“Yes. Well. I still think she was too damn mysterious for her own good. And another thing. When I peeked into her purse at the party…”
“Maddie!”
“Accidentally! She had a gun.”
“Had you not heard, perchance, that the poor man was poisoned?”
“And she had this vial of powder, Wes. It could have been poison.”
“Or…Sweet ’n Low?”
“I’m serious!”
“Okay. Me too. But how do you suggest we find her?”
I’d find her, all right. I signed off with Wes, and fiddled quickly with the trackball in my computer and brought my Rolodex up onto the screen. A few seconds later I had Rudy Torgensen, my favorite bouncer, on the line.
“Rudy, this is Madeline Bean. At the party Friday night, do you remember the woman who played the part of the fortune teller?”
“Pretty. About five foot seven or eight. Real thin and long black hair. That her?”
“Good memory. I’m trying to find her—she never got paid—but I don’t have her name and address in our records.”
“Sorry. I didn’t talk much to any of the girls, you know?”
“Yeah.” I knew. “There is one other thing, Rudy. After Mr. Huntley got sick, I asked the parking guys to keep a list of all the guests and what time they left.”
“Now that you mention it,” Rudy said, slightly startled, “I think I got that list in my jacket pocket.”
“If you checked the list, could you tell me which car was driven by our soothsayer friend?”
“I’ll see.” By the loud plastic bang that punched through the receiver, I figured he’d dropped his phone on the table, but he was back quickly.
“Good news. The guys wrote down the time everybody left and the name, if they knew it, on the checkout sheets.”
“And the soothsayer? What was her name?”
“I can’t tell you that. But the guys wrote down ‘hot gypsy babe’ and the time 12:22. That what you needed?”
“Well, yes and no. Thanks anyway, Rudy. I just really need to find her.”
“Yeah, so she can get her money. Tough break for her, huh? Well maybe you could find her by running down her license plate.”
Of course.
“It’s 3BBP021. California plates. You know, the boys write all that stuff down.”
As I dialed Lizzie, I said out loud, “I’ll find this ‘hot gypsy babe’!” Liz was at her desk. My luck was holding.
I dangled a worm. My security guard just happened to have a log of guests departing the Huntley party. But not to worry, I’d call Honnett about it.
Snap. She had a better idea. Why didn’t she just run it down herself? Fishing was never this easy.
While I had her full attention, I hit her with my request. I needed a DMV check on a license plate so I could pay an employee.
“Well…”
“Tell you what?” I suggested. “If you take a second to run this plate, I’m sure by the time you get back to me, I’ll have found Rudy’s number for you. That a deal?”
“Deal.”
I waited all of three minutes.
“His name is Perry Hirsh.” She spelled it. “Lives at 792 North Bedford.”
“Beverly Hills?”
“Flats.” Lizzie put on her bored, snob voice, and we both burst out laughing.
“Okay, girlfriend.” Lizzie got back to business. “I showed you mine, now you show me yours.”
I gave her Rudy’s number.
“By the way, Lizzie, they aren’t really serious about Wesley as a suspect any more, are they?”
Lizzie’s voice got quiet. “You just keep doing your best to find out the truth, honey. It don’t look that great.” And she hung up.
Chapter 17
Nestled into a block of gracious traditional homes, the ungainly, ugly-modern box of a house at 792 North Bedford loomed large. Instead of the lush landscaping of lawns and ferns and flowers which fronted neighbors north and south, this gray monster had a poured concrete yard, broken up by thin lines of gravel.
I walked up to the front door and rang. As I waited, I pulled at my thin knit dress, gaining about a quarter-inch in length, feeling a quarter-inch more respectable.
I needn’t have bothered. The door was opened by a woman wearing a black bikini top and baggy denim pants, sporting an even, buzzed off, eggplant-colored crew cut. This was not my soothsayer.
“Hello. My name is Madeline Bean and I’m looking for a woman who worked for me a couple of nights ago.”
“Doing what?” An eyebrow arched.
“It was sort of an acting job. At a party.”
“A hooker? You some sort of Beverly Hills madam?” she asked, not in the least surprised.
“No.” I decided to start again. “Is Perry Hirsh here?”
“There is no one by that name at this address,” she huffed. Then, the door was shut in my face.
Wait. The hooker scenario she was having no problem with. It was mentioning the Hirsh name that pissed her off.
I rang again. No answer. Shit.
I walked across the driveway. There was a tall, gated chain-link fence that stretched out from the far side of the garage. As I approached, two horrible dogs snarled into my view, and headed straight for me. They seemed agitated, growling and yipping, and with a chill I realized they were pit bulls.
I didn’t back up. The chain link was reassuringly between them and me. But they threw themselves so fiercely against the gate, that the metal links clanked hard at the impact, and for a moment I thought the latch might give.
Belatedly, I backed away, startled, adrenaline rushing.
Just what was I doing, anyway? This was probably an old address from the DMV. No Perry Hirsh. No soothsayer. I would have to start over. I turned away.
Once again, the growling and snarling got louder behind me as again the dogs hurled their tough bodies at the gate, mindlessly barking as they careened off the steel wire. And mixed with the wild animal shrieks, some other noise. A metallic jingle and clank. I spun. It was the latch. The deep iron “U” now hung loose off it’s mount.
The dogs hadn’t realized it, but the gate was now unlocked. One slight push and it would swing open. I started to run.
Their fierce barking and shrieking picked up. My retreat had only heightened the animals’ sharp instinct to chase this rabbit down.
I rushed to my car, fumbling to open the door.
In the middle of a quiet Beverly Hills Sunday afternoon, I was fleeing two vicious attack dogs. What was going on?
Once again, the dogs threw the full force of their bodies at the gate, and this time, out they poured, charging fast the few dozen strides across the driveway up to my Wagoneer parked at the curb. Hysterical, blood-lustful barking grew unbearably loud as they flew straight at me.
Frantically, barely inches from their teeth, I managed to dive into the truck and shut the door tight. I gasped in relief, sucking in lungfuls of air.
Safe.
Then a blur filled my front window, and then another. Both savages had jumped upon my hood. Their enraged duet, a high-pitched, unending “RAH RAH RAH RAH” of barks, held me frozen as they eyed me through the glass. Their exposed fangs dripped with foamy saliva as they screamed with frustration and clawed at my windshield. The left wiper blade came partially off and the dogs, shrieking and growling, tore into it. Shreds of black rubber stuck to their sharp white teeth.
I screamed at them, “Bad dogs!” in my most commanding voice.
They could care less.
With their hard, muscled bodies lunging at my windshield, I started to imagine the pit bulls shattering the glass, actually breaking through, and, what then? Landing in my lap?
I kept stealing glances at the house where they belonged, but no one was coming to my rescue. And then I heard a heavy thump above me. One of the pit bulls had leapt from the hood to the roof! I looked up in horror. I’d left the sunroof slightly ajar when I’d parked, to keep the car cool.
Now, the drooling jaws of a seriously disturbed attack dog growled through the sunroof. The opening was about three inches, just wide enough for him to get his snout down into the car and huff bad dog breath down on my hair, snapping a little too close to my head.
I shrank further down to avoid him. My trembling hand still clutched my keys and, awkwardly, I managed to find the ignition. Then, bam! I punched the right button and the sunroof suddenly began to close.
The startled animal finally shut up as he tried to pull his face out, but his snout had become stuck in the tight grasp of closing metal. I slammed “open” and the dog jerked his face out of my sunroof. I hit the close button fast. If he’d been annoyed before, he was now prepared to kill.
He flew back down onto my hood to face me, hoarse from barking, jaws snapping, teeth clicking loudly on glass. How long would my windshield hold up to this renewed double assault?
“Really bad dogs”! I tried again.
My attempts to humiliate them were pathetic. I knew what I had to do and shuddered. See, I love animals. But I stuck the car in reverse and punched the gas.
Two surprised dogs skidded off the hood of my car. But one of them still clung onto the grill, caught by his paw, somehow.
Shit. He was shrieking in a horrible, hurt, high wail. That was just about as far as I was willing to go in the line of cruelty to animals. I was freaking.
Just then, a car came up the street from the opposite direction. I watched it left-turn into the driveway. Somehow, the driver didn’t seem to notice me, or the fact that I was under attack by two killer dogs, one of whom was attached by his claws to the front bumper of my car.
The young man drove his white Bentley through the open gate. At once, my two snarling companions pulled themselves free and chased after him.
I put my car in drive, intent on getting the hell out of there. But as I passed, I spotted the garage door closing after the Bentley. The license plate read 3BBP021.
Perry Hirsh.
I put my foot on the brake. I backed up. I parked. I waited until I was sure Hirsh must have latched the gate, then I got out and walked up to the front door.
On the third ring, the testy young woman appeared and said, “Come in.”
I followed her into a large entry hall. Then, without a word, she walked away. Nervously, I looked around for some sign of the family pets.
“Excuse me?” I called after her. “You don’t have any Milk Bones on you?”
I stood in the entry and studied the large living room off to the right. Everything was chrome and black leather and didn’t look like it was designed for comfort. There was a lot of art, though. Large, colorful, frightening canvases.
“You need me?” The man who had just arrived in the Bentley stared up at me. He was maybe my height in stocking feet. But I had the boot advantage.
“Are you Perry Hirsh?” I asked.
“So who are you? My girl says a hooker. You trying to get me in trouble with my girl?” He smiled at me, but it was not a friendly smile.
“I’m a caterer, Mr. Hirsh. I am looking for a woman who worked for me at a party the other night, playing the part of a gypsy fortune teller. Do you know her?”
“Who? Some gypsy? You gotta be kidding. Go home, Miss Caterer.” He started to turn away.
“The woman I’m looking for was driving your car. The plates match the ones on your Bentley.”
He stopped and turned toward me again.
“You got good legs, you know that?” He smiled his unfriendly smile.
“The woman I’m looking for? I owe her some money.”
“Yeah? How much?”
“A hundred and fifty.”
“Dollars?” he sneered.
I was lost. “Know how I can get her the money?”
“No. I don’t know any lady who makes a hundred fifty a throw. Not my style, babe. But if you’re going, like, door to door, offering to party for the same rate, maybe I’d be, like, interested. What do you say?”
He was young and full of himself. He was overdressed, wearing a tan silk shirt and black suit. His dark hair was short and gelled and looked untouchable. His manner was pure punk bullshit. This might have to go in the books as the all-time low in men I’d attracted.
“No, thanks. But if you should think of the name of this woman, please give her my number.” I handed him my card. He sniffed it. I cannot imagine why.
I turned to leave. As I reached the handle on the mammoth front door, he called after me.
“Great ass!”
In retrospect, I think I preferred dealing with the dogs.
Chapter 18
I was stressed. With the weird encounter on Bedford Drive behind me, I pulled a right on Santa Monica and headed the Grand Wagoneer towards Century City. I could stop at the shopping center and grab a Diet Coke at the outdoor food court. Then, maybe fill in the time until the reading of Bruno Huntley’s will with a little window shopping.
I made the left into the mall parking structure, and cruised the aisles in the underground lot. Behind me was a dark Taurus.
As I circled, looking for a place to park, I began to get the itchy feeling the Taurus was tailing me. In my mirror, I could just make out two men. The driver, a young guy, was looking this way and that, apparently on the lookout for an open spot.
I tried to focus on the big picture. After all, everybody in a crowded parking lot is following everyone else, like rats in a maze, looking for a nice cheesy spot to deposit our twenty-odd-thousand dollars worth of metal. Be cool.
A white Volvo wagon was pulling out directly across from the escalators up to the mall—a prime spot. I slowed down. Naturally, so did the Taurus behind me.
The Volvo moved off ahead of me down the lane. Testing my paranoia, I decided to pass up the empty spot.
I checked my rearview mirror. If everything was normal, I expected the Taurus to pull into the empty spot. But he didn’t. My stomach clutched.
My car phone was useless in an underground garage, but I picked it up anyway. No dice. Panic was making my neck hot. I kept telling myself they weren’t interested in me at all. But I just had to get out of there.
Following the EXIT painted on the pavement, I turned up an aisle. Suddenly, a red Camaro backed out of its space, blocking me. I waited. When the Camaro finally cleared the space, I was startled to find the gray Taurus, no longer behind me, but now coming down the aisle towards me from the opposite direction.
Squinting to see through the Taurus’s windshield, I felt sure I’d never seen the driver or his friend before. Was this some traffic misunderstanding? Had I cut them off accidentally?
The Taurus sped up, crossing over into my lane, coming directly at me. Already, a few cars were waiting behind me, so I couldn’t back up. With the Taurus bearing down on me, I slammed on the gas and pulled forward into the space that the Camaro had just vacated.
The Taurus flew by, just swerving in time to miss the car that had been patiently waiting behind me. I breathed heavily to the sound of cursing car horns and screeching tires. Jeez! L.A. could be a scary place. People did not always behave rationally. Especially in cars.
I tried to back out again, but now the line of vehicles waiting for spaces had me literally blocked in my spot.
Through the herringbone rows of parked cars I could see the Taurus recklessly swinging around the parking structure. Shit! Were they coming back for me?
I darted out of my car, dodging traffic, and ran for the nearest escalator. Rushing past a couple who were about to step on, I mumbled, “Someone may be following me.”
They looked back, but the garage seemed quite normal.
I moved up the steps faster, and emerged onto the open air shopping level. Out in the sunlight, I walked quickly past Bloomingdale’s, turning my head every few seconds to see if anyone was behind me. Where was a security guard when you needed one? I galloped past Häagen-Dazs and turned left, hoping when my pursuers emerged from the escalator, I’d already be o
ut of their line of sight. If, that is, I was actually being pursued and hadn’t just gotten in the way of some whacked-out parking lot warriors.
Why would anyone want to follow me? All I could think of was that ugly house and those wretched dogs. Could Perry Hirsh be behind this? Did I stumble, in my first try out of the box, on the conspirators who had killed Bruno?
Set out on the sunny mall sidewalk were large ornate pushcarts selling T-shirts and inexpensive jewelry. I rushed past. Ahead of me was a store for the Metropolitan Museum of Art and, just beyond that, was another escalator coming up from the underground parking garage.
Emerging from below were the backs of two heads. As they ascended into view, I stared. Two young men. I froze as they stepped off the escalator, tall muscular men, who turned and looked straight at me. Were they the ones? Was I nuts?
Still frozen, I kept staring at them, looking for any sign of recognition, readying myself to bolt. But their gaze swept over me and around to the shops. They moved on ahead of me, in the direction I had been going.
With nerves now completely on edge, I trotted backwards past the museum store. If they kept going, I was just insane. If they stopped, I was in big trouble.
The two men stopped.
They stopped! Spinning around, I pinballed off the corner of a building and ducked into the nearest open door. Laura Ashley.
I moved through the large Victorian boutique, breathing hard, inhaling the scent of Floris perfume, reassured by the civilized, lace-collared calm of the store. I turned, still backing up, and thought I caught a glimpse of men standing outside the plate-glass window.
Pushing deeper into the store, I grabbed a handful of dresses from the nearest rack and held them up to shield me from eyes that might be peering into the shop. With this armload of merchandise, I moved further into the depths of the store, disappearing into a dressing room, the perfect “Women Only” sanctuary. At once, I felt safe.
The dressing area was divided into private alcoves by pretty little sprigged curtains, peach and apple green on white, that hung from a system of brass railings. There was a woman in the next curtained dressing stall talking to her pre-teen daughter. They were trying on frilly white petticoats and purple velvet dresses and giggling. I passed them as they emerged from the their stall to look at each other in a three-way mirror placed in a common area of the dressing room.
Sympathy for the Devil Page 11
