Joseph Wambaugh - The Secrets of Harry Bright

The detectives watched her because she didn’t fit. There weren’t any other visitors driving a Mercedes to this seedy nursing home. They watched for fifteen minutes. Then the door opened and Coy Brickman, in uniform, emerged from the building. The woman walked up to him and they shook hands.

“I’d give the rest a the ten grand to hear this little conversation,” Sidney Blackpool said.

“I’d give a couple bucks myself,” said Otto.

When Coy Brickman turned as though he were about to say good-bye, the blonde shrugged her shoulders and extended her hand again to Coy Brickman who took it for a second. Then he turned and got into the patrol unit.

“Damn!” Sidney Blackpool said. “Can you make out her license number, Otto?”

“You kidding? My eyes’re forty years old.”

“Come on, Brickman, get your ass out of that parking lot!” Sidney Blackpool muttered.

But the woman in the Mercedes drove out first and turned back on the highway toward Palm Springs. The detectives jumped in the Toyota and Sidney Blackpool started the engine and watched through the rearview mirror.

“Come on, come on!” he said.

Finally Coy Brickman drove out, turned left on the highway and cruised in the same direction as the Mercedes. “We gotta risk it, you wanna get her number,” Otto said.

Sidney Blackpool nodded. The blonde wouldn’t be the type to spot a tail, but Coy Brickman might. And she was already a quarter of a mile ahead of them. Sidney Blackpool was hanging back in the number-two lane behind a pickup truck when they got a break. Coy Brickman turned the patrol car right on Cook Street in Indian Wells, heading toward Highway 10 and Mineral Springs.

Sidney Blackpool stepped on it, blowing through a red light when there was no cross traffic coming, and caught her three signals later.

“Hope you got this Toyota well insured,” Otto said.

They got close enough for Otto to jot down her license number, then they backed off and followed the car through Indian Wells, Palm Desert, and into Rancho Mirage where she turned right.

The detectives quickly found themselves looking at a guarded kiosk and a funny-looking Indian totem bird and a sign that said THUNDERBIRD COUNTRY CLUB.

“It’s on our list!” Otto said. “Tamarisk, Thunderbird, Mission Hills. Let’s see, what the hell was the name a the member at Thunderbird we were supposed to ask for? Shit. I left all the notes in the room.”

“Think, Otto,” Sidney Blackpool said.

“Let’s see. Penbroke? No. Pennypacker? No. Pennington! That’s it. Pennington at Thunderbird!”

“Good boy!” Sidney Blackpool said.

The detective pulled up to the gate and Sidney Blackpool said, “We’re Blackpool and Stringer. Mister Pennington’s arranged for a game of golf for us. I believe he left our names with the club pro.”

It took the security office a couple of minutes to make the call, then he said, “Drive right in, gentlemen. The doorman can direct you.”

“Jesus Christ, Sidney!” Otto Stringer cried as they were driving toward the clubhouse.

“What is it?”

“A former president of the United States lives here! What if we have to play a game to make our investigation look kosher? What if I’m playing golf with a freaking ex-president of the whole freaking United States?”

Otto Stringer was directed by the doorman to the pro shop where he introduced himself and got a starting time for a game he knew might not be played. Sidney Blackpool headed straight for the bar, looking for a telephone so he could run the license number to get a name and address that he hoped would belong to a Thunderbird member. Of course, they both believed that the blonde had to be the former Mrs. Harry Bright.

The clubhouse was not as stylish as the one at Tamarisk. It was done in rugged flagstone and featured lots of Indian art, the staple of desert designers, along with a mix of Chinese artifacts. It had the comfortable look of a clubhouse that had been there awhile, to which the pictures in the lobby attested.

There were photos of Bob Hope who is at least an honorary member of nearly every club in the desert, along with those of the other man who shares that distinction, former president Gerald Ford. Sidney Blackpool recognized one of Thunderbird’s first members, the late Hoagy Carmichael, and Bing Crosby.

He found a pay phone and ran the license number through his office at Hollywood detectives. It was registered to Herbert T. Decker with a Rancho Mirage address, which Sidney Blackpool figured to be a street right here at Thunderbird Country Club.

He walked into the luncheon room looking for the blonde. A fiftyish waitress said, “Help you, sir?”

“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m a first-time guest. Just moseying.”

“Have a look around,” she said, as friendly as they’d been at Tamarisk. She was clearing the luncheon tables.

“Have you seen Mrs. Decker?” he asked. “I believe that’s her name. A very attractive blond lady.”

“Yes, that’d be Mrs. Decker. No, I haven’t seen her today, sir. Have you checked the Copper Room? There was a private party in there today.”

Sidney Blackpool strolled back into the foyer and through the main dining room, which wasn’t in use during the day. He noticed some people in a mirrored room off to the left. He got closer and saw where it got its name. All of the service was copper, or appeared to be: platters, plates, goblets, knives, forks. Then he saw her.

She was talking to a dowager in a wool crepe jacket studded with rhinestones, worn over ballooning tuxedo trouser pants. The older woman was overdressed for this time of day but would be ready for action six hours later. The blonde was obviously apologizing for missing whatever had been going on there. She shook hands with several people, kissing the cheek of one woman and two men before she left. Instead of going back toward the foyer, she turned and walked out onto the patio beside the pool. It was a contemporary U-shaped pool with a small bandstand behind it. Sidney Blackpool could imagine parties and luaus on this patio. He might attend parties in places like this as an executive for Watson Industries.

He stood behind the blonde, who hadn’t seen him, and said, “Must taste like a mouthful of pennies in there.”

She turned and he said, “All that copper.”

She smiled politely and he liked that a lot. She had great teeth, but then, money could also buy plenty of porcelain.

She looked as though she was about to leave so he bit the bullet and said, “Ma’am, just a second, please. I think I know you. Really, I’m sure I know you. Have you ever lived in San Diego?”

That stopped her. She looked troubled by it, but she said, “A long time ago.”

“My gosh, I do know you,” Sidney Blackpool said. “I used to be with San Diego P.D.”

He had it right. Her expression changed from a hint of anxiety to resignation. Up close he believed her to be about forty, give or take a few years for cosmetic surgery, which he couldn’t really detect. She was a cool elegant Alfred Hitchcock blonde all right.

“You must’ve worked with Harry,” she said. “Harry Bright.”

“Of course!” Sidney Blackpool said. “You’re Mrs. Bright! I met you at a party, let’s see, where was Harry working then? God, must’ve been ten years ago.”

“Southern substation,” she said. “Must’ve been twelve years ago, at least. We’ve been divorced that long.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs.…”

“Decker,” she said. “Patricia Decker.”

And then, because he trusted absolutely no one even remotely connected with Coy Brickman or Harry Bright, he said, “My name’s Sam Benton. Can I buy you a drink? It’s great to see someone from the old days. Pardon me, the recent past. You’re not old enough to’ve been around in the old days.”