He was still standing by the bed when he heard the door open. He turned, expecting the orderlies, but it was Liesl. She glanced toward the white sheet, then away.
“Do you want more time?” she said.
“You’re finished?”
“A few papers only.” She walked over to the bed, staring at the body for a minute, eyes soft. “So it’s over.” She looked up. “What should we do with the flowers?” she said, her voice shaky, snatching the phrase out of the air, something to say. “What happens to them?”
“I never thought about it. Maybe they give them to other people.”
“It’s true? He was awake?”
Ben nodded.
She looked down, then folded her arms across her chest, as if she had caught a chill. “We should go. All the arrangements. There’ll be so much to do. For the widow.” Another glance to the bed, her voice catching again. “So now this. I’ve never been a widow before.”
The phone started ringing early and continued for most of the morning, through the deliveries and the extra help and Iris directing the table setups, the whole house in motion. The mechanics of mourning had taken over. No one sat and brooded, or even mentioned Danny.
“You’re about the same size,” Liesl said, handing him some of Danny’s suits. “They should fit.”
He smiled to himself. Still wearing his hand-me-downs.
“You’ll need something,” she said, misinterpreting his look. “But if you feel funny-”
He shook his head, cutting her off. “It’s fine.”
“I thought you might like his watch.”
Ben took it, his finger grazing the crystal. Not Danny’s, their father’s. Another piece of the Otto shrine. When did Danny get it? On one of those last trips to Germany, probably, a sentimental gift to the loyal son who stayed close.
“Thank you,” he said, touched. “There must be something I can do. Except be in the way.”
“No, really-” She stopped. “That place. Where he was,” she said, hesitant. “Somebody has to go there. If he left things. I don’t know, nobody said. But I could send Iris.”
He shook his head again. “I’ll go.”
“Take his car. You’ll need one out here anyway. Two now. And so hard to get. But now you-”
“You have the key?”
“The key?” she said, a new idea. “I don’t know, maybe here.” She went over to the desk and pulled out a ring with several keys. “They were in his pants. So it must be one of these. So many keys,” she said, looking at them, other parts of his life.
He missed a turn and had to backtrack west on Hollywood Boulevard, past the Pantages, a name out of radio broadcasts, then right on Cherokee. The Cherokee Arms was a five-story pastel building with an alley along the side connected to a parking space behind, not grand, but not seedy, either. A place you used on the way up or the way down, but not at either end. Ben parked across the street and looked at it for a minute, fingering Danny’s keys. If the fall could kill him, he must have been on the top floor. He got out and walked across. An apartment building with a lawn in front, quiet in the bright light, no shadows. He passed through the alley. There were a few cars parked in back, garbage cans. He looked up to the top balcony. The railing wasn’t high, if you staggered against it. The back door was locked. But it would be, wouldn’t it? A convenience for residents on their way in from the parking lot. No need to go through the front, where the desk clerk would see you go up. If you had a key.
The third one worked. From here you could either go directly up the back stairs or down a hall on the right that led past mailboxes and what looked like an elevator door. From this angle Ben couldn’t see the front desk switchboard where the clerk must be. He went up the stairs, walking quietly, expecting to be stopped. Instead he found the landings empty, the building still except for the sound of the elevator going down. On the top floor he went to what he assumed was Danny’s door, using a key that resembled the one that had worked downstairs.
The room, a studio, was neat-bed made, no dishes in the sink, a hotel room just after maid service. Nothing in the bathroom; nothing in the closet, either. He started opening cupboards. Glasses and dishes that came with the place. On the counter there was an ice bucket and a bottle of brandy, opened. Nothing on the desk but a message pad and pen. No personal presence at all. Ben went over to the French windows and opened them, looking at the balcony, trying to imagine it. He stepped out, placing his leg against the railing. If he’d been wobbly- possible. But so was the other, the leap off. He went back in. What was the point? He took one last look around, then opened the door to leave.
“Moving in?”
The man was leaning against the opposite wall, clearly waiting for him to come out. Young, without a hat.
“You the desk clerk?”
The man-the kid-shook his head and flipped open a press pass.
“I saw you go in. I was out back. So I figured maybe they’d been giving me the brush. About the room. I mean, you have a key. Mind if I look around?”
“What for?”
“They didn’t tell you? Scene of the crime,” he said, starting in. “Last guy had the room went out the window. Mind?” All the way in now. “What are they charging, you don’t mind my asking.”
“I don’t know. I’m not moving in.”
“No? Where’d you get the key?” he asked, but almost off handedly, moving over to the counter, looking at everything.
“I’m his brother-the guy before.”
The kid stopped. “Sorry. I didn’t mean-”
“What do you want to see? There’s nothing here.”
“Honest maids,” the kid said, picking up the brandy bottle. “Usually the liquor’s the first to go.” He went into the bathroom, checking the medicine chest, behind the door. “You come here to pick up his stuff?” He went over to the balcony, retracing Ben’s steps, even putting his leg against the railing.
“There’s nothing to pick up.”
“I noticed. Funny, isn’t it? Somebody must have been here already.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think he used the room for? We said writing office, but what the hell, be nice to the wife. What would he use it for? You ever meet a woman yet who didn’t take over half the bathroom? Cream here, powder there. Douche bag on the door. And what’s here? Nothing. She must have cleaned it out. I don’t know when, though. I’ve been watching the building.”
“What for?”
The kid looked at him. “To see who else had a key.”
“You think someone was with him?”
“Not then. She’d have been spotted. Every window’s got a head sticking out. You know, taking an interest. Cops had to use a passkey to get in. There’s no one in there with him. It had to be later.”
“Unless she’d already moved out. Maybe that’s why he-”
“I get it. You think he jumped. The breakup, huh?”
“You don’t?” Ben said, interested.
“At first. We get the police call, nobody else is interested, but my position, you need the inches, even the blotter stuff. The cops are already here and the night clerk’s going ‘oh-my-god, he must have fallen’-you know, don’t make the place look bad-and the cops are going along with it but I can see they’re looking at it as a jump. You know, taking pictures and everything. And it’s Hollywood, where you get this. Not Hancock Park or someplace- people have been known to jump here. But I’m thinking, it’s a funny kind of jump.”
“Why?”
“You know anything about jumpers? I covered a few. They like it a little higher. To make sure. Maybe for the show of it. Why not just go to the Roosevelt and jump off the roof? Four, five stories? You can — I mean, he did, he’s dead. But you could also just wake up in a cast somewhere. That’s one thing. Then the angle of the fall. All the jumpers I’ve seen, they don’t back out. Face forward. So I figure the LAPD are looking for a little excitement, pick
