The Ticket Out (14 page)

Lockwood said, “Have you got his license number?”

“Not yet.”

“What's your exact location?”

I looked for a street sign. “I'm going east on Wilshire, between Beverly Drive and Cañon.”

“I won't ask what you're doing so far from downtown. Stay on Wilshire past San Vicente—as soon as you're in City territory, I'll have our guys pull him over.”

I checked my mirror again.
“Damn!”

The Trans Am had turned down a side street. I dropped the phone and cranked a hard right. It was all residential south of Wilshire. I hauled down a parallel street, ran the stop sign at the end of the block, and made another right. The Trans Am was bombing at me head-on.

I slammed on my brakes. He slammed on his brakes. Our cars screeched to a stop five yards apart. We stared at each other, motionless, right in the middle of the street.

He made a fist and pretended to punch me. Then he let off his brake and started to roll forward.

I hit the gas, swerved around him, and did a big U-turn in the intersection. I memorized his rear license plate. He threw the Trans Am into reverse and tried to ram me. I swung the wheel right, took off, and ran a four-way stop going fast. I was lucky: no cars, no pedestrians. The Trans Am was half a block behind.

I spotted my chance up ahead.

A delivery truck was parked on the street; it was blocking the entrance to an alley. I hit the brakes, bumped over the curb, and squeezed between a light pole and a fence corner. I bombed down the alley and checked my mirrors.

The Trans Am was too wide to follow me. The guy tried anyway. I saw his fender smash as it caught the pole. The Trans Am stopped dead, wedged between the pole and the fence.

I slowed down and watched the guy jump out of his car. He yelled,
“Cunt!
" and started to come after me on foot.

I gunned my engine and hung a left at the end of the alley. I zigzagged back to Wilshire, checking my mirrors all the time. The Trans Am did not reappear. I pulled into the curb to catch my breath. I was feeling dizzy.

I wiped the sweat off my palms, picked up the car phone, and called Vivian's mobile number. I caught her running around at city hall. I asked her to tap her cop sources again, this time for information on the Trans Am. I gave her the license number. She pumped me for whys and whos. I told her I'd get back to her and hung up.

The phone rang immediately. I knew it had to be Lockwood, and I was sorry I'd called him. I'd only done it on reflex.

When I couldn't sleep last night, I decided that he'd behaved like a jerk. I understood that he was pissed. He hadn't received my messages; I'd lifted a few thousand out of the blackmail money. But he could have shown a little sympathy about a guy with a pry bar trying to kill me. I didn't need to be babied, but he could've managed something warmer than “I'll get you a hotel room.” That's why I hadn't gone to Parker Center to meet the composite artist. Lockwood ignored it when I'd tried to thank him. And he'd left me alone after the attack as if I weren't worth worrying about. He was a jerk.

I switched the phone off in midring.

 

I
CUT THROUGH
Beverly Hills to Progressive Properties and Artists on Robertson. Their office was an old-fashioned brick cottage with flower boxes and white shutters. It was two doors up from The Ivy, an Industry watering hole.

The lobby was cozy and wood paneled, there were no security guards, and the receptionist was smiling.

I walked over to her desk. I said, “I'd like to speak to Mr. Ziskind about a woman named Greta Stenholm. I don't have an appointment.”

She registered Stenholm's name: a little blink gave her away. She pressed a button on her telephone and lifted the receiver. Cupping her hand around the mouthpiece, she whispered, “There's someone here about—”

Her voice dropped lower.

A door opened across from reception and a guy stuck his head out. It was Jack Nevenson. He was the Yale tie I'd offended at Barry's party by wondering if smart people made good art. Nevenson recognized me and was equally unthrilled. I pointed to his office. He stood aside and motioned me in.

The office was windowless and paneled in wood. Nevenson shut the door and sat down behind his desk. He didn't ask me to sit. I stayed standing and tried to catch his eye, but he kept his head turned. He looked irritated and/or scared—and/or like he was waiting for help to arrive.

Help arrived almost instantly. A connecting door opened and a chubby middle-aged man in stocking feet walked in. He was carrying an open script and a pair of reading glasses.

Nevenson said, “Len.” Ziskind stopped and looked at me. He said, “What's the problem, Jack?”

I cleared my throat. “Mr. Ziskind, my name is Ann Whitehead. I work for the
Millennium
and I'm researching a piece on Greta Stenholm.”

Ziskind was smoother than his employee. He pulled up a chair for me and sat down on the edge of Nevenson's desk. He smiled. “You've been very unkind to some of my clients in print.”

I said, “Only when they deserve it, I'm sure.”

Ziskind smiled and twirled his glasses. “What is it you wanted to know?”

“I'd like to see a copy of
GBDB.”

Nevenson did a huge double take. Ziskind shot him a look, and Nevenson took a sudden interest in his penholder.

I said, “You're agenting the sale of her screenplay, aren't you?”

Ziskind smiled. “There's been some kind of misunderstanding. The police seem to think that Greta and I had a personal relationship.”

“According to her calendar, you saw her three times since the first of the year.”

“Yes, we supposedly had lunch on January eighth and April twenty-first, and dinner on July tenth.” Ziskind shook his head. “On January eighth I was in Aspen with my family. On April twenty-first I worked through lunch, and on July tenth I ate at Mr. Chow with two producers. All of this can be checked.”

I shook my head. “But you worked at CAA. You must have known her agent, Edward Abadi, who was murdered last year. Greta must have gotten a new agent at that point—you, for instance. Then she followed you to PPA.”

Nevenson gripped the arms of his chair. “It's not
true.”

Ziskind smiled. “Please, Jack, she's just fishing, and I'm sure if we ask her nicely, this will be off the record. I'm asking you nicely, Ann.”

I nodded. I didn't want to, but I had to.

Ziskind said, “Jack, run to my office and get the letter from Greta's file.”

Nevenson trotted out and Ziskind laid on the smooth talk. “What you don't realize is that Greta was no longer Teddy's client at the time of his murder. Her career was in the toilet by then, and the agency had fired her. She only came to us this past May when she read about my new agency in the trades. As I understand it, she'd had no representation since Teddy died.”

Nevenson came back. He handed Ziskind a sheet of paper, which Ziskind handed to me.

It was dated May 25, 2001, and it went:

“Dear Mr. Ziskind: You left Creative Artists in order to make a different kind of Hollywood movie. The unexpected success of
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
and
Charlie's Angels
should tell you that there is a large untapped audience for women's adventure films. I don't mean more family-in-jeopardy films or quasi-B chick flicks. I mean films in the tradition of
Thelma & Louise
—ambitious adventure stories with A-list artists and an implicit political message. Hollywood has let in black and Latin men to speak to a constituency, and their movies have made money. Why not let a woman tell exciting stories about the condition of women?

“I'm writing a script called
GB Dreams Big
that would be ideal for PPA. It's based on the true story of a young woman murdered in L.A. in 1944 and her best friend's search for the killer.”

The plot synopsis ended there. Stenholm gave her academic stats but no film credits, and reminded Ziskind that she'd been with CAA for three years. Her signature was forceful and stylized.

I reread the letter and handed it back to Ziskind. He said, “We set up a meeting. I remembered her very well from CAA. She was a beautiful girl, and showed a great deal of promise at one time.”

I said, “What happened at the meeting?”

“She pitched her story, which we liked, minus the preaching.”

“Who is ‘GB'?”

Ziskind smiled. “I don't recall at this point. Jack?”

Nevenson shook his head. Ziskind said, “We didn't sign her, but I told her to bring in the finished script and we'd discuss it.”

Nevenson couldn't contain himself. “And she never came back! I saw her at Barry Melling's party, but she acted like she'd never met me!”

Ziskind smiled. “What Jack says is true. We didn't see her again, and we are not her agents.”

I shook my head. “But she went to Barry's party to talk to someone about her script.”

Nevenson glanced at Ziskind, and Ziskind gave him a “Go” nod. Nevenson said, “Scott Dolgin.”

I said, “Scott Dolgin?”

Ziskind nodded. I said, “It can't be Scott Dolgin. Her script was going to a studio for six figures—the sale was almost final.” Nevenson frowned at Ziskind. Ziskind tapped his reading glasses on his front teeth.

I said, “What is it?”

Nevenson said, “Should I, Len?”

Ziskind nodded.

Nevenson said, “At the party, Scott told me he was developing several projects with Greta. I assumed that the story she'd pitched us was included. Then Scott called the agency two days ago, looking for her script about the murdered girl. He seemed to think that Len was representing it.”

Ziskind stood up and put his glasses on. He smiled. “That's all the time we can spare, Ann. To summarize—PPA has no connection with Greta Stenholm, none whatsoever, and this conversation never happened. If I see anything about it in that ass-wipe paper of yours, I'll turn you upside down and screw you seven ways from Sunday.”

 

I
PULLED IN
at a minimall to buy a quart of grapefruit juice and a bottle of extrastrength aspirin.

Standing outside, I washed down six pills and drank half the juice. I laughed because I was a wreck. My cheek still hurt from three nights ago, my head ached from last night, and I'd wrenched my wrist again during the car chase. None of it was terminal. But it made me want to lie in bed, not drive around town getting dumped on by movie-biz cruds.

I leaned against the car and started making calls.

Barry had said that Scott Dolgin didn't know Greta Stenholm. But Dolgin did know her, and Barry damn well knew it. Him and his Hollywood ambitions: “She was murdered at
my
party—it's an embarrassment for everyone involved.” No wonder he'd fought me on the Stenholm piece.

I called In-Casa Productions. A machine answered and I left a message. I called Information for Dolgin's home number; he wasn't listed, of course. I called the newspaper and tried to worm the number out of Barry's assistant. She wouldn't give it to me. She told me to hold the line: Barry was anxious to talk. I said I'd call back and hung up.

I dialed Vivian's mobile number. She had the information I wanted on the Trans Am.

The owner's name was Dale Wendell Denney. He was forty-six years old and lived on Earle Avenue in Rosemead. His criminal record went back decades. He had six drunk driving convictions, a statutory rape arrest, a burglary arrest, and an assault-and-battery arrest. He also had two convictions for assault with a deadly weapon: he'd pistol-whipped a bookie at Santa Anita, and knifed a guy in a bar brawl in Duarte. He'd done county time on both charges.

A scum for all seasons, Vivian called him. He used to repossess cars for a living. Now he hired out as cut-rate movieland muscle. He played bodyguard and alleged “fixer” for Hollywood people who couldn't afford bigger names like Gavin de Becker or Anthony Pellicano for their security needs.

I wrote it all down, put off Vivian's questions, and hung up. An LAPD black-and-white cruised by on Beverly Boulevard. The passenger cop stared at me, but I didn't think anything of it. I shut my eyes and pressed the juice bottle against my forehead. The cold glass felt good. I stood there enjoying the sensation.

Someone said, “Ann Whitehead?”

I opened my eyes. The patrol car had turned into the minimall parking lot. The passenger cop was standing right in front of me. His car was blocking my car, and his partner was talking into a twoway radio.

The cop said, “Give me your telephone, please.”

I gave him the telephone. He set it on the hood of my car.

“Turn around, place both hands on the vehicle, and spread your legs.”

I did like he asked. He frisked me up and down, then took my arms, bent them behind my back, and handcuffed my wrists.

It hurt. I tried to readjust the handcuffs, but he gripped my arm and marched me to the black-and-white. He opened the back door and I tipped myself onto the seat. The driver cop climbed out of the front to guard me.

I watched the passenger cop walk back to my car. Reaching through the window, he picked up my bag and proceeded to search it. He found the sap, the Mace, the handcuffs, the brass knuckles, and laid them in a row on the hood. He opened my wallet and found the wad of fifties and twenties I had there. He lined up the wallet on the hood.

A beige sedan swerved into the parking lot and skidded to a stop. Lockwood jumped out with the engine running and walked up to the black-and-white. His face was set hard.

“Uncuff her, Officer.”

I levered myself out of the backseat. The driver cop reached around and freed my hands. Lockwood pointed at my car and almost pushed me toward it. The passenger cop moved out of our way.

Lockwood grabbed my arm and dragged me in close. He was angry—and the emotion showed for once. He said,
“Why cant you do what I say?”