“I want you to know how hard I tried to get her to leave with me, but she was adamant she wanted to stay.”
“And you say the—” Mary stalled. She took a breath. “The procedure, it will have taken place already?”
“It was scheduled for ten this morning,” Red answered.
“My my my.”
I looked at the clock on the wall: eleven o’clock. If this meeting didn’t take too long I could finally unwrap the new board and be in the ocean by midday.
“I guess we’ll only find out if Strickling was telling her the truth when her name crops up in Variety,” Red said.
“Do you think she’ll remember anything about what happened?” Mary asked.
“It’s a new kind of treatment,” Red answered. “I don’t think anyone really knows how it works.”
I shut the desk drawer and sat up straighter, hoping Mary would get the message I was ready to bring the meeting to a close.
“Now you know why I’m happy to stay out of the limelight,” she said and gave me a weak smile.
“This town sure will eat you up if you let it.”
Mary stared down at the necklace, but made no attempt to pick it up. “Do you know when Clara is expecting to return to L.A.?”
“Judging by her bruises it’ll be at least another week before they let her out of there.”
“My word,” Mary said. “She was that badly beat up?”
“I think she must have been in a lot of pain.”
“I guess you can understand why she didn’t want to… go against Strickling’s wishes. Who knows what the studio would do to her if she rocked the boat now.”
“I imagine Strickling’s acting on his own. I suspect the studio doesn’t know half the stuff he gets up to.”
“Well I’ve always found them real nice to work for.” She stared blankly toward the window.
“Will you be okay?” I asked.
Her eyes stayed focused on the middle distance, but then she pulled herself out of it. “Who, me? Sure. You know what they say? If you can’t stand the heat, get out of Los Angeles.” She stood up. “Thank you Mr McCoy, and Miss…?”
“Randall,” said Red, throwing me a look. “Rose Randall. Shall I send you the bill, or would you like to settle it now?”
Mary looked surprised. “I thought I’d already—”
“There have been quite a few expenses.” Red grabbed her notebook. “About ten dollars for gas, another six for the motel, oh and I’d say about fifteen for a new pair of shoes. And we’re not even including my lost car.” She threw another fierce glance in my direction.
“Your lost what?”
“Never mind,” I said.
Mary slowly opened her purse.
“Why don’t we send the bill, with all the receipts attached?” I smiled at her.
“That would be fine.”
“And of course there is the small matter of the extra hundred dollars. I believe you agreed to double the fee if Mr McCoy retrieved the necklace?”
“I did? Yes, yes I suppose I did. Add it to the bill.” She scooped up the jewelry and deposited it in her purse.
I shook Mary’s hand and showed her to the door. “I’m sorry this wasn’t quite the outcome you had hoped for,” I said. “But at least you know what happened to her.”
“If only that were some comfort. Goodbye, Mr McCoy.”
“Goodbye, Miss Summers.”
I closed the door behind her and smiled at Red. “You really are something. I would never have asked for the extra cash.”
“Oh come on, Spencer. That thing must be worth thousands, of course she should pay what she promised.”
“And charging her for my shoes? That takes a lot of nerve.”
“Nerve would be charging her for my shoes, but the cobbler thinks they can be fixed.” She looked around the room. “You really do need some help around here.”
“So you’ll stay?”
Before she could answer the door burst open and five cops rushed in.
“Spencer McCoy?” the first one inquired. He was twenty pounds heavier than the others and had at least ten years on them. His neck was wider than his head and he had sergeant’s stripes on his shoulders. “Answer me!”
I considered lying, but my name was painted on the door in two-inch high letters. “That’s me. And you are?”
“You’re under arrest.”
“Sure I am, great gag.”
A younger cop stepped toward me, grabbed my arms and slipped handcuffs on my wrists.
“Search the place,” his sergeant barked.
“Hey! What is this? What am I supposed to have done?”
“I can give you a list, but how about stealing a Cadillac convertible for starters?”
“I can explain—”
“Tell it to the judge.”
Red squared up to him. “You can’t just come in here and—”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Mr McCoy’s—”
“She’s my assistant, leave her outta this.”
“I suggest you leave, miss.”
Red stood her ground.
“Okay boys, search the place.”
Red looked on, open-mouthed, as the cops swiped books from shelves, emptied the file cabinets onto the floor, and ripped the brown paper from my surf board. Within ten seconds the place looked worse than it had a week ago.
“Found it.” One of the cops waved Vanderspoel’s cardboard box at his superior, then placed it on my desk. The thick-necked sergeant opened it up and peered inside.
“Spencer McCoy. You are under arrest for the theft of an automobile and the illegal possession of prescription narcotics.”
I took a deep breath, kept my chin high and stared right into the cop’s eyes. “I guess you knew just what to look for, huh?”
He tipped his head sideways and smiled at me. “Just a cop’s intuition.”
This had Strickling’s fingerprints all over it. Right now there was nothing I could do.
“Get him in the car.”
“Where are you taking him?” Red asked.
“Downtown.”
I looked at her. “Guess you’re in charge.”
They bundled me out of the office and down the stairs. There were three cop cars and a tow truck parked outside. I looked across the street. Every face in Joe’s diner was pressed against the glass. I glanced back at the office. I figured I might not be seeing it again for a while.
A window opened on the second floor and Red stuck her head out.
“Don’t worry Spencer,” she shouted down at me. “I’m not going anywhere. After all, somebody’s got to get you out of jail.”
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THE HOLLYWOOD DETECTIVE
MARTHA STEINWAY
First published 2013 by Venatrix
Version 1.1
Copyright © 2013 Martha Steinway
Robert Steinway has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without prior permission of the copyright owner.
About the author
Martha Steinway is an heiress and socialite with residences in Manhattan and New Hampshire.
&
nbsp; If only.
Martha Steinway is actually the pen name for the writing team of Eva Hudson (http://evahudson.com) and Jo Monroe (http://www.jomonroe.com) who are neither heiresses or socialites, but do have a nice time making stuff up together.
Acknowledgements
The authors are very grateful to their attentive early readers: Hilary, Jose and Lucy. Thank you.
Contents
The Hollywood Detective
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A request
Copyright
About the author
Acknowledgements
1 The Hollywood Detective Page 15
