My Detective

by Jeffrey Fleishman

  “I’m sorry. I should have come forward immediately. I’m a lawyer. But I didn’t know, and I didn’t want that part of me out there. Naked in the shower. I used to check YouTube and a few of those amateur porn sites every day when I first moved here, to see if he posted it. He could be vindictive like that. But I guess he wanted it to go away too. He thought throwing it in the ocean would wipe it clean.”

  “Any idea who the woman might …”

  “I have no idea who that woman was. I admire whoever she is if she’s the one doing this. Don’t be alarmed. There’s no conspiracy. No assassin hired by me. But I’d like to talk to her about that night and what it did. We were compressed into the same folder, she and I.”

  Miranda’s sobs grow louder. I can imagine her small, lean body shaking in her loft, tears on her pale face, standing at her window with her ginger hair and muslin shirt, looking into the street. I hang up and call Ortiz.

  “We’ve got something,” he says. “A jogger saw Jamieson’s Rover pass him that morning. He says he saw someone sitting in the back—a woman, leaning in real close to the driver’s head. He thought it was probably someone just giving directions to the driver. He didn’t see a gun. The car went up Edgeware and he kept jogging down the hill. Didn’t see where it went. I sent a couple cars up to prowl around Angelino Heights and Echo Park. Likely nothing, but you never know.”

  I fill him in on Kimmel, McKinley, and Miranda.

  “Jesus, that poor ex-wife,” he says. “Bad karma follows ex-wives. No shit. You ever notice? Gallagher really filmed her in the shower? Christ. Listen, though, you don’t think she’s an accomplice covering up?”

  “She was too damaged. She just fled him. I need you to run a name for me. It’s a hunch, but McKinley mentioned a woman architect he almost hired around the time he hired Jamieson.”

  “So?”

  “Might be a lead.”

  “Name.”

  “Dylan Cross.”

  “Isn’t Dylan a guy’s name?”

  “It goes both ways.”

  “Story of the world, huh? I’ll run it and get back to you.”

  “McKinley told me where she worked. I’m heading over there now.”

  “Not a lot to go on. Does she have a connection to these guys?”

  “Not that McKinley was aware of. Other than that, they’re all architects. But we don’t have anything else.”

  Ortiz sighs and hangs up. I slip into a small courtyard behind the Biltmore, near the library. I had never noticed it before, a little cove of light and shadows; the sounds of the city fall away. I walk past a fountain of goldfish and into the firm of John Hillerman. Small foyer and a few rooms in the Spanish style, mustard walls, exposed wood, soft yellow lights. The receptionist’s desk is empty. A tall man with flowing blond hair, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, approaches. He moves like one of those British actors in a Merchant Ivory production—delicate with a bit of disheveled flair. He shakes my hand.

  “John Hillerman. How may I help you?”

  “I’m Detective Sam Carver.”

  A shade of worry passes over his face. “Is everything okay?”

  “I’m looking for Dylan Cross.”

  I show him my shield.

  “Dylan’s out in the high desert for a couple of days. She has a project out there. Perhaps I could be of help. She and I have worked together for a long time. Is this serious? Has something happened to her?”

  “Did she know Michael Gallagher and Paul Jamieson?”

  Hillerman is startled. He waves me down the hall into his office.

  “Please, sit,” he says. “It’s awful what’s happened to them. It’s on the TV all the time. It’s shaken us all. The architect community is not that big. Do you have any leads? There’s a lot of concern. People looking over their shoulders. I didn’t know them very well. They were with bigger firms, as I’m sure you know. Gifted men, in their way. We never had any dealings with them. I saw them every now and then at industry functions.”

  “Did Dylan know them?”

  “About the same as me, I guess. She never mentioned them. Of course, we talked about them when we saw what happened. It’s made me sick. I tend to worry too much about things. Where society is headed. It can be very distressing. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you.”

  I take out my notebook.

  “Do you want me to call Dylan?”

  He’s dialing before I can answer. I can hear her phone ring, and an automated message voice.

  “Dylan, it’s John. Please call when you get this.”

  He looks at me.

  “The signal’s not always the best in the desert. Would you like her number?”

  I tell him yes and jot it down.

  “It’s really nothing serious,” I say. “We’re just trying to talk to whoever might have known them. Matthew McKinley told me that years ago, he almost hired Dylan about the same time he hired Jamieson. Two young architects on the rise, and I thought, well, maybe they knew each other. Crossed paths.”

  “Yes, that’s when I hired Dylan. She was talking to a number of firms back then. She’s quite talented. Artistically she’s impeccable. Her drawings are works of art in themselves. Would you like to see?”

  He leads me into another office and turns on a desk lamp.

  “This is hers,” he says. “We’re not a big firm. Just the two of us and a few assistants.”

  He turns on another lamp and unrolls a sketch. The lines are dark, fine, slender and arcing. It looks like a sketch an artist makes before she paints, or a sculptor’s drawing of the form she sees within the marble. It’s meticulous, mathematical, but there’s a spirit in it, a beauty that doesn’t conform to grids and numbers. It seems alive, fluid on the page as if mind and hand had summoned a miniature world, a place of escape. I could see myself walking through her rooms, standing at her windows. Hillerman is staring at me.

  “You see it, don’t you?” he says. “Not many architects can do that. It’s for a library in Carmel. On the ocean. Imagine it in the mist and sun, taking in all hues of light. Transparency. Knowledge. See this,” he says, moving a finger over the page. “A touch of the Greek, a faint allusion to the past. Where it all started, you know? The history of thought.”

  He steps back, blushing.

  “I’m sorry. I tend to go on. I’m very fond of her. Not in the way you might think. I’m happily married. But Dylan and I are kindred spirits.” He smooths the edge of the page. “It speaks to something inside, though. Don’t you think?”

  “A capacity to wonder.”

  “Exactly. Dylan sees things differently. Scales, dimensions. This is the best design she’s done in years. She’s been working furiously on it. To get it on paper so it wouldn’t disappear. I asked her the other day where the inspiration came from, and she said, ‘It is the calm in chaos.’ She’s been quite busy lately, and sometimes that kind of stress produces great work. She’s always in the need to finish. My wife and I took her to dinner not long ago and told her she had to relax. She’s been on edge. I’m sorry, Detective. I rave on. These days have been disconcerting, to say the least. Two dead men close to home.”

  “You said she’s been on edge. What’s been bothering her?”

  “Dylan goes through periods from time to time, the way artists do.”

  “What kind of periods.”

  “Oh, you know, she’s a perfectionist. Those kinds of periods.”

  He starts to say more but stops. I give the moment some air. We stand looking at the sketch, not saying anything. I don’t ask about Jensen.

  “Here’s my card,” I say. “If Dylan calls, have her phone me. I’ll try her number later. Thank you.”

  I turn to leave and glimpse a picture on the desk. A close-up of a young woman hitting a two-handed backhand, the ball rising to the racket a split second before impact. Her a
rms are taut, long muscled, her lips pressed tight, eyes blue and fierce. Her skin is tanned, her black hair tied back. In that fury, though, as with all gifted athletes, is grace, the simplicity of movement. I wonder how the point ended. If she hit a winner. I think so. That’s why she keeps the picture on her desk. It’s who she wants to be—a captured moment of near perfection. The drawing of the library too. I pick up the photograph and hold it closer, studying the wild focus of the eyes, the shoulders, the lines of her body. I seem to know them.

  “She was quite the player at Stanford,” says Hillerman. “I think she still plays a little. We played once and, well, I don’t think it was much fun for her, chasing my errant balls.”

  “Looks determined.”

  “Very.”

  I shake hands and say goodbye. The courtyard is filled with shadows, the last streams of light creeping up a brick wall. I step onto the sidewalk and head east, the picture still in my mind. An Escalade drops a family off at the Biltmore. Mother, father, two boys, hurrying toward the glass doors and into the lobby. The traffic light changes. Secretaries, accountants, and actuaries flee Bunker Hill. A bus rattles past, and to the west, the sky seeps with orange and distant purple. So pure, it looks fake. I take it in. Feel the dying warmth of the day on my face, the heat being drawn back to the ocean to turn into mist, linger a few seconds, and burn away. I call Ortiz.

  “Hey, that woman you wanted checked, Dylan Cross. She lives up in Angelino Heights, off Edgeware.”

  Ortiz lets the sentence float.

  “A bit of a coincidence,” I say.

  “Interesting, but that’s all it is for now. You get anything from her?”

  “She’s out of town in the high desert. She’s got a building project out there. Her business partner, John Hillerman, didn’t think she knew Gallagher or Jamieson. Not well, anyway.”

  “What about Jensen?”

  “I didn’t ask about him. No one except us and his wife knows he’s disappeared. We should keep it that way.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’ve got a feeling,” I say.

  “Oh, shit.”

  “It could be her, Ortiz. She was coming up just as those guys were. Young, talented, good-looking, and a woman. Jamieson hated the idea of women architects. McKinley told me he never wanted one in their firm. Intense about it. Even more so with one who could have competed with him. That’s motive. You following me? The woman in the mask is tall, in shape. Dylan Cross played tennis at Stanford. I saw a picture. An athlete’s body. It could be her. Something about the girl in the mask and the girl playing tennis. They seem the same.”

  “‘Seem.’ That’s a squishy word.”

  “I’m being honest. Plus, Hillerman said she’s been edgy lately.”

  “Can’t get a warrant with ‘seems’ and ‘edgy.’ You know what I mean? No judge is going for that. Hell, no. Can’t take that to a judge, not even a sympathetic one—who, might I remind you, are getting scarce these days. Why do criminals have so many rights? You ever think about that?” He exhales and I can imagine him fidgeting with his mustache. “Take a run by her house. Knock. Nose around. Her car is registered as a midnight-blue Beemer. A few speeding tickets. No record.”

  I head along First, catching the back end of Disney Hall and down the hill and rising again. I cut over to Edgeware, slide over the 101, and climb into Angelino Heights. Barred windows, broken sidewalks, and couches on porches, until I get to the top, where the restored Victorians on Carroll Avenue float at the rim of the city. Dylan Cross’ house is the third one in: honey colored with forest-green shutters, a turret, an arch of stained glass over the front door, a single rocker on the porch. A magnolia in the front yard. I park, walk up the steps, and knock. No answer. No lights. I peek in but can’t see much: stairs, a hallway leading to the kitchen. I walk around back. A worn hammock, an untended garden, a shovel in the dirt, a pair of ripped work gloves. I bend and touch them, grab a handful of soil. Dry and cool. The air is fresh. I imagine her lolling in the hammock with pencil and sketchbook. An architect would like it up here, staring into the city, studying reflections, watching the light, thinking of the things she would build. No car in the driveway. The garage has no windows, no crack in the door. I can’t see what’s inside. I stand and listen to the end-of-the-day sounds and turn back to the house.

  Chapter 23

  Hello.

  I’m up here.

  Third floor, corner window. Peeking between shutter slats. I like you in my yard, Sam, doing your detective thing. What a prowler you are. There’s nothing in the garage. I moved Jensen’s Rover to a safe place. I don’t like those things—too big and bulky for me. It’ll never be found, though. You can talk to my neighbors, but they don’t know much. I move at different hours. I’m a mystery in my neighborhood, I think. I’d love to knock on the window and wave and invite you in. I am too bold. But wouldn’t that be something? We could play husband and wife, sitting in the kitchen, cutting vegetables, drinking wine, talking about work—little things that fill so much space over time. I could show you all I want to do with the house.

  Would you like that, Sam? To know me? Not the me you came for. But the real me. I called John. He said you stopped by. I don’t know where you got my name. I’m a bit angry about that, but it’s not your fault. You’re doing your job. It’s changed the game, though. We were to meet as strangers in your Little Easy bar. I was to walk in and you’d buy me a drink, and then another. Lenny would tell us stories, and I would seduce you and walk you through the city night pointing out the architecture, frozen faces and gargoyles in the dark. I like you in my yard, Sam. Did I say that? I’ve been agitated, you know. So many things running together—the whole Jensen affair. The wimpiest of the three, but still a chore. A sad little broken man. John said you saw my library sketches. Aren’t they lovely? It will be brilliant. It’s been a long time since I designed anything like that. I’m getting back to myself, I guess—who I was before, you know. Maybe the doing away with them has brought me back, although I was here all along. Going through the motions, perhaps. No more than that. I can’t explain. But I do feel the stirring of resurrection. A big word, I know. Some things are big. We can feel them. Like the city, I suppose. Ravaged things come back. How about that tennis picture? If you could have seen me then! So fast and strong. Oh, Sam, I could cover a court. I loved the singularity of it and of being alone between those painted lines, battling. I still play in Griffith Park. Not as much as I’d like to, though. I’d love to play tennis with you. Wouldn’t that be normal, like couples do? What are you looking at down there? Studying my house. Thinking of me. On the video. In the picture. You have the face now, Sam. You know the face behind the mask. I am complete.

  But where am I? The high desert? No. I’m here, Sam, but you can’t see. You’re moving now, through my grass. It needs to be cut; the boy comes next week. You’re on the side of the house now, walking to the front. I’m racing across the hall to my bedroom window. Calm. I must be calm. Breathe. It’s dark now. Night has fallen. I peek under a slat. You turn and give my house one last look. You walk to your car. Ragged old Porsche. It’s you, Sam. That car is you. But still, fix the muffler. Jeez. Headlights on. Is that Sibelius I hear? Oh, I do love the symphony. It doesn’t seem that long ago, the night Gallagher took his last breath—a slightly melodramatic way to put it, but hey, I was there. What a gasp, the final one. It was just a few hours after the concert at Disney Hall. Remember? Dudamel and Mahler. I walked past you and smelled your witch hazel and scotch. You were in your Macy’s blazer, my little detective dressed up for the night with one of your four season tickets. You didn’t see me. Just like now. That has to change, doesn’t it? You have to see me. In the flesh. Soon. I’m reworking the plan. We will get together before I leave. I’m going on a trip. I feel I must, given the circumstances (ha-ha) I find myself in. I’m traveling to a place I’ve always wanted to go. Maybe I’ll
tell you about it, but if I do, you know what that means. The game is changing. Your pretty red taillights leave my street.

  It’s so quiet in my house.

  Chapter 24

  “How is she?”

  “Good, Sam.”

  “Still drawing sparrows?”

  “And waiting for your father.”

  “I miss you guys. Is it cold in Boston?”

  “Not too. But your mother insists on wearing that thick sweater of hers.”

  “Is she eating?”

  “About the same.”

  “How are you?”

  “About the same.”

  “You sound tired, Maggie.”

  “I’m fine. I hate to see her mind go so. Lose a piece of her every day. A tiny thing we’ll never get back. She keeps on about your father. I tell her he’s dead; she won’t believe it. A couple of days ago, I put her in the car and drove to Newport. To the cemetery. I showed her his grave. ‘There he is,’ I said. She knelt down and traced the letters. But on the way back, she leaned over to me and said, ‘We better get home. He might be there.’”

  “Should I come?” “You were just here.”

  I can imagine Maggie in the kitchen, sitting at the table, late, with a beer. My mother sleeping upstairs. Does she dream? I wonder. Do the demented dream?

  “How’s the case coming?” says Maggie.

  “I think I’ve found her.”

  “The girl.”

  “The one in the mask.”

  “Oh, my. That poor soul. From what you told me—and I’m sure you didn’t tell me all. What a thing to happen.”

  It’s quiet in the Last Bookstore. I’m sitting in a worn chair in the memoir aisle. Blaze Foley is playing soft, a homeless guy is thumbing through a Johnny Cash biography, and two hipsters are kissing in the classics near bins of vinyl. The scents of old books and records, like deep inside a closet, take you back. I come here sometimes before I head to the Little Easy. To think. To let the day fall away while I read passages from favorite books: the last page of The Great Gatsby, the last two pages of Joyce’s The Dead, poems by Neruda. I remember the first time I read them, place and time, the words inscribed on an invisible space inside me. I drift back and forth among pages and eras. I once spent three months reading only Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters—all three. Joan Didion and Charles Bukowski led me to the Los Angeles section, where naturally one encounters riffs on wildfires and the Santa Ana winds. Writers have a thing for the winds—their dry magic and how they blow across the land and incite the mind. Raymond Chandler did it best. I like the chair I’m in. It’s ancient and soft, and I think I could sleep here with Cicero folded over my knee and Mary Shelley scrunched beside me.