To Die in Beverly Hills (21 page)

"And I've got the right contacts at the courthouse. Your case is as good as washed."

"And what exactly do you mean by
washed?"

"You won't have to go to court. You won't have to go back to jail. Your bad experience is ended."

"How do I know you're not just saying that to pacify me?"

"I can show you the paperwork tomorrow, if you like. I have a friend in the District Attorney's office. I did a little checking and found out that the owner of the necklace Lee gave you passed away a few weeks ago. Therefore, there's no victim to testify. It was easier than I thought. You have my personal word that the case will be dismissed. You'll never hear another word about it."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Amanda Kennedy leaned back on the sofa. "Thank God," she said to the ceiling, then sat up again. "I was worried to death. All I could think about in there was serving time for something I didn't do. Something I had nothing to do with. All I did was accept a gift."

"It's over now," Bailey said. "Can't we have a drink?"

"I can use something more than a drink." The remark was obviously more than in jest.

Like a dutiful waiter, Bones winked and rushed into the kitchen.

"The night they booked me, the matrons searched me, fingerprinted me and shoved me in a cell. It happened so fast I didn't know what hit me. All of a sudden, I'm sitting in this jail cell. It was unreal. I mean unreal. It wasn't as if I was doing dope or something and got caught selling to the man. I was sitting in a jail cell simply because I had been given a necklace. Unreal."

Bones returned from the kitchen carrying a pocket-sized mirror and a small glass vial of white powder. He set the mirror down on the coffee table in front of Amanda. Having unscrewed the top off the vial, he tapped out a small line of cocaine onto the mirror. From his shirt pocket, he removed a red cocktail straw and handed it to her. "This'll make you feel better."

Blankly, she glanced at the two men. Then she leaned over the table and touched one end of the straw to the cocaine and the other end to her right nostril. She inhaled through her nose as she moved the straw along the line of coke, dropped the straw and leaned back. With her eyes closed, as if in ecstasy, she inhaled deeply a few times.

Bones stared at her tits while Bailey stepped to the bar. He mixed a strong drink and a weak one.

Amanda Kennedy opened her eyes.

"How is it?" Chagra asked.

"Lovely. Really lovely."

Bailey handed her the strong drink.

"I hope you don't think I was trying to be unreasonable about this thing," she said, taking a sip, "but I have to look out for myself."

"No hard feelings." Bailey hefted his glass and they both drank. Her eyes looked dope-hazy.

Bones went over to a wall unit, where he flipped some switches. Soft music filled the room.

"Mellow," she said. "This is the first mellow feeling I've had since they arrested me. Uptight City. That's what they should call jail. Uptight City. I couldn't sleep a wink. The lights were on all the time. It was like a fucking movie. Unreal." She took a big sip of the drink. "Ummmm."

Bones Chagra sat down next to her. "Really."

Amanda glanced at her blouse and gave it a little tug. "Totally wrinkled."

"You still look great," Chagra whispered.

Travis Bailey walked to a wall phone in the kitchen. He lifted the receiver and dialed. Delsey Piper answered. "If anyone calls for me tonight, just say I'm in the shower and I'll call them back. Then leave the phone off the hook."

"What's going on?"

"An informant thing," he said, lowering his voice.

"Will you be home tonight?"

"It depends."

"You never give definite answers."

He hung up the receiver and returned to the living room.

Chagra and Amanda Kennedy had left the sofa. The bedroom door was only partially shut, and he could hear Amanda giggling. The cocaine and paraphernalia were gone from the coffee table. He turned on the television, looking for some diversion. For the next hour or so he stared at a courtroom drama starring an actor who he knew had once been arrested for molesting a twelve-year-old girl. As the screen credits were shown, Bones Chagra came out of the bedroom. He was naked.

"You want some?" he said, pointing a thumb at the bedroom door.

Travis Bailey shook his head. "It's getting late."

Bones nodded and returned to the bedroom.

Bailey stared at a quiz show in which the contestants jumped up and down. The audience applauded intermittently.

Chagra came out of the bedroom again, this time with his arm around a staggering Amanda Kennedy. Sloppily, she tucked in her blouse.

Bailey stood up.

"How about another little drink?" Chagra asked her.

"I think I'd better go," she said, slurring her words. "You still here?" she said as she noticed Bailey.

"Just leaving," he heard himself saying. "Can I give you a lift?"

Chagra stared at Bailey as if he wanted to say something.

Amanda pulled Chagra by the arm. "Why don't you give me a ride home?" she said drunkenly.

"Uh, my car's in the shop."

Travis Bailey walked to the front door and opened it. "My radio car is downstairs."

Amanda giggled as Bones tried to keep her from losing her balance. "I guess I can't walk home."

Bailey stepped out the door and followed a hallway to a stairwell leading to the ground-floor carport. Chagra followed him, keeping his arm around Amanda Kennedy's shoulder in order to steady her gait.

In the carport, he unlocked the passenger door of his sedan and swung the door open. As Chagra led her out of the stairwell, Bailey looked around carefully. There was no one else in the carport. The street was deserted. He went over to the driver's side and climbed in, watching as Chagra led Amanda Kennedy to the passenger side and helped her in. Having said something about giving her a call sometime, he shut the car door. Without looking back, he hurried back through the stairwell door.

Amanda Kennedy leaned back in the seat. "Unreal," she said sleepily.

Travis Bailey started the engine. Driving out of the carport onto a street lined with apartment houses and luxury cars, he waited until he reached the corner to turn on the headlights.

"My ex used to write scripts about this sort of thing. I was a sounding board for his crazy ideas. His best script was about this man who would send poison pen letters by carrier pigeon. They were going to make it into a TV movie but this peanut butter company that was the sponsor didn't approve of the script..."

Bailey nodded. They drove along Westwood Boulevard past some newly built restaurants and shops that were designed with synthetic wood and brick to look European. Sandwiched between a candy store and French bakery was a gun shop with a three-dimensional bullet affixed to the front door.

"How many other people know about the things Lee Sheboygan told you about?" Bailey said as he turned a corner.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes. "I've never told a soul, if that's what you mean. I believe in not getting involved. If there's anything I've learned since coming to L.A., it's
do not get involved.
Lee and I met around the swimming pool after he moved in. He seemed lonely and he was very open about having served time in prison. I thought that was refreshing, that someone would be open enough to tell a perfect stranger about the mistakes he'd made in life. He told me about how awful it was in prison. He was a very different person. I could relate to him, share secrets with him. We just seemed to click. The right vibes were just there and all of a sudden we were getting down together and telling each other our innermost secrets. We were really communicating. The cocaine helped, of course."

"Was anyone else there when Lee was ... sharing his secrets?" Bailey said, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Of course not."

They passed a Polynesian restaurant that Bailey knew as a hangout for movie stars. Situated on a corner lot in front of a large parking lot, the restaurant's entrance was covered with banana plants and other Pacific foliage. A walkway leading to the front door was lined with brightly colored island flowers that had been the subject of more than one California Living article in the Sunday paper. Like an oasis, palm trees leaned from the corners of the building toward a flora-filled atrium in its center. Bailey remembered answering a burglar alarm call at the restaurant one night when he was working a radio car. As he shined his flashlight into the kitchen area, wharf-sized rats had scurried out from under the sinks and work counters.

"Why didn't you come in the bedroom tonight?" Amanda said. She smiled pertly.

He shrugged.

"I'm very open about sex. The only thing that turns me off is doing it with another woman. A complete turnoff. You don't like to talk about sex, do you?"

He stared at the road.

"Some people are like that." She pointed to the right. "You should have turned there to go to my place."

"Would you mind if I made a quick stop? I need to drop off a copy of a report right up the street. It'll just take a sec."

"Sure," she said blankly.

A block later they passed a large furniture store that Bailey knew marked the Beverly Hills city limits. Illuminated by mobile spotlights, an enormous helium-filled clown holding a sign that read Close-Out Sale floated above its roof.

Bailey slowed down. He turned right and pulled down the alley behind the deserted pizza house where he used to meet Sheboygan. He maneuvered the sedan under a canopy and turned off the engine. His heart raced. The tips of his fingers tingled.

"This place isn't open," she said. "Why are you stopping here?"

Travis Bailey pointed out the passenger window. "Who's that?"

Amanda Kennedy turned her head. Swiftly, he swung his right arm around her neck and wedged her throat in the crook of his arm. Using his left arm as a lever, he squeezed with all his might. Her fingers scratched his forearm as he pulled her toward him. Her hair was in his face. She made frantic guttural sounds and her fingernails dug deeper into his arm. She kicked desperately. Her feet wedged against the passenger door. In a violent paroxysm, she pushed off the door. His head slammed against the driver's window and they slipped down onto the seat. He maintained his grip and squeezed harder. Finally, her lips made a bubble-blowing sound and her body relaxed completely. She felt heavier. He readjusted his grip on her neck and maintained steady pressure for a long time. Out the passenger window he could see the inflated clown. It stared at him.

The headlights of a car illuminated the windows.

"No," he muttered aloud without releasing pressure on the woman's neck. He held his breath as the automobile drove past without slowing down. He felt wetness and realized he was soaked with Amanda Kennedy's urine. He wanted to push himself free of the contamination, but forced himself to hold on. He had to make sure she was dead. Exhausted, he released his hold. He shoved her body off him. Taking care not to make any unnecessary noise, he opened the driver's door and went to the trunk of the sedan. The air was cool and because of a slight breeze he felt a sensation of coolness on his urine-soaked trousers. He had the urge to strip off the wet clothing. He opened the trunk and removed a plastic tarp from an evidence kit. Quickly, he spread the tarp in the trunk.

At the passenger door, he looked both ways down the alley, then dragged and pulled Amanda's body off the front seat. Staggering, he carried it to the trunk, dropped the body inside and closed the trunk carefully. After a few deep breaths, he returned to the driver's seat, started the car and drove out of the alley. In a few minutes he was heading east on the San Bernardino Freeway, which, because of the hour, was clear. He opened the windows because of the odor on the front seat.