“That’s enough, Detective.” Gill put away his notebook. “If Hunter wasn’t bluffing about making it worth your while, he may have been double-crossing Grundage in some deal. That would be motive enough to kill him and put his stamp on the job to make sure nobody else got any bright ideas. What do you know about any ties Hunter had to the mob?”
“Not a thing.”
“We’ve seen his record. He shook hands with the Colombians and scored crack and meth all over town. So far as we know, Grundage steered clear of drugs, but there’s less than six degrees of separation anytime you tap into any racket this side of Sacramento. He happened to be having breakfast with his lawyer when we dropped in on him this morning, so we never got him downtown. Either he pulled the string on Hunter or he’s got a first-class psychic on the payroll.”
“We could use one ourself. Our go-to swami’s a whiz at telling us how right he was, after we dig up enough to go to court.” Yellowfern had discovered Jason Stickley’s costume and raised the plastic. Valentino hoped there were no Baggies in any of the pockets.
“Maybe Grundage has breakfast with his lawyer every day,” he suggested.
“His mouthpiece is Horace Lysander. You don’t retain him with Rice Krispies and coffee.” The sergeant rose and held out a business card. “Thanks for your time. It’s possible we’ll need a statement from you later. You may have been the last person to talk to the victim.”
Valentino stood to take the card, which bore the San Diego city seal on cream-colored stock. “Have you talked to his ex-wife?”
“We just came from her place. She hasn’t heard from him in weeks.”
Yellowfern fingered the heavy chain, tried to pull open the massive padlock, and gave up. Letting the plastic drop back down over the costume, he lifted the top hat off the antlers and tried it on. It perched comically atop his large head, and for an instant Valentino pictured how it would look with a turkey feather stuck in the band. (Was that racist, or the inevitable product of long exposure to horse operas?) The Indian hung the hat back up and turned away. “You in show business?”
“Not really. By the time I come along, the show’s over.”
“Kind of like with your pal Hunter.”
Gill sighed but said nothing as he led the way out. Valentino wondered if their good-cop-bad-cop was more than just an act.
He didn’t waste much time pondering the matter. He was more curious about why Lorna Hunter had lied to the police.
**
He wanted to discuss it with Kyle Broadhead, whose advice, cloaked in irony though it always was, was invariably sound, whether his friend took it or not. But he was staggered for the second time that morning when Ruth informed him that Broadhead was busy teaching his class in film theory.
“Did he ask you for directions to the building?”
“He might have been motivated by a call from Snapple. I think she wanted him to sit in on a meeting with her wedding planner.” Ruth seemed never to run out of new and creative ways not to refer to Fanta by her proper name.
“You think, or you listened in?”
“Mister, I knew Rock Hudson was gay when he stepped on the set of Giant. I don’t need to eavesdrop to know everything that goes on in this town.”
“I’m going out,” he said. “I may not be back today.”
“Thank you so much for honoring us with your presence.”
**
Once, acting on the vaguest of tips, Valentino had found twenty-six feet of the long-missing courtship sequence from the 1954 version of A Star Is Born being used to demonstrate a home movie projector in a camera store in Boise, Idaho. Restoring the missing pieces to the puzzle of Craig Hunter’s murder seemed simple by comparison. Why was simpler still. He’d turned his back on an old friend, and the friend had died. He would not bail on him when it came to avenging his death.
Lorna Hunter lived in the house the divorce court had awarded her in Tarzana, named by its founder, writer Edgar Rice Burroughs, in the first flush of his success in selling his most famous character to Hollywood. Now, more than ninety years after Elmo Lincoln had first swung from vines in Tarzan of the Apes, the man whose prose had inspired it would scarcely recognize his sylvan retreat. A pedestrian took his life in his hands crossing its congested streets, and no tree-dweller would survive the haze of auto exhaust that rested on the roofs of block after block of tract housing.
Craig Hunter, in the first flush of his success, had bought two houses on adjoining lots, bulldozed them, and put up a five-thousand-square-foot crazy quilt of Georgian and Moorish design at the end of a street that twisted like a creek. It appeared to be in good repair, but Valentino noticed that the planed hedges and beds of exotic flowers of brighter days had been removed, leaving a patch of lawn, well-tended but ordinary, which would not require a platoon of forty-dollar-an-hour gardeners to maintain. Craig, had he stayed, would have tried to support them, but Lorna was too practical a person to waste her life just to keep up appearances. Offers still came her way, but she hated the Hollywood fishbowl and the long hours on a soundstage that didn’t end with the shooting day, but continued through the round of high-profile parties, charity balls, and one awards ceremony after another.
A satellite truck was parked in front of the house, where a faded wannabe-starlet-turned-”special correspondent” stood in front of a camera holding a microphone decorated with the logo of a popular nightly entertainment program. Valentino guessed what angle the story would take: footage of the no-doubt shabby bar where the victim had last been heard from, a brief interview with a police spokesman, and a recap of Hunter’s brief career, dressed up as a cautionary tale. It would be made to appear that he’d beaten himself to death with his own bad choices.
He hadn’t. He’d been beaten to death with something intended to beat a man to death with, by someone who’d intended to beat him to death.
Jaws clamped, Valentino swung into the driveway, spoiling the reporter’s standup (he hoped), parked under the carport, and climbed the flagged steps to the front door. Had it really been only three years since his last visit? The way down was faster than the way up, and began with a single misstep: an ugly scandal refused to go away, a heavily publicized movie failed to open, an actor showed up on the set wasted and unable to remember his lines. All three had happened to Hunter. Valentino pressed an intercom button beside the door.
“Who is it?” Lorna Hunter’s low voice came out of the speaker. The words were slurred.
“Valentino.”
“Thank God. The surveillance camera’s broken. I was afraid you were that skinny-legged vulture in the miniskirt. I told her if she came back I’d set the dogs on her.” Moments later a bolt shot back, a catch turned, and the visitor found himself in an embrace that smelled pungently of expensive scent and cheap gin.
“Thanks for coming,” Lorna said when they separated. “Craig didn’t have many friends left.”
“I wish I’d been a better friend.”
“The better ones were the last to go.”
He touched her shoulder and they moved inside. A tall blonde with a clean profile that was even more classical at thirty-one than it had been at twenty—a cinematographer who had worked with Grace Kelly and Ava Gardner had said she was the only actress he’d photographed who didn’t have a bad side—Lorna was slim and fit in a cashmere top, tailored slacks, and sandals on her bare feet. The unfortunate actress who’d been hired to replace her on her old sitcom had been shredded by critics in comparison. She’d only found work later as a quasi-celebrity on a dreary reality show.
“Can I offer you a drink?” In the spacious sunken living room she refreshed her glass from a bottle on the polished granite bar. Valentino was surprised to note that a framed poster from one of Craig’s films, Dr. Detonation, retained prominent place on one wall.
“It’s a little early for me. Maybe a glass of water.”
She took a plastic bottle out of the built-in refrigerator an
d handed it to him, nearly dropping it when she let go before he had a good grip on it. He’d never seen her drink before, aside from the occasional white wine. At 9:45 A.M. she appeared to have a head start on the day.
Tipply or not, she caught his reaction, curling up on the end of a big white-leather-upholstered sofa with her gin and very little tonic. “I never understood what Craig saw in the stuff. I’m beginning to, today.”
“It has its benefits. I don’t think anyone would blame you under the circumstances.”
“You’re sweet. You always were. When everyone else was telling Craig he was getting ahead of himself—the place in Palm Springs went back to the bank, did you know?—you said there was no crime in enjoying one’s successes.”
“I may have been guilty of enabling him. I was young and stupid. Now I have no excuse.”
“He knew he was to blame for everything that happened to him. Whatever his faults, he never laid them off on anyone else. God, I’m already talking about him in past tense. I’ve only known for two hours.”
He drank from his bottle. He wasn’t thirsty; it was just something to do with his hands while he settled himself on the opposite end of the sofa. “Did you know Craig was in this kind of trouble?”
“His gambling bothered me. It used to be just recreation, but the last several times I saw him, all he could talk about was poker and the ponies and getting even. It was another addiction on top of all the others.”
This was new information. “When did he start gambling?”
“He staked his up-front money on his first big contract on the Super Bowl. The Cowboys delivered on the spread. It was the worst thing that could have happened. If he’d lost his bankroll, I think the shock would’ve brought him into line. That’s Monday-morning quarterbacking, I know. Maybe he was doomed from the start. Palm Springs went first, on Internet poker. He tried to win it back on a parlay when the gross points came through on California Ninja. He broke even. I wish he’d lost his shirt.” She drank off half her glass.
“Is that when the substance abuse started?”
She shook her head. “Again, it was recreational at first: the celebrity slippery slope. There was a well-manicured pusher on the A-list at every party in Beverly Hills, some of them at the top of the credits every time a picture opened. You start out snorting lines off a Venetian marble table and wind up on crystal meth in a five-story walk-up in East L.A. The alcohol was just an attempt to find the level you had before you took your first sniff.”
“Did he try to get help?”
“I begged him to, but you know Craig—knew him. My tenses are all fouled up. He thought he was like the heroes he played, the men who answered every challenge with action and a clever comeback. That’s the curse of this town. They tell you not to fall for your own publicity, then push you to go out and prove you’re the man in the trailers.” She swirled her drink. “Here I am, laying it all on Hollywood. Craig failed himself. We all failed him, me most of all.”
“You didn’t fail him.”
“I deserted him.”
“You didn’t do that, either. You got out before he dragged you down with him. That wouldn’t have helped anyone. It would just make another victim.”
“I—“
“Stop saying ‘I.’ It’s narcissistic.” He smiled at her startled expression. Then he stopped smiling. “You didn’t kill him, Lorna.
“Didn’t I?”
He put his water bottle on the coffee table, took the glass from her hands, set it down, and held her hands in his. “No. He was alive when he walked into that bar. Whoever killed him didn’t care what he’d been or what he’d become. For some reason—unpaid gambling debts or whatever—his going on living became inconvenient for someone, and I’m going to do everything I can to help the police find out who it was and why, whether they want my help or not. I know it’s late in the day, but I owe that much to you and Craig. He asked me for help and I turned my back on him. I’m offering it to you.”
“But what can you do?” She looked up at him with little-girl eyes.
He squeezed her hands. “I can ask questions. Beginning with why you lied to Sergeant Gill and Detective Yellowfern about when you last heard from Craig.”
**
CHAPTER
5
“YOU’RE HURTING ME.”
He let go of her hands, but he didn’t sit back. “He’s dead. Whatever you say can’t hurt him. You can trust me not to tell anyone anything that can hurt you.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Don t lie to me, too. When I spoke to you this morning, you said he showed up here late one night last week. He was drunk or on dope, you said, and you had to threaten to call the police to get him to leave. But Sergeant Gill told me you told him and his partner you hadn’t heard from Craig in weeks. What made you change your story?”
“Nothing. I was confused.”
“When? When you were talking to me or when you were talking to them? You don’t have to answer that; I think you were telling me the truth. I can’t think of a reason why you’d make up a story like that.”
“All right. I failed him again. If the police found out I’d seen him recently, they’d keep asking questions. I didn’t want to get involved.”
“You were already involved enough to call me when you were worried about him. When was he here?
“Friday night. It was late. I’d gone to bed when he came banging on the door. I knew it was him then and that he was in bad shape. He always forgot to buzz me on the intercom when he was drinking or using.”
“Why’d you let him in?”
“It was Craig. Did you forget how charming he could be when he was half in the bag? I opened the door on the chain and there he was with his hair down on his forehead and that lazy smile he was wearing the day he proposed. All the signs of self-abuse slid away when he was like that. You forgot how quickly it could change to something ugly.”
“You said once he was inside he started acting like he still had a right to the house and you, too. What did you mean?
“He tried to get familiar, to use a euphemism I learned from my mother. My mentioning the police was like throwing a bucket of cold water in his face. He was considerably less charming and boyish going out than coming in.”
“Where were those dogs you threatened to turn loose on the reporter?”
“That was just a bluff. I adopted them out after the divorce. The alimony checks kept bouncing. I had to trim the budget.” “You should have reported him to the court when they bounced.”
“Putting him in jail wouldn’t pay the bills. But I wish I had. At least he’d be alive.”
“What about his behaving like he still owned the house?”
“He wanted to use the phone. No, he said he was going to use it, as if he were still paying the bill. He said he’d lost his cell—I knew his server had canceled his contract—and his call couldn’t wait until he got to his apartment in Long Beach. Craig’s dream was to start his own acting school; he was babbling something about having enough money soon to open a chain of schools across the country. I figured he had a hot tip and wanted to call his bookie. I let him make the call from his old office. It seemed to be the quickest way of getting rid of him. When he came out he was excited, and that’s when he turned Lothario. A good movie deal or a celebrity endorsement offer always affected him that way in the old days.”
“Why didn’t you tell me all this earlier?”
“It wasn’t important then. I was just relieved you’d heard from him and he hadn’t been in an accident.”
“But why didn’t you tell the police about the visit?”
She said nothing, looking sullen.
“Lorna, the police suspect Mike Grundage because of the way Craig was killed. Do you know who he is?”
“Of course. A company of his was one of the sponsors of my TV show.”
“What!”
“Don’t look so shocked. It was
legitimate, a regional fast-food franchise. Did you think we were advertising a brothel?”
“Did you ever meet?”
“No. That would’ve been a PR disaster. Ad flacks are supposed to rub elbows with low characters, but not the players.”
“Was Craig borrowing money from Grundage’s loan sharks?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you suspected something like that, didn’t you? You thought that’s what the phone call might have been about. You kept the information from the police because it was sordid.”
“Well, wasn’t it? Hasn’t his name been dragged through the muck enough already? I know public figures don’t have the same rights to privacy as everyone else, but does that mean they can’t have any dignity in death either?”
Alive! Page 4
