"Funny about you being a cop," he said.
"How's that?"
"So's Brenda." Williams burst out laughing. That was going to save a lot of time and a lot of charm he wasn't sure he had anymore. He got up and walked down the bar to where she sat.
"Hi," he said, smiling. "I'm Lee Williams. The bartender tells me you're a cop."
"He tells me you're one, too," she said, pleasantly. "Listen, no offense, and thanks for the drink, but I just spent ten hours in a black-and-white with a cop; I used to be married to a cop; I spend my whole fucking life with cops. That's why I come in here; to meet somebody who's not a cop."
"Oh," Williams said. "Well, this isn't entirely social. I'm on the job."
"You work West Hollywood?" she asked, looking bored. "What division?"
"I work homicide out of Atlanta, Georgia."
"Well, you're a long way from home, Lee. All right, sit down and tell me about it. You on an extradition out here or something?"
"No, Brenda, believe it or not, I came all the way from Atlanta just to find you." He smiled. "And here you are."
"Lee," she said, "you are full of enough shit to be an LA cop, you know that?"
"Brenda, I wouldn't shit a fellow cop. I came out here to find you and talk to you about Bake Ramsey.
She stared at him disbelievingly. "No shit?"
"No shit. Can I sit down?"
"You sure can, Lee. This is the greatest line I ever heard in my life."
He sat down. "It's no line," he said. "Let me prove it to you. The night before the Rams game with the Bobcats, you came in here and met Bake Ramsey."
"Sammy could have told you that," she said, nodding toward the bartender. "Then you had dinner with him in his suite at Le Parc the following night."
She looked at him narrowly. "You're a better cop than I thought."
"And later that night-very late, in fact-you and Bake had a drink at the Beverly Hills Hotel."
"You were tailing us, weren't you?" she asked.
"Brenda," he said, "can I buy you another drink at the Polo Lounge?"
"Let's take my car," she said. She drove a Japanese sports car and drove it well.
Shifting down for a corner, she said, "I'm six years on the job. I just passed the exam for detective, and I want homicide so bad I can taste it."
"Well, Brenda, this is your lucky day. Tonight, you're on a homicide case."
She grinned broadly. "No shit?"
They were given a table in the Polo Lounge. "This is a movie business hot spot," Brenda said. "Look over there."
Williams looked. There were two couples in a booth. One of the men was Charlton Heston.
"Jesus Christ," he said. "And the other guy looks familiar, too."
"I don't know him," she said. "Maybe he's from Atlanta."
"You come here a lot?"
"Whenever I can get somebody to bring me. The headwaiter knows I'm a cop, and he gives me a good table."
"So I'm not only in Hollywood, I'm at a good table in the Polo Lounge."
"You're in Beverly Hills."
"It's all Hollywood to me, kid."
"So, how'd you know I brought Bake Ramsey here?"
"Elementary, my dear Brenda. He had to be here, because he's my suspect. I'll bet he didn't know you were a cop.
"Nope. I always tell them I'm an assistant casting director at Paramount. All jocks want to be in the movies."
Williams laughed. "You're a trip, Brenda. Jocks are your thing, huh?"
"I won't be coy with you, Lee. I like sex. I like jocks. I like sex with jocks. They're always in good shape, and they're a lot safer than your average guy in a bar; they've got reputations to lose. Did you say Bake is your suspect?"
"Ramsey left the table for a while when you were here, didn't he?"
"Yeah. I went to the ladies'-that's right out in the hall there. I took my time, and when I came back, he wasn't at the table. I figured he had to go, too; he came back after a few minutes."
"How long for your trip to the john, plus the time he took to return to the table?" She stared into the middle distance for a moment. "No less than fifteen, no more than twenty minutes."
"That's time enough."
"Time enough for what?"
Williams took two photographs from his coat pocket. One was of Ramsey; he showed her the other. "Think back to that night. Did you see this man in the Polo Lounge? Or anywhere in the hotel?"
She stared at Al Schaefer. "Yes," she said, "he was sitting right over there, by himself." She pointed to a table near the outside terrace. "And he got up and went out those doors, right before I went to the ladies.
"Brenda, you've got a cop's memory," Williams said, "and I love you for it. Is there anything else unusual about that night?"
"You mean here, or later?"
"Either."
She stared away for a moment. "Bake spilled a drink, a glass of water. It was all over his shirtfront when he came back from the men's room, and he was dabbing at it with a handkerchief. That's the only unusual thing I can remember."
"That's just wonderful, Brenda."
"Now tell me what the fuck is going on," she said.
"Well, it's like this, it's the wildest sort of coincidence, but they happen sometimes. You came in here with Bake Ramsey. The guy in the photograph was Albert Schaefer, an Atlanta lawyer who represented Bake's ex-wife in a divorce action. Bake must have hated him, because Schaefer got up and went outside-who knows why? And as soon as you left the table, Ramsey followed him, and he drowned Al Schaefer in the hotel swimming pool."
"Christ, I read about that drowning; it was made as accidental. I didn't realize it was the same night."
"Well, Brenda, I've got some really good news for you. I'm going to nail Ramsey for two other murders in Atlanta, and when I'm through with him, he'll be available for extradition to California, and I'm going to see that you get a piece of him. That ought to help you get into homicide."
She beamed at him. "Listen, Lee, you're staying at Le Parc?"
"Yes."
"Why don't we go back to your place?"
Williams smiled at her gratefully. "Sugar, I'd just love it, I really would, but I've got this wife that scares the living shit out of me. She has me believing that if I got in bed with another woman in any hotel in the world, she would be there to kick the door down and kill us both in our sleep. I'd never be able to do it, believe me."
"I don't," she said, patting his cheek, "but I like you for thinking about your wife."
CHAPTER 32
The helicopter's blades slowed, and the engine wound down. Before the rotors had stopped, a man of about forty dressed in khaki shirt and trousers and a Stetson hat stepped to the ground. "Good afternoon, Bob," Germaine said as he approached the front porch of the inn, where she and Liz were waiting. "Why don't you come around back?"
"All right," he said, eyeing the guests who littered the front porch. He waited until they were out of sight of the guests before asking any questions. "Now, why don't you tell me exactly what happened, Germaine?"
"Bob, this is Liz Barwick; she's living up at Stafford Beach Cottage. Liz, this is Bob Walden, our sheriff."
"Hey," the sheriff said.
"Nice to meet you," Liz replied.
They reached Liz's Jeep. "Liz had better tell you about it," Germaine said. "She's the one who found it." Liz explained how she caught sight of her find at Lake Whitney. She went to the rear of the Jeep, popped the tailgate, and pointed at a sheet of green plastic.
"That's it." As the sheriff approached the Jeep, Liz and Germaine involuntarily moved back a step.
"I don't want to see this, do I?" Germaine said.
"Probably not," Liz replied.
Sheriff Walden gingerly unrolled the plastic and looked at the arm. "Jesus Christ," he said softly. "I never saw anything like that before."