"You're menopausal."
He rose, took my pages from my hands, and flipped through them, failing to suppress a chuckle at one of his edits. He slapped the sheaf against an open palm. "There's gotta be a story that incorporates all these elements gracefully. We need a development meeting." He glanced at his watch. "I have a lunch reservation for three at Spago."
"Three?"
"I thought you might invite Cal Unger. We require him for brainstorming."
"You just wrote not to bother him unless I have a and I quote 'concrete goal.' "
"But this is social."
Preston had met Cal once at the book-launch party for my third Chainer novel.
"He's not gay, Preston."
"Of course not. Gay is a level of self-and political awareness. Which he lacks. He's just got tendencies."
Preston thinks everybody has. Which makes sense, since he works in publishing and splits his time between the Village and West Hollywood. When we would go out, we frequented West Hollywood restaurants, after which he'd drag me to one of those young West Hollywood plays by a nouveau-West Hollywood playwright featuring a troubled gay English-major protagonist where all the straight characters especially the football players wound up being gay after all, harboring secret, shameful crushes on our fragile yet intrepid hero.
"Whatever tendencies he's got, Herr Brokeback, they don't tend in your direction," I pressed. "I understand that your parents' naming you Preston Ashley Mills pretty much sealed your deal in one fell swoop, but, nature or nurture aside, the guy is named Cal Unger. I'd say that cuts the odds considerably that he smokes pole. Not to mention the fact that I need to wait for a more graceful reestablishment of diplomatic ties. I'll invite Chic instead."
"The ballplayer?" This last word he lent an intonation generally reserved for "chlamydia."
Preston had also met Chic at the book-launch party for my third Chainer novel.
Despite his objections, he headed for the phone. "I'll tell them we'll be running late. And I'll have them install a salt lick at the booth." He picked up the cordless. Stared at it.
"They're too busy providing excellent service to hook up my phone. Which apparently certain editors responsible for my mail didn't bother paying "
Disrupting the late-morning air, sailing over my fence, came sounds of the young trumpeter at practice.
I've got a CRUSH on YOU, sweetie-PIE.
Preston's eyebrows met. "The hell is that?"
"Gershwin, I think."
All the DAY and NIGHTtime, hear me SIGH.
Preston despaired. "We'll call from the car."
The woman with the custom license-plate frame in the Jag ahead of us had one thing to tell the world, and that was that she went zero to bitch in 2.7 seconds. We cruised down Canon, passing several hundred thousand dollars' worth of Bavarian engineering, long-legged women with boxy shopping bags, palm trees studded with rope lights. The rope lights served two purposes at once: They were pretty at night, and they were slick, slick being significant in that if squirrels tried to scale the trunks to nest in the fronds, they'd slip and crack their little squirrel skulls on the pavement below. That union of aesthetics and ferocity, if nothing else, defines Beverly Hills. The five-hundred-dollar porcelain curios, the reservation-only boutiques, the bejeweled cat collars.
As we coasted along, Preston pointed to a prominent window display of my books at Dutton's. At least when a bookstore cashed in on my infamy, I got a cut.
L.A., for the most part, is in on the joke that is itself. It's superficial as hell, sure, but it also knows how to enjoy it, unlike those Des Moines moms who read celebrity rags on their way to church so they can tut-tut and shake their heads, or those Ivy Leaguers who'd never admit they enjoy People more than Proust but who, while waiting for the dentist to mend a scrape in their enamel, will sneak a peek at the glossies to check out this singer's weight gain or where this royal couple honeymooned. Here, superficiality is our business, and we all all believe we're in on the show.
Some visitors find L.A. an insider's city. The contrary is in fact true. Anyone can get access. The only catch is that you have to bring something interesting to the table. That's the ticket of entry. It doesn't have to be depth, or conversational skills, or even necessarily talent. You can be the best hairdresser and sit down at a mogul's table between a Hollywood madam and an opera director. If you're the best hedge-fund manager on your Bel-Air block but a bore, fuck off with a smile, pal. Go back to Manhattan and complain about how shallow L.A. is.
Shallow it is, but also captivating, if you can just hold on to your sense of humor. Every now and then, an earthquake will crack the city open, just to ensure that things stay interesting, or someone will threaten to blow up LAX, or raging fires will sweep through the West Valley and everyone will lionize firemen for a week. Santa Monica waters will turn toxic. A mercury scare will put everyone off sushi. Carbs will be vilified, or Pilates, or the caloric content of Jamba Juice.
Four cars backed up on the side of the parking ramp by the restaurant, wringing out a last few seconds of cell-phone reception. We valeted. Threading through the tables, we found Chic in the rear, arms spread across the back of the booth. "I just love me some smoked-salmon pizza."
Preston scowled at Chic's sarcasm, and we slid in on either side. I dropped the documents I'd assembled onto the tabletop.
Preston craned his neck toward the wall of etched glass that set off the kitchen. "I wonder if that Latin guy is our waiter."
"He's got a wedding ring," I said.
"Puh-lease."
"He's eyeing the tits at eleven o'clock."
"Overcompensating."
"Before you start making the love that dare not speak its name, how 'bout we order?"
Chic glanced up uncomfortably from his menu. "Just so you know, I'm not gay or anything."
Preston aimed a withering look at him. "Honey, we wouldn't have you."
When it came time to order, Preston did his best with eye contact and inquiring about house favorites, but the waiter just gathered our menus uneasily and left.
Still unaccustomed to being in public after my media searing, I carefully glanced about. One table over, two guys in suits and another in sweatpants babbled about German financing and festival circuits. Beside them, women either too old or too rich to care if they were overheard discussed estrogen supplements. A harried woman dined with kids who, because of their scowls and designer jeans, were apparently more worldly than she was. Directly across from us, a well-dressed guy hunched over his plate, and then his entire party peeked over at me not as inconspicuously as their manner suggested they'd intended. I shifted uncomfortably.
Chic clued in to the situation first, of course, and smiled at me gently. "This, too, shall pass."
Preston said, "Let's get down to story."
While we ate our upmarket appetizers, I recapped the latest advancements. As usual, I'd stored a Bic pen behind my ear for taking notes, but I mostly doodled.
When I was done, Preston cleared his throat. "Get off the serial-killer kick. They're not so compelling."
"Just because they don't pique your interest doesn't mean we're not dealing with one. We have two bodies with a similar MO."
"As you pointed out to Detective Point-in-Time, there are noteworthy differences."
"Or" sometimes, with Preston, one did best to forge ahead "I could've become the poster boy for a copycat killer, who then elected to frame me."
"Which would mean that you did murder Genevieve."
The baldness of Preston's remark caught me off guard. I felt an almost gravitational pull toward defensiveness, toward denial of both kinds. The shrewdly decorated shrimp plate suddenly looked meaty and unappetizing.
"You can't know," Preston offered. "Not yet."
"Maybe I should take sevoflurane again and find out."
Preston stirred his drink lazily with a straw. "We don't even know for sure that you've taken sevoflurane once, Drew. I don't think we need to be b
reaking in to medical offices on the slim chance that if you inhale it again, it'll put you back into the September twenty-third part of your brain."
Chic said, "Frame or no frame, fastest way to get to the bottom of this is to figure out the connection between the victims, or between them and you. The boring, unobvious shit you won't be able to uncover."
"Do I hire a private detective?"
Chic shook his head, disappointed as usual, at my inability to get things done correctly. "I know a hacker, database guy. Phone bills, gas bills, airline tickets all that shit. Half of it's online for a price, and the half that ain't . . . well, let's just say that won't stop him. He tracks down people who skip on alimony."
"Deadbeat dads?"
"Don't be sexist, Drew-Drew. I used him last to find a woman who moved up and out on one of my nephews. He can cross-reference like a muthafucker comin' up with an alibi. Also, we need a list of all the people you've pissed off."
I removed the list I'd been working on, and we batted around a few more names, but I couldn't find any that seemed believable murderers, or even break-in artists. My neurologist, driven mad by the fallout from my noncompliance? Katherine Harriman's old man, disgraced on kielbasa-and-Bulls night, back to administer Chi-town justice? Adeline Bertrand in a ninja suit?
Finally Chic got fed up with my lack of known lethal adversaries and jumped topics. "The second body," he said. "Why rope on the ankles, tape on the wrists?"
"Tape is easier on wrists. Rope can be tricky." Preston averted his eyes, sipped his drink. "You said the cotton rope is a specialty bondage item. We could look into which places stock it around L.A."
"Let the police do the procedural shit," Chic said. "That's what they're good at."
"What are we good at?" I asked.
A long pause. "Not the procedural shit."
"I think the rope's a red herring," I said. "I think he used it to throw investigators off the trail."
The people across from us whispered a bit more, and then finally the well-dressed man stood and headed toward me. Chic said, "Handle it with a smile."
The man approached. "You're Andrew Danner, aren't you? I just wanted to let you know I'm sorry for what you went through. I don't know much about it, but I think you caught a bum break."
"Thanks very much."
We shook hands. Before leaving, he glanced over at Chic. "Nice hands, Bales, ya donkey."
He returned to his table. Preston and I got busy eating to hide our smiles as Chic nodded, egging us on. Our main courses arrived, and, my humor and appetite back, I took a few moments to indulge in my agnolotti with mascarpone. When I looked up, Chic was studying the crime-scene photos. The top one, presumably the first taken, showed Kasey Broach in peaceful repose. With no sign yet of cop or criminalist intrusion, her body seemed dropped into the composition by an ambitious graphic designer. Her bare flesh and the white film of bird shit on the hood of the abandoned car were the only smears of light in the dark scene.
Chic said, "Where'd you get these?"
I'd neglected to mention them when he'd picked me up from Parker. I told him I stole them from the interrogation room.
He whistled his admiration, then turned one print sideways, appraising the graffiti artist's terminated composition on the ramp's underbelly. "That's some serious spray work."
Preston said, "Let's focus on the body."
Chic slid a second photo out from the sheaf, this one showing a number of officers standing around or squatting by the chain-link. A hexagon outlined with police tape now staked off the corpse. Feathers dusted the spray-painted concrete, stuck to the ramp. The camera flash had brought out the glitter of shattered beer bottles.
"Lookie here," Chic said. "Our first real lead."
Preston, peering over Chic's shoulder, shrugged.
"It tells a story, Story Man, you just ain't reading it."
I seized the photo and scrutinized it. "I don't see it."
Chic slid out from the booth, bringing me with him. "Then lemme show you."
Chapter 15
There was no chalk outline, no bloodstain, no sad tendrils of crime-scene tape to commemorate the body that had been here less than seventy-two hours before. Just the crumbling asphalt, the beat-down coupe, and me and Chic. Vehicles hummed overhead. The ground smelled of urine and beer. The sun was in its descent, and Rampart was no place to get caught after dark. Chic spread his arms wide.
"Wah-lah."
"Wah-lah what?"
Chic pointed at the cloud of elaborate spray paint brightening the bottom of the freeway ramp. The artist had stretched the proportion of the piece to fit the rising concrete so that when viewed straight on it looked as if it were in normal perspective. Even so, I wasn't sure what it was. Explosions and protuberances and bubble letters, all impressively three-dimensionalized. The piece had been left unfinished, the right half fading off into gray concrete. Feathers stuck to the lower fringe, dried into the paint.
"Oh," I said. "Oh."
I followed Chic over a trampled section of chain-link.
"Cops got here in a hurry, right?" he asked. "And the criminalist?"
"That's what I was told. Nearby having a burrito."
"Patrolmen see the body. Criminalist shoots the picture, captures how it is before everyone fucks up the evidence, all that. Then what's the first thing they do?"
"Secure the scene."
"Secure the scene. Which means they check this here shadow." He ducked into the dark triangular recess where the ramp met ground. An outburst of pigeons, spooked from their nighttime roosts atop the supporting beams, disrupted the relative quiet. Chic stumbled back toward me, waving his arms, pigeons squawking around his head. He'd gotten more than he'd bargained for. His retreat detracted from the solemnity of his account, but he brushed himself off, picked something off his tongue, and continued, unfazed.
"Cops scared up the pigeons. The stray feathers got stuck to the paint." Chic beckoned for the crime-scene photos and showed me the one that had captured Broach's body before the crime scene had been blocked off no feathers yet in evidence. "Which means the paint was still wet. And that means" a finger raised with academic emphasis "the tagger was at work spraying the ramp that night when he was interrupted." He flicked his head at the painting's terminated edge. "What makes a tagger run? A car. What's the first car that showed up, scared him away?"
"The killer dumping the body."
Chic's wide grin broke across his face. "We got ourselves a maybe witness."
I stared at the coupe's hood, white with droppings. "The Case of the Telltale Bird Shit."
"In-fuckin'-deed."
"How do we locate the spray painter?"
Chic indicated the colorful work overhead. "You're looking at his signature, Colonel Sanders. That's what a tag is."
We'd fallen into familiar roles. Chic was one of my most useful rough-draft readers, adept at inlaying street logic to a character's motive or transforming a run of dialogue into alleyway patter. I watched him chewing his lip, another adviser turned accomplice.
He held his eyes on the graffiti an extra beat, as if committing it to memory, then said, "Lemme poke around on it, call some of my brothers."
Spread throughout Los Angeles were about twenty-seven of Chic's gold-incisored brothers, who appeared in various guises to fix a car, bartend at a party, unload a new flat-screen. Most, like him, were Philly transplants. A few he might actually have been related to.
The breeze swirled up debris, knocked from the beams during the pigeon eruption. I crouched over a fallen nest, larger than I would have thought. Inside was a ring of stiff plastic wrap, about twice the circumference of a beer holder, still boasting a Home Depot price sticker.
I no longer heard the whistle of the wind, the cooing of the displaced pigeons, the cars overhead. I no longer heard anything but the pounding of my heart.
It was wrapping for a roll of electrical tape.
Chapter 16
The door swung open, and for
a moment there was nothing but darkness, a curl of pale hand on the knob, and the incessant chirping of crickets. Then Lloyd stepped forward into the throw of light from the outdoor lamp and said, "The hell is this, Drew?"
"It's a clue." I held the to-go bag aloft. "Inside a doggie bag from Spago."
Unimpressed, Lloyd checked his watch. It was only six-thirty, but it was as dark as midnight, and I guessed he'd had a long day. His worse judgment got the better of him, and he said, "Wait here."
I stood on the porch for maybe five minutes while I heard him moving in the house, a soft, feminine voice answering his. Some shuffling, and then a door closed.
He opened the door again and beckoned me in. We sat in the same places, he on the sofa, I in the reading chair. The TV tray on the floor was still laden with tacos. Only one was unwrapped, missing the bite I'd seen him take. Down the hall, the same strip of yellow light glowed beneath the bedroom door. It was as if no time had elapsed since last night, as if no time ever elapsed in this house.
I caught him up on my Rampart adventure, ending with the electrical-tape wrapper I'd found in the fallen pigeon nest. His expression vacillated between shock, anger, and annoyed admiration.
"Jesus, you're really on this, aren't you?"
"Of course I am, Lloyd. Four months of jail time, a murder trial, and two dead women, one of whom I cared about quite a bit. The stakes are fairly personal here."
He eyed the restaurant bag, still unopened. "And what do you want from me?"
"I want you to dust it for prints."
"Look, Drew, offering you some facts is one thing. But running a print?"
"Tell me you're not curious."
"We don't even know it's our guy's. It could be trash that blew in from somewhere else. Or got picked up by a roaming pigeon."
"Could be."
"And what, the guy was so stupid he left a wrapper with his fingerprints lying around near the body?"
"The cops or you found a burnt plastic drop cloth in my trash can, maybe for lining a car trunk. Maybe he taped Broach inside his trunk, left the wrapper in there. It could've stuck to her body when he dumped her, then blown free."
The Crime Writer (aka I See You) (2007) Page 11
