James Conway: In Cold Blonde

“No.”

“Nobody does. But do it, right now. That way no one can steal it from you.”

“Okay,” Ryan said, pulling out his pen, signing the back of the ticket. “Done.”

“Great. Be sure to call and let us know when you’re coming in. I’m sure some of the press will want to cover it. And be sure to keep the ticket someplace safe. Be a shame if you lost it.”

“Don’t worry,” Ryan said. “I won’t lose it. Thank you.” Ryan hung up as Lieutenant Hanrahan and a couple of uniforms entered the bar.

“Is it true?” Hanrahan asked. “You just won the Lotto?”

“He sure did, Chief,” Syd said. “Forty-seven million cash dollars!”

“Actually, just thirty-four million after taxes,” Ryan said.

“Hot damn!” Hanrahan said, high fiving a less than enthusiastic Ryan. “You going to clear this case for me before you quit?”

“I’m not going to quit.”

“You’re rich, Ryan. Why would you want to be a cop?”

“I love being a cop, Lieutenant. I don’t give a shit about the money.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s true.”

Hanrahan reached out and grabbed the ticket. “Then give me it me.”

Ryan grabbed it back. “No fucking way!”

“You see,” Hanrahan said, laughing. “Money changes everything, take my word for it. Everything.” A buzz rippled through the assembled cops agreeing with Hanrahan.

“Well, I don’t have the money yet,” Ryan said, carefully folding the Lotto ticket in half and slipping it into his wallet. “But I do have a murder to solve. Syd, you have the victim’s address?”

She held up the paper Ramirez gave her. “He lives a couple of miles away, on Crescent.”

“Let’s go,” Ryan said, heading for the door.

“There’s a Bentley dealership on your way, Ryan,” Hanrahan called after him. “You should stop by.”

Ryan held up his hand, flipped Hanrahan the bird and walked out the door.

“I thought you’d be happier.”

“It’s kind of hard to wrap your head around,” Ryan said. “I mean, all that money…”

They were driving south on Sunset in Ryan’s Mustang. The sun was up, and so was the temperature. They drove with the top down but the heater was off.

Syd turned to Ryan. “You’ve just been handed the keys to the kingdom. Money means freedom. You can do anything you want. Be anything you want. Go anywhere you want. Live anywhere, drive anything, eat anything, fuck anything… ”

“I like fucking you.”

“Good answer. You definitely deserve the money.”

Ryan laughed. He wanted to tell Syd about the Lotto ticket. How he got it, his guilt, his confusion. But something held him back. What? He tried to put his finger on it. Was he ashamed that he lied to her when he told her he’d bought it? Was he afraid she’d be disappointed in him? Judge him? Would she stop trusting him? Or was he afraid she would tell him he shouldn’t keep the ticket, that he had to be honest with the Lotto people and help them find the righteous winner?

Well, all of them actually. And he was very confused about his relationship with her in the first place. He’d only known her for eight weeks. Knew he was crazy about her. But was it lust or love?

Syd told him she loved him a week after they slept together. And she had said it practically every day since then. And the subtle plea was there; tell me you love me, too.

Then, just a week ago, walking out of a movie, hand in hand, in a great mood after a Reese Witherspoon romantic comedy, Ryan said it. “I love you, Syd.” Just like that. It popped out spontaneously.

But was it really heartfelt or the result of Syd’s subtle pressure? Or was it just the afterglow of the stupid movie?

Ryan hadn’t loved anyone since Anne, hadn’t really committed himself since Anne, and Lord knows how badly that turned out. Did he really want to risk it again?

Fuck, he thought. Life was so simple when he woke up this morning. How’d it get so confusing so fast?

“There,” Syd said, pointing. “That’s his house on the left.”

Colin Wood lived in a small, one story Spanish style stucco. Two small palm trees sprouted out of a well-tended lawn. Ryan picked the morning paper up off the sidewalk, carried it to the front door. They could hear noise inside, a TV. Ryan rang the bell.

“Hold on, I’m coming,” a male voice called. The door was pulled open and revealed a barefoot man wearing a USC tee shirt and gym shorts. He was a little goofy looking, Ryan thought, and he looked familiar. Tall, somewhere between six foot two or three, he was rail thin, blonde but balding, with a horse face. He looked like someone out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Then Ryan realized, he was a character actor. Ryan had seen him on TV.

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

Ryan handed him the newspaper, then badged him. “I’m Detective Magee, this is Detective Curtis. May we come in?”

“Sure,” the man said warily, stepping aside. “What’s this about?”

“Colin Wood,” Ryan said. “Is he a friend of yours?”

The man nodded. “We’re roommates.” Then it dawned on him. “Oh, my God, something’s happened, hasn’t it?”

“He’s been the victim of a crime. A murder.” Ryan watched the man carefully looking for a sign of genuine surprise. At this point, everyone was a suspect.

The reaction had two parts. The first was concern about Colin being involved in a crime, then the word, murder, settled in and shock filled the long face. “He’s dead?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Who? Why?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Syd said. “Could we ask you some questions, Mr…”

“Dodd. Sorry, I’m Reggie Dodd.” He shook their hands, led them into the kitchen. The house was cluttered and looked like two men lived it in, two men with an aversion to cleaning up.

“You’re an actor, aren’t you?” Ryan asked. “You look familiar.”

Dodd nodded. “That’s how Colin and I met, on a movie.”

“He was an actor, too?” Syd asked.

“Yeah.” Dodd dug something out of a pile on the kitchen counter and handed it Syd. It was what was called a Head Shot, a picture of Colin Wood on the front and a list of his credits on the back. “We did that George Clooney picture last year. I was just splitting from my wife, Colin’s girlfriend had just moved out, so he asked if I needed a place to crash. I’ve been here about six months.”

Ryan studied the picture, recognized the face. He might have recognized him in the car, but all he was focused on then was the penis in his mouth.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Dodd asked.

Hanrahan had instructed everyone to keep the amputated appendage a secret, not so much as a courtesy to the victim, but holding back key evidence often helps separate real suspects from the nut jobs.

“He was found dead in his car.”

“Where?”

“Outside a nightclub, the Havoc parking lot.”

“Colin loved that place,” Dodd said. “We both did. Great place to meet chicks.” Dodd suddenly remembered Syd. “Sorry, I mean women. Meet women.”

Syd smiled. “Chicks works, don’t sweat it. You mentioned Colin broke up with a girlfriend. Tell us about her.”

“Abby, Abigail something or other; I don’t remember her last name. I only met her once, when she stopped by to pick up some stuff she’d left behind.”

“Pretty girl?” Ryan asked.

“Beautiful. Blonde, great body. She’s a wannabe actress. Colin said it was the perfect job for her; she’s a total drama queen.”

Syd leaned forward. “So she had a temper.”

“Did she ever. Colin said she caught him cheating on her and went ballistic.”