too. And Walsh’s, of course.” The fork was poised in front of her mouth. “Last but not least, Harlen Shafer, until recently a resident at one of our fine penal institutions. Mr. Walsh’s alma mater, to be exact. Aren’t you proud of me, Jimmy?” Katz was having way too good a time for Jimmy’s taste.
“What was Shafer sent up for?”
The waiter returned and set a side dish of Thousand Island dressing in front of her, then sidled away as Katz ladled dressing onto the asparagus.
“Do you have an APB out for him?” Jimmy said.
“An
APB
?” Katz picked up three of the asparagus spears and waved them coquettishly at him. “I just love it when civilians use police lingo. I bet that gets Jane hot too.”
Jimmy didn’t answer. Anything he said was going to be used against him.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch. Shafer’s just a small-time dope dealer.” Katz bit off the heads of her asparagus. “I do have a confession to make, though.” She hung her head for an instant, crossed herself, then looked up at him, showing off those big flat horse teeth of hers. “I haven’t been completely honest with you, but then, you weren’t completely honest with me. What goes around, comes around.” She gulped down half her fresh drink and smacked her lips. “
Nobody
shoved anything in Walsh’s ear, you silly bastard. He wasn’t murdered. He died from drowning, with alcohol and drug intoxication as contributing factors.” She batted her lashes at him, a little bleary now. “I do hope I haven’t destroyed your faith in law enforcement.”
“Walsh didn’t drown.”
“I’m afraid he did.” Katz beamed.
“Walsh’s body was too deteriorated for the ME to be sure of—”
“
Deteriorated
is too nice a word. Walsh looked like month-old cottage cheese.” Katz wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Floating in the hot sun all that time, fish chewing at his fingers and toes, and the
ravens—
it was like that Hitchcock movie. Good thing we had Walsh’s prison dental records, or we couldn’t have made a positive ID.”
“Walsh might have been strangled, and no one would know. Any ligature marks would have been eaten away.”
“Ligature.” Katz chuckled, then reached over and rapped Jimmy on the larynx, suddenly solemn as he jerked back, coughing. “That’s your hyoid bone. Somebody chokes you to death, you’re hyoid bone is going to show it even if the flesh is mushy. Walsh’s hyoid—it was just fine.”
Jimmy rubbed his throat.
“Then there’s the blood chloride levels.” Katz started in on the steak again, gleefully masticating her meat. “Blood chloride levels on the left and right chambers of Walsh’s heart were equal.” She finished off her bourbon and held her glass above her head. “Garçon!” She grinned at Jimmy. “I always wanted to say that.”
“What does blood chloride have to do with it?”
Katz let him simmer, watching the waiter hustle toward the bar. “I barely passed chemistry myself, but Doc says that if the chloride levels are equal, it means that Walsh was still breathing when he went into the water.” She stopped as the waiter came by with another drink, then sipped this one now, rolling it around in her mouth; Jimmy had watched Jane do the same thing with her first drink of the evening until she noticed him paying attention. She hid her pleasure now.
“So Walsh drowned. Maybe he had help.”
Katz stuck the end of her napkin in her water glass and rubbed at the gob of Thousand Island dressing that had fallen on her necktie. “You hold somebody down, he’s going to put up a fight, even somebody as drunk as Walsh was,” she lectured. “Those rocks in the koi pond are rough, but Walsh’s hands and knees—what was left of them anyway—there were no lacerations on them. His fingertips were gone, but the fish didn’t touch his fingernails—none of them were broken off. Sorry to spoil your fantasy, but Walsh just fell down drunk and drowned. The ME’s issuing the report tomorrow afternoon, so consider this your heads-up—I always keep my word.”
“
Somebody
took the screenplay. It just didn’t disappear.”
“The screenplay may be missing, but that doesn’t mean somebody took it.” Katz inspected her tie, smoothed it flat. “I did my job. I even had the crime scene unit take tire impressions from the ground around the trailer; we haven’t had rain in what—three months? CSI got a match on standard-issue tires from Walsh’s Honda, your Saab, the Ford Escort driven by Mr. Ponytail, Rollo’s VW van, and one more, origin unknown. I admit I got a little interested at that point, but then we determined that Goodyear 275 R15 radials were basic equipment on 1996 Camaros, like the one currently registered to the aforementioned Harlen Shafer, the dealer who makes house calls. That’s it, Jimmy—those were the only tire treads up there. Give it a rest.”
“Have you talked to Shafer?”
“About what? The case is
closed.
If you don’t know what that means, ask Holt.”
The waiter reappeared, nodded at Jimmy’s untouched plate. “Is everything all right, sir?”
“Yes, fine.” Jimmy looked at Katz. “You’re wrong.”
“Put my date’s tuna into a doggie bag, gramps,” Katz told the waiter. “And drop in a few of those dinner rolls.” She pushed her plate away and leaned close to Jimmy. “Thanks for the chow and the laughs. I’ll keep your number in my wallet. If I ever need somebody to track down the Easter Bunny, I just know you’re the guy who can do it for me.”