Loren D. Estleman - Valentino 01 - Frames

by Loren D. Estleman

  “I still do.” She looked at Harriet. “Your gentleman friend removed some evidence from the crime scene before he called us.”

  “I gathered that,” Harriet said. “I might’ve been told. I’ve only been working the case since day one.”

  Valentino sensed she was angrier at Clifford for the omission than she was at him. “That was a favor to me. The film’s a major find. The less it gets talked about now, the better the reception when we announce it. I was going to tell you all about it last night.”

  “Now that that’s settled, will you surrender the evidence voluntarily, or will the officers need to bring along a warrant?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Sergeant. Thanks for the three days. I’m sure you took some heat over that.”

  She looked surprised. Then she nodded. “We’ll take good care of it. We’ve got a cold room for perishables.”

  “That’s only good for the short term. If it’s going to run into months and years, the only really secure place to store it is in a salt mine six hundred feet deep, where there’s no humidity and the temperature never rises above thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit.”

  “Well, we’re fresh out of those. Any other tips?”

  “My secretary will give your officers a copy of our department manual. The first thing to remember is not to lose the molecular sieves from the cans.”

  “What’s a molecular sieve?”

  Harriet spoke up. “It’s a fancy name for those little packets they put in coat pockets to keep them from smelling musty in the stores. They allow vapors to be scavenged and contained. I’m a good listener,” she explained to Valentino.

  Impressed, he began to compliment her. Clifford interrupted.

  “Vapors? This stuff’s toxic?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “Not until the second stage.”

  “Then it’s also explosive,” Harriet said.

  “You’re pulling my leg.”

  They both shook their heads.

  “Should I send the bomb squad to pick it up?”

  Harriet spoke before Valentino could open his mouth. “Better safe than sorry.”

  Sergeant Clifford wandered out, forgetting the coffee machine.

  Valentino sat. “You’re not as good a listener as you think. That film is still a long way from volatile.”

  “She doesn’t know that. Maybe if she thinks it is she’ll tell her people to take better care of it.”

  “I knew you were smart. I never dreamed you were devious.”

  “I may be the kettle, but you’re the pot. Did it ever occur to you my department will be in charge of the film, and that a word or two in my ear might improve its chances of survival? It’s time you put down the cloak and dagger and come clean.”

  “You’re mixing metaphors.”

  “BS.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m a bachelor of science, not arts. I can mix metaphors the same way I mix chemicals and compounds.” She took the tea bag out of her cup, sucked it, and laid it on the table. He’d never seen anyone do that before; they were a matched set of caffeine addicts. “I try to keep an open mind,” she went on. “That’s why I let you talk your way out of that stupid misunderstanding yesterday. That doesn’t mean I’ll let you keep half your life hidden from me. Even the moon shows its dark side once a night.”

  “Douglas the negative cutter must’ve really done a number on you,” he said.

  “Several. One of them was changing the subject every time the conversation became uncomfortable.”

  He lifted his cup. It was cold. “Is it all right if I warm this up first?”

  “Dump it out and bring me more hot water while you’re up.” She pushed her cup toward him and fished another tea packet out of a pocket in her smock.

  He talked all through both beverages. He told her about the scheme to smuggle out Greed before calling the police and the decision to investigate the mystery of the skeleton. He left out the tentative identification of Albert Spinoza as the victim and his interview with Warren Pegler, but only because Fanta had brought those about through skills he couldn’t claim and he didn’t want to jeopardize her future as an attorney; he didn’t know Harriet well enough yet to trust her with someone else’s fate. About himself he was candid.

  He even told her about the ghost.

  He almost didn’t. It was okay if his friends thought he was a screwball; the local landscape was filled with those. He risked losing Harriet’s interest on the grounds of sheer humdrummery.

  “The first time was in my apartment, the night of the day I bought the Oracle and found the film and the skeleton. I was in bed, so I put it down as a dream. Von Stroheim was in full costume, complete with monocle and riding breeches. He asked—commanded me to save ‘mein Kindling,’ meaning his beloved child: Greed.”

  “He spoke in German? Do you know the language?”

  “I studied it in high school. I’ve forgotten most of what I learned. Fortunately, he only used a phrase or two. The rest was in English.”

  She nodded, encouraging him to continue.

  “I saw him the second time in the theater just after you left. That time I knew I was awake. He was all in pieces on the torn fabric of the movie screen, but I could see he was dressed like Gloria Swanson’s butler in Sunset Boulevard.”

  “I thought it was Norma Desmond.”

  “That was the character. Swanson played her. Can I tell this? It’s difficult enough.”

  “Sorry. I’ll try not to talk during the movie.”

  “It was pretty much the same conversation,” he said; leaving out the personal part where von Stroheim told him to avoid feminine distraction. “He wasn’t satisfied with the progress I was making, which was in character for him. He could delay an expensive production to correct some minor detail on the set, but if an actor was on his mark three minutes late he flew into a rage. Only this time I knew it wasn’t a dream, because I was awake and on my feet.” He searched her face for traces of mockery. He found none. “The third time was today, in my car. I didn’t really see him that time, just the cigarette he left behind in one of those hokey holders. I guess he got tired of waiting.”

  “Did you keep the cigarette and holder?”

  “No. They disappeared before I could reach for them.”

  “Too bad. We could’ve identified the tobacco, tested for latents, analyzed the saliva on the holder for DNA, matched it to a relative or a lock of hair in someone’s locket, and determined whether it was von Stroheim who smoked it.”

  “I was afraid you’d make a joke.”

  “That’s what ghosts are, a joke. Did you expect me to invite you to a séance? I haven’t lived here long enough to catch that disease. I still have my South Dakota immunity.”

  “Fanta and Dr. Broadhead weren’t so quick to dismiss the supernatural angle.”

  “Neither one of them is a scientist. I believe in things I can put under a microscope or on litmus or spin in a dish.”

  “What about God?”

  “That’s faith. I leave it in my locker when I put on the smock.”

  “Maybe this is one of those times you should take it off.”

  “Not unless you think God wears a monocle and speaks with a thick German accent.”

  “Austrian, actually. The only time he played a German was in Five Graves to Cairo, when he was General Rommel.” He saw her expression. “Sorry. At least I didn’t quote from the film.”

  “Do you think you saw a ghost?”

  He considered. Neither Broadhead nor Fanta had asked that question.

  “No,” he said. “Everything I’ve ever read about real-life sightings is vague. This was as vivid as if I were watching a movie.”

  “You’re overwrought. My gosh, from what you said, Webster’s should put your picture in the dictionary next to the definition. Since movies are your main point of reference, you put all your anxieties into a cinematic context. In your position, I’d be seeing dancing test tubes everywhere I went.”


  “Even when I’m awake?”

  “I can’t speak for what shape you were in today, but you looked kind of wasted that day at the theater. I used to doze off sitting at my desk at USC after pulling an all-nighter with the books. My head never touched the desk.”

  “Dr. Broadhead suggested sleepwalking.”

  “It’s more common than you think. Why do you think von Stroheim used only as much German as you still retained from high school? That was as much as your subconscious mind gave him access to.”

  He blinked. “Wow. I never thought of that.”

  “You’re not haunted.” She reached across the table and took both his hands in hers. “And you’re not crazy.”

  Crazy about you, he thought; but it was too early for that. Instead he squeezed her hands. “If I ever feel I’m slipping, I’ll run straight to you. Anyone who’d run a DNA test on a spook could talk me sane.”

  “Mr. Valentino, that’s just about the sweetest thing anyone ever told a forensic pathologist.” She glanced around the empty room, then leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

  CHAPTER

  18

  VALENTINO HAD TIMED himself to arrive late the next morning; but the LAPD, evidently determined to spare him nothing, was behind schedule as well. After his daily exchange of unpleasantries with the grumpy parking attendant, he emerged on foot from the garage in time to see a bearing party of officers in helmets and flak jackets lugging carton after carton from the preservation building to an armor-plated SUV parked in front. Sergeant Clifford seemed to have accepted Harriet’s assessment of the cargo at face value.

  Ruth ambushed him from behind her desk in the old power plant. “You’re late. The joint’s been raided.”

  He’d guessed they’d been there first, from the amount of mud that had been tracked onto the floor downstairs. A misty rain had been falling all morning. “It was expected. Didn’t Dr. Broadhead warn you?”

  “They tramped in while he was talking. I haven’t seen so many cops in one place since they arrested John Landis.”

  That would be for the accident that killed Vic Morrow and two child extras on the set of Twilight Zone—The Movie. He’d had no idea her studio experience had lasted so late. “He was acquitted,” he said. “We should have such luck. Where’s Dr. Broadhead?”

  “He went with them.”

  “Don’t tell me they arrested him.” He had a sudden horrible picture of his friend refusing to cooperate, reliving the martyrdom of his younger years.

  “He took them over to the lab. Here he is now.”

  The professor strolled in in hat, trench coat, and rubbers, puffing his pipe. Ruth, who had appointed herself monitor of the university’s smoke-free policy, scooped a heavy ashtray out of a drawer and thrust it at him. Meekly he rapped the smoldering dottle out into the tray and watched her stab at the glowing ash with the eraser end of a pencil.

  Valentino said, “I was afraid I was going to have to go downtown and bail you out.”

  “It was extraordinary,” Broadhead said. “They came with dozens of cartons, enough to clean out the entire library. I suspect they were misled to believe they were here to confiscate Foolish Wives. You know, the sour Kraut shot three hundred reels before Thalberg shut him down that time. No one seems to care about recovering those. Discrimination seems to be gaining ground even among fanatics.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, he began by rebuilding Monte Carlo from the ground up and then filming a reel of establishing footage before he got three yards inside the door. Things escalated from—”

  “I mean with the police!”

  “Oh. Most civilized. There’s not a Barton MacLane or a Bill Demarest to be found among this polite college-educated breed. I supervised the loading, and the fellow in charge, a sergeant named Masserian, kept inventory and gave me a copy with a signed receipt. The vandals who moved Elaine and me into our house could have taken lessons from the way this crew handled the merchandise. There wasn’t a dramatic moment, in case you were afraid you’d missed anything.” He fixed Valentino with his bland gaze.

  “I missed it on purpose. I hate attending funerals.”

  “I hope you’ll make an exception in the case of mine. I’ve made some alterations in the text.”

  “I wish I had your sense of humor. I can’t find a single thing to smile about this morning.”

  Ruth said, “I sure can’t. I’m not getting much work done in this gabfest.”

  “Step into my office,” Broadhead told Valentino.

  “Let’s step into mine. Today of all days I need my personal clutter about me.”

  “What do you suppose she finds to work on? I write all my letters, and you’re never around long enough to hitch her to the plow.” Broadhead made himself comfortable in his usual seat and began packing his pipe.

  Valentino said, “Would you mind not doing that? Rebellion gets old fast.”

  Broadhead raised his bushy brows, then shrugged and laid the pipe in the Schwab’s saucer where his friend kept paper clips. “You behave as if I’m the only revolutionary in situ,” he said. “How’s progress with the Oracle Murder Case?” He made it sound like a lost Philo Vance title.

  “We may have identified the victim. And we found Warren Pegler. That is to say Fanta found him. I interviewed him yesterday at the Country Home.”

  “He’s alive? Dear me. Does this mean I have to look forward to shaving this face for another few decades?”

  Valentino filled him in on Albert Spinoza and what he’d gotten from Pegler. The old man’s information sounded even more meager in summary.

  “Do you suspect him?” Broadhead asked.

  “I don’t know. Diminished capacity can be a real advantage during interrogation.”

  “Did you tell any of this to the Big Red Dog?”

  “I ran into Clifford last night at headquarters. I never thought about it, to be honest. We were making arrangements for her to seize Greed. That was very civilized, too. You’d have been proud of my behavior.”

  “I am. There’s no sense making a scene when you’re surrounded by people with guns and handcuffs. What were you doing at headquarters?”

  “I was there for that tour Harriet promised.”

  “Elucidate.” He never sounded more the professor taking a pupil through his lessons.

  “It was illuminating. Did you know you can track a suspect’s movements over the past year by analyzing the wax in his ear?”

  “Stop being so romantic. Did you get to first base?”

  Valentino colored. For the first time in their long acquaintance, Broadhead’s brows made contact with his shaggy hairline. He laughed sincerely, loud and booming. Out in the hall, Ruth pounded her foot for silence.

  “Right brain meets left,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “Your children will spend all day in the video store and all night scraping the discs to see what makes them work.”

  “That’s out of line, even for you. I apologized for asking about you and Fanta.”

  Subdued, Broadhead tugged at the hem of his sweater-vest. “How did your meeting go with Kalishnikov? I hear he’s eccentric. When a second-unit AD at Fox complained about his bill, he had the equipment and furnishings ripped out and turned the theater back into a storeroom, with the original junk. He went to the landfill to retrieve it personally.”

  “He probably started that rumor himself. He’s a pro in parvenu clothing.” Valentino took one of the slips out of his wallet and passed it across the desk.

  “What’s this, the population of Santa Monica?”

  “That’s his fee. He offered to waive it if I let him use the Oracle in his promotion.”

  “He is eccentric. Of course you accepted.” He placed the estimate atop the pile of papers on the desk.

  “Even if I did, the actual work would put me into debt beyond the grave.”

  “If you made that calculation, you must be considering going ahead.”

  Valentino shook his he
ad. “I’m thinking of selling the place to someone who can afford to restore it.”

  “Anyone with that kind of money would be smart enough to level it and put up an office building on the site. You’d never forgive yourself.”

  “The other day you tried to talk me into forgetting the whole thing.”

  Broadhead picked up his pipe and straightened out a paper clip to probe inside the stem. “As your only friend, I have the responsibility to perform as your Greek chorus. If I thought you’d take the advice, I wouldn’t have offered it. When God goes out of His way to hand you an epiphany, turning it down would only tick Him off.”

  “That’s the second time God’s come up in conversation in the last twelve hours. I thought this was a secular town.”

  “Balderdash. Every time someone with a bright line of patter throws a butt into the gutter on Cahuenga, a dozen people swarm around it to erect a shrine. My mailman can’t deliver my utility bill because the box is stuffed with circulars predicting the end of the world; even the Apocalypse has its positive side. Bite the bullet, Val. If you start moping around wringing your hands because some practical type built yet another Comerica Bank on hallowed Hollywood ground, I’ll have to strike up a conversation with Ruth just to break the monotony.”

  Valentino smiled despite himself. “Well, we can’t have that.”

  “I knew you’d come to your senses if I put it in an altruistic context. A personal relationship with Ruth could drive me back to the classroom. Have you given any more thought to selling Greed to the university?”

  “Pegler said you shouldn’t have to sell greed since it isn’t in short supply. Apparently I’ve got my share. Do you really think I can get fifty thousand?”

  “You can get double, but don’t tell the department head I said that. He already thinks we’re all going to be selling flowers on the entrances to the San Diego Freeway if the Democrats don’t get back in next time around.”

  “I couldn’t ask for a hundred. I feel like a traitor considering any price at all.”

  “Next week, some stinking rich alumnus fresh out of white-collar prison will present the president with a giant novelty check, and every third-string player on the football team will have his own personal jacuzzi. UCLA will survive. So will the Oracle; but only if you stop thinking of Greed as if it were the Wailing Wall and treat it as the commodity it was intended to be.”