The Detective & the Pipe Girl (6 page)

9

D
usk as I drove back to Suzanne’s Ocean Avenue condo. Thinking: Hmm, how do I get this letter to Suzanne without blowing my tourist cover that I used to get her picture? Or did it matter at this point? Don’t know.

Why did I feel like I’d need the cover later? Don’t know that either.

Some obvious information: Sometimes it’s better to use a cover when you’re trying to get information. Especially early in a case. Because you don’t want people to clam up when you say: I’m a detective and I’m on your case. Which they do. And you often don’t want people to know that you’re looking into something at all. Because often that’s when they tell you exactly what you need to know.

Some not-so-obvious information: Sometimes it’s better to tell people exactly who you are and what you want. Especially later in a case. This approach allows you to be yourself, to not have to keep up with your cover. And it allows, when the circumstances call for it, to instill some fear.

Back at Suzanne’s. Back out front in a spot, same side of the street as her condo. Sitting. Waiting. Again. I put Pavement’s
Brighten the Corners
on. That song that goes: “Sherri, you smell different . . .”

“Type Slowly”—that’s what the song’s called. Just love it. I listened to it six times in a row, then let the CD play.

I just sat there, thinking, listening to the music. The letter sitting on the Cobalt’s passenger seat, unopened. “Suzanne” written on the front, in Vonz’s hand. Hmm. What to do. How to do it. Dark now. Watching cars pull out from behind her building into the little side street next to it, one after the other. And then, in my rearview, a new, three-series BMW appeared. First on the side street, then behind me, right on Ocean Avenue. Light caught the driver’s face and I could see it was Suzanne. Just a moment of her, but an unmistakable moment, the headlights from another car doing a pass across her face.

She headed north and I followed. She took a right on California, another right on Lincoln, then left onto the 10 Freeway. The 10 Freeway that went all the way from Los Angeles on one coast to Jacksonville, Florida, on the other coast.

Jacksonville, where my aunt lives.

But back to L.A. Back to me following Suzanne. It was about seven, and for L.A. not much traffic. She took the 10 to the 405 North, then got off on the Mulholland Drive exit. Mulholland—that famous snaking road that crested the Hills, giving you beautiful looks of L.A. to the west and to the east.

We took it east, winding atop the mountains, from Sherman Oaks to Bel Air to Beverly Hills and now into the Hollywood Hills. We were near Nicholson’s house and Brando’s old place and you could feel that special, magical, haunting L.A. vibe. This part of Los Angeles had a spooky, seductive mysticism to it—especially at night. And, even now in the present day, you just got the feeling that some combination of Fleetwood Mac was somewhere nearby having a small but lively orgy.

We crossed Laurel Canyon and about a half mile later she turned left into a driveway. A big metal gate opened and closed, taking in her BMW. Lots of gates in this world. Keeping people out. But keeping people in too. This particular gate protected what just
felt
like a compound. Some multimillion-dollar fortress tucked away in these glamorous Hollywood mountains.

I drove on past, swung a U-turn, parked on a shoulder, stayed focused on the driveway. I stared at the gate. Not just any old gate this one. A big ornate mess with crisscrossing lines of steel and copper and who knows what else. It was hideous. Forty minutes later it opened, allowing Suzanne to leave. I picked her up and followed her all the way home.

She pulled into the alley behind her condo, parked under the building. I pulled back around, this time across the street, on the side of the park, and looked once again at the front of her apartment building. Some moonlight, or was it a streetlight, shone into my car and put a spot right on the envelope still sitting on my front seat. I thought about reading the letter, but didn’t. I wondered what kind of bewitching, artful love letter the maestro Arthur Vonz could write.

I thought: Should I just knock on her door and give her the letter? Blow my cover? Or maybe give it to the security guard, then hang around and make sure he gives it to her?

I grabbed the envelope and got out of the Cobalt. Going security guard route. Make
sure
he hands it to her. Yes. I knew she was home, and I was reasonably sure I could get a confirmation of delivery. I’d think of something to tell the guard so as to not reveal my identity. No problem.

Some cars were coming down Ocean Avenue so I stood in front of the Cobalt looking at her building still on the other side of the street. There was a soft breeze coming in from the ocean. It felt amazing. I looked up at the palm trees swaying in the wind, set against the sky and the lights of Santa Monica. The kind of night that makes people come to California—and stay. The California dream, in handy, beautiful nighttime form. And the moon was out. It had been moonlight on the letter, not streetlight.

I stood there for a moment looking up at the moon, just sitting there glowing, a yellowish orange. I imagined it briefly as a portal to somewhere else. As a hole in the sky that was a tunnel to another dimension. And then I moved my eye over to Suzanne’s building. And there she was.

She was standing on her balcony. I did a quick count up, looked to me to be the twenty-first floor. The wind moving her hair. Up there, you could look out at the big green sea and hear it too probably. The palm trees below you, the cliffs of Malibu to the right outlined, accentuated, dotted by lights. California magic from hundreds of feet in the air. I guess that’s why you buy these places. Forget what I was saying earlier. You know about having to walk down the cliff and cross the PCH just to get to the water. I bet it was great up there.

She was taking it all in, I could tell. Through the iron bars in her balcony I could see most of her body. I could see what she was wearing. White shorts and a light-colored T-shirt. The streetlights and the building’s lights and the moonlight silhouetted her, so instead of really seeing her I was taking the image of her face that I remembered and putting it on her way up there in the sky.

And then a man appeared behind her. He too was in shadow, in silhouette, but I could see that he was pretty tall, and I could see the outline of a curl in his hair, and an intermittent flash of reflected light off his watch. I took my camera out and snapped a picture of both of them. I looked at the picture—you could make out Suzanne but the man behind her was nothing more than a shadowy outline. I looked back up at the balcony. Suzanne turned around to face the figure behind her. The man held out his arms, like he wanted to hug her. Or maybe he was gesticulating as he talked. Very hard to tell. And then, Suzanne walked back in the apartment. As she entered, the man put his hand gently on her back and guided her through the doorway.

Is that why I had been dicking around down here, not getting to giving her the letter? Had the cosmos told me that someone else was up there with her? Had it been a message that had come through that orange portal in the sky? Probably not. But
maybe
. I asked myself: Was that Jimmy Yates Movie Star up there? Could be, again,
maybe
, but don’t think so. Seemed like a different guy. Different hair. The curl. But could not be sure. Could definitely not be sure.

So, had another player entered my story? Just. Not. Sure. Was Suzanne some kind of kept woman up there in her Santa Monica pad? Or was she some kind of real professional? Man, if she was either one, Arthur Vonz definitely did not appear to know that. Then again, I didn’t know that either.

And the other question was, the more pressing question was: Do I give her the letter anyway? Again, don’t think so. Don’t think Vonz would appreciate that. And that’s who I was working for. Shit, given the circumstances, if it
was
Jimmy Yates up there, or maybe another suitor, or even a friend, Suzanne probably wouldn’t appreciate it either. A letter handed to her unexpectedly from a private corner of her life, right in front of her guest. I decided to wait, and give her the letter the next day.

I drove home.

10

I
live in Mar Vista. Just east of Venice, just inland a few miles, but still decidedly west of the 405. Decidedly Westside. It’s the perfect place, location-wise, to live in Los Angeles. I’ve thought about this. I’ve thought about this a lot. You’re almost to the beach. But on the south end of town. South of Santa Monica, Brentwood, the Palisades. All that nonsense. And, like I said, just inland from the funkiest place in the city, Venice. Just a quick drive or bike ride to Abbot Kinney, the canals, the Venice Pier. So you can easily enter that one-of-a-kind groovy scene. That scene that still has its roots in the culture of hippie, artsy seventies California. Yes, it has become trendy and full of hipsters and there’s too much irony, for sure, but it’s still good. Still has a great beach. Still has charm out the wazoo. Still a great place to grab dinner. Drink a beer, do a shot, say hello to a lovely lady or two. But then, you can retreat. Away from the scene, the ironic mustaches, the noise, and, these days, the expense of Venice.

Mar Vista’s still overpriced, but you get a real house, and a little land, some room to breathe.

And Mar Vista is near Venice Boulevard. So, sure, you can head west and be at the ocean in a couple miles, but you can take it the other way into Hollywood as well. And you can do it stealth-style. Much less traffic, much less hassle than taking more popular east-west roads like Pico, Olympic or the god-awful Wilshire. From Mar Vista, you pop onto Venice and slide into Hollywood. Slide, my friends. Slide. Unnoticed. Through funky hoods, by Cuban restaurants, around far less people.

From the great Mar Vista, you can also get right on the 405, and then the 10. To go anywhere in the city. You simply have lots of options to get places. Options that are much less traveled.

And, this might be the biggest thing. In Mar Vista, you aren’t trapped in a section of the city. You are free to operate. People who live in other Westside neighborhoods, take Brentwood for example, always talk about how beautiful it is. Problem is, Brentwood is essentially inaccessible. You’re always fighting poor urban design. Only a couple streets in and a couple streets out all surrounded by clogs of traffic. I need better access than that. It’s just that simple.

That goes for the Palisades and Santa Monica too. Certainly beautiful. Uniquely Californian. Nice to visit. But knotted. Hard to get to. Inconvenient. Awkward. If you’re there, and you want to go somewhere else in the city, it’s a headache. You are at the mercy of the system. At the mercy of streets and designs that make no sense.

You will not find me living in one of those places.

Mar Vista is quiet, chill, a hidden sanctuary amid the insanity of L.A. Beautiful trees and streets and funky seventies ranch houses built on lots, as I mentioned, with a little size to them. And not oversized, just right. People always say to me: Mar Vista is boring. Mar Vista is old school and doesn’t have the California flash of some of the other Westside neighborhoods.

And I always say: You just don’t get it. You just truly don’t get it.

And then I often say: Please get away from me—forever. No, really, please do not talk to me again.

My house is on the end of a cul-de-sac. It’s a seventies California Craftsman, but remodeled by me. One story for most of the house, with vaulted ceilings throughout. On the bottom floor, I tore down all the walls except for the two bedrooms. So the den, living room, and kitchen are all one room. With big windows out the front and back. Dark hardwood floors with dark blue carpets. I don’t have a lot of furniture. Just a few things. I have a nice, really nice, indoor-only Stiga Ping-Pong table in the center of the room.

A nice Ping-Pong table is like art.

Over the garage is my master. Good-sized room with some sliding doors to a balcony that overlooks my backyard. Pretty big backyard. Marked off by trees, yucca, palm, jacaranda. There’s a big deck, surrounding a deep, rectangular pool with a black bottom. I swim in it mostly at night. In the summer, with a warm breeze coming in from the ocean, and the stars out even in L.A., it relaxes me, helps me think about my cases, and distances me from all the things that annoy the ever-living shit out of me.

I bought the house at auction. I fixed it up slowly. And now it is my kingdom of chilldom, my sanctuary of calm, my escape from the madness.

I walked inside, grabbed a
Coors Light, sat down in my big main room. I drank the beer in four sips, grabbed another, sat back down. My cell rang. Vonz.

“Arthur,” I said.

“You give her the note?” he said. I could hear that New York City sound behind him. The cabs, the traffic, the city. Unmistakable. It’s alluring, that sound, and for a second I wanted to be there. Be in a dark bar in the East Village listening to some Clash. Listening to “Death or Glory.” “Clampdown.” “Washington Bullets.”

“Not yet,” I said. “Tomorrow.”

He didn’t ask why. I was impressed.

“Okay,” he said. “Let me know when you give it to her. And . . .”

“And what?”

“Well, I just want her to read it. To know that she read it. And that she didn’t just toss it. So if there’s any way to know . . . to know that she read it . . .”

Man, for a guy who said he was thrilled that his wife took him back, he was acting like a little kid. I thought: I probably shouldn’t tell him that there’s at least one other guy in her life, and that guy is, for sure, over at her place right now.

“I’ll try. Incidentally, that’s why I didn’t give her the note tonight. I didn’t want to just drop it off. I wanted to hand it to her personally. And I couldn’t make that happen tonight.”

Again, he didn’t ask why.

“Good,” he said. “If it’s right in her hands, she’ll read it.”

I heard more of New York behind him. It had been a while since I’d been there.

“Where are you?” I asked.

Before he could remind me that he was in New York City I said, “I mean where in the city? It just sounds . . . good.”

“Yeah, it’s nice to be here. I’m at Pete’s Tavern near . . .”

“Gramercy Park.”

“Yeah.”

“Great place.”

“Yep. Dinner with some friends. It always amazes me . . . It’s 1 a.m. here and every table’s taken.”

“Right. People still arriving for dinner.”

And then he said something that surprised me—in a good way. He said something that a friend would say to another friend. He jumped topics and just kind of gave me an observation.

“John, I’ve been all over the world many, many times and I think the most beautiful women, if you had to pick one city, are in New York.”

“Paris,” I said. “Los Angeles? Buenos Aires?”

“All full of beautiful women, but they don’t beat NYC for my money. Here in New York you have samplings from all over the world. You have the
best
from all over the world. Europe. Asia. America. Listen. I think L.A. is underrated. People always say that L.A. is just blond bimbos, and that, of course, is absurd. Look, there are beautiful women in big cities everywhere, but New York, I don’t know . . . There’s something about it. The fashion. The sophistication. The unspoken competition created by the crème de la crème from all over the world crammed onto a little island.”

“It sounds like you’ve put some thought into this.”

“I’ve made graphs! I’ve made charts!” he joked.

Arthur had a buzz on.

“Gotta go, John. Let me know when the eagle has landed.”

Yeah, he had a buzz on. Speaking in P.I. terms now. A little cheesy.

And for the record, it always bothers me when people say “Gotta go” or “I’ll let you go” when
they
called
you
.

I blew it off. “I’ll call you when she has the note.”

“Good night,” he said, and I could hear the sounds of the city disappear as he hung up.

I had another beer, then took a long swim in my pool. It was quiet and still outside and I lay on my back in the water, floating, looking up at a black sky. I got out, dried off, went upstairs, and got in bed. I closed my eyes and began to think about how exactly I’d deliver the letter the next day. In minutes I was out.

The next day when I woke up Suzanne Neal was dead.