Chapter Five
I left Detective Rea’s office in a pissy mood and headed back to the visitors’ room at the county jail.
“What’s Stacy’s address?” I asked when Howard was once again seated across from me in his smudgy glass cage.
“She lives in Westwood.” A flash of pain swept over his face. “I mean, she lived in Westwood. A place called Bentley Gardens.”
“You remember the exact address?”
“1622 Bentley. Why do you want to know?”
“I want to pay a little visit,” I said, “to the scene of the crime.”
Five minutes later, I was on the freeway, heading over to Westwood. I wanted to talk to Stacy’s neighbor in Apartment Seven, the lady who’d heard Howard screaming. If she heard Howard, maybe she’d heard something else, something that would point me in the direction of the true killer.
Wait a minute, you’re probably asking yourself. I’m a freelance writer, right? So how come I was talking like V.I. Warshawski? That’s just what I was asking myself that day as I headed over to Stacy’s place. What on earth did I think I was doing? Surely, the police had already questioned everyone. If there were any pertinent facts to be discovered, they would have discovered them.
Then I thought of Detective Rea, and that smug grin on his face, and I knew exactly why I was heading over to Westwood.
Stacy lived on a leafy street a couple of miles from the UCLA campus. Bentley Gardens was a small but well-maintained building, with purple pansies bordering the patch of lawn out front.
I parked my car and headed up a flagstone path to a security intercom. I checked out the building directory and found Apartment Seven. The name on the buzzer said “E. Zimmer.” I was just about to ring, when I suddenly wondered: What the heck was I going to say to E. Zimmer? “Hello, I’m a friend of the man who was arrested for killing your neighbor.” I don’t think so.
I was standing there trying to figure out a plan of attack when I saw a Jeep pull into the building’s carport. A clean-cut guy in his thirties got out and started taking suitcases from the trunk of his car. I pretended to be looking for something in my purse as he came up the path. He smiled at me absently, then took out his keys and let himself in. I couldn’t help noticing his eyes, a beautiful Aidan Quinn blue.
“Here, let me hold the door for you,” I said, as he juggled his suitcases.
“Thanks.” He flashed me another smile, this one of slightly higher wattage than the first, and made his way in. Needless to say, I slipped in right behind him.
Seven apartments surrounded a postage stamp–sized pool in the courtyard of Bentley Gardens. The pool was deserted, except for a few plastic chaises scattered along its rim.
Mr. Blue Eyes let himself into Apartment Four. I tried to look like I knew where I was going as I scanned the doors, looking for Number Seven. Fortunately, Blue Eyes was too busy schlepping suitcases to pay much attention to me.
I walked past Number Six and saw yellow police tape crisscrossing the door. Obviously Stacy’s place. I approached Number Seven, and could hear the low hum of a TV inside.
I had decided on a plan of attack and was just about to knock on E. Zimmer’s door, when I heard, in a gruff Russian accent: “Who are you?”
I turned to see a dark butterball of a man, glaring at me suspiciously.
I did a little mini-glare of my own. Sounding a lot braver than I felt, I countered, “And you are . . . ?”
“Daryush Kolchev, Building Manager.”
“I’m with the press,” I said, putting my plan of attack into action. And it wasn’t a total lie, either. Back in high school, I was a star reporter for the Lincoln High Tattler. Okay, so I wasn’t a star reporter. But I did write some pretty angry Letters to the Editor.
The Russian eyed me skeptically. “Oh?”
“I’m with The Times.”
I flashed him a press card. Okay, so it wasn’t a press card. It was my Bloomingdale’s charge card, but I was hoping he wouldn’t know the difference.
“Los Angeles Times reporter, he came last night, with other media peoples.”
“Oh,” I said, not missing a beat, “not the Los Angeles Times. The New York Times.”
“I have cousin in New York. Yakov Kolchev. You know him?”
“No, can’t say I do.”
“Okay,” he said, brushing back the few remaining strands of hair on his head. “I talk to you. I tell you just what I told other media peoples last night. Stacy Lawrence, she was angel from heaven. Such a smile. And never once late with her rent. If all my tenants pretty and nice like her, I be happy man.”
Clearly, Howard hadn’t been the only one with a crush on Stacy.
“Hey, how come you’re not writing this down?”
“Not necessary. I have a photographic memory. It’s all in here,” I said, tapping my forehead. If I told one more lie, my nose would start growing. “Did you see anything unusual last night? Anybody suspicious?”
“Sure. I see someone suspicious.”
“Who?” I asked, eagerly.
“The guy they arrested. He look very suspicious to me.”
“See anyone else?”
“No, my wife and I were in apartment watching television. Home Shopping. We buy genuine cubic zirconia. Only $19.95, plus shipping and handling.”
“Well, that’s swell. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to talk to Ms. Zimmer.”
“Better you than me,” he said, rolling his eyes and gesturing toward Number Seven. “That Elaine Zimmer. Miserable lady. Always complaining. Tenants like her, I can do without. Not pretty and peppy like Stacy Lawrence.”
His eyes misted over at the mention of Stacy’s name. But he didn’t stay sentimental for long.
“Be sure you spell my name right for New York Times. D-A-R-Y-U-S-H K-O-L-C-H-E-V. Here. I give you card.”
He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a grease-stained business card. “I’m good handyman. You call if something breaks.”
Just then a large woman stepped out from an apartment at the other end of the courtyard.
“Daryush. Come quick. Is diamond bracelet on television. Free shipping and handling!”
Mr. Kolchev thrust his greasy business card into my hand and scurried off to join his wife.
As I stood there watching him, I couldn’t help thinking that Daryush Kolchev had been quite fond of Stacy Lawrence. Maybe a little too fond. And I couldn’t help wondering if Daryush’s rather large, unattractive wife was the jealous type. Jealous enough, perhaps, to bash her rival’s head in with a ThighMaster?