Breathing in deeply, she savored the exhalation.
I said, "What was the fallout?"
"Nothing public. I suppose there was tension among those directly concerned. Terri
Ardullo always impressed me as tightly wound, but she didn't run around after Sybil with a hatchet. The Ardullos were never the type to air their laundry in public.
Same for Carson."
"What did the serfs have to say about it?"
"Nothing that I heard. Doesn't pay to antagonize the nobility if you want to eat.
And it wasn't as if everyone didn't already know about Scott and Sybil."
"The affair was public knowledge?" I said.
"For months. Certainly since Sybil's production fell apart. I suppose she needed another role." She shook her head. "The two of them adopted a flimsy coven First,
Scott's truck would speed out of town. An hour later, the slut's little Thunderbird would zoom away. She'd always return first, usually with shopping bags. Sometimes she'd visit the peasants in the local stores, showing off what she'd acquired. Then, sure enough, Scott's truck would zip past. Ludicrous. How could they possibly think they were getting away with it?"
"So Carson had to know."
"I don't see how he couldn't have."
"And no reaction at all? He never tried to stop it?"
"Carson was much older than Sybil. Maybe he couldn't cut the mustard, didn't mind someone else keeping her busy from time to time. Perhaps that's why he bought
Orton's line about finding Sybil recreation. We were certainly trying to exploit him-did you read the rag after she took over?"
"Borderline coherent."
"You're a charitable young man." She stretched. "My, this is great fun."
"What can you tell me about Jacob Haas?" I said.
"Well-meaning but a boob. Before he became sheriff, he'd been working as a bookkeeper in Bakersfield. He got the job because he'd served in Korea, took some law enforcement courses in junior college, didn't offend anyone."
"Meaning he wasn't aligned with either Butch or Carson."
"Meaning he never put their kids in jail."
"Was that ever a possibility?" I said.
"Not with Scott, but with the Crimmins boys, sure. Two obnoxious little buggers-spoiled rotten. Carson gave them fast cars, which they proceeded to race down Main Street. It was common knowledge that they drank and took drugs, so it was only luck they never killed anyone. One of them paid for his recklessness a few years later-died motorcycling."
"Any other offenses besides drunk driving?"
"General bad character. They treated the migrants like dirt. Chased the migrant girls. When the picking season was over, they switched gears and bothered the local girls. I remember one night, very late, I'd just finished with the paper, walked outside to get some air, when I saw a car screech to a stop down the block. One of those souped-up things with stripes on the side, I knew right away whose it was. The back door opened, someone fell out, and the car sped away. The person lay there for
a second, then got up and started walking down the middle of Main Street very slowly. I went over. It was a little Mexican girl-couldn't have been older than fifteen, and she spoke no English. Her face was all puffy from crying and her hair and clothes were messed and torn. I tried to talk to her but she just shook her head, burst into tears, and ran away. The street ended a block later and she disappeared in the fields."
"Whose fields?" I said.
Her eyes narrowed, then closed. "Let me think about that.... North. That would have been Scott's alfalfa field."
"So no consequences for Cliff and Derrick?"
"None."
"How did they get along with their stepmother?"
"Are you asking if they slept with her?" she said.
"Actually, my imagination hadn't carried me that far."
"Why not? Don't you watch talk shows?"
"You're saying Sybil-"
"No," she said. "I'm not saying anything of the sort. Merely musing. Because she was a slut and they were healthy big boys. To be fair-something I generally detest-I never picked up an inkling of anything quite so repellent, but... How'd they get along? Who loves a stepmother? And Sybil wasn't exactly the maternal type."
"But she managed to get them involved in her theatrical production."
"Only one of them-the one who drew."
"Derrick," I said. "She wrote about it in the Intelligencer. Still, spoiled adolescents don't do things they hate."
She turned quiet. "Yes... I suppose he must have enjoyed it. Why all these questions about the Crimmins clan?"
"Derrick Crimmins's name came up in newspaper accounts of the murders. Commenting about Peake's oddness. Other than Haas, he was the only person to speak on the record, so I thought I'd track him down."
"If you find him, don't send regards. Of course he'd jump at the chance to ridicule
Peake. He and his brother delighted in tormenting Peake-another bit of their delinquency."
"Tormenting how?" I said.
"What you'd expect from rotten kids-teasing, poking. More than once I saw the two of them and a gang of others they ran with collecting in the alley that ran behind our office. Peake used to hang around there, too. Inspecting garbage cans, looking for paint cans and God knows what. The Crimmins brats and their friends must have been bored, gone after some sport. They circled him, laughed, cuffed him around a bit, stuck a cigarette in his mouth but refused to light it. The last time, I'd had enough, so I stepped out into the alley using some blue language and they dispersed.
Not that Peake was grateful. Didn't even look at me, just turned his back and walked away from me. I never bothered again."
"How'd Peake react to the ridicule?" I said.
"Just stood there like this." Her facial muscles slackened and her eyes went blank.
"The boy was never all there."
"No anger?"
"Nope. Like a zombie."
"Were you surprised when he exploded into violence?"
"I suppose," she said. "It wouldn't surprise me, today, though. What do they always say-'It's the quiet ones'? Can you ever tell about anyone?"
"Any theories about why he killed the Ardullos?"
"He was crazy. You're the psychologist, why do crazy people act crazy?"
I started to thank her and moved to stand but she waved me still. "You want a theory? How about bad luck, wrong time, wrong place. Like walking off a curb, getting hit by a bus."
Her lips worked. She looked ready to cry. "It's not easy- surviving. I keep waiting for something to happen to me, but my luck keeps running in the black. Sometimes it's infuriating- yet another day, the same old routine." Another wave. "All right then, be off. Abandon me. I haven't helped you, anyway."
"You've been very helpful-"
"Oh, please, none of that" But she reached over and took my hand. Her skin was cold, dry, so smooth it seemed inorganic. "Bear that in mind, Doctor: Longevity can be hell, too. Knowing things will inevitably go bad, but not knowing when."
24.
WHEN I LEFT, just after eight P.M., Wilshire was a pretty stream of headlights under a black-pearl sky. My head hurt- stuffed with history and hints. More hatred and intrigue in Treadway than I'd counted on. But still no connection to Claire Argent.
Ready to end the workday, I called my service from the pay booth in the parking lot.
An earful: Robin would be delayed till ten, and a particularly obnoxious Encino attorney wanted my help on a festering custody case. He knew I worked only for the court, not as a hired gun, and he hadn't paid his bill for a consultation I'd done last year. Delusions were everywhere.
The fifth message was from Milo: "I'll be at my desk by seven-thirty, get in touch."
The operator said, "He sounded pretty irritated, your detective friend."
I drove to the station, announced myself at the desk, waited as the clerk called up to the Robbery-Homicide room. Uniforms passed in and out. No one paid me any attention as I scanned the Wanted posters. A few minutes later the stairwell door opened and Milo bounded out, brushing hair off his forehead.
"Let's go outside, I need air," he said, not bothering to stop. His suit was the color of curdled oatmeal, the right lapel stained with something green. His tie was
tight, his neck was suffering, and he looked like a poster boy for National
Hypertension Week.
We reached the sidewalk and started walking up Butler. Dry, acidic heat hung in the air and I wished I'd stopped for a cold drink.
"Nothing on Pelley, yet," he said, "so don't ask. It's the Beatty twins who've been occupying my day. Brother Leroy told people he had an acting gig."
"Which people?"
"His fellow juiceheads. Willis Hooks and I were down at the murder scene this evening. Not far from a liquor store where Leroy used to hang, along with some other grape-suckers. Couple of them said Leroy had bragged about becoming a movie star."
"How long ago was this?" I said.
"Time isn't a strong concept with these guys, but they figure three, four months.
Leroy also told his drinking buds he was gonna get his brother involved with the movie-said once the director found out he had a twin, he offered to pay more. The winos thought he was just running his mouth, 'cause Leroy tended to do that when he got sufficiently drunk. They didn't even believe Leroy had a twin. He'd never mentioned Ellroy."
"Did Leroy report back after the filming?"
"No. He returned a week later, cranky, refusing to talk about it. If he'd gotten hold of any cash, no one saw it. His buddies figured he'd gone on a bender, flushed it all down his gullet."
"Or Mr. Griffith D. Wark stiffed someone else," I said. Now my mind was racing.
Fragments of history coming together... pieces fitting...
"I thought of that," he said. "None of them saw any tall white guy chatting up
Leroy."
"Did Ellroy's drinking pals have anything to say about the movie?"
"Aguilar hasn't found any pals for Ellroy yet. He seems to have been the loner twin, lived by himself near the train tracks. One of the conductors remembers seeing him from time to time, stumbling around. Figured he was crazy because he was always talking to himself."
He scratched the side of his nose. "So here I am, stuck with the movie angle again.
Maybe it's a link between Dada and the twins, but still no tie-in with Claire.
Except for the fact that she went to the movies. Hell, can't you see me explaining that to her parents? I showed her picture to the bums and they didn't recognize her.
No surprise, why would she have gone down to some South Central wino kip? I'm gonna head back tonight to that place in Toluca Lake where Richard used to wait tables-the
Oak Barrel. It's a long shot, but maybe Claire dined there. For all we know, Mr.
Wark picked up both of 'em there-and incidentally, you were right about Wark being
D. W. Griffith's middle name. I looked it up. So this asshole sees himself as a cinema hotshot."
He scratched his head. "This is exactly the kind of flaky bullshit I hate dealing with. Why would Wark-or anyone else-bump offhis cast?" "Keeping the budget low?" I said. "Better not give the studios any ideas. Seriously, what's going on here? And how-and why-would a robot like Peake be clued in?" "Maybe Wark's filming murder." "A snuff thing?"
"That, or a variant-not necessarily a sexual angle. A chronology of unnatural death-a literal blood walk. For the underground market. That would explain why the script's never been registered and why Wark used a fake name to rent his equipment and cut out on the bill. It could also explain the diversity of victims and methods.
And the ritualism. We could be dealing with someone who sees himself as a splatter auteur. Playing God by setting up characters-real people- then bumping them off.
Psychopaths depersonalize their victims. Wark could be accomplishing the ultimate degradation: reducing his 'cast' to prototypes: The Twins, The Actor, that kind of thing. It's cruel, primitive thinking-exactly the way kids play out their anger.
Some angry kids never grow up. As far as Peake is concerned, he could be involved because Wark wants him involved. Because Wark's someone out of Peake's past. Wark's mightily affected by Peake's crimes. Now he's creating his own production, wants to integrate Peake into the process. And I've got a possible candidate for Wark: a fellow named Derrick Crimmins."
