At my bungalow at the Beverly Hills, Nita and I sat on the couch and this time we both had ginger ale, our shoes off and feet on the coffee table.
Like Hermano, we’d fed Sandy at the restaurant, not steak but some good Mexican food, though nobody had much of an appetite. Nita and the young woman talked about friends of theirs who’d been on the campaign and what they were up to now. Nothing about what Sandy had told us earlier.
Hardly any lights were on in the living room. We were sitting close.
“I have some money,” Nita said, out of nowhere.
“What?”
“I might be able to hire you. I know you’re expensive, but—”
“Your money’s no good here, lady.”
She got up and stretched. Not unpleasant to watch. “Would you mind if I borrowed your shower? I’ve had a long day.”
“Be my guest. It’s off the bedroom.”
I could hear the needles of water dancing, not loud enough to interfere with the call I made. It would be a little late in D.C., but I didn’t care. The operator connected me to a home number that not everybody had.
I didn’t identify myself. I just said, “Tell your boss if he’s still up for it, I’m on the Kennedy job and not to fuck me on the expenses.”
“Done,” Jack Anderson said.
I hung up and she was in the bedroom doorway wrapped in a towel. And then she wasn’t wrapped in a towel.
Some have said I’m a randy shallow son of a bitch and that any beautiful woman can have me with a glance. That may be an exaggeration, but no woman was ever more beautiful than this. Her damp hair hung like tendrils to the shoulders of a figure tanned except where a skimpy bikini had prevented arrest for public nudity, its ghost so white it made startling decorative touches of the pert-nippled areolas and the wispy dark triangle. Her belly had a plumpness that only made her seem ripe, and Elizabeth Taylor would have wept to see a woman with a face that could wear no makeup at all and do it so well.
“You won’t think less of me in the morning?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I said. “But your stock is rising right now.”
Seven
To hike Mount Hollywood Trail, most tourists and locals alike began at the rear of the parking lot at Griffith Observatory and headed up through the Berlin Forest, planted about two years before to honor Los Angeles’ new sister city. At this stage of its existence, the “forest” (announced by a sign as such) was just a scattered collection of sapling pines. Most visitors to this vast, rambling park with its winding trails, rugged chaparral, and looming lush mountain vistas would pass through this clearing unimpressed and hike on to more spectacular views of the Hollywood sign, downtown L.A., and the iconic domed Observatory itself.
The view from the bench where the policeman sat wasn’t half-bad, though. The day was sunny but cool, the smog burned off till tomorrow, a mild wind ruffling the shrubs and grasses, their bleakness in the sun-blanched dirt brightened by wild-flowers.
The cop wore the familiar navy blue LAPD uniform, complete with regulation belt, holstered weapon, baton, and handcuffs. Rounded cap with visor held in his lap, feet firmly on the ground (ready should duty call), he stared out at an impressive view of the city he served, lorded over by the Hollywood sign, which looked tiny from here. His expression, however, was not one of wonder... unless he was wondering how he wound up a cop, and a cop meeting that dreaded breed of citizen, a private detective.
I joined him on the bench. Sturdy-looking, older than forty, this was likely a veteran of several decades on the department, light blue eyes close-set, high forehead emphasizing the squared-off oval where his pleasant features resided. His metal name tag (a new addition to the uniforms) said: SHORE.
He recognized me, from the papers I guess, and slid his hand over for me to shake as if it were a secret document he was passing. That would come later.
Griffith Park was on Shore’s beat, though I doubt he covered all four-thousand-some acres of it in his L-car (one-officer patrol) out of Highland Park Division. That a veteran cop like this was working there made him a real cop — not a rookie, burnout or soon-to-be retiree marking time in a safe environment like San Fernando Valley (aka Sleepy Hollow). But it couldn’t have been where he was assigned the night of the killing — that would have been Rampart Division.
Still, this was the police officer whose name Sandy Serrano had given me last night, to corroborate her story. I’d called him this morning, from my office at the A-1 in the Bradbury Building. Sergeant Peter Shore recognized my name, which meant he had a few questions.
“Sorry to bother you at home, Mr. Shore,” I said. “Sandy Serrano gave me your number. She speaks highly of you.”
His voice came back medium range with the self-controlled, neutral modulation that comes with the job. “Miss Serrano is a nice young woman. I assume this is about the Robert Kennedy matter?”
Anyway, I think he said “matter” — might have been “murder.”
“It is,” I said. “I’m looking into it for a journalist. Anything you choose to share would be strictly confidential — ‘source close to the case’ sort of thing.”
“What kind of journalist?”
“A famous one who wonders why a nice kid like Sandy Serrano got handled like a suspect, not a witness.”
“...I’ll talk to you, Mr. Heller. I’m on duty this afternoon, but we could meet.”
The park was moderately busy but the Berlin Forest held no fascination for the hippie hikers and vacationing families strolling by, though the former picked up the pace (likely holding, and on their way to a scenic high) and the latter included fathers sometimes pointing out to the mothers and offspring the reassuring police presence (just like Adam-12!).
I asked, “What were you doing at the Ambassador? You work out of Highland Division, correct? Wasn’t that way off your beat?”
He’d been staring almost tranquilly out at the city spread before us, but now his face turned to mine and his eyes were intense. They were, oddly, a similar shade of light blue to Bob’s.
“Not at the time,” he said. “I was at Rampart Station then. I got transferred later last year — but I’ll get to that.”
“All right. Sorry. Tell it your way, please.”
He turned back to the rugged western drop-off out of which a modern city somehow emerged.
As senior patrol sergeant at Rampart Station, about to head out on my shift, I get tagged at the last second to take over Night Watch. Before settling in at a desk for the long haul, I make a quick cigarette run to this liquor store on Eighth and Fedora. I’m about to head back when I hear an All-Unit call come in: ambulance shooting at 3400 Wilshire Boulevard — the Ambassador. And I’m directly across the street from the hotel’s rear driveway!
All I have to do is make a U-turn and I’m in the back parking lot, upper level at the southwest quadrant of the place. I get out of the car and damn near get swallowed up by people running from the hotel like it’s on fire, taking off in every direction on foot, weaving around cars trying to pull out.