by Laura Levine
He shuddered at the memory of what happened next.
“I saw her lying there, in the dark. I was so close to her, I could smell her perfume. I remember thinking how nice it smelled. I called her name, but she still didn’t answer. Finally, I got up my courage and turned on the light. And that’s when I saw all the blood.”
Tears welled in his eyes. “Oh, God, it was awful.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No, I tried to give her artificial respiration. I thought maybe I could save her. But I couldn’t. And then the police came and found me, with her blood all over me.”
“Who called the police?”
“One of the neighbors. The lady next door. I told the cops I didn’t do it, but I could tell they didn’t believe me.” He was chewing on his lower lip so hard, I was surprised it wasn’t bleeding. “My mom’s so upset, I’m afraid she’s going to have a heart attack.”
“Don’t worry, Howard. You can’t go to jail for something you didn’t do.”
“But I am in jail.”
He had a point there.
“Have you called an attorney?”
“Yeah, I found one in the Yellow Pages.”
Oh, great. I could see it now. The judge asks Howard, “How do you plead?” And Howard, thanks to the crackerjack advice he gets from his Yellow Pages attorney, answers, “On my knees, Your Honor.”
“Don’t you know any other attorney?”
“Just my cousin Bruce, but he’s been disbarred.”
I smiled what I hope was an encouraging smile. “I’m sure everything’s going to be okay,” I lied.
I waved good-bye through the fingerprints in the glass partition and left him sitting there, still holding the phone to his ear, a geek caught in the headlights.
I was walking down the corridor, trying to get the smell of oatmeal out of my nostrils, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Ms. Austen?”
I turned around and saw a cop who couldn’t have been more than twelve, trying to look stern.
“Detective Rea would like to see you.”
Minutes later, I was being ushered into the office of Detective Timothy Rea. Luckily, it didn’t smell of oatmeal. It did, however, smell of cigarettes and gym socks.
Detective Rea was a tall, good-looking guy with reddish blond hair and ears just a little too big for his head. He reminded me of Joey Ross, a kid I went to elementary school with. Joey was a world-class wiseass, always challenging the teachers and acting like he knew all the answers. And the irritating thing about Joey was that he really did know all the answers. He was a smart guy, and he never let you forget it.
Detective Rea looked just like Joey during a pop quiz.
“Have a seat, Ms. Austen.”
He gestured to a chair that had clearly been around since Los Angeles belonged to the Spaniards.
“Howard tells me you helped him write this letter.”
He held up the dratted letter.
I nodded weakly.
“Did you know he was lying about being Rupert Murdoch’s nephew? We checked with Mr. Murdoch, and he says he has no nephew named Howard.”
“Actually, that was my idea,” I said, shame bubbling to my cheeks. “Howard didn’t want to lie. I talked him into it. It’s all my fault.”
“Then maybe we should book you as an accessory,” Rea joked. At least, I hoped he was joking.
“Look,” I said, “I know I don’t have any training in this sort of thing, but I’m a very good judge of character, and I just can’t believe Howard is capable of murder. I mean, if he wanted to kill Stacy, why would he leave a paper trail? Why wouldn’t he have just followed her home from the gym and killed her in an alley or something?”
Detective Rea looked at me with appraising eyes.
“You’re right.”
I sighed with relief. Obviously Howard’s arrest was all a terrible mistake. I could go home and soak in the tub and forget the whole thing ever happened.
“You don’t have any training whatsoever in police matters. And if you’ll pardon my saying so, you don’t know what you’re talking about. We found Howard covered in his victim’s blood, holding the ThighMaster.”
“The ThighMaster?”
“The murder weapon.”
“Stacy was bludgeoned to death with a ThighMaster?”
He nodded somberly. “The woman in Apartment Seven heard Howard screaming and called the police.”
“But that doesn’t mean he killed her. Maybe somebody else was in the apartment before him. Maybe that person ran off when he heard Howard coming. Did you look for footprints outside Stacy’s patio?”
“Yes, we looked for footprints. We often do technical stuff like that here at the police department.”
“And? Did you find any?”
“As a matter of fact, we did. The gardener’s. One Chuy Sandoval, who at the time of the murder was home having dinner with his wife and four kids.”
“What about the other neighbors? Did any of them hear anything unusual?”
“Aside from Howard screaming, no.”
Rea picked up a file from his desk.
“Did you know your client has a history of mental illness?”
Uh-oh.
“He does?”
He nodded, the same sure-of-himself grin on his face that Joey Ross had in the final round of our fifth grade spelling bee.
“He’s been hospitalized twice.”
“For what?”
“Depression and anorexia.”
“Anorexia?” I snorted. “Sounds like the mental history of a killer, all right.”
“Well, I think he did it.” Rea lit a cigarette and blew a plume of smoke in my direction. “Unfortunately for Howard, I’m the cop on the case. And you’re not.”
He smiled smugly. And suddenly I remembered the final round of the fifth grade spelling bee. It was Joey Ross’s turn. The word was “euphemistic.” And Joey spelled it with an “f.”
For once in his life, Joey was wrong. Just as wrong, I was certain, as Detective Timothy Rea.
Chapter Five
I left Detective Rea’s office in a pissy mood and headed back to the visitors’ room at the county jail.
“What’s Stacy’s address?” I asked when Howard was once again seated across from me in his smudgy glass cage.
“She lives in Westwood.” A flash of pain swept over his face. “I mean, she lived in Westwood. A place called Bentley Gardens.”
“You remember the exact address?”
“1622 Bentley. Why do you want to know?”
“I want to pay a little visit,” I said, “to the scene of the crime.”
Five minutes later, I was on the freeway, heading over to Westwood. I wanted to talk to Stacy’s neighbor in Apartment Seven, the lady who’d heard Howard screaming. If she heard Howard, maybe she’d heard something else, something that would point me in the direction of the true killer.
Wait a minute, you’re probably asking yourself. I’m a freelance writer, right? So how come I was talking like V.I. Warshawski? That’s just what I was asking myself that day as I headed over to Stacy’s place. What on earth did I think I was doing? Surely, the police had already questioned everyone. If there were any pertinent facts to be discovered, they would have discovered them.
Then I thought of Detective Rea, and that smug grin on his face, and I knew exactly why I was heading over to Westwood.
Stacy lived on a leafy street a couple of miles from the UCLA campus. Bentley Gardens was a small but well-maintained building, with purple pansies bordering the patch of lawn out front.
I parked my car and headed up a flagstone path to a security intercom. I checked out the building directory and found Apartment Seven. The name on the buzzer said “E. Zimmer.” I was just about to ring, when I suddenly wondered: What the heck was I going to say to E. Zimmer? “Hello, I’m a friend of the man who was arrested for killing your neighbor.” I don’t think so.
I was standing there
trying to figure out a plan of attack when I saw a Jeep pull into the building’s carport. A clean-cut guy in his thirties got out and started taking suitcases from the trunk of his car. I pretended to be looking for something in my purse as he came up the path. He smiled at me absently, then took out his keys and let himself in. I couldn’t help noticing his eyes, a beautiful Aidan Quinn blue.
“Here, let me hold the door for you,” I said, as he juggled his suitcases.
“Thanks.” He flashed me another smile, this one of slightly higher wattage than the first, and made his way in. Needless to say, I slipped in right behind him.
Seven apartments surrounded a postage stamp–sized pool in the courtyard of Bentley Gardens. The pool was deserted, except for a few plastic chaises scattered along its rim.
Mr. Blue Eyes let himself into Apartment Four. I tried to look like I knew where I was going as I scanned the doors, looking for Number Seven. Fortunately, Blue Eyes was too busy schlepping suitcases to pay much attention to me.
I walked past Number Six and saw yellow police tape crisscrossing the door. Obviously Stacy’s place. I approached Number Seven, and could hear the low hum of a TV inside.
I had decided on a plan of attack and was just about to knock on E. Zimmer’s door, when I heard, in a gruff Russian accent: “Who are you?”
I turned to see a dark butterball of a man, glaring at me suspiciously.
I did a little mini-glare of my own. Sounding a lot braver than I felt, I countered, “And you are . . . ?”
“Daryush Kolchev, Building Manager.”
“I’m with the press,” I said, putting my plan of attack into action. And it wasn’t a total lie, either. Back in high school, I was a star reporter for the Lincoln High Tattler. Okay, so I wasn’t a star reporter. But I did write some pretty angry Letters to the Editor.
The Russian eyed me skeptically. “Oh?”
“I’m with The Times.”
I flashed him a press card. Okay, so it wasn’t a press card. It was my Bloomingdale’s charge card, but I was hoping he wouldn’t know the difference.
“Los Angeles Times reporter, he came last night, with other media peoples.”
“Oh,” I said, not missing a beat, “not the Los Angeles Times. The New York Times.”
“I have cousin in New York. Yakov Kolchev. You know him?”
“No, can’t say I do.”
“Okay,” he said, brushing back the few remaining strands of hair on his head. “I talk to you. I tell you just what I told other media peoples last night. Stacy Lawrence, she was angel from heaven. Such a smile. And never once late with her rent. If all my tenants pretty and nice like her, I be happy man.”
Clearly, Howard hadn’t been the only one with a crush on Stacy.
“Hey, how come you’re not writing this down?”
“Not necessary. I have a photographic memory. It’s all in here,” I said, tapping my forehead. If I told one more lie, my nose would start growing. “Did you see anything unusual last night? Anybody suspicious?”
“Sure. I see someone suspicious.”
“Who?” I asked, eagerly.
“The guy they arrested. He look very suspicious to me.”
“See anyone else?”
“No, my wife and I were in apartment watching television. Home Shopping. We buy genuine cubic zirconia. Only $19.95, plus shipping and handling.”
“Well, that’s swell. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to talk to Ms. Zimmer.”
“Better you than me,” he said, rolling his eyes and gesturing toward Number Seven. “That Elaine Zimmer. Miserable lady. Always complaining. Tenants like her, I can do without. Not pretty and peppy like Stacy Lawrence.”
His eyes misted over at the mention of Stacy’s name. But he didn’t stay sentimental for long.
“Be sure you spell my name right for New York Times. D-A-R-Y-U-S-H K-O-L-C-H-E-V. Here. I give you card.”
He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a grease-stained business card. “I’m good handyman. You call if something breaks.”
Just then a large woman stepped out from an apartment at the other end of the courtyard.
“Daryush. Come quick. Is diamond bracelet on television. Free shipping and handling!”
Mr. Kolchev thrust his greasy business card into my hand and scurried off to join his wife.
As I stood there watching him, I couldn’t help thinking that Daryush Kolchev had been quite fond of Stacy Lawrence. Maybe a little too fond. And I couldn’t help wondering if Daryush’s rather large, unattractive wife was the jealous type. Jealous enough, perhaps, to bash her rival’s head in with a ThighMaster?
Chapter Six
A famous philosopher (either Aristotle or Judith Krantz, I forget who) once said about being a woman in Los Angeles: If you’re blonde and beautiful, you’re interchangeable. If you’re not, you’re invisible.
Elaine Zimmer was one of the invisible ones.
She answered her doorbell, a short, squat woman in a nurse’s uniform.
“Yes?”
She looked at me with an intimidating blend of suspicion and impatience.
“Hi,” I said, flashing a smile and my Bloomie’s card. “I’m with The Times.” It worked so well with Daryush, I figured I’d give it another shot.
But Elaine was a lot smarter than Daryush.
“That’s not a press card. That’s a Bloomingdale’s charge card.”
“Oh?” I faked surprise. “Well, I’m sure I’ve got it in here somewhere.” I rummaged through my purse, looking for my nonexistent press card. “Gosh, I must’ve left it at home. I changed wallets this morning. You know how that is.”
“No, I don’t know how that is.”
She eyed me skeptically and started to shut the door.
“Look, you can call my editor if you don’t believe me. Mark Simms, 213-555-3876.” I figured if I was going to bluff, I might as well bluff on a grand scale. Mark Simms was my gynecologist.
Elaine headed for her telephone, the pants of her two-piece uniform straining at the seams. “What was that number?”
“Forget it,” I said, slipping into the apartment behind her. “I’m not with the press. I’m here on behalf of my client, Howard Murdoch.”
“Oh. The kid who killed Stacy.”
“That hasn’t been proven yet.”
“For crying out loud, they found him covered with her blood.”
“That still doesn’t mean he killed her.”
“Yeah, right,” she said, ushering me toward the door. “Forgive me if my heart isn’t brimming over with sympathy for Mr. Rich.”
“Mr. Rich?”
“I heard he’s Rupert Murdoch’s nephew. Probably a spoiled brat.”
“He’s not Rupert Murdoch’s nephew. I can swear to that.”
“But what about his BMW?”
“Howard doesn’t have a BMW.”
“I saw one parked outside last night. A big black one. I assumed it was his. We don’t get many BMWs on this block. This is definitely a Toyota neighborhood.”
“Look, Ms. Zimmer, I can assure you Howard is far from rich and far from spoiled. He works as an insurance adjuster and lives with his mother.”
She thought this over and seemed to soften. Empathy from one of life’s underdogs for another.
“You want some coffee?” she offered. “I was just fixing myself some.”
“I’d love it.”
I followed her to her cramped kitchen. Her apartment was small: living room, matchbox kitchen, and what I assumed was a bedroom down the hall.
The coffee smelled great. She poured it into UCLA mugs, and we sat at a pine table in her “dining nook,” a tiny alcove jammed between the living room and the front door.
“So who are you, really?” she said, stirring Sweet’n Low into her coffee.
“An associate of Howard’s. He’s my client.”
“You his lawyer?”
“No, his writer.”
“His writer?”
“He hired me to write a letter that would convince Stacy to go on a date with him. Unfortunately for him, I took the assignment.”
“You write letters that get people dates?” she asked, a glint of interest in her eyes.
“Most of the time I write resumes and brochures. Stuff like that. Anyhow, I was wondering if you saw or heard anything unusual last night.”
“Just your client, screaming his head off.”
“You didn’t hear any cries from Stacy? Any indication that she was being murdered?”
“No. I was watching TV, though. There could’ve been some noise that I wouldn’t have heard with the television on.”
“So you heard Howard screaming and called the cops.”
“First, I went next door to see what was going on. The door was open. Howard was in the bedroom, holding the ThighMaster, blood all over him. He was totally out of it. I don’t even think he knew I was there. I could see right away Stacy was dead. Being an RN, I know about those things.”
“A nurse,” I nodded, trying to look impressed. “Where do you work?”
“UCLA. Psychiatric ward.”
“Really?” I could easily picture her wrestling a patient into a straightjacket.
“Anyhow,” she went on, “I saw that Stacy was dead, so that’s when I called the cops. Want a Mallomar?”
I could tell she wanted one, so I said, “Sure.”
“Be right back.” She disappeared into her kitchen, and I looked around the tiny apartment. The place was crammed with white wicker and delicate floral prints. An interesting decorating choice. Nurse Ratched meets Laura Ashley.
I glanced over by the front door and saw a basket of laundry waiting to be washed. My eyes were drawn to a rust-colored stain on one of the blouses. From where I was sitting, it looked a heck of a lot like blood. Of course, it could have been spaghetti sauce, or strawberry margarita mix. It was hard to tell for sure.
