The Ticket Out (36 page)

“There you are, Ann—we need to talk. Let me finish this.”

I read the headline upside down; it was a piece about international media conglomerates acquiring small production companies. I smiled. At one time Barry had wanted the
Millennium
to lead a Hollywood trust-busting crusade. I researched antitrust law, and Mark researched Viacom, AOL Time Warner, and the other studio owners. We were ready to write, when Barry pulled the plug on us and never mentioned trust-busting or media cartels again.

I took a chair and shut my eyes.

I was in a strategic fix. Last night Doug had said there were
too
many suspects and too many motives. I was feeling that difficulty now. I couldn't just barge in and demand answers from Barry. Almost every question I wanted to ask tied him to murder, or tied him to people maybe tied to murder. I couldn't accuse him bald-facedly. I wasn't authorized to reveal the state of Doug's case, which certain questions would. I thought my brain would melt trying to figure the right approach—

“Ann!”

I jerked up in my seat. Barry was staring at me. He said, “You were asleep.” He closed his newspaper.

“Who are those reporters I'm supposed to talk to? I want your Lockwood piece in the can for two issues from now.”

I said, “I'm still looking for a script called GB D
reams
Big—I asked you about it the other night. I have to read it for the piece on Greta Stenholm.”

Barry waved his hand. “Don't worry about that, I've postponed it indefinitely. I've got too much material backlogged.”

“Greta is going to need a series—I want to call it ‘A Bright Young Woman.' ”

Barry rolled his chair forward and rested both elbows on the desktop. He said, “I received a disturbing phone call this morning.”

“From?”

“I was told you were with Lockwood while he interviewed a certain person.”

Easy to trace that phone call to its source. Lynnda-Ellen had called Hannah Silverman; Hannah Silverman called Barry.

I clucked my tongue. “I was surprised and saddened to learn about Jules Silverman's tastes—a man of his age and prominence.”

Barry was not amused. “You can't use it. You can't repeat it to anyone.”

“I also know Greta Stenholm asked you to print allegations that Silverman was a murder suspect in 1944. I can't use that either. I'm not interested in slandering Jules Silverman, or why you lied to me about knowing Greta. I'm only interested in her script,
GB Dreams Big.
Do you know where it is?”

“Did you tell Lockwood I lied?”

I shook my head. “Lockwood and I are not close. I was at Lynnda-Ellen's because I crashed her party last night and had information Lockwood could use. Do you know where the script is?”

“Have I made myself clear about Jules Silverman?”

“You have. Does that mean the Greta Stenholm piece is not postponed indefinitely?”

Barry rolled his chair back. He had relaxed. “Check with me later.”

“What about GB
Dreams Big?”

Barry shrugged. “I only know what I've heard. Greta sold it for six figures and Len Ziskind was the agent.”

I said, “PPA never saw it.”

Barry shrugged again. “Then I don't know.”

“PPA thinks Scott Dolgin had it in development. But since I can't find Dolgin to ask him, I'll ask you. Where is GB
Dreams Big?”

Barry started to open his newspaper. I stuck my hand out and held it closed.

Barry made a face and looked up. He said, “Greta was hanging around Arnie Tolback before she died. My money's on him for the killer. Ask
him
about the script.”

The official Silverman line: Tolback did it.

I said, “You know what I think? I think you're shielding each other to protect your Hollywood interests. You and Dolgin want to protect the Silvermans because they're your ticket into the movie business.
You
want to protect Dolgin because he's In-Casa Productions, and Dolgin's taken a powder to protect himself. I do know the cops searched his apartment—”

“Scott didn't kill her. He was with me when it happened.”

I shrugged. “I didn't think he did. What I'm saying is that you make the cops' job more difficult if you cover your ass instead of help.”

Barry yanked his newspaper out from under my hand. He said, “I don't give a shit if I make the pigs' job impossible.”

I said, “You shouldn't protect Scott Dolgin. He took your ten grand for In-Casa and bought a Range Rover with it.”

Barry had tuned me out. He unfolded a second section and started skimming stock prices.

I said, “The murder hurts more than In-Casa. It hurts the
Millennium's
market value. You want to sell it with Jules Silverman as broker and go into producing full-time.”

Barry looked at me and spoke with emphasis. “The paper is
not
for sale. I do
not
want to go into producing full-time.”

“You're toning down the film section to attract a mainstream buyer.”

Barry sighed. “If you paid attention to marketing surveys, you'd know that our readers have changed. They aren't into heavy discussions of movies anymore. You've lost touch with the Zeitgeist out there.”

I stood up. Barry said, “Give me those reporters' names. I have time to make calls this afternoon.”

I turned and walked out of his office.

“Ann! Get back here!”

I shut his door and ran. I wanted to laugh. Me, a bad liar? That was a brilliant performance—and on less than no sleep.

But Barry's performance was better.

 

A
CALL WAS
waiting for me at the switchboard downstairs. A police detective, the receptionist said; she'd paged me five times. I asked her to transfer the call to Vivian's extension and ran and took it in her office. I snatched up the receiver:

“Where were you?
I had Neil Phillips trapped in Georgette Bauerdorf's vestibule!”

Doug said, “Tell me what happened.”

I replayed the conversation as close to verbatim as I could. I told him I'd revised my impression of Phillips, then revised it again. Phillips was a tough-guy wiener type: all threats and profanity. I knew Doug would get the important points. I only highlighted two items. Phillips had explained the fight we'd heard about from Mrs. May and Isabelle Pavich. And Phillips had accounted for his suspicious behavior—

Doug got buzzed on another line. He put me on hold and came back in a few seconds. The Casa surveillance team needed him. They said that a black Porsche just squealed off and a commotion had broken out in the courtyard. Doug told the surveillance guys to catch the Porsche. He told me to meet him in Culver City chop-chop.

I took surface streets and beat him down to the Casa de Amor. The surveillance guys were holding Arnold Tolback in the backseat of their car. Tolback saw me and waved. I parked out front and ran into the courtyard.

Up the walkway: pandemonium. It centered around the third bungalow on the right. The entire harem was outside in robes and hair curlers. They cried; they screeched; they wailed for Mrs. May to come help. The noise was ghastly. I pushed through them and vaulted up the steps. An old woman had passed out stiff on her porch. She lay half in and half out of the front door.

I squatted down to take a look. It was some kind of seizure. Her mouth dropped open. She drooled and moaned, “He ... He ... He ... He...”

I got a big blast of alcohol fumes.

A fat foot in a turquoise slipper bumped me. I looked up. The muumuu neighbor said, “Our Dorene's a binger, honey. She goes on a toot and forgets to eat.”

I put one arm under Dorene, braced myself, and pulled her upright. The neighbors crowded in close. The muumuu neighbor shoved them back and told them to button it. The wailing faded to whimpers. Dorene looked ninety years old and weighed almost nothing; she was a husk. I walked-carried her into the living room and laid her down on the couch.

The living room smelled awful. It was littered with Frito bags and empty bourbon bottles. Judging by the pattern of garbage, Dorene ate, drank, and slept on her couch. Judging by stains, she didn't always make it to the toilet. So much for Mrs. May's mint condition Temple of Love. I covered Dorene with a ragged blanket. I was remembering why I hated drunks.

The muumuu neighbor had followed us inside. She locked the screen door and walked over. She said, “I'm Erma, honey.”

I decided that Erma only boozed at night. She didn't realize she'd seen me twice before.

Dorene threw out her arms and moaned,
“Nooooooo!”
The old girls on the porch heard her. They wailed,
“Noooooooooooo!”
and pressed their faces to the screen.

Erma took Dorene's arms and pushed them down. She'd had practice at this. She found a bottle of bourbon and fed Dorene a pick-me-up. It was the same expensive small-batch stuff as Erma's. Dorene slurped the bourbon into her system. I kneeled beside the couch.

I said, “Dorene, who is ‘He? Is it Arnold Tolback? Why ‘No'? What did he say to you?”

Her eyelids flickered. She was barely conscious, but her throat muscles worked. She sucked in bourbon, dribbling out of the corners of her mouth. Erma held the bottle steady.

I bent closer. “Who is ‘He,' Dorene?”

Erma shook her head. “Dories out for the count, honey.”

I said, “Does anyone have keys to the bungalows? Did Mrs. May leave a duplicate set for emergencies?”

Erma dug into the pocket of her muumuu. It bulged with candy bars. She dug around and handed me a ring of door keys.

I stood up and headed for the kitchen. Dorene was a junk saver. She didn't use her kitchen for cooking or eating: she used it to store junk. She used the oven to store junk, and the floor and counters to store more junk. I kicked a passage through overflowing sacks; I saw logos for Westside stores that dated back decades. Junk blocked the kitchen door. I moved bags and boxes to clear it and still couldn't get out; the hinges were rusty. I forced the door wide enough to squeeze through and ran up the path, around to Mrs. May's.

The fifth key was the right key. I let myself into her front room and checked around. Nothing had changed since Monday night. Her TV was still showing the Garden channel, her sandwich and tea remains were still on the table. I ran back to the bathroom; her purse was still there. I ran to the kitchen. The khaki pants and white sneakers still sat on the counter, still stained with blood and dirt. The kitchen door was the way I'd left it—chained.

I ran to the front door and let myself out. Doug was coming up the walk with Arnold Tolback. He saw me on Mrs. May's porch and stopped. He pointed at Scott Dolgin's bungalow.

“Mr. Tolback, would you wait there please?”

Tolback grinned at me. “Hey, loudmouth. You make it to Lynnda's party last night?”

Doug pointed at Dolgin's again. Tolback shrugged, went up to Dolgin's porch, and sat down. He pulled out a cell phone and dialed it. Doug took my arm and walked me under the arch. A screen of roses hid us. We heard Tolback yell at someone.

I jingled the keys. “Authorized entry for a change.”

Doug said, “Where did you get them?”

I explained about Dorene, Erma, and the alcoholic seizure. I said, “The pants and sneakers are still in Mrs. May's kitchen. They haven't been touched.”

Doug lowered his voice. “I need you to do something. I need you to look around inside Phillips's and Dolgin's place.”

I lowered my voice. “I'm shocked.”

Doug didn't smile. “It's desperation, plain and simple. We need some kind of a break—”

“Detective Lockwood!”

Tolback. Doug didn't turn his head. “Yes?”

“How long you think this is going to take? Ballpark it, I have people waiting.”

“Not more than an hour, Mr. Tolback. Probably less.”

“How much less?”

Doug whispered, “Phillips's and Dolgin's. Don't let anyone see you. Bring the keys back to Mrs. Johnson's—Dorene. I'll be there.”

Tolback called, “How
much
less?”

Doug took off up the walkway. I took off around the bungalows to Scott Dolgin's kitchen door. I found the key, let myself in, and did a fast tour. The blinds were down but I could hear Tolback on the porch. I checked everywhere. I got fingerprint dust all over my hands. Greta's suitcases were gone; Isabelle Pavich's purse was gone. The picture of the Thalberg Building still hung crooked, and the blood hadn't been cleaned up. Nothing indicated that Dolgin had been there since Monday.

I snuck out, around, and down the back path to Phillips's bungalow. His kitchen door was chain locked. I ran back around to the front. Tolback was busy with a phone call—he didn't notice me go by. Up the walkway, the neighbors had disappeared. I ducked past Dorene's bungalow and saw them in the living room. They sat in a semicircle around Doug.

I tried the key in Phillips's front door. The door opened two inches: it was chained, too. Phillips had to be home. I jumped off his porch and ran next door. I ran in without knocking, and tossed the keys to Erma. Dorene was conked out on the couch. Erma had poured herself some bourbon and served the neighbors from Dorene's stash. I signaled Doug to come talk. The minute his back was turned, the women tittered. One old girl yanked the curlers out of her hair. Another one found a lipstick and passed it around.

I pulled Doug outside. I said low, “Phillips is home—both his doors are chained inside. He must have slipped by when the surveillance guys were chasing Tolback. What did Tolback say to Dorene?”

“He didn't speak to her. None of the tenants would let him in.”

“She's
Silverman's alibi for that night, isn't she? Her name is in the Bauerdorf file.”

Doug nodded. “I'll take care of Phillips—you talk to Tolback. I told him to tell you everything.”