All That Glitters (7 page)

I braced my hand against the arm of the couch and managed to sit up. “The cabbie thought you were a hoot.”

Apparently oblivious to my discomfort, Laura kissed my cheek. She smiled and wiped a spot of cold cream from my nose. “You must be feeling a ton of pressure. I mean, it's laughable to believe you'd think you're even qualified to write a screenplay.”

Laughable? I arched my back, my spine popping like popcorn. “Do you still feel it was a mistake to invite me along?”

“I shouldn't have said that.” Laura stared at her hands as if she had more to say.

I didn't like the way she avoided me while picking at her glossy red fingernails. “Something else on your mind?”

“If we're going to be married, we shouldn't have any secrets from each other.”

Where did women get ideas like that? A few secrets were okay with me. “Of course.” From her expression of dread, I didn't want to hear this.

“Several months after you left for Florida, I met William Powell at a party—”

We both jumped when the phone rang.

Laura hurried to answer it.

What time was it? I stumbled across the room. Doubled over in pain, I must've done a passable Groucho Marx imitation.

As Laura answered the phone, I yanked open a desk drawer and pulled out a flask I'd unpacked earlier.

“This is Laura.”

As she listened, I took a sip of whiskey. After another, I slowly managed to stand.

Laura's mouth opened, and she sucked in a gulp of air. Her face faded to a ghastly white. “Of course…come right up.” She hung up and stared vacantly across the room.

“What's wrong?”

She grabbed the flask and tossed back a long swallow. “That was Todd Carville. He's downstairs.”

Todd Carville, in the lobby?
“What does he want at this hour?”

“Eric…” Her voice sputtered. “Eric's dead.”

Laura gathered the pillow and blanket I slept on and dashed into the bedroom to freshen up. I struggled to recover from my few hours on a cramped couch. As I pressed my thumbs into my back and arched my spine, the bones sounded like a string of firecrackers on the Fourth of July.

In the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face. The mirror told me to slick down my hair. The stubble on my face felt like tree bark, but I had no intention of changing clothes or shaving.

I returned to the living room and struggled into my tuxedo jacket.

Laura burst into the room wearing a slip, with freshly combed hair and perfectly applied makeup. She gasped. “You're going to wear
that
?”

“Why not?”

“Todd Carville will be here any second!” She rushed into the bedroom.

I didn't care if Roosevelt was about to enter our suite, I was too tired and sore to make an effort. I buttoned my tuxedo, covering the barely noticeable bloodstain on my shirt.

Someone rapped on the door. Todd Carville, eyes dazed behind wire-rimmed glasses, stood beside a man I hadn't seen in years, former L.A. patrolman Gus Connolly. With a granite face and gray bloodshot eyes, Gus looked like he hadn't slept well…in years.

However, my former drinking buddy had gained a few pounds of mostly brawn. The gray sprinkled in his hair gave him a sophistication I'd never expected back in the day.

Todd shuffled toward the couch. He sat and buried his head in his hands.

Gus hung his hat on the coatrack and flashed a detective badge. “You remember me, flatfoot?”

He'd always called me flatfoot. Toward the end of my time in L.A., like now, he didn't speak the word in a playful manner.

Up close, I got a better look. He had on a cheap gray suit, the kind mostly worn by people on a cop's salary. The knees were worn like he'd spent too much time praying or shooting craps.

Freshly polished oxfords seemed out of place, as if Gus had just tossed a shoeshine boy a quarter for a fresh shine. In the old days, he'd worn a uniform with pride. In the years I'd been away, he could have used help in the suit department. The stubble on his chin suggested a long day, like mine, so I cut him some slack.

He ignored my offered hand, stepped forward, and inhaled. With an arrogant smirk, he grabbed the flask off the desk. “A bit early for scotch, isn't it, Jake?”

I considered offering an explanation, but I didn't owe him one. Gus was a good cop back in the day, Irish to the core. We'd shared beers from time to time. Then a bribery scandal rocked LAPD. The city hired me and a dozen other Pinkertons to conduct an investigation. Even cops like Gus, who we exonerated, never forgave us. A lot of his buddies lost their jobs. Perhaps I'd feel the same if I were in his shoes.

He dropped into the desk chair, unlaced one of his oxfords, and began to massage his foot. Probably pain from walking a beat for so many years.

I couldn't help chuckling. “And you call me flatfoot.”

Holding his shoe, Gus struggled to his feet as Laura entered the room in a belted print dress I recognized from New York. Her quick transformation was complete. She appeared as if she'd slept eight hours and primped for another.
Actresses.

“Laura Wilson, this is Detective Gus Connolly.”

She glanced at the shoe in his hand. “Nice to meet you, Detective.”

“A pleasure, ma'am.”

“Likewise.” Laura hurried toward the couch. “Oh, Todd.” She sat and wrapped two motherly arms around him. “I'm so sorry for your loss. You okay?”

Todd swallowed hard. “It's such a shock.”

I pointed toward the balcony.

Outside, Gus sank into a chair. He massaged his foot with one hand and lit a Camel with the other. He blew a long plume of smoke in the direction of the Hollywood sign. “You always were a lucky guy, but I never figured you for the Hollywood crowd.”

“What gives, Gus?”

He handed me a business card identifying him as an LAPD detective in the Homicide Division. “Seems like a clear case of suicide to me. Single gunshot to the temple. Eric Carville was in bed with a pistol in his hand and a suicide note in a typewriter on his desk.”

“Then what brings you here, especially at this hour?”

“Beats me. I should be home soaking my dogs in Epsom salts. An hour ago, I'm interviewing witnesses. I guess your name popped up 'cause the next thing I know, my sergeant is sending me here to beg you to come back to examine the crime scene.”

“You want
me
to help with a murder investigat
ion?”

“Guess you didn't hear me right, Donovan. My
sergeant
wants your help, not me.”

“Why's Todd here?”

Gus shrugged. “I just do what I'm told.”

“You came quite a ways for nothing. I promised Laura I wouldn't get involved in any more detective work.”

“A promise is a promise.” Gus slipped his shoe on and tied the laces. “I can't wait to tell my sergeant.”

With a semblance of determination, Todd appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Donovan, my father and I would appreciate your assistance. I'm sure the detectives are excellent, but if you can help in any way…surely a few minutes of your time wouldn't be asking too much.”

Earlier, his father hadn't taken no for an answer. A part of me wanted to throw Todd's request in his face, but he'd lost a brother. “I promised Laura my detective days were over.”

Laura stepped on to the balcony. “Jake, I think you should help.”

“What?”

She held up one hand. “I know. I know. Forget what I said before. If you can help the LAPD, then I think you should.”

“Help?” Gus smiled at Laura. “In my opinion, ma'am, LAPD needs help on this case as much as a bat needs a tricycle. I'll drive Mr. Carville back to his father's place, and—”

“Just a moment, Detective.” Laura took my hand. “Jake, the papers will be all over this in the morning. If the case isn't handled right, the studio could end up with a black eye.”

I didn't care about the Carvilles or their studio, but I sure cared about Laura's career. “If you insist. I'll make sure things are handled correctly.”

Gus let out a groan. “Oh, boy.”

Laura patted her hair. “Let me get my hat.”

“Why?” I followed her inside.

“I can't go looking like this.” She headed for the bedroom.

“You're not going.”

Laura froze in anger a moment then burst out laughing. “For a minute there, I thought you were serious.”

Gus stepped into the room and checked his watch. “The sooner we get going, the sooner we can get you back to”—he gazed around the suite—“your Hollywood lifestyle.”

I glanced down at the clothes I'd worn all night. “I should change.”

“You'll be fine.” Gus grabbed his fedora from the coatrack.

Laura returned with a lemon-yellow hat on her head just so.

Todd gently touched Laura's sleeve and managed a frail smile. “I'm glad you're coming along, Laura. I think you'll be a comfort to my father.”

Gus glanced at the typewriter. “Mind if I borrow some paper, Jake?”

“Help yourself.”

The detective snatched the sheet from the typewriter. I'd only written one line, so I let him have it. Gus folded the paper in half and stuffed it inside his suit coat.

Laura and I sat in the backseat, while Gus drove. Todd sat beside him, staring out the passenger window. The detective hadn't wanted me to return to the crime scene, and I hadn't wanted to go, yet here I was. The uneasy quiet engulfed the car like a Frisco fog.

“Say something,” Laura whispered as we drove through the Hollywood Hills toward the Carville Estate.

Hoping to revisit friendlier times, I cleared my throat and caught Gus's attention in the rearview mirror. “Whatever happened to that cute redheaded waitress at Manuel's you always flirted with?” I snapped my fingers. “Alice something.”

“She was
something
all right.” He sounded less than enthusiastic. “We got married.”

I squeezed Laura's hand. “Wonderful.”

In the mirror, Gus glared. “Divorced six months later. Half my check goes for alimony. Thanks for asking.”

I should've kept my mouth shut.

“Alice runs off with her boyfriend, and I pay alimony. This a great country or what?” Gus glanced at me over his shoulder. “I think you know the bum. Harvey Grossman.”

“Harvey?” My old Pinkerton boss in the L.A. office. Somehow, I felt responsible.

“Who's Harvey?” Laura asked.

Harvey was a mouse of a guy, balding back then with a bad comb-over. Dames never tossed him a second glance, but I managed to get him out of the office from time to time. Manuel's became his favorite place to hang out. “My old boss when I was a Pinkerton.”

“You should've kept quiet,” Laura whispered.

I shot her a look but had no intention of saying another word.

Wisps of pink and orange colored the sky above the Hollywood Hills as Gus drove into the circular drive in front of the massive house. He parked behind a police cruiser, a meat wagon, and a black sedan.

We went inside the quiet estate, where a uniformed policeman stood sipping a cup of joe. Todd slumped down on the marble bench where Laura and I had waited just a few hours earlier.

Gus led me toward the stairs. “The victim's upstairs.”

When Laura followed, I froze. I didn't want her involved any more than she already was. “Darling, I thought you came along to comfort Todd.”

Laura groaned. She'd never shied away from a crime scene.

Gus backed me up. “It's a crime scene, Miss Wilson. No place for a da…a lady.”

“One moment, Detective.” She led me away and lowered her voice. “I think I have an interest in this.”

“What if the cops are wrong and Eric's death wasn't a suicide?”

“Then I definitely want to take a look. Why should you have all the fun?”

“If someone bumped off Eric, it could get dangerous.”

“Danger. Are you forgetting how helpful I was when you returned to New York and things got really dangerous?”

I hadn't forgotten. “Someone needs to stay with him.”

With swollen eyes, Todd sat on the bench staring at his shoes.

“I suppose you're right.” She squeezed my arm. “Be careful. Don't say anything stupid.”

Stupid.
Why would she think that?

“That detective looks like he wants to be the one to throw the switch on the electric chair with you in it.”

“They don't use the electric chair in California. This is the West. They still hang people.”

“That makes me feel so much better.” Laura smoothed my tuxedo jacket. “You should've changed.”

I kissed her cheek then followed the detective up the stairs.

Gus led me down the corridor. “Good thing Miss Wilson stayed behind. My sergeant's a stickler for details.”

“Do I know him?”

With a smirk, Gus opened the door to Eric's room and led me inside. “Jake Donovan's here, Sergeant.”

Inside stood a woman with her back to me, wearing what looked like a uniform: white shirt and skirt and royal-blue jacket. She clutched a black leather purse as she stood beside Eric's dead body.

When she turned around, I let out a gasp. “Annabelle.”

She chuckled. “I see Gus didn't tell you I was the one who asked for your help.”

“Guess it slipped my mind.” Gus scratched his chin with a satisfied smirk.

The outfit didn't flatter her, but the years had been kind to Annabelle Church. When I worked for the Pinkertons, she was ambitious, athletic, and one of L.A.'s first female police officers. Now her hair was short, styled in the manner of a woman who didn't have much time for hair.

We'd dated once, perhaps twice. Details about a group of regulars who used to hang out on Saturday nights got blurry. I did recall going out had been a mistake. She became clingy and possessive. Some of the fellas insisted Annabelle had fallen for me, but that was crazy talk. I'd broken it off with her before things got awkward. We remained pals and drinking buddies.

Her friendly welcome told me she didn't hold a grudge. She probably didn't even remember we'd had a date.

I was happy things had turned out well for her. Annabelle had advanced to homicide detective, a sergeant, at that. Although I knew only a handful of female detectives, I wasn't surprised by her success. She'd always aimed high.

Trying to hide my shock, I surveyed the crime scene. Eric lay on his back, on rumpled white sheets, staring blankly at the ceiling. He wore boxers, no shirt. A dark blotch matted his hair, and blood spatter covered the pillow and the side of the bed. His right hand clutched a pistol.

There was no sign of a struggle in the room. Beside the bed, a half-full bottle of hooch and an empty glass sat on the nightstand, which had an open drawer. A half-smoked cigarette with a two-inch butt lay in a brass ashtray. Clothes were casually draped over a chair in the corner. On the far side of the bed, a typewriter sat on a rolltop desk. Something was typed on a sheet of paper, apparently the suicide note.