by Dianne Emley
Granted, the police coming around had been unsettling. But that would pass. They had nothing to link him to the murders. They were just fishing. Just doing their job. Just asking routine questions, as they had reminded him a million times.
Scoville snapped open the flip-top on another canned margarita, poured it into a take-out cup of lemon-lime Slurpee, and stirred it with a straw. A frozen margarita was his favorite hangover remedy. The old hair of the dog with shaved ice to cool him down and hydrate. He’d bought the cocktail makings at the liquor store down the street from the Marquis Outdoor Advertising offices on the Sunset Strip.
After his father’s death, he’d taken over the big corner office. It was much the same as the old man had left it. The desk had belonged to his father, as had the furniture and the books and the trinkets in the bookcases. The only things his father hadn’t touched were the computer equipment, some of the photographs, and the framed sports memorabilia on the walls: photographs, jerseys, bats, baseballs, mitts, footballs, basketballs, and a hockey stick, all signed.
Scoville had a raging hangover after last night. The interview with the detectives had gone just fine until their needling had dislodged a small detail, nothing more than a black joke that he had forgotten as soon as it had happened. He wasn’t really sure what had happened, as he’d been sort of blasted then too. Stupid of him to have overreacted like that in front of the police.
He went out the door that led to the rooftop patio. The executive offices were in the penthouse of the three-story building, constructed above the second floor like the top tier of a wedding cake. Doors opened onto the roof, where there were patio tables and chairs beneath an awning. Surrounding the roof was a four-foot wall from which there was a spectacular view up and down the Strip. Straight ahead, there was an unobstructed view across West Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Century City, and West L.A.—all the way to the ocean on a clear day. The old man had always had the touch when it came to real estate. He might not have been much of a father, but he knew property.
Scoville leaned against the wall and sipped the sludgy cocktail through a wide straw. An inversion layer was keeping the heat and smog trapped in the Los Angeles basin. The air was a putrid brownish-gray color. All this weather was good for was perspiring. And coughing.
He liked coming to the office when there was no one else there. It was his last refuge. Even his meandering Hancock Park home had come to feel crowded with Dena and her pain-in-the-ass daughter, Dahlia. Sometimes he even resented the intrusions of Luddy, the love of his life, whom Dena overscheduled with lessons, sports, school, and social events, in his view. The bad vibes were crowding him out more than the people. Eight years of marriage … his first. He’d learned something: Nothing was as soul-sucking as a marriage gone sour.
It was early afternoon on Labor Day, and the Strip was busy on this last official weekend of summer. The nightclubs—the Whisky a-Go-Go, the Roxy, the Viper Room—were shuttered until the sun went down. The sidewalk restaurants along Sunset Plaza were full. People were shopping at the high-end boutiques. Scoville could see the big bright yellow building where his favorite record store used to be. He used to spend aimless hours there as a teenager. It seemed incredible that the store had gone out of business. The times were a-changin’.
A posse of young women in low-cut jeans and midriff-baring tops strolling down the boulevard entered Scoville’s field of vision, but he paid them little attention. He was ogling one of his most profitable billboard faces, which had just been fitted with an ad for a blockbuster movie. Down the street was another of his faces and another and another. There were even billboards on top of the Marquis building. Each post supported two faces that were angled so drivers coming in either direction would be exposed to an image. Some advertised movies, but most were for designer clothing and accessories, featuring thin, scantily clad models in provocative poses. The message was always the same: “Be like me. Buy Fendi sunglasses.”
Scoville heard the cash register “ka-ching” in his head as he calculated the revenue that he sorely needed now. Best of all, the dough was all his again. The owner of Drive By Media had called when he’d heard about the murders. Scoville had had the distinct pleasure of telling him that Mercer’s share of Marquis had reverted to him, as per their partnership contract, and the merger was off.
“How convenient for you,” the dickwad had told him. “Your partner getting deep-sixed before he can ink a deal that you didn’t want.”
Scoville had been glib. “Make sure you tell the cops that.”
“Detectives Kissick and Vining. I already did.”
Whatever. Marquis Outdoor Advertising was his. Well, more or less. And he had to answer to no one except his accountant. He’d worked around that wrinkle before. As for the cops, they had nothing on him, as he had had nothing to do with Mercer’s murder. Scoville had heard on the news that an unnamed source at the Pasadena Police had revealed that they had a suspect—some weirdo who’d been stalking Lauren Richards. Guys like that commit crazy-ass murders. Not guys like him. Murder or overt aggressiveness wasn’t his style at all. No way.
His father’s words still rang in his head. Stop being a pussy, Mark.
He had been a tough guy, old Ludlow. A spit-in-your-eye, balls-to-the-wall tough guy. Only when his father got old and sick did he have a change of heart and seek to bring his prodigal son back into the fold, even showing a scintilla of contrition that was so gratifying.
Scoville used to hate being Ludlow’s only remaining child. More than three decades ago, after a high school football game, Ludlow Jr. had been thrown from the open bed of the pickup truck in which he’d been riding to a party with some buddies. The driver, the running back on Luddy’s team, hadn’t been drinking. He’d lost control of the truck when he’d swerved to avoid a skunk, ejecting the five kids riding in the bed. Luddy Jr. was the only one gravely injured, sailing headfirst into a tree.
Mark was thirteen and already growing into the pet name his father had bestowed early: Fuckup.
Ludlow Jr. was everything the old man had wanted in a son. Everything any man would want in a son: smart, athletic, disciplined, charming, well-mannered, good-looking, and good-hearted. Of course, such a child was too good for this world, Mark’s mother had lamented.
After Ludlow Jr.’s accident, there were tense, sad days before the decision to discontinue life support and allow his perfect organs to be harvested—the young man’s final heroic act. The lives of a bunch of strangers were thereby saved or strengthened.
Then the Scovilles were three.
Funny how things had turned out.
Funny too about Mercer. A coincidence that Scoville had wished Mercer dead and now he was. Coincidences happened every day. Babies were switched at birth. Accident victims were misidentified and buried in the wrong graves. People switch flights at the last minute, only to learn that the plane later crashed. Look at all the stories about people who escaped being victims in the Twin Towers on 9/11 because they stopped to change mismatched socks or went around the corner for a doughnut. Coincidence. That’s all Mercer’s murder was. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with that drunken black joke.
Things were good once again. He had Mercer’s cash and didn’t have to deal with Mercer. He was sorry Mercer was dead. He guessed one could be sorry and happy about such a thing at the same time. He wondered how they were killed. The detectives hadn’t offered details. Scoville hoped it had been fast and they hadn’t suffered.
He had a fleeting thought about Dena, wondering if she would leave him. He decided that she wouldn’t. She’d made too big a deal about the importance of her family on her TV show, trotting out the kids like trained ponies. Surveys showed her fans liked her homebody aspect. That drunken car crash had nearly destroyed her career. She couldn’t count on the phoenix rising from the ashes twice. No, she wouldn’t leave him.
Scoville loudly sucked the last of his margarita through the straw. All was well. He decided to do a little Intern
et gambling before heading home to take a nap.
At a sidewalk table in front of Chin Chin on the sunset strip, a man with a prominent Adam’s apple, wearing a sundress that showed his muscular, tattooed upper body, ordered another mango iced tea. From his purse he took a collapsible rice paper fan he’d purchased in one of the few remaining old-style tourist shops in downtown L.A.’s Chinatown, the type of store packed to the rafters with painted parasols, silk slippers, and carved jade. He’d bought his mother a silk robe, knowing she’d complain bitterly about the extravagance, but it wasn’t expensive and it was so pretty, decorated with embroidered butterflies. He’d bought one for himself too, crimson, embroidered with a design of a Chinese footbridge. What the hell? It was fun. Everyone had to live a little. He didn’t get into L.A. that often.
He snapped open the fan and began fanning himself, running fingertips beneath the neckline of the white dress, frowning at a small patch of hair missed during a home waxing job.
Tracing fingers around the spit curls on the perky brunette wig from the Raquel Welch collection, he caught two women staring from a nearby table. People could be so ignorant. He crossed his legs beneath the full-skirted dress and admired his ankle-wrapped sandals, which set off the French pedicure. He held up his hand, palm out, to see how his manicure was holding up. It was in need of attention. The Saturday night party at Oliver Mercer’s house had wrecked havoc with it. He straightened Mercer’s class ring. It was masculine, but he liked it. He had Mercer’s severed right hand wrapped in plastic in the freezer at home, tucked away to use for incriminating or merely bewildering fingerprints. He liked messing with people for sport, especially cops.
Picking up his field glasses, he saw that Mark Scoville had not returned to lean against the wall on top of the Marquis office building. The drink cup he had set there was now gone.
Catching one of the two rude women again staring, he pulled away the field glasses and said, “There are hawks’ nests on top of those buildings. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.” She gave her friend a tense smile.
“Fascinating, isn’t it, that wildlife can thrive in the middle of a big city? Shows how powerful the life force is and how adaptable living creatures are to their environment.”
“I guess animals do what they need to to survive.”
“Indeed they do. I’m Jill, by the way.” He extended his hand.
The woman tittered, offering her hand. “I’m Abby Gilmore. This is my friend Trish.”
“Nice to meet you, Abby and Trish.” He pegged them as in their late twenties and not from around here. They had sunburns over light tans, trying too hard at the beach. One of them carried a big straw carryall, likely purchased in Tijuana. The other wore a tank top printed with a photo of Arnold Schwarzenegger in sunglasses and leather, carrying a huge automatic weapon, with the slogan “The Governator.” Plus no L.A. woman in her right mind would walk around with an open tote bag that almost shouted, “Steal from me.” He could see the gal’s wallet sitting right on top.
“Are you visiting Los Angeles?”
“Yes, we’re here from Ohio. We live in a town outside Dayton,” Abby said. “We go home tonight. We’ve been in L.A. for eight days.”
A lot of information to offer to a total stranger, Jill thought.
“It’s really been a trip.” Trish giggled, resting her elbows on the table, and pressing her fingers against her lips.
She exchanged a look with Abby that Jill found insulting.
“So where have you been and what have you seen?” Jill smiled directly at Trish, killing her with kindness, though in her mind Jill was twisting that scrawny neck and popping off her head with its overbleached hair, like cleaning shrimp for the barbecue. He liked that image and ran with it, mentally shaving back her skin, her limbs with it, and cleaning out her entrails. Then, plop! Onto the grate to sear above hot coals with her screaming like a live lobster thrown into boiling water.
“Oh, all the tourist places.” Jill’s unyielding gaze had taken Trish’s attitude down a few notches. “Disneyland, Universal Studios, the stars on Hollywood Boulevard …”
Abby picked up. “The beach, of course. San Diego for two days. Tijuana. The club scene everywhere.” She slid a glance at Trish, and that got them both tittering over the memory of shared shenanigans.
Jill set down cash for the iced tea and pot stickers with ginger sauce. Picking up his purse, he pushed back the chair and stood, smoothing his dress. “Ladies, have a safe trip home. It was awfully nice to meet you. Abby, may I give you some unasked-for advice? Be careful about your open purse. At least shove your wallet to the bottom. There are a lot of criminals around here. Predators.”
Abby snatched her tote bag closer, sighing with relief when she saw her wallet still on top. “Thank you …”
“Jill.”
“Jill.” The name did not come naturally to Abby, but she got it out with a half-smile.
Before Jill was out of earshot, just passing beneath the restaurant’s awning, they began laughing.
Jill thought of telling them a thing or two, or waiting for them around the corner and teaching them a thing or two, but he had more pressing business.
Sashaying down the sidewalk, loving how the rayon-blend fabric brushed against his legs, he paused in front of a prominent display in a bookstore window. Dozens of copies of Razored Soul were stacked in a large pyramid. Beside it was a cutout of Bowie Crowley’s nude buff upper body. His crossed arms punched out his well-developed biceps and the garish 23:4 tattoo. A gold crucifix settled between his squared-off pectorals. The sensitive lips and eyes, the James Dean angst, were a stark contrast with his bone-crusher physique.
“Have you read that book?” a woman pausing at the window asked a man whose hand she held. “I couldn’t put it down.”
Big Jackie O sunglasses hid Jill’s vengeful eyes. “You think it’s great? Well, here’s a different review.” With a guttural noise, he hacked up a wad of sputum and shot it onto the window over Crowley’s face.
The woman gasped and the couple skittered away. She whispered, “Did you see what she did?”
“She?” the boyfriend said, taking a final look at the well-made-up, impossibly homely face.
Jill, watching with satisfaction as the glob traced a slimy trail down the window, issued a challenge to the aghast boyfriend. “My brother, there’s a little part of you that would just love to find out, isn’t there?”
FOURTEEN
Dozens of vintage and new motorcycles were lined up in the parking lot of the Rock Store and spilled onto the banks of Mulholland Highway. The old diner, nestled into a hillside of volcanic rock, was more a destination than a pit stop for motorcyclists enjoying the scenic, twisting ride from the San Fernando Valley to the Pacific. The hot holiday had brought motorcycle enthusiasts out in force. It was just mid-morning but the alcohol was freely flowing on the patio, where hearty meals were being cooked on the outdoor grill. Weekend warriors rubbed elbows with guys in chains and bandannas with bugs embedded between their teeth, biker chicks in leather chaps, tourists sweating in their new leather, and Hollywood stars. The crowd was buzzing with talk of Jay Leno, who had just stopped by, riding one of his pricey toys. The cognoscenti also whispered of past visits from Arnold Schwarzenegger and his wife, Maria.
Those who were there ostensibly because the Rock Store was the place for any biker cruising Mulholland to be, but who really half-hoped to spot a star, were not disappointed when Bowie Crowley rode up on his Harley-Davidson Fat Boy with Dena Hale on the back. Crowley was a for-real tough guy. The kind of guy who seemed mellow but who only a fool would mess with. The kind of guy who had come through the fire and out the other side, with a man’s blood on his hands, which made him all the scarier—and irresistible.
And Dena … well, Dena was just plain cute and hot. She looked thinner in person, which was hard for the women there to process.
Some in the crowd had seen Hale interview Crowley that morning o
n TV. They’d seen the humble way he’d interacted with the father of the boy he’d murdered and were impressed. They’d also read the unmistakable look in Hale’s eyes when she had looked at Crowley. Who could blame her? Most of the audience would have jumped his bones if they had the chance.
No one with a camera missed this photo op, especially the paparazzi, who were always hanging around, waiting for something just like this. Patience has its virtues.
Crowley hung their helmets on the bike’s handlebars and cut a path through the crowd, high-fiving and shaking hands while shielding Hale from the throng. They walked past a pair of nonfunctioning antique gas pumps, a favorite backdrop for people to pose for photos with their motorcycles. The prices on the pumps were frozen at .32¼ cents per gallon.
A rotund grizzled biker happened to have a copy of Razored Soul and asked Crowley to sign it.
The biker gushed, “I never buy books, you know? But I went out special to buy this one. I said to my wife, I can’t believe this dude is for real. You’re like a character out of a book or a movie or somethin’.”
Crowley penned a special note, using a Sharpie marker he’d taken to carrying. “Thanks, man, but I’m just a guy tryin’ to stay out of trouble. Make something of my life so my son will be proud of me.”
The man took back his book and gave Crowley a hearty handshake. “That’s cool. Real cool.”
Hale could barely conceal her admiration.
Inside, they jostled their way through the dining room with its picnic tables, busy but minuscule kitchen, and mural painted across three walls of a Native American in full headdress on a horse looking across Monument Valley. They went up stone steps to a room full of Formica-topped tables and old club-style chairs upholstered in orange vinyl. A guy was tinkling a tune at an upright piano in the corner. A long wooden bar was against one wall.
Crowley found a stool for Hale and sidled next to her. She ordered a Perrier with lime and had to laugh when he ordered nonfat milk.
