Restless Souls

by Alisa Statman

  The front window squawked in protest as I raised it. Sharon’s bronzed baby shoe was wedged between the glass and screen that separated the contrasting scenes of life and death. No matter how big she had grown, I always thought of her as my baby who’d once fit into this shoe. I turned back to the scene inside and noticed the rocking chair that Doris used to soothe Sharon in when she was a baby. The chair had witnessed the beginning and end of her life. How could this have happened? How could her life have ended like this? Who had betrayed her? A variety of scenarios played through my mind.

  The highest cause of death of women in their eighth month of pregnancy is murder; 95 percent of them are killed by their husbands. Roman’s alibi lay in England, but he could have hired the assassin. Truth be told, I didn’t have a clue as to what made the man tick; he spent only a small portion of his time in Los Angeles over the course of their relationship. In fact, they’d been together for months before I met him. The day I did finally meet him didn’t go as well as Sharon had hoped, but first meetings with me seldom did.

  I PLANNED WHAT Sharon called one of my “surprise attacks,” where without warning, I’d stop by to check up on her.

  I arrived before Roman came home from work. We sat on the deck of their rented Santa Monica beach house, where the ocean breeze wiped away the September heat, and Sharon nervously chain-smoked. I studied her face, wondering if I could still tell when she lied. “Sugar, are you happy?”

  Her face beamed. “Oh, Daddy, he makes me very happy, wait until you meet him. He’s sensitive yet strong, intelligent, incredibly talented.” She paused, searching for the right words. “I don’t know how to define him, you don’t notice any one part of him, he just comes at you in one dynamic blast.”

  “Like a fart?” I asked, stone-faced.

  She rolled her eyes. As if on cue, the thunder of Roman’s Mustang came from the driveway. “He’s home,” Sharon said, stubbing out a cigarette. “I’m going to make a drink. Do you want one?”

  I nodded.

  She started away, then paused. “Daddy, give him a chance. Okay?”

  I nodded again. Alone for the next five minutes, I did what came naturally; I listened and gathered information. Though hushed, I easily heard their conversation from the kitchen.

  “Oh God, Sharon, I’m too tired. It’s been a long day. I just want to get into a hot bath and relax,” Roman complained.

  “He’s only staying for dinner. You need to get to know him,” she said.

  “Is there any grass in the house?” he asked.

  “Please don’t do this.”

  A momentary silence. Then, sounding defeated, Roman said, “Shit. Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  They came to the deck holding hands, until he reached for mine. “I’m Roman. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” I said, looking him over as though evaluating an enlisted man.

  The phone rang. Neither made a move to answer it. Scared to leave me unsupervised, Sharon nudged Roman. “It’s probably for you.”

  “I don’t want to talk to anyone. If it’s for me, tell them I’m not here.”

  She hesitated then gave me a glaring look to behave. “I’ll be right back.”

  The two of us stood there, looking uncomfortably at each other. Roman cleared his throat. “Listen, I know you’re upset that Sharon and I live together—”

  “It’s okay, we’re getting used to the idea. Welcome to the sixties and all that crap.”

  Roman looked one way, then the other, anywhere but at me. He forced a laugh. “You know, she’s too nice. I’ve been trying to toughen her up, but she won’t fight back.”

  “I wouldn’t try too hard. She doesn’t get mad very often, but when she does, oh, son, you better watch out.” I smiled slyly, toying with him. “And when she’s done with you, then you’ve got me to reckon with.”

  While my smile remained, Roman’s faltered. He glanced toward the house. “I’d better go see who’s on the phone.”

  I CLOSED MY hand around the tiny shoe, intent on bringing Sharon’s killer to his knees, whoever that was.

  Piece by piece, I sifted through the living room. I picked up the script for Valley of the Dolls, recalling the night my mother phoned after the film opened in Dallas, Texas. “Oh, P.J., I’m so proud of Sharon Marie. You should have seen the line to get in. It went clear around the block. We had to wait an hour just to get into the theater.”

  “Well, did you like it, Mother?” I asked.

  “No, it was trash,” she whispered, “but don’t tell my grandbaby that. You just tell her Nannie was beaming with pride the whole night.”

  I picked up another script: The Wrecking Crew. The army base was always slow to get movies into the theater. The film was released in February but it didn’t make it to the base until August. On the eighth, I’d gone to the theater in the afternoon to buy my eleven o’clock ticket to ensure I had a seat for that night.

  Sharon had enjoyed working on the picture and it was apparent in every moment of her performance. I left the theater immensely proud, with a plan to call Sharon in the morning.

  Based on the LAPD’s interrogation of Garretson, they estimated that the murders took place close to midnight. My new friend, guilt, tapped my shoulder to remind me that while I laughed in a darkened theater, Sharon was no doubt here, fighting for her life.

  For as long as I could remember, Sharon was in the habit of squirreling away every memento. Letters, cards, flowers, and everything else were stored in my old cigar boxes. The day she moved into Cielo, I was surprised to see her unpacking them. “Why don’t you get rid of that stuff,” I’d asked.

  Sharon stared pensively at the boxes on her lap. “I just can’t. If I did, I would be giving up who I am, and giving in to that,” she said, nodding toward a movie magazine.

  Surrounding me were those fragments that, when combined, formed Sharon’s essence. As if packing for a downed soldier, I meticulously stowed each of the items in my old army footlockers, regardless of how trivial they seemed.

  In the course of gathering Sharon’s belongings, I had traversed her lifetime. By the time I finished, all that remained in the house to prove her existence was her death. Altobelli was right about the carpet in the living room, it would need to be replaced; however, the rest could be restored.

  Flagstone covered the entry hall, porch, and walkway, and blood covered the flagstone. Without bothering to dilute it, I poured bleach directly onto the dark masses. On contact, the chemical ignited a sizzling reaction. Slow to defeat, it took several forceful strokes of the scrub brush before the crimson yielded to pink and finally to a sallow foam. Defenseless to my weakening composure, I welcomed the caustic fumes that masked the real tears I couldn’t restrain.

  Los Angeles is misleading. Despite the hot sun, it’s a cool-climate area. As the sweltering air eased back with the receding sun, my knees were bruised, my back ached, and my hands were cramped from scrubbing, and the blood I’d cleaned branded a scarring wound I’d likely never forget. Exhausted, I roamed from one room to the next, looking for anything I might have missed.

  In the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator to retrieve the last remaining item, a Heineken beer. Owing that it was Jay’s favorite, I made the gesture of a toast as if he were standing before me, and then headed out to the porch.

  I walked beyond the guesthouse to the edge of the property where the sky flamed with the last sliver of the sun. Life had been beautiful here for Sharon. High above the insanity of Los Angeles, the setting held the promise of a new beginning for her and Roman. But somehow the insanity had sought her out, defying the million-to-one odds.

  6

  NOTHING BUT DEAD ENDS

  I could put forward the theory that Sharon’s murder was committed by the Creatures from the Black Lagoon and the Hollywood crowd would listen and nod their heads in agreement. But at the first mention of narcotics, they all become deaf, dumb, and blind.

  —P. J. TATE

 
; Patti

  On the drive from California to Texas, Dad said we were going to visit Nannie until “the dust settles at home.” But I knew the real reason; my parents were as scared as I was.

  Murder: the unlawful and malicious or premeditated killing of one human being by another. I added the definition to my vocabulary. The meaning was clear to me, but why someone murdered was not. In Sharon’s case, the police were mystified as well.

  Not long after our arrival in Texas, Dad left us behind for San Francisco to complete the paperwork for his army retirement. It was also the first leg of his investigation.

  P.J.

  Action quiets the mind. I could no more sit around waiting for the LAPD to solve Sharon’s case than I could leave a downed soldier to die alone in the field. Five had been downed at Cielo and left in just such a manner. Their killers would pay for that heartless deed.

  The previous December, after Jay opened his San Francisco salon, he leased a houseboat that served to entertain clients in the Bay Area. A fisherman at heart, I escaped to that boat every weekend. After a day of cold beers and watching the lure dip and swell, I dropped my trash at the Dumpsters. Each time, among the rubbish, I saw dozens of emptied bottles of rubbing alcohol, a necessary ingredient for making LSD.

  With all the hubbub of a drug motive, I wondered if Jay had signed his own death certificate with LSD manufacturers from the harbor.

  At the army base, I loaded my .45-caliber pistol as a civilian, then headed to stake out the marina.

  The glow from the floodlights mounted above the dock splintered through a crack in the otherwise drawn curtains of Jay’s houseboat. The lapping waves and creaking mooring lines were my only company, leaving me vulnerable to a new enemy, my imagination. If I wasn’t diligent in focusing on the task at hand, the enemy crept through, graphically detailing Sharon’s death. Usually, I was quick enough to hoist up the barrier. Other times, they ambushed me, threatening to flick me off my fingertips’ grip on life. With a long tug of beer, I raised the wall, concentrating on the investigation.

  Two weeks short of October, Lt. Helder updated me with the LAPD’s progress. Every lead had fizzled out, including Cielo groundskeeper William Garretson. The case threatened to go cold.

  I was luckier than I would have guessed. Car doors slammed shut in the distant parking lot, interrupting my thoughts. Three men unloaded boxes from a Cadillac Eldorado. Handicapped by the load, the men unsteadily moved across the docks to a houseboat in the last row. Through binoculars, I saw what I was looking for, a box marked ALCOHOL.

  My impulse was to confront the men, but if they were drug manufacturers, my sole .45 would be futile against their probable arsenal. Opting for the safer route, I slipped out, got their license plate number, and went to my car in order to track them.

  Banging car doors woke me from a fitful nap. A white blanket of fog rolled through the marina in the predawn hours. I remained slumped in the driver seat, waiting to give the Cadillac a safe lead before following.

  A mile from the shore, the fog still clung heavily. My headlights were a beacon pleading for attention. At the barren Pacific Coast Highway, the Cadillac headed north while I aborted, entering the southbound ramp for Los Angeles.

  I returned to an empty home, exactly the way I wanted it for the next few weeks. I dropped my duffel bag in the foyer, unbuckled the safety harness around my pistol, and then searched the house until I was comfortable that nothing had been disturbed. Along with that newly acquired habit, I checked for a connection tone before dialing LAPD robbery/homicide.

  Helder was unhappy about my investigation. “I’ll check the tag, Mr. Tate, but you should leave this case to my department.”

  “Bob, if you insist on formalities, I prefer ‘Colonel,’ but since we’re going to be talking quite a bit, P.J. will do fine.”

  “Colonel Tate, I think your private investigation will only prove to be a negative experience for all parties concerned.”

  “How’s your investigation going?” I chided. “Have you got enough men helping you out? I ask, because I’m confident that my network of connections can accomplish in one day what will take your men a week. Now you can accept the information I hand over, or you can let your foolish pride disregard it.” Not interested in Helder’s response, I hung up.

  Many speculated that the word pig left in blood at Sharon’s house was a calling card from the revolutionary party the Black Panthers. The license plate of the Cadillac belonged to a high-ranking Black Panther with a long arrest history. Even more interesting, the investigators linked him to Abigail Folger’s social work. But by the end of the week, the suspect’s airtight alibi dashed everyone’s excitement.

  Helder called, using the disappointing news as a peace offering. “P.J., worst-case scenario, you helped San Marin uncover a drug operation that they’ve been searching six months for.”

  “PEOPLE THINK OF him as a monster. God, he’s not a monster, he’s an amazing man.” On the news, Gene Gutowski defended his friend and business partner, Roman Polanski.

  I turned off the television. There were three other men in the family room, all friends from the U.S. Department of Defense, all skilled investigators. After the murders, Guy was the first to offer his assistance. As an FBI agent, he’d spent twenty of his forty-nine years traveling the globe, developing an unsurpassable finesse for gathering intelligence. His tanned, handsome features and trusting smile were the façade of a shrewd mind that never rested. “Is Polanski a monster, P.J.?” Guy asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” I said, pacing a canal into the carpet. “In hindsight, I don’t know shit about him, except he was unfaithful to Sharon.”

  “He sure looked convincingly sad. He cried through that press conference a couple of weeks ago,” added Frankie—short for Frankenstein, the only suitable name for a man six foot eleven.

  Jake, the street-savvy one of our group, lit a cigarette, adding another cloud to the haze. “He’s an actor; they turn that crap on and off like a faucet. Let’s follow him around for a few days and see what turns up—besides his dick.”

  “Sounds good,” Guy said. “In the meantime, I’ll go through Interpol and see what they have on him. Frankie, you run a check on his paper trail.”

  Two hours after splitting off, Jake called. “P.J., did you know your son-in-law was submitting a polygraph today?”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. My guy inside says Polanski’s hooked up as we speak. Not that it will do any good; he’s probably doped up to the gills.”

  “You work it from your end, I’ll work it from mine, let’s get a copy of that tape when they’re finished.”

  Late into the afternoon, I was still looking for suspicious entries in Sharon’s check registers when Helder returned my call. “P.J., Bob Helder here—no.”

  I laughed. “You didn’t even give me a chance to ask.”

  “Yeah, I know your guy was down here sniffing around for a copy of the polygraph. Polanski passed, end of story.”

  I didn’t have the proof, but took the gamble. “Do you have any idea how much Valium Roman took before he tested?”

  Thoughtful silence from Helder’s end.

  “Enough to tranquilize a gorilla. I know him,” I lied. “I can tell you better than that machine if he was truthful.”

  “Dammit, P.J., what you do on your own is no skin off my nose, but if I start sharing information with you, and you act on vengeful emotions, I’m screwed.”

  “I won’t. You have my word.”

  “So help me God,” Helder relented, “if I find a suspect in some isolated desert grave—especially your son-in-law—I’m coming after you. Meet me at the Hamburger Hamlet at six.”

  DOMESTICITY WASN’T ONE of my stronger traits. Under my command, I kept the house precisely organized beneath a dusty film that comfortably settled over every surface, including the kitchen table, where beer cans cracked open as a tape deck whirred with static. Jake was the only one absent; he was on the night shift
, watching Roman.

  Lt. Earl Deemer submitted Roman’s polygraph. His voice came through the speakers first. “Have you taken any medications?”

  “A small amount of Valium at four this morning. . . . How long will this take?” Roman asked.

  “If we get along all right, about an hour.”

  “I ask you because I want to lie one or two times, and then I will tell you after.”

  “Okay, if I don’t tell you first. . . . Was Woytek associated with the Polish Army?”

  “As far as my knowledge? Not at all. . . . He went to the university to study chemistry, Woytek was an old friend of mine. I resented him. He was a loser and whatever he started, he would fuck it up. But when he was in Paris, when he defected, he was always writing me letters, he really loved me, you know because I got him into film school and things like that. . . . But I was trying to stay away from him because he was into trouble. Then I saw him years later in New York, I saw him change very much. He was full of good spirit . . . and he’d met Gibbie Folger, a rich girl, and I thought, that’s good for him. Exactly what he needs. And when he came here I was trying to help him find a job. And recently he was getting uptight about not doing nothing and I said, believe me, you have a job on my film. A few letters that I just found in London from him are full of enthusiasm. And he was reading all books about dolphins because that was the subject and ideas that he had. He really loved me.” [ . . . ]

  “Tell me about Jay.”

  “When I came to Los Angeles and started living here for two years, I saw more and more of him. He used to come to our parties, and I started liking the guy very, very much. He was a very sweet person. . . . I’m sure in the beginning of this relationship there was still a love for Sharon, but I think gradually it disappeared. I’m quite sure of it. And in my mind when I learned about the tragedy and the description I thought maybe, jeez, Sharon’s pregnancy brought back in his mind the end of everything. But I’m positive there wasn’t; there was nothing from Sharon because she was so much in love with me, as much as a human being can be.”