City of Mirrors (18 page)

S
itting in my car on the side street, I heard the sirens from Sunset Boulevard winding down to a whine as the emergency vehicles reached Mrs. Parson's body. The black sky was aglow with the red swirl of their lights mingling with the starker blue lights of the LAPD patrol cars.

God, I didn't even know her first name.

I leaned my head against the steering wheel, frantically trying to gather my thoughts. The Rock was the only clue I had to find Ryan. I took my cell phone from my purse, hit the Google icon, and tapped in “The Rock Los Angeles.” I got a wrestler named The Rock, the Hard Rock Café, the city of Eagle Rock, The Rock coffee house and a gem store. I thought of Jenny going to The Rock and, when she returned, according to her mother, she wanted to be an actress. These were hardly the places, or person, for that kind of epiphany. I clicked off.

Come on, Diana, you're a smart woman. Okay, this is all about Parson. Jenny wasn't inspired; she had the part of a lifetime for a beginning actor, and she blew it. She didn't want to be an actress; what she really wanted was to please her father—and he wasn't a professional actor, he was a criminal. She knew she was her father's daughter.

So why did Parson want her to have a career in the movies? Because
he
loved them. He had grown up watching movies. He loved hanging out with movie people, he wanted to control their lives.

I grabbed the wheel tightly. On his yacht Parson told me he used to sneak into a movie house when he was a child. And he would eat the candy dropped on the floor by the customers in order to survive. And if he didn't get kicked out, he'd sleep there. A movie theater was his home, his salvation. But how many years ago was that? Fifty or more? Could the theater still exist?

It might, if Parson had bought it. What had his wife said? “A place to find solace—or kill someone.”

Fear for Ryan ran through me, then self-doubt. Was I really any closer to finding him? He could be dead or dying while I sat here putting together Parson's past as if it were a character study for a role I was going to play. Shaking off my uncertainty, I concentrated again.

Old movie houses didn't have names like The Rock. That had to be Parson's personal name for it. I remembered spending a hot boring summer in a small Nebraska town where mother was filming a period movie titled
Gaily, Gaily
. It turned out to be a flop. I whiled away my afternoons in an air-conditioned theater grandly called the Alexandria. The locals called it The Alex. So the Rock could be short for what? The Roscamoor? Rockefeller? Roc … Roxy?
The Roxy
. Excitement stirred in me. I vaguely remembered hearing about old movie theaters called The Roxy years ago. Maybe Parson used the term
The Rock
as a kind of alias for
The Roxy
.

I grabbed my cell again. Parson said he had grown up in Boyle Heights. I Googled the information. And there it was: The Roxy on Figueroa Street, as far away from the wealthy Westside as it could possibly be.

Reaching under my seat, I felt for the gun. It was still there. I quickly started the ignition. The police would have Sunset blocked, so I swung a U-turn. Heading south, I turned left on Wilshire Boulevard and sped east, running lights and swerving in and out of traffic like every other L.A. driver. The ever-going heater warmed me.

Twenty-five minutes later I turned onto Figueroa Street. I slowed, searching for an address to get my bearings. Feeling like a lost tourist in a small Mexican town, I saw store signs in Spanish and shops painted blue, pink, and chartreuse. The windows were barred. There was a sad feeling of a fiesta that had gone on too long. Then I saw it—a shadowy spire atop a dark marquee empty of movie titles or show times. But the theater's name was still intact: The Roxy.

I swerved to the curb and parked. Reaching under the seat, I pulled out the Glock and slipped it into my jacket pocket, then I took my iPhone and put it into the other pocket. After hiding my purse under the seat, I got out of the car and hurried toward the box office, which looked as if it had been designed to resemble Cinderella's regal carriage before the ball was over. Now the windows were boarded up with graffiti-covered plywood, and what remained of its baroque trim had been smashed and broken. The tarnished brass entrance doors were blanketed by security grates. I tugged at them, but they were locked.

Hearing footsteps I whirled around, jamming my hand into my pocket and gripping my gun. A woman herded two small children along the sidewalk. Waiting until they were gone, I wondered what had happened to all the fathers. The wise old men. The mentors. Everybody was young now. And no one wanted to be a father. Except one man who could be taking his revenge out on Ryan right now.

I rushed around to the corner of the building, searching for another entrance. Instead, I stared into a long dark tunnel that was an alley. Taking out my iPhone, I clicked on its flashlight. In the light of its weak beam, I edged along the theater's wall. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I became aware of how clean the alley was: no trash, no bins, no addicts, no homeless, and no limo. I tried to dismiss the niggling idea that this ruin of a building was just what it appeared to be—another old movie house as dead as all the stars that had once strode across its screen.

Soon, my light came to rest on a chain wrapped around the handles of steel double doors. The chain was padlocked, and the doors led to the service entrance. I pounded on the steel. There was no response.

I called Ryan's cell number, then pressed my ear against the crack where the doors joined, hoping I could hear his ring tone—”Satisfaction.” But I heard only my own jagged breathing.

As I stepped away I glimpsed a shadowy movement out of the corner of my eye. Heart knocking in my chest, I slowly turned to face it. The black silhouette of a man walked from the mouth of the alley toward me. Hanging from his right hand was something that looked like a long pipe or tire iron. Instinctively I backed away, and Ryan's words came back to me. “Alleys always dead-end.” I hit a wall.

I took the gun from my pocket. Mouth dry, I held up my cell and yelled, “I've called 911. The police will be here any minute. And I have a gun pointed at you!”

“Turn your phone off. You're just wasting the battery.” Heath came into view. “And where in hell did you get the Glock?”

I let out my breath. “It's Rubio's. I took it when he crashed his bike into my car.”

“Jesus, Diana, no wonder he wanted to kill you. Give it to me.”

“So you can have two Glocks? Not a chance in hell.” I slid it back into my pocket.

He grinned, shaking his head. “I carry a Colt 911. Semi automatic.” He reached into his jacket pocket with his free hand and came out with his flashlight. “Hold this and shine it on the chain.”

I held the light for him. “What are you doing here?”

“Staking out the theater.”

“I didn't see your car.”

“You weren't supposed to.” He took the iron bar and slammed it repeatedly at the padlock and chain. The sharp loud banging shattered the stillness.

“Aren't you making a lot of noise?”

“Parson sped off in his limo just before you arrived. You think I'd be doing this if he were here? Let's hope he didn't take Ryan with him.”

I knew why Parson had left. He got the call from Bruno about his wife.

Heath's jaw muscles tightened each time he swung at the lock and chain, and I wondered how he knew about this place and that Ryan was probably inside.

“You purposely sent me on a wild goose chase to the 9000 building, didn't you?” I said.

“Something like that. I knew you wouldn't do as I asked and stay put,” he spoke in rhythm to his swinging the crow bar. “Stay safe, stay out of the way.”

“You thought I wouldn't get into the building and I'd just give up and go home.”

“We all need hope, Diana.” Now he jammed the crowbar between the door and chain. Sweat had beaded on his forehead.

“I got into the penthouse.” I heard myself say. I hadn't intended to tell him.

He stopped what he was doing and looked at me. “You got past Bruno, the gatekeeper?”

I nodded. “With the help of Mrs. Parson.” My voice quivered.

“What happened?”

“She killed herself. She leaped off the balcony in front of Bruno, Gerald, and me. Bruno called Parson and told him. That's why he left in such a hurry.”

“And you're alive to tell me about this?”

“Bruno and I have a deal. I don't tell anyone I was there, and he won't kill me. I thought it was a pretty good compromise at the time. Are you going to tell Parson I was in the penthouse?”

“You still don't trust me, do you?”

“I just put my life in your hands, Heath.”

“So you did.” He frowned. “Why?”

I didn't have an answer. “We're wasting time.”

“Remind me never to underestimate you again.” He put one foot against the door for leverage, then pulled the iron pipe toward his body. The muscles in his face strained with the effort. The chain snapped.

Holding the pipe down close to his leg, he shoved the doors open and we stepped into more darkness.

I shined his flashlight around. We were in a long, narrow high-ceilinged space. The floor was cement. Without grandeur the backside of a movie screen towered in what looked like an enormous painted black box. All the magic was on the other side. The constricted space had been turned into an office. There was an antique desk and an impressively carved chair in one corner. A beckoning sofa and coffee table nestled on an expensive Indian rug.

A creaking of a floorboard sounded from above. Arcing the light toward it, I started to call out to Ryan but Heath put his finger against his lips, stopping me. Then he quietly laid the crowbar on the floor and reached inside his jacket and came out with his Colt.

I wondered why he was being so careful, especially since he'd seen Parson leave. Unless that noise hadn't come from Ryan but someone else. A man Parson left behind. With my free hand I pulled the Glock out of my pocket and waved the flashlight around with the other. The beam caught a spiral staircase in a dark corner. I steadied the light and nodded to Heath. He took the lead as we carefully circled our way up.

Reaching a landing, we paused. We were in a small hall, more like an anteroom, facing a single closed door. A light shone beneath it. I quickly cut the flashlight and slid it into my pocket. Now with just the thread of light from the threshold, Heath motioned for me to stand to the side of the door. As I did, he held his gun with two hands straight in front of him, balanced himself, then swiftly kicked the door wide open and rushed into the room. Adrenalin flowing, I was close behind, telling myself “this is real, this is real.”

H
eath and I had entered a richly appointed bedroom. A small crystal lamp on the marble-top nightstand illuminated an expensive Aubusson area rug partially covering the rough floor planks. A stiff wooden chair had been pulled up to the rumpled gold damask-covered bed as if someone had been sitting there, talking to whoever had been lying on it. Except for the chair, the room had Parson's taste written all over it—expensive and overwrought.

Across from the bed was a bolted door. “Ryan?” I called out.

Hearing a low moan, I rushed toward the door. Heath grabbed for my shoulder, but I jerked away, pulled open the bolt, and hurried inside. Lamplight from the bedroom seeped into the chamber, revealing a six-by-six-foot space with cement walls and floor. A cell. A common garden hose snaked from a spigot to a drain in the center of the floor. To the right was the only piece of furniture, a wooden table. Ryan was lying on the floor next to it, wearing an Ugg on his left foot. The other foot was bare. His face was lost in shadow.

Pocketing my gun, I knelt beside him. “Ryan, it's me, Diana.”

Suddenly a harsh glare from an overhead blub filled the room. Heath had found the light switch. I repressed a gasp. Ryan flinched, then peered up at me with one clear blue eye. The other was a swollen slit surrounded by bloody gashes.

I took his hand. “Can you talk?”

His distended lips parted. “Uh-huh.” The sound was small, painful.

The floor felt damp on my knees. Heath crouched on Ryan's other side and stared warily back into the bedroom.

Then he picked up the hose. “So this is where Parson tortures his victims. Makes the cleanup easy.” Disgusted, he threw it behind him, and said to Ryan, “Can you move your legs and arms?”

Nodding, Ryan gestured at the small bloody-black wounds seared into his legs.

“Cigarette burns,” Heath said.

“I'm calling 911.” I reached into my purse.

“No,” Heath said.

“But he needs to go to an emergency room.”

“They'll ask too many questions about how he got his wounds. The police could get involved. Ryan's the perfect set-up guy for Jenny's murder.”

Ryan's hand touched mine. “He's right.”

“We'll put Ryan into your car, and I'll follow you back to his house so I can make sure it's secure. You should call a private doctor. You must know one of those feel-good guys. Hollywood's full of them. He can book Ryan into the celeb wing of a hospital where the docs can take care of him and security is trained to keep the patients under wraps.” Heath peered down at Ryan. “We're going to sit you up, okay?”

Ryan grunted. It was good enough for a yes.

Heath and I lifted him into a sitting position and leaned him against the wall.

“Are you dizzy?” I asked.

“No. Couldn't take it.” Tears oozed from his eyes. “Couldn't …”

“There aren't many of us who could, Ryan.”

“She's right.” Heath moved to the table and looked through the items on top. “Wallet, cell phone, change, keys, and a comb. The possessions a man carries in his pockets can look pretty dreary.” He checked the driver's license. “They're Ryan's.” He rubbed the back of his neck as he gazed down. “This is a cement floor, something's not right.” Heath tapped his foot. Then he swept Ryan's belongings into his pockets and asked him, “You weren't in the other room, were you?”

“No,” Ryan winced. “Parson got a phone call. They left in a hurry.”

Mrs. Parson's suicide saved Ryan, I thought, as Heath walked back into the bedroom. I got to my feet and stood in the doorway.

With his foot, Heath pressed the old floorboards, making them creak. “We heard this sound downstairs. Ryan couldn't have made it—he's on a cement slab and was locked in. So who else was walking around, and where are they?” Dark with concern, his eyes met mine as his hand slipped inside his jacket and again pulled out his Colt. Then he ran his hand along the top of the wooden chair. “Looks like this chair goes with the table Ryan's things were on.” He lifted his chin, peering up at the ceiling. “Shit …”

Above his head was an open crawl space. Before Heath or I could move, a man plunged down, sending both Heath and himself crashing to the floor. I froze as Heath's gun flew from his hand, skittering under the nightstand, while a second gun vanished under the bed. His sleeve had slid up, showing a too-familiar tattoo—it was Rubio.

I pulled the Glock from my pocket. Rubio started crawling across the floor, going for his gun. Heath got to his knees, Rubio turned, swinging a fist at him. The blow glanced off Heath's jaw. Grabbing each other, they rolled. I tried to keep my aim on Rubio, but the pair had become a unit, their bodies rolling and tossing together while their legs thrashed and their fists pounded. This was not a choreographed fight by stunt men. It was raw, ugly, and awkward. The Glock shook in my hands. What were the odds of shooting Heath if I fired at Rubio, I wondered desperately. About 100 percent, I decided.

Hell, I was standing there like a B-movie actress, gasping, eyes wide. I aimed the gun at the ceiling and fired. Ceiling plaster fell like chunks of dirty snow.

“Back off, asshole!” I shouted with all the butch authority of a female superhero.

The noise from the gun had been deafening in the small room. Rubio momentarily shifted his eyes toward me, and Heath head-butted him. Dazed, Rubio fell backwards. Heath clambered up to his feet. Weaving, he leaned over the downed man, grabbed his shirt collar, jerked him up, and smashed his fist into his face again and again. Blood poured from Rubio's nose and mouth. I didn't move. I didn't try to stop Heath.

Breathing hard, Heath finally let the motionless man fall back onto the floor, then straightened up. Working his jaw, he looked around the room, his eyes darting like a man who had lost something very important.

“Your gun's there,” I pointed under the nightstand.

Snatching up the weapon, he holstered it. Then he tucked in his shirttail and adjusted his jacket. Finally put together again, he looked at me. “Back off, asshole?”

I smiled. “It was all I could think of at the moment.”

“You all right?” A black-and-blue mark was forming on his chin. Another bruised person in my life.

“I'm waiting for the prop man to take the gun out of my hand.”

Knuckles raw, Heath's hand covered mine as he slipped the gun from my grip and slid it into my pocket. “Let's get Ryan the hell out of here before Parson's men come back.”

“Is Rubio alive?”

“Yeah, we'll leave him where they put Ryan.” He cocked his head and frowned at me. “You look surprised. You think I was going to kill him?”

I didn't answer. I honestly didn't know, and it left me feeling uneasy with him and with myself. Rubio had tried to murder me, and he had tortured Ryan. When Heath was pounding him bloody, I wanted Rubio dead and out of my life. I thought of the wind blowing through the shattered glass of my living room and wondered if I'd ever be the woman I once was, or thought I was, before I tried to help Jenny. But I already knew the answer.

Heath strode past me into the cell. “We're gonna get you on your feet, Ryan.”

I helped Heath lift Ryan into a standing position. Then we got him into the bedroom and sat him on the edge of the bed. I settled beside him and watched Heath pick up Rubio by his feet and drag him across the floor.

As he got him into the cell, Ryan said to me, “I need to tell you.”

“Are you in pain?” I asked.

He licked at the caked blood on his lips. “Parson wanted a name.”

“You mean someone he could get more information from about his daughter's death?”

Hanging his head, he nodded.

“Whose name did you give him?” Heath asked sharply over his shoulder as he closed the cell door and bolted it on Rubio.

“She was selling the Bel Air house. All I could think of.”

“Celia?” I felt my entire body tighten. “You gave him Celia's name?”

“I couldn't take the pain.” He looked up.

I put my arm around him.

“It was the smell of my own flesh,” Ryan mumbled.

“I'm calling her.” I took out my iPhone.

“Tell her to get the hell out of wherever she is and don't tell anyone where she's going. Even you. It's safer for her that way.” Heath stared at me. “Safer for you, too.”

The phone rang only once.

“Yes?” Celia answered quickly, as if she were expecting a call.

“It's Diana.”

“I've been meaning to call you …”

“Don't talk, Celia. Listen. You're in danger. You have to leave your house, office, wherever you are. Go to a hotel and don't tell anybody where you're staying. Even me. Just go.
Now
.”

I could hear her sharp intake of breath. “Is it Parson?”

“Yes. I can't talk now. I'll call you on your cell as soon as I can and explain it.”

The phone went dead in my hand.

“She's leaving,” I told them.

Ryan sighed heavily, relieved.

Puzzled, Heath said, “Did she ask you exactly why she had to go?”

“No. In fact she asked me if she was in danger from Parson. A man she'd told me she didn't know.”