Alex Ames - Calendar Moonstone 02 - Brilliant Actors (27 page)

“Jail again, that fast?”

“Not yet, but I wanted to give you notice that I might end up there later tonight. This morning. Whenever.”

I could hear him rub his eyes. “What do you want me to do?”

“If you don’t hear from me within three hours, please come to my rescue in Redondo Beach. Either the police department or the local jail.”

“Don’t make a habit out of it, Calendar. These modern computers have a brain like an elephant. Once you’re in the system, you remain there.”

“Haven’t I heard that before? Wish me luck.” I hung up.

I stepped out of the garden gate onto the dead quiet Redondo Beach side street. Not a car in sight, no sounds from PCH, the quiet roar of the Pacific in the background. A minute later, a police cruiser picked me up, and the young deputy drove us in silence toward the Palos Verde peninsula.
 

The drive was just about ten minutes along Palos Verdes Boulevard, and then we turned into a private property that had a large front garden and a nice, big, fat white mansion on a small hill. A look to the right proved that the ocean was still there, a dark mass stretching to the horizon. This still had to be in the Redondo Beach city limits because the driveway before the mansion was filled with RBPD cars, including a van from crime scene investigations. “Who lives here?” I asked my deputy driver, curious. I hadn’t been aware that these properties existed in Redondo.
 

“John Propers,” was the curt answer.
 

I wasn’t sure whether I should fall in awe or just shrug it off. I’d never heard of this man.
If in doubt, shrug
—so I shrugged.
 

“Yeah, I don’t know who he is either,” said the deputy. “Some Hollywood guy. Here we are! Henry is waiting inside.”

I got out before he had the chance to open my door, and we walked past the front door guard into the house. Mr. John Proper seemed to be an important member of Hollywood and a successful one as well. Marble, granite, a Degas in the hallway, expensive drawings along the Hollywood show staircase that led to the upper rooms. Left and right through some large doors opened into some kind of living-dining room extravaganza. Straight-on offered a cinemascope view of the dark ocean and probably a garden with its own golf course. Some technicians were dusting for fingerprints here and there.
 

“Calendar!” Henry called from the door on the left and stepped toward us. “Thanks, Joe.”
 

Deputy Joe just nodded his head and walked back to whatever deputing he was supposed to do right now.
 

“Thanks for coming so quickly, even at such an early hour. I want to have your opinion on this.” Henry didn’t look tired, but he had a different demeanor toward me than six hours ago. His tone was all business and slightly edgy.

“You make it sound mysterious, the deputy and all.” I waved toward Joe.

“Oh, I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t have to drive here on your own at this hour.” He paused for a second as if to ask something, then didn’t, and led me upstairs. When we passed the beautiful Degas, I was tempted to touch it for a second; the colors were so dimensional and blinding that I was nearly swallowed by it, but I managed to keep my good manners and my fingers to myself.

“Who is John Propers?”

“I hadn’t heard of him before tonight either. There are some rich people in Redondo who simply like their privacy, spelled with a capital P. Propers is one of them. Exec with PPG Studios, rakes it in. This is the family mansion; he has a penthouse in Century City, too.”

“What happened?”

“Family was out for the day, came back in the evening, found their home burgled, called police, and went to their Century City home just a few minutes ago. Left us and the house staff to clean up. The burglar must have hit the mansion in the afternoon or very early evening; the cook came in around seven but only rummaged in the kitchen. Only after the return of the family was the break in to the safe discovered.”

“What was stolen?”

“Why do you think I called you? The Propers’ family got robbed of their jewels.”

“Got photos?”
 

“Mr. Propers was a very diligent man, had the jewels all photographed recently for the insurance updates.”
 

We reached the master bedroom upstairs, and the wood panels on one wall were removed, showing a Tattler-Knick wall safe, door open. Another crime scene technician was working around the safe, while two detectives were working the room.

On the bed, a series of photos were spread out.
 

Hello again … if those aren’t my wet jewelries from the pool.
“Nice stuff. He or his wife has good taste.”
 

Henry shrugged, and we went over to the safe.

“Any ideas who did it?” I asked and inspected the safe closely. No burn marks, no detonation marks.

“I think the same guy who did the other Hollywood celebs and execs. There are no marks; the safe has been opened clean without fussing. And most significantly: the burglar only took the jewels and left the papers and the dirty pictures.”

“Dirty pictures?” I asked and gave a confused smile.

“No, I made that up to rattle you.”

We shared a small laugh and looked at the policemen doing their work.
 

“Any luck with fingerprints?”

“None so far. We can’t dust the whole house; it must be close to ten-thousand square feet. So we concentrate on obvious place like railings, doors, and lamps.”

“Can I offer intuition for a place to search for prints? A hunch?” I asked.
 

What the hell? When Rip was trying to imitate me, maybe he even had the same impulses as I.

“Sure, that’s why I called you,” Henry said, raising an eyebrow.
 

“But you’ll need some special authorization for that from the owner. And probably from the insurance.”

“Now you’re really making me curious,” Henry said.

“Check the Degas for prints.”

“The what?”

“The large painting in the hall with the deep rich colors. When we got up here, I was tempted to touch it.”

“You shouldn’t touch it at all,” Henry said. “It must be worth millions.”

“That’s why. I just imagined our burglar moving through the house and pausing in the hall before that beautiful painting, taking it in for a minute, despite the pressure to break into the safe. Feeling the same temptation than I did. But because he is a burglar…”

“He eventually does it. Touching the painting because of some power game. And highly likely taking off his gloves. You are right, could be worth a shot.” Henry turned around. “Pauly, can you lift prints off an oil painting without damaging it or leaving marks?”

Pauly looked up from his task near the double bed. “Sure, I can’t use the usual stuff but can be inventive. Which one do you have in mind, Chief?”

“The Degas in the hall,” Henry said with faked authority.

“Ouch, that one costs millions and millions. We could truly bankrupt Redondo City. Are you sure you want to do it?”

“Are we insured if something goes wrong?” Henry asked Pauly.

“If this charade continues, the insurance will
not
pay a penny, Chief Steward!” Fowler Wynn shouted from the door.

Henry rolled his eyes, and I actually thought of hiding behind his back to escape Fowler’s scorn.

“Fowler, go back where you came from,” Henry said, annoyed. “Is there a household somewhere that you don’t cover? Like Alaska?”

“The police are inept and unsuccessful in finding the burglar. Maybe the police have already found the burglar and brought her to the scene.”

There was a moment of embarrassing silence while Henry computed Fowler’s accusation. Then, totally unexpectedly, Henry exploded, “Get off my crime scene! You are disturbing the investigation. I hope you will pay yourself silly over these burglaries and that your Christmas bonus will turn out to be a kick in the ass from the upper levels of Limes & Limes.”

Any other person would have turned red and started a shouting match with the local sheriff. But not Fowler. “Did you already check out Calendar’s alibi? In my opinion, the cat is straying around her home now.” He cast a significant look in my direction.

“I didn’t ask her and don’t plan to ask her,” Henry said evenly.

“You put a lot of trust into her, Chief—trust that is not rewarded. Trust me in that!” Fowler spat.

“Just because you played your little games with Calendar doesn’t mean that you own her!” Henry said and, to his surprise, noticed Fowler’s and my panicked exchange of looks. Did Henry suspect anything of our little deal and the deal gone wrong?
 

But Fowler was professional enough to throw daggers with his burning eyes again. “Make sure to get her alibi; that’s all I can say.”

“I don’t need an alibi from her. Because I
am
her alibi, you asshole!” the Chief rumbled, and you could hear a pin drop after that. Even the technicians and detectives had stopped working. Henry glared at them, and they quickly busied themselves again.
 

This time, Fowler actually turned red. You can always throw the Brits with sex, even fake Brits. He threw us some more looks and stormed off.

“Listen, Calendar, this is a very strange situation for me,” Henry said after he had stopped the motor of his cruiser in front of my house.
 

“Are you uncomfortable? With me? With the accusations?”

Henry looked ahead. “You know, when I first saw you, I was interested in you. You look great, you talk cultivated, and you look great. I said that already.” We smiled ahead. “Then I got to know you a little better, went out on two dates with you, and everything seemed to work out fine.”

“I noticed that you kept our work and my case out of the loop pretty well,” I said and moved my left hand over to his right. He took it, which was a good sign.

“Yeah, I tried, but that was the easy part. I don’t think that our destinies can be separated from our relationship any longer. You are accused of burgling Hollywood safes, and I am supposed to catch that sucker. And I am not sure, in the end, what will happen.”

I pressed his hand. “Henry, would you like to kiss me?”

He glanced over at me. “Sure.”

“That is a good sign that we are still on the same level as last night.”
 

Henry had to laugh at that.

“What if I told you that I can serve you Rip Delaware on a platter?”

“Why didn’t you say so earlier? Were you holding back all this time?” It was as if his worst fears were realized, and color drained from his face while he looked at me.

I patted his hand again. “Henry, calm down. I am not protecting Rip. I’ve been hunting him down. I don’t like him much. And most of all, he is not your rival.” It sounded like a line from a soap opera. That showed me how far my relationship skills had gone over the last years.
 

“He is my ticket out of this mess,” I added. “I have to corner him and get to the jewels he stole.”

“If you can prove that he did it.”

“I intend to. Any suggestions?” I asked.

“Proof is either there or it isn’t, Calendar. Don’t plan to fabricate any evidence; it quickly backfires. On you.”

“Rest assured, I am trying to clear my name, not dig my way deeper into troubles. It is him. What will the police or the district attorney need to build a good case against him?”

Henry gave me another sharp look and ticked it off his fingers. “He confesses. Or you find some of the loot in his possession. Or find evidence that he actually broke into the other Hollywood mansions. Like souvenirs or unique tools the police identified.”
 

He thought for a while. “But there is another important thing that may complicate things. From what I understood, the burglaries in question were spread over most of the valleys. It could mean that the jurisdictions could be difficult to sort out. I hope that won’t delay things until they clear you.”

“You mean, the dagger remains hanging over my head?”

Henry nodded.
 

“Speaking of daggers, I tried to contact you earlier, but you didn’t pick up the phone two hours before I finally got you.”

I managed not to grow beet red in the rising morning sun, and Henry saved me any embarrassment. “You probably slept soundly and missed the phone.”

I nodded gratefully, aware that he had offered me a line to save face and faith. “That must have been it. Slept deeply.”

We left it at that. I gave him a quick good night—well, morning—kiss and got out, and went inside. I just wanted to go to sleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

That Old Bag of Tricks

Bernie, Mick, the Mountain, and I were sitting in the Ventura Boulevard diner again. They had coffee, and I had my second quadruple espresso in front of me and lead-heavy eyes. From time to time, Mick’s cellphone rang quietly, and he listened for a few seconds and hung up again without having said a word.

“Movement in the house,” he said finally. One of Bernie’s gang was keeping an eye on Rip’s house from another angle of the housing complex where he could oversee the terrace and the living quarters. “Rip and his bunny just got up and are fixing breakfast now.” He looked over to my pitiful self and my drink. “Cal, you look like shit.”