by K. A. Tracy
“Appears so.”
“Where you working?”
“At a local paper called the Weekender.”
“Oh, that’s great,” Michelle said with the enthusiasm of the uninformed.
“It’s so nice talking to someone out of state. So listen, can you get me a list of every Rydell family, that’s R-Y-D-E-L-L, in Riverside County? Then another list of Rydells in California.” It was possible Jeff had relatives in the area. No guarantee they’d have the same last name but it was a place to start.
“Of course.”
“And how fast can I have it?”
Michelle hummed in thought. “How about a half hour?”
“Great. I appreciate it.” She gave Michelle the Weekender’s fax number and billing address. Places like Data Search preferred sending their information the old analog way rather than via hackable computers.
“It’s good to have you back. I need the money.”
“Thanks for the sentiment,” Sam said. “I’m so touched.”
She heard Michelle laughing as she hung up.
Sam’s desk was located in a secluded niche conveniently situated outside the break room. To her left was a thick supporting wall. Behind her was a picture window overlooking the south end of Palm Canyon Drive. To her right was the common wall with the break room, decorated with a framed lithograph from the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics Sam had brought from her LA condo. On the wall opposite her, which was only five feet away, were shelves filled with various reference books. Although it wasn’t technically a private office, it was as close as one could get without installing doors. Leaning her chair back against the supporting wall, Sam used the desk phone to call Rose.
“Hi, it’s Sam Perry.”
“Oh, hello dear. How’s that friend of yours?”
“He’s fine. He’s out buying shirts color coordinated to his bruises.”
Rose laughed, thinking Sam was making a joke. “I wish he’d shop for me.”
“Listen Rose, I was wondering about something. Does your complex have a parking structure?”
“It’s around back, but there’s only enough room for one car per unit bedroom. So there are lots of cars that have to go on the street. People get upset, but what am I supposed to do?”
“Do you happen to know if Rydell’s car is parked in his space?”
Through the earpiece, Sam heard the volume of Rose’s television go down. “It’s funny you should ask. Just this morning I noticed his space was empty when I took out the garbage. I hope nobody else notices, or I’ll have fistfights between tenants trying to take it over.”
“Do you know what kind of car he drove?”
“Well, from what I remember it was an old clunker. Nothing special about it except for the stickers.”
“What stickers?”
“Oh, all kinds, you name it. Is it important?”
“When you don’t know what you’re looking for everything is important.” Sam sat up and grabbed a pen. “Can you specifically remember any of the stickers?”
“I never paid that close of attention,” Rose apologized, “and then he covered them all up with those Konrad stickers except for the one on the back window that said Ruby Falls. I remember that because I thought it was a strange name for a college. Probably some community place. But getting through any college is an achievement to be proud of…”
Sam let Rose run out of verbal gas then ended the call and swung her chair around, staring out the window. See Ruby Falls—there was a sticker she’d never seen on the West Coast.
Sam was raised in Indiana and growing up had taken several vacations to Florida, both as a kid with her dad and sister and as a teenager on spring break with friends. The road to the Sunshine State was Interstate 65, which ran through Chattanooga, Tennessee, the home of two tourist must-sees. The first was Lookout Mountain, where you pay for the privilege to gaze down upon the invisible point where Alabama, Georgia, and Tennessee meet.
By comparison, Ruby Falls—advertised as an underground waterfall in one of the area’s more accessible caves—sounded like an exotic adventure. Everywhere you looked were signs promising one of nature’s awe-inspiring wonders. Twenty years later, she still remembered the excursion vividly. Her sister was off at college so it was just Sam and her dad that summer.
After donning an industrial-strength yellow rain slicker with hair-flattening hood, a no-nonsense guide called their group to order and issued stern warnings not to get too close to the waterfall. The implication was clear: to do so was to take your life into your hands. A rattling elevator lowered everyone into an unremarkable, dank cave. Instructed to put on the hoods, walk single file, watch one’s step, and not to wander off alone the intrepid spelunkers made their way along a stony corridor that led to a vast chamber. And there, dramatically lit, was Ruby Falls—a pathetic trickle of runoff water.
Sam smiled, remembering her dad muttering, “Hell, I can drool more than that.”
The acoustics being superb, Dad got a big laugh from the group, the guide hustled everyone back to the elevator, and See Ruby Falls forever thereafter took the place of bullshit in his vocabulary.
There were three possibilities: Rydell had seen Ruby Falls himself while on a trip; the sticker was put on by a previous owner of the car; or he had lived in the Chattanooga area at some point prior to moving to Palm Springs. The number of Southern California residents who had Disneyland stickers on their vehicles made Sam lean toward door number three.
More puzzling was what Rydell had done, or become involved with, in the few months he had been in town that would warrant such painful final hours of life. Sam connected her Nikon to the computer and studied the photos from Rydell’s apartment. It looked like the aftermath of a hurricane. The place had been torn apart in a frenzy of unbridled fury—the same kind of rage behind Rydell’s brutalization. Knives were used in both instances. It wasn’t much of a stretch to suspect the same person was involved in both instances.
Through the white noise of office hum, Sam heard the fax machine beep. She walked into the file room where Monica Gold, the Weekender’s editorial assistant, was paper clipping the fax pages together.
“Here you go.” Monica handed her the pages.
“Thanks.”
There were fifteen Rydell families in Riverside County, 132 statewide. “Could be worse,” Sam decided. She sat down at her desk and called all the Rydells listed in the county. Of those who answered, none had heard of a Jeff or Jeffrey. Sam straightened the pages and locked them in her desk drawer. She’d plod through the out-of-county Rydells later.
Sam stuck her head into Marlene’s office. “I’m gonna stop by the police station and see if Detective Larson has anything he’d care to share with me.”
Marlene motioned her to go. “Call me later.”
Sam was almost out the door when Monica stopped her. “Sam, you have a call on line one. You can take it here if you want.”
Sam leaned against the desk and punched the blinking light on Monica’s phone. “Hello?”
“Now on top of everything else, I think I have sun stroke,” Joe announced.
“It’s angst a minute with you,” Sam smiled. “What happened?”
“I fell asleep in the pool. I was on your float—you know I’ve owned a waterbed for years so I’m conditioned. When I woke up I looked half albino, half Indian.”
“I think any reference to ‘red skin’ is now politically incorrect. The term is epidermally challenged.”
“Samantha, it’s not funny. I’m in pain.”
“Sorry. Listen, why don’t we go for an early dinner, and I’ll ply you with pain-killing alcohol. There’s a nice Italian place on Indian—”
“As long as it’s air conditioned and has a liquor license, I don’t care what kind of food they serve.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up about a quarter to six. And try not to fall down the stairs or something in the meantime.”
“Your compassion is touching.”
• • •
The Palm Springs Police Station was east of downtown in the middle of the civic “district,” a two-block area of city government buildings cloned from the same genius tract-housing mind that invented mini-malls.
A lone female officer manned the front counter. Short and round, she was perched on a stool, her chin resting in the palm of one hand while the other idly turned the pages of a People magazine. Sam glanced at her nameplate as she neared the counter.
“Officer Jacobs?”
“Yes?” She sprung to attention but to her credit made no attempt to squirrel away the magazine. “Can I help you?”
“Is Detective Larson in?”
“Is he expecting you?”
“No, but I was hoping he could spare me a few minutes. Tell him it’s Sam Perry from the Weekender.”
Officer Jacobs disappeared through the security door and when she returned gave Sam a closer look. “Sam Perry the writer?”
She nodded, feeling self-conscious.
“How about that? I really liked your book…as much as you can like a book about a psychopathic killer. But you make cops look good. I appreciate that.”
“Thank you, Officer Jacobs.”
“Please,” she waved a finger at Sam, “you call me Rolanda,” and opened the door leading to the back. “Larson’s the last desk on the left.”
The detective was on the phone when Sam peeked around the corner of his cubicle. He waved her towards a folding chair that gave her a perfect view of the pegboard on the wall beside his desk. Assorted snapshots of a woman and two kids were tacked up next to the schedule of the Palm Springs Power, a summer collegiate baseball team. Below that was a chart of the state’s most wanted criminals.
He hung up and leaned back in his chair. “What’s up?”
“I was wondering if you located Rydell’s next of kin yet. It’d be nice to talk to someone who knew him; otherwise it’s going to be a very short story.”
Larson shook his head. “No, we have not located any relatives. What I can tell you is he has no criminal record and got his first California driver’s license four months ago without surrendering an out-of-state license.”
“So he either just started driving after moving to California, chose to take the full driving test rather than turn in his out-of-state license, or lost his old license.”
“Right.”
Sam saw no reason to share Rose’s observations about Rydell’s odd behavior or the argument with George Manuel, but to show good will and the spirit of cooperation she offered Larson a bone.
“It’s possible he dabbled in small time drug dealing.”
“What makes you think that?”
“In his bedroom was a small digital scale, the kind dealers use to weigh out drugs. And in an empty linen closet I suspect you’ll find cocaine residue on the middle shelf.”
Larson’s chair squeaked as he sat forward and wrote on a legal-sized yellow note pad. “You saw a scale?”
Sam had seen it, just not in person. It showed up in one of the photos taken at the apartment, visible thanks to the flash. “It’s on top of the dresser in the bedroom.”
“Apparently we missed it. Or somebody didn’t think it was important.”
“Maybe your officers don’t share my same checkered past.”
Larson smiled. “By the way, Tom McDermott says hi.”
Sam was surprised into momentary silence. Tom McDermott was the first cop who befriended her in those early, anxiety-filled months of her crime-beat career. Thanks to his acceptance, other cops trusted Sam and so began her network of police sources. Besides giving her credibility, Tom taught Sam much of what she knew about police procedure and cop psychology. Now in his fifties with a weakness for Guinness, Tom was straight out of a dime novel and knew it, never missing a chance to play up the stereotype.
“You know Tom?”
“We have some mutual friends,” Larson explained vaguely.
“In other words, you were checking up on me.” Sam kept her voice level.
“Can’t usually trust you media types.”
Sam detested being referred to as the media and its tacit insult. She gave Larson a cool stare. “That’s funny; a lot of people feel that way about the police.”
Larson tensed for the briefest of moments then relaxed and nodded, “Fair enough. Look, I’ve come across a lot of irresponsible writers, just like I’m sure you’ve met some bad cops. There’s nothing I hate more than finding out about a case by reading it in the paper. I don’t like being shown up, which some newspaper guys seem to live for. But Tom assures me that’s not your style, so I’ll help you whenever I can as long as it doesn’t compromise an investigation. You just need to follow the rules and play fair with me.”
Something in his tone put Sam on edge, but she resisted the temptation to say what she really felt—that she was too experienced and proven to hear lectures about playing nice and he could shove the rules up his ass. Instead, she stood to go and said, “Thank you, Detective, I appreciate it.”
Her next stop was the Palm Springs library. Actors like Konrad were used to signing autographs so it would be second nature to use her full name. But the photo in Jeff’s room was signed simply Ellen, indicating a more personal acquaintance between them. Rather than dick around with Atkins, Sam decided to go to the source. But first she wanted to know more about the charismatic woman who was using her considerable charms to woo local voters. She spent the next several hours scanning old newspaper interviews and articles, putting together a profile of the actress and the woman.
As Sam rewound the last microfilm, two things struck her. First, she was intrigued by Konrad’s decision to retreat from acting to focus on small town politics. Although she accepted occasional film roles and high profile TV guest spots, politics currently seemed her primary interest.
And now little more than a year after moving to Palm Springs she was running for mayor and, according to polls, enjoyed a double-digit lead over her opponent.
Sam looked at a recent news photo of Konrad. She had turned thirty-six in April but could easily pass for someone at least ten years younger, a blessing no doubt due in part due to her well-documented passion for exercise and fitness, to the point of religious fervor.
“Yeah, that and really good genes.” Sam stared at the astonishing face smiling back at her. It was easy to see why Ellen was regularly named to various Most Beautiful lists.
Both her children were attractive enough teens but neither possessed the stunning looks of their mom. Ellen was one of those women who grew more gorgeous as they aged, their features becoming more defined. Especially for her daughter Anne, it had to be tough growing up in Konrad’s high-wattage shadow.
Rubbing her achy eyes, Sam also found it curious how little had ever been written about Konrad’s childhood and youth. Just that she was from Indio and was an only child home-schooled by her parents who died within months of each other shortly after she moved to LA when she was twenty-one. Sam went into the bathroom and called Monica.
“Could you please do some quick research for me?” Sam asked her to have the Weekender’s library clerk pull clips on Konrad’s early years.
“Do you want the clips left on your desk?”
“No. Just hold onto everything and I’ll call you back. I’m going to try and talk to her later this afternoon.”
“Got it. Also, you have a message from Rose. She said you had the number.”
“Okay. One last thing. I need you to call a friend of mine named Mike Lewis who works at AT&T.” After reciting the number from memory she added, “Tell him that Alpha and Omega miss him and that I need a favor.”
“Is that some kind of code?”
“Yeah, they’re my dogs. That way he’ll know the request really is coming from me. I need Ellen Konrad’s home phone number and address.”
“What if she doesn’t subscribe to AT&T?”
“Won’t matter. He’s a world-class hacker for hire.”
�
�And why am I calling this hacker instead of you?”
“Because he’s also a world-class talker, and if I call, he’ll keep me on the phone forever. If you call and tell him I’m in the field waiting, he’ll give it to you within minutes. So thank him for me, and tell him his case of wine will be delivered shortly. Just put me on hold while you call.”
Sam left the bathroom to get a drink from the water fountain then leaned against the wall to wait. The library was fairly full; mostly elderly readers taking advantage of the magazine racks or the computer terminals. She wondered if this was a sneak preview of her own future forty or fifty years down the road: alone except for library reading buddies.
“Kill me now.”
“What?” Monica was back on the line.
“Nothing—just having one of my Black Irish moments.” She wrote down Konrad’s information. “Thanks much.”
“You’re welcome. Also, the library said they don’t have any childhood background on Konrad, only recent information.”
Sam breathed out an irritated sigh. She forgot the Weekender’s limited resources. “Okay, never mind. I’ll check in later.” She started for the exit then impulsively went back into the bathroom and called the Motion Picture Academy’s film library in Beverly Hills. She asked for the research desk and told the librarian, Mrs. Ingles, what she wanted and was told to call back in fifteen minutes.
She killed the time by reading the bulletin board and checking to see if the library carried her most recent book. It didn’t. She thought of the box of books in her storage bin and made a mental note to anonymously donate a copy. After waiting an extra five minutes, Sam called Mrs. Ingles back.
“Hi, this is Sam Perry calling about the Ellen Konrad material.”
“Yes, Ms. Perry, I’m afraid we can’t be of much help.”
“Why?”
“I can’t find any family background material at all, other than what you already have.”
“You’re sure?” Sam asked more out of frustration than thoroughness.
“Quite sure, dear. It’s as if Ellen Konrad didn’t exist before she made her first movie.”
