The Ticket Out (23 page)

I said,
“But something's happened to Mrs. May.”

Lockwood almost nodded. “Mrs. May called this afternoon to say she had information for us. We thought it might be because she'd talked to you and changed her mind. She'd overheard an argument a few days before Miss Stenholm was murdered—”

I jumped on that. “The notation in Pavich's calendar—‘Fight!!!' And Greta's car was vandalized the very same night!”

Lockwood tapped Smith's notebook. “Friday the twenty-fourth. Write it down, would you, partner?”

I said, “What else did Mrs. May tell you?”

“She said, quote, ‘They found it,' but wouldn't explain further. When we arrived for our appointment she wasn't home, and the neighbors weren't able to help us.”

I stood up. “No wonder, with one foot in the grave and both hands around a bottle. Can't we check the garages?”

Lockwood didn't argue that time. He stood up with me. Smith said, “I'll stay here,” and took Lockwood's chair.

Lockwood and I crossed the lawn and walked down the side street. I was walking faster than him. The garages backed onto the rear of the Casa de Amor, perpendicular to the bungalows. There were eight garages—four on each side of an old strip of asphalt. All eight garage doors were padlocked.

Lockwood pointed to Dolgin's garage. He said, “His vehicle isn't there. We've put a want out on it.”

I said, “Which one is Mrs. May's?”

Lockwood pointed to the garage opposite Dolgin's. He said, “We've put a want out on her vehicle, too. Unfortunately, surveillance wasn't in place when she called us. She had time to leave before they came on.”

I said, “I found a set of car keys in her purse. Did I mention that?”

Lockwood nodded. I walked up the right-hand row and found a gap between the second and third garages. The gap was a covered walkway that led to the back wall of the courtyard. Lockwood switched on a flashlight and followed me into it. The wall had a wooden gate, and the gate had a working lock. I tried the handle. The gate was locked. Roses hid the door on the courtyard side, I guessed.

Lockwood touched me and pointed his flashlight at the ground. There was a rectangular wooden board embedded in the asphalt. It was flush with the surface and the size of an ordinary door. I stepped on the board, then jumped with both feet. I shrugged at Lockwood. He frowned at the board and stepped on it himself. His weight didn't make any difference: the board was anchored solid.

We toured the rest of the garage area. There wasn't much to it, but I registered something I hadn't before. The Casa de Amor's closest neighbor was a school. The playground had a chain-link fence that surrounded the Casa on two sides, and the fence was fifteen feet high. With a car watching on Washington, there was no way to get in or out of the courtyard without being seen. The foot sounds inside Phillips's bungalow must have been something else—stray noise or the girl ghoul next door.

Lockwood walked me back up the side street. I said, “Barry Melling's sleeping with Hannah Silverman. I saw them together tonight.”

If that surprised Lockwood, he didn't show it. I said, “Do you have any idea what's going on?”

He stopped beside my car, and I could tell he didn't intend to answer the question. I pointed across Washington. “Let's look around the Sony lot.”

Lockwood shook his head. “I want you to go home and go to bed. When you're overstrained, you don't think clearly and you—”

I finished his sentence, “—flip out and imagine all sorts of crazy stuff?”

“Nerves will always catch up with you. You might not feel them for days, and then the accumulation will hit.”

I said, “I'll go straight home after Sony, I promise.” I shook his arm. “I
promise.”

Lockwood checked his watch. He looked dubious. But after a pause, he nodded.

We walked back to Mrs. May's and he told Smith the plan. Smith was staying put. Someone had to watch the bungalow: until they had grounds for a search warrant, they were making sure the pants and sneakers weren't removed. My testimony wasn't enough for the warrant. I was all over this case, Lockwood said; any judge would suspect collusion between me and the cops. And if the judge didn't, the defense attorneys would.

Lockwood and I jaywalked across Washington and followed the Sony wall around the corner. He loosened his necktie while I ran down what I knew about Neil John Phillips and Jack Nevenson. Lockwood had heard it before—I was just hoping to find out what he knew. But he didn't comment, he listened.

It was late and there was nobody around. We walked up to the kiosk at the entrance to the lot. Lockwood badged the security guard there. The guy yawned, put down his sports section, and came out to talk to us.

Lockwood had some photographs with him. They were enlarged DMV shots of Greta Stenholm, Scott Dolgin, Neil John Phillips, Isabelle Pavich, and Mrs. May.

Lockwood said, “Do you recognize any of these people?”

The guard went through the pictures and pointed to Phillips. “That's Ben.”

Lockwood said, “Ben who?”

The guard yawned and leaned against the kiosk. “Don't know his last name—used to work in the Columbia mail room back six, eight years ago. Quit that job to write movies I heard, but still hangs around the lot. Eats in the cafeteria quite a bit—I see him when I'm on days. Kind of a mascot, a fixture, you might say.”

Lockwood took back his photos. “Is Ben friends with anyone in particular, do you know?”

“Weeell, I'd say Dick, one of the projectionists. Old guy, older than me, union man, been around donkey's years. Told me Ben's always wanting to talk about old movies.”

It was 11:25 by my watch. I said, “Were there any screenings tonight?”

The guard nodded, then shook his head. “Locked up the theaters half an hour ago.”

Lockwood said, “Can you tell me how to reach the projectionist?”

The guard leaned into his kiosk and checked a clipboard. Lockwood whispered in my ear, “Don't talk unless I say so.”

“Sorry.”

The guard read off the projectionist's name and home phone number. Lockwood wrote it down. Another security guard rolled up in a golf cart, a young guy. Lockwood identified himself. The guy snapped to, leaping out of his cart and standing at attention. He looked like an ex-soldier or ex-cop. Lockwood showed him the photographs. He picked “Ben” out of the pack right off.

Lockwood said, “What can you tell me about Ben?”

The guard pointed to Scott Dolgin's picture. “He's buddies with this guy, sir. I see them together.”

Lockwood said, “Doing what?”

The guard shook his head. “I don't know, sir—walking, talking.”

“In any particular location?”

“No sir, not in particular. I've seen them all over the lot.”

Lockwood said, “Can you recall anything else?”

The guard screwed up his forehead; he really wanted to help. Lockwood said, “At some point, Ben removed a large number of boxes from the property. Do you know anything about that?”

The guard said, “I recall the boxes, sir. That was years ago, after the Sony outfit bought the lot.”

Lockwood said, “And?”

“And they were throwing out old papers that Ben wanted. I thought he was nuts—it was just paper—but I helped him haul the boxes away and stash them. Then he brought his car and took the boxes home in dribs and drabs. It took weeks—I really thought he was nuts, sir.”

Lockwood stuck the DMV photos in his pocket. “Would you show me where Ben hid the boxes?”

“Yes, sir!”

The guard jumped into the golf cart. Lockwood took the passenger seat and motioned me in behind him.

We rolled across the parking lot. Lockwood looked around and I thought about Phillips. A true MGM fan
would
be nuts with
COLUMBIA PICTURES
on the Thalberg Building, and a bronze basrelief of Harry Cohn on the building next door. Cohn's small, cheesy Columbia would've been beneath the great MGM's contempt.

The guard rolled onto the sidewalk and turned right, down the first road parallel to the old studio wall. Sony had kept the MGM building names; we passed the Kelly and the Poitier; but particleboard fronts transformed them into police precincts and clothing stores. The guard kept going until we hit the famous colonnade gate that faced Washington—the original studio gate from the '20s. This part of the lot hadn't been renovated. The original guard kiosk was used for bicycle storage, and the two-story buildings were cramped and decayed.

The guard rolled to a stop beside the old kiosk. He said, “This is called Cutter's Row, sir. Ben told me it's the most historic part of the lot.”

Lockwood nodded and climbed out of the cart. The guard jumped out; I followed him. He started down a narrow alley between the buildings. It was a dump back there; junk sat everywhere. The guard pointed behind a wall that concealed large gas mains. He said, “Ben put boxes here, sir, until it rained.”

Lockwood and I looked behind the wall. The guard kept walking to a utility shed in an alley beside the Hepburn Building. The guard got out his keys and unlocked the shed. Lockwood stuck his head inside.

He said, “Did Ben have the key to this?”

The guard nodded.

“How did he get it?”

The guard shook his head.

“Does he still have it?”

“I don't know, sir. I believe he has a number of keys, but we don't mind. He treats the old studio like a church.”

Lockwood nodded and walked back to the golf cart. The guard hurried to lead the way. We climbed into the cart and the guard hung a U-turn, stepped on the gas, and drove us back to the parking lot.

Lockwood said, “Where are the theaters?”

The guard jogged right and stopped. He pointed to the ramp at the near end of the Thalberg Building. Lockwood got out of the cart. The guard fumbled at his belt and handed a key ring to Lockwood.

“The keys are marked, sir. There's four you want—one for the theaters, one for the projection booths, one for the washrooms, and one for the emergency exits. Keep them as long as you need to, please. It's ... it's...”

He said in a rush, “It'sanhonortomeetyousir.” He whipped another U-turn and took off before Lockwood could react.

I pulled Lockwood's sleeve. “Walk this way.”

I led him down the curving ramp into the Thalberg basement. I knew all the screening rooms on all the studio lots: this was home to me.

A very long hallway led to the screening rooms. The office doors were closed and the lights were low for the night.

I turned down a short hall into the upper lobby of the theaters. The decor was a contemporary version of the Casa de Amor's Moderne: muted colors and stylized simple furniture. Posters from forgotten Columbia movies lined the walls. The lights in the lobby were on half power, too.

I pointed out the washrooms to the left, the coatroom to the right, and, down some stairs, the screening rooms off the lower lobby. Lockwood went to check the washrooms. I headed for the theaters. The doors were locked, like the guard said, and I waited for Lockwood to come with the keys. He unlocked and searched the rooms in sequence. There were six theaters, A through F, and six projection booths. The theaters were identical except for decor: deep, cozy, high-ceilinged rooms, with rows of comfortable chairs.

I followed Lockwood into each theater, around, and out. I turned lights on and off when he asked. He never talked otherwise; I'd noticed that he liked his searches quiet. We didn't find anything of interest except the personal quirks of the projectionists. One was a neatnik. Another was a Myrna Loy fan: the corkboard walls of one booth were covered with her picture. She was an arcane taste and I wondered if that was Neil Phillips's projectionist friend.

We circled back to theater D. Lockwood unlocked the door again and walked down the aisle to the curtained area below the screen. Looping back the curtain, he unlocked the emergency door and stepped into the passage behind. He signaled me to follow him.

The passage was low and lit by red bulbs in scallop-shell sconces. Half the bulbs were burned out, and Lockwood had to turn on his flashlight. He shined it around the walls and across the ceiling and floor. The passage wasn't just bare cement. The floors were bare, but the walls had been finished, and the old paint and plaster were in good shape. Nothing had cracked or leaked, so the passage didn't have the damp dirt smell of underground places. There were also exhaust vents; Lockwood reached up to inspect a grate. That's why the air wasn't stale.

Lockwood stopped and listened. I held still and listened with him. The passage was silent. I couldn't hear any building noises, no furnaces or water in pipes. Lockwood stepped on a chunk of loose cement. The sound didn't echo. I imagined a million tons of earth and stone all around us; I imagined the old-fashioned workmanship that went into the Thalberg. Maybe the emergency exits were soundproofed like the theaters. We weren't that far underground, but the silence was absolute.

Lockwood whispered, “Stay close.”

I stuck behind him as he followed the passage behind theaters E and F, to a dead end. The passage there branched off right and left. I pointed to the right and whispered, “That's the way out. We had a fire alarm once—it comes out at the back of the building.”

Lockwood nodded and made the left. His flashlight caught a painted arrow on the wall. The arrow said
EMERGENCY ACCESS—THEATERS A, B, C.

We kept going along the passage, and hit another dead end. The only choice was left. We made the left and found ourselves behind theater C. The passage continued straight and dead-ended behind theater A. There was nowhere to go from there. We turned around. Lockwood swung his flashlight side to side as we walked back.

He stopped and pointed. There was an old maroon door across the passage from theater C. The paint had faded, and peeled in parts, but we could still read the
PRIVATE,
in Deco lettering. The knob had a brass plate and an old-style keyhole lock. Lockwood checked the key ring. He saw that none of the keys would fit and kneeled down to examine the keyhole. He put his eye right against it, then pulled back and twisted the knob. The door didn't budge. He pulled harder and couldn't move it. He ran his light around the frame, looking for obstacles. The door was sealed tight.