“We’ll see about that.”
“Yes,” I said, feeling nervous at how cagey the man was being and worried that at any second I would ask the wrong thing and find myself getting chased off the property or threatened with a wrench. “Have you been back to Miss Rigsby’s house since then?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is something missing from her property?”
“In a manner of speaking. But…could you answer the question?”
Without hesitating, he said, “No, I have not been back to her house.”
He sounded completely believable, but that wasn’t enough to put me off the trail. I’d been lied to by guilty parties before. Still, if his strategy was denial, then there wasn’t much point in pursuing that line of questioning.
Trying another tack, I said, “Is there anyone you’ve told about this film that you may or may not have produced?”
“I am very discreet, Mr. Strait. It’s what gets me my clientele.”
“So that would be a no?”
“That would be a no.”
I cleared my throat and said, “This…film. I don’t suppose it’s the only one of that type you’ve produced.”
“That would be a logical assumption on your part, but I’m still not admitting to anything.”
“Of course. You’ll have to forgive me, but I don’t really have any knowledge of…privately produced films of that sort.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Is there a sort of…community of people interested in this type of thing?”
“One would assume so.”
“And might anyone else in that community be aware of the work that…someone did for Miss Rigsby?”
“I wouldn’t know. But if anyone was aware, they didn’t hear it from me.”
“All right.” I let out a long breath before asking, “For the sake of argument, if a technician such as yourself were to film something privately, that person would still need to get the film processed, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Is there any chance the person who processed it might have recognized the people in the film and let others know about it?”
“Doubtful,” he said. “If a person were in need of discreet film processing of the type you’re alluding to, the thing to do would be to take the footage to a certain lab down in Tijuana. Very discreet. And virtually no chance that word of the film’s content would make it back to the kinds of circles Leonora moves in.”
Leonora, I thought. Not Miss Rigsby. Not Miss Leonora. This bespoke a familiarity that I doubted the man would actually admit to. Had it been a slip-up? Was he more intimately acquainted with Leonora Rigsby than either of them had been willing to admit? I let the questions simmer while asking another one.
“Would there be a danger of the processed film getting confiscated at the border?”
He shook his head. “Not if you have a secret compartment built into the front fender of your car and you’re ready with a bribe on the off chance the compartment gets spotted when the border cops are looking real hard for reefer in your car.”
“I see.”
Unless the hunch I’d just gotten pointed me in a new direction, I was at another dead end, and I didn’t see a way to press Jackson on the issue any further than I already had.
“Well, Mr. Kinkaid, I suppose that takes care of all my questions. If there’s anything that occurs to you that might help me or Miss Rigsby, I hope you’ll use that card and give me a call.”
He nodded. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Is Leonora being blackmailed?”
“I don’t think I’m at liberty to say.”
He nodded again, clearly having seen the truth behind the vagueness of my answer. “That’s no good. Not for Leonora or her friend in the movie and certainly not for the person who shot the film.”
“Reputation?” I asked.
“Built on discretion. Things like blackmail make people nervous. Could hurt business quite a bit.”
“So, you’re saying I can count on your help if something should occur to you.”
“Yes. But it wouldn’t really be to help you, would it?”
“Miss Rigsby?”
He nodded.
I smiled at him and said, “Thanks. I’ll take whatever help I can get, regardless of what motivates it.” Tipping my hat, I turned and said, “I hope you get your car fixed. And thanks for your help. Sorry again if I drew unwanted attention.”
“It’s all right,” he said.
After taking a few steps back toward the curb, I stopped and looked back at him. “Do you mind if I ask you one more question?”
He shrugged. “Damage is already done.”
“A person who makes those kinds of movies…wouldn’t he worry that he’s seen too much? That someone might want him silenced eventually?”
Instead of looking bothered at the question, he smiled widely and said, “Like I said, a person who succeeds at making those kinds of films has a reputation for discretion. That’s something you can bank on. Those rich folks up in the Hollywood Hills…they need someone who can keep quiet. Once they’ve found someone like that, they hold onto him. Maybe even protect him. Because here’s the thing…those movies might be a liability, but there’s always a demand for more. People split up. People have wild parties they want to hire a camera for. And there’s that demand. If it’s that strong, the supplier is regarded very highly. Far more so than a man’s neighbors might ever give him credit for.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Kinkaid.”
He nodded and then said, “I have a mortgage on this house, Mr. Strait. Not a landlord. That’s something most of my neighbors can’t say.”
I smiled. “It’s something I can’t say either.” Then, mostly for the benefit of the neighbors, I gave him a quick salute and went back to my car. As I turned my key in the ignition, I saw he was already halfway under his car again. And when I looked over my shoulder to make sure no cars were coming, I saw the neighbor with the shovel watching me go, a bemused expression on his face.
I went back to an empty house, Carmelita having let me know she and Osvaldo were going out to dinner.
“Dinner?” I had asked, so taken aback that I had momentarily forgotten to hold up my part of the charade that Carmelita was a human being.
“Yes,” she had said, clearly surprised at my reaction. “Why shouldn’t we?”
“No reason. I just thought Osvaldo was a little shy about public places like that.”
“He’s coming out of his shell,” she had said. “It’s wonderful.”
There had been a dreaminess in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before, and it really made me wonder if Carmelita was somehow becoming more human. I had told her to enjoy her date before heading out to interview Jackson Kinkaid, and as the rest of the evening wore on with no sound of Guillermo’s Patterson bringing Carmelita home, I could only assume that she’d taken my good wishes to heart.
By ten o’clock, however, I was starting to get a little nervous, imagining Osvaldo finally revealing himself to be some sort of predator, one whose guile had led Carmelita to drop her guard and become vulnerable. That was actually rather difficult to imagine, but it bothered me nonetheless. At ten fifteen, I called Guillermo to see what he knew.
“No, they’re not back yet, lobo,” he said.
“Did you send her out with one of your portable phones?” I asked.
“No. I didn’t see the point.”
“Well, maybe next time you should. I don’t like this. I don’t like not being able to reach her if I need her.”
“There’s something going on? You need her now?”
“No,” I said, realizing I shouldn’t worry him. “There’s nothing going on. It’s just…”
“You’re worried she’s going to get hurt. Not physically, I mean.”
I sighed. “A bit worried. Yes. I suppose.”
Guillermo chuckled. “You don’t have to worry about Osvaldo break
ing her heart. Don’t forget she doesn’t have one, yes? And even if she did, Osvaldo’s not like that. He didn’t grow up learning to play games with women, just to get them into bed. And even if he did, he knows what she is, lobo. Don’t forget that.” Then, as if to make sure, he repeated himself. “He knows what she is.”
He was right, and I knew it. That didn’t make me feel any better, though. “All right, Guillermo,” I said after a few seconds. “But when they show up, will you call me before you bring Carmelita home?”
“Of course. But, you know, maybe you shouldn’t wait up. Let them have their fun.”
The octogenarian had made me sound like a worried parent, and I suppose in a way that’s what I felt like. “Thanks Guillermo. Your heart’s in the right place. But I’m waiting up. Call me, okay?”
“Okay,” he said. I could hear the smile in his voice as he hung up the phone.
Despite my promise and my best efforts, I fell asleep maybe an hour later, my chin on my chest as I slumped in one of the chairs in our modest front room. When the screen door squeaked open around three in the morning, followed by the sound of Carmelita’s key in the lock, I jumped in the chair and reached under my left arm, expecting to find a holstered gun that wasn’t there.
I managed to regain my composure before the door had opened all the way. Carmelita walked in and was clearly surprised to find me waiting for her.
“Jed,” she said. “Why are you still up?”
“Because I’ve been waiting for you to get home.” I looked at my watch, saw the time, and almost started yelling. But then I saw Guillermo and Osvaldo on the porch behind her, and in Guillermo’s eyes I saw the same admonishment I’d gotten from him on the phone. Let them have their fun, he’d said. And then I caught the look in Osvaldo’s eyes and the matching expression all over Carmelita’s face. I can’t say for certain that their expressions were the embodiment of love. It seems wrong to call it that given Carmelita’s limitations. But it certainly was the embodiment of joy.
I let out a long breath. “I trust you two had a good time,” I forced myself to say.
“It was the best time,” she said. “We had the best food ever, and then we danced and danced until the club shut down.”
I caught Osvaldo’s eyes when Carmelita mentioned eating. They made contact with mine for a moment and then looked away. He knew. He’d probably watched her make an excuse about not wanting to eat in the restaurant and then, as soon his plate had been taken away, he’d heard her start gushing about how good the food had been. I couldn’t tell for sure, but he looked a little sad for a moment, probably realizing how much Carmelita had to keep hidden from herself, how much they would eventually be prevented from sharing, but then he looked up again at her, and the light came back into his eyes.
He’d made his choice, I saw. Or it had been made for him by whatever chemistry can take place between a simple genius and a mechanical woman.
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourselves,” I said. “But don’t most clubs shut down at two? It took you that long to get back here? Where’d you go? San Diego?”
She laughed at this. “Oh, Jed. Don’t you know it’s not polite to ask so many questions?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“If you must know, we lingered for a while before going in to fetch Guillermo.” She rolled her eyes at this, and I pictured the two of them kissing in the Patterson, sitting in the darkness of Chavez Ravine.
“Sorry I didn’t call,” Guillermo said. “I was asleep, too, when they came in, and I just got up and went back out to the truck. It’s okay, right?”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Sure,” I said, “it’s okay.”
“Okay. Goodnight then,” he said and turned away from the door. I suppose he expected Osvaldo to follow, but the younger man lingered in the doorway until Carmelita turned, gave him a quick kiss and bade him goodnight.
“Would it make you feel strange,” I said as she closed the door, “if I told you I’d been a little worried about you?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, and I had to smile at how literally she’d taken the question. “Were you worried?”
After a moment’s hesitation, I said, “No, but I’m glad you’re home. Now I’m going to bed.”
Chapter Nine
The next day was Wednesday. Trash night in the Hollywood Hills. Blackmail night. And that meant I needed to meet once more with Leonora Rigsby.
I had Peggy put in a call to the number Leonora had provided. It went to a service, which was no help. Not for the first time, I was grateful for Peggy’s tenacity, as she wasn’t content to leave a message but insisted that the person on the other line put her in touch with Miss Rigsby post haste. I sat in my office with the door open and listened with a smile on my face as my secretary went after Leonora’s defenses and, eventually, won.
The phone rang not two minutes after Peggy hung up with the answering service and, after listening to one side of the brief exchange between Peggy and the caller, I was rewarded with the call being put through to my office.
“Hello?” I said, taking care to sound like I didn’t know who was calling.
“Mr. Strait?” came Leonora’s voice over the line. She sounded most irritated.
“Yes?” I answered. “Who is this?”
“You know damned well who it is.”
“Ah,” I said. “Now I recognize your voice. Hello, Miss Rigsby.”
“What did you need?”
“I was hoping we could talk one last time before trash night. Mostly to go over the leads I’ve been following and to discuss where we should go from here.”
“That would be fine. But I can’t talk now. I’m in the middle of shooting. Your call pulled me away from some very important work. Delays are quite expensive, you know.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “When would be a better time?”
“This afternoon. Three o’clock.”
“That’s fine. Would you like to come here, or should I meet you?”
She hesitated a moment. “Would you mind coming to me?” she asked. “Downtown is a bit far for me today.”
“That’s fine. Your residence, then?”
“Yes. You have the address?”
“I do.”
“I’ll see you then.” She hung up without giving me the chance to say another word.
“How’d that go?” Peggy asked from the lobby.
“Beautifully,” I called back. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
I spent the next hour going over my notes from the interview with Jackson Kinkaid and the one from last week with Jeanie Palmer. To these, I added more notes on my conversations with Leonora and wrote out a rough timeline around the case, starting with when Leonora and Jeanie got together and ending with Jeanie receiving the second blackmail letter. The timeline included the rough details Jackson had given me about the film’s production and processing.
Next to the timeline, I wrote a few names and notes:
Jeanie Palmer—suspect? Victim?
Jackson Kinkaid—suspect, no real proof
Irene (housekeeper)—no interview (yet)—Suspect?
Leonora Rigsby—suspect? Victim?
Film processing lab in Tijuana—unknown parties, involvement doubtful
I stared at the list, certain I was missing something, but I couldn’t tell what it was. All I knew for certain was that, unless the blackmailer made a big mistake in the next several hours, there was nothing for it other than to surveil Leonora’s curb tonight. If the blackmailer actually showed up, my catching him or her was going to put an end to the denials of one of the people on the list, and then my question marks would all go away. If it was someone not on the list, then I’d have some soul searching to do as I pondered the clues I’d missed or the degree to which I’d neglected the ways I’d been lied to.
When Carmelita came in with the morning newspapers I’d sent her down to the street to fetch, I slid my notes and the timeline over to her. “Anyth
ing strike you as odd?” I asked, counting less on her inductive and deductive skills and more on the whirring mass of technology behind her eyes.
She looked at the data for a moment and then back at me. With a pencil tip, she tapped the blank space on the timeline above where I’d written “Leonora and Jeanie become a couple” and said, “What about before?”
“Before?” I asked. “Before what?”
“Before they were a couple.” She turned back to my notes and now tapped what I’d written after my interview with Jackson Kinkaid. “He said there was a demand for more. People break up and then want new films with their new partners. That’s what he meant, right?”
“I think so.”
“Well?” she said and then left it there, like it was obvious and I was a fool for not seeing it.
I didn’t answer—just raised an eyebrow to prompt her to continue.
She did. “Doesn’t it strike you as likely that the film Leonora made with Jeanie wasn’t her first? She had other lovers before Jeanie, I assume, right? There are probably other films.”
I nodded. “Makes sense. But how does that help with the case?”
“I don’t know. But it’s something to keep in mind. You said you felt like you were missing something. Maybe this is it.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Thanks, Carmelita.”
* * * * *
Finding Leonora’s home wasn’t easy. Once I was in the hills above Hollywood Boulevard, I made several wrong turns which forced me into awkward U-turns and made me double back on the narrow roads that were wide enough for only one vehicle but on which two directions of traffic were allowed. It was nerve wracking, and I was left wondering—as I always did when I ventured into the land of hilltop mansions—why anyone would bother living there.
Finally, though, I found the right street and lucked into a parking space only three houses up from Leonora’s. I had to double-check the address, as the house I found myself in front of didn’t look like much—a single-story affair that spread along a canyon crest in a completely unimpressive way. The doorway was unassuming, and all the windows that faced the street were covered with cheap-looking blinds, not the type of fancy window dressing I would expect from a star of Leonora’s stature.
The Shakedown Shuffle: A Dieselpunk Adventure (The Crossover Case Files Book 3) Page 11
