“Speaking of which,” Syd said, climbing out of the car. “When do you want to stop by the Lotto office and pick up your check? You don’t have much time.”
“I’m not sure,” Ryan said, his eyes searching the restaurant’s patio. He picked out a pretty blonde ushering a couple to their table. “That looks like her.”
Syd spotted her. Actress pretty, Syd thought, with a bit of attitude. She fit the roommate’s description. “Let’s go find out,” she said.
They caught up to Abigail Granger at the hostess stand, introduced themselves and Abigail led them to a small office behind the bar. Her eyes were bloodshot; it looked like she’d been crying. She may have hated Colin Wood, Ryan thought. But there was a lot of love there, too.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Ryan said.
“Yeah, yeah; fuck him,” she said, fighting back tears. “He was a selfish SOB, you know, and was always cheating on me. And I’d catch him and we’d fight, and I’d leave… then a few days later he would call, or stop by with flowers, or send some guy with a mandolin who’d sing kitschy Barry Manilow love songs and I’d melt and go back to Colin and he’d promise to never cheat on me again.”
“But he would,” Syd said sympathetically.
Abby nodded. “I’m such a sap. And now,” she said, the tears flowing, “and now he’ll never call again.”
Ryan had seen a lot of people grieve. Some of the most anguished and heartfelt had actually turned out to be the killer, so Ryan never let himself be swayed by public displays of emotion.
Ryan had taught Syd this, but needn’t have bothered. Syd’s own life lessons had taught her to never trust anyone. And as she and Ryan watched Abigail Granger weep, Syd looked at her blonde hair, remembered Colin Wood’s roommate’s story about Abigail hitting Colin with a frying pan and Abigail’s notorious temper. When Abigail regained her composure, Syd asked, “Do you have any idea who may have wanted to kill Colin?”
Abigail looked confused. “I thought you said it was a robbery?”
“There were certain elements at the crime scene to suggest it might have actually been a premeditated murder,” Ryan said.
“Just for the record,” Syd said as casually as possible while she flipped open her notepad, “where were you between the hours of midnight and two a.m.?”
“In bed, asleep.”
“Can anyone confirm that?” Syd asked.
Anger flashed in Abigail’s blue eyes. “Are you saying I’m a suspect?”
“You can’t be a suspect if you have an alibi,” Ryan said.
Abigail stuck out her hands. “Then lock me up officer because I was alone in my apartment and unless you can get my cat to talk, I’ve got no way to prove it.”
“We’re not here to arrest anyone,” Syd said. “We’re just trying to get some information.”
“Oh, I get it,” Abigail said. “You heard about some of the fights Colin and I had. Well just because I hit him with a frying pan, backed over his foot in my car and stabbed him in the hand with a fork doesn’t mean I killed him.” Abigail let the words hang in the air, then seemed to hear what she said and started laughing. “Okay, maybe it does sound like I killed him.”
Syd laughed too. “Actually, we’d heard only about the frying pan.”
“Okay, look,” Abigail said. “I’ve got a temper, and I can be a bitch, I admit it. But I didn’t kill Colin, I swear.”
Syd believed her. And it would be easy enough to show Abigail’s picture to the bartender to confirm it. She glanced at Ryan who seemed to agree.
“You have any idea who might have wanted him dead?” Ryan asked.
“If it helps,” Syd said, “he was spotted at the crime scene with a beautiful blonde.”
Abigail’s hand involuntarily touched her hair. “Ah, now I get it. ‘Beautiful blonde,’ guess I should be complimented.”
“Do you know of any women who hated Colin,” Ryan pressed. “And forget hair color; people wear wigs.”
Abigail concentrated then revelation lit up her face. “Something happened a year or so before I met Colin, which would make it like three years ago — he was accused of date rape. He wasn’t arrested or anything, but I know there was an investigation, and she threatened to sue him, but Colin’s dad ending up paying her off and the whole thing went away.”
“Do you think Colin was capable of date rape?” Syd asked.
“Date rape all depends on your definition of no, doesn’t it? There are a few times in my life when I’d say no, but the guy didn’t listen, kept kissing, rubbing, begging and I’d eventually give in; well, in my head that’s still date rape.” She looked at Syd. “That ever happen to you?”
Syd thought of her stepfather. “More than a few times.”
“So,” Abigail said. “Sure, I can see Colin crossing someone else’s line. It’s all perception, after all, isn’t it?”
“Do you know this woman’s name?” Ryan asked.
“No, sorry, I only know the story because Colin got drunk one night and told me. Not one of his proudest moments. But I’m sure his dad knows the name, he wrote her a check, right?”
“We’ll ask him,” Ryan said.
“Look,” Abigail said, glancing into the restaurant. “Is there anything else, I’ve really got to get back to work.”
“You’re an actress, right?” Ryan asked.
“Yes.”
“And I bet you keep some headshots here, just in case you meet a producer or director.”
“And you’d like one to show that bartender or whoever to see if I was the one that killed Colin. Sure, no problem, I’ll be right back.”
Abigail hurried off.
“The date rape sounds promising,” Syd said.
“Speaking of which, did you mean what you told her. About being date raped?”
“Of course not,” Syd said. “I was just trying to earn her confidence.”
“Good,” he said, taking her hand. “I hate thinking anything terrible ever happened to you.”
Anything terrible, indeed, Syd thought.
Syd grew up in Kansas City, Missouri, daughter of Todd Curtis, an eighth grade science teacher and Amanda Curtis, a registered nurse. The first nine years of young Syd’s life were blissfully normal until her father fell in love with the school principal, another man, and they ran off together.
Feelings of abandonment rocked young Syd. Not to mention confusion; her daddy left home for another man?
Her mother didn’t fare any better. Humiliated, she started self medicating from the hospital’s pharmacy. And drinking. And ignoring her daughter.
Then a white knight showed up, Doctor Jay Stevens, an ER doctor Syd’s mother met at work. He had a drug problem, too. Speed. And he drank more than a bit. So they had a lot in common. When Syd was twelve, they got married.
Syd never liked Doctor Jay. He had this way of looking at her that made her skin crawl. She learned the perfect word for him when she was older. Smarmy.
Doctor Jay was, of course, lusting after the sweet, redheaded darling. And on her fourteenth birthday, when Syd was asleep in her bed, and her mother was passed out on the couch, a drunk Doctor Jay stumbled into the birthday girl’s room, took off his clothes and climbed into bed next to her. She awoke with a start; Doctor Jay clasped his hand over her mouth, told her to do what he said or he’d kill her mother.
And so it went for three years. A thoroughly confused and conflicted Syd, afraid for her mother’s life, afraid to lose another father figure, submitted her body to repeated abuse. Once she tried to tell her mother, but as soon as Mom realized where the conversation was going, she shut her daughter up. She didn’t want to hear what she suspected. She didn’t want to lose another husband, no matter how high a price her daughter had to pay.
Always a loner with few friends, the shame and guilt of her stepfather’s abuse isolated Syd even more. She felt trapped and truly alone.
Then, late one cold February night, Syd heard Doctor Jay pull into the garage. On nights
when Doctor Jay worked this late, he usually came upstairs to Syd’s bedroom and stinking of bourbon, would slip into her bed. But tonight, she didn’t hear the dreaded sound of the car being shut off, the garage door closing, the kitchen door opening and his feet on the staircase. Tonight she just heard the sound of the car, idling in the garage.
She realized he’d probably fallen asleep after pulling into the garage. It had happened before. Too bad he didn’t close the garage door, she thought. Then the car’s exhaust would’ve filled the garage and he’d die of carbon monoxide poisoning.
Epiphany. Just because he didn’t close the door didn’t mean someone else couldn’t. She tiptoed into the hallway and peaked in her mother’s room — she was out, snoring. Syd snuck down the stairs and silently opened the door to the garage. Yep, there he was, asleep behind the wheel of his BMW.
Syd put her finger on the garage door button and hesitated. She knew pushing it meant going through a one-way door. She’d be a murderer. If caught, she could go to jail. If God was more than a psychological crutch, she could go to hell. But if Doctor Jay was dead, she’d be free.
She pushed the button.
His asphyxiation was ruled an accidental death. Syd had gotten away with murder.
But if Syd thought getting rid of Doctor Jay would fix her life, she was wrong. Her mother plummeted into alcohol-drenched mourning. She took her grief out on Syd, snapping at her, hitting her. Then her Mom had the audacity to throw Doctor Jay’s molestations at Syd, accusing her daughter of trying to seduce her husband, trying to steal him away. That did it. After committing cold-blooded murder, the decision to run away seemed easy.
Where to go? Why Hollywood, of course. Syd had always daydreamed about being a famous actress. That’s where her mind would flee when Doctor Jay would paw her.
Syd had some money saved, almost two thousand dollars, enough to get to L.A. The rest; finding a place to live, getting a car, finding an agent, Syd figured, would take care of themselves. The next morning, instead of going to school, Syd boarded a Greyhound bus.
Three days later, a stiff and bleary-eyed Syd finally pulled into Hollywood. It was midnight when she stepped into a practically deserted bus station. She looked at a wall full of hotel advertisements, found a cheap motel about three blocks away and started walking down Cahuenga Boulevard.
The adrenaline that had fueled Syd’s escape had drained by now, leaving her bedraggled, inside and out. She had a purse, a backpack and a suitcase which she rolled behind her.
A van suddenly screeched to a stop next to her, the side door slid open and three men leapt out. They grabbed Syd, shoved her into an alley. One guy snatched the suitcase, another used a knife to cut the straps of the backpack and the third ripped the purse out of her hands.
They were Hispanic, wired on something, twitchy. Two of the men tossed the goods in the van as the third man pressed Syd against the alley wall, shoved his hand under her blouse and said, “Don’t scream, don’t fight and you might live.” His pupils were the size of golf balls. He pressed himself against her as the other two returned, lust in their eyes. Syd realized she was going to be gang-raped.
Then a shot rang out. All heads spun to see a man standing in the mouth of the alley, backlit by a street light, a huge automatic in his hand, pointed at Syd’s attackers. He pistol whipped the man closest to him, shoved the barrel of the gun against the forehead of another and hissed at them in Spanish. Clearly terrified, the men scrambled back into their van and with a screech of rubber, fled.
“You all right?” the man asked his voice now gentle, concerned.
Syd nodded, grateful. The man was tall, lanky and shaved bald. And though he seemed scary as hell with that gun in his hand, there was something incredibly soulful about him. His eyes were dark brown with a few flecks of green and he had thick, sensuous lips. Then she realized, “Oh, my God. They got all my stuff. My clothes, my money…”
“Do you have any friends in L.A.? Is someone waiting for you?”
She shook her head as tears formed. “No.”
“Then let me be your friend,” he said, sticking out his hand. “My name is Ernesto.”
Ernesto.
Her savior.
Oh, that first night, the night he rescued her, Ernesto was so charming. So caring and gentle. He gave her a glass of wine, scrambled her eggs, told her he was a musician, singer-songwriter, and he was just a couple of weeks from recording his first CD. Then he kissed her. It seemed so natural, so right. Then they were naked. Ernesto was the first man she’d ever made love to she’d wanted to make love to.
Afterward, he pulled a joint out of the bedside table and lit it up. He took a deep drag and offered it to Syd. She’d never had grass, though most of her friends had been smoking for years. She didn’t like what the booze and pills did to her mother, didn’t want to be like her. But now, she had a new life, maybe even her first boyfriend, and she didn’t want to offend him, so… she took a hit. It was an A-bomb. A joint laced with heroin. The smoke filled her lungs, and as the heroin invaded her brain, it metabolized into morphine, the sweetest of all drugs, and she was transported to a blissful euphoria she didn’t know could exist.
She was hooked. Just like Ernesto knew she would be. And he had another runaway for his stable of young hookers, willing to do anything to keep the sweet nowhere flowing through her synapses.
Ernesto ran anywhere from three to six girls. The number fluctuated depending on who found God that week, OD’d or crawled home. They lived in a cramped two-bedroom apartment in the same building.
He recruited his girls from the Greyhound bus stop. It was the loaves and fishes of desperate females, delivering a seemingly endless bounty. And he usually recruited them the same way he’d rescued Syd.
The three guys who robbed Syd worked for Ernesto. His miraculous appearance in the nick of time was all part of the plan. The grateful teens almost always went home with Ernesto. So not only was he able to steal all their valuables, within a few days he’d usually absconded with their souls.
Syd went to Ernesto’s best customers first — the guys willing to pay extra for a seventeen-year-old girl. These were guys he knew, guys he could trust. Because even though he was willing to whore her out, Ernesto actually kind of had a crush on the cute redhead, and didn’t want anything too horrible to happen to her. They lived together as boyfriend and girlfriend, and Syd couldn’t be happier.
Looking back, Syd realized she was living in a drug-induced haze. It numbed her to the strange men who violated her body two or three times a day. It numbed her to the life Ernesto’s other girls were leading — sent out to the streets to give blowjobs in front seats or spread their legs in rent-by-the-hour motels. Or the girls sent out on special assignments and came back battered and bruised by Ernesto’s more violent customers.
It took almost eight months before Ernesto got tired of Syd. And he moved Syd out the same way he always did — he gave her something she’d love more than him. The needle.
Ernesto was always very careful to make sure Syd only smoked or occasionally snorted her heroin. You get hooked, but it’s a manageable situation. Two to three times a day at the most, and you can live an almost normal life, for a hooker. But once you mainline, once that pretty poison is shot directly into your veins, the jolt is all you live for. All that matters.
So when Ernesto was ready to move Syd out and another pretty young thing in, he convinced a stoned Syd to try the needle, just once, just to see what it feels like. Of course it felt wonderful.
And suddenly, when Ernesto said, if you move into the apartment with the other girls, I’ll give you another fix. Sure. I’ll give you another fix if you troll Hollywood Boulevard for blowjobs. Love to. There’s a frat party that wants someone to strip and gang bang. I’m your girl. I’ve got a friend who’s into a little S&M. Bring him on.
Syd did anything and everything. She ate little, living on Chablis and potato chips. Soon Syd was bone thin and had the same glazed pod-person
stare as her roommates. She was eighteen years old. A drugged-out sexual automaton going through the motions and her expiration date was coming due.
Then she OD’d. It was an accident, and if one of Syd’s roommates hadn’t been there when it happened, she would have died.
Enter Eric, EMT.
Eric Templeton, to be exact. An army vet, Eric was just twenty-five when he wheeled Syd out of the apartment. He had served two tours in Iraq as a medic, and then joined the fire department when he got home.
Eric fell in love with Syd on the ride to the hospital. Sitting in the back with her, wiping the sweat off her face he stared, beguiled, at all the freckles. She looked so beautiful but so broken.
Eric had been to the Vine Street apartment before; another OD. They saved a young black girl; as soon as she was revived at the hospital, a slick bald dude paid her bill and walked her out the door. A cop filled him in; the girl was a hooker, the guy her pimp. Eric and his partner were called back to the apartment two months later; the black girl had OD’d again. This time they were too late; she was dead.
Well, not again, Eric vowed to himself. This time he was going to save her. Once Syd was stabilized at St. John’s, he grabbed her chart, wheeled her to the fifth floor and hid her out on the maternity ward.
Eric watched, amused, as the blustering Ernesto freaked out when the hospital couldn’t find her, but what was he going to do, call a cop? The pimp finally stormed out yelling that he’d be back and they better have his niece. Niece, right.
When Syd regained consciousness, Eric was at her side.
“Where’s Ernesto?” she asked through chapped lips.
“Gone. But I’m going to help you.”
Panic filled her eyes, sweat beaded on her body, muscle spasms rippled her body. She was in withdrawal. “I need a fix…”
“You keep shooting heroin you’re going to die. You know that, right?”
In Cold Blonde Page 6
