The Manipulated (Joe Portugal Mysteries) (27 page)

“And I call out to him, and he turns around and takes a good look, and, well, you can guess what happened.”

“How long did you go out with him?”

“Three weeks, four days.”

Which meant they were done before the party where I met Dennis. And Mike. Mustn’t forget Mike. “You didn’t know his reputation?”

She turned away. “I’d heard. I thought, with me it would be different. All his girls think that, don’t they?”

“I haven’t met all his girls.”

“But you’ve met a couple. That artist. Samantha, was that her name? And Trixie, of course. He was seeing both of them already when he was seeing me.”

“Swearing the whole time it was you, you, nobody but you.”

She nodded.

“Did he show you his health certificate?”

Another nod. “And to answer your next question, yes, it seemed a little odd that he had it so handy. But I was infatuated. I ignored things I shouldn’t have.”

“What happened when he dumped you?”

“He just called and said it wasn’t working out. Fact is, I was kind of expecting it. I think I knew he was seeing other women. But Dennis, he had a way … you’ve probably heard all this.”

“What happened after he called you?”

“I fell apart. I’ve never had a lot of success with men. Remember when I said I got surgery and the rest because people said I’d get more work? That was part of it, but a lot of it was stupid me thinking I’d attract more men if I were—”

“Perfect?”

She tossed off a glare, but it melted fast. “Closer to it, at any rate. And then when I got involved with Dennis, I built up my hopes, and of course the higher I built them the farther they fell when the inevitable happened.”

“How far did you fall?”

“Big, big depression. Hiding in my bedroom, crying jags, all that.”

I said nothing.

“I pulled out of it after a while. A couple of weeks. And—I know you’re not going to believe this—Ambiance was a big part of it. Having my circle of people who cared about me, having Ike dispense his personal blend of psychobabble and religious piffle. I got better. I mean, I knew all along what an ass Dennis was. They just helped me admit it, admit I was better off without him.”

She was wrong about one thing. I did believe her. It didn’t matter how much drivel Ike pumped out. Bottom line was, having all those people who cared about her … sure, it helped. I had no argument with that.

Only thing was, if she got better, it shot my theory to hell. Unless …

“A little bit ago. You mentioned Trixie. You know her?”

“I’ve spent a little time with her here.”

“Were you here the day she brought Dennis?”

“Yes.”

“Did you speak to them?”

She pulled out the shears, moved to a fresh rosebush, attacked it with more ferocity than it deserved. “I turned a corner and there they were. You know what the bastard did?”

“He told Trixie you two had been seeing each other.”

“Yes. But he—”

Her mouth quivered. She ambushed another cane. But she went after it too low, down where it was old and woody. The blade went partway in and got stuck. She squeezed. She twisted. She cursed. The branch withstood the assault.

I stepped over, took her hand, removed it from the pruner, which stayed embedded in the rose as I stood her straight. She looked in my eyes, then put her head on my shoulder and began to cry. No big, wracking sobs. No wailing. Just a gentle flow of tears. I wasn’t sure there was even that until she raised her head and I saw the last few glistening on her cheek. I wiped them away with my finger.

She stepped back, smiled ruefully. “It was just the way he was. I know that, but just then … the way he told her we’d gone out, he made it sound like nothing, like a little fun between a couple of friends. And I knew soon she’d be facing the same thing, and after that more girls would, and it would probably go on forever.” She returned to the latest rosebush and calmly, effortlessly, removed the shears from where they were stuck and snipped the cane off a little higher up. “I thought I got depressed the first time. This was worse. A lot worse. Before, it was just a stupid disappointment about a worthless man. This time, it was the combination of realizing, really realizing I meant absolutely nothing to him, and knowing how many more women he was going to hurt, and somehow I built that up into how many other guys were out there just like him, and women too, and then there was a suicide bombing in Israel and that same night we accidentally bombed a hospital in Iraq and it was like the weight of humanity had fallen down on my shoulders.”

“I’m—”

“Don’t say anything. You don’t have to say anything.”

She sheathed the shears, gathered the last couple of branches she’d cut, dropped them in the waste bin. “I was reduced to a total vegetable. I thought about … well, you know, ending it all. Next thing I knew I was in the hospital under a suicide watch.”

“Were you in there the night Dennis was murdered?”

“Yes.”

“When’d you get out?”

“Five or six days after he was killed. Somehow … I know it sounds awful, but hearing he was gone gave me hope that things could be right in the world. And that started me back to being better. That and the pills.”

“What kind of pills?”

“They have me on Zoloft.”

Just like someone else I knew. “I’m surprised they let you hear about stuff like Dennis in there.”

“My mother told me.” She eked out a smile.“She also told me that story John had her feed you about me disappearing and being estranged from the family and all that.”

“I suppose she told him—Santini—what happened between you and Dennis.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Would you be surprised if he took revenge on behalf of his most valued employee and her daughter, and had Dennis whacked?”

Up until then, I hadn’t been sure. Sure of who did it, sure of whether this young woman knew. But I saw the hope as she thought I’d come to the wrong conclusion. I saw her turn the actress on. “I wouldn’t be surprised at all.”

I motioned for the pruning shears. She handed them over. I bent, took a bit off a cane. “This one would have gone off in the wrong direction,” I said. “This’ll make the plant bushier.” I handed back the shears and she put them away. “It wouldn’t be very smart for me to tell anyone about this, would it?”

“Not if you like living.”

“That’s pretty blunt.”

“Just a piece of friendly advice.”

I let it sink in. Then told her I was leaving. “Take care of that hand,” I said.

“I will.”

I turned, took a couple of steps toward the house, stopped and faced her again. “I just thought of something.”

She knew I hadn’t, but she let me get away with the Columbo routine. “What’s that?”

“You said you knew Dennis before you saw him at the studio.”

“Right.”

“Mind telling me how?”

“My mom and Dennis’s father. They’ve known each other a long time. I’ve known Dennis since I was a teenager.”

I almost let it go at that. But you know me.“Santini didn’t kill Dennis, and he didn’t have anyone do it either.”

Again, it was in her eyes. It’s always in their eyes. “Sure he did.”

“Forget it. I know what happened.”

She licked her lips. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I said, and walked away.

I drove back to L.A. picking away at the chain, the string of connections that explained how
A
eventually attached to
Z
. I was nearly sure before my second visit to Ambiance, and I’d just had it confirmed.

The string passed through Mike Lennox.

It was time to talk to him. And find out just how long I’d been played like a piano.

I parked four blocks away, on the other side of Main. When I got near Mike’s a cop car was blocking the narrow side street and another was at the curb on Pacific, in front of a suspiciously plain Pontiac. A pair of moustached officers stood by the second cop car. The prettiest pair of detectives you’ll ever see hovered around the Pontiac. Starsky and Bitch, no doubt.

A Channel 6 news van showed up. The driver parked where mere mortals dare not, right behind the Pontiac. Out came Claudia Acuna. Surprised the hell out of me. A camerawoman followed and the two of them moved toward the beach.

The four law officers conferred. Two cops came out of the first police car and joined the party. A surfer dude came by, mumbled something to the gang of six, and headed for the beach. Starsky and Bitch gave Claudia and her pal a dirty look, then made for the house. They walked up the stairs to the apartment entrance. The uniforms spread out along the street. Claudia spewed commentary into her microphone.

Starsky pressed the doorbell. The door opened. Mike was there, in jeans and shirtless. Claudia and her accomplice moved closer. One of the uniforms came over, told them to step back. Words were exchanged. The cops won the argument.

Conversation at the top of the stairs. Mike and Starsky went inside. I tried to go down the street toward the beach, but one of the cops stopped me. I hustled around the block and approached from the other direction. L.A.’s finest had left that route clear.

Neighbors, seeing the excitement, congregated. Summer, the teenager who’d been left to “man” the shop when Mike and I went upstairs last time around, was standing on a park bench and yelling to someone up the boardwalk. She jumped down and ran toward whoever she’d been shouting at.

Like they’d heard jungle drums, people accumulated. The northbound and southbound flows—already heavy with the usual Saturday throng—merged and stopped. Within minutes at least a hundred people circulated in front of Feed Your Head and at the end of the narrow side street. There was a party atmosphere. Everyone knew something exciting was going on, though most of them didn’t have a clue as to what it was.

And what of the cops? They were too busy rousting Mike to deal with crowd control. Only the fake surfer was in evidence, arguing with the guy who’d been Mike’s designated driver the night he came over drunk.

Then one of the cops filtered out onto the boardwalk. He did a double take and yelled a name. Another cop came running. His look matched the first one’s. They both disappeared again.

I checked the landing. Lu was standing out there, alone, perturbed. She scanned the crowd, turned in the direction all the cop cars were parked in, returned to the beach side. She looked right at me. Recognition dawned. Then somebody stumbled into me, I looked away, and when I checked again she was gone.

Summer came back from up the boardwalk. She had four or five men with her. The kind of men that, when tourists see them on their obligatory visit to Venice, they walk faster. They were burly and unshaven and the sleeves of their denim jackets were gone.

A knot formed around them. Old hippies and teenagers on skates and boomers whose shirts bore political slogans. I couldn’t see Summer, but I could hear her, yelling about the pigs and the injustice of it all. Then, as one, they moved toward the foot of the stairs leading up to Mike’s place.

On the landing outside his door, the woman he called Bitch appeared concerned. She knocked, the door opened, she went inside. One of the uniforms took up a position a couple of steps up from street level.

Someone started a chant.
Leave Mike a-lone! Leave Mike a-lone!
A lot of the crowd had no idea who Mike was. But everyone enjoys a good protest. The volume swelled. Someone added a low harmony voice.

Summer’s Army reached the bottom of the stairs. The cop guarding the way yelled at them to disperse. Someone yelled, “Disperse, my ass!”

Up above, Mike’s door opened. He and the two beautiful police came out. Mike had a Hawaiian shirt on and was carrying a jacket. Lu appeared momentarily, confused and concerned, then closed the door behind Mike and the cops.

The detectives conferred. I think the blond wanted to wait things out inside, but Starsky went all macho. They started down.

At the bottom of the stairs, Claudia and her camerawoman pushed their way to the front of the crowd. Claudia stuck her mic in one face, then another. She recorded a couple of timeless comments and directed the mic at the cop on the stairs. Like before, he told her to step back. She began to obey, but not quickly enough for the cop. He put a hand on Claudia’s shoulder and shoved. A cry of
Free press! Free press!
mingled with the one about Mike.

Then Mike tripped. He and the two detectives were about halfway down the stairs, and he went tumbling the rest of the way, grabbing unsuccessfully for the railing. He crashed right into the uniform, pushing him into Claudia. She fell into one of Summer’s creepy guys. The pretty police looked like someone had shit in their mousse. They pursued Mike down the stairs. The uniform was on the ground, trying to wrench his gun from its holster.

I headed for the center of the action, not knowing what I hoped to accomplish, but certain I needed to be there for Mike or Claudia or both. But dozens of other people had the same idea I did, and I couldn’t get any closer. A cross-flow of humanity picked me up and deposited me back on the boardwalk.

Things were less crowded there. But a freak-out virus had attacked the crowd. People took the upheaval ten yards away as an excuse to act out their wildest instincts. A man in a judo outfit had a chokehold on a guy with a Gold’s Gym tank top and muscles like The Rock. A glassy crash erupted from the pizza place next door to Feed Your Head. People pushed in and ran out bearing illicit slices.

A teenager on a skateboard skidded to a stop too close to an old man with a walking stick. The old man raised his cane. The kid took a swing at him. A middle-aged woman in running clothes stepped between them and got bopped for her trouble. A man moved in to break up the fracas. He got slugged too. It was the guy wearing the
FREE HUEY
shirt the day I came to talk to Lu. He fell from view. The old man beat the snot out of the teenager with his cane.

More smashing glass, more storefronts ruined. A woman ran by carrying at least a dozen boxes of sneakers, piled perilously atop one another in her outstretched arms. Another grabbed for the box on the top of the stack. The first bared her teeth and the second backed off.