“So?”
“So maybe she’s watching me to get at the brains behind Carmelita.”
“That old man in Chavez Ravine?”
“The same,” I said. “Guillermo Garcia. If Elsa goes after him, tries to bag him and ship him back to Germany, Guillermo’s not going to be able to put up a fight. But he’ll try anyway. And he’ll likely get hurt, or worse. That’s what I want to prevent.”
There was silence between us for a moment, during which the little voice in my head was pleading, Come on. Come on.
Then O’Neal said, “Very noble of you, Jed. Very noble.”
It was hard to read her tone of voice through the phone.
“You don’t believe me?” I ventured.
She hesitated a moment and then said, “Sure, I believe it’s a possibility. I also think you wouldn’t hesitate to cast around for the most legitimate reason you could think of to get me to help you even if you hadn’t really been considering it before that.”
Damn it! I thought. She’d seen through me. The only question now was whether she’d been playing me like a hooked fish the whole time or if she’d just figured it out now. I decided I’d better make one more move while I still could, the equivalent of jumping above the surface, the hook still in my mouth. “That’s not what this is,” I began, tying to keep my tone from tipping into regions that would soon strain our diplomatic relationship.
And then I heard her chuckle on the other end of the line. “I know that, Jed. I just wanted to see if I could get you to blow your seals. Looks like I got close.”
I let out a sigh, not exactly appreciating the way I’d been played.
“What’s the plate number?” she said without any kind of transition. So unprepared had I been for this question that I fumbled for a moment, trying to find my notebook and then—once I had—flipping it to the right page.
I read the number and gave her the make of the car. “It looks new,” I said. “Can’t say for sure as to the year, but I’d be shocked if it was any older than a ’48.”
“All right. I’ll have a look. If it’s registered to Elsa or anyone else associated with the German government, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“And if it’s not?” I asked, still expecting her to come back with Mulvaney’s name—and a lot of questions along with it that I’d have to dodge.
“We’ll jump that canal when we come to it,” O’Neal said.
“Fine,” I said. “There’s one other thing, though.”
“Pushing your luck, aren’t you?”
“Sorry. This isn’t a favor, more a procedural question.”
“Clock’s ticking.”
“Okay. If I wanted to find out about the background of someone who’s recently been released from the state hospital at Camarillo, is there any chance I could get it? Or is that kind of thing strictly sealed?”
The silence on the line told me she was thinking about it. Finally, she said, “Generally speaking, that’s the kind of thing that’s locked up tight. No access without a court order, and no court orders given without a damned good reason. It’s easier to crack that kind of nut if the person’s dangerous. You looking at someone dangerous?”
I thought of Osvaldo’s gentle demeanor, the childlike fascination he had with the light toy he’d built from Guillermo’s spare parts. Considered that way, there seemed to be nothing remotely dangerous about him. When I thought of the way he looked at Carmelita, I still couldn’t tip the meter over into the danger zone. He clearly found her fascinating, but maybe it was in much the same way that he marveled at the lights on that wand. The protective part of me wanted to say he was lusting after Carmelita and that he might be dangerous to a human woman if his desires went unslaked, but I knew that was a stretch. There was no real evidence that there was anything more to Osvaldo than what he’d presented himself as to Guillermo and, seemingly, everyone else who knew him.
“No,” I said after a few seconds. “Just an uneasy feeling about someone is all.”
“All right. If that changes, let me know.”
“I will.”
“I’ll be in touch. Stay out of trouble until then, okay Strait?”
“We’ll jump that canal when we come to it,” I returned.
* * * * *
The rest of the morning ran smoothly. Carmelita struck out on most of her leads in trying to identify the character who’d shot Leonora’s private movie and was waiting by the phone for the others to roll in. As for myself, I had given up on willing the phone to ring—either ushering in new business or bringing news from O’Neal—and had opted to put my hat over my eyes and get a little rest. It being Monday, I was going to be up late playing at Darkness, and even though catching up on my sleep before the fact was a little absurd, I told myself anyway that I needed to rest up before a long evening of playing sultry blues for a room full of inebriates and nearly nude women.
When the phone finally rang, it was just as I was heading out for lunch. Hat on my head and hand on the outer office doorknob, I stopped and looked to Peggy as she answered.
“Jed Strait, Private Investigations. This is Peggy speaking. Can I help you?” she said, her voice pure professionalism but her eyes narrowed and stuck right on me, the possibility that the party on the other line might interrupt my lunch giving her a clear sense of wicked glee. Then I watched as her smiled widened before she said, “Yes, Detective. He’s right here.”
She clicked the Hold button on her phone and gave me a mock frown. “Sorry to delay your lunch, Jed, but it’s Detective O’Neal.”
“Mm-hmm,” I said, letting go of the doorknob and stepping toward Peggy’s desk. Rather than go into my office, I reached for her phone.
“What if we get another call?” she asked innocently.
“Then you can run into my office and get it,” I answered, just as innocently.
With mock reluctance, she handed me the receiver.
“This is Jed,” I said.
“Hey,” O’Neal answered. “I got a hit on your plate.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. But don’t get excited. It’s not connected to Elsa Schwartz. Or anyone affiliated with her as far as I can tell.”
“You did a little digging?” I asked, a bit surprised as this hadn’t been anything I’d asked for or expected.
“A little. It didn’t take much effort.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” She cleared her throat and said, “The plate is registered to a Daisy Culpepper. She lives in North Hollywood. Like I said, no connection at all to the Germans as far as I can tell. Married. Kids. Mortgage. No record on either her or the husband.”
“North Hollywood,” I echoed.
“Yeah, that mean anything to you?”
“No. It’s just that I saw the car in Hollywood proper. Parked near Melrose.”
“Maybe she was on a social call.”
“Maybe.”
“And you say this car was tailing you?” O’Neal asked.
“Not necessarily. I saw Mrs. Culpepper’s car parked a few houses down from where I was conducting an interview, and I’ve spotted the same make and model shadowing me in a few different spots around town. Just a coincidence, I guess. My tail must be somebody else.”
“Sounds like it. Sorry I couldn’t help any further.”
“It’s all right. It’s better to know.”
“Let me know if you get that tail again.”
I told her I would and then hung up.
Peggy was still smiling smugly. I smiled back and said, “Now I’m going to lunch. Can you write down a name for me?”
She made a show of getting her tablet, like she was going to take dictation.
“Daisy Culpepper,” I said. “North Hollywood.”
“That’s it?” She looked a little disappointed that there was nothing more.
“That’s it,” I said. Then I added, “Thanks, Peggy. You’re a plum,” and headed out again.
I grabbed
lunch in the same Broadway diner where I’d eaten my first meal in LA at the end of the previous year. Washing a sandwich down with a weak cup of coffee, I lingered for a few minutes to finish reading a story in the Record about a new phenomenon the authorities were calling “juvenile delinquency.” Teenagers were apparently starting to behave badly, running in gangs and getting into trouble with things like drug peddling and burglary. This last reminded me of what Guillermo had said about his reason for programming Joaquin Murrieta, Jr. to act as a watchdog over the valuables in his workshop. I scanned and then re-scanned the pertinent details, telling myself it was something to keep an eye on. Then I took a walk around the block to digest my lunch and clear my head before heading back to the office. As I walked, I found my attention drawn to every green car on the street; none of them was the ugly station wagon that I found myself wanting to see again.
O’Neal’s information had done nothing to clear Carson Mulvaney in my mind. It hadn’t been his car planted near Jeanie Palmer’s house on Friday, but I was still convinced that it had been him following me through Hollywood and up the coast highway. And that meant he’d connected me both to Darkness and Sherise’s apartment on Franklin. This made me more than a little angry. Tailing me was one thing. Staking out Sherise’s home and place of business was another. Given the subject of his planned book, Another Day, Another Doll, the lousy writer would probably end up finding Sherise more interesting than me. It just wouldn’t do to have the female lead in his miserable book end up being a burlesque dancer. If that turned out to be the case, I’d have no choice but to chase Mulvaney down and make him eat a copy of his book. I doubted it would go down easily.
As fun as it would be to literally make Mulvaney eat his own words, I knew the more responsible thing would be to confront him before he had a chance to get the book written. A slow day like today would be perfect for such a confrontation, and I resolved to make it so after I checked in with Peggy to make sure nothing new had come up.
When I got back to the office, however, it took only a second to know that Mulvaney’s comeuppance was going to have to wait. I swung the door open to find Peggy staring me in the eyes. No sooner had I met her gaze than her eyes shifted to the right—toward the chairs in the lobby that were, for the moment, hidden by the door. Someone was sitting in one of the chairs, and Peggy’s silent greeting was her way of signaling that the visitor wasn’t happy.
A few possibilities ran through my mind: the mysterious Jackson, irritated at having gotten wind of my efforts to track him down; Carson Mulvaney, upset that the inside scoop on my profession had proven inadequate for his project; possibly Osvaldo’s mother, angered that I had had a hand in corrupting her son; or maybe even Daisy Culpepper, whoever she was, annoyed at having been caught up in police intrigue and somehow having found out I’d set the authorities on her ugly green station wagon. Wildly guessing wasn’t going to get me anywhere, however, so I took a deep breath and swung the door all the way open, telling myself I was ready for whoever was waiting.
When I saw Leonora Rigsby sitting there, I was a bit surprised. As far as I knew, the actress had no reason to be annoyed with me. I’d let her know at our first meeting on Friday that I planned on confronting her ex-lover, and I didn’t think the encounter with Jeanie Palmer had been anything other than appropriate. Still, there she was, and she definitely didn’t look happy. At least she hadn’t committed suicide since the last time I’d seen her.
I almost voiced a greeting as I stepped into the outer office, but then I swung the door open the rest of the way and saw that it wasn’t just the one chair that was occupied. Jeanie Palmer sat next to Leonora, and the dark-haired ex looked even more put out than the woman who’d accused her of blackmail.
“Well,” I managed to say while trying to size up the situation. “This is a surprise.”
“We need to talk,” Leonora said, dispensing with the pleasantries.
“Right now,” Jeanie echoed.
“All right,” I said. Turning to Peggy, I asked, “Is Carmelita in there?”
“No, Jed,” she said. “A call came in from one of her sources just after you left and she went out.”
“Say when she’d be back?”
“No.”
I let this play in the back of my mind as I turned again to the women in the chairs. Extending a hand toward my inner office door, I simply said, “Please go right in.”
They did, and I followed. As soon as I closed the door, Leonora said, “You’ve got to put a stop to this.”
She hadn’t bothered to sit yet.
“Why don’t you have a seat and we can figure out whatever’s bothering you,” I suggested.
“What’s bothering us,” Jeanie said, also opting to stay standing, “is this.”
She opened her purse and pulled out an envelope. It looked about the same as the one Leonora had shown me on Friday. She held it out to me and I took it, taking a moment to check the address before looking back at the two women.
“Let me guess,” I said. Then, nodding toward Jeanie, I added, “You also got a blackmail letter.”
“Yes,” she said, and I could tell there were tears just on the other side of the single word.
“All right,” I said and let loose a sigh. “If you’re not going to sit, I am.” Taking the letter to my desk, I sat and opened the envelope. The single sheet of paper inside looked about the same as the letter Leonora had received, and its contents were about the same as well. “Ten thousand dollars,” I said, my eyes skimming over the typeface. “Wednesday night at 11:45. In exchange for half of the footage now. With a fraction to be retained as insurance against police involvement and returned to Miss Rigsby through the mail once the whole sordid business is through.”
The two women had taken seats across from my desk while I read. I looked up at them now. They sat side by side, their chairs almost touching. I saw nothing in their body language that suggested such close proximity was uncomfortable for either of them. And then I saw Leonora drop her hand down onto Jeanie’s where it rested on her thigh; the dark-haired woman made no move to dislodge the hand.
Reconciliation, I thought. An unexpected benefit from the stress of being blackmailed.
And yet…
My mind began racing. What if it wasn’t so unexpected? What if Leonora had known from the start that the threat of blackmail would be the catalyst to bring Jeanie back to her? For the first time since I’d met Leonora—or, rather, the first time I’d seen her alive instead of dead on a bed—I entertained the possibility that the whole blackmail scheme might have been an elaborate ruse. If that was the case, then I was a pawn in the game. Leonora would have set things in motion by giving me the first letter and sending me to Jeanie, at which time—if things worked the way Leonora hoped—Jeanie would run back to her former lover, seeking to reassure Leonora that the blackmail letter had come from somewhere else. Things would have wrapped with me staked out on the street, waiting for a blackmailer who never showed up. Maybe the film would show up in the mail with a letter of contrition. I’d get paid and released and that would be it.
But things hadn’t worked that way. I looked from their joined hands to their eyes, first Jeanie’s and then Leonora’s, hoping to see something there that I’d missed on my earlier encounters with the women. I saw nothing but the same resolve from Leonora and the same failed attempts at independence on the part of Jeanie. If she’d stuck to her stride on Friday, opting not to run back to Leonora, could that have prompted Leonora to execute another move in her one-sided game? If so, the second letter had done the trick, as I was clearly looking at a couple now, not a pair of exes.
Made wary by these thoughts, I opted to act as though I had not noticed the little gesture of comfort on Leonora’s part. Instead, I looked at Jeanie and said, “I assume you received this today?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not working today?”
She looked a little confused at the question. “What does that have to do wit
h any of this?” she asked.
“Nothing really,” I said. “I’m just trying to get the timeline down. You worked until around four on Friday. If this was delivered to your home today, then you needed to be there to receive it and show up here now. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have seen you until tomorrow, I expect.”
“That’s right,” Leonora said. “Jeanie has the day off today because she was needed on set over the weekend.”
I had tossed the question about work into the hopper to see how the women would react to my veiled suggestion that I might not be getting the whole story. Jeanie had reacted the way I’d expected, but not Leonora. Her tone was calm, protective, not defensive at all. If Leonora was playing a game, she’d just scored another point.
“And I assume you haven’t received anything else, Miss Rigsby?” I asked.
“No. Do you think I will?”
“I don’t know.” Indicating the letter, I said, “The blackmailer has clearly changed tactics since he—or she—wrote the first letter.” I looked up at Leonora as I threw the feminine pronoun into the mix.
Again, no reaction. No change to her coloring, no shift in her gaze.
I continued, saying, “Now it’s half of the film. I assume you’ll get the other half instead of the larger portion you were originally promised in exchange for your money. It seems to me the guilty party here might want to let you know things have changed so you don’t call the police when you discover there’s less of the film there than you were originally promised.”
“You don’t suppose the blackmailer expects me to be talking about this with Jeanie?” she asked.
“Maybe. Was it public knowledge you two had, uh, split?”
Leonora finally reddened at this. “Nothing about our relationship has been public knowledge, Mr. Strait.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean public public, but this person clearly knows both of you or else wouldn’t have reached out to Miss Palmer. So, among your circle of friends, was the break-up known about?”
The Shakedown Shuffle: A Dieselpunk Adventure (The Crossover Case Files Book 3) Page 9
