To Die in Beverly Hills (10 page)

Nothing was said for a while. Carr pulled a ballpoint pen and a note pad out of his inside pocket. He passed them over to her, stood up, put on his coat and left the room. He walked briskly down a tiled corridor and entered an office. Higgins sat straddling a chair in front of a small television screen. On the screen, Amanda Kennedy picked at her face as she stared at the paper and pen.

"She's thinking about it," Higgins said. "If she'd been around a little more, she'd know that the D.A. would never file a receiving case on her. Hell, it's hard enough to get them to file a case when you catch a burglar red-handed inside someone's house."

Amanda Kennedy reached for the pen. She pulled her hand back, glanced at the trash basket.

"Come on, sweet meat," Higgins said. He slid his chair closer to the television.

Amanda Kennedy seemed to be sniffling. She wiped her eyes. "The waterworks," Higgins said. "This is a very good sign. A very good sign."

Amanda Kennedy pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her prison smock. She blew her nose and put the handkerchief away. Having done this, she picked up the pen and wrote something on the piece of paper.

Higgins clapped. Carr took a deep breath. Amanda Kennedy stood up and went to the door. The lock snapped and the door slid open. She crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it in the trashcan on her way out.

Carr and Higgins hurried back to the room. The trashcan was empty except for the note. He picked it up and unfolded it. The note read:

His nickname is Bones and he is a bartender. That's all I know. The redhead is Shirley. She's a cocktail waitress. I think they work in the same place.

"Gee thanks," Higgins said. "A nickname."

"I guess it's better than nothing," Carr replied.

****

FIVE

IT WAS the middle of the day and the tall palms that lined Coventry Circle Avenue swayed gently west. The sky was uncommonly azure-the heraldic, smogless Southern California blue of tourist postcards and movie sets.

Emil Kreuzer steered his Mercedes-Benz sedan off Coventry Circle Avenue and into a semicircle driveway leading to a two-story home. The juniper bushes guarding the spotless driveway were shaped into perfect globes and the manicured expanse of lawn was money green. He parked the sedan in front of the house and climbed out. Having put on a suit coat, he straightened his necktie, then headed toward the mansion's main entrance. At the door, he used a door knocker that was a brass W.

A frail, middle-aged woman with slack jowls answered the door. Her hair was pulled back at the temples and she wore an abundance of rouge that seemed to match the color of her dress, and a string of pearls.

"Good morning, Mrs. Wallace," Kreuzer said using his German accent. He noticed brown age-spots on her forehead, even under the layer of makeup.

She motioned him in. "I'm glad you didn't come early. My husband just left to go on location. He'll be in Spain directing a Western. He wanted me to go, but I hate hotel rooms and not being able to say what I want in my own language."

Kreuzer stepped in and she closed the door. He followed her through a hallway decorated with impressionist art into the living room. Was the watercolor nearest the door a Degas?

"Arthur is so
anti-everything,"
she said. "If I would have told him I had retained you for hypnotherapy he would have come unglued. My husband is from the old school I'm afraid. To him, hypnosis is equated with voodoo."

"This is understandable," Kreuzer said sympathetically.

The living room was a striking combination of pink satin, glass and oil paintings of flowers in vases. The floor was covered by an immaculate sea of white shag carpeting. Mrs. Wallace sat down on a sofa, while Kreuzer chose a chair. "I detect an accent," she said. "Is it German?"

Kreuzer nodded. "I received my doctorate at the University of Berlin." He recognized an oil painting on the wall behind her as a Gauguin.

"I've heard so much about you from my friends at the club. Both Ivy and Harriet told me they haven't had an urge for a cigarette since their first session with you. My doctor has been literally
begging
me to stop smoking." She picked up a gold cigarette case off the coffee table. It was thin and her initials were inlaid in rows of tiny diamonds. "This is a birthday present from my husband. It holds ten cigarettes and it has a time lock. It can be opened only every hour and a half. It was supposed to limit me to ten cigarettes a day, but I can't help cheating. I've tried millions of times to quit and nothing has worked." She folded her arms.

"At the end of our session you will feel pleasant, more relaxed than you have in a long, long time, and you will no longer have the desire to smoke cigarettes," Kreuzer said. His tone was authoritative.

"I have a couple of questions."

"Of course. Everyone has questions about hypnosis. It's only natural."

"I know that you appear in the nightclub acts. I've heard that in your stage act, audience volunteers sometimes are made to act foolish..."

"You will do nothing under hypnosis that you wouldn't do in the waking state," Kreuzer said in a reassuring manner. "And I promise not to suggest any stage behavior to you. I am here to simply cure you of your smoking habit. I consider you my patient and you should trust me as you would any doctor."

"What happens if I go into a trance and don't wake up? Could I get stuck asleep?"

"That question is the one I'm most frequently asked," Kreuzer said patiently. He folded his hands. "The answer is that no one has
ever
been stuck in hypnosis. The state of hypnosis is nothing more than a state of deep relaxation. It's similar to the way you feet at night just before you fall asleep. It is a healthy, gratifying experience that can help one to control one's bad habits."

Mrs. Wallace set the cigarette case down on the table. She rubbed her hands on her dress. "I have the urge for a cigarette right this very minute."

Kreuzer gave her a fatherly smile. "Are you ready to relax and lose your desire to smoke?"

She nodded.

"You may find it easier to relax if you lie down on the sofa," Kreuzer said, "or you may sit up if you'd like. This is your choice."

She lay back on the sofa, adjusted a decorative pillow under her head, then straightened her dress to cover her knees.

Kreuzer slid a glass ball pendulum from his pocket. He hung it slightly above her eye level. "Focus on the pendulum. You will find that as you do your eyes will become tired and want to close...more and more tired...more and more difficult to keep them open..." He repeated the phrases over and over again. In a minute she closed her eyes. "Now you can feel the tension being released from the bottoms of your feet and a deep feeling of relaxation moving slowly along the muscles in your legs...now your arms are starting to feel heavy and so comfortable...and the muscles in your neck...so, so relaxed...relaxed and comfortable and more pleasant than you have felt in a long, long time."

After a half hour of such patter Kreuzer noticed the deep abdominal breathing, the sure sign of a trance. "You are becoming more and more relaxed with each and every breath that you take." He stood up and strolled quietly around the room. He took a small notebook out of his back pocket and sketched a diagram of the living room.

Walking on his tiptoes, he crept up the stairs and into the master bedroom. He sketched another diagram. Back down the stairs. He thoroughly examined the paintings in the hallway, then returned to the living room. Mrs. Wallace swallowed. Kreuzer put the notebook and pen away. She was still breathing deeply. Because of the position of her head, a face-lift scar above her ear was evident.