Laugher Read online

  She took another puff. “I haven’t seen him in six years.”

  “Six years? I thought he moved to New York eight years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you two stay together after he left?”

  “No. But we kept in touch. I was still in love with him. Couple years after he left, I went to New York to find him – surprise him. I thought maybe I could get him back if I promised to move there. That’s why we broke up in the first place. I had been accepted to the University of Chicago, that’s where I live now, but he wanted to go to New York. So I looked around and found him at a club for an open mic. I stood in the back and waited for him to go on.” She smiled. “He was really funny. He did this routine on Chinese basketball players...” She laughed. “And after he was done, some of the audience started calling for an encore...I’m sorry, this is all irrelevant to you, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all. Go on.”

  “Anyway...while they were chanting, I followed Denny to the back. He didn’t see me. I was going to sneak up on him...but there was someone waiting for him. A girl. As soon as he saw her, they started kissing. So I turned back. Haven’t talked to him since. Until last week.”

  I was writing all this down. She looked away for a second and composed herself. When she turned back the sun cast a short gleam from a small tear remaining in the corner of her eye.

  “Miss Roscoe? Are you all right?”

  “What I wanted to tell you...” She looked at me with certain fear. “Was about--You have to promise not to tell this to anybody. Do you promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay...was about what happened at my work last week.”

  I flipped my notepad to a fresh page. “Go ahead.”

  “I’m a desk agent for American Airlines at O’Hare International,” she said. “That bitch who comes on the intercom and tells you we overbooked the flight.” She smirked a little. I politely forced a smirk back. “Anyway, I got a call at my apartment, and I usually don’t answer unlisted numbers, but they kept calling and calling so I thought it might be an emergency. I answered and...the person on the other line...was Denny. He was breathing hard and-and whispering.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “He said that, um...that he was being followed, and he was scared. ‘It’s all wrong,’ he said. I remember that.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “Just...” She teared up again. “That the only thing he wanted in the world was to see me. And then the line dropped. I didn’t know what to do. I was helpless.”

  “When was this?”

  “About a week ago. Sunday, I think.”

  I wrote down SUNDAY.

  “I tried to get in touch with him after that, but couldn’t.”

  “What happened at your work?” I asked.

  “It was last Thursday. I overheard a co-worker talking about Denny Granger coming through on a layover. She wanted to go over and try to catch a glimpse or get an autograph, or something.”

  She stamped out her cigarette and began picking at her fingernails again.

  “I didn’t know if I should go see him. If he even knew I was there. But I had to make sure he was okay, after that call. So I went to the gate and stood back as they began boarding.” She looked up at me. Square in the eye. “And, detective, I watched every single passenger board that flight. Till the very last straggler. And Denny was not one of them. I figured everyone was mistaken. Someone probably just had the same name. But then I saw a story about it in the newspaper. The story of a murder at a comedy club here in L.A., said that Denny, my Denny, had been on that flight.”

  Five years earlier I litigated a case where a man tried to hop-skip his creditors by booking a one-way flight to Florida on his brother’s credit card and a fake ID. Eventually he was caught. But he made it to Florida.

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You were in Chicago when this happened,” I said. “Why are you in L.A. now?”

  “Oh. I’m just here for the weekend. It’s my father’s anniversary.”

  “You mean your parents’ anniversary?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “My father’s been married four times since I was born. This one’s lasted seven years. A new record.”

  This was news to me.

  “So that woman at your house, she’s your step-mother?”

  She nodded.

  “Where’s your real mother?”

  “I don’t know. I never knew her.”

  I wrote that down.

  She stood up. “I should stop wasting your time, detective. I don’t mean to cause any trouble. That’s just what I know and thought it was the right thing to tell you.”

  I stood too. “It was. Have you told anyone else? Your father?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Don’t. Don’t tell anybody.” I handed her a business card. “Please call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

  “Thank you, detective, but I’m going back to Chicago tonight. I hope my information will help you.”

  She walked away and disappeared behind the building.

  I called Nora again.

  “You’ve reached the cell phone of Nora Massey with Talent International. I am currently unavailable at the moment. Please leave your name and a brief message as to what your call is in regards to, and I will return your call as soon as I am available. Thank you.” BEEP.

  “Nora, this is Marshall Santone. There have been some new developments in Denny’s case and I need to discuss them with you. Please call me back as soon as you get this. It’s urgent.” I lit up another cig and sat for a few minutes wondering why she called me earlier that morning. If Denny was never on that plane, it means she’d been in on this from the beginning, and sent me on a wild goose chase. Why would she do that?

  --------------------------------

  Roscoe’s direct line was still on the call history of my phone. Wasn’t that direct, however, because his secretary answered. She gave me the address for that branch of Angel City Bank and Trust. It was in Beverly Hills.

  I parked on Rodeo and walked a couple blocks east. The bank took up two floors. I figured Roscoe would be on the top one and rode the elevator.

  His secretary was nothing like I’d pictured her to be: young, with glasses, ethnic skin or a dark tan. But no. She was older, with a flower blouse and hooked nose.

  “Good day. May I help you, sir?” she asked.

  “I’m here to speak with Mr. Roscoe.”

  “Mr. Roscoe is not available at the moment. Could I schedule an appointment?”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s not available. If you would like to schedule an appointment--”

  “Thank you. But...” I flashed my license. “I don’t work around his schedule. And I would like to speak with him right now.”

  “I told you he is unavailable, sir.”

  “Unavailable where? In here?”

  I went to Roscoe’s office door and grabbed the knob. It didn’t move.

  “Is he in here?” I asked and knocked on the door.

  “Sir.”

  I knocked again.

  “Sir, I am about to call security.”

  I knocked again. “Mr. Roscoe,” I called. “Could I speak to you for a moment, please?”

  The other people in the office were noticing the scene I was creating.

  “Sir!”

  I knocked again. Loud.

  “Sir, please!” She picked up the phone.

  I went back to her, held my license up to her face. “Ma’am, this is a private investigator’s license. Issued to me by the state of California. If you do not tell me exactly where Nathan Roscoe is right now, I will call the police and have you charged with disrupting a criminal investigation.”

  It was an embellished threat. I had no idea if I could charge her with that, but what would she know about it? And it must have worked. Her face dro
oped as she put the phone down. She looked distraught. Maybe I laid it on too harsh.

  “Please tell me where Mr. Roscoe is,” I said in a much more polite manner.

  “He left fifteen minutes ago. His daughter’s been in an accident.”

  It caught me off guard. Forty-five minutes ago she was fine. “What kind of accident?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. He just said an accident. She was taken to Cedar-Sinai.”

  I was dashing toward the door before she could take her next breath.

  Fortune never seems to be on your side during a desperate emergency. I hit every red light possible on my way to Cedar-Sinai. On top of that, road construction decided to take a day off, but leave the cones up, merging three lanes into one. God, sometimes I hate this city.

  I rushed into the emergency room; asked the nurse at the counter where they took Samantha Roscoe. She asked if I was immediate family and refused to tell me where she was when I said “No.”

  “Only immediate family is allowed in the E.R.” she said.

  “Is her father here?”

  “I don’t know, but you’ll have to either wait in the waiting area, or leave.”

  “I need to speak with her father. Can you page him?”

  “Sir, please.”

  But at that moment, two nurses rushed by pushing a gurney with an unconscious young girl lying on it. She wore a neck brace and an oxygen mask. And there was blood. Following them was Nathan Roscoe.

  “Sir, you’ll have to wait,” said the nurse at the counter. I ignored her and dashed down the hall.

  “Sir!”

  I was approaching the group. “Mr. Roscoe,” I said. He didn’t hear me. “Mr. Roscoe!”

  He turned and glanced at me, obviously didn’t recognize me. He turned again and continued following his daughter around the corner.

  The nurses pushed the gurney feet first into the surgery room. One of them held Roscoe back and told him to stay there and someone would be there shortly to take care of him. He was crying.

  “Mr. Roscoe,” I said. “Do you remember me?”

  He looked like he didn’t have the slightest clue.

  “I’m detective Santone. I visited your house last Sunday morning.”

  He wiped his eyes. “Oh. Yes.”

  “You remember me?”

  “Yes. What the hell do you want? I’m a little busy right now, if you hadn’t noticed! My daughter’s just been hit by a fucking car!”

  “I’m very sorry about that, sir. Is she going to be all right?”

  “How would I fucking know?! They just took her in for surgery!”

  He backed up against the wall and covered his face. I didn’t know what to do. I was there to confront him about sending Grossman and his goons to drag me out to the desert, making me sign whatever that piece of paper was. They killed Silvio. Maybe Roscoe ordered that too. I wanted to lay on the third degree thicker than molasses. But his daughter was in critical condition.

  “What. Are you doing here?” He squeezed through a clenched jaw.

  Behind the windows a light turned on. Samantha was hoisted onto the operating table.

  This wasn’t the time.

  “I hope she’s all right,” I said and walked away. Roscoe gave me a hearty “Fuck you” as I turned the corner.

  The nurse at the counter stood up with a dirty look. Didn’t matter, though, I was leaving.

  Outside were two cops talking to Mrs. Roscoe, who had wet eyes, but the rest of her body language looked like she was waiting for a tow truck to pick up her dented Cadillac.

  Samantha had been hit while crossing the street a few blocks from her house. The car fled and so far no witnesses, if any, had come forward with a license plate number or description. I should have given her a ride. But, then again, I might have ended up on that table next to her.

  Mrs. Roscoe saw me as I walked by. She didn’t recognize me; just kept talking.

  --------------------------------------

  I got back in my car and tried to wrap my head around everything, but the cigarettes didn’t help. I was too confused, so I thought about Charlotte instead. In my den, last night, me with an outstretched arm and a diamond ring. She smiles. She slides it onto her finger. She hugs me. She kisses me. We fall to the floor and make love. She looks at me Nora Gone. The carpet. There’s a crib, RED paint DRIPPING. Lawson is BLEEDING Benjy? My fault No She was crazy That crazy bitch! my fault! MY FAULT--!

  “Ah!” I shot up straight and smacked the leg where my cigarette had fallen and burned a hole through my pants and into my skin.

  “Fuck,” I groaned while sucking air in between my clenched teeth. I looked up and saw Roscoe leading his wife across the parking lot. The cops were gone. Roscoe opened her door and put her in the car, kissed her head. She drove away while he made a phone call. I couldn’t hear anything, but kept my eye on him.

  Nothing peculiar. Until about a minute into the call he smiled.

  Smiled.

  Then laughed. His boisterous, full-hearted laugh. Not the courtesy kind or one desperate to relieve a bit of heartbreak. This laugh was hardy and sincere.

  At a time like this?

  Roscoe hung up and continued walking through the lot. He got into his Jaguar convertible and drove out, my black BMW not far behind.

  Chapter 17

  Afternoon traffic on the 405. We were heading north into the valley. I was stopped behind a delivery van with “KID’S KAKES!!” printed on the back window. Roscoe was two cars ahead of me in the same lane, but I pulled just enough to the left side, into the paint, to keep him in sight.

  We hovered there for about five minutes. The Capitol Records building looked dingier and more worn down than I remembered it. I was looking behind me into Culver City, trying to pinpoint the Demreau building, where Charlotte would be, when a honk came from behind me. The delivery truck was ten feet ahead. We were moving again.

  He drove, and drove, and drove. Out of Los Angeles into Ventura County. He didn’t exit until we were in Calabasas. I followed him onto the off ramp, just the two of us, and kept my distance in case he looked in his rearview mirror and my windshield was cleaner than it looked from the inside.

  The Jag headed south, toward Malibu Canyon, but turned off before then, down a side street. On the side was what looked like an abandoned strip mall. There were three cars parked outside the office space on the end. Two dented, rusted, or never-been-tuned-up cars and a pickup truck that needed a new paint job. No sign hung above the office. No logo. No “For Lease” plaque on the door.

  Roscoe turned into the mall, but I drove right by. Too few cars around for him not to notice mine, if he hadn’t already. I drove by long enough to see Roscoe drive around to the back, then flipped a U-turn and parked at the edge of the turnoff and walked back on foot.

  It was close to four o’clock when I settled myself behind a tree across the street to watch. Through the windows the front room was dark and empty, but a slip of light showed through the door in the back corner. I looked up at the sun and hoped someone would come out before it baked my head to the color of a ripe apple.

  Half an hour passed. To make sure I wasn’t wasting my time, I walked down the road a ways, trying to look as casual as possible, to spot Roscoe’s car parked behind the building. He was here; didn’t slip out onto a connecting road. But what was this place? Nobody was around. The road curved into a dead end half a mile down.

  Another half hour passed. My head was already burnt, I could tell, but luckily, someone was exiting the front door. It wasn’t Roscoe. It was a man, probably in his early fifties, who got into the pickup truck.

  I hurried back to the street corner by the Beemer. When the man pulled up to the STOP sign I waved my arms to get his attention. He looked confused when he saw me. I thought he’d let me talk to him for a minute, but when I started to approach his truck, he immediately turned away and sped off.

  My face of puzzlement watched him turn a corner and disappear, then quickly bec
ame a face of surprise when Roscoe’s convertible pulled up to the STOP sign. I caught only a glimpse of his face before I whipped my head away trying not to be seen, but also caught sight of someone in the passenger seat; a woman with an indistinguishable face covered by wind-blown brown hair.

  Roscoe sped out in the same direction as the truck. I had no chance of catching up with him if I hopped back in the Beemer. But there were still two cars left outside the office space.