I WAS CLOSE now. I had one idea and one goal.
I borrowed twenty dollars from Erma and headed out to Malibu. It was Friday afternoon—the coast highway was jammed with traffic leaving town. I sat in the car and sweated because my jacket hid the bloodstains on my shirt. I inched along in first gear. I was in pain but I didn’t want to take any pills. I didn’t want to mess up my clarity.
I turned inland at Ramirez Canyon and drove up to the Silverman estate. Silverman’s gates were standing open. I didn’t stop to wonder why—I drove straight in. There was nobody on the road. I drove almost to the house, veered off, and hid the car in the trees.
I’d brought my smallest tape recorder from home. I loaded a tape and wedged the recorder into my jeans. I threaded the microphone wire under my shirt and clipped the minimicrophone to my collar. I checked the mirror. The round black dot looked like a button.
I turned on the recorder and cranked the volume. I closed my jacket over the bulge in my jeans.
I left the cane in the car and limped to the edge of the tree line. A helicopter was parked in a clearing on the land side of the house. The propellers were spinning. I saw a man in the cockpit and a man crouched beside the landing gear. Hannah Silverman was bent over talking to the guy outside. She held her hair to protect it from propeller wash.
The Silvermans were making a getaway.
I stayed in the trees and circled the drive on the ocean side. Stacks of Vuitton luggage sat on the terrace of the house: it was too much for just the weekend. Three Latin maids walked out the front door. One had a picnic basket, one had carry-on bags. One was pushing a dolly. They piled some of the luggage on the dolly, then argued over how to get the dolly down the steps. I ducked, left the trees, and limped across to the terrace. I hid behind the stone balustrade and waited.
An excellent time to run for it, I thought. Doug in trouble, the cops sequestered: when the smoke cleared the Silvermans would not be available for questioning. Jules wasn’t taking chances.
I watched the maids wrestle the dolly down the terrace steps. Luggage fell off. They piled it back on and headed to the clearing. I lost sight of them around a corner of the house.
I climbed the balustrade and dashed for the front door. I hopped on my good foot for speed.
The front door was open and the foyer was empty. The whole big place was quiet—I couldn’t hear any maids or medical help. I started down the hall toward Silverman’s den. Silverman was coming up the hall toward me. He wore street clothes and bombed along in his motorized wheelchair. A blanket covered his lap and legs. On the blanket was his Oscar statuette. He looked fine.
Silverman saw me and stopped the chair. He said, “How did you get in?”
I kept walking. For technical reasons I had to be closer to him. I said, “Your gates are open.”
Silverman tried to go around me. He called, “Hannah!”
I stepped in front of his chair. He dodged the other direction. I stepped in front of him. His rubber tires squeaked on the marble floor. I smelled menthol rub.
I said, “59 B 875.”
Silverman tried to go around me again. I grabbed the wheelchair and wedged one foot against the tire. He hit the green button on his chair arm. I put my finger on the red button. The wheelchair stalled out.
I said, “An amethyst ring. A license plate. A bandage roll.”
“Hannah!”
I said, “You stole her car and the contents of her purse to throw the cops off. You wanted them to think it was a burglary gone bad and they were looking for a thief. You drove east instead of west to throw them off. You picked a black neighborhood to dump the car to throw them off more. When you ran out of gas, you removed the license plate and hitchhiked back to the Casa de Amor, where you knew a drunken brawl was in progress. You needed an alibi because you knew you were seen talking to her in the Canteen parking lot. You picked the worst drunk for your alibi—”
Silverman’s face had gotten hard. He said, “You want money, of course.”
“I found the sack in Dorene Johnson’s kitchen. The cops don’t have anything else on you. The lightbulb with your thumbprint was tossed, and Dorene’s too alcoholic to make a retraction stick. But the cops may or may not care about Georgette Bauerdorf now that they have a confession on Abadi and Stenholm. They were looking at you for Greta because she was found in a bathtub, too.”
Silverman grabbed his wheels and tried to back the chair up. I held on. “Are you interested in who killed Ted Abadi?”
Silverman stopped fighting me. He let go of the wheels and shook his head. He said, “Not in the least.”
I stood back. “How is it that Dorene still had the sack? Why didn’t you get rid of the evidence?”
Silverman glanced down the hall. There was nobody around—nobody to come save him. A leather pouch hung off the wheelchair arm. Silverman reached in and pulled out a glasses case. He got out his glasses and put them on. He said, “Remind me what your name is, I’ve forgotten.”
“Why didn't you get rid of the evidence?”
Silverman tilted his head and studied me. “Ann, if memory serves, and I’m told you’re some sort of anti-industry critic for Barry Melling.”
“Why didn’t you throw everything down a sewer? Why carry it all the way back to the Casa de Amor?”
Silverman crossed his hands over the Oscar in his lap. He had relaxed. “You’re offering me a trade. You have the sack but you don’t want money. Like every reviewer in the world you want a job in pictures, and you’d like me to arrange it for you.”
“I want what Greta Stenholm wanted.”
Silverman smiled. “Good, because I don’t believe anyone who claims altruistic motives. The first time the Stenholm girl blackmailed me, she wanted the name of Ted’s killer. I didn’t believe her. But I believed her when she asked for money and a deal to write and direct. You want me to satisfy your curiosity on a few matters and provide you an entrée to the picture business.”
I said, “Yes on both counts.”
Silverman nodded. “I will help you on one count. I’ll pick up a telephone and find you a job by next week at the latest.”
He reached for his wheels. I wedged my foot against one tire.
“You were in a panic, maybe even a blackout. You arrived at the Casa and realized you still had the license, ring, and bandage roll. You also had a time crunch because your ship left Long Beach at six in the morning, and it was already, say, three. Everybody at the Casa was drunk or passed out. Dorene was a famous pack rat and your best alibi, so you buried the evidence in her kitchen. You meant to come back and get rid of it, and you tried to, say, after the war. You couldn’t find it, but Dorene suspected something because you searched her kitchen. To be on the safe side, you’ve supplied her with booze all these decades. No need to kill her outright—not with her thirst. Besides, you’re not a killer. You just had a thing for Georgette that got out of hand. She told you she was engaged to the soldier in El Paso, and you forced your way into her apartment to convince her of your feelings. You were young and in love.”
Silverman took off his glasses and put them back in the case. He said, “You tell a good story.”
“It was an accident—you didn’t mean to kill her.”
“You’ll hear from someone next week. I’ll have them call you at your newspaper.”
“But rape isn’t an accident. You stuffed the bandage in her mouth to keep her quiet. That’s how she died—suffocation.”
Silverman looked at me. “You’re an imaginative girl. You have a great many story ideas, I’m sure.”
“Only one. It’s about the murder of a Hollywood Canteen hostess and her best friend’s search for the killer.”
I unbuttoned my jacket and showed him the tape recorder.
Silverman went pale. “I admit nothing!”
I turned to leave. He grabbed the Oscar and swung it at me. I blocked his arm, ripped the statue out of his hand, and chucked it away. It went clanging and skidding along the marble floor. Silverman stood up to retrieve it. He got his legs caught in the lap blanket. He flailed and fell forward and hit his head on the floor. The wheelchair shimmied and tipped over on top of him.
He moaned once. I saw him convulse, then he lay there, silent. I stepped around him and walked out of the house.