Blues in the Night (6 page)

“It was cool,” Studs agreed.

Not for Lenore, I thought, who would never again see the stars. “Then how did you see him grab her?”

“We heard yelling in the house, so we went there to see what was going down. They didn’t notice us. It was dark, and they were kind of busy.” He allowed himself a smirk.

“Did the woman call him by his name?”

“She called him a
couple
of names. Asshole, son of a bitch. Bastard.” The kid was off the hook now, grinning and enjoying himself.

“I think she called him Ronnie,” Abby volunteered.

Ronnie, or Robbie? “Did you hear him when he came back?”

“Nope. We didn’t stick around that long. We went back to Abby’s.”

“What about the woman? Do you know when she arrived?”

Both of them shook their heads.

I gave them business cards, asked them to call me if they remembered anything else, and headed back up the hill. When I looked back a moment later, they were back on the hood of the car, revving up their motors.

The gods would be proud.

ten

The fiancé opened the door. “Something else I can do for you?” he asked, smiling, one hand on the doorpost, the other in the pocket of his jeans. Welcome to my neighborhood.

“Leno wasn’t on that night,” I told him.

The smile slipped. The hand came down. “What?”

“You said you fell asleep watching Leno, but Leno isn’t on Saturday night.” Chugging up the hill had jogged my memory and produced this nugget.

He quickly regained his composure. “I didn’t mean Leno
specifically
,” he chided good-naturedly and chuckled. “I meant whatever was on TV. Are you reporting to Nielsen?”

I smiled to show I appreciated his wit. “It’s Robbie Saunders, correct?” A reasonable assumption, given the argument Studs had heard, and what Lenore had said about Robbie being very angry.

His frown confirmed it. “I’m not interested in being interviewed for your story,” he said, all traces of bonhomie gone from his voice, his body stiff as a plaster cast. “So if you’ll excuse me?” He took a step back and started to shut the door.

“We know Lenore was here that night.”

That stopped him. I’d debated going to Connors, and the
we
was my insurance in confronting a man who I thought had something serious to hide and might take extreme measures to keep it hidden. I’ll admit I was nervous.

He pulled the door shut behind him and eyed me coolly. “Am I supposed to know what the hell you’re talking about?”

“Your ex-wife?”

“I know my ex-wife’s name,” he said, giving me a steely look that could have razed a building. “I haven’t seen her in weeks.”

“She’s the woman who was injured by a hit-and-run driver on Laurel Canyon near Lookout Mountain. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

His face was a kaleidoscope of emotions that finally rearranged itself into dark somberness. “Lenore’s mother told me,” he said with what sounded like genuine concern. “I have no idea what Lenore was doing there. I was—
am
—terribly upset. Lenore and I have our problems, but I’ve never wished her harm.”

“Lenore thinks you’re angry with her. She said that’s why you haven’t visited her in the hospital.”

“I’m not angry with her. Things are—” He glanced behind him at the door, then faced me, his hands raised in helpless surrender before they dropped to his sides. “I’m in touch with her mother. She tells me Lenore is doing well.”

Either he didn’t know Lenore was dead, or he was pretending. I decided telling him would only infuriate Connors, who would want to gauge Saunders’s reaction when he learned the news. I also wondered why Betty Rowan had been evasive when I’d asked her what Lenore was doing near Laurel Canyon.

“I’m puzzled because when I talked to you earlier about the hit-and-run victim, you didn’t tell me it was your ex-wife,” I said. “Neither did your fiancée.”

“Because it’s none of your business,” he snapped, his voice rising along with the color in his face. “It’s not my job to feed the appetites of your voyeuristic readers. Is that it? Are you done prying into my life?”

“Does your fiancée know?”

“Yes, she knows.” He was glaring now. “Leave her out of this.”

“Mr. Saunders, don’t you find it an odd coincidence that Lenore was down the hill from your home when she was struck?”

He sucked in air, and I could see he was fighting for control. “I find it
very
odd. The police think she may have been disoriented.”

I nodded. “Because she was on antidepressants and sedatives.”

“I see you’ve done your homework.” He was assessing me, trying to figure out how much I knew.

“Why was she depressed?”

Something twitched in his face. “You’d have to ask Lenore.”

“But even if she was disoriented, Mr. Saunders, why would your ex-wife be wandering around in a nightgown near your home?”

“I have no idea.” He shrugged. “Maybe she had a nightmare. Maybe she was sleepwalking. She’s done that before.”

“Witnesses saw her run out of your house early Sunday morning.”

Saunders snorted. “You don’t give up, do you?”

I pulled a notepad from my purse and opened it to a page on which I’d scribbled my grocery list. “You followed and grabbed her arm,” I pretended to read. “She screamed at you, called you names. She told you she was going to kill herself.” I looked up.

“I was sleeping,” he said in a bored voice, a patient man indulging lunacy. “Who are these witnesses?”

I referred to the notepad. “You told her, ‘Make sure you do it right this time.’ ”

He shook his head. “Not a nice thing to say.”

The guy was cool, as Studs would say. “She ran down the hill. You followed minutes later in your car.” I put the notepad away.

“And then?” he prompted, the intensity in his eyes giving him away.

A welcome breeze feathered my face. “And then I think your car hit her.”

He shook his head sadly, my lunacy confirmed.

“Maybe it was an accident,” I said. “Maybe you went looking for her, because you were sorry about the argument, sorry about what you said. Worried about what she’d do to herself. It was a dark night, no moon out. Maybe you didn’t see her.”

“Maybe you’ve been in the sun too much.”

“If it was an accident,” I said, “they’ll take that into account. But you should go to the police before they come to you.”

“I’ve already talked to the police. They’re satisfied. Check my car.” He pointed to the Jeep. “Go ahead. You won’t find a scratch on it.”

“Body shops do good work.” I’d already given the Jeep and Mercedes a quick once-over, but unlike my brother Joey, I’m not an expert.

Saunders sighed and massaged the back of his neck. “Okay. Game’s over.”

“It’s not a game, Mr. Saunders.”

“It never happened. You’re desperate for a story. Who do you write for,
The Enquirer
?”

“Witnesses saw you with her and heard you arguing. Why don’t you tell me what happened? The police are investigating, they’ll talk to the same people I talked to.”

“This block is deserted, as you’ve probably discovered,” he said. “The people who live in the next three houses down have been on vacation since the beginning of July. Who are your witnesses, owls?”

“They were in the new house on Apollo.”

“No one lives there yet.” Half turning, he opened the door and stepped onto the stone floor of the entry hall, his smile smug. Checkmate.

“That doesn’t mean it was empty that night.”

“Lenore wasn’t here,” he said calmly, not missing a beat. He cocked his head. “How do you know your witnesses aren’t making all this up?”

“I don’t. That’s why I’m here, verifying the facts.”

“Verify this,” he said, and slammed the door in my face.

I was surprised he hadn’t done it sooner.

eleven

Friday, July 18. 8:08
A.M.
2500 block of Silverwood Terrace. A woman became angry at her husband and threw a frozen chicken at him. The suspect is described as a 52-year-old woman standing 5 feet 6 inches tall and weighing 170 pounds. (Northeast)

I’m an early riser, but I had overslept and was in my usual morning-after-the-fast state, sluggish and bloated, like a turkey on the day before Thanksgiving. I always eat too fast and too much. (Last night it had been a bowl of my mom’s to-die-for potato-celery soup, basil and tomato pasta, and Greek salad, followed by a pint of Häagen-Dazs Cookies and Cream from my freezer.) What bothers me is that I don’t seem to learn.

After showering and dressing, I swallowed two Advil tablets with my coffee and toasted English muffin, crunched a Tums for dessert, and after reviewing and e-mailing my
Crime Sheet
column to my editor, I set about preparing the Friday night Shabbat dinner I’d promised to make for the Birkensteins, the bereaved family my mother had told me about. I’m no Emeril, but I enjoy cooking and entertaining, and I had put my kosher cookbooks to good use when Ron and I were married. Living alone, it’s hardly worth the effort, so I welcomed the opportunity and couldn’t help wondering who, if anyone, was preparing meals for Betty Rowan.

With the phone receiver wedged between my head and shoulder, something that was beginning to give me a chronic pain, I phoned Connors and plucked chicken hairs while I told him what I’d learned. If my readers could see me now. . . .

“Proud of yourself, are you?” he asked when I’d finished.

“Are you going to talk to Saunders?” The chicken balded and rinsed, I washed two celery stalks, set them on the cutting board, and began slicing.

“For your information, we already did.”

“But that was
before
I told you what those kids saw.”

“Actually, Saunders came to the station early this morning to clear things up. He told us what happened. We’re satisfied he’s not the hit-and-run driver.”

I stopped slicing. “You’re kidding, right? They had a heated argument, Andy. He said he hoped she did a better job of trying to kill herself, then drove down the hill after her.”

“He told me all that. He realizes he should have told us she was there that night when we first talked to him, but he panicked. He didn’t want to get involved, have his name in the paper.”

I put down the knife and took the receiver in my hand. “But he
is
involved!”

“He didn’t see it happen. He looked for her because he was worried, but he didn’t see her. He drove about half a mile, then gave up and went home.”

I rolled my eyes though Connors couldn’t see me. “You actually
buy
that?”

“It was dark, Molly. No moonlight. He thinks she hid when she saw him coming and waited until his car passed her. She’s proud like that, he said.”

“Are you going to check out his car?”

“You keep asking that. What’s with you and cars lately? Are you opening up a dealership?”

Today his humor grated. “Well,
are
you?”

“We did—both cars, in fact. He’s not the guy, Molly. I know you’re disappointed.”

“There are body shops—”

“The paint is old,” he interrupted me, impatient. “There’s nothing to indicate that either vehicle was involved in an accident.”

I thought for a moment. “According to the police report, Lenore was hit at one forty-six. I assume that’s when it was called in, right?”

“Right. And before you ask, Saunders doesn’t know exactly what time she left, or when he drove down the hill.”

“Very convenient.”

“Was he supposed to check his watch? Oops, time to drive down the hill and slam the ex-wife.” Connors sighed. “Give it up, Molly.”

But I couldn’t. There’s a maxim in Judaic law that I learned in my high school Bible class:
modeh b’miktzat, modeh b’kol
. If someone admits he lied about part of a charge, chances are he lied about the charge in its entirety. Or as Bubbie G would say, “Half a truth is a whole lie.” I didn’t think Connors or a D.A. would appreciate Talmudic reasoning or a proverb.

“I just can’t believe he didn’t see her,” I said instead. “What if she was trying to run away from him, Andy? Maybe that’s why she didn’t see the car coming. Doesn’t that make him responsible?”

Connors didn’t answer right away. “It’s a possibility I’ve considered,” he allowed grudgingly. “Another is that he saw her on the way back, after she was hit, and did nothing about it. But we don’t have a Good Samaritan law, Molly. As to the first possibility, I can’t prove it, and unless I can, I’m going to leave it alone. Which is what you should do.”

“Why?”

He expelled a deep breath. “Do you know who Robert Saunders is?”

I frowned. “Should I?”

“His family is old money. Saunders is a land developer and he’s running for city council. He has a lot of supporters, including the mayor.”

I’m not much into city politics, so I wasn’t surprised that his name hadn’t been familiar. “You didn’t mention this before.”

“I didn’t know until yesterday, when Lenore’s mom clued me in.”

“If Saunders is running for city council, no wonder he doesn’t want all this to come out.”

“We don’t know that there’s anything to come out.”

“You know there is.”

“He’s well-connected, Molly.”

“So?” I didn’t like what I was hearing.

“So it’s not a good idea to sling accusations against someone like him unless you have solid proof. Which I don’t have.”

Anger stirred inside me. “
Please
don’t tell me you’re backing off because he has money and friends in high places. If you do, I’ll vomit.”

“Have you forgotten about presumption of innocence? Just ’cause he’s a politician doesn’t mean he’s a liar.”

“Can
you
spell Gary Condit?” I asked in a
Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood
voice.

Connors hung up. I turned on the radio to KF101, the oldies station. With my mind on Saunders and “My Boyfriend’s Back” in the background, I finished slicing the celery, chunked an onion and four pared potatoes, one red and one green pepper, some mushrooms, and spread everything on the bottom of a foil-lined baking pan. I sprinkled garlic powder and paprika on the chicken, which I placed on top of the veggies, then smothered everything with half a jar of sweet-and-sour duck sauce. It’s my sister-in-law Gitty’s recipe—easy and foolproof—and goes great with rice, which I planned to steam just before I delivered the meal.

I covered the chicken with tinfoil and set the pan into the oven. I phoned Connors again.

“What now?” he grumbled when he came on the line.

“I just remembered something else Lenore told me.”

Connors sighed. “Why am I not surprised?”

“When I asked her if she remembered trying to cross Laurel Canyon, she said everyone was asking her the same thing. You, her mother, Robbie. Why would Robbie care unless he was worried about himself? And when did he ask her, if he didn’t visit her?”

“Okay. Interesting.” Connors’s tone was grudging. “Is that it?”

“When I asked Lenore about her fight with Robbie, she said she promised not to tell.”

“This just came to you, did it? Or are you undergoing hypnosis?”

“Did Saunders say why Lenore was in his house, Andy?”

“Yeah, he did.”

“But you’re not going to tell me.”

“They say women are intuitive. I guess they’re right.”

“Come on, Andy. Give.”

“The man’s entitled to his privacy, Molly. I know that’s hard for you to accept.”

“Her car wasn’t there. So how did she get there unless Saunders picked her up?”

“She told him she took a cab.”

“In her nightgown?”

“Can you drop the effing nightgown, Molly?”

I could sense that he was this close to hanging up again. “The fiancée wasn’t there Saturday night, and Lenore shows up in a nightgown. What does that tell you, Andy?”

“That Saunders is a popular guy?”

“Did you tell him she killed herself?”

Connors sighed. “Yeah, I did. For what it’s worth, he seemed genuinely upset.”

Especially if he drove her to it, I thought.