“That was a joke, Molly.”
“But
do
you?”
The furrow between his brows told me he was choosing his words. “When you care about something or someone, you get intensely involved,” he said. “It's one of the qualities I love about you.”
I braced myself. “But . . . ?”
“What if there's nothing to find out? You've been living with this for almost six years, so it's hard to let go. But at some point you'll have to, or this will eat at you forever.”
I thought about one of Bubbie G's Yiddish sayings.
Az
me laigt arein kadoches, nemt men arois a krenk.
If you invest in a fever, you'll realize a disease.
Was I investing in a fever, or was the disease already there?
four
Tuesday, February 17. 11:40 A.M. Corner of Vermont
Avenue and Sunset Boulevard. A robber approached
a man from behind and put a knife to his stomach. He
demanded the victim's money and backpack. A second robber pushed the victim to the ground and the
two fled with the victim's wallet and $585.
(Northeast)
I HAD A SLUGGISH START TO MY DAY THAT A HALF HOUR on the treadmill and two cups of coffee didn't help. After mah-jongg at Edie's last night, Zack and I had stayed up past three finalizing the wedding music and cataloging the gifts that had usurped most of the space in my small apartment and would do so for several weeks until we closed on the house we had bought.
I felt awkward about the gifts, especially those from people who had gifted Ron and me four years ago and might be wondering if this marriage would “take.” (Ron and I had lasted fourteen months.) I felt awkward about the wedding, too, which my parents have insisted on paying for, despite my repeated offers to use money from my divorce settlement. I would have preferred an intimate affair, but I couldn't blame Zack's parents for wanting to share the nuptials of their only child with all their family and friends. And of course Zack had to invite the entire congregation, including the Hoffmans (Ron's parents), and Ron, who had been close with Zack in high school and sits on the synagogue board. The Hoffmans, not surprisingly, had written that they'd be out of town. Ron hadn't responded. I couldn't imagine that he'd want to watch his ex-wife standing under the chuppa with another man. My guess was that he wouldn't come but was enjoying dragging out my discomfort.
With a third cup of Taster's Choice French Vanilla steaming my face and my new flat-panel computer screen, I began entering
Crime Sheet
data. I inherited the column four years ago from Amy Brod, a friend from a UCLA journalism extension course who suggested me as her replacement when she moved to the L.A.
Times.
Amy had warned that the data entering was mindnumbingly tedious, but two years of writing newsletters and brochures for corporations and fund-raising organizations had inured me to “boring,” and I'd had only modest success placing feature articles in magazines and local papers, including the
Times.
A weekly byline, I'd hoped, would give me exposure and credibility and a toe in the larger media door, along with access to detectives who could help me research the true-crime book I'd begun writing. Like my grandmother, I've always been fascinated and repelled by crime and criminals, real and fictional. Aggie's murder had intensified my need for answersânot just the
who,
but the
why.
Amy was right about the data entering, particularly since my editor, George, discourages ironic commentary. But overall, the job is great. It's been a window on the complex, layered identity of the city I love and from which Orthodox Judaism has insulated me most of my life. If you're Orthodox, you tend to live in close-knit communities that provide the necessities: Orthodox private schools; kosher markets, butchers, and bakeries; a ritual bath; synagogues within walking distance. Until I strayed from Orthodox observance in my early twenties, most of my friendsâmany of whom I'd known since elementary schoolâwere Orthodox, too.
I also enjoy the camaraderie with many of the detectives I've come to know, and I still feel a thrill of anticipation when I step into a police station. The crimes I report are mostly repetitive and often mundane, but there are invariably entries that pique my interest. A few have taken me in unexpected directions in the quest for truth, and one, on a dark journey that almost cost me my life and still has me shaking when I allow myself to think about it.
Today, though, my mind was on Creeley. The only crime that mattered to me was Aggie's murder; the only truth, Creeley's involvement. After an hour during which I found myself rereading the same crime data three or four times and making more typos than sense, I phoned Connors. He wasn't in. I had no intention of contacting Porter, who probably wouldn't take my call anyway. So I went online.
My mailbox was cluttered with the usual variety of enticing offers: Russian mail-order brides; Viagra and other prescription drugs that you can get cheaper anywhere in the world than in this country (which, as you probably know, spends all the research and development dollars for said pharmaceuticals); fast-track college diplomas; enhancements for male genitalia (“Ladies, your man needs this bad!”); septic tank repair; “Bikini Zone” No Diets; tips to help stop annoying pop-ups; search engine secrets; LOWEST MORTGAGES IN 35 YEARS!; new technology that will enable you to find anyone (with the exception of the person sending you this offer); frightening, sordid, and pathetic invitations to engage in teen sex.
When I'm particularly offended, or when I have writer's block or am procrastinating, I report spam to my Internet service provider (ISP), which promises to block future posts from the offenders. But the ingenious, friendly folks who send spam seem to have all the time in the world along with an endless supply of e-mail addresses, and I'm pretty certain that my missives to my ISP end up in a virtual circular file. So most of the time, I press DELETE.
That's what I did now. Then I logged on to Google, a search engine that more than makes up for the spam, and typed, “Roland Creeley in Los Angeles, California.”
Creeley
is an unusual nameâa plus for meâand there were only two hits: One was on Goldwyn Terrace, the second on Cherokee. A visit to MapQuest showed that Goldwyn Terrace was in Culver City. The Cherokee address was just north of Hollywood Boulevard.
I assumed that the Culver City Creeley was Roland senior, and since Hollywood Division was handling Randy's death, Cherokee Creeley was probably Roland junior. I wrote down both addresses and the phone numbers Google thoughtfully provided, then placed a call to Cherokee Creeley.
I did it to try to verify that I had the right man. I did it because he might have left an answering machine message and I needed to hear his voice. I drummed my fingers on my desk and sat up straighter when a machine picked up after four rings and what seemed like an interminable wait.
“. . . Randy Creeley. Leave a message and I'll call you back. If you need to reach me right away, call me on my cell phone. . . . Peace and love.”
My heart pounded as I listened to the pleasant timbre of a voice that belonged to a man now deadâa man who had wished his callers peace and love, though that didn't prove anything, certainly not according to the police, who insisted that Creeley had killed my best friend and who could be right. I pressed REDIAL, listened to the message again, and copied down Creeley's cell number.
I had sheets of police reports with
Crime Sheet
data to enter. I had wedding favors to wrap, gifts to
un
wrap and record, a four o'clock appointment with the florist. Zack's words echoed in my head, and I could hear Connors's warning:
Leave it alone, Molly.
But as Smokey Robinson will tell you, nothing could keep me away from my guy.
five
LIKE SUNSET BOULEVARD TWO BLOCKS TO ITS SOUTH, Hollywood Boulevard is more a state of mind than a locale and has more personalities than Sybil. East of Vine it's Anytown, USA, a wide street lined with industrial shops, groceries, and other stores that serve the needs of the area's polyglot residents. At Gower there's a car dealership where I get my Acura serviced and from whose lot you can see the famous HOLLYWOOD sign (originally, HOLLYWOODLAND). And between La Brea and Highland is the Hollywood you've probably read about or may have visited, a giant marquee that has been flashing hope and promises of fame to thousands of would-be actorsâamong them, apparently, Randy Creeleyâand that invites us all to watch the show, to believe in the magic.
In recent years the magic had all but disappeared. Like an aging star desperate for roles in B movies she would have shunned in her prime, Hollywood had slipped into disrepair. The street that once was the scene of glamorous, red-carpeted premieres attended by paparazzi and crowds of exquisitely dressed celebrities and their fans was pocked with dozens of peep shows, tattoo parlors, and tawdry souvenir shops selling sleazy, overpriced products. Standing in for the celebrities and fans were prostitutes and their johns, the homeless, runaways, drug dealers, users. When the local citizens would complain, the LAPD would periodically chase the street people away, but without conviction, the way you halfheartedly swat at flies buzzing around your barbecued ribs and corn. You know the flies will be back the minute you stop waving your hand, and they know that you know that after a while you'll get tired of waving.
Lately Hollywood has undergone a face-lift. The boulevard will never be synonymous with
subtle
(there's the new Erotic Museum, and Heidi Fleiss is opening Hollywood Madam), but the sordid souvenir shops are being replaced, slowly, with trendy eateries, boutiques, and nightclubs. And though the prostitutes and drug dealers do trickle back, along with the homeless, and it's not a neighborhood you want to visit at night, and definitely not alone, the area has improved.
The glitz is back. Turning right from La Brea onto the wide boulevard, I was greeted by the vertical “Hollywood” spire that topped a silver gazebo with life-size silver statues of four multicultural, evening-gowned stars: Mae West, Dolores Del Rio, Dorothy Dandridge, and Anna May Wong. Several blocks farther east I passed the $600 millionâplus Hollywood & Highland project (new investors recently bought it at a fire sale for $200 million), a two-block structure with a Cecil B. DeMilleâ grand marble arch that invites you inside to an open-air entertainment complex with shops, restaurants, and the Kodak Theater. It's the new home of the Academy Awards ceremony and is across the street from Oscar's original residence, the refurbished Roosevelt Hotel.
The grand old theaters, all within a block or so, have been restored, too. The Egyptian, with its Egyptian-style columns, hieroglyphics, and a twelve-foot dog-headed guard god. The El Capitan, where you can still hear a live organist and pretend you're watching a live stage production with Clark Gable or Buster Keaton. Grauman's Chinese Theatre, across the street from the Egyptian, stands out with the huge dragon draped across its pagodalike architecture. You've probably heard about its forecourt, where autographs of over 170 celebrities, along with impressions of their feet and hands, have been preserved in the concrete.
I love movies and movie stars. So does most of my family, including Bubbie G, who used to enjoy watching the classics on cable before macular degeneration stole most of the central vision from her once-bright blue eyes. When we were kids we'd visit Grauman's and try to fit our hands and shoes into the prints made by celebrities we adored, like Judy Garland, Jean Harlow (my mom's favorite), Bette Davis, and Meryl Streep (mine). My ex-husband, Ron, claims he's a perfect match for John Wayne and Cary Grant (not), and when my youngest brother, Joey, was in his
Star Wars
phase, my dad teased him and told him he saw a striking similarity between Joey's hands and R2D2's treads.
I wondered whose footprints Randy Creeley had tried to step into. Brad Pitt's, according to Creeley senior, although that was probably Porter's embellishment.
Only a few empty spaces remain in Grauman's forecourt, by the way, but there's still room for your bronze star to be embedded in the sidewalk along with the other stars on either side of Hollywood between La Brea and Vine. Bob Hope has four starsâone each for radio, stage, TV, and the movies. Gene Autry has a fifth, for music.
There would be no bronze star for Roland Creeley on Hollywood, and there was no star on the sidewalk in front of the two-story blue stucco apartment building where he had lived and died. A wall under repair looked as though it had been electrocuted by lightning bolts of gray plaster, the white paint on one window's trim was flaking, and another window was shuttered with cardboard. I found a parking spot in front and was careful to turn the wheels toward the curb. Cherokee climbs steeply from Hollywood to Yucca, and I didn't relish having my Acura roll down the street.
The building manager, Gloria Lamont, was wary even after studying the business card I'd pressed against the privacy window of her door, and she wasn't keen on talking to me about Creeley.
“I got nothin' to say,” she insisted. “All's I know is, he's dead.” She didn't sound all that sorry.
I put her in her mid-to-late fifties, judging from the salt and pepper in her cornrows and the fine lines around brown eyes several shades darker than the coffee of her skin. She was around my height, five-five, with a generous figure that she showed to advantage in black spandex leggings and a black sweater with a peacock design that gave a welcome jolt of color to the drab hallway.
She was standing in the doorway to her ground-floor apartment at the front of the building. Behind her Marvin Gaye was offering “Sexual Healing,” presumably not to the young voices whose squeals I heard (“I mind my daughter's two young 'uns after school till she comes home,” Gloria told me with weary pride). The smell of fried onions and garlic and tomatoes made me wish I'd had more for lunch than a Power Bar and glass of milk.
“The police said Randy overdosed on drugs,” I told her.
Gloria folded her hands under her ample bosom and fixed me with a warning frown that would have stopped a battalion. “I don't know nothin' about drugs.”
I'd obviously touched on a sore subject. I wondered if the manager's statement was for my benefit or for the benefit of ears that might be listening. I'd heard the clack of a door being opened farther back along the hall. Gloria had heard it, too. She'd turned her head and was frowning in the direction of the sound.
“But did you suspect that Randy was an addict?” I asked.
“I get paid to take care of the building and collect rent,
not to stick my nose into other folk's business,
like some sorry people who don't have nothin' better to
do,
” she finished, her raised volume aimed at the door behind me.
The door closed with a
thunk.
Gloria returned her attention to me. “Randy was into drugs again, he got what he deserved. I don't need his garbage comin' down on me. I don't need the police on my back.”
Her voice was quieter but shook with angerâat Creeley or the police, maybe both. The look in her eyesâa combination of fear and defianceâsaid she suspected that something illegal might be going on behind the doors of the apartments in the building she was managing, but that there was nothing she could do about it.
My knowledge of drugs is limited to what I learn from the news and movies and TV, and to the occasional sad stories of Orthodox Jewish teenagers caught in their snare. I felt a wave of sympathy for Gloria and was counting my blessings when I heard a screech from inside the apartment, followed by a whoop of laughter.
Gloria whipped her head around, sending her cornrows flying with the clicking of castanets. “Jerome Warren, keep your hands off your sister or I'll give you what for!”
The noises stopped. Gloria faced me again.
“I can imagine this hasn't been easy for you,” I said. “Especially with having to take care of your grandchildren. How old are they?”
“Jerome's goin' on seven. Jasmine just turned five.” Her tone was stingy, as if I were a social worker and she wasn't sure what I planned to do with the information.
I smiled. “I have nieces and nephews about the same age. They can be a handful.”
“They good kids, doin' real well in school,” she said in that same guarded voice that wasn't buying my pitch at camaraderie. “You said you're a reporter. Who do you write for? The
Times
?”
“Sometimes. I freelance for different papers.”
She nodded. “My husband Earl, rest his soul, liked to write. Poetry, mostly. He never had anything published, though. So you're fixin' to write about Randy, huh? I can't see why anybody'd care. He wasn't nobody special.”
“Do you know where he worked?”
“No one place. He had a job, was makin' good money from what I could tell, but he lost it 'bout eight, nine months ago when he took sick.”
Something Roland Creeley senior hadn't told Porter. Or maybe Porter hadn't shared it with me. “What happened?”
“He got hold of some bad stuff and almost died. I don't know where he got it,” Gloria added. “Not my business. After that he told me he wasn't gonna have nothin' more to do with drugs. He had me believin' it, too.”
Gloria's shrug said she didn't much care, but I sensed she was angry and disappointed with Creeley's relapse and her misplaced faith.
“How did he pay his rent after he lost his job?”
“He worked some of it off, did jobs around the neighborhood. Fixed doors and screens, small paint jobs, things like that?” She was friendlier now. The arms had come down, like the wooden bars at a railroad crossing when the coast is clear. “He was supposed to paint that outside wall what has cracks, and he was gonna take care of that front window, but then he up and died,” she added with a hint of her former resentment.
So Randy was a handyman, when he wasn't mugging people to support his habit. “I understand that he wanted to be an actor. I heard he was very handsome.”
“Well, he wasn't no Denzel. But yeah, Randy wasn't hard on the eyes.” The woman allowed herself a chuckle. “He talked all the time about makin' it big in the movies. He was a smooth talker, I give him that. He could make you believe night was day and day was night. He'd borrow ten dollars and tell you he gave you back twenty and you owed him ten.” Gloria's voice held equal parts of exasperation and admiration.
“He sounds like my ex-husband.” Ron had smooth-talked his way through an affair and for a while had me doubting the truth, even after I confronted him with proof of his infidelity.
“Is that right?” Gloria clucked. “Well, I have to say the fear of dyin' shook Randy up some, 'cause he straightened up his ways. He started goin' to church regular. He paid his rent on time, prob'ly 'cause he wasn't spendin' most of his money on drugs. A few months back he gave me two hundred ten dollars. I said, âRandy, what's this about?' An' he says, âMrs. Lamont, this here is money I been owin' you a long time, and there's more comin' but I don't have it just yet.' An' even before that he'd bring candy for my grandkids, and once in a while, some toys he knew they wanted. He was nice like that.” For the first time she sounded sad that Creeley had died.
I wondered if Randy had paid for the toys or helped himself to them. Maybe he'd been playing Robin Hood. “Did he ever get into fights with the other tenants?”
“If he did, I didn't hear about it. I know he did time, but I didn't hold that against him. People change, you know? 'Course, I'm not sayin' I didn't keep my eye on him at first,” she admitted. “But he was always friendly, never gave me a lick of trouble. Until last week, that is. He more'n made up for it then.”
A sharp cry from her apartment drew her attention. Gloria turned and listened. “TV,” she told me when she was facing me again.
“Who called the police, by the way?” I'd forgotten to ask Connors or Porter.
“I did, one o'clock in the morning. His girlfriend Doreen woke me and made me open his door. She knowed something was wrong 'cause Randy was supposed to meet her and he didn't show, didn't phone? She screamed loud enough to wake the dead when she saw him lyin' there on the floor. He wasn't good-lookin' then, unh-unh.” The manager pulled her lips into a grim line.
I took out a notepad. “Do you have a phone number where I can reach Doreen?”
Gloria shook her head. “I don't know her last name, neither. The day after Randy died, she came by to get some clothes she maybe left in his place, but the police had that yellow tape up? I told her, âGimme your number, I'll call you when they done,' but I must've took down the number wrong 'cause when I phoned two days later after the police took down the tape, the lady who answered didn't know Doreen. I expect she'll be by.”
I handed her a business card. “When Doreen
does
come, would you give her this?”
“I guess I can do that.”
“Would it be okay for me to see Randy's apartment, Mrs. Lamont? You said the police were done, right?” I added when she frowned, “I promise I won't take anything.” I heard the anxiousness in my voice.
Gloria heard it, too. She was looking at me shrewdly, those brown eyes narrowed. “What do you need to see his apartment for, anyway?”
“Sometimes you can understand a person better from seeing where he lived.” Which is true.
“So this is for your story, huh?” She crossed her arms again. “That's a load of you-know-what. What's going on?”
I debated, but not for long. “My best friend was killed six years ago. Now the police are saying Randy did it. I need to know if it's true.”