To Die in Beverly Hills (13 page)

He dialed another. A man with a whiskey voice said, "Hello."

"This is Charlie," Carr said. "Did you hear about Leon?"

"Leon who?"

"Leon Sheboygan."

"What about him?" the man said. He yawned Indian-yell style.

"He got wasted by the cops."

"No lie?"

"No lie. They blew him up inside a house in Beverly Hills."

The man yawned again. "That is some real heavy shit, man. Wow."

"I'm trying to get in touch with Bones to let him know," Carr said. "...any ideas where I can reach him?"

"You tried Manny?"

"Not yet."

"He should know," the man said.

"I lost his phone number."

"Where'd you say we met?"

"At that party."

"Yeah, I think I remember. What'd ya say your name was?"

"Charlie."

"Okay," the man mumbled. He read off a number.

Carr wrote it down, then hung up the receiver for a moment. He dialed. A woman answered. Carr asked for Manny.

"Manny's not here," she said. "Who is calling?"

"Charlie. I'm trying to find Bones. It's important."

"Bones hasn't been around here in a couple of weeks," she said. "...Charlie who?"

"Lee's friend."

"Lee's dead."

"That's why I'm trying to find Bones.
"

"I think Manny is supposed to see him this week."

"Where?"

"Fuck if I know."

Carr said thanks and hung up. Carr dialed another number. A woman answered.

"I'm trying to find Lee," Carr said. "Is he there?"

A silence. "God..." she said in an anguished tone, "haven't you heard?"

"About what?"

"Lee is...uh...dead. Sorry for saying it over the phone like that."

"Jeez," Carr said. "How did it happen?"

"The pigs shot him. He was doing a place and they were waiting inside. I couldn't sleep all night after I heard."

"Does Bones know?"

"Who's Bones?"

"His roommate. The guy with the gray hair."

"Oh, him. I've only met him once."

"Any ideas where I can reach him?"

"By the way, who is this?" the woman's tone changed abruptly.

"Charlie," Carr said. "Lee and I did some time together."

"Oh. Lee probably mentioned your name and I just don't remember. I'm really superbad with names. Really superbad."

"Do you have a number for Bones?"

"No ... he was living with Lee up until a couple of weeks ago. I think they had an argument about something. Bones was supposed to have moved up to Malibu."

"Where can I find him?"

"I think he's still working at the... Say, just how did you get my telephone number?"

"Lee left an address book over at my place. He mentioned your name once."

"Even so, I don't think I should give any more information out over the phone," the woman said. "For all I know you could be a cop or something."

The phone clicked.

Carr set the receiver down on the cradle. There was one number left. Carr dialed. A man's voice answered, "Beverly Hills Police Department." Carr hung up.

It was late and he couldn't decide whether he was more hungry or tired. On his way to the Federal Building parking lot he toyed with the idea of heading straight for his apartment and getting a good night's sleep. Having climbed in his sedan, it seemed to drive itself to Chinatown. In a restaurant that was getting ready to close, he ordered an oversized plate of diced chicken with peanuts, a bowl of steamed rice and a pot of tea. He paid his bill and headed for his car. He climbed in and looked at his wristwatch. It was 1:00 A.m. After he rubbed his eyes for a while he started the engine.

He drove to Cedars of Lebanon Hospital and took the elevator to the fourth floor. He found his way to Jack Kelly's room and tiptoed in. Kelly still had tubes attached to his nose and arms. He breathed deeply. Carr thought his face looked yellowish in the dim light. He stood next to the bed for a long while. There were sounds in the hallway until a Filipino nurse pushed her way in the door. She was carrying a small tray. "He's not supposed to have visitors," she said as she approached the bed, "especially at this hour." She wiped Kelly's upper arm with alcohol-soaked cotton and gave him an injection.

Carr tiptoed out of the room.

Travis Bailey's unmarked police car was parked in the circular driveway in front of the Wallace residence.

Inside, he sat on the sofa in the white-carpeted living room with a clipboard on his lap. As Mrs. Wallace spoke, he filled in the spaces on a burglar report form.

"My gold lighter is gone too," she said gloomily. "I had left it on the bedroom dresser when I left for the theater. Just the thought of some strange person, some burglar, having been in my bedroom gives me goose bumps. My husband is on location and I phoned him and begged him to come back. I know I won't be able to sleep a wink in this house from now on without him here."

Bailey printed "gold cigarette case" under the section of the burglary report marked Property Taken. "What is your estimate of the value of the cigarette case?" he said.

"It had a diamond inlay," she said as she wrung her hands. "My husband gave it to me for my birthday. I know it cost at least three thousand dollars ... Of course, diamonds have appreciated a great deal during the last year."

"Would six thousand be a fair estimate?"

"I'm sure it's worth at least that much," Mrs. Wallace said without looking him in the eye.

"I hope you have insurance. You've suffered quite a loss.
"

"California Life and Casualty," she said. "...Thank God the burglars didn't steal my abstracts." She pointed to them. They were painted by my sister ... in fact, she was the one who always said it was better to look at the brighter side of life. She said that out of all bad things comes something good. I've always believed that too."

Bailey read off the list of stolen items. He asked her if there was anything else. She said no. He handed her the clipboard and asked her to sign the burglary report. She signed the report and handed it back to him.

"Do you think there is any chance at all that you will be able to catch the burglar?" she said. "To get my things back?"

Travis Bailey shoved his pen into his shirt pocket. He looked the woman in the eye. "I'm going to do my very best to apprehend the person who committed this crime, Mrs. Wallace. You can count on that." He stood up.

"What will the burglar do with my things?"

"With luck, he'll try to pawn some of the items," Bailey said. "I capture a lot of burglars by checking the pawn books. But I must be candid and tell you that burglars are often able to dispose of their stolen property without being detected. I can't guarantee that the crime will be solved. The only thing I can tell you is that I'll be working very hard to find out who did it. You have my word on that."

Mrs. Wallace shook her head. "I can't believe this has happened to me ... that an intruder has actually been inside this house."

"Is there anyone you suspect?"

Mrs. Wallace looked toward the door leading to the kitchen. "The maid has been acting a little strange lately," she whispered. "She told me that her father is ill in Mexico." She touched her fingertips to her cheeks. "Do servants act strangely before they steal things?"

Bailey nodded. "This is very common. And sometimes help that has been employed the longest are the ones that should he watched the closest."

A look of dismay crossed the woman's face. She stood up and followed Bailey to the door. He opened it. "I wish I could be more optimistic," Bailey said, "but unfortunately crime is on the increase in this city."

"I feel so
violated,"
Mrs. Wallace said, her voice trailing behind him as he left.

****

SEVEN

AS WITH a lot of insurance companies in L.A., California Life and Casualty's main office was situated in a high-rise building on Wilshire Boulevard.

Travis Bailey stepped off an elevator into a reception area with wall-to-wall orange shag carpeting and brush-flick
oil paintings with lots of brown and black. The receptionist, a ginger-haired woman wearing a summer dress that showed off acne scars on her back and chest, gave him a nod of recognition. She pressed a button. The door lock behind her buzzed open. Travis Bailey went through, heading down a hallway to Mark Davidson's office.

Davidson, a thinnish man in his late thirties, was on the phone. He motioned Bailey to a chair. Davidson's moustache and muttonchop sideburns were carefully trimmed and his teeth were crooked; extraordinarily white, but crooked. He hung up the phone. "And what, pray tell, doth thee bringest me this fine day?" Davidson asked. He smiled and Bailey thought of the talking horse on television: all teeth.

"I bring gold." Bailey smiled back as he handed Davidson a copy of the burglary report. "The gold of one of your insurees, a Frau Gertrude Wallace of Coventry Circle Road in our fair city. It seems that someone broke into the old lady's castle and stole all of her jewelry. I have an informant that's been offered the load. I thought you might be interested in the recovery."

Mark Davidson glanced at the report. "Lots of jewelry." He pressed an intercom button and gave Wallace's name, then asked for the file. "When are we going to be able to get together for lunch?" Davidson said. "Every time I call your office they tell me you're out in the field."

"Been busy as hell lately. The burglars have been working overtime."

"I read about the shooting."

"It was a close call, but it's all part of the job. What's new with you?"

"I've been jogging six miles a day. I'm at the point now where I can't wait to get out and start jogging as soon as I get home from the office. If I miss a day I actually feel guilty about it. I don't sleep well without the exercise. You should try it. Jogging is the greatest tension reliever in the world. A few months ago I was a bundle of nerves. Now I could care less. I just let things sort of
happen.
I've come to the realization that no one knows what I want better than me. And jogging is something I do for me. When I'm jogging, it's
my
time,
my
day,
my
body."

"I get my exercise by fucking," Bailey said.

Mark Davidson horse-smiled at the remark. "I've even got my wife into the jogging program. We get up early in the morning and get in some miles. At first she hated it, but now she's into it as much as I am. We run in a six-mile race every Sunday. We don't have arguments anymore because we're too tired. The feeling one gets during jogging is hard to explain. It's like the whole world begins and ends in your own body. You breathe and sweat and put one foot in front of another and nothing else matters. Your mind is clear. The experience is almost sexual." Horse smile.