"You're going to have to keep waiting." The Saab's steering wheel vibrated in his grip, and Jimmy slowed slightly. The road was nearly empty going back to the city, but he backed off the gas. The Highway Patrol had radar units and helicopters, and he didn't want to waste another Saturday in traffic school. "What about the wife?"
"Ummmmm, Brooke's not really part of the business. I remember seeing her at the Academy Awards a few times, but she seemed a little out of place. She always sticks close to Michael. Oh, she was evidently an equestrian champion before she was married. Rode in the Rose Parade for several years-a real Dale Evans."
"Do you have a photo?"
"I smell a scoop here, Jimmy. I told you where Samantha Packard worked out, and the next thing I knew you're on TV being attacked by that jealous ass of a husband. Now you want to know about Brooke Danziger. If you're on some Hollywood wives scavenger hunt, I want an exclusive."
"You overestimate me." Jimmy checked his rearview mirror. The Toyota pickup was a silver speck in the distance. He thought of Stephanie Panagopolis miles away now, with her memories of guppies and the goose that was going to lay the golden eggs. He should have bought something from her, apricot bath gel for Jane, or a water filter. He could have put it on his expense account, see what Napitano said about that.
"What's this all about, Jimmy?"
"Just a minute, Ann, I've got another call. Hello?"
"Jimmy? Michael Danziger here. You just called the house but didn't say anything. I was wondering if there was some kind of problem?"
Jimmy hated Caller ID. He was going to have to find another way to contact Brooke Danziger. "Thanks for following up, Michael. The battery in my cell phone is running low and kept cutting out. Just wanted to ask, when is the premiere of My Girl Trouble?"
"How lovely," said Danziger. "This Friday at the Regency. I'll messenger you over some VIP passes."
"I'm cutting out here," said Jimmy, switching back to the other line. "Sorry, Ann. One last question. When you saw the Danzigers at parties, did you get any sense of trouble between them?"
"Darling, there's always trouble between man and wife in this town. What do you really want to know?"
Jimmy jerked as a green dragonfly slammed into the windshield, disintegrating, one lacy wing caught for a moment under the wiper. He thought about the professor back at the koi pond and wondered if he would have been able to identify the exact species of dragonfly in the instant before it was blown to pieces.
"Jimmy? What's going on?"
Jimmy glanced over at the accordion file-folder on the floor of the car, the worn cardboard file bulging with his notes on the Garrett Walsh story. "I'll let you know as soon as I figure it out," he said, accelerating.
Chapter 42
Jimmy set down the beer, and the bottle fell over on the uneven ground, bubbling toward where his notes were spread. "Son of a bitch." He picked up the printout of Walsh's phone records and shook them off. He knew there was something important about the professor's reconfigured time of death, something that set off bells without him knowing why. He turned away from the printout, looking down at the distant koi pond. He had a headache from thinking.
The midafternoon sun was hotter than the morning, but he didn't notice. He sat in the shade of a scrawny lemon tree safely upwind from the stink, alone with his unfocused suspicions. Rollo and the professor were long gone. Just Jimmy now. He watched the bloated pig carcass bob serenely in the brown water and thought of Michael Danziger swimming against the tide in that little pool of his, never reaching the far side. Sugar pressed the buzzer and heard some Greek melody. Nice. He had probably rung as many doorbells as any cop-a little personal touch was appreciated. He squared his shoulders. He had brushed off the dirt from the playhouse, then gotten in his car and driven to the nearest mall, stolen a license plate from one of the cars parked outside the movie theater, and stuck it on top of his own plate with a couple dabs of Super Glue. The Super Glue would keep the fake plate in place, but he could remove it on the way home with a strong tug, The LoJack indicated that Jimmy was well on his way back to L.A.-that boy better be careful, the Highway Patrol was hell on speeders. He rang the bell again. That Greek tune could grow on a fellow. He adjusted his navy blue sport coat, the one he always kept in the trunk of the car, for official purposes. He smiled at the peephole.
The door opened, the security chain taut. "Yes?" The woman was suspicious, which he thought was an attractive quality in a female, and she was wearing a frilly blue apron, which really won his heart.
Sugar flipped open his wallet and let her take a good look at his gold shield while he took a good look at her. "Detective Leonard Brimley." He left the wallet open, like he was holding open the Red Sea with it. He grinned at her. "You can call me Sugar, Stephanie. Everybody else does."
Stephanie glanced at his car parked in the driveway, a five-year-old Ford with a little salt corrosion on the chrome. "Do I know you, officer?"
"Not yet, but we'll fix that." She had lost a lot of weight. They had never been introduced, but Sugar had seen her leaving April's office on three or four different occasions, watching her from the darkness of the stairwell as she trudged down the hall toward the elevator. She must have lost fifty pounds, but she still slumped. "I need to talk to you about your gentleman caller earlier today."
Stephanie slowly unchained the door. "My daughter gets home from school at three. I like to meet her at the bus stop."
"You're a good mama, but don't you fret, we'll be done by then." Sugar sniffed. "Something good's cooking."
Stephanie wiped her hands on her apron. "I just finished making cookies."
"Let's talk in the kitchen then." Sugar beamed. "Nice to see that there's still women out there who bake from scratch instead of opening up a bag of store-bought."
Stephanie clutched the apron. "I'm not much of a cook. I just wanted to whip up something my daughter could bring to class. The other kids have been picking on her."
"Kids can be so cruel. Nothing like passing out cookies to make everyone your friend."
"That's just what I was thinking."
Sugar followed her into the kitchen. It was small but neat and clean, real shipshape. A carton of eggs was on the counter, next to open bags of flour and sugar and a stick of butter. The mixing bowl was almost empty. Crayon drawings were magneted to the refrigerator. Two batches of cookies were cooling on a wire rack. The stove was gas.
"Can I get you some water, detective?" Stephanie let the tap run while she got out two tall glasses. She handed him his glass a moment later, ice cubes clinking. She looked surprised, noticing his thin leather gloves for the first time.
"Eczema," explained Sugar, taking a long drink. "Ah." He smacked his lips. "Nothing like cold water on a hot day."
"Filtered water." Stephanie took a demure sip from her own glass and wiped her lips with a pinky. "I used to drink five or six cans of soda pop a day, but now I just drink water." She blushed. "I used to have a weight problem. My whole metabolism was out of kilter."
"I find that hard to believe." Sugar ran the spatula around the rim of the mixing bowl and tasted it, gauging her reaction. "Ummm, chocolate chip-everybody's favorite." She didn't look annoyed, she looked pleased.
"I limit myself to just one cookie per batch. They used to be one of my trigger foods. Chocolate of any kind is my weakness." Stephanie broke a corner off one of the cookies and surreptitiously placed it into her mouth. "Do you take vitamins?"