by Stuart Woods
OWNER & OPERATOR: MELVIN JAMES PARKER.
He sat down at his desk and took a couple of deep breaths, tried to slow down. First application two years ago; passed the police check through the Santa Monica department—he couldn’t get a license for a security business if he had a criminal record. Four employees (that was then, maybe more by now). Description of business: installation and maintenance of alarm systems, audio and video electronics and telephone equipment; supply of security personnel, armed and unarmed; supply and maintenance of security vehicles. Not licensed for private investigations, but into absolutely everything else. M. James Parker fit Admirer like a glove.
Then a little negative worm squirmed into Larsen’s mind. If Parker had gone through a police check then he would have been fingerprinted and his prints would have gone into the central registry. Why, then, when they ran the print from the Millman guest house, didn’t it turn up Parker? Two reasons occurred to him: one, the Santa Monica police didn’t print him as they should have, or they didn’t file the prints; two, the guest-house print belonged to somebody else, maybe a maid.
Larsen picked up the phone and called a detective he knew on the Santa Monica force.
“Gene, it’s Jon Larsen. Your people did a check on a guy a couple of years ago for a security company business license, name of Melvin James Parker. He was supposed to be printed, but it looks like for some reason the prints never made it into the system. Can you get hold of the original record and transmit the prints to me?”
“Hi, Jon; nice to hear from you. How you been? How’s tricks? Are you enjoying being a policeman?” The voice dripped with sarcasm.
“I’m sorry, I just haven’t got time for small talk. Can you get me the original record?”
“From two years ago? Everything goes to Central Records after a year, pal. You can go down to the warehouse and rake through that stuff as good as I can, if you got a week to spare.”
“Thanks, Gene.”
“Delightful chatting with you, asshole.” He hung up.
Larsen sighed. He had plenty on Admirer, but without the fingerprints he couldn’t make Parker as Admirer. And he couldn’t just drag Parker in and fingerprint him, either, or strip him and search for a tattoo, not without probable cause, and owning one of several hundred Ford vans in greater L.A. didn’t constitute probable cause.
He got on the computer to see if a motorcycle was registered either to Keyhole or to Mel Parker, and the answer was negative. Maybe he registered the machine some other way.
He rested his forehead on the glass of his desktop and tried to think of something. Well, he might as well go and get a look at Parker, but he’d better not let Parker get a look at him, because Parker knew him, and he’d be on his guard. Larsen did not want Parker on his guard. He got up and struggled into his coat.
The phone rang.
He picked it up. “Larsen.”
“Jon, it’s Chris.”
“Hi, how are you?”
“Terrible. I’m in the emergency room at Cedars-Sinai. Danny has had a horrible car crash, and he’s demanding to see you. They’re having an awful time with him; can you get down here right away?”
“I’m on my way.” Larsen ran for his car.
CHAPTER
32
The emergency room at Cedars-Sinai was not as busy at this time of day as at midnight, when the gunshot victims started to come in, but business was not bad. Mothers with sick children were lined up with dogbite victims and the odd drug addict, and there was a hum of activity about the place.
Larsen found Chris sitting on a bench with Melanie.
“Oh, God, I’m glad you’re here. Danny’s half nuts, and they won’t let me be with him,” Chris said.
“Where is he?”
Melanie pointed at a curtain at the end of the hall. “Down there.”
“You two stay here, and try and be calm. I’ll see what’s happening.” He walked down the hall and parted the curtain. Danny Devere was lying on a treatment table, and a doctor was stitching a long wound in his lower left leg. An IV was running into his arm. Danny was mumbling in a nonstop stream, and only an occasional epithet was understandable.
A nurse holding a tray of instruments turned and glanced at Larsen. “You. Take a seat outside.”
Larsen produced his badge. “I have to talk with your patient.”
The young doctor glanced up from his work, saw the badge, and continued sewing. ER people weren’t impressed with badges; they saw too many of them.
“Take a hike,” the nurse said.
“Hang on,” the doctor said wearily. “You can talk to him while I’m working.” He continued suturing. “Come around to the head of the table and ask your questions. Don’t be too long, he could still go into shock.”
Larsen eased between the nurse and the wall, grabbed a steel stool, and sat down, so he would be close to Danny. “Danny, it’s Jon Larsen. Looks like you’re doing pretty good. You wanted to talk to me?”
Danny turned his head toward Larsen, but that seemed to hurt, and he closed his eyes. “Thank God,” he said. “The other cops seem to think I’m a drunk driver or something. At four o’clock in the goddamned afternoon!”
“Talk to me, Danny, and I’ll talk to them.”
“Fucking Admirer did it,” he said.
“He ran you off the road, like Melanie?”
“No, he did something to the car. I couldn’t stop it.”
“How do you know Admirer did it?”
“I’m fucking psychic, Jon; now will you talk to those goddamned cops and do something about this? My leg hurts like hell, and I’m tired of being treated like a criminal. They wanted me to take a blood test.”
Larsen looked up and saw a uniformed Beverly Hills officer standing at the opening in the curtain. “Go ahead and let them give you the blood test, Danny; I’ll talk to them. Now what happened?”
“I was coming back from the Valley, and my brakes went at the top of the ridge. I tried to stop by hitting another car, but it didn’t work, and then I remembered these friends’ house with a tennis court, so I just aimed the car at the court, and the fence stopped me.”
“Smart move,” Larsen said. “You just take it easy and get some rest, okay? I’ll come and see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Jon. Is Chris here?”
“She’s outside with Melanie.”
“Will you take care of her tonight? Melanie has to go home to her kids.”
“Sure; don’t worry about Chris.” He stepped around the table. The doctor seemed ready to bandage Danny’s leg, and Larsen motioned him over. “How is he?”
“He’s got a bad gash in his left leg, which you just watched me close; he’s got a lot of bruising here and there, but otherwise he seems to be okay. There’s no internal injury that I can find, but we’re going to hang on to him for a day or so and see if anything develops.”
“Thank you, Doctor. He seems to be in considerable pain.”
“I’m aware of that; we’ll give him some morphine and put him to bed.”
Larsen gave the doctor his card. “I’d appreciate it if you’d notate his records to the effect that I should be contacted if there’s any change in his condition for the worse.”
“Sure.”
Larsen stepped through the curtain and took the uniformed cop’s arm. “I’m Larsen, Detective Division; bring me up to date.”
“That guy in there is some kind of maniac, or he’s very drunk. He drove down Beverly Glen at eighty or ninety, rammed another car, and scared the shit out of a lady before he dumped his car into her tennis court. Wiped it out.”
“He’ll agree to the blood test now; I think you’ll find he’s sober.”
“You know this guy?”
“Yes; he’s a potential witness in a case, and he thinks the perp doctored his car. Tell me, was his driving consistent with having no brakes?”
“Yeah, could be.”
“Go ahead and make your report; write it up as referred
to the detective division, and put my name on it.” He gave the cop a card. “Also, I want the wreck impounded, so our man can go over it.”
“Okay,” the cop said, “that shortens my day.” He handed Larsen a clipboard. “You want to sign right there and put down your badge number?”
Larsen signed, and the cop left. Larsen walked back to where Chris and Melanie were waiting. “Danny’s going to be fine,” he said. “He’s got a cut leg and some bruising and they’re going to keep him overnight for observation, but tomorrow he’ll be his old self.”
“Thank God,” Chris said. “Why was he so anxious to talk to you?”
“Melanie, why don’t you go on home? I’ll take care of Chris.”
“Chris,” the secretary said, “I’ll be glad to stay if you need me.”
“It’s all right, Melanie. Go home to your kids.”
Melanie took her leave, and Larsen led Chris to his car. When they were inside, Chris spoke up again.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t want to upset Melanie. Danny thinks that Admirer screwed up the brakes on his car, and the investigating officer says that’s consistent with what happened.”
“Exactly what did happen?”
“Danny was coming down Beverly Glen when his brakes stopped working. He had the presence of mind to drive into a tennis-court fence; I’m sure that saved his life.”
“Do you think Admirer did it?”
“I’ve had his car impounded, and we’re going to find out. In the meantime, you’re going to stay with me tonight.”
“I’d better go by the house and get some things.”
“Do you mind if I lend you something to sleep in? I’d just as soon not go back to your place right now.”
“You think Admirer is still watching it?”
“I don’t know, but let’s proceed on the basis that he is.”
“You certainly have sneaky ways to get a girl to stay over.”
“I couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this.”
“I’m glad,” she said.
Larsen reached over and took her hand. “I’m going to tell you something, but I don’t want you to ask any questions, all right?”
“All right.”
“I’ve got a solid lead on who Admirer may be. I have a feeling we may be nearing the end of all this.”
“Who is he?”
“You promised not to ask any questions.”
“That wasn’t fair; you tricked me.”
“Look, I may be wrong about this, and I don’t want to go into it with you until I’m sure. I just want you to know that there’s some hope that this won’t last forever.”
“Well, okay,” she sighed. “I guess I can wait. I’ve waited this long.”
Four cars back in the traffic behind them, a red motorcycle kept pace with them all the way to Santa Monica.
CHAPTER
33
Larsen led Chris into his house and switched on the lights in the living room. Outside the sun was sinking into the Pacific. “Here we are,” he said.
“It’s nice to know when the lights are on,” Chris said. “It’s still bad in low light, but pretty soon I won’t be bumping into the furniture anymore.”
“Let’s keep that from Admirer,” Larsen said. “I’d just as soon have him think you’re blind as a bat.” He hung his jacket and pistol in the hall closet, then led her to the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen and helped her onto a barstool. “Can I get you a drink?”
“God, I could use one. Got any bourbon?”
“Sure.”
“Rocks only, please.”
He poured them both a drink and touched her glass with his. “‘Better times than these,’” he said.
“Hear, hear,” she said, and sipped her drink. “Where have I heard that line?”
“It’s from ‘Garryowen,’ the riding song of Custer’s Seventh Cavalry. The Seventh still uses it, I think. It was also used as the title of a Vietnam war novel by somebody named Winston Groom.”
“That’s where I’ve heard it; I read the book a long time ago and liked it.”
“So did I.”
“Speaking of novels, there was one on your sister’s tapes that interested me called Light of Day, by Karen Copeland.”
“I don’t know it.”
“It’s about the problems of a young woman who’s blinded in an accident. Her blindness is difficult, of course, but an even bigger problem for her is getting her family and friends to accept that she can live alone and lead a fairly normal life.”
“Sounds good.”
“It’s better than that; there’s some very powerful stuff in it, and it’s funny, too. I believe it would make a terrific film, and I think I could bring a lot to the part.”
“I’m sure you could.”
“I’ve already asked my manager to pursue the film rights. If I can option it at a reasonable price, I want to adapt it myself and see if I can get it made.”
“Have you ever written anything?”
“Not since college, when I wrote a play. I was torn between writing and acting in those days, and I’m not entirely sure I made the right choice.”
“I don’t see why you can’t do both.”
“I’ve been too busy up until recently, but these days I don’t have a damned thing to do, so I’ve already started dictating some scenes, and Melanie is typing them up.”
“That’s great.” He took some steaks from the freezer and put them in the microwave to thaw. “How do you like your beef?”
“Medium rare.”
“I’m glad you’re not a vegetarian; we’d have to order in a pizza.”
“A steak sounds good.” She took another sip of her drink. “So, what kind of a house am I sitting in?”
“Oh, I guess it’s vaguely mission in style. I think I told you my folks built it before I was born.”
“Yes. What have you done to it?”
“Well, I divided the upstairs into two apartments, and I opened it up a little downstairs. There used to be a wall between where you and I are right now, so I took that down and put in the bar. It makes everything seem bigger and lighter. I need to rip out the kitchen and bathrooms and replace them; I might call your friend Moscowitz about that before long.”
“I recommend him highly.”
“What about your subcontractors? Any of those you particularly like?”
“I’ve met most of them, I guess, but my instructions have always gone through Mike to them, so I haven’t dealt directly with any of them.”
“I see.”
“Except the burglar alarm guy.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, his name is Mel something-or-other; I met him out at the house and went through the whole place to decide what I needed in the way of window and screen sensors and smoke alarms and panic buttons and all that stuff. He was very good about explaining it all, and I’m satisfied that I’m getting the right system.”
“This was before your accident?”
“Yes, just a few days.”
“What does he look like?”
“Oh, about my height, I guess—five eight or nine, well-built, sandy hair…” She stopped and her mouth dropped open. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
“He’s Admirer, isn’t he?”
“Jesus, you’re too sharp for me. I didn’t mean for you to know I suspected him.”
“When are you going to arrest him?”
“Hang on, I’m not in the least certain that he’s our man, not yet. I’ve got to get his fingerprints to compare to the one we found in the Millman house.”
“Why don’t you just drag him in and fingerprint him, then sweat the whole story out of him?”
“You’ve been seeing too many old movies. These days we have to have something called probable cause before we can arrest somebody. If I pull him in I have to have his permission to fingerprint him, and he’s not likely to agree t
o that. If I printed him anyway, his lawyer would get the case thrown out of court, and we don’t want that.”
“But you know all this stuff he’s done, don’t you?”
“Sure, but I can’t prove he’s the same guy who did it.”
“The bastard,” she said vehemently.
“Tell me, did he do the system for the Bel Air house, too?”
“No, that was already installed when Brad and I bought it. It’s never worked properly, either, and after all that’s happened, I was thinking of calling Mel in to fix it.” She laughed. “How about that?”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Larsen mused.
“What? Invite him to the house?”
“Let me think about it; we might be able to turn such a visit to our advantage.”
The microwave beeped, and Larsen took out the steaks. “These are ready for the grill, I think. You hungry?”
“Always.”
Larsen began seasoning the meat.
Chris cocked her head to one side. “Your doorbell is about to ring.”
“What? You going psychic on me?”
“Wait,” she said.
They waited, but nothing happened.
“That’s funny,” she said.
“What’s funny?”
“You know, since I haven’t been able to see I’ve had to rely a lot more on my hearing, and I think it’s become more acute.”
“What did you hear?”
“I heard someone on your front porch,” she said.
“You wait here for a minute, and I’ll check,” Larsen said.
“Don’t be long.”
“I’ll hurry.” He went to the front-hall closet and took his pistol from the holster; he opened the front door. Nobody there.
Larsen stepped out onto the front porch and looked around. Nobody. He leaned back inside the front door and called out to Chris. “I’m going to walk around the house once. You okay?”
“Go ahead,” she called back.
He saw her reach into her jeans pocket and remove the little Italian pistol he had taught her to shoot. Not a bad idea, he thought.
Larsen retrieved a flashlight from the coat closet, then turned to his left and walked to the corner of the house. He stuck his head around the corner for an instant, then pulled back. He hadn’t seen anyone. He stepped off the front porch and began walking toward the back of the house, the darkened flashlight in his left hand, the pistol in his right. There was enough light left in the sky to see fairly well, and he saved the light for when he might see something move.
