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  “And maybe he’ll even tell me a story or two.”

  “Lies. All lies. Don’t waste your time.”

  “It’ll be the best time I ever wasted. I can hardly wait.”

  “He’s an idiot,” I said and shooed Johnny out of my office.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Steffi Lincoln’s assignment was to swim the third leg of the two-mile relay. She was a sturdy young woman, barrel-chested with muscular arms and large, powerful legs. She wasn’t a great beauty, but she was smart and funny, a consummate swimmer and a team favorite.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” she stated in answer to my question about play parties.

  “Surely you knew they were taking place.”

  She had reluctantly agreed to speak with me, but only in the presence of her mother, Selma, a stern-looking woman in her late forties who leveled a flinty glare at me.

  We were sitting in the deserted stands of the pool house. It was five o’clock, practice was finished for the day and Coach Maxwell had given us the green-light to meet there.

  “You read lips?” Steffi asked me.

  “I don’t.”

  “Well, try to read mine anyway. I don’t know anything about play parties. Period.”

  “So you were never invited to one.”

  She turned to her mother. “I told you this was a bad idea.”

  “Try to be a little more cooperative, honey,” Selma Lincoln said. “One of your coaches was murdered. Try to keep that in mind.”

  “You don’t have to be so cynical, Mother.”

  She looked back at me. “Was there anything else?”

  I liked Steffi Lincoln. She had character and she unabashedly spoke her mind. She seemed comfortable in her skin and self-confidence was the cornerstone of her persona. If she had emotional misgivings about Henry Carson and his behavior with the other swim team girls, she didn’t reveal them.

  “Was Mr. Carson involved with these parties?”

  “As far as I could see, he was pretty much involved with everything. But I wouldn’t know specifically about any parties.”

  “What did you mean about him being pretty much involved with everything?”

  “I don’t know. I must have misspoken.”

  “Why is this so difficult?” I muttered.

  She scowled at me.

  “Okay, let me start over. Why did you say he was pretty much involved with everything?”

  She shrugged. “Look,” she began, “my vantage point was from the outside looking in. My knowledge of him was from that perspective. I don’t really know what he did or didn’t do. He was much more interested in the other girls than he was in me.”

  “Why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Look at me. I look like some kind of overdeveloped slug. He was only interested in the pretty ones.”

  “Why, do you suppose?”

  “I thought he was some kind of lech. He was always hanging around, always leering. Freaky like. I heard he even tried to get into some of the girls’ pants.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I think this line of questioning is off point,” Selma Lincoln interjected.

  I looked at her. “It’s very much on point. I’m trying to learn whether Mr. Carson was directly involved with play parties.”

  “Steffi has already told you she knows nothing about them.”

  “But she did say Mr. Carson was some kind of lech.”

  “No. She said she thought he might be a lech.”

  “Who was trying to get into some of the girls’ pants.”

  “Look,” Selma Lincoln said, “Steffi made no specific allegations and she repeatedly said she knew nothing about these play parties you keep referencing.”

  She stood and motioned to her daughter. “I think we’re done here.”

  “I have just a few more questions.”

  “Not even one,” she said. “Good day, Sheriff Steel.”

  I got up and looked at Steffi for a few moments. She also stood and made eye contact.

  I took out one of my business cards and handed it to her. “In case you think of something you might have overlooked.”

  “Thank you.”

  She put the card in her pocket and the two of them left the pool house.

  Curious and curiouser, I thought. This child knows more than she’s letting on. She’s afraid of something. Afraid of saying something that might reveal more than what she believes she’s permitted to reveal.

  I wondered what that was all about.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The drive from Freedom to Los Angeles took less than two hours. I avoided rush hour and because I was in a police cruiser, the traffic tended to get out of my way. I pulled into the Musso & Frank parking lot just before one o’clock.

  Located in the center of Hollywood, down the street from such landmarks as Grauman’s Chinese, The Hollywood Wax Museum, and the El Capitan Theatre, Musso’s is a legendary industry eatery. Its grill room was where Charlie Chaplin lunched daily in his exclusive corner booth which, in later years, was where Steve McQueen, Nelson Riddle, and Jonathan Winters could be regularly found. It’s still the favorite of movie and TV luminaries who frequent the area.

  Because it was a place neither of us could afford when we were rookie cops together, Chuck Voight chose it for our lunch. He even reserved the Chaplin booth.

  He was already seated when I arrived and he stood to greet me. After a hail of compliments regarding our respective appearances and a good deal of mutual back-slapping and laughter, we slid into the red leather, dark mahogany wood booth that faced Hollywood Boulevard, both of us with big grins on our faces.

  “One time, when I made Detective, Daryl Gates brought me here,” Voight reminisced. “He so scared the shit out of me that I ordered scrambled eggs thinking nothing else would stay down.”

  “Why don’t you have the eggs today?” I taunted him. “For old times’ sake.”

  “Screw that, Buddy boy. Steak. Medium rare. Mashed garlic potatoes. Us guys have arrived.”

  “Martinis?”

  “I’m on duty.”

  “Never stopped you before.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ve come a long way since them days. Back then I could handle it. Today I’d go face-first into the mashed.”

  His imagery made me laugh. “You’re not alone, Charley. It’s great to see you.”

  “You, too. You enjoying yourself up there in Shitsville?”

  “Not totally.”

  “Something about your father, right?”

  “Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

  “Oh, Jeez. I’m sorry, Buddy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “People miss you down here. I can’t tell you how many times guys ask me how you’re doing.”

  “That’s nice. Thanks for mentioning it.”

  “My pleasure. I always tell them you’re in a rehab facility in Malibu.”

  I snorted.

  A smartly dressed waiter in a red tuxedo jacket stepped to our booth brandishing a platter of sourdough bread along with his best wise-guy attitude. “How did you two suckers manage to score the Chaplin?”

  “Pull,” Voight said.

  “Cops,” the waiter said. “I could spot you a mile away.”

  “That obvious, huh?”

  “Like you’ve got name tags on your foreheads. What can I get you?”

  We told him. He grinned and strolled off.

  I watched him go, then asked, “Robber Xmas?”

  “If it’s the last thing I do.”

  “He’s that slippery?”

  Voight shook his head. “Son of a bitch is on my radar. I keep thinking I’m warm, but I can’t quite close the deal. Your associate tells
me he’s shifted operations to your neck of the woods.”

  “Could be. How often do you monitor your landscape?”

  “For graffiti, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Regularly. Daily.”

  “When was the last time you saw something of his?”

  “Nothing new for a couple of weeks now.”

  “How long had he been tagging here?”

  “At least a year. Maybe more.”

  “And you haven’t been able to identify him?”

  “He works alone. Sometimes we don’t see anything from him for several weeks. Then he re-surfaces with a flurry. Unpredictable.”

  The waiter arrived with our steaks, fresh from the grill, sensationally aromatic. A similarly clad staffer brought Chuck’s mashed and my baked. Plus the side order of creamed spinach we were sharing. The waiter handed us each a steak knife. “Management frowns on ripping the meat off the bone with your teeth.”

  He laughed at his joke and left us to our feast.

  “How can we help each other?” I asked after we had dug in.

  “We need to track his patterns. I’ll let you know if he shows up back here. Or if I learn anything in his absence. You do the same.”

  “A regular joint task force,” I offered.

  “I don’t know about that,” Chuck added. “This guy’s a slippery son of a bitch. But at least we’ll get the chance to make some more mischief together. Like that time in Boyle Heights.”

  “Don’t go there, Chuck.”

  “Oh, come on, Buddy. Surely you remember that night.”

  “If I did, which I don’t, it would be a totally different memory than the one you have.”

  “That’s a load of crap. You haven’t forgotten the milk shake incident, have you?”

  “There was no milk shake incident. You made it up.”

  “All six of them?”

  “Four.”

  “Four what?”

  “Four of them.”

  “So it is true.”

  “Maybe some of it is true.”

  “You’re so full of shit, Buddy. Remember how sick you got?”

  “No, I don’t remember getting sick at all.”

  “Liar.”

  “Liar yourself. Eat your steak before it gets cold.” He punched my arm playfully.

  “Ditto.”

  We laughed our way through the rest of the meal.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “I may have something,” Johnny Kennerly said. “A bungalow in South Freedom. Sold in late August. To a real estate trust. Paid for in cash.”

  I was in my cruiser, heading back to the station. “What about it?”

  “It’s an anomaly.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I don’t know, Buddy. Low-rent part of town like that. Unexceptional house sells to a trust for cash. It’s not your typical investment property. Something about it doesn’t smell kosher.”

  “What’s the address?”

  He told me.

  “I’m not too far from there. I’ll give it the once-over and let you know,” I said and ended the call.

  It was a short drive to 321 Meeker Street and I slowed when I got there. The house in question was a single-story bungalow, one of six tract houses, but unlike its neighbors, it appeared unattended, in need of maintenance. It hadn’t been painted in some time. The windows were streaked with grime. A small yard was overgrown with wildflowers and weeds. It was out of character for the neighborhood.

  I drove past it and saw that the other houses in the tract were respectfully tended, yards were trimmed, and late model cars stood in several of the driveways.

  I pulled up in front of the house next door and got out of my cruiser. I wanted to take a closer look at number 321. As I began nosing around, a frazzled house-frau who appeared to be in her thirties stepped outside and stared at me with a puzzled look on her face.

  “Nobody’s there,” she called out.

  She wore a stained apron over a faded housedress that at one time might have been blue. Her pale auburn hair was highlighted with streaks of purple. She wore thick-rimmed glasses. She was barefoot.

  She looked at my cruiser, then shifted her gaze onto me. “You’re a cop, right?”

  “Deputy Sheriff,” I said. “Buddy Steel.”

  “Is there some kind of trouble?”

  “Not at all. I’m sorry to bother you, but I noticed the house looks as if it might be deserted. I was wondering if you could tell me whether or not people actually live there.”

  “Why?” the woman asked.

  “In the interest of public safety. We regularly check neighborhoods for unoccupied houses. Houses that could become havens for drugs and crime.”

  The woman nodded. “Judy Nicholas.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m Judy Nicholas. Nick’s wife.”

  “Mrs. Nicholas,” I said.

  “Somebody does live in that house. Some sleazeball who takes lousy care of it and who’s single-handedly responsible for lowering the value of the other houses on the block.”

  “I take it you’re unhappy with the owner.”

  “The son of a bitch bought the house for a song. It hadn’t been lived in since the original owner killed himself over a year ago. Nobody wanted to buy it what with the suicide and all. Guy shot himself. A bloody mess. So we were pretty excited when it finally sold. But the bastard hasn’t done one thing to improve it.”

  “But he lives in it?”

  “Sometimes he does. Sometimes he doesn’t. He comes and goes.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Maybe a week ago.”

  “What does he do?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Nothing, probably.”

  A small boy appeared in the doorway. Still in his pajamas, he walked over and stood beside Mrs. Nicholas. He grabbed hold of her apron and stuck his thumb in his mouth. He wasn’t exactly the cleanest little kid I’d ever seen, but he was alert and engaged. He didn’t say anything but he didn’t miss anything either.

  I nodded to him.

  He took a step backward and inched closer to his mother who, in turn, ignored him. “Was there anything else you wanted to know?”

  “Would you by any chance know the name of the owner?”

  “Only his first name.”

  “Which is?”

  “Robert.”

  “Robert. Thank you, Mrs. Nicholas. You’ve been very helpful.”

  I handed her one of my cards. “Perhaps you could phone me when the owner returns.”

  “I will. Maybe you could scare the bastard into improving his property.”

  I smiled at her and headed for my cruiser.

  I heard the little boy shout, “Hey. Mister.”

  I turned back to him.

  He raised his hand and pointed to himself. “I’m Nick, Junior,” he said.

  “Pleased to meet you, Nick, Junior. I’m Buddy, Junior.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  He grinned at me, looked up at his mother and then ran inside.

  “The previous owner was a guy called Leonard Sherman,” Johnny Kennerly read aloud. “Born: May 5, 1955. Died: May 5, 2015.”

  “Born and died on the same day,” I commented. “What are the odds of that?”

  “Pretty good, considering he shot himself.”

  “Oh, yeah. Mrs. Nicholas did mention something about that.”

  We were in Johnny’s cubicle and he was in front of his laptop, on some kind of real estate website. “House was on the market for nearly a year until it was sold to the G.V.N. Real Estate Trust for considerably less than it had come on the market for.”

  “What’s the G.V.N. Real Estate Trust?”

  �
�Good question. Seems it’s managed by a Beverly Hills law firm.”

  “Beverly Hills?”

  “Strange, isn’t it?”

  “Have you been in touch with them?”

  “Not yet. I wanted your advice as to how best to go about it.”

  “Maybe when the owner returns, we might do a little surveilling before we tip our hand.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Let’s see who lives there and what it is he goes about doing.”

  “Do we tell Chuck Voigt?”

  “Not until we know more.”

  “I guess that’s a plan.”

  I nodded. “That’d be my guess, too.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  It seemed as if I had just fallen asleep when my cell phone began ringing. When I looked, it was past nine. I overslept.

  “Buddy Steel,” I answered sleepily.

  “Bad news,” Marsha Russo said.

  I immediately thought the worst about my father before she went on to say, “Steffi Lincoln.”

  “What about her?”

  “She was badly beaten on her way to school this morning.”

  “By whom?” I said, sitting up in bed.

  “Don’t know. She arrived at Freedom General about fifteen minutes ago and she’s still being evaluated.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Me, too,” Marsha said.

  The Emergency Room was jumping when I arrived at ten-thirty. The waiting room was full, as was the trauma center.

  I was greeted by Head Nurse Jill MacDonough, whom I’d known since high school. Small town. She ushered me to the ICU where Steffi Lincoln was being treated.

  “What should I know?” I asked.

  “Well, for openers, it’s not life-threatening,” Jill said. “She was pretty upset when she got here and Amir put her on a sedative drip. Contusions and bruising. She’ll need a few stitches and that shiner will linger for a few days, but otherwise she’ll be okay.”

  We stepped inside.

  Dr. Amir Abboud was dealing with a rather mean-looking head wound. He looked at me and nodded.

  Steffi’s mother, Selma, sat in the corner. When she saw me, she glowered, the look in her eyes ranging from angry to downright hostile. I motioned for her to step outside.