“It was her party,” he added. “Well, you being a ‘film detective,’ maybe you can figure out who was sitting at one of the other tables Sheridan waited on.” He looked from one silent face to the other. “What, no duet this time? Sure, it was the Limerick woman. She had the rack of lamb: well-done, says the headwaiter, who disapproved. I guess Ogilvie didn’t offend him with her order, because he couldn’t recall what she ate, only that she was there and had all her other guests move one chair down so Root could sit next to her.”
Valentino said, “Waiting on someone doesn’t make you an acquaintance.”
“It did where Geoffrey Root was concerned. Now, even our headwaiter wasn’t aware who Limerick and Ogilvie were, and he’s better at remembering dishes and stations than names. But we showed him the victims’ photos, and the rest came pouring out.”
Broadhead said, “I can think of a line of questioning that would destroy your case in court, Lieutenant; and as the head of my department I deal with real lawyers in the real world.”
“It wouldn’t take Perry Mason to rip up what I told you. But Sheridan lived off Root, and when one person exists on another person’s money, you can smell the motive way ahead of a plate of burned lamb chops. Once we get Sheridan into that interview room, my money’s on a lovers’ tiff and a threat to cancel his meal ticket. That’s rage. If we get a break and there was a will or some kind of agreement like that in place—one Root never got the chance to change—that’s greed, and I’d trade all the rest of the sins for just those two.”
Valentino had seen the joy of anticipation on a man’s face only in his mirror before he screened a forgotten classic film for the first time. He should have been appalled, but it made him feel a millimeter closer to the detective lieutenant, who was human in at least one area.
He shook his head. “That might convict Sheridan for Root’s murder, but he had no reason to kill the others.”
“He did if he wanted us to think just the way we have been, that they were all done by a serial killer with a grudge against bombshell blondes. We might’ve gone on for years, talking to shrinks and psychics and scouring the country for Hannibal the Cannibal, when we should’ve been looking for a garden-variety cold-blooded sponge with an eye for the main chance. Meanwhile, he might just have racked up a couple more Hollywood-themed murders just to make sure we were paying attention.”
He set down his cup, making sure it didn’t tip over on its uneven base. “It ain’t as poetic, boys; in my book, it’s more evil still. A homicidal maniac can no more stop himself than an earthquake or a hurricane. One of ’em can kill a hundred innocents and I’d be the first to applaud when some bleeding-heart judge sentences him to therapy, but anybody who’d snuff out two lives just so he can tuck the one he wanted to take in between ’em needs to be cut up and fed to a goat.”
“I can’t say I disagree,” Valentino said, “although I’m not so sure about the goat. But you were there, Lieutenant. Even you were moved by his emotional state.”
“Remember that next time you string together some old meller about sourpuss flatfeet with rock heads and stone hearts. He could’ve faked it. There are certain types that can throw a lie detector for a loop. More likely it was genuine. If you can work up enough of a mad to kill someone, you can squeeze out real tears. Most of them, the ones that aren’t actual psychopaths, feel sorry for what they did, even miss the person as hard as if he fell off a cliff or got run over by the wieniemobile. I always get nervous whenever some Raskolnikov I nabbed gets on the stand to testify in his defense; they’ve been known to sway juries away from ironclad evidence. But that’s the DA’s headache, and if it goes the other way and they seal him up in Q for ninety-nine years and a day, I won’t feel a bit more sorry than if he flipped the victim’s survivors the bird in open court.
“That’s my job, boys. It don’t pay a couple of hundred thou and tips, but I’d rather deliver a solid case than overdone mutton any day.”
His telephone rang. Interview Room C was ready.
16
SOMETIMES, THE MOVIES got it right.
And sometimes, the people in charge of such things cast against type.
For all he revered the fantasy world of motion pictures, Valentino had always thought certain things were purely the invention of screenwriters. That a real-life police department in the twenty-first century should play the good-cop-bad-cop card, straight off the back lot, came as much of a surprise as who was cast in those roles.
Watching, with Kyle Broadhead, through the one-way glass into Interview Room C, the film archivist saw the plainclothesman with the face that had been soaked too long and pinned up with thumbtacks had been chosen to play the heavy. He inhabited the role to the full, pumping himself up puffer-fish fashion to what seemed twice his size for the benefit of the stricken man seated with his now-unfettered hands making wet patches on the fake wood-printed veneer of the table in the center of the cramped chamber. The transformation from weary civil servant to authoritarian brute was complete, and took place before the eyes of the Film Preservation crew.
Padilla, by contrast, sat opposite the suspect with his hands folded almost prayer-like on the table, his face arranged into a mask of sympathy. (Tellingly, his palms left no marks at all.) From time to time he murmured something in soothing tones so low the microphone failed to pick them up.
“The frauds,” murmured Broadhead. “You wonder anyone still falls for it.”
“We’re watching from the cheap seats, don’t forget. I imagine it’s different sitting stage front.”
“What makes you an expert?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe I’ve been too much among cops of late.”
“And too little among people. Let’s just go.”
“Beata would never forgive me if I didn’t see the thing through.”
“Beata’s dead.”
“That’s just it. If she were alive, she’d probably tell me to let go. Dead, she’s harder to get along with.”
“So you’ve given up on your hunch?”
“I don’t know. It all seemed so simple until I entered this building. What was it General Norman Schwarzkopf said about battle plans?”
“They never survive the first engagement with the enemy.”
“We’re not exactly among enemies. But like I said, they do this all the time. Anything you and I or anyone else could come up with they’ve already considered and set aside.”
A circular speaker like the ones installed in the drive-through lanes of fast-food restaurants allowed them to hear what was taking place inside. A number of interested parties, some in uniform, others in suits and sportcoats, had gathered to eavesdrop. In some office much quieter and more private than Padilla’s glass cubicle, authorities with clout would be listening to the same conversation in leather-upholstered comfort.
Cuttle: Go over it again, let’s. You two got your little panties in a wad. Root told you to pack up your crap and skedaddle, gave you a deadline, which was his big mistake, because it gave you time to cook up your little game of dominoes: Beata Limerick. Click! Karen Ogilvie. Click! Geoffrey Root. Click.
Sheridan: I didn’t. He didn’t! It was never that way between Jeffy and me.
Cuttle: You’re a goddamn liar! I can stomach a killer, even a yellow dress-it-up one that’d clock a couple of old ladies to cover up his mess, but I can’t abide a sneaky mealy-mouthed goddamn liar!
Even Broadhead, cynic that he was, flinched when the sergeant bellowed in Sheridan’s face, close enough to flick it with spittle.
Padilla unfolded his hands and grasped Cuttle’s wrist.
Padilla: Back off, Sergeant. Everybody lies sometime, especially when he’s afraid. Eleazar—can I call you that? I can’t think of a nickname—
Sheridan: Sherry’s okay. That’s what Jeffy called me.
Padilla: Sherry, there’s nothing to be afraid of here. What you did, it was desperation behind it. People think you had a cushy position, being looked after, all the comfor
ts somebody with money can buy; but it comes with a price. There isn’t a juror in the world who wouldn’t understand what it means to depend on somebody who uses that dependence like a whip to keep you down.
Cuttle: Enough of that shrink talk. I’m crying big fat snotty tears—for that poor pink powder-puff you threw through his windshield, ripping his face—
Padilla: Lay off that.
Valentino saw a crack in the masquerade. The lieutenant really seemed to think his partner was going too far.
But then, some of the best actors in Hollywood worked for the Los Angeles Police Department.
There was a long hiatus while Eleazar Sheridan sat slumped with his shoulders shaking, water streaming down his cheeks in glistening rivulets and forming a puddle around the wet marks his palms had made on the table. Cuttle (hamming it up, Valentino thought) paced the room in rapid steps, like a big cat left in his cage long past feeding, Padilla (a paean to subtlety) sitting back watching the pathetic creature across from him with the patience of—well, not quite a saint, but the director of any religious epic would have been satisfied to include him in the production.
The rest was more of the same, as the detectives confronted the suspect, one accusing, the other compassionate, with the discrepancy in his earlier statements, chiefly the fact that Beata Limerick and Karen Ogilvie were no strangers to him, and using the headwaiter’s statement as a club (identifying him only as an ominous “eyewitness”), slugging away at his denials until he fell into a paroxysm of hysterical uncertainty.
Padilla’s right, Valentino thought. The real world bears no resemblance to entertainment.
“I don’t remember any of them.” This came from the depths of exhaustion; of a body whose glands had wrung themselves dry of tears.
“You saying our witness is a goddamn liar, you goddamn liar?” Cuttle never let up. Valentino wondered if he stayed in character all day long, and what his home life must be like.
“No! I don’t remember anything about that evening except meeting Jeffy. He was the most—why would I want to kill him?”
“We been over that. We got it all on tape, with Dolby. You want us to play it back, or would you rather wait for the transcript, read it over a soothing cup of Darjeeling, you miserable piece of—”
“Take a break, Sergeant.”
From the look on Cuttle’s unmade face, this was a departure from the script. The man’s relentless performance seemed to have had a greater negative effect on his partner than on its intended target. He was a veteran, however, and didn’t tip his hand, storming out and banging the door shut behind him. Outside, his pace slowed to that of a man unsure of where he was heading. He passed the two civilians without a glance, deflating a little with each step until by the time he’d reached the end of the hall the Hulk had returned to normal size. The LAPD came with its own brand of CGI.
Inside the interview room, Padilla, with the weary patience of a man whose sympathies had worn nearly through, told it all again to Sheridan, as matter-of-factly as if he’d been present when the two men had had the quarrel he was certain had taken place.
“He never said a harsh word to me in my life, nor I to him.”
The lieutenant heaved a sigh. It seemed so authentic, Valentino stored away the information against the day (please, Lord, no) he found himself on the other end of it. “I didn’t want to bring this up, Sherry. Things would have gone easier on you if you came through with it on your own. You were overheard fighting about money. We talked to your neighbors. He wasn’t sure of the date, but it was more than a week ago, not long before these killings started.”
The man in custody went on staring at the table, making no more sounds than a grown man struggling not to sob out loud.
“We’re not monsters.” Padilla’s tone was so low the listeners outside had to lean close to the speaker to hear. “We’ve seen it before, and we understand up to a point. An older man living off a younger instead of the other way around; well, that’s humiliating. After a while he begins to resent what seemed like generosity in the beginning. I’m not saying Jeffy lorded it over you. I try not to speak ill of the dead. But people are human, and things get said in the heat of anger that can’t be taken back afterwards. We understand, we do. Up to a point.”
He was expressing the same sentiments as before, with slightly different words; but then Cuttle had done the same with his unrelenting attack on Sheridan’s humanity.
Still no response. The lieutenant seemed to have expected none; certainly he didn’t appear to be annoyed. He pushed himself to his feet.
“I’ll give you some time to yourself. You can still turn this around. You’re not the first person that got tossed out on his ear. You’re sure not the first that panicked and did what he thought he had to do to avoid it. Any jury would see it your way with the right defense; and if you pitch in and help us put this one to rest.”
Valentino was so mesmerized by the pathetic figure hunched over the table—so different from the gracious, grieving man he’d visited in the comfortable home he’d shared with his life’s partner—he wasn’t aware the lieutenant had joined him, Broadhead, and the curious policemen gathered before the window until he heard the familiar terrier’s yelp.
“I’m surprised we didn’t crack this one the first day with so many men working the case. Don’t any of you have a piece of scum of your own to lock up?”
The crowd dispersed, leaving the two visitors alone with the real Ray Padilla.
17
BROADHEAD, JADED THOUGH he was, said, “Huh!” He, too, had been taken in by the lieutenant’s charade.
Valentino shook his head. “It’s possible he killed Root out of desperation, but I can’t believe he’d commit two cold-blooded murders just to cover his tracks.”
“That’s what he’s counting on,” Padilla said. “These sensitive types can be the toughest to crack. Give me one of these gangbangers anytime; they come swaggering into the interview hard as a day-old KFC biscuit and come out twenty minutes later bawling for their mommies. But we’ll get him. Give him a spell in there alone and he’ll gush forth like Old Faithful.”
“Who’s this neighbor you claim heard them fighting over money?”
The lieutenant looked uncomfortable, rare event. He lowered his voice.
“It’ll be public record soon enough, but if you spill this before we get his signature on a confession I’ll put you in the cell next to his. We got it from a can-and-bottle collector combing through a city trash can on the corner by the house. He came in to file a complaint against space aliens stealing from his stash and the rest just sort of spilled out.”
Broadhead said, “And you’re going to take that into open court?”
“If Sheridan cooperates, it won’t be necessary. I’ve dealt with this type enough times to know when they’re on the level. Sometimes we can keep the rest out of the transcript, but if a half-smart P.D. sees through the Sears suit we’ll give him and his first bath and shave since last fall, it’ll be like Christmas morning for the defense. Which is why we can’t let our suspect find out till he incriminates himself.”
“You believe the story?” Valentino asked.
“I do. Some of us work at this job. And you didn’t hear Sheridan deny it once we dropped it in his lap. Now, what’s this important piece of information you’re sitting on that’ll blow this case wide open?”
Broadhead spoke before Valentino could open his mouth. “You say that like you’re interested; but I can’t help feeling you’re being ironic.”
“Kyle.”
Padilla said nothing, waiting for an answer to his question.
“It was something Sheridan said.”
“You mean just now? Gee, I thought I was paying attention.”
“I mean when we were talking with him in his house. He said he was inept at operating a projector.”
“Shucks, I can barely work a DVD player. That wouldn’t clear me if I had his motive and no alibi for last night. If he’s got one
for any of the others, it’ll push over when I breathe on it.”
“It didn’t register at first. Then I remembered that Beata insisted on following the rules of the projectionists’ union. The day she died, she was going to treat me to a screening of her print of The Sandpipers.”
“You should take a day off. Even I put away the rubber hose once every couple of weeks to grill burgers in the backyard.”
“What I’d like to know is what happened to the professional projectionist she had lined up for the demonstration.”
Padilla’s face showed nothing, but he jerked his head in the direction of his office.
When they were inside with the door closed he said, “Keep it low. If I make captain over this deal, maybe they’ll give me walls that go all the way to the ceiling.”
“Two of the victims, Root included, had projectors set up: Beata for the reason I gave you, Root so he could study the celebrities he imitated and evaluate his own performances. If he used the same service Beata did, and we can find out if Karen Ogilvie used it around the time she was killed—”
The lieutenant dragged over the closest file folder and scribbled something on it. “We’ll look into it.”
“Seriously? You’re not just blowing me off?”
“See, that’s what I mean about mixing up movie cops with the real thing. We don’t stop investigating when we got a prime candidate for arrest. If I’d got into that habit, taking a chance on my case blowing up in my face in a courtroom because I overlooked an important detail, I’d still be riding around Watts in a blue-and-white.”
Brazen Page 9
