The Ticket Out (27 page)

I stepped right in it.

A florid man had been watching in the mirror. He swiveled his stool around and grinned at me. I picked up the vomit and tossed it on the bar. The man elbowed the guy next to him. That guy had sad eyes, a lot less flesh, and the walrus mustache you saw on a lot of cops. Both men were somewhere in their fifties.

I made fangs with my two index fingers. “I valk by night.”

The florid man laughed out loud; it blew the smell of liquor in my face. The sad-eyed man said, “We can't let you look at the Abadi file.”

I said, “Orders from Detective Lockwood.”

They both nodded. The florid one had to be Gadtke. The other one had to be McManus. I sized him up as straight man and conscience of the pair: he was drinking ginger ale.

I said, “You've reopened the case, haven't you?”

McManus nodded. Gadtke slurped his whiskey and leaned into me. I was pinned between them.

Gadtke said, “The Abadi file is not for little newspaper girls. It's for big policemen like us.”

I squeezed away from him. McManus leaned forward and freed me. I said, “There was a second unsolved murder. The victim was named Georgette Bauerdorf and she died in 1944.”

The two cops looked at each other. McManus shook his head. “She knows about Bauerdorf.”

He reached into his suit coat and pulled out a cell phone. I tried to back away, but Gadtke stuck out his arm and stopped me. He said, “The Los Angeles Police Department sucks donkey dick.”

I said, “And the donkeys don't dig it.” Gadtke was delighted. He laughed and lowered his arm.

McManus was saying, “...we have your reporter here, Doug. She's asked about Georgette Bauerdorf. What do you want us to do?”

McManus listened, nodded, and handed me the cell phone. I got on. “I leave a million pages and he reaches you just like that.

Lockwood said, “Sergeant McManus caught me at my desk. Do you think you could say hello?”

I stuck my finger in my other ear to block out noise. “Has anyone shown up at the Casa de Amor? Hello.”

Lockwood might have chuckled. “Not yet. Tell me how you heard about Bauerdorf.”

I ran down the productive part of my day, from Steve Lampley to the epic tail job on Barry Melling. I was getting better at verbatim recap—he said, I said, he did this, I did that. McManus shook his head like he couldn't believe it. At the end I brought up my promise to lay off Hannah Silverman and Arnold Tolback. I explained why I'd broken it, and waited for Lockwood's reprimand. I deserved a reprimand: what was I going to say to Silverman if I'd found her at home? I hadn't thought it through at all.

But Lockwood digested everything without comment.

I said, “How long have you known about Georgette Bauerdorf?”

He was on a different track. “You're saying ‘transcripts,' as opposed to the memos you found in Mr. Phillips's garage.”

“Transcripts of interviews about the blacklist at MGM. So transcripts
and
memos—both related to the old MGM, and possibly containing the same information about Jules Silverman. If the transcripts exist, that is, and Lampley isn't just making it up for some reason. Does Barry have an alibi for the night of Greta's death? Does Scott Dolgin?”

I slipped those questions in, not really hoping. But Lockwood said, “I wondered when you'd get to that. Yes, they do.”

“Which are?”

“After the party they took separate cars to Melling's and discussed business until late. Mr. Dolgin had too much to drink and stayed overnight instead of driving home.”

I went, “Woooo.”

Lockwood said, “Our thought exactly. Now, while you were tailing Melling, did he stop at the Sony studio lot?”

“No. I would have said so.”

“Did he visit Progressive Properties and Artists?”

“No. I told you everything.”

There was silence at Lockwood's end of the line. McManus sipped his ginger ale and watched me.

Lockwood said, “Go ahead, sorry. I needed to think.”

I switched phone ears, and plugged the other one. “You already knew it was Jules Silverman in that spanking picture, didn't you? How long have you known?”

“Since last week.”

“How did you find out?”

“I won't discuss that at this point. I want you to read the Bauerdorf file—I think you'll find it interesting.”

“How did
you
find out about her?”

“Miss Stenholm went to Sheriff's Unsolved to ask about the murder. I found out from the detectives who worked the Abadi case. They were keeping tabs on her.”

“Is there any chance I could see the Abadi file?”

“That's not my department. But if you want something out of Sergeant McManus and Deputy Gadtke, I suggest you soften them up—offer to buy them a nice meal. Put Sergeant McManus back on, if you would.”

I handed the phone to McManus. He said, “Yes, Doug ... No, there's no problem.... No, we didn't refile the material.... I'll warn them.... Fine, yes, you're welcome.... I'll tell her.”

McManus hit a button and folded up his cell phone. “Detective Lockwood says he'll see you later.”

“Did he say where?”

McManus just put the cell phone away. I didn't push. I said, “Are you and Deputy Gadtke free for dinner?”

Gadtke smiled and sat forward. McManus looked at me. I said, “You pick the restaurant and the newspaper buys.”

McManus smiled. “How about the Pacific Dining Car?”

 

I
'D TRIED
very hard to talk them out of the Dining Car. I suggested a dozen other places, including Stevens—but the detectives ate at Stevens all the time. I wouldn't agree to the Dining Car until I'd called to make sure Father wasn't there and wasn't expected. The maitre d' told me that he and Sis had been in for lunch. So much for my advice to stay away from him, I thought. My sister was hopeless.

I arrived at the restaurant ahead of the detectives. They'd gone back to their office for the Bauerdorf file. I'd asked if they would bring the Abadi file, too. They said no, categorically. They said they'd never show an active case file to a journalist.

While I waited for them, I ordered mineral water and worried about time. Arnold Tolback had said to go to Whitley Heights after 8:30 P.M. I didn't know how much later than 8:30 I could be.

I heard Gadtke's laugh before I saw him. He appeared at the table and pointed his finger:

“You wrote that on my burro, didn't you? ‘I hope he's better than Sheriff Baca!'”

I shook my head. Gadtke winked and flopped down across from me. McManus took the seat beside him. Gadtke laid his plastic vomit on the tablecloth, snagged the wine list, buttonholed a waiter, and ordered a double whiskey and a two-hundred-dollar bottle of red wine. I winced, even though it would go on expenses.

McManus was embarrassed by his partner; he looked it as he handed me the Bauerdorf file. The folder was tan and scuffed up, and the contents were an inch thick. I moved my silverware to clear space for it.

I said, “If the LAPD sucks donkey dick, why are you cooperating with Lockwood?”

Gadtke flagged another waiter. “Food first.”

He ordered two shrimp cocktails, the porterhouse-and-lobster combination, and a chocolate sundae for dessert. He wanted chocolate soufflé but had to settle for ice cream. McManus ordered filet mignon and rice. I ordered a salad. The waiter was brilliant about the vomit: he ignored it.

The whiskey and wine arrived together. Gadtke shooed the wine steward off before he could serve a taste. Smacking his lips, Gadtke made a grab for the bottle. McManus beat him to it and held the bottle out to me. I put my hand over my glass. He shrugged, poured himself half a glass, then poured for Gadtke.

Gadtke tipped the bottle to make sure he got filled to the top. He wrapped one hand around the wineglass and drank his whiskey with the other. He smacked his lips again. He said, “We're cooperating with
Detective
Lockwood because he's a righteous white man. LAPD are shitheads and gloryhounds—”

McManus set the wine down. “Let's just say they don't like to share information or credit. Whereas Detective Lockwood is an excellent investigator who'd rather catch bad guys than promote himself.”

Gadtke said, “And he was jobbed on that siege.”

I said, “What do you know about the siege?”

Gadtke waved his whiskey. “What
don't
we know—we had it in umpteen training bulletins. We know all about sight lines, ingress and egress, disposition of counters and booths. Who was where, when, for how long.”

I said, “I'd like to see those bulletins.”

McManus said, “Why?”

Gadtke laughed. “Yeah, why? So you can job him some more? Your newspaper would never defend a cop.”

He slurped his drink for punctuation. I looked at McManus. His face told me that he thought the same.

I opened the Bauerdorf folder. McManus said, “Start at the end. The paperwork is entered chronologically.”

I flipped to the bottom of the file. It smelled like mildew and six decades of hand soap. It contained official correspondence, interview transcripts, mug shots, teletypes, and detective reports on yellow, pink, and blue paper. There were fingerprint cards, stray notes, anonymous letters scrawled by obvious psychos, and a letter signed by J. Edgar Hoover.

I started reading. The paperwork was chronological but the facts were all over the place. As I strung them together, I thought of Greta and her script. The file was packed with character and drama.

Georgette Bauerdorf was born in New York and spent her early years in a Long Island convent. Her father was an oilman and Wall Street figure named George Bauerdorf; she had a stepmother and a widowed sister named Connie. When or why the family moved to L.A. wasn't said, but Georgette graduated from Bel Air's ritzy Westlake School for Girls in 1942. Except for a housekeeper and a chauffeur, she'd lived alone for most of her senior year. Her school friends thought Georgette was lonely and unhappy—a “poor little rich girl” who lacked parental guidance and a proper home life. But she wasn't wild or boy crazy; she was quiet and hard to know. She also smoked too much and bit her nails.

In October 1944 Georgette was twenty and living by herself in the family's apartment at Fountain and La Cienega. Her father, stepmother, and sister had gone east on business in August; they were staying at a hotel in New York City. Georgette was driving her sister's '36 Oldsmobile and devoting her time to war work. She was a registered member of the Hollywood Canteen, the Volunteer Army Canteen Service of Beverly Hills, and other soldiers' aid societies. She also corresponded with twenty-four servicemen on active duty. Her only other interest was flying. She took expensive flying lessons in the desert outside L.A.

Wednesday, October 11:

Georgette had lunch with her father's secretary. After lunch she got a scalp treatment and a manicure. At 2
P.M.
she went to a tea party at Pickfair—Mary Pickford's home in Beverly Hills. She left the party at 5
P.M.
with a female friend and two Marine privates. The Marines were up from San Diego to work as movie extras at Twentieth Century Fox. Georgette dropped them off somewhere east of Beverly Hills.

6:30
P.M.:

Georgette met her friend Nance Carter at the Hollywood Canteen. They talked in Georgette's car while Georgette knitted. Georgette wanted Nance to read some letters from Private Joseph Allen—a soldier stationed in El Paso, Texas. Georgette was going to fly to El Paso on Friday. She was engaged to marry Private Allen, but she didn't want her family and other friends to know. Georgette seemed tense and asked Nance to spend the night at her apartment. Nance declined: she didn't understand what Georgette could be nervous about.

Georgette and Nance spent the evening together at the Canteen. At one point an unidentified soldier danced a jitterbug with Georgette. He was about twenty-nine, five eight, 175 pounds, with a scar on his left ear. He had black hair combed straight back, dark eyes, and an olive complexion. Nance got the impression that Georgette didn't want to dance with him.

11:20
P.M.:

Georgette leaves the Canteen. Eight other hostesses check out at the same time. Georgette picks up a hitchhiker on her way home. He's an Army sergeant on fifteen-day furlough. She tells him she's hurrying home to wait for a phone call from Texas. She picks the sergeant up at Sunset and Vine, and drops him a block east of Laurel Canyon.

Midnight:

The caretaker couple in Georgette's building hear someone walking around Georgette's kitchen. They recognize the sound of Georgette's slippers. They hear water in the sink and Georgette drop a tray—

I looked up from reading. The main course had arrived; the waiter was handing out plates.

Gadtke dived into his lobster without waiting for McManus or me. He'd already demolished his shrimp cocktails and most of the wine.

I said, “There aren't any pictures of her.”

Gadtke said, “Sickos get into the files. They like famous cases with dead women, especially the mangled ones.”

McManus pulled a paper out of his pocket. “We copied this off microfilm for you.”

I took the paper. It was a professional head shot of Georgette Bauerdorf. She looked like a polite young lady. She might have been intelligent or not, pretty or not: her face was still unformed. She had dark hair arranged in the shoulder-length '40s style. Barrettes held the hair in place.

Gadtke said, “A Black Dahlia with class.” He dribbled lobster meat.

I said, “How much more is there on microfilm? The paperwork stops in early '45.”

McManus nudged the folder with his fork. “We only showed Miss Stenholm what you have here.”

I ignored my dinner and went back to reading.

Her body was found on the morning of October 12. The caretaker saw that Georgette's front door was open and walked in to clean. She went up to the second-floor bathroom and found Georgette dead. Sheriff's deputies arrived and radioed in an apparent suicide. The detectives arrived at 11:30
A.M.
They saw Georgette's body resting facedown in the bathtub—