Sunset Express Page 12

  She yelled, “Is it true that a plan of Teddy Martin’s house was found?”

  “I’m sorry.” We were working our way toward Jonathan Green’s Rolls-Royce.

  A short man who himself had been an attorney before becoming a broadcast journalist shouted, “Jonathan? Is it true that evidence found in the house exculpates Theodore Martin in the murder of his wife?”

  Jonathan smiled benignly. “I’ve seen the evidence that Mr. Cole found, and I’ll be in consultation with the district attorney’s office sometime in the next few days. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  More questions exploded at us from a dozen directions, and they were all about Mr. Cole.

  I didn’t think Jonathan was going to answer, but he stopped and put his hand on my shoulder and said, “This is Mr. Elvis Cole of the Elvis Cole Detective Agency, and I believe that his discovery is going to be the breakthrough that we need. I can’t tell you how proud I am of this young man, and how impressed I am with the caliber of his work.”

  I said, “Gee.”

  The microphones shifted toward me as one and the questions came so fast and loud that the words blended into white noise. I was pretty sure that no one heard me say, “Gee.” I may have said it twice.

  Green said, “All we can say at this time is that we received a tip through our hotline, and Mr. Cole followed it to this conclusion.” He squeezed my shoulder again as if I were his son and I’d just made Eagle Scout. “What we have here is the result of good, solid detective work, and I suspect that when all is said and done Mr. Cole will be the hero of this little drama.”

  Truly added, “And Teddy Martin the victim.”

  Jonathan slid into his Rolls-Royce, and then Truly and the two uniforms walked me to my car. The press stayed with us, jostling and shoving and keeping up with the questions. We had to push a fat guy and two women away from my car to get the door open. Flutey lost her hat. Truly said, “Screen your calls. If anyone gets through to you, refer them to our office. Jonathan is the only one who deals with the press. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “No.”

  “It should die down in a few days.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  Truly shrugged. “Enjoy the idolatry. You earned it, my friend. You really came through for us.”

  A tall thin guy from one of the national networks yelled, “Hey, Sherlock Holmes! Are you really that good or did you just get lucky?”

  I said, “Some idol.”

  Truly laughed and I climbed into my car and drove away. Slowly. I almost ran over a cameraman.

  14

  I pulled into the carport at two minutes after six that evening. The TV was on, and Lucy and Ben were at the dining table, Lucy still in her business suit and Ben wearing a Songbird T-shirt. The cat was nowhere to be found, but that was probably just as well. If he’d been home, Lucy and Ben would probably need stitches.

  Lucy smiled when she saw me and said, “It’s the world’s greatest detective. Congratulations, Sherlock.”

  Ben jumped up and clapped. “We saw you on television!”

  I said, “How do you know it was me? Maybe it was an imposter.”

  Lucy crossed her arms and considered me. “Now that you mention it, the man on television was devastatingly handsome and darkly mysterious.”

  I said, “Oh. That was me.”

  Lucy was beaming. “We just turned on the news and there you were. You and Jonathan Green. Was it exciting?”

  “Being with Jonathan?”

  “No, silly! They said you made some kind of break-through that might turn the case around. Jonathan said that you were the finest investigator he’s ever worked with.”

  I tried to look blasé and stifled a yawn. “Oh, that.”

  She punched me in the arm. “Be serious.”

  I gave her a kiss. “There were so many reporters I thought I’d have to shoot my way out.” I gave her a second kiss and then a nuzzle. “Enough about me. How was your day?”

  “It was good. We’ll meet again the day after tomorrow, then perhaps once more, so there’s plenty of time to play.” She was surrounded by tourist brochures and tour books with Post-Its and a list of things to see and do.

  I looked at her list. They wanted to see my office and visit both Disneyland and Universal Studios and take in a Dodgers game and eat a hot dog at Pink’s on LaBrea in Hollywood. They wanted to ride the roller coasters at Magic Mountain and go to Malibu and spend a day at the beach. They wanted to see the Venice boardwalk and Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive. They wanted to see Griffith Observatory, where James Dean had his famous knife fight in Rebel Without a Cause, and the Hollywood sign. They wanted to see Ronald Colman’s house. I said, “Ronald Colman?”

  Lucy said, “Of course, silly. We can’t miss that.” She was marking yet more things as I watched. She would finger through the tour books and refer to notes and frown as she juggled alternatives and weighed options and planned the Great L.A. Adventure. She glanced at me, then went back to the Frommer’s, then came back to me again. She said, “What are you smiling at?”

  “How I Spent My Summer Vacation.”

  She closed the Frommer’s on a finger and looked miserable. “There’s so much.”

  “Too much. You’re never going to do all that in the few days that you have.”

  She put down the Frommer’s. “What are your suggestions?”

  “Visit more often.”

  She smiled and patted my hand. “What are your suggestions for now?”

  “For now, how about dinner at Spago? For tomorrow, how about the Universal tour with lunch at the Universal City Walk, then either Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive or Malibu and dinner at the beach?”

  She looked longingly at the Frommer’s. “Couldn’t we squeeze in Ronald Colman?”

  I leaned close and lowered my voice so that Ben couldn’t hear. “We could, but that would fill the forty-five minutes I’ve alloted for lovemaking.” I stepped back and spread my hands. “Your call.”

  She frowned and drummed the table. “We didn’t need forty-five minutes last time.” Everyone’s a comedian.

  She shrugged and frowned like it was the trade-off of the century. “Okay. Forget Ronald Colman.”

  Ben said, “Hey! You’re on TV again!”

  Lucy grabbed my hand. “Oh, look!”

  I looked as the local anchor said that there had been a “surprise development today” in the Theodore Martin murder investigation that might “derail the prosecution’s case.” They cut to a clip of Elton Richards’s duplex and the frosty-haired remote reporter took over. You could see me talking with Hernandez and Flutey in the background. Ben and Lucy both yelled, “There you are!”

  The reporter told us that a private investigator working for the Big Green Defense Machine had followed a tip to evidence that implicated two El Monte men in the kidnapping/murder of Susan Martin. She referred to notes and said, “We’ve learned that the two men are Stephen Pritzik and Elton Richards, both of whom have lengthy criminal records.” The image shifted to grainy mug shots of Pritzik and Richards. Pritzik looked narrow and mean; Richards looked stupid. Lucy said, “Oh, those guys are choice.”

  The reporter said, “Sources close to the investigation tell us that the evidence found here today provides a direct link between these men and Susan Martin’s kidnapping.” They cut to a clip of me and Jonathan Green standing by Jonathan’s Rolls-Royce, Jonathan with his hand on my shoulder, saying that I had found the breakthrough that the defense has needed. Both Lucy and Ben cheered again when Jonathan said it, and Lucy hooked her finger in my belt loop. I thought that I looked like a turnip head.

  The anchor reappeared, said that the two men were being sought for questioning, then shifted to a story about sweatshops in East L.A.

  I said, “Shucks. He didn’t put in the part where Jonathan said I would be the hero of the case.”

  Lucy tugged at my belt loop. “So what did you find?”

  I told her about the map and
the pictures. Lucy wasn’t smiling now. She looked grave, and then she shook her head. “Wow.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you think you’ll be able to come out and play with us tomorrow?”

  “I’ll call Jonathan in the morning. I’ll have to follow up on Pritzik and Richards, but it shouldn’t take all day. Maybe just half a day.”

  We stared at each other.

  She held out her hand, and I took it. She said, “It’s okay, Studly. I understand.”

  “I’ll grab a shower and we’ll eat.”

  I phoned Spago for a reservation, then showered, changed, and when I came back down she was grinning. I said, “What?”

  Grinning wider. “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Just a little surprise. Let’s go.”

  It was almost eight by the time we made it down the mountain, and the sky was deep purple edging into darkness. The Sunset Strip was alive with middle-aged hipsters driving Porsches to show off for women twenty years younger and goateed Val Dudes chasing the Christian Slater look and young women sporting navel rings set fire by the neon. The sidewalks outside of clubs like the Viper Room and the House of Blues and the Roxy were jammed with people, some of whom wanted to get in but most of whom were content to make the concrete scene out front, laughing and goofing and tossing back test-tube shooters of red dye number six vodka. Ben said, “Mom, look! There’s a man with a bone through his nose.”

  I said, “Welcome to Planet Los Angeles.”

  Lucy shook her head and smiled. “Well, it isn’t Baton Rouge, is it?”

  “Wait’ll you see Melrose.”

  “It’s fun, though. Sort of like Mardi Gras three hundred sixty-five nights a year.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “L.A. is okay that way.”

  She turned back to me. Serious. “Do you like living here?”

  “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t.”

  She stared at me for a moment, then she nodded and turned back toward the window. “Yes, I guess you wouldn’t.”

  We pulled into Spago and let the valet have the car. Lucy suggested that I wear my Groucho Marx nose as a disguise to prevent adoring fans from mobbing me, but I pointed out that then everyone might think I was Groucho Marx and I would be mobbed anyway. I decided to risk going as myself.

  We went upstairs for very nice Caesar salads and duck sausage pizza and a pretty good merlot. Johnny Depp was there with several friends, and so were three of the cast members of Beverly Hills 90210. No one stared at me and no one asked for my autograph and no one took my picture. Everyone was looking at Johnny Depp. Even the 90210 people. Disappointing, but maybe the people who go to Spago don’t watch the news.

  Lucy said, “Perhaps you should’ve worn the Groucho after all.”

  “Perhaps.”

  She patted my arm. “Don’t feel bad, sweetie. They would recognize you if all these faux celebrities weren’t here.”

  “Yeah.” I sneered. “Johnny Depp.”

  Throughout the meal Lucy would grin with the knowledge of her secret, and I would ask, “What?” and she would say, “You’ll see.” Then everyone stopped looking at Johnny Depp and turned toward the door. Lucy grinned wider, and I looked, too.

  Joe came over, gliding across the floor as the room parted for him. Tall men in sleeveless sweatshirts and dark glasses and brilliant red tattoos tend to stand out in Spago. Even Johnny Depp was looking.

  Lucy stood to greet him. “Hi, Joseph.”

  Joe kissed Lucy’s cheek, hugged her, then shook Ben’s hand. “You ready, sport?”

  “Yeah!”

  I said, “What’s going on?”

  Joe swiveled my way, and you could tell he was amused. You could see that he was positively dying, even though his face showed nothing. “Peter Nelsen’s down in the car. Peter and I are taking Big Ben to a screening of Peter’s new movie.” Peter Alan Nelsen is the third most successful movie director in the world. Once he was a client, but now he’s a friend.

  I looked at Lucy.

  Joe said, “We won’t be back until late.”

  I looked back at Joe.

  “Very late.”

  Lucy gave Ben a hug. “You guys have fun.”

  Joe’s mouth gave the twitch, and then he and Ben were gone.

  I looked back at Lucy, and she said, “Alone time is very important.”

  “You called him while I was in the shower?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I knew there was something I liked about you.”

  She sipped her wine. “I think that there’s something you like very much about me.”

  We enjoyed a slow, noisy dessert with Lucy and I playing footsie under the table. We spoke in greater detail about her day and mine, and I told her about the Mason twins and the Pug Woman and the man who claimed to have seen Susan Martin’s kidnapping from the Orb. I didn’t often speak of my work, but it seemed natural with Lucy, and as we talked we laughed and goofed about Orb people and stroked each other’s hands and arms and fingers. The time passed with the slow, warm feel of dripping honey, and finally Lucy wrapped my feet with hers and said, “Maybe we should go.”

  We left Spago at 10:35, and when we got home Lucy went into her room and I put Janis Ian on the CD player, then poured a merlot that would go nicely with the one we’d had at Spago.

  When Lucy came out she had changed into shorts and a cropped T-shirt that said Tank Girl and silver evening slippers with four-inch heels. The lights were low and Janis was singing. Lucy did a slow pirouette. “Is the world’s greatest detective tired after his long and successful day?”

  I watched the pirouette. I watched the way the warm light caught her back and hair and the long, smooth line of her legs and the sexy counterpoint of the formal evening slippers to the shorts and T-shirt. “He was, but now he feels a growing revitalization.”

  “Ah. Is that what’s growing?”

  “One way to look at it.” I held out the merlot and Lucy took a sip. I said, “Nice shoes.”

  Lucy brushed against me, swaying to the music. The merlot left a sweet, rich taste in my mouth that I liked a lot. She said, “You’ll probably be on the news again at eleven. Shall we turn on the TV and see?”

  I shook my head. “Seeing me once is plenty. Besides, something else is already turned on.”

  “Ah.”

  “I think I’m ready for the rest of my surprise.”

  She took my hand and tugged me toward the big glass doors. Outside, the sky was clear, and would be filled with stars.

  I said, “The deck?”

  She let her hair fall across one eye. “I thought your middle name was Adventure.”

  “So it is.”

  I followed her out, and what I found there tasted better than any wine, and was more beautiful than the stars.

  15

  Lucy and Ben woke giggling and excited and filled with plans. As they readied for their day, I phoned Elliot Truly at his office. “It’s Cole. Has there been word on Pritzik or Richards?”

  “Not yet, but there’ll be something soon.” He sounded distracted.

  “I was thinking that I’d go back to Richards’s place and talk to some of the neighbors, but the police will be there and they won’t like it. Maybe Jonathan could talk to Sherman and smooth the way in the spirit of cooperation.”

  Truly didn’t say anything for a moment. “Why do you want to go back there?”

  “To try to get a lead on Pritzik and Richards.”

  “Forget it. We’re talking with the cops. We’ve got Kerris on it. Take the day off and relax.” I could hear voices behind him.

  “It’s a cold trail already, Elliot. We shouldn’t let it get any colder.”

  “Look, you just said that the entire area will be swarming with cops. We’ve got a staff meeting here in a couple of minutes to try to figure out what to do next. Jonathan’s trying to get a meeting with the DA.”

  “What does that have to do with finding Pritzik and Richards?”

  “Ta
ke the day off, enjoy yourself, and I’ll get back to you.”

  “You want me to do nothing.”

  “Yeah. What could be better than that?” He hung up, and I stared at the phone.

  Lucy said, “What’s wrong?”

  I looked at the phone some more and then I put it down. “Not a thing. I get to spend the day with you. What could be better than that?”

  Their excitement was contagious. We made a fast breakfast of sliced fruit and cottage cheese and toast, and then we dressed in shorts and light shirts and baseball caps for the always popular Ralph Cramden look. I considered bringing my Dan Wesson .38 caliber revolver, but thought it unsightly strapped over my flowered shirt. Besides, blue steel wheel guns aren’t exactly requisite tourist attire in southern California. Florida maybe, but not yet California.

  It was early, so we decided to see my office first, then head for the Universal tour. We took Lucy’s rented Taurus down Laurel Canyon, then along Sunset toward the office. The sky was free of haze and smog, and more blue than white because of it. A great V of gulls floated above West Hollywood, heading toward the sea, and the streets were busy with cars sporting out-of-state license plates and people with camcorders and young Middle Eastern guys selling maps to the stars’ homes. Summer had come to the City of Angels.

  When we turned onto Santa Monica, one block up from my office, we saw two television news vans parked at the curb in front of my building. I said, “Uh-oh.”

  Lucy said, “Do you think they’re here for you?”

  “I don’t know.” Maybe they were here for Cindy. Maybe they wanted to do a story about hot new beauty supply products.

  “You don’t want to speak to them?”

  “Jonathan’s the only person on the team who talks to the press.”

  I pulled past the vans. A very attractive young Asian-American woman was on the sidewalk talking to a guy holding a Minicam, and a guy who looked like a surfer in a sport coat was smoking with a scruffy woman in a work shirt. I pulled to the curb on the next block, asked Lucy for her cell phone, and called Cindy’s office. Cindy answered on the first ring and said, “Wow, are you ever the big deal.”

  “Have they been upstairs?”