The Ticket Out (16 page)

A noise—

My eyes jerked open.

The noise came from the driveway side of the pool house. Something had brushed against the bushes.

I checked the clock: 10:05. I wrapped my fingers around the Mace.

A dark shape on the porch.
The stink of cologne.

Dale Denney was suddenly at the screen. He yanked it open and lunged for me.

I had no time to think. I pulled up my knees and kicked out. I hit him in the chest and knocked him back. Lockwood came running from the bathroom. Denney smashed into him. They tipped over a chair and crashed to the floor.

I jumped off the daybed, grabbed my sap, and started swinging. I couldn't get a clear shot at Denney. He was tangled in with Lockwood.

They rolled and thrashed and banged the furniture. Lockwood was tall and fit, but Denney was one compact muscle. My bookcase pitched over. A lamp smashed against the wall. The shade exploded; glass flew. Lockwood ducked it, raised up, and kicked Denney in the groin. It was a vicious kick. Denney screeched and bent double. Lockwood knee-dropped him in the back. Denney hit the floor, spitting blood.

Lockwood grabbed Denney's fingers and bent them backward. He said, “Don't move or I'll break them.” He was breathing hard.

Denney coughed blood and lay still. Lockwood kept him pinned, trying to catch his breath. Blood oozed from cuts on his face and neck. Suddenly I felt sick. I weaved and sat down on the daybed. The room was tilting out of focus.

Denney said, “She stole my money.”

Lockwood bent his fingers back. Denney squirmed. Lockwood leaned into his kidneys. Denney arched and lay still again.

Lockwood pulled out his badge. He hung it in front of Denney's face. Denney whispered,
“Cunt.”

I'd had it with that. I leaped up and swung the sap at him. My ears started to ring. I missed Denney, lost my balance, dropped the sap, and reached for Lockwood. He put an arm out to catch me.

Denney saw his chance and shook loose. He staggered to his feet, snatched a chair, and swung it at Lockwood. A leg caught Lockwood in the head. He sprawled into me and knocked us both to the floor. Denney kicked Lockwood in the ribs and took off running.

The last thing I heard was
“Cunt!”

T
HE DOCTOR
at Hollywood Presbyterian said that I had a mild concussion and bruised bones in my right wrist. He prescribed Percodan, plus a day in the hospital for observation.

It ended up being longer than one day. I'd never taken prescription painkillers before and I dug the warm, woolly high; but I was so exhausted from nerves and everything else that it wiped me out completely. I could hardly think straight by Saturday night, much less get up and go home. To tell the truth, I was also happy to sleep somewhere safe for two nights.

Lockwood came by three separate times to check on me. He hadn't been hurt in the fight with Denney. I heard this from a nurse; I was asleep and missed him all three times. The last time, he left a note on my bed stand. It said that Denney had escaped. The unmarked units picked him up outside my place, then lost him on the downtown freeways. They'd found the Trans Am later, abandoned in South Pasadena, and were now checking stolen-car reports. Denney's apartment was under surveillance, and they were trying to locate his known associates. Rest, Lockwood wrote—rest and feel better. He'd had an officer drive my car to the hospital; I'd find the keys at the nurse's station.

By Sunday morning I was better and ready to be gone. The weekend was half over and I had a lot to do. I had to shelve Greta Stenholm and start serious work on the Lockwood piece. If I didn't get my research done that day, I'd never make Barry's Tuesday deadline. And so far I had nothing publishable on him—not a thing.

I drove home and found a pair of men installed in the mansion. They said that Lockwood had copied my keys and put the two of them there. They were anonymous-looking cops from Metro Squad whose job was to watch for bad guys and protect me. On Lockwood's instructions, they'd moved my stuff out of the pool house into the bedroom I used as caretaker. I found everything I needed upstairs: my computer, my books, my clothes. My writing desk and reading chair were arranged like I liked them. They'd put my soap and towels in the adjoining bathroom. They'd even brought up the telephone, fax, and coffeemaker, and plugged them in.

I couldn't resent Lockwood's interference.

While I was tripping on the Percodan, I'd had a few revelations. One: I'd been nuts to use myself as bait for Dale Denney. Smith and Lockwood were right to try and stop me. It was a dumb, reckless idea, and I was lucky that Lockwood and I weren't seriously injured. If Denney'd had a knife or a gun, anything might have happened.

Two: I was afraid.

I was physically sore from all the attacks and I didn't look forward to more pain, or worse pain. But my fear wasn't just physical. I was afraid because I didn't know what the hell was going on.

Greta Stenholm wasn't murdered by her blackmail victim. Lockwood's attempt to justify that theory was flimsy and convoluted. Hannah Silverman hadn't murdered her either. Silverman might have murdered Edward Abadi out of jealousy—that remained to be proved. And she might have murdered Stenholm, in theory, for the same reason. But I wasn't jumped at the pool house by Hannah Silverman. I'd seen her pictures and I'd seen her live; even in the dark, I could tell the difference between a tall, stringy, middle-aged woman and an average-sized man. The man might have been hired by Silverman. That was always a possibility, since the pool house attack happened the same night I searched her beach house. She could have seen me or my license plate and hired a killer. But the killer was not Dale Denney; Denney's cologne was too unmistakable.

Or there might be a third motive. Not blackmail or romantic revenge—a third reason for Stenholm's death that I had no hint of. And I couldn't defend myself from something I had no hint of. Someone was going to try to kill me again—and I didn't know what or who to look out for.

But I wouldn't let the fear paralyze me; I refused to let it. And Lockwood's Metro Squad guys were a comfort. They'd set up watching posts at both ends of the second floor. One watched the front yard and street, the other watched the back. My room was in the middle, between them, but the house was so big that we couldn't see or hear each other. Anyway, they weren't there to confine me or keep tabs on my movements. They'd said so when I asked.

I showered off the hospital smell, changed into fresh clothes, and went straight to work. I must have needed the rest. I felt stronger and clearer than I'd felt since Denney punched me in the face.

Vivian was still asleep when I called. She answered on a groggy, “What is it?”

I said, “I need a strategy for Lockwood.”

Vivian's voice got louder. “I'm not helping you, sister, until you tell me your news. I'm tired of being pumped for information with no quid pro quo.”

I could trust her with confidential stuff, so I told her my news, every last bit except the part about my crush on him. For once in our five-year friendship, Vivian was speechless. I used the silence to talk. “Did you get anything out of those reporters—”

Vivian blurted,
“Shit!”

“—who wouldn't—”

“No, I mean really,
shit,
Ann. Maybe you shouldn't—”

I stopped her because I knew what she was about to say. “Would you give it up if you were me?”

There was another silence. I heard domestic noises in the background; it sounded like Vivian was out of bed, making coffee. She came back on the line, wide-awake. “You have to talk to a copgroupie named Karen. I met her at the Ray Perez trial—she's older and sort of a groupie doyenne.”

“What about those reporters who wouldn't talk to me?”

“They wouldn't talk to me either. They wanted information and I wouldn't play.”

“Then I thought I'd try Parker Center and the police academy—”

“Ann, it's
Sunday,
and besides, random polling is the most frustrating and time-consuming way to do research. Talk to Karen. She's Lockwood's oversexed admirer I wrote you about—the one who provided the 'divine but unfuckable' quote. Those groupies know things, and Doug Lockwood is their idol.”

 

I
DIDN'T TAKE
Vivian's advice right away. I should have, but I didn't believe her and didn't have enough reporting experience to know better.

I drove to Parker Center, then to the police academy in Elysian Park. There weren't a lot of people around and the people who were around wouldn't talk to me.

At Parker Center they wouldn't let me up to Robbery-Homicide. Anyway, I was told, the offices were closed. I spoke to a secretary in Personnel who was catching up on work; she was polite but not helpful. In the parking lot I tried some patrol cops. They were willing to flirt but not to talk about Lockwood.

At the police academy, I found some guys practicing at the outdoor pistol range. I never made it to my first question. The name of my newspaper alone got me three deadpan stares, a shrug, and a rude suggestion.

Like Vivian said, it was frustrating and time-consuming. I wasted the morning and part of the afternoon, and finally called Karen-the-groupie. She lived in Reseda, way out in the Valley. Her roommate said that Karen wasn't home; she was at a bar in Elysian Park called The Short Stop. The roommate started to tell me the cross street. I said thanks, I knew it.

The Short Stop was only a few blocks down Sunset from the police academy. The pink sign said
COCKTAILS,
and the exterior was boarded-up white. I walked in and let my eyes adjust to the lighting. It was almost empty on a Sunday afternoon, and the guys at the bar were definitely not cops. They looked more like neobeatniks, readers of the
Millennium.
I checked the booths for someone with very long hair. That's how Karen's roommate had described her.

There were three women giggling in the booth nearest the door. All three wore navy blue LAPD windbreakers, tight jeans, and dress shoes with heels. One was noticeably older and had long, streaky blond hair. Peroxide had turned it the texture of straw.

I walked over to the booth and said, “Karen?”

They stopped giggling and looked at me. I got the female onceover, then Karen looked at her two colleagues. They were glossy little Latinas wearing press-on nails and gold bracelets. Barely out of their teens, I guessed. A telepathic message passed among the three: I didn't meet any of their standards for beauty or fashion, therefore I was no threat. They burst out giggling again.

The older woman said, “I'm Karen. Who are you?”

She was a track-worn thirty, with a breathy, fakey voice. I told her who I was and how I'd gotten her name. I said, “I'd like to talk to you about Douglas Lockwood.”

That brought on a big giggle fit. The Latinas nudged each other and Karen flipped her hair over her shoulder. She said, “Doug Lockwood is one of our
favorite
subjects, isn't he, ladies?”

The Latinas giggled and nodded. I sat down in the booth and pulled the tape recorder out of my bag.

“I'd like to know what you know about his career.”

I set the tape recorder on the table. Karen wrapped her hand over the microphone. She said, “You know what we don't understand about you women in the media?”

I said, “‘We' being who?”

She pointed to the Latinas. “‘We' being friends of law enforcement—‘we' being the wives and girlfriends of police officers.”

I checked for a wedding ring on her finger. She saw what I was doing, and giggled. “Not at the moment—I just divorced my second one.”

For sleeping with groupies? I wondered, but didn't ask. I said, “What is it you don't get about us women in the media?”

“I'll show you, watch.”

She pinched the skin on her neck and down her arm. She squeezed her own thigh, then she took one of the Latinas' hands and held it.

She said, “See this? See this?”

I didn't see, and my expression told her so.

She dropped the Latina's hand. “Bodies, get it? Everyone has a body, and you women act like cops don't have bodies because you don't like them. But law enforcement isn't just a political issue or something to criticize on television, it's men's live bodies standing between us and harm, and we love those bodies and worry about them being killed, and you women in the media act like they don't mean anything.”

She looked to the little Latinas for backup; they both nodded. To me, she said, “Do you think Doug Lockwood is a handsome guy?”

“I'd rather talk about his police—”

“Come on, woman. Is Doug a hunk or what?”

“I don't—”

Karen rolled her eyes. “Jeepers, see what I mean?”

She reached into her windbreaker and pulled a newspaper article out of the pocket. Unfolding it carefully, she laid it on the table in front of me. The two Latinas slid around the booth and crowded Karen for a look. The four of us looked at it together.

It was a full-color
Times
photograph that hadn't made it into Barry's Burger King file.

The caption read, “Hero of siege receives medical attention after ordeal.” Lockwood was lying on his back in a patch of grass. His eyes were closed, and his face was so pale he looked unconscious. The paramedics had removed his jacket and shirt, and stretched his left arm over his head. The gunshot wound ran horizontal under one nipple: a long, thin gash that spilled blood across his stomach. One paramedic knelt on the grass beside Lockwood. He was staunching the flow of blood with gauze.

Karen took her fingertip and traced the outline of Lockwood's torso. His body was lean and mature. She caressed the newsprint with the kind of feeling, I assumed, that she wanted to spend on him. The Latinas followed the path of her finger and looked ready to swoon.