two
Tuesday, July 15. 11:48
A.M.
8600 block of Pico Boulevard. A suspect used a victim’s prescription without permission to obtain a painkiller that had been prescribed as a controlled substance. (West Los Angeles)
My breakfast room table lies buried under Pisa-like towers of magazines, newspapers, and junk mail that I move to the spare bedroom every Friday afternoon—religiously, I guess you could say—to make room for the silver Sabbath candlesticks my ex-husband’s parents gave me when Ron and I became engaged. When I discovered that Ron was sleeping with his cousin Susan’s best friend, Tilly—while I was in his mother’s kitchen frying latkes for the family Chanukah party, Ron and the zaftig blonde were apparently sizzling in the living room—I contemplated throwing the candlesticks out along with him.
But the candlesticks are beautiful, if a little ornate, and I figure I earned them. That and the engagement ring, which I traded for a new, ultra-thin, ultra-light laptop and laser jet printer and a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes. And half of Ron’s considerable earnings as a day trader during the fourteen months of our marriage.
Gives a whole new meaning to “mutual” funds.
I unearthed the past two days’ editions of the L.A.
Times
and found two inches of print about the unidentified hit-and-run victim in Monday’s California section (formerly called Metro, don’t ask me why they changed it):
Anyone having information regarding a hit-and-run early Sunday morning on Laurel Canyon and Lookout Mountain, please contact Detective Andy Connors at the Hollywood Division. . . .
They hadn’t named the woman, but that didn’t mean the police hadn’t identified her. I checked today’s edition of the
Times
but found nothing else.
In collecting data for the
Crime Sheet
, I’ve come to know several detectives in the LAPD divisions I cover. Some are as much fun as a root canal. They’ll hover over me like Goodyear blimps while I’m jotting down notes about the crimes listed on the board, as if they’re worried I’m going to steal it. Others enjoy shooting the breeze and will make life easier for me by photocopying sanitized police reports that I can read at home. Andy Connors is one of the latter, and I know him better than some.
I phoned Hollywood and scanned a Neiman’s catalog while I waited for him to come on the line. So many shoes, so little closet space.
“Connors,” he announced, pronouncing the name
Cahners
. Sixteen of his thirty-eight years had been in L.A., but they had barely dimmed his flat Boston accent.
“Andy, it’s Molly Blume.”
“The sexy, beautiful journalist, Molly Blume? Still breaking hearts?”
“Only two this morning. It’s a slow day.” I couldn’t help smiling. “What about you?”
“Nah, I’m waiting for you.”
We chitchatted for a minute, flirting comfortably the way we always do, both of us knowing that nothing would come of it for many reasons, including the fact that I’m Modern Orthodox Jewish and he’s Irish Catholic. Then I asked him about the woman.
“Lenore Saunders,” he said promptly.
So she had a name. “Is she . . . ?”
“Hanging in there. Internal bleeding, broken leg. She came out of surgery fine, and they upgraded her from critical to serious yesterday. It could’ve gone the other way. She’s one lucky lady, considering—” He stopped.
“Considering what?”
“Considering she lost a lot of blood. But she’s young, twenty-six, so that helps. What’s your interest, Molly? Do you know something?” His voice held quickened interest, the panting of a dog sniffing a bone.
I had the feeling that wasn’t what Connors had been about to say. “No. I just read about her in your police report.”
“And you’re thinking you may have a story, huh?” He sounded disappointed. “You’re doing a piece on hit-and-runs?”
“Actually, I’m curious about the nightgown. Why would this woman be out on Laurel Canyon at two in the morning, wearing a nightgown? What kind was it?”
“Versace. You’re doing fashion now? What happened to true crime? Although judging by what they’re charging for clothes nowadays, it’s the same thing.”
“Was it a regular gown?” I asked patiently. Andy likes his fun. “Sweatpants? A robe?”
“It was silk, or something that looked like silk. Thin straps. Cream-colored, with lace. Probably looked sexier without all the blood.”
I winced and blinked away the mental image. “Was she barefoot?”
“She had on one of those backless sandals. We found the other one several hundred feet away.”
Cinderella after the ball. “Who ID’d her?”
“The mom, Betty Rowan. Lenore was supposed to have dinner with a friend Sunday night. When she didn’t show, the friend called Lenore’s apartment, then the mom. The mom phoned hospitals till she found her.”
Different last names, which meant Lenore was married, or had been. Probably the latter, since there didn’t seem to be an anxious husband in the picture. I asked Connors, and he confirmed that she was divorced. I’d discarded Ron’s surname along with my wedding band and wondered why Lenore, like so many other women, hadn’t done the same.
“Where is she now?” I asked.
The hospital he named was a five-minute drive from my apartment, which is on Blackburn west of Fairfax. It would be easier to walk it, considering how hard it is to find street parking, and I hate paying those exorbitant parking lot fees.
“If you’re thinking of taking her Godiva chocolates and flowers, save your money and time,” Connors said, reading my thoughts. “She’s not having visitors. No point, anyway. She’s asleep most of the time and doesn’t make much sense when she’s awake. Could be the trauma, the doc says, could be the sedation and the aftereffects of the anesthesia.”
“Has she said anything about what happened? Does she remember anything about the car that hit her?”
“The two times I talked to her she didn’t remember a thing. No surprise, considering she had more meds in her than Eli Lilly when they brought her in.”
That perked my interest. “She overdosed?”
“I didn’t say that. She just had a lot of stuff.”
“What kinds of meds?”
“Sorry.”
“Come on, Andy. It isn’t classified information. I can get it from at least ten hospital staffers.” I could, too. I’m skilled at obtaining information, but Connors could save me time.
“Prozac, Atavan, Haldol,” he said after a moment. “The mom played dumb at first but coughed up the names when the docs insisted they couldn’t treat Lenore in the dark.”
“Why the big secret? So the daughter’s depressed. Half the country’s on Prozac, the other half is thinking about it,” I said, jotting down notes on the Neiman’s brochure. “Did Mrs. Rowan say why Lenore was depressed?”
“She said there was no one reason. Apparently, Lenore’s been depressed for years.”
I found it hard to believe Betty Rowan didn’t know the cause of her daughter’s long-term depression. In my family, everyone knows everything about everyone. Well, just about. “What about the doctor who prescribed the meds?”
“Her shrink. He wouldn’t discuss Lenore. Doctor-patient confidentiality, something even you can’t get around.”
I could picture Connors’s smirk. “What’s his name?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“I can find out.”
“Go ahead.”
One of the reasons Connors and I get along well is that I know when to stop pushing. “So if Lenore was all doped up,” I said, thinking aloud, “maybe she just wandered out of her house onto Laurel Canyon. Does she live near the scene of the accident?”
“She lives in West Hollywood, just west of Crescent Heights and south of Santa Monica.”
I calculated the distance. About two miles, maybe more. “So she
could
have walked.” And in L.A., walking around in a nightgown in the middle of a warm July night doesn’t necessarily signal trouble or invite intervention. But why would she walk to Lookout Mountain?
“Even if she wandered into traffic,” Connors said, “that doesn’t excuse the bastard who hit her and drove off. The doc said another ten minutes, she would’ve bled to death.”
The thought made me shudder. “Where exactly did it happen? At the intersection of Lookout and Laurel Canyon?”
“Just north of Lookout. Why?”
“I’m trying to get a picture. What about the guy who called it in?” According to the report, he’d used his cell phone to notify the police and waited till the paramedics arrived. “Anything new with him?”
“He won five bucks on a Quick Pick,” Connors drawled. “Why the big interest, Molly? Running out of material?”
“I told you, I’m intrigued,” I said, but Connors had struck a chord. Two months ago I’d mailed my editor and agent the 512 pages of my final draft on the Verone case: a father convicted of injecting his son with the AIDS virus because he didn’t want to pay child support. You may have heard of it.
I’d spent a much-needed month—not nearly long enough—catching up with the minutiae of my life and relaxing, taking long walks on the beach, letting the salty air and gently lapping waves purge the gruesome images I’d been living with for almost a year. Then my agent called, and my editor (she loved the manuscript and would be sending me her notes soon), both wanting to know what was next.
I wanted to know, too. I’d been bouncing ideas around in my head like Ping-Pong balls, looking through boxes of yellowed newspaper clippings, searching for a crime that would engage my mind and heart for the next year or longer. So far I’d come up empty. Maybe I was trying too hard. Maybe I was hoping that occupying myself with the woman in the nightgown would free my mind and open the door to my muse, who seemed to be on vacation.
That was part of the
why
. The other part—the tug I’d felt the minute I’d read the police report—I couldn’t explain to Connors, because I couldn’t explain it to myself.
“C’mon, Andy. The guy didn’t see it happen?”
“He hasn’t changed his story.”
“What if he was driving the car that hit her? Maybe he felt bad about leaving the scene and came back but was afraid to admit he was the one. Did you examine his vehicle?”
“Did you brush your teeth? What if you stick to what you do best, okay? Leave the detecting to me.” His tone was light, but he sounded annoyed.
“It was just a thought. A few more questions?”
“I’m just a guy who can’t say no. Just like you, Molly Blume. ‘Yes, I said yes, I will, yes,’ ” he whispered intimately, then laughed.
I sighed. The first time we’d met, and several times since then, Connors had teased me about my name—just my luck, I’d thought, a detective familiar with
Ulysses
and Molly Bloom, Joyce’s sexually frank and willing heroine who could fit right in with Carrie and the others on
Sex and the City
. In college I became adept at saying no, no, no to guys who thought they were wowing me with their literary breadth while their hands and lips made exploratory moves. In defending herself, my mother, who has an M.A. in English literature, claims she and my dad were prepared for a boy and had to choose a name quickly for the birth certificate. Actually, I like Molly, which is a variation of my paternal great-grandmother’s Polish-Jewish name, Mala. In Hebrew, it’s Malka. I like that, too.
“Does the mom know what Lenore was doing near Lookout Mountain and Laurel Canyon?” I asked.
“She says she has no idea.”
I detected a note of skepticism in Connors’s voice. “You don’t believe her?”
“I didn’t say that.” He sounded amused.
“But you implied it.”
“I didn’t imply. You inferred. Next.”
I scowled at him through the receiver. “What are you holding back, Andy?” I knew he was, and that he was savoring the knowledge.
“I’ve told you everything I can.”
Not really an answer. “Lenore was depressed, right? She was medicated. What if she wandered into traffic deliberately? What if she tried to kill herself?”
“See you around, Molly.”
three
Less than an hour later Zack Abrams phoned.
“Edie gave me your number and told me now would be a good time to call,” he said. “I hope I’m not interrupting your work.”
Have I mentioned that my sister works faster than DSL?
“Actually, your timing is perfect. I was taking a break.” Over a decade had passed since I’d last seen him, and I swear my face was tingling just from the sound of his voice. Or maybe it was the caffeine rush from devouring three Hershey’s Milk Chocolate with Almonds—my reward for finishing the first draft of the chromium-six piece. “Welcome back to L.A.,” I said, remembering my manners and wondering if he felt as awkward as I did.
“It’s good to be home. How are you, Molly?”
“Wonderful.” I wouldn’t have admitted otherwise, but it was pretty much true. I had a family I adored, a career I loved, and security, thanks to an ex-husband who was someone else’s problem now. Not Ron’s cousin’s friend. Like the latkes, she had been a side dish. “Edie said you’re a rabbi. I was kind of surprised.”
He laughed. “You still cut to the chase, don’t you?”
“As I recall, having a pulpit isn’t exactly what they predicted in your yearbook. Most Likely to Break Girls’ Hearts, right?” Ron’s photo had been in the same book—Most Likely to Succeed in Business. He’d certainly sold me a bill of goods.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t remember,” Zack said with wry amusement. “I guess I’ll never live that down.”
“Probably not,” I agreed. “I thought you were going to law school.”
“So did my parents and Harvard.”
“What happened?”
“If you’re really interested, I’d be happy to tell you the details in person. Off the record, of course. You have to say that to reporters, don’t you?”
“Off the record.” This was going well. I relaxed and swiveled in my chair. “Do I get to ask questions?”
“As
I
recall, it wouldn’t matter if I said no.”
No argument there. I am nothing if not persistent. “You can always refuse to answer.”
“Somehow I think you’ll prevail. You’re a terrific reporter, right? Kidding aside, Molly, it’s wonderful that you followed your dream.”
“I do all right.” I was tempted to think he’d been pining for me all these years, following my career and byline, but I figured Edie or her friend Harriet had told him. “Where are you staying?”
“With my parents, until I find a place. I arrived a week ago and haven’t had much chance to look. I’d love to see you, Molly. I know this is last minute, but how about dinner tomorrow? Unless you have other plans.”
Bantering on the phone had been fun, but the thought of seeing him made my stomach muscles curl. I could say no. I
could
have plans: gardening in my landlord’s yard after the heat of the July day passed, editing the chromium-six story one last time before I e-mailed it to the paper, seeking a perfection I’d never achieve. Maybe watching the rerun of
Law and Order
, which I’d missed on its first airing.
“Dinner sounds nice,” I said.
“Great. I hear Rafi’s has excellent food. I can do early, around five or six, but I have to be back for
maariv
.” Evening services. “Or we can do it after
maariv
, after nine, if that’s not too late.”
“Late is better for me.”
“For me, too—that way we won’t have to rush. I’ll make reservations for nine-fifteen, if that’s okay, and pick you up at nine. Where do you live?”
“Nine-fifteen is fine. I’ll meet you there.”
On blind dates I prefer driving my own car. I hate that awkward ride when I’m trying to get a conversation going with a stranger who can’t make eye contact because his eyes (I hope) are on the road. Plus, if the date’s a disaster, I can always plead another engagement and escape. Zack wasn’t a blind date, but I wanted to feel in control of the evening. I certainly hadn’t been in control twelve years ago.