The Ticket Out (30 page)

“Did he ask for you because of your looks?”

“I didn't want to do it. I've played the mommy since Greta rewrote the part, but Lynnda forced me. I wore a different costume and left my hair down. I was supposed to put these in.”

She dug through the junk on her table and found two old-fashioned rhinestone barrettes. She used them to clip her hair behind her ears.

“I curled my ends under like this.” She showed me.

I said, “So, a 1940s hairstyle.”

She shrugged, “I guess.”

Shelly whispered, “Come
on,
Debbie. Let's go.”

Debbie said, “There's a rumor that Lynnda knows more about Greta's death than she says.”

Shelly slapped her leg. “I told you that in confidence!”

I said, “Lynnda and Dale Denney. What's the story there?”

Debbie said, “Dale works her parties. He parks cars and checks invitations—”

She stopped. The sound of pounding feet came down the hallway. The dressing-room door shook on its hinges. A man yelled,
“This is the back way!”
It sounded like a stampede.

Debbie jumped up.
“The cops!”

Shelly unlocked the door and peeked out. Debbie lunged for the knob and threw the door wide. A stream of men raced past us; they were headed for the utility room. Debbie grabbed Shelly and pushed her into the hall. They ran.

I plunged in behind them. Nobody gave us a second look. I followed the crowd up the hall, through the garage, around and out to the front. Doors banged; everybody was breathing hard. Men slipped, tripped, and flew down the driveway. They fanned out for cars parked on both sides of the street. I slowed down. I saw Shelly and Debbie make it to an old Toyota and take off. A few guys came barreling out the front door. They leaped down the stairs and raced for their cars. They disappeared around corners and down side streets.

I looked around for what caused the panic: it
was
the cops. Lockwood's car was parked on my bumper. Dale Denney was sitting up. He held his bloody nose with one hand and watched the commotion.

I cut across the cactus beds to Lynnda-Ellen's front door. Detective Smith stood in the vestibule. He was showing three customers the way out. They jostled past him and ran for the stairs.

Smith laughed at them, then saw me. He said, “You're a menace to public order. The keys to the cuffs, please.”

I pointed at my car. “They're in the trunk.”

Smith noticed my hand as I pointed. It was swelling and scraped raw where the brass knuckles fit. I flexed my fingers to keep them loose.

Smith said, “Where'd you learn your technique?”

I said, “He tried to pull me out of my car.” I started into the house; Smith barred the door and shook his head.

I said, “But I have things to tell him.”

Smith said, “Then don't leave.”

He closed the door on me. I jumped off the porch to look in the living-room window. Smith crossed the dining room and walked into the kitchen. I ran around the near end of the house, climbed a fence, and heard voices. Ducking, I snuck up to an open window. I peeked over the sill.

A stacked scrawny woman was leaning against the kitchen counter. She wore a tight black dress and her bleached hair was spun up into cotton candy. Cheap, but shrewd-looking: Lynnda-Ellen. Lockwood stood and faced her. Smith had posted himself by the exit to the dining room.

Lynnda-Ellen said, “It's a private party, Doug—you can't just come in like this.”

Lockwood passed her a photograph. “We aren't here about your ‘party.'”

She squinted at the picture, holding it close, then at arm's length. She gave it back to Lockwood. “I don't have my reading glasses, sorry.”

There was a clatter in the dining room and Hannah Silverman burst into the kitchen. She shouted,
“Don't talk to them, Lynnda! Don't say one fucking syllable!”

Lockwood deadpanned her. He said, “Detective Smith, would you show Miss Silverman to her vehicle?”

Smith reached for Silverman. Silverman glared. “Don't you dare touch me! I'll sue! Lynnda, don't tell them anything!”

Lynnda opened her mouth. Lockwood shot her a look that shut her up. Silverman tried to stare Lockwood down. She was no match for him: Lockwood just looked at her. She stamped her foot, stuck her princess chin in the air, and stormed out of the kitchen.

She yelled,
“I'm calling my lawyer!”
The front door slammed.

Smith shrugged. “Must have been in the ladies' room.”

Lockwood refocused on Lynnda-Ellen. He held up the photograph. I could see what it was now. It was a blowup of Greta's blackmail picture. A little blurry at that magnification—but the important elements were clear.

Lockwood said, “Arnold Tolback introduced you to Greta Stenholm this past March. Business was falling off and Mr. Tolback said Miss Stenholm could help. He had one condition—you weren't allowed to tell Hannah or Jules Silverman that Miss Stenholm was working for you.”

Lynnda made her face a blank. She refused to look at the photograph.

Lockwood said, “The Silvermans are two of your best customers. Miss Silverman attends your weekly ‘parties,' but Mr. Silverman comes for private appointments because he doesn't appear in public. You wondered why Mr. Tolback would want to keep Miss Stenholm's presence a secret. You asked around and learned the gist of Miss Stenholm's history with the Silvermans—or maybe you asked Miss Stenholm herself.”

Lynnda switched from blank to bored. Her expression said, Ho hum, this has nothing to do with me.

Lockwood said, “Miss Stenholm revamped your acts and business picked up. She became a valuable employee and you couldn't afford to tell the Silvermans who was responsible. When she was evicted from her apartment in June, you invited her to move in with you.”

Lynnda examined her fake fingernails; they were scarlet with sparkly silver designs. She picked on one to chew.

Lockwood said, “Mr. Tolback informed Miss Stenholm of Mr. Silverman's sexual tastes. He had his own bone to pick with the Silvermans—something you realized too late. Miss Stenholm discovered the exact time of Mr. Silverman's private appointments. Maybe the actress involved told her, maybe she saw Mr. Silverman arrive or leave—or maybe you told her, since she was so close to your business. Whichever the case, she discovered the secret and took photographs covertly of Mr. Silverman.”

Lockwood jiggled the picture. Lynnda said, “Will you be done soon?”

Lockwood said, “Miss Stenholm sent Mr. Silverman the photographs and moved out of your house on the day he received them. That would have been Thursday, August twenty-third—twelve days ago. She asked for twenty thousand dollars.”

August 23: the day Hannah gave Tolback the boot and he checked into the Marmont. Tolback must have spilled all the beans. Lockwood's information was
detailed.

Lockwood said, “The Silvermans blamed you for the extortion. To appease them you did two things. You recommended Dale Denney to deliver the blackmail payment, and you promised to throw a scare into Miss Stenholm. Denney was too much of a clown for the scare job, so you deputized a second man to hunt her down. He braced her at a party, but he went too far and killed her. Maybe the guy took a powder, and you read about Miss Stenholm's death in the papers. Maybe the guy came to you with the story, but you couldn't tell the Silvermans, so Denney delivered the money to the wrong woman on the night following the murder. You'd tried to keep Miss Stenholm a secret, and Denney didn't know what she looked like.”

Lynnda started on a fresh fingernail. It was ennui, not nerves.

Lockwood said, “The woman who received the payment reported her encounter with Denney to us, and exposed the blackmail angle. Now the Silvermans want their money back, and you are all concealing knowledge of a felony. You may be concealing the murderer.”

His pitch was measured and impressively succinct. But I didn't know how much of it was factual. The second-man theory was news. Did Tolback tell Lockwood that Scott Dolgin was the “second man”?

Lynnda said, “Are you finished?”

Lockwood handed her a business card. “You have twelve hours to tell me everything you know, or I'll shut your ass down permanently.”

Lynnda yawned. “You've tried it before.”

Lockwood said, “We have Dale Denney in custody. I think he'll be willing to cooperate.”

That worked; that got to her. Lockwood and Smith walked out of the kitchen. She waited until they'd gone, then kicked a cupboard and swore.

I ran around to the front and met Lockwood and Smith walking down the stairs. Smith said, “There she is.”

Lockwood saw me and shook his head. “You could have killed him.”

“Would you have cared?”

He shook his head, deadpan. “We'd clear it as self-defense.”

Smith nodded. “Piece of cake.”

“Cunt!”

Dale Denney jerked at his handcuffs. His face and arms, neck and shirt, were covered with blood.

I made a fist and started for him. Lockwood held me back. He said, “We have to get him cleaned up. Meet us at the station in an hour.”

***

“CARJACKING?!
"

Dale Denney thrashed in his chair. The chair was bolted to the floor; he was cuffed to one arm. His eyes were black and blue, his nose was a mass of stitches, and there was a wad of cotton up one nostril. The hospital had given him a clean shirt from their Lost and Found.

Smith hovered over him; Lockwood sat on a table. I sat in the next room, watching through a two-way mirror. A wall speaker supplied the sound. I nursed my right hand with an ice pack.

“I never carjacked nobody! That's a crock of shit!”

Smith coughed in his face. “We had a carjacking-homicide downtown, and you match the description of the suspect.”

Lockwood shuffled papers. “He's a six-foot-six African American weighing approximately three hundred forty pounds.”

Smith said, “They call him ‘Slim.'”

Lockwood said, “His hairline is similar to yours. As you probably know, hairlines are critical in these kinds of identification.”

Denney jerked his cuff chain. “Fuck that hairline shit! That's a crock!”

Lockwood said, “You tried to pull a woman out of her car tonight, so we're holding you on probable cause.”

“That cunt!”

Lockwood said, “Watch your mouth.”

Smith said, “Be nice, Dale.”

Lockwood told me their strategy beforehand. If I filed an assault charge, Denney would bail out in no time. But they could hold a homicide suspect for forty-eight hours without a formal arrest or the possibility of bail. And the LAPD really did have an unsolved carjacking-homicide where the suspect matched Denney's general description. I laughed when I heard how general; the guy was a dark-haired male Caucasian.

There was also the pool house. Once Denney had seen Lockwood's badge, he was supposed to surrender. He hadn't, and for that they intended to screw with him. I'd reminded them about the lesson of Rodney King, and Lockwood asked if I had a video camera with me. For the longest time, I hadn't recognized his humor for what it was; I was getting used to his deadpan style. Or maybe it was just cop humor, because Smith was good at it, too.

Smith said, “Lynnda's cutting you loose, Dale. You're a liability now.”

“That's a lie! I delivered the money, that's all—the
money!”

Smith said, “What money would that be, Dale?”

Denney slumped. “Ask the cunt.”

Smith said, “Be nice, Dale.”

Lockwood said, “Watch your mouth.”

Smith said, “Lynnda shared a theory with us, and we think it's a good one.”

Lockwood said, “Lynnda sent you out to deliver a package and lean on Miss Stenholm a little. You leaned too hard, killed her, then tried to cover it up. You delivered the package the following night and pretended not to know what Miss Stenholm looked like. You were betting that between the money and the assault, the story would get back to us.”

Denney shook his head and banged his fists on the chair arms. Lockwood said, “You told Lynnda that Miss Stenholm got her money. Then the papers ran the news of Miss Stenholm's death. You played dumb to Lynnda. You told her what ‘really' happened—that you never located Miss Stenholm, and you mistook one woman for another when you delivered the money. Lynnda didn't believe you. She figured you killed Greta Stenholm and stole the twenty grand.”

Denney shook his head and rattled his handcuffs.

Smith said,
“We've
got the money, Dale. But we didn't tell Lynnda that.”

Denney said, “I
didn't
kill her.”

Lockwood said, “You're a knife man from way back. You've got the ADW on your rap sheet.”

“I didn't kill her. I delivered the money and a message.
I didn't count the money, and I don't know what the message meant.”

Smith said, “How did you fuck up so badly, Dale?”

Lockwood said, “You had it in for Miss Stenholm. You hate smart women—they make you feel like the dipshit you are.”

“I hate cunts, is what I hate! I'm not through with that one neither!”

Smith said, “Women should be seen and not heard, right, Dale?”

Lockwood said, “You broke into Miss Stenholm's apartment nine months ago. What did you steal?”

“I didn't steal
nothing. I didn't do it.”

Smith said, “Come on, Dale—no panties to sniff in your lonely moments? No Russian novels to improve your mind?”

Lockwood said, “On Friday night, August twenty-fourth, you broke into Miss Stenholm's car while it was parked in Hollywood. What did you steal?”

“Fuck you guys! Ask me where I was the night of the carjacking!”

Lockwood said, “You followed Miss Stenholm to a party on Monday night, August twenty-seventh. She got smart on you, and you killed her.”