“Work,” Max groaned. “Do you know what I did last night in my studio? One of my headaches was coming on, the lights pulsing and dancing like some electrified Milky Way. When I came to, I’d destroyed two thousand dollars’ worth of models with a hammer, just pounded them to pieces. Fur and glass and thread and batting and screws everywhere.”
“What are you saying?” Lily asked. “Did you kill Kitty?”
Max’s eyes darted wildly. “I wouldn’t kill Kitty. I loved her. I miss her so much.”
“We all miss her,” Fumiko said softly. “But she’s gone. You have to go on living.”
Max Vranizan collected his hat and rose to his feet. “Yes. I’ll go now.”
As he walked down the street, Lily apologized to Fumiko. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier. It was uncalled for.”
Fumiko nodded. “We’re all on edge. Poor Max. His brain is like a fragile eggshell. He feels life so deeply, and he can’t filter things the way we can. It’s his genius and his downfall.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Lily said. “But the bottom line is he’s unstable. We need to tell the detectives about this. What if he killed Kitty and he’s starting to crack?”
P
ico pulled up in front of an American Legion Hall in Atwater. The place looked closed. But it was the right address. Magruder had wanted to meet here, then head off together to their appointment at Warner’s.
He found a side door and walked in, wrinkling his nose at the smell of spilled beer. It wasn’t yet eleven a.m., but the American Legion Hall bar was already doing a brisk business with the World War I vets. Faded pennants and bunting from long-ago Fourth of July parties draped the bar. Photos of Little League teams the chapter had sponsored over the years covered the walls. Magruder was perched on a stool, quaffing a steaming drink. Beside him was a briefcase.
“Have a seat.” The older cop waved him over, all liquored-up bonhomie, and roared at the bartender to bring another Irish coffee.
“I thought we had to go meet Kirk Armstrong.”
“Got a little errand to run first,” he said thickly. “Just working up to it.”
The combination of booze and caffeine gave Magruder a dangerous edge. His voice grew louder, his movements more broad and exaggerated, but also tightly wound. After the two men finished their drinks, he placed his briefcase on the bar. He pressed the metal levers and the top flew open, revealing unmarked envelopes, a manila file, a brown bag, and a bundle of cash tied with a rubber band. Disgusted, Pico looked away. He didn’t want to be complicit in Magruder’s black business. It was one thing to eat a meal or have a few drinks on the house, but this was graft of a whole different magnitude. They were supposed to be in Burbank at noon, for chrissakes, and here was Magruder, trying to squeeze one last payoff out of a sunny autumn morning.
Magruder closed the case and they walked out into the blazing sunlight and across the street to a yellow building with a sign that said
NORMANDY MANOR.
The smell of piss and disinfectant hit them at the door. Magruder seemed to know his way around—he tipped his hat with a florid and expansive greeting to the receptionist and sailed along the linoleum corridor. The strong odors seemed to have sobered him up, he wasn’t slurring his words anymore.
They turned the corner and entered a small white room. A uniformed nurse with a starched tricorn hat sat at the edge of the bed, spooning Cream of Wheat into the mouth of a young man whose limbs and muscles were twisted into unnatural angles. The youth had brilliant green eyes and bluish white skin and wore Coke-bottle glasses and some kind of helmet strapped to his head.
“How’s he doing, Martha?” Magruder said.
“Up bright and early this morning, sir,” the nurse replied. “I brought him some autumn leaves so he could watch the seasons change and he seemed to enjoy that a great deal.” She inclined her head to a table where maple leaves lay in gnarled splendor—yellow, orange, red, magenta, and brown.
Magruder stood impassively at the young man’s bedside, then opened his briefcase and pulled out a black-and-white photo of Clark Gable. Pico noticed that it was signed,
To Bruce Magruder, a brave cowboy. From your friend Clark.
Magruder held it up to the boy and Pico thought the sea-green eyes grew more alert. The young man’s mouth moved as if to form words, and the nurse swooped down with a napkin to mop a string of saliva.
“You’ll put it up on the wall with the others, won’t you, Martha?” Magruder handed it to her.
Pico looked around and saw what he’d missed because he’d been focused on the broken boy in the bed—the wall plastered with movie stills, all the most masculine, outdoorsy male stars, every last one autographed to Bruce Magruder. There was Gary Cooper. The Duke. Mitchum. Rhett Taylor. Rory Calhoun. Bogie. Burt Lancaster. Errol Flynn. Gene Autry. Tom Mix.
Now Magruder fished something out of the paper bag in his briefcase. It was a Brooklyn Dodgers cap. The boy’s clawlike fingers reached out to caress the fabric. The cap slipped to the floor. Magruder picked it up without a word. Frowning with concentration, he perched it atop the boy’s helmet.
“There you go, champ.” He leaned in. “One day, we’ll have a team of our own in this town.”
Then he chucked the boy under the chin, kissed him on the cheek, and turned to Martha.
“I want to thank you for taking such good care of him,” Magruder said, handing her one of the unmarked envelopes from his case. “I know I can count on you.”
“Oh really, Mr. Magruder,” the nurse said. “He’s one of God’s angels, fallen to earth.” She dropped the envelope into the pocket of her uniform.
They said good-bye, then retraced their steps down the corridor. At the reception desk, Magruder paused, pulled out three more envelopes.
“For you, Sadie,” he said. “And one for the doctor and the night nurse. Be sure they get it, ah?”
“You’re a kind and generous man, Mr. Magruder.”
The older cop tipped his hat and left, Pico following.
Magruder plodded down the sidewalk, his head bent. At the car, he squinted against the sunlight. There was a weary look about him that Pico hadn’t seen before. “We’ll take one car to Burbank. You can drive while I sober up,” Magruder said, “I want to hear all about your talk with Lily Kessler.”
“Kirk Armstrong?” screamed Mickey Cohen, rattling his
Confidential.
“Did he kill her?”
“Boss,” Shorty said, his pretense of calm undermined by the wet stain creeping down his shirt. They were at Mickey’s house in Brentwood, could hear his wife moving around in another room. “I told you about that. The studio says it was just an affair.”
For a moment, Shorty thought he was going to go off.
“They lie like they breathe over there. No honor at all.” Mickey got himself under control, shook his head. “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? She was blackmailing him on account of she was pregnant.”
“Boss, the note indicates she was gonna abort. And it’s signed,
love, Kitty.
That don’t sound like blackmail to me.”
“We don’t know what it means. I told you to get to the bottom of this,” Cohen snapped.
“I’m trying, boss. But the girl got around and it’s taking time. I got her and Armstrong at the Chateau Marmont and a makeup girl who saw them in his trailer. But that don’t mean he killed her.”
“They were doing it in his trailer?” Mickey’s eyes glittered.
“That’s the trouble. Girl says she walked in at six-thirty one morning to make him up and found them in a clench. Everybody had their clothes on. They broke apart and claimed he was coaching her on her lines, but the makeup girl didn’t see any scripts.”
“Where was Armstrong the night of October seventh?”
Shorty closed his eyes in relief that he’d gotten this piece of information.
“Mâitre d’ at Romanoff’s said he was there with a large party on October fifth and presented his wife with a large diamond necklace.” He paused. “A guilt offering, the way I see it. The harbormaster says they took off on a producer’s yacht for Catalina for a long weekend. They got back October ninth.”
Mickey shot him a suspicious look. “I thought he was filming
Young Man with a Horn.
”
“They’d been filming twelve days straight. Kirk and the wife needed a little break.”
“What about that prick Dragna? And that animator.”
Shorty winced. “I’m working on it.”
“I’m giving you a couple more days. Then I want answers.”
Pico pulled up to the gate at Warner Brothers Studio, showed his badge, and was waved through. They were ten minutes late already, but Magruder didn’t seem concerned as they parked and walked to the office of Bennie Jones, the head of Warner security and an old friend of Magruder’s.
The security bungalow was on the far side of the lot and Pico resisted the urge to stop and watch as senoritas in colorful rickrack-trimmed dresses and scoop-necked embroidered white tops flounced past.
Jones had his feet propped on the desk, smoking a Cuban cigar, when they walked in. He offered them one. Pico declined, but Magruder accepted, and they went about the fussy rituals that precede the smoking of fine cigars. “You’re late,” Jones said when they settled in.
Pico glanced at his watch. “Only by fifteen minutes, sir. The traffic—”
“Kirk sends his apologies. He couldn’t wait. The director was screaming bloody murder, they’re shooting today. So I took his statement for you.”
Pico looked with alarm at Magruder, who was puffing his stogie and grinning idiotically. Things were shaping up exactly as Lily Kessler had predicted. He felt let down. His one opportunity to talk to Kirk Armstrong up close, gaze upon that famous face, searching for signs of sincerity, and it had been snatched from him.
Pico licked his lips. “What did Mr. Armstrong have to say, sir?” he said hoarsely.
Magruder and Jones looked at each other and burst into laughter.
“Just pulling your leg, son,” Jones said. “Kirk’s shooting and they’re running late. We’re going to walk over to Jack Warner’s office soon.”
Pico looked around and suddenly realized what was missing. “We should have brought a police stenographer,” he said.
The older cop waved his arm in dismissal, his cigar etching an S in the air.
S
for slimeball, sordid, sleazy.
“It’s an informal chat.”
“Before we go,” Jones said, handing Magruder a manila envelope. “Got a few more photos. Autographed, like you wanted. Coupla nice ones of Kirk in there.” Jones winked and Magruder looked embarrassed and slid them into his briefcase.
They chatted a little longer, then Jones said, “Let’s go,” and they walked across the lot to Jack Warner’s lair.
The mogul kept them waiting a half hour. Finally they followed the secretary into Warner’s inner sanctum, bunched up behind her like ducklings. Warner sat behind a large desk, with three men around him. One was small and plump, the second slender and nattily dressed. The third was Kirk Armstrong. The actor was shorter than he appeared on screen, and his head was bigger. A thick mane of hair so glossy it could have been a wig sat upon his head, and he wore thick beige makeup.
“Gentlemen, sit down, please,” Warner said. “Let’s get started.”
Jones made introductions. The sharply dressed man was a studio publicist and the plump one was a Warner attorney.
“And I’m sure everyone recognizes the man to our left.” Jones made a small bow in Armstrong’s direction.
Magruder nodded, then launched into fawning praise of Kirk Armstrong and vowed to make the interview go as quickly and smoothly as possible.
Kirk Armstrong gave a regal nod. It was hard to read him, but Pico thought he seemed eager to get on with it.
“Please tell us how you met Kitty Hayden,” Magruder said.
“As I mentioned on the phone, I’d seen her around the set. She had a small part in
Young Man with a Horn.
She’d say hello each morning and we’d chitchat. She told me how much she liked my movies. She’d seen
The Summit
three times, it was one of her favorites.”
Pico had heard that stars were narcissists. Here was proof. He’d already turned a murder investigation into a discussion about himself.
“She was a pretty girl, wasn’t she?” Pico interjected. The rest of the room looked shocked at his impertinence, but Armstrong only chuckled.
“Right you are. And I appreciate a pretty girl, same as the next man. But it never went beyond hello, how are you, how was your weekend, when’s the weather gonna cool down. That sort of thing.”
“Ever call her at home? Share a meal with her? Go for a stroll? Anything along those lines?” Pico persisted.
Armstrong’s face assumed the earnest expression of a Boy Scout. “No, sir. Our relationship was strictly work.”
“Your relationship?” Pico pounced.
“An unfortunate figure of speech.”
“We’re sorry to put this so bluntly,” Magruder said, “but we have to ask. Were you and the deceased sexually involved?”
Armstrong’s face grew extremely serious and troubled. “No, sir.”
“Were you aware that the decedent was eleven weeks pregnant?”
A stricken expression crossed the actor’s face. “That’s terrible.”
He’s an actor,
thought Pico.
And this is the role of his life.
Kirk Armstrong’s voice was modulated. Filled with respect and concern, just the right tinge of sorrow and outrage. He held Magruder’s eyes, didn’t look away or blink. His hands rested on the arms of the chair. His feet didn’t twitch. In fact, Kirk Armstrong seemed to be holding himself perfectly still. What did that mean? Wouldn’t it be more normal for him to be somewhat agitated and nervous, fearful of negative publicity that could damn his career, scandalize his marriage? Shouldn’t he be more upset?
“All right,” said the attorney. “If that’s all you gentlemen need, we can get back to making this picture.” He stood up.
“Wait a second,” Pico blurted out, surprising himself. “Mr. Armstrong, you said you never left the set with Kitty Hayden or saw her outside the studio. Is that right?”
“Now, look here, he’s already told you that. I thought we were through,” Jones said.