FOURTEEN

BUDGIE AND FAUSTO were the first of the midwatch teams to break away from the hunt for the red Mazda. Virtually every car had driven east toward gang territory and the less affluent neighborhoods where most of Hollywood’s street criminals resided, but the suspects’ descriptions could have put them anywhere. By now the cars were looking for a male, white or possibly Hispanic, in his midforties, of medium height and weight, with dark hair. He was wearing a Dodgers cap and sunglasses, a blue tee, and jeans. His companion was a female, white, also about forty, tall and full-figured, with red hair that two Latino women said looked like a cheap wig. The woman with the gun wore sunglasses also, a tight, multicolored cotton dress, and white espadrilles. Both witnesses commented on her large “bosoms.”

A supplemental description was given to the communications operator by Viktor Chernenko during an on-scene interview thirty minutes after the shooting, when the area around the ATM machine was taped off and controlled by uniformed officers. Even though Viktor knew that the Bank Squad from Robbery-Homicide Division would be handling this one, he was confident that these were the suspects from the jewelry store.

When the report call came in on their MDT, Fausto said to Budgie, “Well, by now they’re in their hole. Best we could hope for is to spot the abandoned Mazda. They probably dumped it somewhere.”

The report they were assigned was for attempted murder, which in Hollywood could mean anything. This was, after all, the land of dreams and fantasy. They were sent to a quite expensive, artsy-craftsy, split-level house in Laurel Canyon, certainly not an area where attempted murders occurred frequently. The fact that there was no code assigned to the call made them think that whoever took the call at Communications didn’t think it was worthy of urgent response.

The caller was waiting on his redwood balcony under a vaulted roof. He waved after they parked, and they began climbing the outside wooden staircase. It was still nearly an hour before sunset so they didn’t need to light their way, but it was dark from shadows cast by all of the ferns and palms and bird of paradise plants on both sides of the staircase.

Fausto, who was getting winded from the steep climb, figured that the gardeners must make a bundle.

The caller held open the door and said, “Right this way, officers.”

He was seventy-nine years old and dressed in an ivory-white bathrobe with satin lapels, and leather monogrammed slippers. He had dyed-auburn transplants and a gray mustache that used to be called a toothbrush. He introduced himself as James R. Houston but added that his friends called him Jim.

The inside of the house said 1965: shag carpets, lime-green-flowered sofa, Danish modern dining room furniture, and even an elaborate painted clown in a gilded frame resembling the ones that the late actor-comedian Red Skelton had painted.

When Fausto said, “By any chance is that a Red Skelton?” and got a negative reply, Budgie said, “Who’s Red Skelton?”

“A famous comic actor of yesteryear,” the man said. “And a fine painter.”

Only after their host insisted did they agree to have a glass of lemonade from a pitcher on the dining room table. Then he said to Fausto, “Even though I don’t have the honor of owning a Red Skelton clown painting, I did work with him in a movie. It was in nineteen fifty-five, I think. But don’t hold me to that.”

Of course, he was implying that he was an actor. Budgie Polk had learned by now that in Hollywood Division, when a suspect or victim says he’s an actor, a cop’s automatic response is “And what do you do when you’re not acting?”

When she said this to him, he said, “I’ve dabbled in real estate for years. My wife owns some rental property that I manage. Jackie Lee’s my second wife.” Then he corrected himself and said, “Actually, my third. My first wife died, and my second, well…” With that he made a dismissive gesture and then said, “It’s about my present wife that I’ve called you here.”

Budgie opened her report binder and said, “Is someone trying to murder her?”

“No,” he said, “she’s trying to murder me.”

Suddenly his hand holding the glass of lemonade began to tremble, and the ice cubes tinkled.

With his long experience in Hollywood crime, Fausto took over. “And where is your wife now?”

“She’s gone to San Francisco with her sister-in-law. They’ll be back Monday morning, which is why I felt safe to call you here. I thought you might like to look for clues like on…”

“CSI,” Fausto said. These days it was always the CSI TV show. Real cops just couldn’t measure up.

“Yes,” he said. “CSI.”

“How is she trying to kill you?” Fausto asked.

“She’s trying to poison me.”

“How do you know that?” Budgie asked.

“I get a stomachache every time she cooks a meal. I’ve started going out to dinner a lot because I’m so frightened.”

“And you wouldn’t have any physical evidence, would you?” Budgie asked. “Something that you’ve saved? Like they do on CSI?”

“No,” he said. “But it happens every time. It’s a gradual attempt to murder me. She’s a very sophisticated and clever woman.”

“Is there any other evidence of her homicidal intent that you can offer?” Fausto asked.

“Yes,” he said. “She’s putting a toxic substance in my shoes.”

“Go on,” Budgie said. “How do you know?”

“My feet are always tired. And the soles sometimes hurt for no reason.”

Fausto glanced at his watch and said, “Anything else?”

“Yes, I believe she’s putting a toxic substance in my hats.”

“Let me guess,” Fausto said. “You have headaches?”

“How did you know?”

“Here’s the problem as I see it, Mr. Houston,” Fausto said. “If we arrest her, a high-priced shyster like the ones Michael Jackson hires would look at all this evidence and say, your wife’s a lousy cook, your shoes’re too tight, and so’s your hat. You see where I’m coming from?”

“Yes, I take your point, Officer,” he said.

“So I think what you should do is put this aside for now and call us back when you have more evidence. A lot more evidence.”

“Do you think I should risk my life eating her food to collect the evidence?”

“Bland food,” Fausto said. “It’s not easy to disguise poison in bland dishes. Go ahead and enjoy your mashed potatoes and vegetables and a steak or some chicken, but not fried chicken. Just don’t go for the spicy stuff and avoid heavy sauces. That’s where it could be risky. And buy some shoes that are a half size bigger. Do you drink alcohol with dinner?”

“Three martinis. My wife makes them.”

“Cut back to one martini. It’s very hard to put a toxic dose in only one martini. Have it after dinner but not just before bedtime. And only wear hats when you go out in the sun. I think all of this will disrupt a murder plot or flush out the perpetrator.”

“And you’ll come back when we have more to go on?”

“Absolutely,” Fausto said. “It will be a pleasure.”

There was no pleasure to be had in the house of Farley Ramsdale. Three hours had passed since Cosmo and Ilya had pushed the car into the little garage, and still Farley and Olive had not come home. At one point Cosmo thought Ilya was asleep, lying there on the couch with her eyes closed.

But when he got up to look out the window at the darkened street, she said, “Stay back from the window. Every police in Hollywood looks for a man in a blue shirt and a woman with the hair that they shall know is a wig. We cannot call a taxi here. A driver shall think of us when he hears about the robbery. Then police may come here and talk to Farley and he is going to know it was us and he shall tell them.”

“Shut up, Ilya. I must think!”

“We cannot go to a bus. We may be seen by police. We cannot call any of your friends to come for us unless you wish to share money with them because they shall find out. We are in a trap.”