The Ticket Out (43 page)

He snapped.
“Will you let me talk?”

I didn't say anything. He set his notepad down and leaned forward. “I'll tell you what I haven't told the staff yet. I've signed the deal with Entertainment Media Group—the newspaper is sold.”

He waited for a reaction. I didn't have one. He said, “The new owners are on the line about keeping you for film. They'll take my recommendation.”

I didn't say anything. I didn't feel anything.

Barry said, “I'd like to leave the paper with a bang, and Lockwood's forced retirement would be a nice legacy. You know what happened in Culver City. Did you actually see the tunnel? Were you inside of it?”

Barry realized he wasn't getting through to me. He took a fatherly tone. “Don't be stubborn, Ann—this isn't a good time to get fired. There are no jobs out there for you.”

I said, “Who killed Greta Stenholm and why?”

Barry started to stand up. I braced my cane against the desk and blocked him. He sat back down.

“You're sick. Go home, get some rest—we'll discuss this when you feel better.”

“Who killed her and why?”

Barry shrugged. He reached around and picked up his notepad and pen. He said, “All right, you tell me what you know, and I'll tell you what I know. How's that?”

I said, “You first.”

Barry said, “I don't
know
who killed her, and I never gave a flying fuck. I only wanted the Lockwood piece, if you recall. You threatened to go to the
Times
with it.”

I was silent.

Barry said, “I have a producing deal in the works with Jules Silverman. I'll be in a position soon to offer you a job. You'd be perfect in development with what you know about story.”

“Who killed her and why?”

Barry said, softer, “Or I can fire you right now.”

He waited for my answer.

I stood up and tapped his notepad with my cane. I said, “Neil Phillips shot first. He is responsible for the deaths of Mrs. Florence May and Isabelle Pavich, and for his own. I don't know who put the bullet in Scott Dolgin's neck. Douglas Lockwood acted with integrity and intelligence, and the cops who went down into that tunnel are very brave men.”

I unlocked Barry's door and walked out of his office.

My only thought was: Entertainment Media Group. They turned good weeklies into film industry pap. They always added “Entertainment” to the name of the newspapers they bought.
The Entertainment Millennium.

 

I
ESCAPED FROM
the building by the parking lot door. I thought I'd avoid the reporters that way, but my car was surrounded. Someone had spotted the Colt and the box of shells in the backseat. A roar went up when I appeared. I heard “gun,” and “Doug Lockwood,” and “Rampart links,” and “grand jury probe,” and “official investigation,” and other phrases I now recognized as pertinent.

I didn't have the strength to force through the crowd. I stuck my cane out like a wedge and cut a path to the driver's door. Someone jostled me; it sent pain all through my left side. I stopped, feeling faint. A stitch popped in my arm. Someone saw the blood on my bandage and said to back off, give me room.

I climbed into my car and drove. I made sure I wasn't followed before I parked on a side street.

Scott Dolgin was next.

I called UCLA to see if he was awake. I couldn't get past a nurse at the intensive care unit. She wouldn't answer questions or take a message.

I needed gas. I got my wallet and checked how much money I had. I was close to broke. I dug around in my bag for loose bills. I found a couple of ones—and I found a chain necklace. I didn't wear necklaces. I held it up: there was a key on it. The key was stamped with the name
MAILBOX BOUTIQUE
and the number 65.

I tried to think...

The necklace was important. Someone important gave it to me. My mind would not remember how or where I acquired it. But I knew it was important.

Mailbox Boutique was a local company that rented private mail drops. I started the car and drove to the nearest gas station. I bought gas, then checked the public phone booth for a directory. It had one intact. I flipped to the yellow pages for Mailbox Boutique locations. I ran down the list. I got to “Culver City” and started to shake. I leaned against the booth. Culver City. The Casa de Amor.

Mrs. May.

Mrs. May had given me the necklace. The hospital dumped my tunnel clothes: Doug must have emptied my pockets. Mental images oozed up. Of a dark room, of white tiles, of whimpering—

I thumped my forehead on the glass. I tensed my muscles and willed the images to go away. If I started to remember I would be paralyzed. I'd start to scream and never stop.

I took deep breaths and kept reading.

There were six Mailbox Boutiques in West L.A. and Culver City—five more in Venice and the Marina. I wrote down the ones closest to the Casa de Amor. I felt my mind click on. I had a plan; I focused on it.

I got back in the car and drove to the freeway. Dots of blood seeped through my shirtsleeve; I'd popped more than one stitch. It didn't help the driving, which was already a strain. The freeway was a strain.

I tried the Mailbox Boutiques in geographical order east to west. The key didn't work in the first three. The fourth Mailbox Boutique was in a strip mall at the corner of Robertson and Culver. I parked and walked in. All the stores were arranged the same: numbered mailboxes covered the back and side walls. I walked along until I found sixty-five and tried the key.

The key worked; the door opened.

I saw folded sheets of paper inside. I didn't stop to worry about fingerprints. I grabbed the papers, relocked the mailbox, and hurried back to the car to read.

It was a handwritten note dated August 30, 2001. Last Thursday-eight days ago.

The note was addressed to “Mommy May,” and it looked like it was scribbled in a rush.

 

Dear Mommy May—

If youre reading this it means you think something happened to me and you used the key like I asked. Take this info to the cops in case of my disappearance or death I swear its all
true
and Im sorry if it hurts you because you've been sogood to me

Bens real name is Neil Phillips. Ive known him since Bev Hills High but we havent been friends for a long time He found the tunnel under the Casa when he worked at the Columbia mailroom which is why he pressured you to rent to him and why he wanted the last bungalow because its the only one with direct access tothe tunnel (Remember you told me history of Casa and how MGM had a secret underground city You saidthey closed the tunnel 30 years ago and it was hard not to tell you N found it again. He moved into the suite inthe corner where the examining room is where you told me that the studio had their own MD perform abortions on actresses)

 

I paused, but I would not let myself picture that room.

 

On July 12 last year N shot his agent Ted Abadi (Im sorry I know its terrible) He was blackballedby the Industry and Teds agency fired N as a client. It was a spur of the moment act because N knew no other agency would take him and his career was over. I didnt realize N did it at first He asked me to be his alibi becaus he didn't have one and he told me he was home alone. I helped him out because I was alone that night too and the cops were going to be on me I was sure But a few months-later I realized from something N did that he killed Ted himself. I stupidly asked N about it instead of going to the cops N threatened to kill
me
if I told the cops and hes made my life
hell
ever since. He made you rent to mebecause he wanted to keep me close. Hes latched onto InCasa Prods and my friends and business associates He almost never leaves me alone (Hes gone tonight thats how I can write this and get away to hide it) He thinks hecan use me as his ticket back into Holly wood and I can't do anything becaus of Ted because Im an accessory and because N says he'll hurt
you

 

Last Thursday night. It was Phillips who jumped me at the pool house. I knew why now: I'd seen the tunnel diagram that morning.

 

N
murdered my frien Greta. He came to Bary Ms party and killed her for a screenplay she wrote (Tell the cops he snuck in the back so nobody saw him, I didnt) You remembe that fight in my apartment It was over the same script. G sold it for big bucks and N wanted his name on it because they were partners once and he thought she owed him. I was mad too because I thought the script could launch InCasa if she'd attach me as producer I lent her money and helped her when she wasnt working But she wouldnt help me or N and N killed her because he was desperate (He's not crazy he just wants what he wants. Hes always been that way)

But N cant find a copy of the script. He broke into Gs car before he killed her and couldnt find one And she only had a partial draftwith her when he killed her He thought she left it where he killed her and searched there attacked one of Barrys writers whos doing a feature on InCasa. Ns plan was to tell Gs agent that hes the ghost cowriter. But how can he say that when if he hasnt even seen the whole script? He made me call Gs agent for a copy buttheysaid they didnt have one N is really getting crazy and he doesnt trust me He thinks I have the scrip-tand holding out on him

 

Greta fooled everyone with her story about a six-figure movie deal. I'd seen Phillips two days ago. He was still looking for a copy of
GB Dreams Big
and playing the injured cowriter. And Hamilton Ashburn told PPA he'd seen the script. He hadn't; he was trying to screw Phillips with Len Ziskind by saying it was bad.

 

When I gaveyou the maibox key Mommy I said I leaving town for the weekend to get away but it isn't true but tell Isab it is. N wants me inthe tunnel with him I say its better if lm avail-abl and not suspicious. I dont know how long that will be but I know youll do the right thing if lm gone too long Goto the cops and tell themabout tunnel lm sure thats where I am. Show them this statement N said if I accuse him he'll say Im the killer and its his word against mine But it wont be becaus I was with Barry M when N killed G

N
says he'll frame me with evidence but dont believe it I didn't do anything really wrong
I swear
and what I did do was under duress, big hug...

 

Scott Dolgin signed his name at the bottom. The signature, like the writing, was herky-jerky.

I stared out the window.

I believed it. It was the only explanation that fit all the facts.

I wondered why Dolgin didn't grab Mrs. May and run to the cops if he'd had time to write a note and stash it blocks away. One guess: he wasn't thinking straight. Another guess: he hoped to avoid a scandal and save himself somehow by some non-police-involved miracle.

Doug must have suspected Phillips. He must have suspected him the minute they received the anonymous tip accusing Dolgin. Who else would have phoned it in? Not Mrs. May, the surrogate mother who removed damaging evidence from Dolgin's bungalow. Not Isabelle Pavich, who wanted to marry him. And Dolgin and Phillips covered each other for Ted Abadi's death.

Two people had called In-Casa Productions a “farce”: Greta, and Neil Phillips. It was Phillips in the back office at Barry's party.

Doug had guessed a lot of things. He would never have guessed she was murdered for
GB Dreams Big.

I folded up Dolgin's confession, put it in the glove compartment, and started the car.

If Barry hadn't been protecting his movie interests, we would've known about the fight the day I found her.

If only I'd hung on to Phillips when I had him at Georgette Bauerdorf's. If only Doug had come.

I saw the fateful
if's.
I saw the big sweep of Neil Phillips's crime and his ambition. I saw every last detail, every decision, every minute of every day since the day last year he shot Ted Abadi in a rage of frustration.

I knew I was suffering a kind of insanity. I could see everything and feel nothing.

 

I
DROVE TO
the Casa de Amor. As I pulled up, I didn't even look toward the Thalberg Building. More camera trucks were parked at the curb; more reporters milled on the sidewalk. A cameraman was panning the Casa's facade. Crime-scene tape had been strung across the entrance to the courtyard, and across the back gates. Two Culver City cops stood guard, watching.

I cut over the lawn before the press people noticed. I was prepared to use Doug's name as a password. I didn't need it; the cops knew my face and waved me forward. They lifted the tape so I could bend under it, then stood together to screen me from the reporters.

There was tape across Mrs. May's porch and Scott Dolgin's porch. A triple string of tape cordoned off Phillips's bungalow and front path. I walked up to Erma's and knocked on her door. Loud sobbing broke out in Dorene's bungalow. It echoed through the courtyard until Erma's voice cut it off:

“We all know Flo's wishes! She wanted to be near her Harry!”

A woman wailed.
“Home of Peace is so far! Flo will want fresh roses every week!”

Erma's voice was impatient. “We're old, Shirl, we're not crippled! It's just a short hop on the freeway!”

I walked next door, knocked, and went in. The Casa tenants were holding a wake. They sat around in black dresses, without their makeup. Erma wore a black muumuu. The living room had been straightened—the Frito bags and empty booze bottles were gone. Dorene sat on the couch, propped up by pillows. Only Erma recognized me.

She said, “Honey! What happened to
you?”