At 8:00 A.M. we were in an unmarked Chevy Malibu, Conklin at the wheel.
“I slept on the couch again last night,” he told me. “If this keeps up, I’ve got to upgrade to a king-size couch. Or cut my feet off.”
“Cindy’s upset, you’re saying?”
“She said it was because I stunk and whatnot, but it wasn’t the smoke in my hair, Linds. She’s pissed.”
“I know. I know. What should we do? Tell her we’re looking for a cop who’s taking out drug dealers? Then she’ll get the scoop, and we’ll be whistling and wearing white gloves directing traffic.”
Conklin laughed. “That’s not funny.”
“She’ll get over this.”
“When?”
“Sorry I can’t do more to help your love life,” I said. “She’s mad at me too, you know.”
Conklin laughed again, said, “Yeah, but you’re sleeping in your bed, am I right?”
He made the turn onto the wide and beautiful stretch of Vallejo Street, now barricaded and three reporters deep on the sidewalks. I saw the local guys as well as some press displaying decals of various countries’ flags on their satellite vans.
There was nothing like severed heads at the home of a movie star who’d once been tried for murder to bring out inquiring minds from all nations.
I was recognized and a small mob stampeded toward our car even as a uniformed cop pivoted a sawhorse to let the car through.
“There’s your friend,” Conklin said to me, indicating the young guy at the front of the barricade who was taking pictures and looking very pleased with life. It seemed like Jason Blayney didn’t ever have bad days.
“Yeah. My friend.” I snorted. “Wants to have lunch with me.”
“You going to do it?”
“Be serious.”
We drove up to a space in front of the mansion, left the car under the protection of the men and women of the SFPD, then went through the gate.
Ricky Perez, Harry Chandler’s gardener, was sitting on the front steps of the Ellsworth house waiting for us. He was in his twenties, and his massive upper-body musculature showed under his sweatshirt and plaid flannel jacket.
He also had a great smile.
This kid was in charge of the trophy garden. He was too young to have been caretaking the Ellsworth garden when the heads were first buried there. But I hoped he could lead us to a killer with the sensibility of a department-store window dresser and the bloodlust of Jeffrey Dahmer.
Chapter 40
I introduced myself and my partner to Ricardo “Ricky” Perez, then asked him what he knew about the heads that had been presented on the back patio of the house, garnished with chrysanthemums.
Perez said, “All I know is what I read and what Janet Worley told me. She grilled me, for God’s sake. You ought to consider hiring her for your rubber-hose-and-third-degree department.”
He looked for a laugh, didn’t get one. He appeared surprised. Big, good-looking kid, worked for a movie star. He was probably used to adoration and he seemed to like attention.
I asked Perez where he’d been over the last week, and he had no trouble remembering. He’d been out with three different girls over the weekend and had slept in with Miss Early Monday Morning in his flat.
He was awoken by a call from Janet Worley, who’d filled him in on the shocking events. According to Perez, the whole story was from “the planet Weird, man,” and he had no idea how these heads could have been buried right under his feet without him knowing it.
He was either genuinely perplexed or a pathological liar. I asked, “When was the last time you were in the back garden?”
“Last Friday. I work Tuesdays and Fridays. There were absolutely no heads lying around when I weeded the flower beds. And I didn’t see any sign of digging. Nothing. At all. When do you think I can get in there and get the place cleaned up?”
“You work exclusively for Mr. Chandler?”
“No, but he’s my main job.”
The three of us took a stroll along the outer path of the garden. The tape was still up, and so was the main tent just off the patio. The piles of dirt were casting shadows over the pachysandra.
The kid told us that he’d had this job for only three years, but he was attached to the place. He got agitated when he saw what the forensics team had done to the garden.
“Look at this mess. Just look. I’m pretty freaked out, if you want to know the truth. Whoever did this knows this garden. He could be someone I know.”
I said, “Who, Ricky? Who do you know who could have done this?”
“Look, I want to tell you something, but not officially.”
“Okay,” Conklin said, playing along.
“Nigel Worley doesn’t like Mr. Chandler. And I know why, because Janet confided in me. She had a thing with Mr. Chandler when the Worleys first moved in, like ten years ago.”
“A ‘thing’?” Conklin said.
“Janet told me it was just a fling and that she didn’t hold that against Mr. Chandler. She was married. He was married. It went on for a couple of months.
“She said that she still loves him in a funny way.”
“That’s the word she used? Funny?”
“She said odd. Do I think that she killed people and dug up their heads? Honestly, I don’t see it.”
“And Nigel?”
“Nigel has a temper and he’s not subtle. If he was going to kill someone, he would just freakin’ kill him. And I think first up would have been Mr. Chandler.”
Perez showed us the gate that opened onto a narrow concrete walkway on Ellsworth Place and he showed us the lock for the gate. He said that he had the only key.
It was a simple lock, could have been picked, but there was no evidence to show that it had been tampered with.
I took out the sketch of Jane Doe.
“Do you know this woman?”
Perez took the drawing, looked at it for a long few seconds.
“Is she one of the victims?”
“Yes.”
“Her head was cut off?”
“Do you recognize her?”
“She looks familiar, but I don’t know her. It’s like, maybe I saw her in a coffee shop or something like that.”
He handed the drawing back to me, then said, “You know who you should talk to? Tom Oliver, Mr. Chandler’s driver. He’s been with Mr. Chandler for about twenty years. He’s gonna be your expert on Harry Chandler. And maybe he’ll recognize this woman.”
Chapter 41
I pressed the bell marked T. L. OLIVER at number 4, one of the four identical six-story brick houses on
