by Lanyon, Josh
He did—in silence. We got to my apartment and I let us in. The answering machine was on and I heard my twin sister Callie’s voice.
“Excuse me,” I said to Jack, and I brushed past him and grabbed for the phone before Callie hung up.
“Hey, Cal,” I said.
“Hey,” she said with obvious relief. “How are you doing?”
“Good.” I glanced at Jack who was still standing in the doorway. “Have a seat,” I mouthed at him.
Apparently he’d been waiting for an invitation. He sat down on the sofa and stared at the turned-off television.
“Are you?” Callie questioned. “Because I got this sudden feeling last night, and I’ve had it all day.”
“Ah, Cal,” I protested. But it was useless. It was the twin thing, I guess; she always knew when something was up with me, the same way I did when something was up with her. “I’m really okay.” I was uncomfortably aware of the fact that Jack couldn’t fail to hear every word.
“How’s the book coming?”
I loosened my tie, unbuttoned my collar. “It’s coming. I interviewed Gloria Rayner today.” Jack’s head turned in my direction.
“The one who does those AARP commercials? That must have been a laugh.” Her voice changed. “Are you…taking care of yourself, Tim? You know, doing everything you’re supposed to?”
I expelled a long breath. “Of course. Come on; stop acting like a big sister. You’re only eight minutes older.”
Callie chuckled. “I did a lot of living in those eight minutes. So are you still seeing the cop?”
I’d forgotten I’d told her about Jack. “No,” I said after a hesitation.
“Oh, no! What happened? He sounded—”
“Not my type.” I lowered my voice. “In fact, he was kind of an asshole.” Jack was staring at me with an odd expression. I gave him a cheerful smile. Unless he had bionic ears, there was no way he could hear what we were saying, but I had the not unpleasant feeling he somehow suspected.
“That’s too bad,” Callie was saying. “I keep hoping you’ll meet someone.”
“Low on my list of priorities right now,” I said. “I have to get this book finished.”
“Do you think you’ll have time for a trip home this summer? Mom and Dad were really hoping you would spend some time here. I think Mom wants to make up for…everything. I think she needs to. And Dad really misses you. You know that.”
This was getting way too complicated. I said carefully, “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe. It depends on the book. Hey, Cal, can I call you back? I’m in the middle of something.”
“Oh, you should have said!” She hastily said her good-byes and I said mine, and then I hung up and walked over to the chair across from Jack.
“That was the twin sister?” he said.
I nodded, surprised he remembered, but I didn’t want to get distracted from the purpose of his visit. I didn’t want to start thinking of Jack as a friend—or mistaking a cop’s attention to the little things for anything more than that. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”
“Did you ever hear of a guy named Raymond Irvine? He was a crime reporter for the Herald Examiner.”
I shook my head. “No. Should I have?”
“It depends. In 1963, he started research for a book on Eva Aldrich’s murder.”
“He couldn’t have finished it,” I said, watching his face. “There is no book on the Aldrich case.”
“No, he didn’t finish it. He was killed the same year. His car was run off the road on Mulholland Drive.”
Chapter Four
“Oh,” I said finally. And when Jack didn’t respond, “Well, accidents happen.” I spoke lightly, but I didn’t feel light. I wasn’t sure what I felt: a mix of consternation and incredulity, I guess.
“It wasn’t an accident,” Jack said. “His car was forced off the road.”
“How do you know?”
“I read the report.”
“Wow.” I didn’t know what else to say. I rubbed my jaw and glanced at Jack again. He was watching me steadily. “I guess they didn’t catch the guy?”
“Guy or gal,” Jack said. “No. The only witness was too far away to get a make on the license. The car was described as a two-toned Chevy Impala. In the 1960s the Chevy Impala was the most popular car in America.”
I said, “Will Burack was still alive in 1963.”
“I thought your theory was that Burack didn’t do it.”
“It’s too soon for me to have a theory,” I said. Jack’s gaze woke me to the realization that I’d automatically started unbuttoning my shirt. My fingers stilled. “Were there any suspects in Irvine’s death? Was a connection actually made to the Aldrich case?”
“No.” Jack raised his eyes from my apparently fascinating blue tailored shirt. “In fact, the primary suspect was the former boyfriend of a girl Irvine had been dating. But nothing was ever proven. And the boyfriend owned a Buick.”
“Then how did you make the connection to the Aldrich case?”
“The senior investigator on the Aldrich case was one of the first people Irvine interviewed when he started research for his book.”
“Bud Perkins.” I rose and stepped down the short hall to my bedroom to change. I could still see Jack angled in the closet mirror. I thought about moving out of range, and then I just…decided not to. I raised my voice as I unzipped. “Perkins passed away in seventy-eight.”
“Yeah, but he kept track of anything and anyone related to the Aldrich case. He’d stuck a note about Irvine writing a book in the file.”
I pulled on Levi’s. Buttoned them up. Jack’s mirrored gaze met mine. I said, “Was that normal?”
I was sort of pleased to see he’d lost his train of thought. He looked away, offering his profile as I watched him listen to me undress and dress. He had a weird expression. Was he afraid I was going to try and seduce him? He could rest easy. “No, it’s not normal,” he said. “Not then. Not now. But I guess the killer in the Aldrich case was Perkins’s one that got away.”
Dragging on a faded cinnamon-colored Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt with the slogan I had a nightmare I was a brunette, I returned to the front room. It hadn’t escaped my Master Detective attention that Jack still seemed to be checking into the Aldrich case on my behalf; I wasn’t sure what to make of that.
I took the chair across from him again and said, “It could be a coincidence.”
“It could.” His lips folded firmly shut as he took in my T-shirt, whether at the message or the fact that it was a woman’s tee—Jack preferring to stick to the butch side of the triangle.
“Either way, I appreciate the heads-up.”
He nodded, moved to rise, and then stopped. “Any more threats? Or tarot cards?”
I shook my head.
“I should have word on the card left on your door by tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” I slouched in my chair, crossed my ankle over the opposite knee. I had a lot to think about, and I couldn’t think with Jack there. I didn’t go so far as to drum my fingers on the armrest, but I think he got the message.
He stood, and—relieved—I stood. And then—taking me aback—he sat down once more.
“Listen,” he said slowly. “It’s possible Bud Perkins kept a private file on the Aldrich case.”
I forgot all about not being able to think with Jack in the room. “Seriously? Is there a way of finding out for sure?”
“I can do some checking.”
I was so excited at this possibility that it barely occurred to me to wonder why Jack was being so helpful. But really, what was the mystery? If he was instrumental in helping me come up with a convincing scenario for who had killed Eva Aldrich, it sure wouldn’t do his career any harm. He’d get his acknowledgment right there with the UCLA Library in the front of the book.
“That would be great,” I said. “Do you think it’s likely?”
He flicked me a look from under his lashes. “Yeah, I do. We’re not supposed to, b
ut detectives do sometimes keep their own files, especially when a case that really gets to you goes cold and you have to move on.”
“I appreciate your taking time to look into this for me,” I said. I waited for him to get up and leave, but he just kept sitting on the sofa looking at me like he was waiting for something.
What?
I said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to eat something. Skipping meals plays hell with my wiring.”
Even a day ago I couldn’t have admitted that to him; now I had no problem. I thought that was a good sign that I was well on my way to being over Jack. Not that I didn’t still find him attractive: the easy power of his trim, muscular body; that lazy grin—that disconcerting dimple. But I found my response to him more annoying than anything.
He said, “You want to go grab a couple of burgers somewhere? There are a couple of things…”
I gazed at him with disbelief. “No,” I replied shortly. “I don’t. I’m tired. I want a shower and dinner and a couple of mindless hours in front of the tube.” I didn’t wait for his reply, uncoiling from the chair and going into the adjoining kitchen. Yanking open the fridge, I took out the still half-frozen tilapia and tossed it on the counter. It landed with a little bang—louder than I’d intended. There was no point getting mad. I knew what this was about: Jack feeling guilty. Jack trying to make good on his hope that we could still be friends.
Every muscle in my body tensed as he rose and came over to the bar separating the kitchen from the dining alcove. Watching me ripping open the plastic wrap on the fish, he said, “Sorry. I should have thought. There’s nothing that can’t wait till later.”
I gave him a brief look. “Good.”
He turned and opened the apartment door. “Don’t forget to lock this,” he said, and went out.
* * * * *
Netflix had delivered Danger in the Dunes, Eva Aldrich’s last film, so I popped it into the player and watched it while I ate my dinner.
It was not a brilliant film. One of those convoluted VistaVision adventure-romances, the plot had something to do with a lost city and Tuaregs and the rekindling of an old romance. Eva played a feisty lady reporter who, following a plane crash in the desert, gets foisted on her old explorer boyfriend played with G.I. Joe-like stiffness by the implausibly handsome Stephen Ball. What the story lacked, the chemistry between the two leads more than made up for it. Eva and Stephen Ball were hot together. Hot, as the movie trailer would have it, as the sizzling desert sun. And I didn’t think it was acting, because neither of them was particularly gifted in the thespian department.
True, sexual chemistry didn’t necessarily mean they loved each other—or even liked each other. But, according to Gloria, Eva had gone to that fateful party at the Garden of Allah to see Ball. This, only three days after ending her engagement to gangster Tony Fumagalli.
Neither Fumagalli nor Eva had given an official explanation for the end of their engagement. Had the reason been Stephen Ball? Eva had been briefly engaged to Ball soon after she landed in Hollywood in the early fifties. She’d broken it off to marry William Burack, a wealthy local businessman, but that hadn’t taken either, and two years later she had divorced Burack with some untactful comments about the grease under his fingernails. It was a matter of public record that garage-station owner Burack had not taken the split well and had continued to try to “woo” Eva back. Nowadays his idea of “wooing” would be classified as “stalking,” but things were different back in the fifties, and a lot of people were sympathetic to the idea of a husband wanting his headstrong wife back.
There were plenty of good reasons for suspecting Burack of killing Eva—including a drunken threat that if he couldn’t have her no one could—but the cops had been unable to shake his current paramour’s alibi. And Burack had a few influential friends. So he had evaded arrest, though not scandal and suspicion, and when he died in 1965, most people believed the answer to who had killed Eva Aldrich died with him.
But if Burack had killed Eva, why was someone so anxious that I not look into this half-century-old murder?
I needed to talk to Stephen Ball, but so far he had refused all my requests, and my publisher’s requests, for an interview. He still lived in the Beverly Hills mansion he had bought decades earlier.
Watching him and Eva locked in one of those grand Hollywood clinches, I had to admit they made a beautiful couple. He was tall and dashing, although I never trusted a guy with one of those pencil-thin mustaches, and she was beautiful in a bargain-basement Elizabeth Taylor sort of way.
As I studied Eva, I realized I still had no fix on her character. I’d seen most of her films—there were only twelve of them—and I’d talked to a number of people who had worked with her, but I still had no sense of who she was. She remained as impervious to analysis as her screen character was unsmudged and unmussed by sand and wind and plane crashes and Tuaregs and all that kissing.
Was that because, dying at twenty-four, her character had not been fully formed? Or was she just a shallow party girl? Or had no one really known her very well?
Or maybe the people who knew Eva best still weren’t willing to talk about her.
Gloria Rayner could certainly have told me a lot more, and maybe she would the next time we talked.
Speaking of talking, it would have been nice to be able to bounce some of my thoughts off someone, share my theories—not that I had a lot of theories at this point—but it would have been nice to…hell, watch this awful movie with someone.
Since the accident I’d cut myself off from most of my friends. From everyone, really. I didn’t see that changing anytime soon. My experience with Jack had confirmed what I already knew.
Jack.
Who was I kidding? The someone I wanted to talk to, share my theories with, bounce my thoughts—and other things—off was Jack. Even now.
And how sad was that? It was pathetic.
* * * * *
I didn’t sleep well that night. I kept thinking I heard someone outside my bedroom window. I got up and checked a couple of times, but there was no one there. When I dozed, I dreamed of burly shadow shapes warning me to mind my own business, and in my dreams it seemed like a good idea.
When I finally drifted off, it was after four in the morning, and I ended up oversleeping, which meant I had to rush to make my interview with Roman Mayfield. I didn’t want to take a chance on being late since he’d already canceled three previously scheduled meets. I had to skip my morning swim, scarf down my breakfast of instant oatmeal—chased by the usual meds and vitamins and eleven different herbs and spices—and then run for the bus.
I was so goddamned sick and tired of having to take a bus everywhere.
Mayfield lived north of Sunset Boulevard in a pseudo-French chateau built by an oil magnate in the 1920s. A security guard, suspicious that I had arrived on foot, eventually—after much back and forthing on the security booth phone—finally let me through the towering wrought iron gates. I hiked up the long, tree-lined drive to the mansion.
A maid opened the double front doors and escorted me down a mile or so of parquet floors and chandelier-lined ceilings to my audience with Mayfield. The hall was lined with photos of Mayfield and a galaxy of celebrities stretching from the late ‘40s to current day.
The maid led me through an arched doorway and I found myself in a huge room with a ceiling painted midnight blue and speckled with gold and silver stars like the night sky. At the far end of the room was an enormous desk. A very tall, very thin, bald man sat behind the desk, and behind the man was a huge black-and-gold astrology chart.
He watched with an intent, unblinking gaze as I walked toward the desk—and he said not a word. He looked like Hollywood’s idea of the head priest in an ancient Egyptian temple—if Egyptian priests wore black silk turtlenecks and Armani slacks.
I said, “Thanks very much for agreeing to see me, Mr. Mayfield.”
“Exactly as I thought!” Mayfield exclaimed in a deep, melodiou
s voice, and he rose from behind the desk. “Sagittarius. The Archer. Am I correct?”
He was correct, actually. My birthday was December 19. But he could have found that out a number of ways; I didn’t believe he could tell just by looking at me.
“Timothy North,” I responded.
“Curious, direct, sincere, and idealistic. Useful traits for a journalist.” He came around the desk and offered his hand. “I’ve been looking forward to this meeting.”
I shook hands and said, “I know. I got your calling card.”
He continued to clasp my hand, his expression all at once guarded. He was quite a bit older than the latest of the photos in his hall gallery. Late seventies, I thought, although he looked very fit. I noticed that he had one blue eye and one brown. What was that called? Heterochromia? It seemed a nice touch for a professional oracle.
“My…calling card?” Mayfield repeated cautiously.
“Sure,” I said. “Didn’t you leave a tarot card on my front door?”
Chapter Five
After an astonished moment, Mayfield threw back his head and laughed. He had a great laugh, hearty and unrestrained. I found my lip twitching in response.
“There’s that famous Sagittarian intuition!”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “You’re the only person involved in the Aldrich case that I know of who reads tarot cards.”
I’d been thinking about that during the long wakeful hours of the night, and it had occurred to me that whoever left the tarot card on my door had not been the same person who sent a thug to threaten me. Different psychological signature entirely. It had also occurred to me that if someone wanted to scare me off, they’d have used the Death card or the Devil card or one of the more obviously sinister-looking cards. The fact that those cards hadn’t been used made me think that the message of the card was genuine, and that rather than being threatened, I was being…encouraged. Or at least tantalized.
