He gestured with an open palm, his expression telling me the answer was obvious. “You worked with Bob Kennedy back in the old days.”
This was no revelation-my first run-in with Hamilton had been back then, when we were both supposedly on the same side. I thought at the time he was an unpleasant cross between a bully and a bureaucrat, and I still did.
“Bob’s a friend,” I said. “And I know you two get along. So, now… you want us to be friends, Captain?”
He sighed more smoke. “Let’s say I want us not to be enemies.”
“Okay. Why don’t you make the first move.”
He shifted in his swivel chair, then leaned both elbows on the desk, clutter be damned. Rested his cigarette in the tray.
“This Monroe matter is potentially embarrassing,” he said. “To our mutual friend.”
“Did you say Monroe murder?”
“ Matter. Matter. It’s no murder, Jesus. We all know that poor girl took her own life, and whether intentional or not, it’s a sad goddamn thing, but what can you do? Done is done.”
Interesting point of view for a police detective.
“Captain, I understand wanting to help Bob out. His younger brother’s running for the Senate, and his older brother wants to keep being president. The two of them handing that woman around like a drunken cheerleader after the big game, well, that getting out wouldn’t reflect well. Of course, boys will be boys.”
The lumpy face glowered. But he said nothing.
“Still,” I said, “she deserves better than what you fellas are providing. She was a big star, a public figure, and incidentally a human being. And she doesn’t even get an inquest? And you turn the investigation over to some civilians at UCLA?”
“Why don’t you drop by the chief’s office,” Hamilton said, damn near growling it. “I’m sure he’d love to hear your suggestions.”
Too bad-our friendship was already strained.
“What I’m saying,” I said, “is that within reason, I’m all for keeping the Kennedy name out of the mud. They like to tramp around in the mud, which makes helping them tricky. But I’m for it. So what can I do for you?”
The average observer would call his demeanor calm. But those eyes, small to begin with and hooded, were taking me apart the way a kid in biology class does a frog.
“You can stop nosing around,” he said simply.
“I don’t know what you-”
“Lying to me isn’t smart.” He jerked a thumb toward the safe. “Your file’s already foul enough, Heller. Lie to me, play me, and see what happens.”
“I hope nothing goes on my permanent record,” I said.
The eyes closed. I half expected steam to come out of his ears, like Yosemite Sam. Why the hell did I insist on needling this bastard? Did I think I’d win him over with laughter?
“Sorry,” I said, and waved a hand. “You’d figure at my age I’d have outgrown this case of smart mouth.”
“You would figure.” He drew deep on the cigarette. Let it out like steam-not from his ears, though. “What were you doing at Fifth Helena Drive Sunday morning?”
I shrugged. “I’d been doing some security work for Marilyn, the last month or so. I heard about her death on the radio and came right over. Felt a responsibility.”
The little eyes managed to narrow further. “You were up at five in the fucking morning, Heller? And heard it on the radio?”
“If this is about me needing an alibi, I want my phone call first.”
He shook his head. He was struggling, too. Having to talk to me was no fun at all. How Hamilton must have longed for that cellar cell across the street. And a rubber hose…
“ Now, ” he said, making that innocent word a guilty accusation, “I hear you’ve been bothering one of our people. Sergeant Clemmons.”
I would bet big bucks he hadn’t heard it from Clemmons.
“Just trying,” I said, no confrontation in my voice, “to fill some things in for my personal satisfaction. Begins and ends there.”
“Really. Then why, while my boys are out picking you up, do I get a phone call from Arthur Jacobs saying you were at his office, bothering him about it?”
“If that was Mr. Jacobs’ impression, I apologize to the both of you. I worked for Marilyn, he’s her publicist; I just wanted to know what the official story was.”
“Official story?”
“The party line. I feel a certain loyalty to Marilyn. Did I mention she was my client? I want what’s best for her.”
He grunted a non-laugh. “Nothing’s best for her now. You should worry about your friend Bob. He’s still breathing.”
I sat forward. “Tell me he didn’t ask you to-”
“No! No.” He waved that off; that and some of the smoke he and his cigarette were manufacturing. “I’m just looking out after his interests as best I can.”
“Like I am Marilyn’s.”
He sat back. Sighed through his nose. No smoke. He looked like a weary bull wondering whether goring this petty toreador was worth the bother.
“You were seen this morning talking to Flo Kilgore,” he said.
Christ-either they were good, or I was sloppy. Had the intel boys been tailing me? And I didn’t notice? Maybe the Musso’s waiters were undercover men. It would explain the service the tourists got.
“Flo and I are friends,” I said.
“She was at the Monroe place Sunday morning, looking for a story.”
“What newshound wasn’t?”
“Just a coincidence that you talk to her this morning,” he said, stabbing out the smoke, “and are out and about in the afternoon, poking around.”
“Marilyn was my client,” I said again. “I’m just examining a few loose ends, to my satisfaction. I’m certainly not trying to cause any trouble for our mutual friend, the attorney general.”
He shifted in the seat again, trying to get a different angle on me. “What specifically were you doing for Miss Monroe? Security-wise?”
I knew better than to lie. “She wanted a tap put on her phone.”
“Her own phone.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“She indicated it had to do with that mess with Fox. You know, her firing and the studio politics and all.”
“What became of the tapes?”
“… You don’t know?”
“I’m asking.”
“My understanding is that two of your intel boys grabbed those tapes from Roger Pryor. That’s who was working for me. And, uh, it was those same two detectives, I believe, who brought me over this afternoon.”
He was nodding; for the first time this afternoon, my answers were satisfying him. “We’ve been having a little difficulty locating Mr. Pryor. Would you have any idea where he is?”
Now it was time to lie.
“None,” I said. “He isn’t A-1 staff, you know. He’s a freelance operator.”
“Oh, I know.” Hamilton checked his watch. Apparently I’d begun to bore him. “Here’s what it comes down to, Heller. I want you to stop nosing around.”
“Am I breaking any laws?”
“ Are you? Anyway, consider it a favor to me. Personal request. Now that we’re friends.” He selected a file from the cluttered array on his desk, thumbed it open, and began reading. Then he looked up as if surprised I was still there, and said, “You can go.”
I went.
