In the Night of the Heat (17 page)

“There's no LAPD seal on T.D.'s side door,” he said. “I don't mean the back door—I mean the sunroom on the north side. This key gets you in. If you go in any other door, they'll know someone was there. Melanie can show you. Turn on only the lights that are necessary. I don't expect any police, but the neighbors are on a hair trigger.”

I made a note: I had to interview the closest neighbors. The police had already questioned them, of course, but no one had even heard the gunshot. With temperatures dipping at night, no windows were left open after dark. Still, I might get lucky.

“What about the alarm?” I said.

“We canceled the account,” he said. “There's no alarm now. One other thing: Don't leave fingerprints.”

“Of course.” The last thing I needed was for my fingerprints to turn up at T.D. Jackson's house. Lieutenant Nelson wouldn't need Viagra for a month.

Judge Jackson's eyes settled into mine. “I hope I don't have to tell you not to take anything from the house. Nothing better show up on eBay.”

“He won't take anything,” Melanie said.

Still, I didn't look at her. Her eyes were wearying.

“Are you sure you don't want to come with us?” I asked Judge Jackson.

He shook his head. “Not yet. They let me in to get his suit for the funeral, but that was enough for now.” He said it matter-of-factly.

“I understand. When do I get to meet the Hankins family?”

“I'm working on that,” Melanie said. “You'll know.”

I had to meet her eyes. “You don't have to tell them I'm investigating T.D.'s death. I'm an actor. I can be whoever you need me to be.”

“I'll remember that.”

I braced myself. “Have they ever met your fiancé?”

“Is that supposed to be funny?” she snapped, a dagger in her voice. “No, they haven't met him, but Maya and Tommy know him very well.”

Judge Jackson nodded. “Just pick up the kids tomorrow. Take Hardwick with you. Evangeline can call, smooth it over. She and
Retta still get on all right. Two mothers. Retta wouldn't refuse her a chance to see the kids.”

“I don't want Maya and Tommy involved,” Melanie said.

“It's a crime they haven't been here yet. Or with you.” Judge Jackson's voice was suddenly drenched with resentment. “You have every right to get them. Tommy's been calling.”

He sounded so adamant that Melanie didn't argue.

“It's almost dark,” Melanie said. “It's been a long day. Let's get to T.D.'s house.”

AT THE CURB,
my car was parked behind Melanie's, almost kissing her rear bumper.

Melanie's car beeped when she pushed her remote, the locks clicking. “Follow me. If we get separated, you have the address.”

“Be sure to park around the corner,” I said. “Not in front.”

“Do you think I'm an idiot?”

I almost let Melanie and her bad mood have the last word. It wasn't like I hadn't earned it. Don't shit where you sleep: I knew that. But I had to set the ground rules.

“Melanie, I meant it when I said I'd quit for your sake,” I began, “but if we're working together, you need to remember you didn't hire me for my manners. I found a killer the police couldn't. Period. So are you ready for the truth or not?”

Melanie didn't answer, but I knew how much she wanted to know the truth, even the parts she was afraid of. She might be more ready for the truth than Judge Jackson. I softened my voice. “I know you are brilliant. But under emotional duress, even people as smart as Melanie Wilde and Tennyson Hardwick make mistakes, and we can't af
ford any more mistakes. I need help at T.D.'s house, and you're the only one who can handle it. Let's get this done. Okay?”

After a short sigh, Melanie nodded.

I opened my car door. “Like I said, be sure to park around the corner.”

With Melanie's eyes heavy on me, I climbed into my car.

 

I had lost Melanie, so my navigator took me to T.D. Jackson's street. After his divorce, T.D. had bought himself a $6 million mansion in Pacific Palisades. His neighborhood was the opposite of mine—instead of houses stacked on top of each other, each estate was spread out over two or three acres. No wonder none of the neighbors had heard a gunshot.

There was also no curb for parking, so I drove back two blocks and ended up leaving my car near a drainage culvert, where I hoped it wouldn't be too conspicuous. Luckily, it wasn't quite dark, so I didn't look as suspicious as I might have. I carried my notebook in plain sight; at least I would look like I was working. I was in my
Homeland
suit and tie, so I was a ringer for a cop.

I called Melanie's cell phone. “Where are you?” I asked her. “I'm here.”

“Had to get gas. Fifteen minutes.”

I told her where I was so she could park near me. Walking together, we would look like a well-dressed couple on a stroll. Alone, I was still a Black Man at Night. With the last brown-gray glow of the sun, I ambled up the street, dodging headlights as a small stream of residents came home from work. There were no sidewalks, so I walked at the edge of the road. On news reports Monday and Tuesday, the whole street had been roped off. I was glad it no longer was.

T.D.'s house was set back so far that it couldn't be seen from the street—only a tall mechanized gate. Police tape littered the driveway, which was made of crushed shells.

Across the street from T.D.'s gated house, I saw three teenage boys working under the raised hood of a vintage Mustang. Two girls sat in the grass nearby; watching, but mostly talking. One was too thin, one too chubby. I wondered if they had been questioned by police.

“You guys live around here?” I said.

Their conversation stopped, and five startled pairs of eyes looked at me.

I raised my notebook. “I'm a Realtor. Just checking out the neighborhood.”

The biggest of the boys, wearing only surfer shorts despite the chill, was the first to decide to trust me. “My dad's place,” he said. “I hang out on weekends mostly. Came home early.”

“He goes to USC,” the bigger girl said. “Thinks he's hot shit.”

I made a face. “USC? Across the street from T.D. Jackson?”

Their faces froze again, not sure what I meant. I laughed. “He played for SoCal. Big rivals. Just a joke.”

“T.D. Jackson used to play for SoCal?” the thin, dark-haired girl said, and I cringed on behalf of T.D.'s father. History is lost as soon as it happens.

“Yeah, like he only won a Heisman,” surfer boy said. He might be a football player too; he had the build for it.

I knew my Mustangs pretty well. The car was white, with a thick black stripe painted down the hood. “Sixty-seven?” I said.

“Sixty-eight,” said surfer boy. “Bought it from the original owner.”

“Sweet—428 Cobra Jet?” I noticed a bright red bong against the passenger seat inside the car, so it was time to shed my “cop” look. I
slipped my notebook into my back pocket and nodded toward the bong. “All right! I remember college.”

They all laughed, the girls louder than anyone. They sounded like they'd already had a few visits with the bong.

“
Busted
, Ry,” the chubbier girl said.

Surfer boy studied my grin and decided I was all right. Still, he changed the subject. “So, check it: Jackson died right over there. Pretty crazy. I could barely get out of here to drive back to school Monday. This street was nothing but news vans.”

“Were you guys around Sunday when it happened?” I said.

“That's the weird thing,” surfer boy said. His face grew earnest. “I think I
was.
I mean, like right here.” He patted the car's raised hood.

“You mind?” said a wiry boy working under the hood. He was slightly older, and his hair was dyed jet-black, hanging over his eyes. “That's my ear.” I could empathize.

My heart stirred in my chest. I was only fishing, but I might have caught something. I didn't remember a police interview with a teenage neighbor. “You heard a gunshot?”

Surfer boy nodded. “See, I was heading out…”

“What time? Like eleven?”

“Something like that. I've got Nine Inch Nails playing, the top down, and I hear a car backfire. But muffled. I think it's in somebody's garage, right? No-brainer—no pun intended. But now I'm thinking maybe I heard it happen.”

“So you heard a
pow
?” I said. “Like a popping sound?”

Suddenly, surfer boy's face turned red. “Okay, the truth? I was smoking a bowl.”

His friends laughed.

Surfer boy went on. “Can't smoke in Dad's house, can't smoke while I'm driving…”

“Who says?” the too-thin girl said, and they all laughed again.

“So I was parked out here, I dunno, like ten minutes. Maybe longer. And I heard this sound,
pow
, like you said. Then I heard it again, right before I left.
Pow.
Or I thought I did.”

My heart pounded.
Two
gunshots? I kept my face neutral, only mildly interested, but I was excited. I was sure there had been nothing about two gunshots in the police report. One shot had killed T.D. Jackson just fine.

“How long…between the bangs?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “Man, like I said, I was smoking, so you know how time slows down. But it was at least ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Twenty tops.”

“You're a dumb-ass stoner,” said the boy still working under the hood. “What was the first one, a practice shot? He's making sure the gun worked?”

“Hey, I dunno,” surfer boy shrugged, uncertain. “I just heard it.”

I noted the name on the vine-covered mailbox:
Rasmussen.
I could track the kid down later, if I needed him. “Did you tell the cops? Or the reporters?”

Surfer boy grinned. “Dad says they all came by Monday and Tuesday, but I was back at school. What am I gonna do, announce I was in my car smoking when T.D. Jackson killed himself? My dad thought I was gone already. Screw that. It's just weird, you know?”

I laughed. “True, true. One for the grandkids.”

I changed the subject, shooting the shit with him about his car, how much it cost, the Cobra versus the Super Cobra. Then I said good-bye and walked back toward my car, trying to hide the bounce in my step. Two gunshots! There might have been someone else at the house. LAPD was so in love with the suicide theory that evidence of a confrontation might have been overlooked.

One thing that T.D. Jackson conspiracy buffs tended to misremember is that the police loved T.D. They dug his action movies,
especially when he played a heroic cop in
Thin Line
. They remembered his football victories and partied at his house. When his ex-wife was murdered, they gave him every courtesy imaginable, unable to believe that their buddy was anything but a victim. When the evidence finally overwhelmed their good will, their sense of betrayal was palpable. But had they been pissed enough to kill him, or cover up his murder?

Maybe it was a stoner's imagination—sound effects from Nine Inch Nails amplified by THC—but now I knew what I would be looking for at T.D.'s house.

Bullet holes aren't easy to hide.

 

Melanie had parked, waiting for me. She was sitting inside her car with her elbow resting across her open driver's window, her head bent down low as she spoke on her cell phone. I walked close enough to hear the gentle vulnerability in her voice.
Definitely not a business call,
I thought, right before I heard her say, “I love you, too.” When she looked up to see me standing over her, shame swamped her face.

Melanie stammered a good-bye and hung up, looking ill. Her drawn mouth gave me a glimpse of what she would look like as an old woman. Melanie got out of her car without a word, and I followed her, walking at a careful distance.

I didn't want to approach T.D.'s house from same side because those kids had looked comfortable, so I was glad when Melanie took a much longer way around. Our walk was silent.

I decided not to mention the kid's story about a second gunshot. It wouldn't be fair to stir Melanie's hopes over something I couldn't prove yet. She probably had no idea how much she wanted to believe T.D. was murdered—she could forgive him for being murdered. She
thought murder would make her feel better about his death. But she was wrong.

We reached a gate on the far side of T.D.'s property, nowhere near the front driveway, and Melanie pulled out her key. I noted that there was room for parking by that gate, a neatly mown swath of grass, but it was just as well we'd parked as far away as we had.

I pulled out my flashlight and swept the ground for tread marks. Too grassy, maybe.

“We look like burglars,” Melanie said.

Good point. I switched the flashlight off. There wasn't as much traffic on the side road, but I could come back to examine the ground in daylight. If I were a killer, this was where I would park. Neat entrance to the house, not as much chance of being seen. It was a tidy hiding place in a neighborhood of fortresses that didn't offer many.

Melanie unlocked the gate, and it swung open with a sigh.

The pool area looked like a party in progress. The pool was lighted bright, several glasses were scattered on the patio table and on the patio's Mexican tiles, and towels were slung across two beach chairs. The pool must have been heated, because swimming weather had been over for a month, or longer. The bright pool's impossibly blue water winked in the light. Beautiful.

“He loved this pool,” Melanie said, her voice stripped raw. “He'd never had one.”

Instinct made me want to put my arm around her, but I had lost the right. I never had the right. “You okay to do this, Mel?”

She sniffed and nodded, quickly wiping her nose with her wrist. “Sunroom's this way.”

As we walked, I quickly scanned the pool area and pool-house walls for anything that might be a bullet hole. Nothing.
But the gun wasn't fired outside. It would have been too loud.

We neared an inconspicuous white door beside a huge picture
window shuttered with white blinds. “You probably already know this…” I began. “…but once we walk into that house, we've contaminated the crime scene. Even if we find something, we decrease our chances of a conviction. A good lawyer…”

Melanie nodded. “He knows that.”

I reached into my fanny pack and brought out two new pairs of plastic gloves. She took a pair without objection or question, sliding them over little fingers. Then she unlocked the door.

Inside T.D. Jackson's house, it was pitch-dark.

“Give me a minute,” Melanie said, slipping away. Soon, a light came on from a nearby hallway. I was in a sunroom with a pool table and a wet bar. The shelves above the bar were crammed with liquor bottles as well worn as a bartender's. In the corner, the white-tiled floor was stacked with a tower of pizza boxes.

“One big bachelor party,” Melanie muttered. She motioned for me to follow.

Apparently, the sunroom was the only room the housekeeper didn't straighten. The rest of T.D.'s downstairs was immaculate, from the living room to the kitchen. There were two dirty glasses on the counter, but my reports said they had already been dusted for prints—and the only prints were T.D.'s.

There was evidence of everydayness all around: a hastily scrawled emergency contact list on the fridge, the open Yellow Pages on the kitchen counter (R for restaurants), junk mail on the table, an
L.A. Times
still in its plastic bag on the sofa.

“I'll show you the way to the den,” Melanie said. “Where he was.”

“Not yet. Let me see the rest of the house first. Get a feel for it.”

Melanie let me take the lead while I wandered from corner to corner of T.D. Jackson's house, turning on just the necessary lights. Except for the sunroom, where we'd come in, T.D.'s décor looked like it was straight from a hired decorator's imagination, like so many celeb
rities with square footage on their hands. The living room was earth tones and masks that looked more Asian than African, with Japanese screens for aesthetics. It could have been a hotel suite.

“How often did you see T.D. here?”

“Once or twice a week. Sometimes I brought the kids for their weekend visitation, sometimes Aunt Evie brought them. T.D. didn't like to drive. And we all liked the pool.”