But I stood in the outer doorway, door open, facing upstairs, waiting. The hallway was empty now, and I heard nothing from upstairs. All right, I wouldn’t tackle the stairs, not with an intruder there, but should anyone leave, I wanted a good view. Interesting, this intrusion; in broad daylight. Someone brazen and most likely desperate; after all, crime scene tape would deter most souls. I waited, impatient. Within minutes, the same two balding, beefy cops who’d come the night Carisa was murdered showed up, and, minutes later, surprisingly, Detective Cotton, out of breath, flew into the hallway. Without pretence I trailed Cotton up the stairs.
The door to Carisa’s apartment was wide open, the POLICE DO NOT CROSS tape dangling off the jamb, most of it bunched on the floor.
I stood at the top of the landing, with a skittish Mercy poised halfway up the stairs. Vega and Mrs. Sanchez, more sensible souls, remained in the apartment below.
The cops and Cotton led very boisterous and aggressive Max Kohl into the hallway. At least I assumed the muscular, hirsute man, then struggling with the cops, was the elusive biker. “I got a right to be here, dammit,” he was yelling. “I got a key.” He tried to show the officers the key in his pocket, but they held his hands pinned behind him.
“You broke into a crime scene.”
“I thought you just forgot to take it down.”
“What were you after?”
“I left some cash there, and it’s mine.” Kohl twisted and threw one cop off. Grappling and struggling with him, they managed to handcuff him, pushing him against a wall.
Cotton, perspiring and reaching for a handkerchief, turned and suddenly discovered me standing there. He looked astounded. “Oh my God. What?”
“What?”
Cotton looked from Kohl to me to Mercy, who’d inched up the stairs. “Do you all know each other?”
“I never met him before,” I announced.
“Did you come here together?”
“Of course not,” I said, indignant. “Do I look like his accomplice?”
“Last time you two looked like prom queens at a hooker convention.”
“Sir, you are…”
He cut me off. “And you’re in the hallway for what reason?” Perplexed, head shaking. He was not happy.
“We were talking to Mr. Vega about the murder.”
“You were what?”
“Unlike you, I’m convinced James Dean did not kill Carisa Krausse, and I’m convinced you’d like to see him charged, so…”
“So you’re doing my job?”
“No, only you can do that. Clearly.” I looked at the dumbfounded Max Kohl and back at Cotton, who was wiping his brow. “I’m just helping a friend.”
“Twice I come upon you,” he looked at Mercy now, “and
I spoke sharply. “Only one murder scene. Mr. Kohl, if that is who I assume this young man is, still looks very much alive-though angry.”
Kohl narrowed his eyes. “Who are you? How do you know me?”
“I thought you arrested Mr. Kohl when he tried to escape questioning.”
“Bail, lady, bail,” he said. “It wasn’t a felony.”
“Perhaps it should be.”
“Write your congressman.”
“Aren’t you compounding your problems, Mr. Kohl, by breaking into a crime scene?” I asked. He stared at me, open-mouthed.
“Miss Ferber,” Cotton said, “I don’t need your help.”
“I’m curious.”
“Save it for another time.”
“I need my money,” Kohl thundered.
“For what, more bail?” I asked.
Detective Cotton looked at me. “Ma’am, it’s not a good idea coming around places like this. Do you know what goes on in this neighborhood? Tourists don’t come here.”
“I’m not a tourist. I’m a novelist.”
“You might end up a dead one.”
“Well, Fannie Hurst would be tremendously pleased, then.”
“What?” He threw his hands up into the air. “You could get yourself murdered.”
“Then you’d have two homicides to solve.”
Cotton shook his head, smiled in spite of himself, which caught me by surprise. “Why do you want to make my life difficult, Miss Ferber?”
“I’m just asking questions to help a friend.”
“Go home,” he said. “Now.”
“Detective Cotton…”
“Did you hear me? Go home.”
“I happen to live in New York City.”
“Perfect. American Airlines has a midnight red-eye.”
“Sir.”
“I’ll even drive you to the airport.”
Chapter 11
I sat in Mercy’s dressing room in Burbank, the two of us sipping tea, my elbows resting on a small table, with Mercy reclining in an easy chair, draping herself over it, legs up on a small wobbly ottoman. She looked serene, eyes dreamy. “Edna, when I travel with you these days, the police tend to show up moments later.” She chuckled, almost to herself. “I haven’t had this much excitement since Marfa, the night Jane Withers beat me at Monopoly, and, crowing like a strangulated hen, walked into a wall.”
I laughed. “Only two times, Mercy. The gods work in mysterious ways.”
There was a knock on the door, and Detective Xavier Cotton walked in. Mercy looked at me, eyes bright, and sat up. “Make that three times.”
“Ah, Miss Ferber, you’re here, too. As I expected, since the two of you seem intent on becoming the Dolly Sisters of Hollywood crime.”
“Detective Cotton, I explained why we were there.”
He spoke to Mercy. “The studio has given consent,” he said it sarcastically, “to have a number of Carisa Krausse’s acquaintances fingerprinted. We’ve lifted some good prints from the crime scene. Sometime this afternoon, if you can make it downtown…”
Mercy nodded. “Gladly.”
I smiled. “Me, too?”
He tucked his tongue into the corner of his cheek. “Not yet.”
Both Mercy and I laughed. He didn’t.
“I’ve been fingerprinted before,” I commented, still smiling.
“Why am I not surprised?” Again, without humor. Cotton said lines that should be accompanied by bursts of hilarity-or at least a smile. Did he have a light side, a moment when he let go, held his sides, rolled from side to side, laughing? I wondered about his home life-marriage, children, mistresses? Hookers? Dogs and cats? Ferret? Something that looked like him? “We’ve had most of the principals down to the station this morning, quietly, unannounced, but of course you were otherwise engaged.”
“Have you spoken to Jimmy?” I asked, curious. “I understand he’s shooting today.”
