The Crime Writer

by Gregg Hurwitz

  I mused on this a moment. But there were too many moving parts to get a handle on now. “How’s it administered? Sevoflurane?”

  Lloyd shifted on the sofa, swirled his drink around. “Face mask.”

  “I figured. So maybe I woke up because it was imperfectly administered. Maybe at my house the killer wore an oxygen mask and let the gas loose in my bedroom, near my face, while I slept.” I snapped my fingers, leaning forward. “Remember, there were signs of a struggle in Kasey Broach’s bedroom.”

  “Kaden and Delveckio told you that, too?”

  “Broach would’ve woken up when the killer pressed the mask over her face, but he figured he was strong enough to hold her down until the gas took effect. She’s a petite woman, looks—what?—a buck ten?”

  “A hundred and thirteen pounds,” Lloyd said quietly.

  “Right. But I doubt he’d want to take his chances waking me up by pressing a mask over my face. So he released the gas into the air while I was sleeping.”

  “Do you have any proof you can hang this theory on?”

  “Not a scrap. Maybe this points to someone with medical expertise. Is it hard to get? Sevoflurane?”

  “It’s controlled, but not like an opiate.”

  “Can you tell from Kasey Broach’s blood level how long she was kept unconscious?”

  “Nearly impossible to determine.”

  “Can you tell when my DNA got on her body? Or the plastic drop cloth?”

  “There’s no way to put an age on DNA. Only that it was there during analysis.” Lloyd held up his hands, thin fingers spread. “Let’s hold on a minute. Slow down. You’re not working off facts—”

  “How else did my DNA get on Kasey Broach’s body?”

  “For the record, we didn’t get you on DNA. This isn’t a TV show—we need at least forty-eight hours to DNA type. We did a traditional ABO. You’re AB negative, which puts you with less than one percent of the population.”

  “They SWAT-raided me off that?”

  He rooted in his knapsack and came out with a report, which he tossed at me irritably. “The hair follicle. I matched the cuticle and medulla with a known sample we had for you.”

  “How about these?” I pointed at four samples farther down the page. “These don’t match.”

  “That’s because one’s mine and two are from Ted McGraw, who helped me examine the body.” He studied my expression and shook his head. “A simple contamination during processing, happens all the time. Don’t go putting poor Ted in the conservatory with the candlestick.”

  “How about the fourth hair?”

  “Unidentified. No match in the databases. We’re holding it, but it’s probably nothing. Frankly, I’m surprised we didn’t pick up more strays, the way the wind was blowing.”

  “So one hair for me, one for Mr. Mystery. But my door gets the battering ram.”

  “Between your hair, the blood-type match, and the similarities to Bertrand’s body, Kaden and Delveckio were ready to make a move on you. At this stage you’re the only link between the victims.” Lloyd’s gaze was steady. Not judgmental, not accusatory. Just steady. “The blood DNA comes back tomorrow. I wouldn’t hold your breath that it’ll exonerate you.”

  “It could be someone inside. Kaden and Delveckio said the killer posed the body like Genevieve’s, in ways that weren’t released to the press. And a cop—or detective—might want me to go down for Genevieve’s killing.”

  Lloyd looked at me as if I were paranoid, which I was. “So badly that they’d murder an innocent girl? Come on, Drew. Crime-scene photos leak.” He leaned over and snatched the paper back from me. “Unlike criminalist reports. Plus, given the trial, there were a lot of lawyers and reporters poking around the Bertrand case files. The specifics were hardly kept as state secrets. Kaden and Delveckio were probably just trying to rattle you.”

  The crime-scene photos I’d stolen reinforced Lloyd’s point. Kaden had grown touchy when I’d pushed for more information on what they’d gotten off the body. Ah, here it is: None of your fucking business.

  I led him a bit with my next question. “What about the other key piece of evidence?”

  “The rope? It’s an all-cotton brand used for bondage. Probably bought at an erotic specialty store.”

  “Why tie rope around the ankles but tape the wrists?”

  “Easier to transport a body. Easier to throw it out a vehicle. No limbs flapping around.”

  “No, I mean, why use different restraints on the same body?”

  “You ever bind someone’s wrists with rope?”

  “No. Have you?”

  He guffawed—I’d forgotten about his great, unruly laugh. “No. But it’s difficult. You can squirm your hands free easier than you can your feet.”

  “So why not use electrical tape on both the wrists and ankles?”

  “I don’t have an answer for you, Drew. But we’re looking into it. This and more.” He set down his glass and yawned. I could only imagine his exhaustion—working long days, caring for his wife every spare waking hour. He walked me to the door. “It goes without saying that you can’t mention to anyone—and I mean anyone—that I saw you today.”

  “I won’t. And don’t worry—you didn’t tell me anything that hasn’t already been disclosed to me.” I felt like a heel. This was a guy who, when asked to confirm an autopsy detail for me, would fax me a two-page essay. Now he’d stepped away from work and left his dying wife to help me, and I’d manipulated him, then lied about it. Not the first time I’d lied in pursuit of something I wanted, but I told myself I wouldn’t let it come back to bite him in the ass. We shook hands, and I said, “I’m very appreciative that you took the time to talk with me. I know you’re on overload.”

  He nodded, pausing in the doorway while I walked up the gravel drive. He didn’t seem eager to head back down that hall. I got to the gate and turned around, and there he was, still silhouetted against the faint light from the kitchen.

  “Leave it alone, Drew,” he called after me. “This isn’t one of your books.”

  I raised a hand and slipped through onto the street.

  The hell it isn’t.

  14

  I stared again at my latest chapter, now pockmarked with Preston’s notes.

  I glanced up from the red-marked pages. Preston was sprawled on my sectional, editing some other victim and looking characteristically pleased with himself.

  “I’m in the 818 area code, actually. Just over the crest.”

  Preston’s eyes flicked over to me. “I was giving you the benefit of the doubt.” He finished his morning cup of rum, leaving it on the coffee table for the housekeeper I could no longer afford. He fanned himself dramatically with the manuscript pages, then cast them aside. “It’s hot in here.”

  “You’re menopausal.”

  He rose, took my pages from my hands, and flipped through them, failing to suppress a chuckle at one of his edits. He slapped the sheaf against an open palm. “There’s gotta be a story that incorporates all these elements gracefully. We need a development meeting.” He glanced at his watch. “I have a lunch reservation for three at Spago.”

  “Three?”

  “I thought you might invite Cal Unger. We require him for brainstorming.”

  “You just wrote not to bother him unless I have a—and I quote—‘concrete goal.’”

  “But this is social.”

  Preston had met Cal once at the book-launch party for my third Chainer novel.

  “He’s not gay, Preston.”

  “Of course not. Gay is a level of self-and political awareness. Which he lacks. He’s just got tendencies.”

  Preston thinks everybody has. Which makes sense, since he works in publishing and splits his time between the Village and West Hollywood. When we would go out, we frequented West Hollywood restaurants, after which he’d drag me to one of those young West Hollywood plays by a nouveau–West Hollywood playwright featuring a troubled gay English-major protagonist where all th
e straight characters—especially the football players—wound up being gay after all, harboring secret, shameful crushes on our fragile yet intrepid hero.

  “Whatever tendencies he’s got, Herr Brokeback, they don’t tend in your direction,” I pressed. “I understand that your parents’ naming you Preston Ashley Mills pretty much sealed your deal in one fell swoop, but, nature or nurture aside, the guy is named Cal Unger. I’d say that cuts the odds considerably that he smokes pole. Not to mention the fact that I need to wait for a more graceful reestablishment of diplomatic ties. I’ll invite Chic instead.”

  “The ballplayer?” This last word he lent an intonation generally reserved for “chlamydia.”

  Preston had also met Chic at the book-launch party for my third Chainer novel.

  Despite his objections, he headed for the phone. “I’ll tell them we’ll be running late. And I’ll have them install a salt lick at the booth.” He picked up the cordless. Stared at it.

  “They’re too busy providing excellent service to hook up my phone. Which apparently certain editors responsible for my mail didn’t bother paying—”

  Disrupting the late-morning air, sailing over my fence, came sounds of the young trumpeter at practice.

  I’ve got a CRUSH on YOU, sweetie-PIE.

  Preston’s eyebrows met. “The hell is that?”

  “Gershwin, I think.”

  All the DAY and NIGHTtime, hear me SIGH.

  Preston despaired. “We’ll call from the car.”

  The woman with the custom license-plate frame in the Jag ahead of us had one thing to tell the world, and that was that she went zero to bitch in 2.7 seconds. We cruised down Cañon, passing several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of Bavarian engineering, long-legged women with boxy shopping bags, palm trees studded with rope lights. The rope lights served two purposes at once: They were pretty at night, and they were slick, slick being significant in that if squirrels tried to scale the trunks to nest in the fronds, they’d slip and crack their little squirrel skulls on the pavement below. That union of aesthetics and ferocity, if nothing else, defines Beverly Hills. The five-hundred-dollar porcelain curios, the reservation-only boutiques, the bejeweled cat collars.

  As we coasted along, Preston pointed to a prominent window display of my books at Dutton’s. At least when a bookstore cashed in on my infamy, I got a cut.

  L.A., for the most part, is in on the joke that is itself. It’s superficial as hell, sure, but it also knows how to enjoy it, unlike those Des Moines moms who read celebrity rags on their way to church so they can tut-tut and shake their heads, or those Ivy Leaguers who’d never admit they enjoy People more than Proust but who, while waiting for the dentist to mend a scrape in their enamel, will sneak a peek at the glossies to check out this singer’s weight gain or where this royal couple honeymooned. Here, superficiality is our business, and we all—all—believe we’re in on the show.

  Some visitors find L.A. an insider’s city. The contrary is in fact true. Anyone can get access. The only catch is that you have to bring something interesting to the table. That’s the ticket of entry. It doesn’t have to be depth, or conversational skills, or even necessarily talent. You can be the best hairdresser and sit down at a mogul’s table between a Hollywood madam and an opera director. If you’re the best hedge-fund manager on your Bel-Air block but a bore, fuck off with a smile, pal. Go back to Manhattan and complain about how shallow L.A. is.

  Shallow it is, but also captivating, if you can just hold on to your sense of humor. Every now and then, an earthquake will crack the city open, just to ensure that things stay interesting, or someone will threaten to blow up LAX, or raging fires will sweep through the West Valley and everyone will lionize firemen for a week. Santa Monica waters will turn toxic. A mercury scare will put everyone off sushi. Carbs will be vilified, or Pilates, or the caloric content of Jamba Juice.

  Four cars backed up on the side of the parking ramp by the restaurant, wringing out a last few seconds of cell-phone reception. We valeted. Threading through the tables, we found Chic in the rear, arms spread across the back of the booth. “I just love me some smoked-salmon pizza.”

  Preston scowled at Chic’s sarcasm, and we slid in on either side. I dropped the documents I’d assembled onto the tabletop.

  Preston craned his neck toward the wall of etched glass that set off the kitchen. “I wonder if that Latin guy is our waiter.”

  “He’s got a wedding ring,” I said.

  “Puh-lease.”

  “He’s eyeing the tits at eleven o’ clock.”

  “Overcompensating.”

  “Before you start making the love that dare not speak its name, how ’ bout we order?”

  Chic glanced up uncomfortably from his menu. “Just so you know, I’m not gay or anything.”

  Preston aimed a withering look at him. “Honey, we wouldn’t have you.”

  When it came time to order, Preston did his best with eye contact and inquiring about house favorites, but the waiter just gathered our menus uneasily and left.

  Still unaccustomed to being in public after my media searing, I carefully glanced about. One table over, two guys in suits and another in sweatpants babbled about German financing and festival circuits. Beside them, women either too old or too rich to care if they were overheard discussed estrogen supplements. A harried woman dined with kids who, because of their scowls and designer jeans, were apparently more worldly than she was. Directly across from us, a well-dressed guy hunched over his plate, and then his entire party peeked over at me not as inconspicuously as their manner suggested they’d intended. I shifted uncomfortably.

  Chic clued in to the situation first, of course, and smiled at me gently. “This, too, shall pass.”

  Preston said, “Let’s get down to story.”

  While we ate our upmarket appetizers, I recapped the latest advancements. As usual, I’d stored a Bic pen behind my ear for taking notes, but I mostly doodled.

  When I was done, Preston cleared his throat. “Get off the serial-killer kick. They’re not so compelling.”

  “Just because they don’t pique your interest doesn’t mean we’re not dealing with one. We have two bodies with a similar MO.”

  “As you pointed out to Detective Point-in-Time, there are noteworthy differences.”

  “Or”—sometimes, with Preston, one did best to forge ahead—“I could’ve become the poster boy for a copycat killer, who then elected to frame me.”

  “Which would mean that you did murder Genevieve.”

  The baldness of Preston’s remark caught me off guard. I felt an almost gravitational pull toward defensiveness, toward denial of both kinds. The shrewdly decorated shrimp plate suddenly looked meaty and unappetizing.

  “You can’t know,” Preston offered. “Not yet.”

  “Maybe I should take sevoflurane again and find out.”

  Preston stirred his drink lazily with a straw. “We don’t even know for sure that you’ve taken sevoflurane once, Drew. I don’t think we need to be breaking in to medical offices on the slim chance that if you inhale it again, it’ll put you back into the September twenty-third part of your brain.”

  Chic said, “Frame or no frame, fastest way to get to the bottom of this is to figure out the connection between the victims, or between them and you. The boring, unobvious shit you won’t be able to uncover.”

  “Do I hire a private detective?”

  Chic shook his head, disappointed as usual, at my inability to get things done correctly. “I know a hacker, database guy. Phone bills, gas bills, airline tickets—all that shit. Half of it’s online for a price, and the half that ain’t…well, let’s just say that won’t stop him. He tracks down people who skip on alimony.”

  “Deadbeat dads?”

  “Don’t be sexist, Drew-Drew. I used him last to find a woman who moved up and out on one of my nephews. He can cross-reference like a muthafucker comin’ up with an alibi. Also, we need a list of all the people you’ve pissed off
.”

  I removed the list I’d been working on, and we batted around a few more names, but I couldn’t find any that seemed believable murderers, or even break-in artists. My neurologist, driven mad by the fallout from my noncompliance? Katherine Harriman’s old man, disgraced on kielbasa-and-Bulls night, back to administer Chi-town justice? Adeline Bertrand in a ninja suit?

  Finally Chic got fed up with my lack of known lethal adversaries and jumped topics. “The second body,” he said. “Why rope on the ankles, tape on the wrists?”

  “Tape is easier on wrists. Rope can be tricky.” Preston averted his eyes, sipped his drink. “You said the cotton rope is a specialty bondage item. We could look into which places stock it around L.A.”

  “Let the police do the procedural shit,” Chic said. “That’s what they’re good at.”

  “What are we good at?” I asked.

  A long pause. “Not the procedural shit.”

  “I think the rope’s a red herring,” I said. “I think he used it to throw investigators off the trail.”

  The people across from us whispered a bit more, and then finally the well-dressed man stood and headed toward me. Chic said, “Handle it with a smile.”

  The man approached. “You’re Andrew Danner, aren’t you? I just wanted to let you know I’m sorry for what you went through. I don’t know much about it, but I think you caught a bum break.”

  “Thanks very much.”

  We shook hands. Before leaving, he glanced over at Chic. “Nice hands, Bales, ya donkey.”

  He returned to his table. Preston and I got busy eating to hide our smiles as Chic nodded, egging us on. Our main courses arrived, and, my humor and appetite back, I took a few moments to indulge in my agnolotti with mascarpone. When I looked up, Chic was studying the crime-scene photos. The top one, presumably the first taken, showed Kasey Broach in peaceful repose. With no sign yet of cop or criminalist intrusion, her body seemed dropped into the composition by an ambitious graphic designer. Her bare flesh and the white film of bird shit on the hood of the abandoned car were the only smears of light in the dark scene.