The Ticket Out Read online

  Back in the library it was quiet and cool. I opened the French doors for a breeze and a view of the swimming pool. I took my shoes off and stretched out on the floor.

  Vivian said, “What a bunch of freaks.”

  I said, “The guest of honor called me a parasite, and I insulted the guest of honor’s future manager. I was beginning to think you guys wouldn’t show up.”

  Mark and Vivian were my closest friends at the paper. Vivian was a reporter and Mark was an encyclopedia of world cinema. He and I had a short affair when he was hired to run the film section. The attraction had been more about movies than sex; all his vitality, I discovered, was mental. But he’d taught me lots and we worked well together. I was a better critic because of him.

  Vivian picked a spot against the wall and sat down. “It’s the new DA. We’re hearing rumors he’s closing the Rampart investigation, but there’s other rumors that he’s impaneled a secret grand jury. I feel like I spend my life at city hall.”

  Mark sat down beside me. He said, “I forgot to tell you—your sister was at the paper today.”

  I said, “What for?”

  “Your father arrived this morning. You’re supposed to have dinner later in the week.”

  I shut my eyes a second. Father, damn. My sister had mentioned a business trip, but I hadn’t heard anything since and I was praying it wouldn’t happen.

  Vivian lifted her vodka. “To Barry’s freaks. May they stay forever on the Westside.”

  Mark lifted his beer and drank. I said, “I pitched him on the cop-groupies but he wasn’t interested.”

  Vivian said, “Then he’s an idiot because they’d be a fun story. I’ve been talking to a registered nurse who has the Rampart logo tattooed in four places. Two pairs—think about it.”

  Vivian lifted her eyebrows. I laughed. Mark said, “Tell Ann what else held you up.”

  Vivian sighed. “First, I’m late at city hall. Then I get a tip on Doug Lockwood and go chasing over to Parker Center to check it out. He’s back from suspension—excuse me, leave—and they’ve buried him somewhere until things cool off.”

  Detective Douglas Lockwood was the cop in the Burger King siege. A Latin gangbanger took some people hostage and Lockwood, who was inside the restaurant at the time, shot and killed the kid. It was one of many second-tier police scandals.

  Vivian said, “Lockwood’s a mystery. He hardly talked to the media and it’d be a coup to get him on record. But I couldn’t find out where they put him, and my usual sources are acting pissy. The LAPD’s in a state, my god. The rank and file hate Chief Parks, they’re drowning in internal audits and short on manpower, they’re hamstrung. They can’t go backwards, and they can’t go forward either. It almost makes you feel sorry for them—almost.”

  She poked at her ice cubes. Mark squeezed my shoulder. “Have you talked to Barry?”

  I nodded. “If you can call it a talk. I resisted and he pretended not to notice.”

  “And?”

  “I’m in a different kind of trouble than I thought. He says my reviews have gotten bitchy, and he’s not wrong.”

  “But you don’t like the Scott Dolgin story.”

  I squinted at him. Mark said, “I know, it’s terrible—but I want you to do it anyway.”

  “What I really need is a break from movies. I’m going in tomorrow and demand a vacation.”

  Mark pointed his beer bottle at me. “Don’t.”

  “But I’m burned out—I need a rest.”

  Vivian said, “Don’t do it, Ann.”

  Mark nodded. “This is a bad time to leave the paper. Barry’s in a mood, as we know, and I’m concerned because he’s always been such a booster of yours, and now he’s having problems with your stuff. I think we should do what he wants until he sees that this ‘mainstream’ idea is nonsense.”

  I said, “Which is why you’re going along with Tom Cruise.”

  “Which is why I’m going along with Tom Cruise.”

  A knock at the door interrupted us. We all looked up: it was the grim blond from earlier. She stood in the doorway and she was staring straight at me. She said, “I want to speak to you.”

  I sat up and patted the floor between me and Mark. The woman shook her head. “I want to speak to you alone.”

  Her manner was very bizarre. I looked at Vivian and Mark for an opinion. They just shrugged, so I got up and walked over to the door.

  The woman backed into the hallway, signaling me to follow. Up close her looks were amazing. She was beautiful. She had green eyes, perfect skin, and ash-blond hair twisted up in a messy knot. She might have been an actress, but there was nothing selfconscious or artificial about her. She had a locked-down ferocity that suggested something else.

  She said, “You can’t give up.”

  Her voice was low and gravelly; any actress would be thrilled to have that voice. I waited for her to go on.

  She jabbed her finger in my chest. “You’re ready to give up. But I didn’t give up, and I won’t let you.”

  I stepped back from the finger, noticing other details. Her clothes were too casual for the party: she wore a tight T-shirt and bell-bottom jeans. The hair around her face was damp, and her T-shirt had fresh water spots, like she’d just washed up in the powder room. But there was dirt under her fingernails and I could smell stale sweat.

  She said, “Thelma & Louise is ten years old this year. Why didn’t you write an anniversary article?”

  “I_”

  She grabbed my arm. “It’s the most important movie Hollywood ever made about women! It took a subject no one wants to hear about—female freedom—stuck it in a traditionally male genre, the road movie, and hit big. It proved that the American public is ready for the truth about the condition of women, if you present it entertainingly!”

  She dug her nails in hard, and the emotion in her eyes was weird. She was weird. I pulled my arm free.

  She said, “All we have these days is kicking feet and talking vaginas, Lara Croft—Tomb Raider or What Women Want. But Thelma & Louise—”

  I cut in on her. “Why don’t you do a piece for us? It’s a perfect time with Callie Khouri directing Ya-Ya Sisterhood. I can introduce you to my editor right now.”

  “I’m not a critic—I’m a filmmaker. I’ve just sold a screenplay that starts where Thelma & Louise left off.”

  I smiled. “They hit a trampoline in the Grand Canyon and bounce back alive?”

  The woman was beyond humor. She said, “I’ll send you a copy of the script when we close with the studio. I’m going to direct it.”

  I caught a whiff of stale body. I said, “Really? Direct?”

  She leaned close and clenched her fist in my face. “I will beat the System.”

  The body odor got more distinct, then she spun around and ran down the hall. I pinched my nose, waved the smell away, and walked back into the library.

  Mark said, “She looks like a Swedish ingénue.”

  Vivian nodded. “Fabulous collarbones. What’s up?”

  I rubbed the nail marks on my arm. “Just another unhappy reader. The consensus seems to be that I’m not doing my job.”

  Mark smiled. I said, “We better get back.” Vivian shrugged and finished her drink.

  The party was winding down out front. Most of the guests had left and waiters were taking dirty dishes to the kitchen. We split up at the foyer. Mark told me to call him tomorrow, and Vivian went to check the buffet.

  Barry and Scott Dolgin stood at the front door saying good-bye to people. Barry had a mentorly arm around Dolgin’s shoulder. A petite woman in a black pantsuit was trying to get Dolgin’s attention. She pulled at his sleeve while he passed business cards to the people leaving. Barry waved for me to come and talk.

  I pretended not to understand. I smiled, waved good night, turned around, and walked out of the foyer. Barry called my name. I ignored him and walked faster.

  I hurried down the back hall toward the service stairs. There was a furnished office in
the back corner of the mansion; it was for the film companies that rented the place. As I walked past the office, I saw the blond woman again. She was sitting at the desk, flipping through the Rolodex, talking to someone I couldn’t see from the hallway.

  The blond looked up and saw me walking by. I nodded at her. She didn’t acknowledge the nod. She stared through me like we’d never met.

  Too nuts, I thought, and kept walking. A few seconds later the blond raised her voice. “In-Casa Productions is a farce and you know it!”

  I heard that and started to laugh. It would have made a great lead for my Scott Dolgin story.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I WOKE UP the next day feeling better than I’d felt in ages. Movies had been getting to me; I didn’t realize how badly until I was given a break. No reviews for a while felt like a giant relief.

  I threw off the covers and bounced out of bed. The bed was a foldaway couch—the only piece of furniture on the mansion’s second floor. I’d stayed there overnight because part of my caretaking duty was to sleep upstairs for parties and check for damage after. I did a fast tour of the main floor. Everything looked good; no one had stolen the vintage fixtures or gouged the woodwork.

  I headed to the pool house to fix coffee, clean up, and plan the day. Mark would have to reassign all my screenings. I’d call him first.

  I walked out the kitchen door and looked across the backyard. The screen door to the pool house was standing wide open.

  The pool house was a miniature copy of the mansion—a stucco box with striped awnings and a tile roof, shaded by old avocado trees. I didn’t always lock my door because I didn’t think I needed to. The mansion sat on two acres on a quiet street that dead-ended at a steep hill. There were no neighbors to the north or west, and the backyard was enclosed by a ten-foot wall. The pool house sat at the back of the property. It was only accessible from the mansion or the driveway gates, and I kept both locked and alarmed unless the mansion was being used.

  I walked around to the pool house. The inside door was open, too. I walked into the front room.

  Someone had turned all the lights on, and the radio was playing soft rock. A canvas duffel bag drooped off the daybed. Jeans, a T-shirt, and cotton underpants lay in a pile on the floor. A pair of platform sandals stood next to the pile.

  My throat went dry. I crossed to the bathroom, took a deep breath, and looked inside.

  It was the blond.

  She was naked and stretched faceup in the bathtub. Her head was resting on the back ledge. Her hair was dark where the water had soaked up to her ears. Her eyes were almost shut; a green half-moon showed under one lid, white showed under the other. Her skin had a healthy flush, an effect produced by condensation and the sun on pink porcelain. The bathwater was pink, too, from the porcelain, and diffused blood. Her hands floated palms down on the surface.

  I stood in the doorway, shocked to the absolute core. I knew I was seeing what I was seeing but no action or thought would come to me.

  I might have stood there forever if my legs hadn’t given out. I started to fall. I grabbed the door frame to keep myself up and felt suddenly sick. I staggered forward and threw up in the sink.

  I ran cold water and splashed it over my face and neck. When I felt ready, I turned around and looked again.

  There were neat vertical lines carved up both her wrists. A knife was sitting at the bottom of the tub. I recognized the handle; it had come from my kitchen drawer.

  I saw a blood smear on the tiles beside her ear.

  I bent to see closer.

  She had a big lump high on her head. Red drops oozed from an abrasion on the lump. The moisture had stopped the blood from drying.

  My mind was beginning to work again. She did not do the lump herself. I walked out of the bathroom and out to the backyard. I was moving like a zombie.

  I looked around.

  The back of the mansion, the swimming pool, the patio, the lounge furniture, the gardens, the garage: everything looked normal. Except the ivy. The wall around the yard was covered with thick old ivy. The ivy by the pool house had been torn away in a strip all the way to the top. The vines were sagging loose.

  I took hold of an attached vine, climbed the wall, and looked over. A vacant lot adjoined the backyard. It was packed dirt and covered with scrubby bushes. I looked hard but I couldn’t see footprints or anything.

  I wedged my hand under a vine and hung there to think.

  I was having the stupidest, most dangerous idea. It’s the shock, I thought. But the idea wouldn’t go away. It was a bad idea—the worst possible idea—but it grew in my imagination until it became very, very important.

  I stared down at the pool house. I stared for an age, fighting the idea. But it won in the end.

  Los Feliz was LAPD territory. The cops hated the Millennium at least as much as we hated them. They would never let me in on this story.

  Any way I looked at it, I only had one choice: to let myself in without them knowing it.

  Could it be done? Could I do it?

  I had no experience with that kind of journalism. And I’d have to lie to the cops. Did I have the nerve for it? I’d always been a lousy liar, and this would mean lying on an unknown scale for who knew how long. What happened if I got caught? “Obstruction of justice” and “tampering with evidence” were clichés from a thousand crime movies; they had no reality for me. Did they mean jail? Was I prepared for jail?

  I shut my eyes.

  Of course I wasn’t prepared for jail. I didn’t know if I could do this at all. But I knew that I had to try. I had to find the guts to lie, playact, stonewall, obstruct, tamper—to do whatever had to be done.

  Because she was the Hollywood story I was going to write.

  ***

  ONCE I’D made up my mind, the next part was easy. I gave myself an hour to accomplish everything. One hour would make no difference to her or the cops.

  I put on kitchen gloves, dumped out her bag, and hunted around for a wallet. It was in a zippered pocket inside the bag.

  I pulled her driver’s license out first. Her name was Greta Maria Stenholm. Five feet nine inches, 140 pounds. Green eyes. No corrective lenses needed. Date of birth: August 10, 1970.

  I paused over that coincidence: August 10, 1970. Greta Stenholm and I were born on the same date, two years apart. I’d just turned thirty-three; she’d just turned thirty-one.

  The address on her license was 7095 Hawthorn Avenue, number 1. Hawthorn was in the center of Hollywood.

  I put the license back and went through the rest of her identification. She was carrying expired credit cards from Visa and two department stores. The Visa had a maroon plastic card stuck to the back. I pried the two cards apart. The maroon was a student ID from the academic year 1995—96. Stenholm had been enrolled at the School of Cinema-Television at USC.

  SC: one of the best film schools in the country. The best, if you wanted to work in the Industry—and she’d gone there.

  I turned the wallet upside down and shook it. Loose change and movie stubs fell out. She didn’t have any paper money, and the change added up to $1.68. I shuffled through the various stubs. They were dated August 24—Friday, four days ago. She’d spent all day and night seeing movies on Hollywood Boulevard. She’d seen The Princess Diaries at the El Capitan, Rat Race at the Chinese, Forever Hollywood at the American Cinematheque, and a double feature of A.I. : Artificial Intelligence and Jurassic Park III. Her first show was at 9:30 A.M.; her last at 9:05 P.M.

  I put everything back in the wallet and stuck the wallet back in the zippered pocket. It was time to take notes.

  I switched on the computer and opened a new file. I detailed my actions since I’d seen the open screen door. I described the crime scene, indoors and out, and listed the contents of the dead woman’s wallet. All that was done in my own shorthand, the kind I used to take notes in the dark: “lites, radio—party clos. on floor—her + knife/tub full—ivy down.” I typed fast and kept making mistakes bec
ause of the gloves. I’d fill in details later. Details like the bathroom smelled of lavender oil, not dead body. Someone had poured half my bottle into the bathwater.

  I got up and sorted through the rest of her stuff.

  A cosmetic kit. A man’s wristwatch. A key ring. A checkbook. A stuffed rabbit. A small envelope. A bulging, scuffed-up Filofax held together by an elastic band.

  I went back to the keyboard and typed the list. I starred the items that weren’t normal for an overnight bag. I noted that the bag itself was Air Force surplus or an imitation. It had faded black wings stenciled on the side.

  Her cosmetic kit contained the bare essentials: toothbrush, toothpaste, comb. She’d worn no makeup at the party, I remembered, and no jewelry except the wristwatch.

  The key ring was a cheesy souvenir of the Hollywood sign; it held four door keys and two GM car keys. Her checkbook showed an account at the California National Bank. The last balance entered was thirteen dollars, and she’d written five checks since then. I could only assume that they bounced.

  The rabbit was a threadbare child’s toy. It had ripped seams, a missing ear, and a very strange dress: a crimson velvet gown, trimmed with gold fur that resembled a lion’s mane. The dress looked homemade and newer than the rabbit.

  I picked up the envelope and tried the flap. It wasn’t sealed. Inside I found a three-by-five color Kodak.

  It showed a sinewy old man draped facedown over the lap of a brown-haired woman. His left side was to the camera, and he was naked and tan except for white swimsuit lines on his flank. A dark wig and wraparound sunglasses hid his identity. The brunet was facing the camera with one arm raised to spank him. She looked incredibly bored. She sat at the foot of a bed covered with a dinosaur spread. Large posters lined the wall behind her: Jurassic Park I and II, Schindler’s List, Saving Private Ryan, Jurassic Park III.

  I said out loud, “Steven Spielberg.”

  I slid the picture back in the envelope and picked up the Filofax. Flipping to the address book, I started with the As. I read a few names and stopped, surprised.

  I skipped forward to the Bs and Cs, the Ls, the Ts—and couldn’t believe it. Her book was crammed with big names. It was a Who’s Who of current Hollywood.