also call those sheriff’s guys-De la Torre and Banks-find out if they learned anything about Lisa’s DV complaint.”
“The news broadcast said she never filed a formal complaint.”
“There you go,” said Stu. “The news broadcast always tells the truth.”
She called Downtown Sheriff’s Homicide and asked for Hector De la Torre or Detective Banks, not remembering-or knowing-the younger one’s first name. Banks came on the line, greeting her with surprising warmth. “Thought you might call.”
“Why’s that?”
“Last night’s news. Unfortunately, I’ve got nothing for you so far. Agoura substation has no previous complaints on file-not even the one she went public on-so it looks like she never called it in.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“My pleasure,” he said, sounding nervous. “No messy interdepartmental competition here. Our guys beat your guys in boxing last month, so we’re feeling secure… anyway, you have my sympathy. They replayed it on the news early this morning, too. Made the house look even fancier than it was. Nothing on his little car museum, though.”
What a gabby guy.
“Just Jacuzzi bubbles and horses and golf.”
“Interesting, isn’t it?” said Banks. “People getting life handed to them on a platter and still manage to mess it up royal… anything else you need?”
“Actually,” she said, suddenly inspired, “if you’ve got time, we’ve been directed to do a file search on similar homicides over a two-year period. Do you have easy access to county data?”
Banks laughed. “This is L.A.-nothing’s easy. But sure, we’ve learned to walk without scraping our knuckles on the sidewalk. Similars? As in the unknown lurking perp? Why?”
“The brass is nervous.”
“Oh. Sure, I’ll check for you.”
“Really appreciate it, Detective Banks.”
“Ron.”
“This is scut, Ron. Don’t put your schedule out of joint.”
“Do you have a direct number?”
She gave it to him, and he said, “By similar I’m assuming crime-scene layout, wound type and quantity, idiosyncrasies, victim characteristics. Anything unusual about the crime scene I should know about?”
“No,” she said, feeling protective of her information. “Just your basic butchery.”
“Okay, then. Get back to you if anything comes up. Either way.”
“Thanks, Ron.”
“Sure… um… listen, I know this kind of case there isn’t going to give you much spare time, but if some does come up… I mean if you want to get together-maybe just for a cup of coffee… if I’m out of line, just say so.”
Stumbling like a high school kid.
The warmth of his greeting made sense now.
He wasn’t remotely her type-whatever that was. She could barely remember his face, had been concentrating on Ramsey’s. Had he been wearing a wedding ring? He had mentioned taking his kids to the zoo.
At least he had kids. Didn’t hate kids.
She must have taken too long, because he came back with “Listen, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to-”
“No, no, that’s fine,” she heard herself saying. “Sure, when things ease up a bit. That would be fine.”
God help her.
CHAPTER
18
Paragon Studios took up three blocks of the north side of Melrose, east of Bronson, a confusion of faded tan towers and corrugated steel hangars, all surrounded by fifteen-foot walls, one of the last major film lots actually located in Hollywood.
The rococo front gates were open, and Stu Bishop, anxiety polluting his head, tried to look businesslike as he inched the unmarked Ford toward the guardhouse.
Two vans in front of him, one of them taking its time.
Petra had left the station before him, taking her personal car.
Petra trusted him a little less than she had yesterday.
Couldn’t blame her, the way he’d tossed the library book thing at Schoelkopf without warning her. Impulsive. Had the noise in his life finally gotten too loud?
Truth was, he didn’t think the book was worth a darn, had used Petra to fend off the captain. Schoelkopf had preached anyway.
All the preaching Stu had endured. Teachers, elders. Father. Easton Bishop, M.D., was never more at home than when declaring absolute truths to a mute audience of eight kids. Stu had avoided that kind of authoritarianism with his children, trusting them to learn by example, knowing Kathy was the main influence. Kathy… dear God.
Stu believed in a forgiving God, but he lived his own life as if the Lord were a harsh, unyielding perfectionist. It made him careful, a sin avoider. So why now, at this point in his life, was everything coming apart?
Stupid question.
The second van passed through and Stu drove right up. The guard, Ernie Robles, was someone he knew from his four weeks as a bit player (“nonspeaking squad room inhabitant, lots of typing and phoning”) on L.A. Cop. Decent fellow, relaxed attitude, no police experience, just a rent-a-cop from way back.
He was scribbling on his clipboard as Stu stopped and let the Ford idle.
“Hey, how’s it going, Detective Bishop! Beautiful day, huh?”
And it was. Warm and clear, the sky as blue as one of the matte-painting backdrops the film crews used to make L.A. look heavenly. Stu hadn’t noticed.
He said, “Gorgeous, Ernie.”
Robles picked up the clipboard. “Got a part? Where?”
“Where do you think?”
“The Cop lot? They’re not filming.”
“Nope, all wrapped for this year, but there’s someone I’ve got to see-oh, by the way, here’s something I picked up for you at the station.”
He handed Robles what looked like a thin, glossy magazine. Bright yellow letters rimmed with red blared THE SENTINEL at the top. Below that was a high-quality photo of a nasty-looking black USP semiautomatic pistol with silencer and black-tipped brass bullets. Promo from Heckler stacks of them left at each police station. Stu had thumbed through it at a red light. Features on Benelli shotguns, HK training, the PSG1-“a $10,000 rifle amp; worth it!” Stu appreciated what guns did but found them boring.
Robles was already thumbing through, looking at the pictures.
“Hot off the press, Ernie.”
“Look at some of this stuff! Hey, man, thanks.”
Stu drove through.
He parked and walked to the Element Productions complex, where he found Scott Wembley easily enough. The assistant director was stepping out of a low, unimpressive bungalow, long arms dangling, licking his lips.
Lunch hour. Wembley was alone, probably headed for the commissary.
Stu came up from behind him. “Hi, Scott.”
Wembley turned and stopped and his long, pale face froze. “Stu. Hey.”
Like most A.D.’s, Wembley was just a kid, a couple of years out of UC Berkeley with a fine arts degree, tolerating the low pay and long hours and abuse by those who mattered for the impressive-sounding title and the chance to make connections.
