Dial H for Hitchcock (3 page)

I
’d always believed you could catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

My dog, however, was a cynic. He shook himself awake, appraised my manic smile, then lay back down with a grunt.

Undeterred, I headed for the closest bottle of Tylenol and, shaking it like a maraca, cried, “Vet!”

True to form, he made a beeline for the door. It could have been the pleasant drive down Melrose Avenue, past all the nice restaurant smells. But I suspected Munchausen’s. Buster was one weird dog. He liked the pills. The weigh-in. Having his temperature taken. I would pay dearly for deceiving him.

Undeterred, I shoved the collapsible water bowl and a bottle of Evian into my bag, and we were off.

Lael lived in Beachwood Canyon so I knew the way: King’s Road to Fountain, Fountain to Vine, crest the hill, right on Franklin, left on Beachwood. From there it was a straight
shot up, past the swaying palms, the noble sycamores, and the usual crowd of crackpot tourists who positioned themselves in the middle of the road, hoping to get an unimpeded view of the Hollywood sign.

I wondered if they were disappointed. The thing didn’t look forty-five feet high from down here. And they all had such expensive cameras. I’m a big fan of disposables. Disposable everything. Cameras. Plates. Dresses. Few people realize that paper dresses were huge in the sixties. They were sold at stationery stores with matching tablecloths to women of capricious temperament, like myself. And diapers. Disposable diapers were another thing my daughter and I didn’t see eye to eye on. But I was no longer dwelling on the negative because today was a happy day.

I patted the hot pink cell phone of unknown origin, which I’d plugged into my charger for double brownie points. Yes, today was the happy day I was going to turn around my karma and work out with my dog and then go home and make a big pot of pasta carbonara for both of us because the heavy cream was about to go bad and it’s wrong to be wasteful. Plus we’ll have exercised.

Twenty minutes later I pulled into the dirt lot just below the Hollyridge trailhead. The rendezvous was clearly underway. There were two cars parked there, both new-looking BMWs with fancy rims. Not that I had anything to be ashamed of. I’d washed the Camry a month ago.

Buster scrambled out behind me, kicking up the dust with abandon. Looked like there were no hard feelings about the vet.

“Slow down,” I said as he took off up ahead, where the trail
started to fork to the right. The top of Beachwood was home to the Sunset Ranch, known for its “taco rides,” which involved renting a horse to ride over the hill into the San Fernando Valley for Mexican food and then riding back, sloshed on margaritas, for the mere cost of eighty-five dollars. For some reason, it had never appealed to me. I peered over the wooden railing at the red stables below. Tonight’s dinner crowd must’ve already taken off. Nobody here but us chickens.

Buster had found a pile of horse dung, and was running gleeful circles around it, like it was a birthday present. I let him have his moment, then put on his leash and pulled him away, past the sign warning against mountain lions. We didn’t scare easy, Buster and I.

We walked for a while in contented silence. Communing with nature. Eschewing our usual frenzy. It had been one of the driest years on record so the foliage was brown and crispy, but still beautiful in a cowboy-kicking-the-tumbleweeds kind of way. And the view! You could see all the way past Hollywood to the Wilshire corridor. Well, I think it was the Wilshire corridor. I was never much good at geography. In any case, there it was, across the open space of the canyon, silhouetted against the low-slung haze, a heroic expanse of skyscrapers filled with people in itchy suits huddled over blinking computer monitors in tiny, airless cubicles.

It was hot.

Really hot.

Even at five-thirty in the evening the sun was merciless. I wiped the sweat pooling under my baseball hat, then poured a little Evian on Buster’s head. Where were these people? I hadn’t seen a soul since we’d gotten here. I’d eliminated the
neurologist and her girlfriend. They seemed like hybrid vehicle types. I was betting on the blonde in the robin’s-egg blue dress. The caller hadn’t sounded like the bald boyfriend, though. Maybe she was cheating on him. I hoped so. He didn’t appreciate her.

I trudged onward.

As we rounded the next turn, I realized that the only sound I could hear was the dirt crunching under my feet. That, and the sound of my own breathing.

“Hello!” I called, suddenly eager to leave. Nature makes me nervous. I like retail establishments. Retail establishments with air-conditioning.

Just then, Buster started barking like a madman. “What is it?” I asked. “Did you see somebody?”

He took off like a shot, the leash stinging as it pulled out of my grasp.

“Slow down!” I yelled, going after him full speed. “Where are you going?”

I had no idea Buster could move like greased lightning. It took me a solid two minutes to catch up to him, which I could do only because he’d stopped and sprawled belly up in the middle of the path, ready for a beer and a show on Animal Planet from the looks of it.

Crouching down, I scratched his tummy, then pulled out the dish and poured him some water, which he slurped up greedily. Shielding my eyes against the sun, I looked up to where the path zigzagged across the hillside. Now
this
was where you stood if you wanted to get a really good shot of the Hollywood sign. I reached in my bag for the phone. Then I flipped open the top and waited for the image to come into focus.

This wasn’t the original Hollywood sign, of course, which had fallen into disrepair soon after it was erected in the twenties to advertise the Hollywoodland housing tract. This was the new and improved sign, courtesy of Hugh Hefner, who saved the day when he organized an “adopt a letter” party for concerned celebrities at the Playboy Mansion in 1978. Alice Cooper, you may be interested to know, paid $28,000 to refurbish the third
O.

I got some great shots. Now where to store them? As phonebook entries? As screensavers? As wallpaper? The blonde might enjoy that. I knew she liked old movies. But this was way too complicated for me. Vincent had never gotten to wallpaper. I pushed a few buttons at random, then shut the phone. Why was I wasting my time? The blonde wasn’t getting her phone back today. She wasn’t even here. Nobody was here. Buster was starting to growl at me.

“Don’t worry.” I picked him up. “We’re leaving.”

He squirmed out of my arms, hit the dirt on all fours, and starting pulling me along, ears perked up.

“Where are you taking me now?” I asked, though I could see we were headed exactly where I didn’t want to go, which was farther away from the car. My armpits were soaked and I was getting a chill. My bag was thumping uncomfortably against my hipbone. “Face it, Buster,” I said. “We are not outdoors people.”

Then I heard some scuffling in the dry leaves.

“Hello?” I whipped my head in the direction of the sound, which seemed to come from higher up the hillside.

“Hello? Can you hear me? I’ve got your cell phone!” I pulled the phone out of my bag again.

More scuffling, then muffled voices. I took a slug of Evian and squinted toward the far ridge.

I could make out two people now, just behind a trash can. They looked like they were embracing. They broke apart for a moment, then the voices got louder, and I heard one of them, the man, say, “It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this.”

Looked like trouble in paradise. They could get past it. They had so much in common. Well, their taste in cars. And both of them liked the great outdoors. Relationships have been built on less.

Now they were wrapped in each other’s arms. A reconciliation? A minute passed. Two. I averted my gaze. Get a room, people.

Then she yelled, “I’ve had enough of this! Let go of me!”

She was done with this guy. I was done, too. I piled some rocks in the middle of the trail and balanced the cell phone on top of it—my version of a flashing red arrow. Picking up Buster’s leash, I started back toward the car.

Then, much louder this time, she said, “Let go of me!”

Something in her tone made me stop. I turned around.

“You’re not listening to me!” she said.

But I was. I was a good listener. Such a good listener that every time I went to a restaurant I made it my business to eavesdrop on the conversations on either side of me. It was the biographer in me. We are unnaturally fascinated by other people’s stuff.

“Is everything okay?” I called out. “Miss? Do you remember me, from the Orpheum?” I couldn’t see her face. But maybe it wasn’t who I thought it was.

“Get your hands off me!” the woman demanded. “This fucking instant!”

This wasn’t a lovers’ quarrel.

“Let go of her!” I cried.

He didn’t.

“I said let go!”

He didn’t.

“Then I’m coming up there!” Like hell I was. People who got in the middle of this kind of thing wound up getting shot. Or worse.

“Somebody help me!” she screamed.

I broke into a run, hoping I’d magically transform into a superhero by the time I got to where they were. I craned my neck upward. They were close to the edge now, still tangled in each other’s arms. It was at least thirty feet down. The sound of branches cracking under their feet reverberated across the canyon.

The sweat was pouring off my face now, the panic rising in my chest. Buster was barking loudly.

“Please!” The woman was struggling to pull herself free. “I’m begging you!”

Oh, God. I couldn’t think. Everything was happening too fast.

“I’m calling 911!” I finally shouted.

But to my horror, I realized that I’d left her cell phone on the trail at least a quarter of a mile in the opposite direction.

I had to go back.

I had to get to the phone and call 911 so somebody would come and get her down and haul him off to jail.

But it was too late for that.

Because it was at precisely that moment—when I was feeling hot and scared and sorrier for myself than you can imagine—that a man I didn’t know pushed a woman I didn’t know off the edge of a mountain.

Her body hit the ground, somewhere out of my sightline, with an obscene thud.

I
ran faster than I knew I could, my chest burning with every breath.

Her cell phone was lying just where I’d left it, on top of a pile of rocks like some sort of lunatic offering to the gods. I stared at it in surprise, hands pressed to my knees.

It was ringing.

So I picked it up.

That was how it started.

“Hello?” My voice sounded strange. It was the rush of blood, the adrenaline.

“I’m glad you answered.” A man’s voice. Hoarse. Distant.

“I don’t know who this is,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “But I can’t talk.”

“No need to be rude.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sure you’ve got a minute.”

“I don’t,” I repeated, frantic now. “I have to hang up. I have to call 911.”

“You don’t have to do anything of the sort,” he said. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

I was quiet for a moment. Then I said, “What do you mean it doesn’t matter?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

My legs started to give way.

I shook my head.

Buster began to wail.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I have to hang up.”

“See for yourself,” he said matter-of-factly. “Go back to where you saw her fall.”

I hung up the phone and dialed 911.

Call failed.

No reception.

I tucked Buster under my arm and started to run in the other direction. I ran fast, then faster. I was stumbling over my own feet. The ground was rushing up to meet the sky. The birds’ cries were deafening. My head was pounding. I was dizzy. But I kept running.

The phone rang.

I stopped, looked at the display.

Private.

I picked it up, listened.

“What, no hello?”

I didn’t reply.

“You’re breathing hard,” he said. “You must be close. No reason to rush, though. A park ranger is with the body.”

The body.

Please, no.

“I’m sure you can see the ranger by now. Or can you?”

I couldn’t see a thing. “Look, I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care.” I bent over. I needed air. “I’ve got reception now. I’m hanging up and calling the police.”

“They’re already on their way.”

He was right. I could hear sirens now. They sounded close.

“Who is this?” I looked around. “Where are you?”

“Don’t worry about that.” His voice was eerily calm. “I want you to relax. Have some water if you want. There’s time. You have to be ready. You’ve got an important job to do.”

My legs were aching. My head was throbbing. I had to think. I couldn’t think. I put Buster down. He howled to be picked up. This was madness.

“You listen to me,” I said. “This conversation is over.”

“No, Cece. This conversation is just beginning.”

The shock was physical, like a punch to the gut. “How do you know my name?”

Silence.

“Answer me!”

“Listen carefully, Cece. When you get to the police, you’re going to tell them what you saw. A woman jogging by herself on the path above you. She was distracted, she fell. End of story. It was a horrible accident. That’s what you’re going to tell them.”

“Like hell I am!” I hung up the phone and threw it into my bag.

I could see them now—two uniforms and the park ranger. The cop car was parked sideways on the trail, sirens blaring. Thank God.

“Hello!” I cried. “Over here!”

One of the uniforms looked up. “Stop right there, Miss! Not another step. This is a crime scene.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” The words tumbled out of my mouth, one on top of another. I stopped, took a breath, spoke as slowly as I could. “I saw it happen.”

At that, the other uniform signaled for me to approach, cautioning me to watch where I was stepping.

I could see her now, face down in the dirt. She had long blond hair and was wearing a blue tracksuit and one black running shoe. The other shoe was lying maybe ten feet away from her body. It must’ve come loose during the fall. The contents of her purse were scattered everywhere—wallet, lipstick, keys, tissue, change.

“Is she dead?” I whispered.

The taller of the two cops was pulling a notepad out of his back pocket. “Looks like it happened on impact. Can we get your name?”

The cell phone started to ring.

“Do you want to get it?” the cop asked. “We might be awhile.”

“No,” I said, shoving the phone deep into the recesses of my bag. “He’ll go away if I don’t answer. I don’t have to answer if I don’t want to.”

The uniforms exchanged glances. They were both young, straight out of the academy, hair cut too short.

“I’m Officer Lavery,” said the tall one. “This is my partner, Officer Bell.”

Bell smiled. He was short, with a peach fuzz mustache. He looked all of sixteen.

“And you are?” Lavery asked.

“Cece Caruso.” I spelled it for them.

“Okay, Ms. Caruso,” Lavery said. “Why don’t you sit down on this boulder here while we wrap it up with the ranger?” He brushed the rock off with his sleeve. “It’ll be just a minute.”

I sat down. Kicked some pebbles. Gave Buster a stick to chew on. The sun was going down. The wind was picking up. Day was turning into night. The temperature would drop at least fifteen degrees in the next half hour. That was how it was in the desert.

A small piece of paper blew toward me.

I bent down to pick it up.

A driver’s license.

It must have fallen out of the dead woman’s wallet.

I checked for her name.

Anita Colby.

It took a minute to sink in.

Anita was the name of the person I’d left a message for yesterday.

Dialed calls.

So Anita wasn’t the owner of the phone. She was the person the owner of the phone had called ten times in a row. The object of someone’s obsession.

How dearly that had cost her.

I looked back at the license. Anita had brown eyes, blond hair, measured five foot ten inches tall, weighed one hundred and forty-five pounds.

She was barely thirty years old.

The phone.

It was ringing again.

I should’ve thrown it against the rocks.

I should’ve tossed it into the gorge.

I should’ve ground it underfoot.

I pulled it out of my bag and let it keep ringing. After the ringing stopped, I looked at the display.

Two messages now.

I glanced over to where the cops were standing. They were shaking hands with the ranger, saying their good-byes.

It couldn’t hurt to play the messages. Just to listen.

“Okay, Ms. Caruso,” Officer Bell called. “We’re ready for you.”

I nodded, stood up, and started walking in their direction, the phone pressed to my ear. Officer Bell held my gaze, smiling, as I heard a muffled click, then the sound of a voice.

I don’t make empty threats, Cece. If you’re not going to do as I asked, you’re going to pay a very steep price.

The voice was cold as ice, hard as a stone.

“Miss Caruso?” Bell asked, touching my shoulder. “You okay? You might want to sit back down. We’re waiting for the detectives anyway.”

“Detectives?” My voice rose in pitch. “Why detectives? Do you have some reason to assume this wasn’t an accident?”

“That’s what you’re supposed to tell us,” said Lavery, giving his partner a sidelong glance. “Isn’t it? But finish with your call first.”

One more message.

I listened with a mounting sense of dread.

I don’t like the game you’re playing. You’ve left me no choice. I’m going to kill you—

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it, utterly
bewildered. Then I opened my hand and watched it spiral to the ground.

Officer Lavery sprang to attention. “Let me get that for you.” He opened and shut the phone a couple times, saw the screen light up, and handed it back to me.

“Bad news?” asked Bell.

“That kind of day,” Lavery said, nodding.

“I don’t—yes, bad news,” I stammered.

Bad and impossible.

Because the voice making death threats wasn’t cold as ice, nor hard as a stone.

The voice wasn’t his.

It was mine.

And then everything went white.