The Ticket Out (32 page)

I'd asked the Culver City cop who squealed on me. He said it wasn't the old women, it was the surveillance guys. I'd started to complain at him. He told me to relax, no one was pressing charges. They'd notified Lockwood where I was. He was coming to spring me—but it might be awhile before he could get there.

My eyes wanted to close. I knew if I let them, I'd sleep for a week. I rolled off the bunk and started to pace the cell. I was pacing when Lockwood arrived. The booking officer unlocked the cell door and Lockwood walked in.

He put out his hand and said, “Come on. I'm taking you home.”

 

“I
THINK
G
RETA
found independent corroboration of Silverman's guilt. Before that, she was going on the MGM-blacklist transcripts and the partial Sheriff's file. The transcripts are just hearsay, and she didn't know about the orgy alibi, or Silverman's thumbprint on the lightbulb. I think she stumbled into something at the Casa de Amor. I think one of the tenants gave her something that implicated Silverman unequivocally—i.e., that he definitely did
not
attend the orgy that night. I think she went to Silverman with the evidence,
after
she'd sent the spanking picture. I think she tried to use it to pry something big out of him—like the Abadi killer or a confession on Georgette Bauerdorf. That was the second part that wasn't doable, and that's what got her killed.”

I waited for Lockwood's reaction. He was in the bathroom. I was on the couch, looking at the view; I had a bowl of ice cubes for my hand.

When he'd said he was taking me home, he hadn't meant my place, he'd meant his. He lived in an old clapboard cottage on a cul-de-sac near the Hollywood Bowl. The cottage had been updated. It was two good-sized rooms and a wall of windows facing west. He'd hung a collection of crime photographs—gangsters dead and alive. But the furniture looked like leftovers from a lady DA with taste: cushy chair, antique end table, and the leather couch I was sitting on. It was sparse but comfortable.

I said, “Did you hear me? What do you think?”

The bathroom door cracked. Lockwood said, “Help yourself to coffee.”

I got up and walked into the kitchen. The kitchen had a view, too. I poured coffee and stood at the sink sipping it. I wondered if I'd get to bed before dawn. Lockwood joined me after a few minutes. He'd showered, shaved, and changed into fresh clothes. Since I'd known him he'd worn nothing but starched white shirts, and dark jackets and slacks.

He dropped his jacket on a chair and poured himself coffee. He said, “I'd like you to call in for your messages.”

He brought the telephone over and set it on the table. I sat down with my coffee, he sat down with his. But I didn't reach for the phone.

Lockwood looked at me. “Why did you run out on us? You're not upset about Denney.”

I shook my head. Lockwood said, “My partner thinks you turned squeamish, being a liberal journalist and all. He's expecting a lynch mob from the ACLU.”

I felt myself start to blush. To hide it, I grabbed the telephone and punched in my number. The machine picked up; I hit my remote-access code.

Lockwood said, “Put it on the speaker, if you would.”

I pushed the speaker button. The computer voice said, “You have six new messages.” I punched in the play code. Lockwood stirred his coffee.

“Monday, 6:30
P.M.
‘He's out of control because of
you,
Annie, because of the lawyer-trust fund thing. Today was
your
fault. He
never
drinks like that before dinner.'”

I said, “My sister.” Lockwood nodded.

“Monday, 6:33
P.M.
‘You
have
to come with us on Wednesday. He's here for ten days, and you can't just see him once.'”

Sis again. I made a face: my warnings had done exactly no good.

“Monday, 6:35
P.M.
‘I forgot—you still haven't answered my question. Why did Douglas Lockwood interview Dad and me? How are you involved in a murder? You can't be—you'd tell us. Call.'”

“Tuesday, 4:01
P.M.
‘Where
are
you? Dad and I are making plans for the San Andreas trip.
Call me.'”

“Tuesday, 7:49
P.M.
‘Annie ... Annie ... he's...
You have to come tomorrow.
We're meeting early.... He's been ... He's...' ”

The machine cut her off; it only allowed so much silence. I checked my watch to see when I could call her. She sounded badly upset. I had to try and talk her out of that trip.

“Tuesday, 10:18
P.M.
‘Ann, Barry. I need those reporters' names you were supposed to leave with me. I want to cover every angle on that pigfuck Lockwood—'”

Before he could finish, I hit the disconnect button and cradled the receiver. Lockwood's face had gone chill; the official mask was back on. I leaned toward him to explain. “I'm not—”

Lockwood held up his hand.

I said, “But I—”

Lockwood shook his head. “We have business to discuss.”

I gave up and sat back. “Business with my answering machine?”

“I wanted to see who was keeping tabs on you, or if you had any odd hang-ups. I also wanted to see, frankly, if you were running any schemes without my knowledge.”

“Barry doesn't know—”

Lockwood stopped me again. “Did you learn anything useful at Lynnda's tonight?”

I sighed. “Nothing you didn't hear from Arnold Tolback except that Lynnda fired the actress in the spanking picture. Which proves she knows about the blackmail—if Hannah Silverman crashing around giving orders didn't prove it already.”

Lockwood sipped his coffee, thinking. I said, “I'm right.”

“About what?”

I sat forward. “Look, every time you try to link the murder to the blackmail, your reasoning gets absurd. I heard you with Lynnda-Ellen. Do you really think she hired a second guy to scare Greta? Do you really think Denney murdered her by accident, then pretended with me the night after? I know you're just rehearsing possibilities, but they're all convoluted and preposterous when you start with blackmail as the motive.”

Lockwood sipped his coffee.

“But if you start with Georgette Bauerdorf as the motive, everything gets simple. Bathtubs, murder disguised as suicide, Jules Silverman, Edward Abadi, Greta, Mrs. May, the Casa de Amor, all the people who've disappeared—everything ties together. Have you identified the blood in Scott Dolgin's dining room?”

Lockwood nodded. “O-negative. Miss Pavich's type.”

“See! And when you get a warrant for Mrs. May's you'll find those khakis and tennis shoes aren't a plant. I'm sure it's Scott Dolgin's clothes and Greta's blood, and everything ties back to Georgette Bauerdorf! It could be that Mrs. May told Greta about the orgy in 1944. That's why she's disappeared!”

Lockwood was thinking. I sat back, light-headed. I was too tired for much effort.

Lockwood said, “What makes you think Miss Stenholm found corroboration on Silverman at the Casa de Amor?”

I repeated my talk with Catherine Kerr and Penny Proft. I used both hands to show how Kerr shoved ashtrays at us. Lockwood frowned at my right hand and said, “You need ice.”

He got up, poured out the melted ice, went to the fridge, and broke more ice into the bowl. He came back with the bowl and a dish towel. He dried my hand and examined the swelling.

“Bend your fingers.”

I bent them as far as they'd go. I felt a sharp pain in two knuckles. Lockwood saw me flinch. He said, “You're going to need X rays. Do you want more aspirin?”

I shook my head. He tossed the dish towel, refilled our coffee cups, and sat back down. He looked me straight in the face; he was studying me.

I said, “What?”

He said, “From the first you've acted like a lightning rod. It was you who exposed the blackmail for us. Where would we be if you hadn't ignored me that first night and gone to Miss Stenholm's apartment?”

I pointed at my hand in ice.
“Yd
be in better shape.”

Lockwood didn't smile. He wasn't in great shape either. Fatigue showed in his face and around his eyes. He'd been cut wrestling Dale Denney, but the cuts were healing.

“You're also a capable burglar.” Lockwood ticked off a list. “Mr. Phillips's garage, Miss Silverman's premises, Mrs. May's premises, Mr. Silverman's property.”

I said, “I try not to do anything halfway.”

“I believe it. You dived into the Bauerdorf case with your usual abandon.”

“Do you like my theory?”

“If it's true, you shouldn't be broadcasting it at the Casa de Amor. And true or not, you have no proof.”

I repeated again what Penny Proft had said.

Lockwood sipped his coffee. “That's interesting, but Miss Proft was wise to mistrust Miss Stenholm's mental state at the time. If we theorize Miss Bauerdorf as the motive in our two crimes, we have the problem of establishing that Edward Abadi knew of the Bauerdorf murder, knew for a fact that Jules Silverman was guilty, and threatened to use it against Mr. Silverman for a reason yet to be determined.”

Lockwood held up two fingers. “Second, who pulled the trigger on Abadi? There's no evidence it was Silverman, but it's more likely that he'd use a gun at his age than that he'd drive from Malibu to Los Feliz, hope he found Miss Stenholm alone, knock her out with a heavy object, and slit her wrists.”

I said, “Scott Dolgin did it for him.”

“Why would Dolgin do that?”

I shrugged. “For a reason yet to be determined? Maybe he did it for his movie career. Silverman's a sure ticket into the business, to quote Penny Proft.”

Lockwood stared at his coffee cup; he was taking that idea seriously. I nudged his leg. “You know things about Dolgin and Silverman that I don't.”

Lockwood held up two fingers again. “We have two sets of phone records—Dolgin's residence, and your main house from the night of Melling's party. Dolgin called Silverman's unlisted number at least once a day for the past month, and someone called Silverman several times from the party.”

Barry: it had to be. He was back and forth to the telephone all night. Lockwood said, “Our guess was Melling, based on your account of the proceedings.”

“And Barry knows that Greta knew about Jules and Georgette—for whatever that's worth.”

Lockwood nodded. “I'm not saying you're wrong about Silverman, it's just that we have no proof. And there are other factors you aren't aware of. You haven't read the Abadi file, for example.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

“Your next plan was to go to the original investigating officers, correct?”

“It hadn't crossed my mind.”

“I'll save you the trouble. Sergeant McManus and Deputy Gadtke are handling the case now, and most of our players were questioned for Abadi. Not just the major people—Dolgin, Miss Stenholm, and the Silvermans—but others such as Leonard Ziskind, Jack Nevenson, Neil Phillips, and Steven Lampley.”

“Penny Proft or Catherine Kerr?”

Lockwood shook his head.

“In the month before he died, Mr. Abadi had appointments with Dolgin, Melling, and Lampley. All of them were looking for work in films. But try this for size—Scott Dolgin murdered both Abadi and Stenholm out of sexual jealousy. It's the simplest solution. If Dolgin's our guy, the disappearances at the Casa de Amor make sense logically and logistically. Neil Phillips was Dolgin's alibi for the night of the Abadi murder. Only Phillips's testimony stands between Dolgin and serious police scrutiny. Dolgin might have coerced that alibi—”

I broke in. “Maybe in exchange for career help. I told you how Phillips was blackballed.”

“Possibly. At the moment it's moot, since we can't locate Phillips.”

I said, “I thought you had more on Scott Dolgin. How'd you get a search warrant for his place?”

Lockwood frowned. “It was an anonymous tip through RHD. An unidentified caller said we'd find Miss Stenholm's belongings and the murder clothes at Dolgin's place. I hope it doesn't bite us in the ass in court.”

“Why would it?”

“Anonymous tips are shaky. How does the court know we didn't engineer it ourselves just for a look around Dolgin's?”

“But a judge signs the warrant.”

“Search warrants can be challenged in court. They can be thrown out.”

I flashed back to the groupie, Karen. She'd told me about the downtown courts scene and how everybody slept with everybody. She'd told me about “friendly” judges who'd sign borderline warrants because they were doing a detective involved. She'd also told me something I forgot to write down. Lockwood avoided that kind of collusion; he liked to win too much. He'd almost never had a warrant overturned at trial.

I changed direction. “What about what Mrs. May said about a fight and ‘They found it'? ‘It' could be proof of Silverman's guilt.”

Lockwood shook his head. “‘It' could be anything—the fight could be anything. If Dolgin's our guy, he's running scared, and so are the people around him. Maybe Phillips was threatening to go to the police, or maybe Miss Stenholm was. Maybe she found proof that Dolgin snuffed Abadi, or Miss Pavich did, or—”

He rubbed his temples. “There are too many suspects and too many motives. At least your father's alibi checked—that took your family out of the equation.”

I said, “They shouldn't have been there to begin with. Did the Sheriff's look into Silverman's orgy story in 1944?”

Lockwood nodded.

“So the file must list witnesses from the Casa de Amor.”

He nodded.

“Who were they? Is it Mrs. May? At least one of them lives there now.”

“McManus and Gadtke are on it.”