Robert Ferrigno - Scavenger hunt

Jimmy watched Brooke. She said she didn't believe in luck, but her timing was perfect. She had first heard her husband listening to the tapes just before Walsh was due to be released. Not during his first month of incarceration, or his first year-that would have been lucky for Walsh. No, she found out about the tapes seven years later, after Danziger's production deal had run out. After she and Danziger had started reneging on their charity pledges. Walsh had a devious sensibility, able to plot out the most cynical and intricate storylines, but when it came to Brooke, he was as trusting as a bridegroom.

"You can't be sure such a tape exists," said Brooke.

"It exists. I just have to find it. Where does your husband listen to the tapes?"

"The screening room."

"Then it's more than an audiotape. If it was just audio, he'd slip on a pair of headphones and listen to the two of you while he walked on the beach or drove in his car. No, if he has to get up in the middle of the night to replay your greatest hits, he's watching it too."

Walsh and Brooke turned to each other.

"Is there a storage locker in the screening room? A locked cabinet?"

"Yes, of course." Brooke lowered her eyes. "If Michael is watching movies of us, it's even worse somehow."

"The premiere of My Girl Trouble is tomorrow night," said Jimmy. "I assume you and your husband are attending. Will there be anyone left in the house?"

Brooke shook her head. "Raymond used to live in, but he goes home at five now." She crossed her legs. "I don't have a key to the film cabinet. Michael's very territorial."

Walsh walked over to Brooke, put his arms around her, and buried his face in her hair. He finally stood up. "You're good, Jimmy. Nice to see a man who knows what he's doing." He fumbled another joint out of his pocket and fired it up. "If none of this had happened-if Heather hadn't shown up at my house that afternoon-everything would be different. Brooke and I would be living in a mansion in the clouds, happily married and rolling around on satin sheets. I'd have a few more gold boys on my mantel, and you would have interviewed me about my latest movie, the one with all the buzz, and if I was in a good mood, we might have hit it off." He was lost behind the smoke again, his voice barely audible. "I don't know… we might have had some fun, you and me."

"You can really pack it away," said Brimley.

"What's that supposed to mean?" said Katz, putting down the last of the second Whataburger Deluxe with extra bacon and triple cheese.

"No offense." Brimley wiped sauce from the corner of his mouth with his pinkie. "I like a woman who can keep up with me." He dabbed a cluster of four French fries in the pool of ketchup on his paper plate. "Most lady cops I knew were always worried about their weight. You carry yours real well."

Katz eyed him and nibbled at the soggy bun and burger, then thought what the hell and popped it in her mouth.

"That vanilla malt as good as I told you?" beamed Brimley. "Best in the city, am I right? I may not have been the smartest cop, but I could always find a good meal."

They sat at an outside table of the drive-in joint in East L.A., the umbrella drooping, speckled with bird crap, the drive-in walls thick with graffiti and posters in Spanish. Music from the parked cars provided a salsa soundtrack to their meal, a Tijuana radio station cranked and banked. Homeboys slouched in their high-polished rides, their eyes hidden behind shades as they chowed down on fishburgers and fries, onion rings heaped high and crispy, dripping with grease, the homies watching Brimley and Katz as they ate, the only Anglos for miles.

"Thanks for meeting me halfway," said Brimley. "I usually like to come to the lady, but I'm not much for driving."

"You're the one doing me a favor, Brimley. By rights, you shouldn't have to drive."

"I told you, Helen, please call me Sugar."

"I'm not calling a grown man Sugar."

"Be difficult." Brimley smiled. "It looks good on you."

The compliment confused Katz for a moment. She sucked on her vanilla malt, thinking about it, trying to figure out what he was up to. Good-looking man, brush cut at attention, a big man with a big man's quiet confidence, wearing pressed chinos and an egg-yolk-yellow button-down shirt with a little polo player on the pocket. Like they were on a date, for God's sake-but still, it was a nice thought. Brimley was right about one thing. It was the best malt she had ever had.

"I wish I could have been more help," said Brimley. "It was such a long time ago. You really think Walsh was murdered? I read in the paper he drowned in some fishpond. Didn't read nothing about the investigation being reopened."

"It's not reopened, not officially, and that's the way it's going to stay," warned Katz.

Brimley put his hands up. "I can keep a secret. One cop to another, you got my word of honor on that." He pushed his fries toward her. "Peace offering to seal the bargain."

Katz hesitated, then picked up a couple of drooping salt-crusted fries. She slipped one hand under the table, and undid the top button of her pants, giving herself a little breathing room. The man's brown suit was strictly thrift store, but the cut accommodated her frame better than anything from the women's department.

"What changed your mind about Walsh?" asked Brimley.

"My mind hasn't been changed. I'm just open to the idea that he was murdered."

"I keep trying to remember somebody special who might have had it in for Walsh," said Brimley, adding more ketchup to her plate. "Somebody who wanted him bad enough to wait all those years. Like I told you, Heather Grimm didn't have a boyfriend carrying a torch or any family to speak of."

"Maybe you got a letter after Walsh was sentenced, saying Walsh got off too easy."

"I got boxes of letters like that. Heckfire, Helen, Walsh did get off too easy."

"Any of those letters stand out? One that you kept, even though you weren't sure why?"

"I don't know." Brimley rubbed his head, thinking. He looked like a big kid taking an algebra exam. "Heather had a fan club, did you know that?"

Katz leaned forward.

"It started up after she died. Like the world had lost this big star who died before she had a chance to shine. They had a newsletter and everything. Even made me an honorary member."

"Did you keep any of their material?"

"I-I don't think so. I got a whole storage locker full of junk though. Anything is possible. I could take a look if you want."

"I'd appreciate it. Maybe you could see if there's any of those angry letters too."

"Sure." A low-rider rumbled past, music blasting, and Brimley wobbled to the beat, still sitting down but right there with the music. "You ever been to Brazil? I'm going to get there one of these days- just listen to salsa, drink beer, and fish. You like to dance, Helen?"

"You must be out of your fucking mind."

Brimley laughed. "Now you're getting it."

Katz laughed too.

Brimley watched her finish the last of the fries. "You want to go do something?"

Katz blotted her mouth with a napkin more carefully than usual. "Like what?"

"I don't know. I guess dancing is out."

"We could go to a movie." It popped out before Katz could stop herself.

Danziger's gray Mercedes rolled down the gravel road just after dusk, the headlights sending grasshoppers jumping across the high beams, beating against the grillwork. Jimmy thought again of the professor and his research project at the koi pond, imagining a scientific article that began, "Start with a recently killed fifty-pound pig." Parked well off the road, shielded by trees and brush, Jimmy watched the sedan pass. Michael Danziger was in a tuxedo, and Brooke was in a sequined dress, her hair up. He waited until the Mercedes's red taillights disappeared over a rise in the road before starting his car. "Where are you?" said Sugar.