Blue Screen (7 page)

T
HE ADDRESS
in Santa Monica, which Erin Flint had once used, was a stucco bungalow down 7th Street hill and bear left in the Canyon. It was surrounded by flowers and had an oblique but discernible view of the ocean. I parked on the street and walked to the front door. There was the California smell: flowers, fruit trees, olives smashed on the sidewalk, the mild astringency of the sea air from the Pacific. It was November. When I had left Boston it was 27 degrees and gray. Santa Monica, this afternoon, was bright sun and 73. The West Coast had its moments.

There was a Big Wheel on the patio, and a barbecue pit among the flowers. I rang the doorbell.

A big blonde woman answered. She was wearing a yellow tank top and white short shorts and no shoes. Her hair was in a long single braid, and she looked like I’d always imagined a Rhine maiden would look.

“Hi,” I said. “My name is Sunny Randall and I’m a detective from Boston looking into a matter for Erin Flint.”

“The movie star?” the Rhine maiden said. “We bought this house from her.”

“I know she used to live here,” I said.

“Her and her sister,” the Rhine maiden said. “Though she wasn’t Erin Flint when we bought it from her.”

“Really?” I said. “Can we talk?”

“Sure, come on in,” she said. “Want some coffee?”

“Thanks, I’d love some,” I said. “You are?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m Janey Murphy. Mrs. Charles Trent actually, but I use my birth name.”

Janey Murphy. So much for Rhine maiden. We sat in her kitchen at a freestanding tile-top counter and she poured us coffee. The sound of kitchen activity brought a sleepy-looking bulldog lumbering hopefully in from wherever he’d been recently asleep.

“Ohmigod,” I said, “a dog. I’m in dog withdrawal. May I pat her?”

“Of course,” Janey said. “Her name is Sprite.”

The dog lumbered over and sat by my foot. I got off the stool and crouched down to pat her. She wasn’t after patting. She was after food. But she accepted patting with dignity. Better, no doubt, than nothing.

“Sprite?” I said. “What does she weigh?”

“Sixty pounds,” Janey said.

“That’s sprightly,” I said.

“My husband has an odd sense of humor,” Janey said. “But she’s very sweet. She’s wonderful with my daughter.”

“I have a bull terrier,” I said.

“Like the beer dog?”

“Yes. But a miniature. Rosie.”

“I’ll bet she’s adorable.”

“Entirely,” I said. “So what was Erin Flint’s name when you bought the house.”

“It’s on the closing documents. Her name was Ethel Boverini. I remember because it so doesn’t sound like she looks.”

“And her sister?”

“Edith,” Janey said.

I sat back up on the stool and drank some coffee. Sprite went around the freestanding counter and gazed up at Janey. She took a dog biscuit from a ceramic canister and handed it to the dog.

“Edith Boverini?” I said.

“Yes. They owned the house together.”

“Ethel and Edith,” I said.

“Yes. It’s funny. We didn’t even know their real names until it came time to sign the documents. My husband’s a lawyer. He brought it up at the closing. Delayed everything until he could establish for certain that they were the actual owners and could sell us the house unencumbered.”

She smiled and gave Sprite another biscuit.

“You know how lawyers are,” she said.

“I do,” I said. “What names were they using?”

“Well, Erin, of course, and the sister. I think Erin called her Misty.”

“Misty Tyler?” I said.

“I don’t know. I don’t know that I ever knew their last names. They just called each other Erin and Misty. Almost like they were practicing.”

So Misty had known Erin a long time. Since they’d been Ethel and Edith Boverini. All her life.

“You have a daughter,” I said.

My father always contended that when you were questioning people it was good sometimes to make it like a chat. I thought he was right. Especially when they weren’t a suspect and you were just vamping for information.

“Yes, she’s in kindergarten.”

“And your husband’s an attorney.”

“Entertainment law.” She smiled. “In Beverly Hills. I’m his trophy wife.”

“Good for him,” I said.

She smiled.

“Good for us both,” she said.

“Anything else you can tell me about the Boverini sisters?” I said.

She shrugged. “House was nice and clean when we looked at it and when we moved in. No surprises. Everything worked as advertised.”

“Any mail ever come for them after they moved?”

“No. It was odd, I mean, doesn’t that usually happen? We never got a single thing meant for them.”

“No one ever knocked on the door looking for them?”

“Just you,” Janey said.

“May I give Sprite a cookie?” I said.

“Of course,” Janey said. “It’s part of her job. Eating cookies, sleeping, lapping your face, accepting hugs. I’m not sure she likes the hug part so much.”

“Funny,” I said. “That’s the part I like best.”

We both laughed. Just a couple of girls in a clean, quiet house, having coffee and chatting in the bright kitchen. Husband at work. Kid in school. I envied her.

Sort of.

T
HE LOS ANGELES COUNTY
birth, death, and marriage records are located in the County Clerk’s office in Norwalk, down US5 a ways, not too far from Whittier. I spent some time there, and by late afternoon I knew that Ethel Boverini had been born in April of 1970, in El Segundo, and that Edith had been born a year later, in June. The mother was Rosalie Boverini; the father was unknown. Rosalie herself, if it was the same one, was born in 1955. In the marriage records there was no evidence that Rosalie ever married. But there was a record of Ethel Boverini marrying Gerard Basgall in 1988. And in the death records, I found that Rosalie Boverini died in October of 1987. There was no record of Edith Boverini marrying or giving birth. There was no record of Ethel giving birth.

When I got back to my hotel it was early evening. There was a message from Tony Gault saying he was tied up with clients this evening and hoped we could get together tomorrow. I smiled. Poor baby, probably needed time to build up his sperm count. In fact, the prospect of a long shower, a comfortable robe, a glass of wine, and something lovely from room service was more enticing than Tony after a long day in the records office.

God bless good hotels. My room was orderly, my bed turned back. My ice bucket had been filled. I took a shower and put on a big, white terry-cloth robe, which was pleasantly too big for me, so that it wrapped well around me and I had to roll the sleeves up. I poured myself a glass of wine from the minibar and sat in the armchair by the window and looked out across Wilshire Boulevard at Beverly Hills. The television clicker was on my bed table. I decided against it.

The silent statistics of birth, marriage, and death had told me a lot. None of it told me anything about who killed Misty Tyler, aka Edith Boverini. But it told me some things about the life she and her older sister must have led. Erin, aka Ethel, would have been born, apparently out of wedlock, when her mother was about fifteen. The double names were making my head hurt. I decided to think of them as Erin and Misty. I smiled to myself at the quaintness of my phraseology.
Out of wedlock.
Come to think of it, I too, at the moment, was out of wedlock. Erin’s mother died at age thirty-two, when Erin would have been seventeen. She was eighteen when she married. There was no indication that she had ever given birth, at least in LA County. So the girls were orphaned at seventeen and sixteen. And Erin was married a year later to Gerard Basgall. I looked up Basgall in the phone book. There were no Basgalls, but it was only for the west side of LA.

I looked at my watch. It was quarter of ten in the east. I picked up the phone and called the police in Paradise, Massachusetts.

“This is Sunny Randall,” I said to the night-desk cop. “I don’t suppose Chief Stone is still there.”

“No, ma’am.”

“And I don’t suppose you can give me his home phone number,” I said.

“That information is not available,” he said.

“Then could you do me a favor. It’s part of the Misty Tyler case out at SeaChase. Could you call Chief Stone and ask him to call me at this number?”

There was a pause.

“Who did you say this was?”

“Sunny Randall,” I said. “Chief Stone knows me.”

“Yes, ma’am. I know who you are. I could try calling him, ma’am.”

I gave him my number and thanked him and hung up and sipped my wine.

Life had obviously not been carefree for Erin and Misty. But why did they keep their past a secret? Why was the sisterhood a secret? She had dressed well before she became famous, and lived in a good house and drove a good car. She had some money. Where did she get it? It was pretty certain she didn’t inherit it from Rosalie Boverini. Gerard? There was a lot I didn’t know, and the more I found out, the more there was for me not to know. But one thing was clear. Erin Flint, superstar, was a big, fat liar.

I finished my wine and was pouring another when the phone rang. Oh good, it was Jesse Stone.

“I hope I didn’t get you out of bed,” I said.

“I’m wide awake,” he said.

“Me too,” I said. “I’m in LA. Here’s what I’ve found out.”

He didn’t say anything while I told him what I had learned.

When I got through he said, “Be nice if you could run down Gerard.”

“My thought exactly,” I said. “Do you still have any influence out here?”

“I didn’t have any when I was there,” he said. “But there’s a captain named Cronjager. Robbery Homicide commander. He fired me for drinking on duty, but he’s a good man and a good cop. I’ll call him and tell him you’re coming in.”

Jesse had just confided in me. Fired for drinking.

“Downtown?” I said. “Parker Center?”

“Yes,” Jesse said. “Third floor.”

“You think he might be in the system?”

“Their vital stats don’t tell me they were hanging out with polo players.”

“Worth a try,” I said.

“Even if he’s not in the system. Cronjager has resources.”

“Okay, I’ll go see him tomorrow morning.”

“If there’s a hitch,” Jesse said, “I’ll call you. Otherwise, go ahead. He’ll be expecting you.”

I gave him my cell-phone number. He gave me his. It was like deciding to go steady.

“Remember one other thing,” Jesse said. “The police chief out there is a Boston guy.”

“My God, that’s right,” I said. “It was while my father was on the job. My father always said what a wonderful cop he was.”

“That’s what they tell me,” Jesse said.

“So if Cronjager doesn’t work out…” I said.

“Cronjager’s okay,” Jesse said. “I’ll call him.”

I wanted to talk some more. I liked hearing his voice. But I couldn’t think of anything else to say. And Jesse seemed to have no interest in chatting. So I said good-bye.

After I hung up I sipped my second drink and thought about how much I liked Jesse on such brief acquaintance. Then I picked up the room-service menu and began to concentrate on what to eat. The menu told me all I needed to know. The clarity was gratifying.

C
RONJAGER HAD
a nice office, big, with a window. He stood when I came in and walked around the desk to shake hands with me. He was a tall man, sort of rangy, with an assertive nose and snow-white hair. His skin was tanned and he looked healthy. His handshake was hard but not showy.

“Jesse Stone said you’d be in. Fine officer, Jesse.”

“He told me you fired him for drunkenness.”

Cronjager smiled a little and went back around his desk. He indicated a chair for me and sat down. I sat across from him.

“So much for professional discretion,” he said. “I understand he’s got it under control.”

“Seems to be in remission, at least.”

“Good,” Cronjager said. “Waste of a very good cop.”

“Did he tell you why I’m here?”

“No. Just said you were smart and good-looking and I’d enjoy you.”

“Wow,” I said.

“So far he’s right,” Cronjager said. “What do you need?”

“Jesse and I are working on the same case,” I said, and told him about it.

“Erin Flint,” he said when I was through. “Can’t act, but something to see.”

“She was married once, under what appears to be her birth name, Ethel Boverini, to a man named Gerard Basgall.”

“And you’d like me to help you find Gerard,” Cronjager said.

There was something about him that was like my father. They didn’t look alike, but they had a quality of courtliness. Older tough guys who had seen everything, men for whom time and experience had somehow smoothed the hard edges and made them graceful.

“My father was a captain,” I said.

“Boston?” Cronjager said.

“Yes. Like you, homicide commander.”

“Retired?”

“Yes.”

Cronjager smiled.

“I should be,” he said.

He picked up a phone and said something into it and put it down. In a moment a Hispanic woman came briskly into the room. Her clothes were good. Her gray/white hair was stylish. Cronjager stood when she entered.

“Elaine Estallela,” Cronjager said. “Sunny Randall.”

We each said, “How do you do.”

Cronjager said, “Sunny’s looking for somebody named Gerard Basgall, Elaine. Think he might be in the system?”

Elaine smiled.

“That means,” she said to me, “‘Elaine, would you look him up because I’m afraid of the computer.’”

Cronjager and I both smiled. Elaine walked to a side table and tapped the keys of a computer keyboard. The screen lit up.

“Any cross-references?” Elaine said.

“He’s been married….” Cronjager looked at me.

“He married Ethel Boverini,” I said. “In 1988.”

Standing in front of the screen, Elaine tapped the keyboard some more. She was an attractive woman, and graceful. I wondered if she might be younger than her gray hair suggested.

After a time she said, “Mr. Basgall is in the system.”

“Whaddya got,” Cronjager said.

Elaine began to read off the screen.

“1986, living off the earnings. 1988, living off the earnings. 1988, assault. 1991, possession with intent. 1994, extortion.”

“Gerard Basgall,” Cronjager said, “the early years.”

“Anything on Mrs. Basgall?” I said.

“Not so far,” Elaine said. “Assault. Extortion. Oh, look. Gerard was twice arrested on suspicion of murder—1997, 1998. Insufficient evidence.”

“Working his way up,” Cronjager said.

“Maybe he made it,” Elaine said. “After 1998 there’s no arrests.”

“Gee,” I said. “Maybe he went straight.”

“That’s probably it,” Cronjager said.

Elaine continued to look at the computer screen.

“Sheriff’s Department Career Criminals unit has been interested in him,” she said. “Since at least 2000.”

“Or maybe he didn’t,” I said.

“Who’s running that?” Cronjager said.

“Career Criminals?” Elaine said. “Doreen Billups.”

“Get her for me, would you, Elaine?”

She smiled. “When I reach her,” Elaine said, “will you be able to hold the phone all right by yourself?”

“Long as you tell me which end to talk in,” Cronjager said.

Elaine made the call from a phone on the computer table. When it went through, she said, “Captain Billups? Captain Cronjager is calling,” and pointed at the phone on his desk.

Cronjager picked it up.

“Doreen?” he said. “Yeah…yeah…How’s Harvey?…good, and the kid?…UCLA?…for crissake, Doreen, I thought he was still in junior-high…yeah, I know…she’s fine, thanks…listen, I see on this here computer I’m so good with that your people are interested in a fella named Gerard Basgall…yeah, right there on the screen…well sure Elaine helped a little…uh-huh…uh-huh…sonovabitch, excuse me, Doreen…uh-huh…okay, well Gerard’s done all right, hasn’t he?…Yeah. Got a detective here from Boston, good-looking woman named Sunny Randall. She needs anything, can she call you? Yes. Elaine’ll give her the number…sure, anything you got. Send it to me, I can get it to Sunny…and thank you, Doreen. Yeah, you too.”

Cronjager put the phone back.

“That where it goes?” he said.

Elaine smiled and nodded. He leaned back in his chair.

“Okay,” he said to me. “Gerard is a big success. He’s head pimp in the Valley.”

“Meaning?” I said.

“He runs all the call-girl operations north of Sunset,” Cronjager said, “between, oh, say, Thousand Oaks and maybe Pasadena.”

“Any mention of Ethel Boverini?” I said.

“No.”

“Have an address for Gerard?”

“I do,” Cronjager said and wrote it out on a piece of notepaper.

“Bel Air,” I said. “I think I’ll go see him.”

“I’ll have somebody take you,” Cronjager said.

“I know how to get to Bel Air,” I said.

“I have somebody take you, there’s no parking issues,” Cronjager said. “No hassle.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“And you’ll have an official presence,” Cronjager said. “Be easier to get in.”

“And out,” Elaine said.

“See if you can get Sol up here,” Cronjager said.

“You think Gerard is dangerous?” I said.

“I’m just a civilian employee,” Elaine said. “But pimps don’t generally respect women.”

“And keeper of the captain,” Cronjager said.

Elaine nodded that this was so, and picked up the phone.

Cronjager smiled at her, then looked at me and said, “If you’re investigating a murder, Ms. Randall, somebody you talk with might be a murderer.”

“I’ll wait for Sol,” I said.