Scavenger hunt

by Robert Ferrigno

  "I feel honored."

  "I recognized your name as soon as you called. I have a subscription to SLAP." Chase turned the pages, showing off photos of herself with Erik Estrada, Heather Locklear, the Channel 13 weatherman, Regis Philbin, Vince Vaughn, Ronald McDonald, Johnnie Cochran, and the woman who played Buffy the Vampire Slayer. "I have subscriptions to twenty-three magazines, although actually they're in my dog's name." She laughed. "That way when the bills come, I just throw them away, and they can't do anything about it."

  "Clever."

  "Do you know Tom Cruise?"

  "Ah, no."

  "How about John Travolta?"

  "Afraid not."

  "Oh, poo." Her perfect mouth grimaced for just a moment. "I'm a born-again Christian, but I've heard that Scientology is the most popular religion in Hollywood. I wanted to know if it would be worth it for me to convert. Career-wise speaking, I mean."

  "Maybe we could talk about Heather. I can ask around about Scientology for you when I get back to the office, see if it would be a good career move."

  She touched him on the wrist, the scrapbook sliding across one bare leg. "That would be so sweet." She glanced toward the dancing vegetables. "Junk food! Enter stage left!" She waited until a group of candy bars and chocolate chip cookies had trundled onstage before turning back to him. "Now, where were we?"

  "You were going to tell me about you and Heather. Mrs. Gifford said that the two of you were best friends."

  "The very best." Chase patted her heart to prove it.

  "You have a lovely tan. Did you and she used to go to the beach together?"

  "Even though you don't know Tom Cruise or John Travolta, I bet working at SLAP you still must meet lots of famous people."

  "A few."

  "That's what I thought. You know, it's so interesting you calling me up about Heather after all these years. You won't believe who I got a call from just a couple of months ago. Take a guess."

  "Garrett Walsh."

  She slapped his knee. "You cheated." She growled for him. It was kind of cute. "Can you believe that man actually called me up and wanted to get together? After what he did to poor Heather? Can you believe that?"

  "Did you get a photo of the two of you?"

  Chase slapped his knee again, harder this time. "I'm going to have to watch my step with you-you're a smart one." She flipped through the scrapbook to a section titled, "Chase's Brush with Death," and there was a Polaroid of her touching heads with Walsh, the two of them preening for the camera. "I thought he was making a comeback, but look at those clothes of his. He smelled bad too." She brushed the photo with a finger. "I look good though, don't I? You'd think I was having a grand old time with him, but you'd be wrong. That's acting. I have an associate degree in theater arts from Orange Coast College. Four-point-oh average too." She smoothed the page of the scrapbook. "Garrett Walsh asked if I used to go to the beach with Heather, just like you did. He wanted to know if we had ever gone to Hermosa before, and whose idea it was."

  "What did you tell him?"

  She looked at Jimmy, and her eyes were clear and sweetwater blue. "I told him to fuck off and die." She glanced at the stage. "Junk food!" Candy bars bumped into each other, startled. "I don't feel the danger! Threaten me! I want to feel it!" She turned back to Jimmy. "I saw the picture of you in this month's SLAP. I like a good scavenger hunt myself. What does a girl have to do to get invited to one of those parties?"

  "I'll talk to Nino."

  "Just like that? I always knew it was just a matter of meeting the right person." Chase smiled at him, and it was a shy smile, innocent as milk, but he could see her earlobes flush with blood. She riffed through the scrapbook, stopping at the "Chase and Heather" section. "As you can see, Heather and I were a couple of regular beach rats," she said, pointing out the two of them posing astride the bronze Seal Beach seal. "That last summer anyway." The following pages were filled with snapshots of the two girls lying on the sand, playing Frisbee, and frolicking in the waves. Chase looked younger, but Heather could have passed for eighteen easily-no wonder Walsh had been fooled.

  "Where was that one taken?"

  "Sunset Beach. We used to hit Sunset regularly. The best boys were there."

  "What about Hermosa?"

  Chase glanced at the stage, then back at Jimmy. "Couple weeks before-before she died, we started going there. Heather said she was bored with Sunset. I wasn't, but Heather, she always knew best."

  "You must have seen Walsh's beach cottage on TV after she was murdered. Is that the area where you used to go?"

  Chase nodded. "You wouldn't think such a small house could cost so much money. Do you have a house on the beach too?"

  "How did you end up in that particular spot?"

  "I don't know. Who remembers things like that? We just parked the car and started walking until we found a place for our towels." Chase tightened the knot in her shirt. "Heather probably was the one who decided. She was very selfish."

  "You and Heather went to the beach together all that summer, but not on the day she was murdered."

  "We were supposed to go to there together, but at the last minute Heather called up, said she was staying home. Just like that. Didn't even apologize. Like my feelings didn't count. Then she goes to Hermosa without me."

  "After she was murdered, did you tell anyone about her changing plans?"

  "Does Tom Cruise ever show up at those scavenger hunt parties?"

  "Did you talk to the police about her changing plans?"

  "No, but some man in a nice suit came by the house, said he heard that Heather and I wanted to be in show business. I thought he was an agent or a producer, but my father confronted him, and the man admitted that he was working for one of Walsh's lawyers. My father almost hit him." Chase shook out her hair, and Jimmy smelled her perfume. "Do you believe in guardian angels? Well, if it wasn't for my guardian angel, it would have been me murdered in that beach house that day, not Heather."

  Jimmy stared at her.

  Chase flipped through the scrapbook, her fingers knowing just where to go, right to the section titled "Chase's Beauty Pageant." The first page showed a younger Chase wearing a short evening gown and a bright yellow sash. "I was in the Young Miss Whittier pageant with Heather. She won, and I was first runner-up. I would have won, but my face broke out the night before, a real Vesuvius, and all the makeup in the world couldn't cover it up." She touched Jimmy's face. "Men-you can have a black eye, and it makes you look kind of sexy. But for a girl, any imperfection-forget it." She stared at her runner-up photo. "If it wasn't for those zits, I would have won, not Heather. Then it would have been me in the beach house with my head broken into pieces."

  Jimmy was confused. "You think winning that contest got Heather killed?"

  "We prefer pageant." Chase turned the page, scanning the photographs of herself and Heather, arms around each other, hugging for the cameras. "Why else would Garrett Walsh have made love to her? She was beautiful, but without that gold crown, she would have been a nobody."

  "Chase, how would he have known she was Young Miss Whittier?"

  "She would have told him, silly. That would have been the first thing out of her mouth." Chase turned the page, distracted now. Most of the photos in this section were of Heather. "I know that's what I would have done."

  Jimmy had a headache. The Butcher-Darryl-beat him up with a basketball, Chase did it with conversation. "That last week did Heather seem different? Did she talk about anyone new that she had met?"

  Chase shrugged, turned the page. "These are some bathing suit shots I had taken at a sportswear show. A lot of actresses got their start modeling."

  "Was she more excited than usual? Buying lots of clothes, full of big plans?"

  "You should have heard her going on about her new agent." Chase turned the page, smiled at her own photograph. "An L.A. agent. I got so tired of hearing her brag-"

  "When did she get the agent?"

  "Right after she won the pagean
t. You believe that? Nobody else ever got an agent for winning, not for Young Miss Whittier anyway. Like maybe you got a job modeling sportswear at the Tustin Mall or-"

  "What was the agent's name?"

  Chase tapped a photo of herself modeling lingerie, a wispy red bra and panties set. "Do you think I need breast augmentation? Be honest."

  Jimmy could feel his heart pounding. "The agent. What was her name?"

  "You think Heather would tell me? Probably afraid I'd steal her away. The only thing she told me was that her agent was a size twenty-four with big hair and lots of flashy rings. Heather thought that was so Hollywood." Chase smoothed down the corner of a curling photo. "She should have been my agent. If my face hadn't broken out-"

  "Did Heather tell anyone else about this woman with the big hair?"

  "Just her mother. It was like a big secret. She only told me so she could rub it in." Chase smiled to herself. "I guess I got the last laugh. That agent of hers never even came to Heather's funeral. I looked all over for a woman with a helmet head and lots of rings; I stopped a few that looked like they might be in the business and said I was seeking representation, but they looked at me like I was crazy. What a waste. I brought my portfolio and everything."

  Jimmy stared at her.

  "What? Like you wouldn't, if you were me?"

  "Was this agent at the beauty contest? Maybe the organizers would-"

  "I told you, it wasn't a beauty contest, it was a pageant, and no, the agent wasn't there. Heather said it was the photographer at the pageant, the one taking the official shots, who lined her up with the agent. If I had known that at the time, I would have been nicer to the little creep. And no, I don't know his name either. The way he was looking at Heather made me feel like I was just a porker in a dress standing next to her. Don't think she didn't love it too."

  Jimmy reached for the scrapbook. "Please?" He turned back to the first photo, the eight-by-ten of Chase with her first-runner-up smile. "This is the official photograph, isn't it?"

  "Yeah."

  "May I?" Jimmy had already started pulling off the photo, being careful not to tear the backing. COPYRIGHT BY WILLARD BURTON was stamped on the back.

  "Geez Jimmy, what are you so happy about?"

  Chapter 29

  Helen Katz was already hammered by the time Holt walked into the Blue Grotto. She had staked out a prize booth in the corner farthest from the street and was slouched there by herself, smoking a cigarette under the no smoking sign. Her table was strewn with beer bottles and a near-empty bowl of salted peanuts. None of the other cops in the place came near her, clustering in twos and threes at the long bar, mostly men, but a few women too, the uniforms pounding on each other's shoulders as they watched the game on the overhead TV, or sitting in the other booths bitching about the day, the bosses, the gangbangers, the stupid civilians, the squad car with the busted springs. Katz was hammered, but she spotted Holt immediately. She wasn't the only one.

  Holt surveyed the dingy saloon, then walked over to the bar and edged herself in beside a couple of boozy retired narcs. She said something to Rufus but had to repeat herself a couple of times before he nodded. There was something about the sight of Holt leaning against the bar in her designer suit, taking in the fishnet hanging across the fly-specked backbar mirror, a gold mermaid and carved wooden fishes caught in the net-it pissed Katz off. Holt didn't belong here. If she wanted to talk to Katz-and what other reason would she have for walking into a strip-mall Anaheim cop hangout?-she could have called, left a message, sent a fucking carrier pigeon. Heads turned, following Holt's progress across the crowded room, and that didn't improve Katz's mood either.

  "I hope you don't mind a little company, Helen," said Holt, sliding into the booth.

  "I don't like pretty women."

  "I can understand that."

  Katz felt her cheeks flush. "Jimmy sent you to ask a favor? He think I'll cut you more slack than I'll cut him?"

  "Jimmy doesn't know I'm here." Holt turned as Rufus brought over two glasses and a bottle of blue agave tequila. "Thank you."

  Katz waited until Rufus lurched away. "Is it my birthday?"

  "I remembered that's what you were drinking at the wake for Mack Milner."

  "I drank it because it was free and I can't usually afford the good stuff. That don't mean I like it," said Katz.

  Holt poured herself a double and downed it in one smooth movement, her eyes on Katz the whole time. "Then drink your beer."

  Katz smiled and filled the other shot glass. The tequila was as warm and smooth as she remembered, burning all the way down. She topped up her glass and did the same for Holt, noticing how small the other detective's hands were, smooth and white. Katz's thick-knuckled hands seemed like paws in comparison. So what? Let Holt try to take down a tweaked-out biker with those manicured hands of hers. She checked the bar and saw Wallis watching the two of them; he turned away, taking a sudden interest in the beer tap in front of him. Good idea. Wallis still had a hard-on at Katz for sending him packing at the Luis Cortez crime scene, but not enough to try staring her down.

  "You have an admirer," said Holt.

  "It's a lonely job, but somebody's got to do it." Usually Katz would have bit Holt's head off for a remark like that. The good booze must be making her mellow. "You think the grand jury is going to indict Strickland? Courts officer told me some of your witnesses were going south. I'd hate to see that bastard walk."

  "So would I." Holt sipped her second drink, watching Katz. "I heard you were involved in an altercation at the coroner's office."

  "I don't have altercations, lady."

  Holt covered Katz's drinking hand with her own. "It's Jane. Or detective."

  Katz stared at Holt's hand, but Holt didn't remove it. Katz liked that.

  "There was an argument," said Holt, sitting back now, taking her hand with her.

  "I get in lots of arguments. What's the big deal about this one?"

  "Jimmy thinks Dr. Boone make a mistake on Walsh's autopsy. Actually he thinks a lot of things, but none of them follow unless the forensic report was wrong, and-"

  "And when you heard about me getting in Boone's face, you thought maybe Jimmy was on to something?"

  Holt nodded and finished off her drink. The woman could put it away. Katz liked that too.

  "He's a hardhead," said Katz.

  "He's a pain in the ass," said Holt.

  They clinked glasses. Katz savored her drink, reveling in the slow sensuality of the agave. Holt looked tired. Close up there were wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and dark circles under her eyes. "You worried about him?"

  Holt stared right through her.

  Katz lit another cigarette. "Jimmy told me about a love letter Walsh got in prison and a script he was writing." She exhaled a plume of smoke. "A real cock-and-bull story about an angry husband who had it in for Walsh, angry enough to frame him for murder, angry enough to drown him in a fishpond and make it look like an accident. Knowing Jimmy, I'm sure there's other things he didn't tell me." She blew a perfect smoke ring, a halo drifting over Holt's head. "I don't know if Jimmy is really on to something. I just figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt."

  Holt raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

  "Why?"

  "Why would you give Jimmy the benefit of the doubt?"

  Katz shifted her weight. Her limp, wrinkled gray suit fit her like a hippopotamus's skin, and she knew it. "He did a good deed, a favor for a dead kid I knew. Didn't even bother telling me about it. Got me to thinking maybe I had been wrong about him."

  "Maybe you have."

  "Don't worry, it's not like I'm going to ask to wear his letter sweater."

  Holt cracked up at that one, but she wasn't laughing at Katz. She just thought it was funny, and Katz laughed along with her.

  "So what happened at the coroner's office? Did Boone blow the autopsy?"

  Katz shook her head and stubbed out her cigarette on the side of the countertop. "All I know for certain is he
doesn't like having his work questioned. He's going to dislike a lot more things before I'm done with him." She suddenly leaned across the table. "Just for curiosity's sake, who does Jimmy think the angry husband is?"

  "Jimmy's not sure either."

  "He's got an idea though," said Katz. "Guy like Jimmy, he would have to have an idea."

  "Yes, Jimmy has never lacked for ideas." They bumped hands reaching for the bottle, and Katz deferred, let Holt pour. "Do you know who Mick Packard is?"

  Katz squinted, her head throbbing from the tequila on top of the beer. "The actor? Mr. Macho? He's the angry husband?"

  "Jimmy thinks so."

  Katz watched her. "But you don't."

  Holt shrugged. "Jimmy talked to Packard's wife, Samantha. The woman admitted that she and Walsh had an affair way back when, but said that she had never written Walsh a letter. She also said Walsh never even told her that he loved her."

  "So what? I'd lie too if I thought it would get me off the hook. Mick Packard's supposed to have a bad temper and not be afraid to show it."

  Holt circled her glass with a forefinger, around and around. "Jimmy said the same thing. Samantha thought he was writing an expose, and she was scared. She knew what her husband was capable of-that's why she lied."

  "Makes sense to me."

  Holt looked up from her drink. "Not to me. A woman lies about a lot of things. She lies about her age, her weight, even her sex life. But denying that a man ever said he loved her?" She shook her head. "A woman doesn't lie about that."

  Katz stared at her and finally nodded. Holt knew what she was doing.

  Holt checked the room, then inclined her head toward Katz. "Jimmy might be wrong about Mick Packard, but if he's right about Walsh being murdered"-her eyes were unwavering-"if he's right about that, then whoever killed Walsh isn't going to like Jimmy asking questions."

  "You're worried about him?"

  "Jimmy takes too many chances."

  Katz stifled a belch. "I consider that one of his few good qualities."

  Holt laughed, clicking glasses with Katz, and the two of them downed their shots.

  Katz could barely hold her head up. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I don't know if Walsh was murdered. I doubt he was. I just don't like Boone coming on like an asshole when I ask him a few questions."