“It’s a free country, last time I looked.” Joe looked over at the gate—it was barely visible against the blackness behind it, but it clearly hadn’t moved yet.
Jeff leaned forward, the camera on his lap, the long lens cold and hard like the barrel of his nine millimeter. He mourned the loss of the gun for an instant and then realized he liked the camera better.
Ron said, “So what broke?” Joanie Resnick had already been questioned half a dozen times. She had been out of town when her husband died, vacationing in Hawaii. Jeff had read about her in People magazine or somewhere. For a few months she was a very public Celebrity in Mourning, the grieving widow of Bel Air.
Joe cleared his throat and then turned to spit into the darkness. In the silence there was an audible plop from the far side of the road. Jeff saw him turn back and then bend slightly to peer into the car, past Ron to where Leanne sat. After a moment’s pause, the detective said, “Excuse me,” and then turned back to Ron. “Seems the lady had a boyfriend. Younger guy, Tony Petracca. Calls himself a musician, but Narcotics picked him up for selling an ounce of meth at some nightclub. So guess what he offers up?”
Jeff wondered why the cop wasn’t cold out there. A fog had drifted up from the ocean and the air was chilly for the first time in months.
Ron shrugged. “Something pretty good, I imagine.”
“Check this. Joanie Resnick finds out her husband’s playing spin-the-bottle with the beautiful people, and that it’s gonna happen again, this time in her house. She knows Marty likes his designer drug ’cause they used to do it together, back when they used to do it together, if you follow what I’m saying.” He cleared his throat again, started to turn, but then continued with his story.
“Before she left for her trip, she checked out his stash spot and found a full vial of the stuff. So she goes to her boyfriend and tells him if he gets her a six-hundred-dollar gram of pure china white, she’ll give him a new Porsche.”
“And then,” Ron filled in, “she dumps out the ecstasy and substitutes the heroin. Perfect.”
“Hell, I doubt she threw out the sex powder. Probably humped Tony all the way to Maui. Picked up some extra frequent-flyer points in the mile-high club. Anyway, you’ll like this part, she strings him out for the Porsche all this time, until a month ago.”
A car whispered by, heading up the canyon.
“Then what?” Jeff asked, looking out at the detective from behind Ron’s seat.
Jeff saw the cop look back at him in amusement, like he was a six-year-old who hadn’t been invited to speak.
“Then she dumped him. Told him to take a hike. Said she had someone new. A broad—Diane Cammell—maybe you’ll see her tonight.”
“She dumped him for a woman?” Ron chuckled. “And lets him walk? Now that’s called leaving a very loose end.”
“Yeah, well, go figure. Hey—” There was motion from the driveway. The gate was opening, and one of the other cops flashed his headlights for an instant.
The driveway snaked uphill, flanked by enormous hedges that were black against the darkness. The four cars wound their way up and into the estate single file. Jeff looked out through the rear window and saw the gate slowly swing shut.
At the top of the driveway they broke into a large circular area, fully illuminated, paved in bricks. Water danced in a brightly lit fountain at the center. The house cast a warm glow out onto the drive—it was a large pink two-story affair, lights blazing from every window. To the side he saw two double car garage doors, in front of which several cars were parked haphazardly. A forest green Jaguar sat just beyond the fountain.
Ron turned right onto the brick area and parked against the perimeter so that his—and Jeff’s—side faced the house. He had pulled forward just enough that the fountain no longer blocked the view of the front door.
Jeff watched as one of the unmarked cars circled and returned to the driveway beyond the bricked area, pointing his headlights back down toward the gate and stopping there. Joe pulled up just beyond the entrance to the house, while the third car stopped well behind.
Ron switched off the ignition. “Better roll down your window and get a clear view of the front door. Auto focus might not work in this light.”
Jeff rolled down the window and pointed the lens at the door, then zoomed in so that the doorway filled the viewfinder vertically. He touched the shutter release gently. The focusing mechanism zeroed in for a clear image and then overshot the mark, making the view blurry. It overcompensated the other way. He flicked a small switch on the barrel of the lens with his thumbnail and manually focused until he got a satisfying, razor-sharp image.
He heard car doors open and then shut. Following the sound, he swung the camera to the left until he saw Joe walking toward the house, accompanied by the cop who had ridden up with him. In the lens the man looked enormous; he peered over the camera and saw that he stood a good six inches taller than Joe. He thought of the huge cop slapping his nightstick in his palm at Lilah’s—it seemed like another lifetime ago.
Looking through the lens again, he watched Joe knock on the door. The sound carried in the night air. Only a cop knocked like that—they had a certain touch you could identify, like you could tell a real musician just by the way he tuned his instrument.
The door opened and a pretty blond woman stepped out. She was small, dressed in jeans and a light sweater. He pushed down on the shutter release. The camera made a noticeable sound, but the woman didn’t seem to catch it. Behind her, another woman appeared, tall, with closely cropped dark hair. He shot again and kept the button pressed, so that picture after picture was taken. He stopped as the blond woman, now handcuffed, followed Joe to his car, followed by the huge partner. He glanced over the camera again. The tall woman stood in the doorway with her hand covering her mouth. To the left of the entrance, a man peered out through a window. He was backlit, but looked oddly familiar. When he looked through the telephoto, the man had turned away.
CHAPTER 37
⍫
Art stood at the dining room window, watching as the detective helped Joanie into the unmarked sedan. A conversation from long before replayed in his mind: Don’t you think Tony is somewhat of a future liability? Cutting right to the chase—Joanie had called him about her husband’s murder investigation, telling him she was upset about how unsympathetic the police were being. What on earth are you talking about, Art? Joanie stonewalling, not ready to trust him with this.
So the punk had rolled over. It was inevitable, really.
And now, he wondered, how many of his girls had he brought up to Joanie’s? Marilyn? Yes, he remembered clearly bringing her to the house. Sandra—yes. And the Hunsaker girl. The nurse. She had been here too.
And Holly.
He looked out across the driveway, past the fountain. A Land Rover was parked there, occupied. He saw the black metal tube of a telephoto lens protruding downward from the back passenger window, clearly visible against the white of the door. When it lifted to point in his direction, he stepped away from the window.
Things were no longer going well. His amusements were becoming too dangerous.
Perhaps it would soon be time to move on. The Carolinas were nice. Or back to Canada, a fresh start. Or, if things really went awry, Australia. But he’d have to round up some cash first. He was broke and, with Joanie in jail, the tap was shut off. His façade was crumbling.
CHAPTER 38
⍫
It was a lovely mixture, Holly thought—the rich scent of leather and the mild spice of cologne that greeted her as she lowered herself into the Jaguar. Art closed the door and walked around the front of the car. He wore a tuxedo, his hair impeccably slicked back, and whistled as he slid into his seat and slid the transmission back toward drive.
He had told her over a week ago to keep this evening free, that something was coming up that would be “quite amusing.�
� Apprehensive at first, she thought that it sounded like a date—she was determined to keep a distinction between what he called “our little times together” and a real date.
She had been flustered when he appeared, punctual to the minute at seven, dressed so formally. Was she underdressed in her slacks and blouse and suede jacket? Art had smiled and assured her everything was fine, she looked lovely, and then, taking her hand, walked her briskly to his car.
“Okay, where in God’s name are we going?” She noticed that, even as he whistled, Art’s fingers drummed distractedly against the leather cover of his steering wheel, that he seemed agitated, irritable even.
His demeanor changed as he stopped at the light on Olympic. He turned to her as if he had decided to park the car there, in the left lane at the intersection, and put his hand on her shoulder.
“Holly, my dear, this evening is purely about entertainment. We’ve been entirely too serious for too long. It’s my turn on the stage tonight.” His hand lingered on her shoulder. The light changed and he didn’t move. The cars to their right began rolling forward. A horn blared from behind them. A flicker of annoyance betrayed Art’s smile for an instant—the smallest movement of his eyes—before he pressed the accelerator and the Jag’s powerful engine pulled them forward. They were heading into town.
They traveled in silence, Art expressionless, moving only to negotiate traffic, his eyes fixed forward, out over the green hood of the Jag. She pushed a button and Miles Davis picked up in the middle of a haunting trumpet solo.
Art turned up Doheny and drove as far as Santa Monica Boulevard, where he turned right. She couldn’t imagine where they were heading, nor could she reconcile the odd tension she felt emanating from Art with any possibility of an amusing—as he called it—evening.
Art turned down a side street. They were in West Hollywood now. When Art pulled the Jag into a parking lot adjacent to a large, older wooden building, Holly was surprised. The complex housed a theatre, a dance club, a restaurant, and a supper club, all catering to and dominated by a gay clientele. Ahead of the Jag, a tall woman wearing a man’s suit took a ticket from the attendant as she got out of her Mercedes. Her hair was short and dark, combed back—with a moustache, she would have looked like Robert Taylor. A platinum blond in a tight mini-skirt emerged from the passenger side, and the two joined hands as they walked toward the complex.
Art turned down the music and spoke for the first time in ten minutes. “Does that make you uncomfortable?” He pulled up to the parking attendant’s booth.
She raised her shoulders in a slight shrug. “Last I heard, we’re in the twenty-first century.” Tony had brought her here once, to the dance club—she had no idea why—and she remembered feeling distinctly uneasy at the sight of all the same-sex couples dancing.
A valet appeared and opened Art’s door, saying, “Good evening, Doctor Bradley.” Another attendant appeared at Holly’s side and waited as she stepped out onto the pavement. The lot was nearly full and it wasn’t even dark yet.
Art took her hand and walked her toward a brick stairway. At the bottom was a courtyard and, beyond it, a doorway set in a white-stone and glass-brick facade to this corner of the complex. Above the door, pink neon letters spelled out “Tulips” in a longhand script.
Inside, Tulips was an Art Deco affair, everything black lacquer on white with chrome and smoked glass. Small round tables with white tablecloths, each with its own black salt-and-pepper shaker and a red rose in a slender black vase, filled most of the room and surrounded a stage that was elevated about two feet off the floor.
A few people occupied the tables nearest the stage; she recognized them from the meetings. Ted turned and waved, motioning for them to come to his table. Art led her to the group, saying, “Thank you for coming. I have to go take care of some details,” and then walked up onto the stage and through the curtains at its rear.
Cynthia—the woman who had led the meeting several weeks before—sat across from Holly. Her dark hair was swept straight back and fastened with a clip. She leaned toward Holly and said, “Everyone else will be here in the next half hour. The whole place will be full.”
Holly looked at the stage, the single microphone on a stand, a row of six chairs facing the audience, and, beyond these, a drum kit flanked by keyboard and bass equipment. Turning back to Cynthia, she said, “What in the world is going on here?”
“You really don’t know?” Cynthia sipped at a martini glass. “Art worked his way through medical school as a performer. He hypnotizes people.”
“Yes, but now he just does it for fun,” Ted added. He wore an Argyle vest that stretched tight over the huge mound of his belly. Perspiration glistened on his soft pink features. “I plan to volunteer to be in the act.”
The room began to fill up. A waiter arrived at their table, a beautiful man with a pageboy haircut. He asked them, with exaggerated politeness, what they wanted. Cynthia ordered another martini. Ted and Holly asked for ice teas. As the waiter was about to leave, Holly asked, “Why is this place called Tulips?” The waiter placed a forefinger against his cheek and cocked his head slightly, looking down at her with a smirk. He said, “The owner had a friend who could do wonderful things with tulips,” and then turned to the next table.
The room was full when the lights dimmed at eight. The musicians took their places on the stage and began a light, jazzy shuffle. A spotlight circled the floor where the microphone stood, and a disembodied voice came over the house speakers, announcing “LA’s fabulous Art Bradley, the hip hypnotist.” The room broke into applause as Art stepped onto the stage and walked to the mike.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, my friends. In fact many of you I think of as my family.” He was the epitome of charm: poised, confident, a hint of humor in the glint of his eye.
“Thank you for your kindness in joining me for our little show tonight. I want you to know, first of all, that the proceeds from the ticket sales will go entirely to the SOL general fund—” applause “—where a portion of it will be used for sponsoring those who cannot otherwise afford to attend a Weekend Intensive at our Idyllwild workshop.” More applause.
“Now I’d like to tell you about our little time together.” He paused, clasping his hands together and surveying the room with a satisfied air. “The American Heritage Dictionary defines hypnosis as ‘A sleeplike state usually induced by another person in which the subject may experience forgotten or suppressed memories, hallucinations, and heightened suggestibility.’” Another pause, a benevolent smile, and he continued. “We all know that, in the hands of a qualified professional, the reclaiming of ‘forgotten or suppressed memories’ can be essential to recovery from a broad array of psychological and emotional disorders. Tonight, however, we’re going to have some fun with the ‘heightened suggestibility’ part. Oh, and forget about the hallucinations.” Laughter from the audience. Cynthia tilted her martini glass, set it down, and raised her hand for the waiter.
Holly watched, fascinated, as Art introduced his show. He had a patter, a shtick. It was almost grotesque, except that he pulled it off with such ease and charm.
“Okay, now I’m going to need six people up here”—hands shot up throughout the room—“and I guarantee that by the end of the session you’ll feel terrific, refreshed and full of energy like you’ve just had a great night’s sleep.” More hands were raised. Art started pointing to people, saying, “Okay, you, wonderful, come on up,” searching the room as though for the perfect candidates. The band struck up “When the Saints Come Marching In” as the volunteers made their way to the stage. When he had chosen five people, Art came to the edge of the stage and looked down at Holly, Ted, and Cynthia. For a moment Holly was afraid Art was about to recruit her, but both her table companions had their hands up and Art magnanimously selected Ted, who eagerly lumbered up onto the stage. Cynthia made a little spiral in the air with her index finger and rolled her
eyes, obviously feeling her martinis.
Art had the volunteers line up in two rows, Ted and the other two men standing behind the three women. He told the women to close their eyes and breathe deeply, to relax and trust the process. He carried the mike with him now, and walked from one woman to the next, reassuring them. He told them to start swaying back and forth, to keep their eyes closed, to notice the tranquility within them. As he continued to soothe the women, he moved to the one on the right, a large-boned blond in a short skirt, and gave her a gentle push backward. She slumped into the arms of the man behind her, who helped her back into a standing position. Art directed them to sit in the chairs on the stage, and then he pushed the next woman as she swayed. Eyes still closed, she too fell back and was caught, and she and the man who caught her seated themselves. Art stepped over to the remaining woman. She swayed slightly, but held herself rigid with her arms out for balance. Art tapped her on the shoulder and her arms rotated wildly as she tried to keep from falling backward into Ted, who stood behind her.
Art lowered the mike, but Holly heard him say to the woman, “I’m sorry, you’re too tense. Maybe some other time.” The woman left the stage and Art asked for another volunteer.
When all six of the volunteers were seated on the stage, Art told them to close their eyes and then led them in a deep-breathing routine. “Okay, we’re feeling very relaxed. There’s a sense of heaviness in our arms and legs, a wonderful heavy feeling, your hands, your head . . . You’re in a hammock. There are thick white clouds in the sky. Follow them . . . We’re friends now. When I touch your forehead you will fall into a deep sleep.” The keyboardist played an eerie sustained chord that shimmered while Art spoke.
“A magnet is pulling your hands downward. Now we’re going to go deeper than any sounds you might hear . . . Only my voice will matter. Nod your heads.”
Trust Me Page 17
