Brimley said he had been greeted at the door of the cottage by a disoriented Garrett Walsh. The director had been wearing an open purple robe and was clutching a gold statuette caked with blood. Brimley hadn't even recognized the statue as an Oscar. He had quietly taken it away from Walsh, peeling away the man's fingers while Walsh mumbled apologies. Jimmy had already read that in the official transcript, but a few minutes ago Brimley had added that Walsh had wiped his hands on his robe and offered to do a PSA warning kids against using drugs. Brimley had shaken his head when he told Jimmy, still amazed after all these years.
The room was small and wood-lined, just a sink and commode, a stall shower with a bathing-beauties curtain. A single rectangular window was slightly propped open, looking out at the furled sails of the boat next door. The rack next to the commode contained recent issues of Deep Sea Fishing, Power Boating, Travel and Leisure, Play-boy, and Gourmet. He glanced at the door, then carefully opened the medicine cabinet, coughing to cover the squeak. Colgate toothpaste, a toothbrush with wild boar bristles, mint-flavored dental floss, aspirin, Pepto-Bismol, eyedrops, a double-edged razor, and Aqua Velva after shave. No hair dye. No denture cream. No prescription bottles. Nothing that would indicate high blood pressure, ulcers, colitis, diabetes, rickets, or scurvy. Sugar was healthy as a bull elk.
He checked the window again-it was small, but there was room enough to wiggle through. He instinctively checked for ways in and out of places, marked exits and unmarked ones. His first job in journalism had been at a free rock magazine; without press credentials or credibility, Jimmy had learned how to bypass concert security, regularly sneaking backstage, sitting in on closed soundchecks. A conservative three-piece suit and a briefcase allowed him to blow past rent-a-cops; Jimmy simply declared himself the band's attorney and kept walking. He enjoyed the subterfuge more than the music. Jimmy flushed the toilet and opened the door. He smelled coffee.
"Thought you could use this," said Brimley, handing him a mug. "You look like a black coffee type to me."
"Good guess." Jimmy blew steam off and took a sip, favoring his lip.
"My personal blend-half Hawaiian, half French roast." Brimley drank from his own mug. "You talked to anybody else about the case?"
"Not yet."
"The assistant DA could probably tell you more than I can. He was looking over my shoulder before I even finished my report. Can't blame him; from an investigative standpoint, it was pretty open and shut."
"I'm more interested in the crime scene itself-what you saw, what you did. Even though it was open and shut, forensics still got a workout, right?"
Brimley stared at him. "What are you getting at?"
"I'm just asking questions, Sugar, trying to get a sense of things- an immediacy that was missing from most of the newspaper accounts. You were hardly quoted at all."
Brimley leaned against the counter. Backlit from the window behind him, tiny red hairs were visible at the edges of his ear canal. "I was under orders to run all requests through the public information officer and the DA's office. Bosses were afraid I was getting too much attention, and to tell you the truth, that was fine with me. I was never a glory hog."
Jimmy sat down, dizzy again. "The man who called in the noise complaint that night-the screams-I was hoping to interview him, but I couldn't find his name in any of the news accounts."
"You find him, let me know-I'd like to buy him a prime rib dinner."
"He never came forward?"
Brimley shook his head. "Sometimes an anonymous tip wants to remain anonymous. The tabloids put out a reward for him to come forward and tell his story, but all they got was crackpots and phonies."
"Hermosa Beach has Caller ID on their 911 system, don't they?"
"Call came in from a pay phone a couple blocks away. We figured it was somebody out walking their dog-jogging or roller-skating maybe." Sugar eyed the apple pie on the counter. "I canvased the area, but nothing came of it."
"Interesting that a jogger heard screams from the house but not the neighbors."
"You did your homework, I like that. Neighbor on one side was out of town, people on the other side had their air-conditioning turned up. I never cared much for air-conditioning myself. Not natural. Besides, a little sweat never hurt anybody."
Jimmy carefully sipped his coffee, biding his time. Getting beaten up had given him an advantage; there was no way Brimley was going to rush him now, and Jimmy had learned that letting someone help you was one of the best ways to ensure their cooperation. He often started difficult interviews with a simple request: a glass of water, an aspirin, a pen to use in place of his own, which had "suddenly" gone dry. Brimley was easy; he was helpful by nature. Jimmy crossed his legs, winced.
"You all right?"
"I'm not going to be dancing the tango for a few days, but I'm fine."
"Tango-that's the national dance of Brazil. Gosh, I'd love to see Rio."
"Argentina," Jimmy corrected him. "Brazil is more like the samba, bossa nova."
" 'Blame it on the bossa nova,'" Brimley singsonged, snapping his fingers, his voice light as he danced around the kitchen, holding an invisible partner around the waist.
Jimmy had to laugh at the big man's smooth moves and his self-assurance in showing them off, not caring what anyone thought. It made him like the old cop. "You should take a trip to Brazil. A friend of mine was born and raised in Rio-she's a travel agent. I could put you in touch with her. She'll get you there cheap, find you a hotel on the water, and line you up with some great fishing. She knows everybody."
"I might just take you up on that. Brazil. They have fish down there I've only read about, game fish that put my marlin to shame." Brimley sat down, beaming now. "What's your name again? Jimmy who?"
"Gage."
"Jimmy Gage. I know that name. You did something a while ago- I remember seeing you on TV." Brimley stared at Jimmy, nodded. "You saved a cop's life. That was it. I don't remember what you did exactly, but it was a big deal."
"Right place, right time, that's all."
"That's plenty." Brimley patted Jimmy's knee. "Sorry you had to take your lumps, but meeting you sure turned out lucky for me. I don't usually get to meet a genuine hero."
Jimmy let the hero crap pass. "You must have been born under a good sign, Sugar. 'One Lucky Cop'-that was the headline in the News-Herald the next day. They said you were on your way home after your shift change when the call came."
"We still used two-way radios back then. Now calls come in to squad cars on the computer. Whole new world."
"I just thought it was strange for a detective to follow up on a noise complaint himself."
"Hermosa is a small department; we covered for each other whenever we could, and I've never been one to stand on ceremony. The nearest squad car that evening was investigating a report of gunshots fired, and I was in the area." Brimley shrugged. "Don't think those two uniforms didn't rub it in; they should have been the one getting the commendation and their picture in the paper, not me. 'One Lucky Cop'-gee whiz, I thought I'd never live it down."
Jimmy laughed along with him, but not too hard. His head did hurt.
"Maybe I should take you home. We can get together when you're feeling better."
"Just let me sit here a few more minutes."
"Stay as long as you want."
"One thing I never understood. Was what Heather Grimm was doing in Hermosa, anyway? She lived in Whittier. Why didn't she go to Huntington? It's closer, and it's a better beach too."
"If you want help figuring out the mind of a fifteen-year-old girl, you're on your own."
"That's what I mean, she was fifteen. She wouldn't go to the beach by herself. She was too young to drive. So who drove her there?"