The Ticket Out (22 page)

I didn't bother paging Lockwood again; I phoned him at the station. He wasn't in and neither was Smith. I got passed around until I found a detective who agreed to take a long message. Lockwood would know what was happening, at least.

I gave him a rundown of the day. I started at Mrs. May, ended at Catherine Kerr, and reviewed all the speculation in between. I hadn't located
GB Dreams Big
but I'd begun to think that everyone was lying—a little or a lot. I told Lockwood so. I told him that my next stop was Barry Melling, and after Barry, the Casa de Amor.

I thanked the detective for taking the message. He laughed, said, “Everyone's lying,” and hung up.

Okay, I was stupid. It hadn't occurred to me to doubt every person I talked to. Now I knew.

I phoned the
Millennium
to see if Barry was still there. It was 8 P.M.; the night watchman said that Barry had gone home.

He lived in the hills above the Sunset Strip, in a funky chalet stuck out over a canyon. I thought about him the whole way over. He had lied to me, too. He was Scott Dolgin's mentor. He'd lent Dolgin seed money and thrown a party for In-Casa Productions. How could he not know about Dolgin and Greta? He probably knew Greta herself. That's why he tried to stop me from writing the piece. That's why the nasty messages demanding updates—and the threats.

His street was one lane of steep hairpin turns. A wide truck was parked in front of his house. It had two tires in the ivy and still blocked half the road. As I squeezed by, I checked it out. A shiny black Humvee.

Hannah Silverman's Humvee.

I parked on the dirt shoulder and walked back down. Keeping low, I leaned against the Humvee to look in the driver's window. An antitheft device beeped; I ducked and jumped back. I held my breath, waiting for someone to come out. A minute passed, but no one did.

I snuck through the ivy and looked into Barry's kitchen. Barry was standing at the counter in a kimono. His chest and feet were bare, and he was pouring wine as he talked to Hannah Silverman. They were too absorbed to hear an electronic beep outside.

Silverman wore one of Barry's kimonos and nothing else. She towered over him like she towered over Arnold Tolback in pictures—but Barry was closer to her age. And just like the pictures, she held her chin at a snotty angle. Penny Proft had called her a world-class witch. From this distance she looked it.

Barry went on talking. I stood up as much as I dared and pressed my ear to the window. I could only catch a few words. I heard “father.” I heard “midwifing the sale.” I heard “asking price” and “other projects together.” Silverman's voice was more shrill, but I watched her lips and couldn't make out her answer. They were discussing business, that's all I could tell.

Barry corked the bottle and they took their wine into another part of the house. I walked over, rang the front doorbell, and waited.

Barry came to the door. He cracked it to see who it was; his expression changed instantly.
“Where have you been?! I've been calling for days!”

I said, “Let me in and I'll tell you.”

“I'm entertaining.”

I pointed at the Humvee. “The Joint Chiefs of Staff?”

Barry stepped outside and shut the door behind him. He wrapped his kimono tighter. He said, “I want Lockwood by tomorrow noon.”

“I need another week.”

“No!”

“Listen, the piece isn't time linked, and I'm getting the most amazing stuff on him.”

Barry lit up.

“It's stuff that's never been printed. I've found a new source on his police record and sexual past, and I've got access to the LAPD's findings on the siege.”

Barry clenched his fist. “We're going to nail that cocksucker!”

“But I need more time for verification, and I need your help. Some of the reporters won't talk to me because I won't talk about the murder. I need you to twist arms.”

Barry reached for the doorknob. “Call me tomorrow about the reporters. I'm giving you one more week.”

He opened the door. I said, “Do you know where Scott Dolgin is?”

“Why?”

“Well...” I faked hesitation.

Barry shut the door again. “What is it?”

“I...”

“What?”

“It isn't good...”

“What
isn't good?”

“...Dolgin lied to you.”

Barry tensed. “He did not. What about?”

I said, “It turns out that he knew the dead woman. They were actually working together, and I think he knows where I can find a script of hers. That's why I'm looking for him—the script.”

Barry relaxed. “Oh, that. Yes, Scott told me.”

“About the script?”

Barry shook his head. “After you and I spoke, Scott told me he knew her. He lied because he was worried about fallout. He doesn't want to hurt In-Casa.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Forget Scott—Doug Lockwood's your job.”

Barry opened the door and stepped inside. Silverman yelled,
“Hey! I'm waiting here!”

Barry slammed the door and I heard him throw the dead bolt. I counted backward on my fingers. Arnold Tolback checked into the Marmont on the twenty-third of August. It was eleven days by my calculation: Hannah Silverman broke up with Arnold Tolback eleven days ago. But she'd known Barry longer than that. They didn't look like brand-new lovers to me.

 

A
T NIGHT
the Casa de Amor was pink. The porch lights were pink globes, the roses were lit with pink baby-spots, and casa de amor was lit with pink floods on the archway. The bungalows stood out very pink in the darkness. Traffic on Washington slowed down to stare at them.

I found the side street west of the Casa empty. Pavich's roadster was gone, and there were no cop cars. I parked, walked around to Mrs. May's, and knocked at the door. Her front blinds were open. I leaned over the porch rail and looked in. None of her lights were on, but the TV set was; it was playing the Home and Garden channel. The courtyard was completely quiet.

I knocked again and listened: nobody was coming. I opened the screen. An LAPD card had been wedged under the brass knocker. It was Lockwood's. I knocked on the inside door, then tried the knob. The knob turned, the door was unlocked. I pushed it open and called Mrs. May's name.

Calling my name, I walked into the bungalow. Mrs. May's front room looked exactly like Dolgin's except the greens and creams were reversed. The sound was down on the TV. A rose catalog lay open on the dining table. Beside it was an empty teacup and a plate of sandwich crusts.

I walked into the kitchen, calling Mrs. May's name. I felt around for a light switch and hit the light.

I stopped dead.

Sitting on Mrs. May's kitchen counter: khaki pants, and a pair of white sneakers. The pants had a rust-colored patch on the right leg. The sneakers were spotted that same rust color, and there was dried mud on the treads. I got up close to look. I could smell chlorine.

My first thought was:
Don't touch anything.
My second thought was:
Protect the evidence.

I ran to the kitchen door. Grabbing a dish towel, I covered my hand and slid the chain into the slot. Nobody would come in the back way.

I ran through the rest of the bungalow. Mrs. May's purse was sitting on a shelf in the bathroom. It had her money and car keys in it. I checked there and everywhere else for door keys—a landlady would have a lot of door keys. There was a Cupid hook stuck in the wall by the front door. It looked like it might be a key-ring holder; but the key ring wasn't there.

My heart was pounding.
The murder pants. The murder shoes.
I wiped the sweat off my hands and told myself to think. What should I do next?

I ran out to the porch, closed the inside door, and made sure it locked behind me. I wanted to call Lockwood, but I didn't want to leave the bungalow unguarded. I realized I should have used Mrs. May's telephone. I twisted the knob and pushed—too late.
Damn.

Where was she? She couldn't be far. Door open, television on, purse there: she'd only stepped out for a minute.

I looked across the walkway. Scott Dolgin's bungalow was dark. I ran over and tried the door. It was locked.

I ran up the walk to Mrs. May's neighbor. The neighbor's front door was open. Through the screen, I saw a fat woman wedged into one of the Casa's velvet chairs. She wore a turquoise muumuu and fluffy slippers, and had a candy bar in one hand and a bottle of bourbon in the other. It was small-batch bourbon—the most expensive stuff you could buy. Her eyes were closed; she was engrossed in chewing.

I rapped on the screen door. The woman opened her eyes and screeched,
“Go away!”

I cracked the screen. “Do you know where I can find Mrs. May?”

The woman sloshed her bottle at me. “Looking for Flo, looking for Scott, looking for Ben. Is everybody lost?” She bit off a mouthful of candy bar.

I said, “Who's Ben?”

She screeched,
“Ben!”
spewing chocolate. She pointed toward the back of the courtyard. “Last on the right!”

Ben? The Ben of Ben Hecht? The Ben of “B. N. Hecht”—the pseudonym Neil Phillips was using on his scripts?

I ran up to “Ben's” bungalow. The porch light was on but the place was dark. Lockwood had stuck another business card under the knocker. The blank side faced up. Lockwood had written: “Mr. Phillips, please contact us at your earliest convenience.” So Lockwood knew; and Mrs. May lied about Scott Dolgin being her only male tenant—

I heard a noise inside Phillips's bungalow. It sounded like footsteps. I listened hard. It
was
footsteps.

I knocked on the door. The noise stopped. I knocked again, called Phillips's name, and tried looking in his front windows. The Venetian blinds were shut.

A stucco wall closed off the rear of the courtyard. It ran flush up to the bungalow, and it was thick with roses. I couldn't get to Phillips's back door from that end.

I tiptoed off the porch and broke into a run. I ran under the arch, turned left, and looked for a back way into the bungalows.

Behind Mrs. May's I found a wooden gate and a cement path. The path led past back doors, garbage cans, and a line of cat-food bowls. I ran down the path on my toes. At Phillips's place, I crouched below the kitchen sill. The louvers and door were shut. I jiggled and pried, but it was no use. I got right up to the window and listened. I couldn't hear footsteps or anything else.

I ran back to the gate, slammed it shut, twirled, and ran smack into a man. The man grabbed me. I yanked away and tried to punch him. The man ducked and caught my fist. In the light from the rose beds, I saw that it was Lockwood. I grabbed his jacket and pulled him close. My heart was pounding.

“Neil Phillips is home
! I
heard him but he wont answer the door!”

Lockwood held on to me. He whispered, “Take it easy. Phillips can't be home—I have Culver City watching the apartments, and they haven't seen him tonight.”

“Are you sure?
"

Lockwood pointed to a car parked on the opposite side of Washington. I made out two silhouettes in the front seat.

I lowered my voice.
“Scott Dolgins the killer. I was inside Mrs. May's. There's a pair of pants and a pair of sneakers in her kitchen. They're covered with dry blood—and the sneakers smell like a swimming pool.”

I started pulling Lockwood toward the archway. He let himself be pulled. I said,
“He was in love with Greta. He sent Pavich to my place to see what the police knew. He broke into Greta's car and stole her suitcases. He's Mrs. May's ‘special boy,' and she's protecting him. He's disappeared and no one's tried to kill me since.”

Lockwood stopped me at Mrs. May's porch. “Calm down, please.”

“I
am
calm! Did you get the message I left at the station?”

Detective Smith appeared from the back of the courtyard. Lockwood raised his eyebrows at him, but Smith shook his head.

Lockwood walked me onto the porch and made me sit in a wicker chair. I jumped up. “We
should check the garages!”

Lockwood pressed me back into the chair. “You calm down first.”

I looked at him, and then at Smith. I could tell that they both thought I was hysterical. I shut my eyes and took some slow breaths in and out. I felt Lockwood's hand cover mine. I breathed in and out. When I opened my eyes, he and Smith were still looking concerned. I smiled at them. I wanted to make a joke but nothing came to me.

Lockwood let go of my hand. “Now, tell us what you saw.”

I told them what I'd found in Mrs. May's bungalow. Smith wrote the notes; Lockwood just listened. Neither of them seemed jazzed.

I said, “What's the matter?”

Lockwood looked at Smith. “I don't believe it, do you?”

Smith shook his head. Lockwood said, “Let's assume that Mrs. May removed these items from Dolgin's residence because she suspected, or knew, that they incriminated him. That doesn't explain the existence of the items. A murderer will generally dispose of bloodstained garments as soon as possible after the crime.”

Smith nodded. I said, “You think they're a plant?”

“It could be.”

“By who?”

Lockwood and Smith played that poker-faced. I said, “Let's kick down Mrs. May's door and get the stains tested.”

I started to stand up, but Lockwood held me back. “We can't go in there. We don't have a warrant.”

“You didn't have a warrant for Isabelle Pavich's.”

“That's what is called ‘exigent circumstances.' We believed Miss Pavich was the victim of an assault and kidnapping.”

“Is it her blood on Dolgin's carpet?”

Smith said, “We don't know yet.”