The Ticket Out (13 page)

Lockwood got out his pen and notebook, and opened the notebook on his knee. “What have you done since I saw you last?”

I gave him a rundown of the relevant items: Stenholm's old apartment to the popcorn kid at the Vine Theater, omitting only my stop by the gun store. I didn't apologize and Lockwood didn't interrupt. He got names, numbers, times, places—all the minutiae that he thrived on. At the end, I pointed to the envelope on my desk.

Lockwood pulled out latex gloves and got up to examine it. He counted the separate bundles, then all the bills in one bundle. I saw him say, “Eighteen thousand,” under his breath.

He peeled off his gloves. “This incident at the Hawthorn apartment happened two nights ago. Why didn't you call us?”

“I did. I left messages at the station.”

He frowned, jotted in his notebook, ripped out the page, and handed it to me. There were two cell-phone numbers: his, and his partner Smith's. He said, “Next time call us directly. I don't want to not get a message again.”

I stuck the paper in my jeans. “Anyway, the timing proves that the blackmail and the murder aren't related. It makes no sense to deliver the money after you've killed her. And the guy didn't even know what Greta Stenholm looked like.”

“Regardless of timing, blackmail constitutes a possible motive.” Lockwood rubbed his eyes. He looked tired, and disgusted with me.

“This is why I asked you not to interfere. Bad guys screw up—their actions aren't always logical. The date to deliver the money was probably set prior to her murder, with no further communication between the extortion victim and the third party delivering the payment. Remember, Miss Stenholm's name wasn't published until today. If the victim decided to have her killed, he isn't going to confess it by canceling the delivery before her death was common knowledge.”

I thought that over—and dismissed it. “But the murder wasn't planned. The killer used my kitchen knife and left the blackmail pictures behind.”

“So that the murder would appear unplanned, perhaps, and the pictures would appear unrelated.”

I lay my head back on the chair; talking made me feel faint. Lockwood said, “Where's the rest of the money?”

My voice came out faint. “What do you mean ‘the rest'?”

“Eighteen thousand is an odd number. Where's the rest?”

“There is no ‘rest.' Maybe—”

Lockwood held up his hand. “Miss Whitehead, do you know the difference between right and wrong?”

I flushed and didn't answer him. Lockwood said, “My guess is that you kept part of the money and hid it in the same place you hid the xeroxed copies of Miss Stenholm's personal papers.”

He nudged a pillow with his foot. “Do you think that money's still here?”

I did not look up at the attic fan, or at my bag. “It's still here—and I know it's wrong to keep it. How do
you
justify keeping my Colt?”

“I justify it by long experience. I justify it by a sense I have of you.”

“A sense of me?”

He nodded. “I believe that you would use a gun if circumstances required it. I intend to prevent that if I can.”

***

I
DIDN'T HAVE
to ask; Lockwood volunteered the bare facts of Edward Abadi's murder.

He had died between 9
P.M.
and midnight on July 12, 2000, at the beach house where he lived with his fiancee, Hannah Silverman. Silverman came home the next morning and found his body on the living room couch. His appointment book was still open on his lap. He'd been shot once in the right temple with his own gun. There were no signs of forced entry and nothing was stolen.

The Sheriff's detectives ruled out suicide. The powder burns, the angle of the entry wound, and the gun's final resting place all indicated murder. Abadi was shot by a person who stood a short distance away and slightly behind him. The signs also said an intimate setup: Abadi and the killer had probably known each other.

The Sheriff's thought that Greta Stenholm or Hannah Silverman did it. They thought jealousy was the motive. But no physical evidence linked them to the killing, and both women had alibis that were never broken down. Silverman spent the night at her father's house; Stenholm was watching movies at the Vine Theater.

The women accused each other of the crime. Silverman said Stenholm did it—because Abadi had ended their affair and dumped her as a client. Stenholm said Silverman did it—because Abadi had broken off their engagement.

The case was still unsolved.

The telephone rang and interrupted him. I let the machine pick it up. After the beep, came:

“Ann, it's Nicholas at Marmont reception. Mr. Tolback just—”

I quick grabbed the phone. “Nicholas, I'm here.” Lockwood leaned over and tilted the receiver so he could listen in.

“Mr. Tolback just went up to his room.”

I checked the clock; it was almost 11
P.M.
“Was he alone?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of car does he drive?”

“It's a Porsche, new it looks like, black.”

Lockwood spoke into the mouthpiece. “This is Detective Lockwood, Los Angeles Police Department.”

The line went quiet. Lockwood said, “Did Mr. Tolback say he was in for the evening?”

“...Yes, he did.”

“Thank you for your trouble, Nicholas. Good night.”

Lockwood took the receiver and hung it up. “I want you to promise that you won't bother Hannah Silverman or Arnold Tolback.”

I looked at my hand. I'd written “GBDB” and Silverman's license number on it: the ink had washed off.

Lockwood said, “Promise.”

I smiled. “Shouldn't I steer clear of my father, too?”

“Promise me.”

“I'll promise, if it's renegotiable and you'll answer some questions.”

Lockwood rubbed his eyes.

I said, “Why didn't the Sheriff's believe the kid at the Vine Theater?”

“No comment.”

“Did they fumble it? Were they too attached to the idea that one of the girlfriends did it?”

“No comment. They're excellent detectives in general.”

“Are there other people besides Hannah Silverman who cross over from the Abadi killing to Stenholm?”

Lockwood said, “Yes—but I won't discuss names at this point.”

“Silverman looks good, doesn't she, with Stenholm out stealing her boyfriends and only a father for an alibi?”

Lockwood said, “No comment.”

I said, “Stenholm came to Barry's party to meet someone about
GBDB.
Do you know the name of her new agent?”

Lockwood shook his head.

“There might be a copy of the script in the trunk of her car.”

Lockwood shook his head. “There were scripts there, yes, but no GBDB.”

“It would also be on computer disk.”

Lockwood shook his head.

“Did you get any fingerprints from the back office?”

“Partials for Miss Stenholm and rubber glove marks that we assume were you. A range of latents we can't identify.”

“What do you know about the burglary at her apartment last winter?”

Lockwood shook his head. “We weren't called in. Nobody knows what was taken, if anything.” He scribbled a note, tore the page out of his notebook, and passed it to me. He'd written, “Parker Center/RHD/3rd fl.” and a phone number.

“I want you there at 9 A.M. to talk to our composite artist. We need a picture of the man who gave you the money.”

I said, “Where was she living? She got thrown out of her apartment two months ago, and she tried to sleep in the ladies' lounge at the Vine Friday night.”

“We believe she was living in her car.”

I was silent. Jesus.

“Our people rousted her in Griffith Park last Sunday for sleeping in her car. She told the officers she didn't want to leave it unattended because it had been broken into in Hollywood the previous Friday and suitcases and other personal items were stolen. Traffic Division confirms the story in part. She was issued two tickets for meter violations on Ivar Avenue Friday night.”

I said, “And Ivar is right by the Vine. So her apartment broken into, her car broken into...”

It explained the dented trunk lock and smashed passenger window. It explained the dirty fingernails and body odor. She might have come out to the pool house just for a bath.

Lockwood took the envelope by one edge, put his notebook away, and stood up. His slacks and sport coat still had damp spots from me. He said, “What have you decided?”

“I'm not going to the hospital.”

“Regarding protection, I meant. A hotel or a guard?”

“The mansion has an alarm. I'll be fine in there.”

He shook his head. “I'd prefer—”

“Really, I'm fine.”

He decided not to argue. “Then I'll send someone for the ladder, and I'm going to get a car to watch the front.”

I put out my hand to him and said, “Thanks for saving my life.”

Lockwood touched it briefly. “I'll see you tomorrow morning.”

He stepped over a wadded rug and walked out, shutting the inside door behind him. I stared at the door and felt myself blush. That was embarrassing; I'd made the gesture and he hadn't returned it. He hadn't even looked me in the eye.

I heard his car pull out of the drive and got up to close the gates. On my way back I hit all the floodlights, including the pool and the flower beds. Nobody was going to catch me in the dark again.

I felt wasted, but I was too wound up to sleep. I studied the mess in the front room. Nothing was torn or broken that I could see. The guy was looking for a specific thing, I bet—this wasn't just terror tactics or helter-skelter. It would take hours to clean. If Lockwood weren't such a
cop,
I would have asked him to stay and help: I would've liked some company right about now. Company, and a nice stiff drink. But there was no alcohol in either house.

I locked the screen, bolted the inside door, and shut all the windows.

Bending down, I picked a cushion up off the floor. There was a dirty shoe print on the fabric.

Lockwood had offered four explanations for the attack tonight. I liked the fourth one best. Sometime in the past two days, I'd learned something that was dangerous to Greta Stenholm's killer.

And now he wanted me.

F
IFTEEN YEARS
ago Creative Artists was at the top of the Hollywood pile. Mike Ovitz and his partners had combined Asian martial philosophy with the totalitarian packaging of Lew Wasserman and come up with a talent agency more powerful than any studio. Ovitz had since left CAA—for browner pastures, some said—and CAA wasn't the omnipotence it used to be. But it was still considered the best-run agency with the strongest roster of talent. And it was still located in the monument that Ovitz had built to his success: the specially commissioned I. M. Pei building in the commercial district of Beverly Hills.

I was reviewing recent history as I walked into CAA's lobby the next day.

Greta Stenholm and Neil John Phillips graduated from film school in 1996. Being recruited by Creative Artists, getting a comer like Edward Abadi for an agent: Stenholm and Phillips would've been very hot with the Industry.

I took off my sunglasses and looked around. I'd never been in here before, although I'd heard plenty about it. The lobby was high, simple, and light—Eastern minimalism translated into expensive spatial art. I thought of Mark, who liked to rag Ovitz's pretensions. He said that Mike Ovitz worshipped Art everywhere except in movies.

The light was too much for my headache. I put my sunglasses back on and walked over to reception.

The woman there looked up. I told her I didn't have an appointment, I just wanted some information. She checked out my bruises and slipped her fingers under the rim of her desk. A security guard appeared from behind a pillar. He wore an Italian suit and looked like a karate instructor.

I turned right around and walked out of the building. The bum's rush didn't surprise me. A place like that was as protected as a studio lot; I'd only hoped to get the receptionist to talk.

The guard followed me outside and asked where I'd parked. I asked him if he'd known, or had heard of, a junior agent named Edward Abadi. Did he know who'd taken Abadi's clients after his death? The guard put an arm out to direct me away from the building. I shrugged and walked back to my car. The guard followed three feet behind.

He waited to make sure I actually left. I pulled out, circled the block, and turned onto Wilshire. A banged-up Trans Am pulled up level in the lane beside me. The fenders were primer gray, which caught my attention. I looked at the driver.

It was the goon from Greta Stenholm's apartment building.
He was wearing the same Hawaiian shirt—purple palm trees on an orange background.

He saw me see him. He took one hand off the wheel and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. He mouthed, “MY M-O-N-E-Y.” I read his lips from ten feet away.

I punched the gas and shot through a yellow light. The goon got caught at the red. Traffic on Wilshire was heavy; it jammed me up on the next block, and I crawled along in first gear. Not stopping to think, I grabbed the car phone and dialed Parker Center.

A man answered on the first ring. “Robbery-Homicide.”

“Is Detective Lockwood there? Tell him it's Ann Whitehead.”

The man put me on hold. Lockwood picked up within seconds. “You were supposed to be here at nine.”

I cradled the phone on my shoulder; I'd remembered too late why I didn't want to talk to him. “The blackmail guy is following me! You said someone would watch the house!"

“He must have picked you up on Los Feliz.”

“He's driving a rusted-out Trans Am with primer fenders.”

I checked my rearview mirror. The light had turned green, but the Trans Am was hemmed in by Mercedes sedans.