Cards on the Table - lanyon Josh - Страница 14
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«But besides being smart and funny and cute as hell, you've got guts and discipline and the meanest right this side of North Central Avenue.»
My mouth twitched, but I didn't really feel like smiling. I understood where Jack was coming from, and I appreciated his honesty in a way, but I also felt hurt and a little disillusioned. I was glad I'd asked him, glad that he'd been candid – before things went any further between us. Hearing the truth had…tempered my enthusiasm, so to speak. «Last night was good, wasn't it?» he said softly. I nodded. «So we're friends again?» «Sure.» I found my T-shirt, pulled it on. «After all, even if I am a judgmental prick, I do make damn good chicken wings.» I did laugh then.
Chapter Eight
We swam together that morning, and then Jack went to get dressed for work and I went inside to have breakfast and read over Bud Perkins's private file.
Stephen Ball's party at the Garden of Allah had started around eleven o'clock, following the premiere of Ball's film The Professional. Over thirty Hollywood luminaries had been in attendance. Eva Aldrich had arrived late and alone. Having just publicly broken off her engagement to mobster Tony Fumagalli, she was the object of a lot of speculation, and her movements throughout the fateful evening had been easily tracked and verified. There were a number of stunning photos of her; she had been at the peak of her beauty, and if her heart was breaking, it didn't show in Kodak color.
Eva had danced three dances and retired to the powder room for a long chat with Gloria Rayner. She had danced a fourth time – this one with Stephen Ball – drunk a champagne cocktail with the director of Danger in the Dunes, and then slipped outside at approximately two o'clock. Stephen Ball had discovered her lifeless body in his villa at three-fifteen, and the authorities had been summoned.
The only reason Ball hadn't been instantly arrested was that he had been observed walking from the hotel itself to his villa – followed almost immediately by his horror-
stricken exit – by guests in the hotel swimming pool. Ball had not been inside the cottage long enough to commit murder – nor was there enough blood on his tux to account for having stabbed someone to death.
But Bud Perkins had theorized that Ball could have slipped away from the party earlier, met and killed Eva in his villa, then showered, changed into another tuxedo and returned to the party. True, there was the problem that these theoretical bloodstained clothes had never been found, and that no one had seen Ball make an earlier trip to the villa, but then no one had seen Eva heading for Ball's villa either. And, more interestingly, no one could verify seeing Ball at the party after Eva had left.
It was clear to me, deciphering Perkins's faded scrawl, that he had believed Ball was guilty, but he had also noted that Gloria Rayner had been MIA shortly after she and Eva had exited the powder room. Also there seemed to be a difference of opinion as to the nature of Eva's and Gloria's discussion. One witness reported they had been arguing, two others stated their conversation had seemed «serious but friendly.» Gloria herself claimed that she had been comforting Eva over her recent breakup with Tony Fumagalli.
Somehow I had to wrangle an interview with Stephen Ball. Not that I expected him to confess to me or anything, but I felt that speaking with him would maybe give me the direction I needed to take in the book.
If I couldn't get an interview with Ball, I'd have to rely on whatever I could glean from my conversations with Gloria and Roman Mayfield – assuming Mayfield would hold true to his promise of another interview. I had the impression that Gloria had once had a thing for Ball, but since he wasn't numbered amongst her many husbands, it must not have been reciprocal.
Either way, armed with Bud Perkins's notes, I felt I had the necessary ammunition to move the next interviews into deeper water.
After breakfast I caught a bus for Isabel Street and spent a few depressing hours scanning mug shots in the hope of spotting Mr. Clean.
One thing for sure: there was no particular criminal physical type. Crooks came in all sizes and colors – everyone looked the worse for wear in this particular class photo. Even movie stars and solid citizens looked like the dregs of society in their booking photographs. I'd been flipping through pages of drawn and mascara-smeared faces when a uniformed officer brought me what appeared to be a printout of a composite sketch. «What's this?» «Detective Brady also gave us a description of the assailant.»
I studied the printout. Nodded slowly. «It's not quite like I remember him but…it's not really wrong either.»
The officer nodded. «Close enough in the details to enter into a facial recognition program and run it through the database of criminals we have on file?» «You can do that?» «We have the technology,» she agreed. «Even if we're not CSI.» «Yeah, it's close enough.»
She left me with the mug books and a Styrofoam cup of terrible coffee. Forty minutes later she was back with several printouts of digital photos. «It's an all-star lineup,» she announced. «Any familiar faces?»
I studied the rogue's gallery of photos, all of them blunt-featured and bald Caucasians. They were a scary-looking crew. They all looked familiar – and they all looked foreign.
My gaze lingered over an arrogant, almost handsome face. Something about the shape of the head and the alignment of features… «Who's this?» I asked.
The officer examined the photo. «Clyde Wells.» She looked impressed. «Is this the dude?»
I shook my head. «Maybe. I can't be sure. Maybe.» I tried to read her face. «Who is he?» «He works for Frankie Fumagalli.» «Tony the Co – 's son?»
«That's right. Frankie took over the organization when the old man lost his marbles. Clyde's one of his enforcers.» She gave me an admiring smile. «You don't mess around, do you? You've got the A-list baddies mad at you.» * * * * *
I'd wondered if I might run into Jack at the station – and how I was supposed to react. I'd interviewed a few closeted cops when I worked as a reporter, but Jack seemed pretty relaxed about his orientation. Of course, I'd never seen him on the job; maybe he was different when he was on the clock. In any event, I didn't run into him, so I left the police station and caught a bus back home.
As the bus rumbled along, flashing in and out of shade, I found myself thinking about Tony Fumagalli. If his son and heir was bothering to send hired muscle after me, there had to be something wrong with Fumagalli's alibi. Some weakness that wasn't obvious at first – or second, third, and fourth – glance. But if the police hadn't found the chink in Fumagalli's armor, what were the chances that I would stumble on it?
What I didn't get was why it mattered to Fumagalli, with the old man now senile and living in a nursing home. By all accounts he was in increasingly poor health; by the time the book came out, Tony F. could easily be dead. And even if he wasn't, prosecution was highly unlikely.
But what if prosecution wasn't what Fumagalli Jr. feared? What if there was something else at risk? What?
It clearly had to do with Eva's death – or did it? It had to do with Eva, that much was sure. But if Fumagalli really had an unbreakable alibi for the murder, then the only other thing I could think of was the mysterious end of his engagement to Eva.
Why had she broken the engagement? Someone had to know. Gloria and Roman had supposedly been her closest confidants; it was inconceivable that she hadn't spilled the beans to one or both of them in the three days before her death.
But was finding the answer to that riddle going to get me off the hook or just guarantee me being taken out?
It was moot anyway because Fumagalli wanted me to give up writing the book, and I couldn't do that – wouldn't do that. So either way, I had to keep going, and the more I knew – knowledge being power – the better my odds of survival.
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