«Hired muscle?» Jack glanced instinctively to the glossy of Tony Fumagalli in his sleazy prime.
I shrugged. «It's possible. But anyone can hire a thug. It wouldn't have to be someone connected to Tony the C –« I caught Jack's eye and for some reason swallowed the rest of the word. «Tony F.»
Was that a gleam of amusement in Jack's gaze? He said, «Yeah. And Fumagalli did have a rock ha – solid alibi for the Aldrich homicide.» Okay, it wasn't just me.
«He was in Vegas at the Tropicana gambling away a small fortune,» I agreed. «But he could have hired someone to kill Eva.»
«That's true, but whoever whacked Aldrich didn't appear to be a professional. That was not in any way an execution-style murder. She was stabbed thirteen times. That kind of MO can indicate a couple of things: a disturbed psyche and/or a perceived personal grievance.»
I knew he was right, which was why the ex-husband had been the favorite suspect. The method of Eva's murder had indicated a certain level of rage or passion that one just didn't associate with cold-blooded mob bosses. «Were you able to find anything out?» I asked.
«I was in court most of the day.» He stared at the stack of photos. «I talked to a couple of people. It's a very cold case. Frozen, in fact.» «It's a Hollywood legend.»
«Oh yeah. There are all kinds of wild theories about who might have offed Aldrich. Everyone from her astrologer to the commies.» «But the most popular theory is her ex-husband, Will Burack.»
«Right.» He studied me meditatively. «You know it usually is the current or former spouse – or boyfriend – in a homicide.»
«I know. And I know the cops tagged Burack as the most likely suspect. But Burack's dead, so who objects to my looking into this very cold case?»
«I don't know.» Jack drained his beer bottle and rose. «I take it you're not planning to back off from this book?»
«No.» I rose too, only half joking, «I'd have to give the advance back. And I already spent it.»
«Right.» He was all business now. «Well, let me give you some advice. Change your routine. And keep changing it. Swim in the afternoons instead of the morning. Don't use the back parking lot as a short cut. Try a different market besides Whole Foods – and pick a day besides Tuesday to shop. The dead bolt is good, but get a chain on the door and don't open the door until you see who's on the other side.»
«Thanks for the advice.» I didn't think Jack just happened to hit on Tuesdays or Whole Foods market as a hypothetical example of my shopping habits. I wasn't sure I should be flattered by this attention to detail; it seemed more like Jack on the job rather than Jack romantically interested.
Anyway, I had a lot more important things to focus on – like the fact that while Jack apparently agreed there was a threat here, he didn't seem to see a way to neutralize it –unless I was willing to drop the book. I opened the door and Jack stepped out into the warm smoggy night.
He suddenly turned back to me. «Look…Tim. I really was going to call you.» He cleared his throat. «The thing is…I'm not interested in a – a serious relationship.»
I stared at him, heat flooding my face – my entire body – mouth dry, heart slamming against my collarbone. I managed to get out, in a voice that didn't sound anything like mine, «Neither was I.»
He had the grace to wince. «I know. It's just…you seemed kind of …vulnerable.» His eyes moved to the bruise on my forehead. «I didn't think it was fair –«
I quit worrying about being polite on the off chance I ever ran into him around the complex again. «You don't have to make excuses for not wanting to see me, Jack,» I said. «In fact, I kind of prefer the excuses I made up myself.»
I moved to shut the door, but his hand shot out, stopping it midswing. «I don't think I explained that very well.» «You underestimate your communication skills.» «I really like you, Tim. I hope w –« «Likewise. 'Night.» The door closed firmly, cutting off his subdued «Good night.»
I stood for a moment listening to him walk away. Silence filled the hollow place in my chest where my heart had used to beat.
Chapter Three
«It was all such a long time ago,» Gloria Rayner sighed.
We were sitting in the opulent «drawing room» of her Bel Air home. The room was crowded with the kinds of antiques that probably originally sat in a French palace right before the peasants had had enough and killed everyone they could lay their hands on: spindly legged gilt chairs, brocade-covered sofas, marble-topped tables, and all kinds of gold-framed mirrors and vases and china knickknacks.
Gloria herself sort of looked like a knickknack with her platinum blonde hair and porcelain made-up face. She was very tiny and very wrinkled. Her baby blue hostess gown was a perfect match for the blue of the silk wallpaper behind her, with its designs of fantasy pagodas and curved bridges. I said, «I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me again, Ms. Rayner.»
«That's no hardship, Mr. North,» Gloria said with a flash of that famous smile. «You're a delicious young morsel.» She giggled at my expression. «When you get to be my age you can say things like that.»
Actually, Gloria had been saying things like that for the last fifty years. She was nearly as famous for her racy comments as she was for the string of B movies that had secured her
charter membership in the Hollywood bombshell pantheon. I'd seen a slew of those movies in the name of research, and I'd had to admit that she did have something: sexual charisma or animal magnetism. It was diffused now by age, but she didn't seem to know that. Or maybe she did know it, and found it all the funnier.
«So you don't have any idea why Eva broke her engagement to Tony Fumagalli?» I asked for the second time that afternoon.
Gloria bent forward to pick up one of the three white miniature poodles oscillating at her feet. «No,» she said. She straightened up, holding the poodle. «Tony the Cock. What a laugh. Did you know the name Fumagalli means 'smoked chicken' in Italian?» «No, I didn't.»
«Yeah. Smoked chicken!» She laughed a throaty nicotine laugh. «You said you're a reporter?»
«I used to be.» I stroked the poodle on my own lap. It squirmed contently. «Now I'm writing this book about Eva.» «About Eva?» she asked shrewdly. «Or about Eva's murder?» «Both, really. I can't really explore the murder without understanding Eva.»
«You figure Eva out, explain her to me,» she replied. She patted the dog's head with her gnarled fingers. Her nails were mandarin-length and painted in hot pink. One of the other dogs barked and she patted the sofa beside her. «Come on, then!»
The dog jumped, nails slithering on the slick upholstery, and wriggled into place beside Gloria. I said, «But you were Eva's best friend.»
«Baby, I was Eva's only friend. Her only real friend, unless you count that quack Roman Mayfield. Now there was a queer duck. And I do mean queer.» I looked at my notes. After a moment I said, «Roman Mayfield, the astrologer?»
«Seer to the Stars!» she scoffed. «Yep. He and Eva were as thick as thieves. He told her not to go the party that night.»
I'd heard this several times, but I'd always figured Mayfield's premonition had been 20/20 hindsight. «Did she say so?»
«He said so. I heard him. For once he was right.» She fastened me with one of her marble blue eyes. «What paper did you used to work for?» «The Santa Monica Mirror.»
«Never heard of it. So you decided you wanted to be An Author? My third husband was an author. What a joke. The only thing that guy authored were love letters to my secretary. Which is one reason why I don't keep a secretary anymore. Or a husband.» She laughed that raucous laugh. «Not that I need a secretary these days. No one remembers Gloria Rayner. It's all about which Third World country Angelina Jolie is adopting this week.» She sighed. «Hollywood isn't what it used to be. In my day we understood about the fantasy, about entertainment. Who wants to see movie stars holding preferences about death and disease and disaster? Where's the box office in that?»