Anatomy of a Crossword (31 page)

“Yeah,” Lance said after they had settled into sleek black Italian lounge chairs on the deck, “I could've killed Darlessen for ruining that opportunity for me.” This induced another laugh. “Of course, I didn't. But, like they say ‘what goes around comes around.'”

Rosco paused for a moment, trying to ascertain the applicability of the remark. “Interesting,” he finally said. “In fact, that's exactly why—”

Lance held his hand up, stopping Rosco in midsentence. “Hey. Hey. Who doesn't know why you're here? Why do you think I told my agent to cough up my phone number, PDQ? You could sell those seven digits of mine to any starlet in town for a fortune if you wanted. Hell, to be honest, I can't figure out why it took you so long to get out here.”

“You were expecting me?”

“Sure. I was expecting you four days ago—you or the cops, and to be honest, I would have preferred LAPD. I would have liked to get a uniform out here. When I heard that Darlessen had been killed, I said, ‘Man, the cops are going to be at my front door before I can finish my morning coffee.' Carpe diem, that's what I like to say.”

“So does my wife.”

“How about that … Anyway, whammo, next thing you know, they got Debra Marcollo locked up.” Lance lit a cigarette, but rather than make him appear more macho, it made him seem weaker, less in control, and, to a certain extent, nervous.

“Weren't you and Debra dating at one time?” Rosco asked. He turned his face to look at the ocean's waves breaking on the beach rather than at Lance.

Lance laughed through his cigarette smoke. The sound was forced. “Hey, I've dated half the babes in Hollywood. If you're lookin' for a jealous lover angle, that ain't me. I can pick the women off the trees, anytime, anywhere. I can't tell you how many sweeties I've been through.”

“So you're the one who dumped Debra, not the other way around?”

Lance inhaled deeply. “Is that what she told you? She said she dumped me?”

“I'd just like to hear your side of it.” Rosco returned his gaze to diRusa's face.

“Yeah, well Debra's a liar. You can't believe anything she says. Sure she's gonna insist it was me who killed Darlessen. She's out to save her own neck.” The actor gave his watch a nervous glance.

“Am I keeping you from something?” Rosco asked.

“No. No. I'm expecting someone. You want a beer or something? Tequila sunrise? Anything you want, I got.”

“I'm fine. It's a little early for me—”

“Hey, sunup was a long, long time ago.”

“Right.” Rosco nodded, then got to the point. “When was the last time you were in Chick Darlessen's house?”

“A couple of—” Lance stopped in mid-sentence and flipped what was left of his cigarette out onto the beach. “How did you know I'd been in his house?”

“Debra told me,” Rosco lied, then followed it with another falsehood. “Besides, the cops picked up a strange set of fingerprints at the house. I just figured they were yours.”

“Hey, back off, I've never been printed. I've never been in the military. The FBI doesn't have any print records on me.”

“I didn't say they were yours. I just put two and two together. I mean, you live right down the beach? So why were you in his house if you and Chick disliked each other so much?”

Lance reached for another cigarette but realized the move appeared self-conscious so he tossed the pack onto a long granite coffee table that looked almost purple in its blackness. “I'm trying to quit,” he said to cover the move. “Look, that's my business why I was in Debra's house, okay? So drop it.”

“But Darlessen was a real thorn in your side, right? He successfully barred you from the
Anatomy
set and stole your girlfriend.”

“Darlessen didn't steal jack from me, I don't care what Debra says … Okay, hell, I was in his house because I was still getting it on with her. I mean, why not, she's nearby, right? She'd do in a pinch. And, yeah, she's got problems with booze, but so what? Who doesn't? … Wait here.” Lance stood and walked back into the house. He returned in less than a minute and tossed a key-ring to Rosco. “There. Those are the keys to Darlessen's house. You don't believe me, walk up there and give it a try. Who do you think gave those to me? It sure as hell wasn't Chickie, I'll tell you that much.”

Rosco studied the keys. “Why so many?”

“I don't know. That's what she gave me. The fat brass one opens the beachside door, on the deck. I don't know what the others are for.”

“Do you want to go there now and find out?”

Again, Lance looked at his watch. “Nah, I told you, I'm expecting someone. He shoulda been here by now.”

“Forgive me for being blunt, Lance, but if you analyze the facts of this case, you look guilty as sin. Darlessen steals your girl, or borrows her, or whatever you want to term it. He keeps you from greeting a lead role in a major TV film, you live just south of him on the beach, you've got keys to his house, your prints are obviously all over the place … And, even if you didn't kill him, how can you sit here and do nothing and let your ex-girlfriend—or your sometime girlfriend—take the fall for a crime she didn't commit?”

Lance laughed. This time he seemed truly tickled. “That's exactly what I told my agent on Monday! I mean, like almost verbatim … But, hey, my prints aren't on that gun; Debra's are. I don't know what kind of crock she's been feeding you, but she pulled that trigger, you can bet on it. Me? I'm just trying to make—” Lance was cut short by the ringing of the doorbell. “I gotta get that. Take a gander at the view, Rosco … stretch your legs … whatever … I'll be back in a couple of minutes.”

Rosco stood, but Lance returned almost immediately. “Sorry about that … a little piece of business … Like I was saying, I'm just trying to make the most of a situation. That's what you gotta do in my profession.” He lit another cigarette, then said, “Now, I've got a little surprise for you … If you know what's good for you, don't turn around.”

Naturally, Rosco began to swing his body around to see what Lance was looking at, but the actor growled, “I said, don't turn your head.”

Rosco did as he was told.

“That's better. See, Rosco, I got some friends in high places. Some people who'd like to see my career really take off. And I don't mean just TV movies.”

“I gather I've got someone behind me, ready to shoot, in order to make sure your career stays on track?”

“You're a smart guy. And that's exactly the way I was gonna play you. Quick-witted, clever, intuitive … Like I said earlier, I'm gonna respect what you've got to do. But you have to respect what I have to do. I'm just sorry you're not LAPD. It would make this a lot easier, and make a prettier picture … If you will.”

Lance raised his hands slowly until they were level with his shoulders, as if Rosco had a gun pointed at him. “Just sit still, my friend, this'll be over in a second and you won't feel a thing.” Lance looked past Rosco and added, “Are you all set, Carl?”

A voice said, “Ready when you are, Mr. diRusa.”

Lance tightened his jaw and said, “Then, let's do it.”

Rosco recognized the sound immediately, having heard it at crime scenes more times than he could remember. It was the whirring and clicking of a 35 mm SLR camera with a motor drive attachment, most likely a Nikon. It went on for ten or fifteen seconds and abruptly stopped.

“Got it,” the voice behind Rosco said.

“Great!” Lance stood and walked across the deck to Carl. “Can we get this in on Monday? That's what my agent's looking for. Maybe with a headline like,
PRIVATE DICK SHAKES DOWN DIRUSA OVER DARLESSEN MURDER
?”

“That's up to editorial, Mr. diRusa. I'm just the shooter.”

“Yeah, well, thanks, Carl, I'll have my agent beam in with your editorial people.”

Carl ambled up the side walkway of the house and Lance returned to his chair and said,
“Variety
.”

“I gather you're not talking about the spice of life?”

Lance laughed once again. “I like that … ‘variety is the …' Good. That's good. Look, Rosco, I told you that my agent and PR people expected some major press out of this situation, and we haven't gotten even a squib in the
Toluca Times
. LAPD picks up Debra, and bang, it's all over in a week or two. Well, no way, José. We had to make a move. I said I'd respect you, right? And I did. We got the back of your head and that's it. We get my mug out there and you remain the mystery man. I respect what you do. You respect what I do. I'm a fair player.”

“The problem I have with all this, Lance, is someone died last weekend, and a murderer is walking around free because the police have the wrong person locked up for it.”

“Hey, you want to live in Fantasy Land, go down to Anaheim. I got work to do. I gave you a break here. End of interview.”

Rosco stood, walked through Lance's house, and climbed into the Mustang without saying another word. He backed out onto the P.C.H. and headed north again. Anger at diRusa, at the whole publicity-hungry stunt made him strangely calm and focused.
At least I have the keys to Chick Darlessen's house
, he reminded himself over and over.
If I came away from this bogus interview with nothing else, at least I can return to square one without breaking and entering
.

Rosco left the P.C.H., relocated Darlessen's bungalow, and parked the Mustang on the road a hundred yards to the north of the house. Then he walked back along the beach where he climbed up to what had once been Chick's and Debra's second-story deck. Using the brass key, he unlocked the deck door and stepped inside into a central living/dining area with a galley kitchen at the rear. There was an open door revealing what had obviously been Chick and Debra's ocean-view bedroom, and another door, closed, that Rosco assumed led to Chick's small home office.

A cursory glance into the bedroom revealed little of interest, but the door to the second room was locked. Rosco tried the keys until he found the proper one, and swung the door open. There was a blood-splattered bullet hole on the wall; below it, on the couch, Darlessen's blood had dried into a dark-brown shade. More of it had stained the carpet. It resembled a thick coating of mud, but the odor was acrid and strong. The smell of death—there was no mistaking it.

Rosco sat on the edge of the desk and studied the scene as he tried to visualize what had happened on the night Chick Darlessen had died.
Did Darlessen catch Debra with Lance … or maybe someone else?
he wondered.
Did a fight ensue with either Debra or her lover wielding the murder weapon? Or was there some other issue at play? But then, why would the killer use Darlessen's pistol unless he or she came to the house unprepared, which seems like an unlikely scenario? Or, did the killer possess another weapon and opt not to use it in order to pin the blame on Debra? Or has she been the guilty party all along?

Rosco groaned in frustration and leaned back on the desk where his left hand brushed against a brass cigarette box. He picked it up to read the engraving, “It's never too late to quit.” He chuckled and shook the box. It made a rattling, metallic noise, nothing like the sound cigarettes make. He opened the box to find five weathered pebbles, each rubbed to a frosty sheen and nearly perfectly spherical in shape from years of tumbling through the Pacific surf. Rosco closed the box and set it back on the desk near Chick's answering machine. It had been disconnected from the wall jack, most likely by the police, Rosco guessed, after they'd listened to the messages. He tapped the play button and a computer generated voice indicated that there were three messages, all dated the previous Sunday afternoon—before Chick had been shot and killed. Rosco recognized Debra's voice on the first message:

“Hi, hon, I'm gonna be a little late. Gotta make a quick pit stop. See ya soon. Kisses.”

The machine beeped and moved on to the second message:

“Hey, Chickie, it's me. I was hoping for a progress report. Where do we stand? Give me a ring.”

The machine beeped for a third time:

“Chick, it's Stan, you there? Pick up if you are. Look, fella, we need to talk. This ain't chump-change … you know what I mean?”

CHAPTER 36

With her hand still clutching her favorite crossword-solving pen, Belle looked at Sara. “Putting aside logic for the moment—”

“Which I agree can be dramatically overrated, dear—”

“And Rosco's conclusion that the mystery puzzles have no connection to Darlessen's death—”

“Because, as you stated yesterday,” Sara interjected, “if they're unrelated, how is it that the clues and solutions appear to have such uncanny bearing upon the case?”

To which Belle added a brief and gratified “Exactly!”

The two women were seated side by side on a beige ultra-suede love seat in Sara's hotel suite. A room service cart bearing two hearty breakfasts had been pushed aside, and the balcony doors were thrown wide open to the pleasant mid-morning sun. Sara momentarily glanced away from the crossword spread on the table before her to gaze through the doors. She was still clad in her dressing gown, a rather grand satin-trimmed affair she deemed appropriate for her new status as Hollywood diva. Belle was in her favorite jeans. The generation gap between these two friends was apparent only in their clothing; in all other ways, they behaved like peers—even to finishing one another's sentences. And sometimes each other's thoughts.

“Famous Last Words,”
Sara mused. “An ominous title—”

“I couldn't agree more,” Belle replied. “And look at 36-Across: ‘_____dead body'___”

“And ADIOS AMIGOS at 61-Across … especially in light of last night's dinner.”