“Why don’t we get right to it?” Horn said. “Did you have her killed?”
“The direct approach. That usually goes over very well in court,” Lombard said with amusement. Then his expression turned serious. “No, I did not. Nor Miss Montag either.”
“Somebody tried to kill Dolores Winter and her ex-husband the other night,” Horn said. “Do you know—”
An unguarded look resembling total surprise passed over Lombard’s face for a few seconds. Then he recovered. “I don’t know anything about that,” he said in a flat tone.
“Thanks for all the information,” Mad Crow said sarcastically. “Could be God’s truth, could all be bullshit.” He swigged most of his ginger ale. “Anything else before we leave?”
“The police have been around, and you’re the reason,” Lombard said to Horn, some of the politeness dissolving from his voice. “I’ve nothing to be afraid of, but I won’t pretend it’s not an inconvenience. Whether we like each other or not shouldn’t matter. My main reason for asking you here was to tell you what I can and assure you that my hands are clean. You’ll either believe me or you won’t.”
“All right, fair enough,” Horn said. “Then you shouldn’t mind a few questions.”
Lombard stirred his drink briskly, then gestured with the straw for Horn to go ahead.
“About twenty years ago you gave a party,” Horn began. “It was New Year’s Eve, and Alden Richwine let you use his house. Rose was your hostess. A young girl named Tess Shockley was killed there, in one of the upstairs bedrooms—” Lombard’s eyes widened for an instant. Then he resumed his lawyer’s face. Horn plowed ahead. “When Tess was dying, you and Rose and Alden put her in a car and dropped her off at a hospital. For years, Rose kept it all a secret. But then she decided to tell it all, how she and another person had killed Tess. You were one of the people she talked to, not long before she was killed.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Horn saw Willie Apples lift his eyes from the comic book for a few seconds, then resume reading.
“I think Rose was murdered—or ordered killed—by the man who was in the bedroom with her at the party that night. It might have been you. It might have been Dexter Diggs, who was also a guest—and who came to see you here in the hotel just the other day. It might have been someone else. But I want you to tell me everything you can. If your hands are really clean, the police will eventually stop bothering you, and so will I.”
He paused to catch his breath. “Talk to me, Mister Lombard. Make me glad I came to see you today.”
Lombard looked relaxed, his hands cradling his glass on his chest. He cleared his throat like a lawyer about to deliver his closing argument.
“First of all, Mister Horn, if you’d ever like a job as an investigator, I hope you’ll give me a call,” he said.
“He works for me,” Mad Crow said harshly.
“Of course. Well, let me deal with your questions as best I can. First of all, I’m afraid I can be of little help to you as to the events of that New Year’s Eve. I hosted a party. When something untoward occurred, I tried to render a service. Whatever I may have done that night, even if illegal, was of so little consequence that it’s no longer prosecutable. If you think otherwise, you would find it impossible to prove.”
He adjusted the lapels of his bathrobe and ran his hands through his still-wet hair. “With all that said, I can be forthcoming about some things. After several years, Rose reestablished contact with me just a few months ago. She asked to see me, and we met in this very hotel. She told me she had decided to tell the truth about the events of that night—”
“Tell who?” Horn asked.
“The police. She said she had decided to speak first to me and some others as a kindness, so we wouldn’t be surprised when she went to the police.”
“Exactly what was it she said she did?”
“I’m afraid she wasn’t specific,” Lombard replied. “Except to say she felt responsible for Miss Shockley’s death.”
“Alone?”
“No,” Lombard said with some reluctance. He paused, weighing his words. “She said another person was also responsible. She didn’t say who.”
“You didn’t ask? Weren’t you curious?”
“Of course I asked. She said the confession was to be her own and not a denunciation of anyone else. I pressured her, saying the police would not give up until she told them everything.”
“And?”
“She told me she wasn’t sure who the other person was,” Lombard said.
“Bullshit,” Mad Crow muttered.
“No, wait,” Horn said. “The lights were out.” He turned back to Lombard. “Isn’t that right? The lights were out part of the time.”
“Well…yes. I hadn’t really thought of that. But you’re right. The lights went out that night, more than once. That could be what she meant.”
“Some lawyer,” Mad Crow said in disgust. “You weren’t trying very hard to get anything out of her.”
“Look, I was trying to show her some consideration,” Lombard said heatedly. “It was an emotional moment for her. It’s obvious that just speaking to me represented an enormous effort for her. I didn’t want to make it any harder than necessary.
“Also, I soon gathered that she was asking me if I would consider representing her, even though she had no money. Naturally, I couldn’t have taken her case, because of my own involvement in the matter, however peripheral. As a lawyer, though, I could quietly give her advice, as unethical as that might have been—”
Mad Crow made a vaguely rude sound.
“It sounded to me as if she could implicate herself and another person in a capital crime, and I wanted to take my time, to be very methodical about gaining information. I was certain I would speak to her again, in my office, where I could take everything down.
“I was wrong. Not long after I saw her, she was dead.”
“She said she was speaking to you and some others before she went to the police,” Horn said. “Did she name any of them?”
“Let me see… She said there were four—myself, Alden Richwine, Dexter Diggs, and Dolores Winter.”
“Did she mention whether she had talked to any of the others?”
“Besides myself? I got the impression that she had. Some of them, at least.”
“Did you stay in touch with Dolores Winter?”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t actually know her at the party. She was just one of the crowd. Later, of course, I became aware of her as an actress and even met her. But I didn’t realize she had been at the party until Rose told me.”
“You’ve met her ex-husband, too,” Horn said. “In fact, you know him pretty well, don’t you?”
Lombard looked vaguely surprised. “How did you know that?”
“A certain policeman told me.”
“Oh,” Lombard said with a slight grimace. “Detective Coby. That’s right, I helped her husband in a dispute with his studio, while they were married. That’s when I met the estimable Doll Winter.”
“You stayed in touch with Alden and Dex all these years,” Horn said. “Why? And while we’re on the subject, what did you and Dex talk about when he came to see you?”
Lombard merely stared at him, lips pursed, as if weighing the benefits and hazards of answering.
“I know why he stayed in touch,” Mad Crow broke in impatiently. “To make sure everybody kept his story straight. To make sure nobody got nervous and caved in. Lombard tells us whatever he did that night, he can’t be prosecuted for it. I’m no lawyer, but I know the clock never runs out on a murder investigation. Maybe all three of these characters did something gruesome that night, along with Rose. And Jay Lombard, Esquire, appointed himself the drill sergeant to keep everybody in line. What do you think?”
There was some logic to that, Horn admitted. He waited for Lombard to answer.
The lawyer deposited his empty glass on the table and stretched his arms overhead. “I think I’ve had enough tim
e by the pool,” he said to Horn. “Your friend has overstayed his welcome. I hope I was some help to you. We won’t be talking again.” He jabbed the stub of his cigar into the sand.
“Bullshit,” Mad Crow said, his voice rising. “Horse piss.” He seemed almost drunk. Mad Crow sometimes put on an act, feigned drunkenness or loss of control, the threat of violence, as a way of intimidation. Occasionally it worked.
Mad Crow placed his own glass on the table heavily, and the loud crack it made on the glass top could be heard around the pool. Several people turned to look. The white-jacketed pool attendant picked up a house telephone.
Mad Crow got up and walked over to where Willie Apples reclined. “What’s that you’re reading, Willie?”
“Plastic Man,” Willie said, displaying the cover.
“He’s great,” Mad Crow said with a chuckle. “Turns himself into a table top, a beach ball, a fucking rubber band whenever he wants to. Can I see it?” He plucked the comic book out of Willie’s hands, studied it for a second, and then tossed it over his shoulder into the pool.
“Hey,” Willie said, the crease between his eyes deepening. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Willie, my boy,” Mad Crow said, leaning over him, “here’s my problem. Somebody killed my niece two nights ago. Got in her cab and strangled her to death. Probably did it by putting an arm around her neck from behind, the way you tried with me once. You taken any cab rides lately, Willie?”
“Not me,” Willie said, his expression almost guileless.
“Naturally we’re suspicious of the little lawyer you work for,” Mad Crow went on. “If he told you to do something, you’d do it. For example, what would have happened if John Ray had taken him up on the invitation to come up to the hotel room today? Would he be coming down the freight elevator right now in a laundry cart?
“But my brain has been so busy lately, I suspect just about everybody. Dexter Diggs, for example. Now that we know he and your boss get together sometimes, that makes me suspicious too. If Mister Lombard asked you to do a favor for Dexter Diggs, would you do it?”
No answer. Mad Crow leaned in closer. “Willie, I know you’re a very tough guy. You proved it with me once, and with my friend another time. But I’m ready to take you on. Round Two. Did you know I can swim like a fish? Once I get you in that pool, I’ll hold you under until you drown, I don’t care how fucking strong you are, you—”
“Willie.” Lombard spoke carefully. “Don’t.” Willie Apples was breathing deeply, his forehead knotted like a wood carving, knuckles white on the arms of the lounge chair. But he didn’t move.
“As long as we’re making threats,” Horn said, “Let me say one more thing. If I hear anything has happened to the Anchor mission—fire, flood, or anything else—I’m going to send the police right to you. Cross my heart.”
Affecting a bored look, Lombard turned his attention to the lapels of his bathrobe.
“Come on, Indian,” Horn said. “Let’s go.” Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the pool had emptied, the swimmers frozen in various eavesdropping positions around the sides. A man in a suit, apparently a hotel official, was talking rapidly to the pool attendant. “We don’t want to make a scene. The hotel might toss Mister Lombard out on his ear, just for attracting riff-raff like us.”
Mad Crow straightened up. “When I’m ready,” he said. He strode over to the brass canister, faced in Lombard’s direction, unzipped his trousers, fumbled with his fly, and positioned himself.
“Man, that ginger ale goes right through me,” he said with a giant sigh, never taking his eyes off Lombard’s. So quiet had the pool area become, the muted splashing in the sand carried clearly through the tiled interior.
“That’s better,” he said, zipping up. “The pause that refreshes. Ten, two, and four.” He dug into his pocket, found a dime, and flipped it onto the glass-topped table. “For the funny book,” he said.
Of the two dozen or so others around the pool, no one moved or spoke as the two men walked toward the doorway. As they passed a deck chair, Horn touched Mad Crow’s elbow, and they stopped. Eden Lamont was just getting up, retrieving a large towel and draping it over her arm.
“Hello,” she said. She wore a bright yellow one-piece Jantzen and a smooth suntan. “I saw your finale. It was very entertaining. I didn’t want to interrupt, though. Jay doesn’t like that. I’ll go join the boys now.”
“Eden Lamont, Joseph Mad Crow,” Horn said.
“I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t offer to shake hands,” she said.
For once, Mad Crow seemed at a loss for words. He just grinned.
“Thanks for what you did,” Horn said. He began to notice details about her appearance. One was a small, irregular ring around her left bicep. It looked like a tattoo in the palest blue, but it was a chain of faded bruises. And the left corner of her upper lip was slightly asymmetrical, puffy.
“Willie?” he asked, pointing to the arm.
“Jay,” she said. “He’s stronger than he looks. But I have to go join them now. Would you like to talk later?”
“If you have anything to tell me.”
“I believe I do.” She inclined her head slightly, indicating that he should step over to one of the columns, where they stood shielded from sight by Lombard and his companion. “No pockets in these things,” she said, reaching into the top of her swimsuit and plucking out a small, folded piece of paper. “This is an address on Wilshire,” she said, handing it to him. “An apartment building. I’ll be in the lobby tomorrow morning between eight and eight-thirty. I won’t be able to wait.”
She stepped out from behind the column, touched up her hair with one hand, and smiled in Lombard’s direction. “You’d better go now,” she said over her shoulder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
To Horn and Mad Crow, whose work and interests focused on quieter parts of the city, downtown L.A. was something of a novelty, a mix of sights, sounds, and smells, a place of tall buildings, jostling, well-dressed people, too many cars, honking horns, palatial movie theaters, jangling traffic signals, and trolleys that clanged and sparked. After leaving the Biltmore, they walked around until dusk, looking in the windows of stores and restaurants and at the passing parade on the sidewalk.
“Skirts getting longer,” Horn observed. “You notice?”
“Uh-huh. And hats getting crazier.”
For dinner, they settled in at one of Horn’s favorites, Cole’s Buffet, in the basement of the Pacific Electric Building, for French dip sandwiches and draft beer.
Later in the evening, Horn dropped off Mad Crow at his place, then made the long drive down through the Valley and across the Santa Monica Mountains to the Pacific, where he picked up the coast highway north to Culebra Canyon. As usual after a storm, the night air was pure and cool. His headlights barely pierced the dark of the canyon road. Halfway to the cabin, he spotted a coyote frozen momentarily in the lights, staring him down, before it darted away with a flick of its scraggly tail.
Once home, he undressed quickly, pulled the Colt from under the sofa cushion, then lay down and covered himself with the blanket. His tiredness, he knew, was a combination of the sorrow of seeing off Cassie’s body and the tension of the meeting with Jay Lombard. He wanted to pick through the latest bits of information, line them up for inspection. But an image of Cassie intervened. He saw her leaning out the window of her cab, cigarette dangling, looking him up and down and saying, “What do you want?”
Then, in half-sleep, he saw a shadowy figure reach for her from the back seat, the flash of her knife blade….
She stuck you, didn’t she, Mister Indian Killer? Was it bad? You killed her, but she managed to cut you. She was proud of her Indian side. Looks like you weren’t ready for it.
There are two of us after you now. And we’ll find you.
He was up early the next morning and, after shaving and cleaning up, on the road by seven-thirty.
The address Eden Lamont had given
him was an eight-story building on the north side of Wilshire, its higher floors within sight of MacArthur Park, a few blocks to the east. The building was called the Buckingham. By Horn’s rule of thumb, giving an apartment building a name usually signaled the intention of asking for an extra twenty bucks a month in rent.
Inside, the lobby was quiet after the hum of morning traffic on Wilshire, with a high ceiling, mirrored walls and overstuffed furniture. A uniformed doorman was behind a desk. In one of the front chairs near the window sat Eden Lamont. She wore a tailored suit, high heels, and a pillbox hat with veil wrapped around it. Beside her chair were two large suitcases, a vanity case, and a hatbox.
“Hello,” he said, walking over. “You’re all dressed up. So this is what a Goldwyn Girl looks like in the morning.”
“I’m not a Goldwyn Girl anymore,” she said. A cigarette with a long ash sat unattended in an ashtray on the large table in front of her.
“Oh,” he said, uncertain as to whether he should offer sympathy. “You don’t seem glad to see me.”
“Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind. Would you like to sit down? We don’t have very long.”
“You’re going somewhere.”
“Out of town. I have a cab on the way, and a flight out of Glendale. I’ll be gone for a while, actually. I’m going…well, I’m going home. To stay with my parents, and decide what I’m going to do next.”
“Why?”
“Why am I leaving?” She reached for the cigarette and found it had gone out. He shook one out of her pack on the table and lit it for her. “Do you remember the night we met? Of course you do. I had spent a lot of time with Jay, and I considered myself a fairly experienced girl. But until that night I had never seen anything like what happened out there in front of the car. At first I thought it was like the boxing match we’d just seen. But this was different—Willie was trying to hurt you badly. And the fact that Jay calmly ordered him to do it, that it seemed to be a natural part of their behavior…well, it horrified me. And it caused me to look at him in a new way.”
While I Disappear Page 30
