Chapter 21

August 1-2, 1996

Thursday afternoon/Friday morning

We were back in Palm Springs by noon. We found a Mexican restaurant with take-out, got a giant chicken burrito and a small order of beef tacos and took it back to the hotel. I had some long-distance calls to make.

After we split the burrito in half and divvied up the tacos, Ronnie said, "You're not supposed to talk to me about this one, are you?"

"No."

"Fine. I'll eat outside. You make your calls."

On the one hand, he was being considerate; on the other, those cute boys were lying naked by the pool scorching themselves. I decided not to think too much about that and took a big bite of the burrito.

While I chewed, I wondered what would be the best way to get ahold of Kelly Wallpole. I didn't want to call her sister for the phone number. She wouldn't want to give it to me, not without being told why I needed it. I took a chance and called information in Los Angeles. I asked for Dr. Wallpole. Bingo. Got a number.

I reached her nurse, who didn't want to let me talk to the doctor.

"It's a personal matter. Could you let her know I'm on the phone."

"I'll tell her you called. Could you give me a number, Mr. Reilly."

"No. I'll wait."

"That won't do you any good."

"Then I'll call back. In five minutes. And then five minutes after that. Until she comes to the phone."

After a long pause she said, "Hold on."

I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, Kelly came on the line. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Did you call in a tip to TheDowney Legend about Pete being engaged?"

After a moment's pause, she said, "No. I didn't. And you can't call here like?—"

"Why does the reporter say you did?"

Another pause before she said, "Hold on. I'm going to pick you up on another line."

I waited. Again. Finally, she picked up. "I did not make that call."

"Are you saying Sammy Blanchard used your name?"

"Yes, that's what I'm saying."

"Were you there when she made the phone call?"

"I was. I was horrified when she gave my name."

"Did she tell you why she made the call?"

"She said it was a joke."

"It was murder. Why would she joke about murder?"

"I ask that question now. But I was just a kid then."

"You were better friends with her than you told me, weren't you?"

"My sister didn't know. I don't want her to think badly of me."

Interesting dynamic, I thought. She was a doctor but her sister's opinion of her mattered enough for her to lie.

"We'll need you to do a deposition. This information could help Larry Wilkes get a new trial."

She didn't want to, but she said, "Yes, of course."

As soon as we hung up, I took a bite of my burrito, then called The Freedom Agenda.

"Karen, it's Dom," I said, through a mouthful of food.

"How's your vacation?"

"Hot."

"You want Lydia?"

"Please."

She put me on hold, and I managed to swallow before Lydia came on the line. I explained that we could prove that Sammy Blanchard phoned in the tip about the fake engagement.

"That's great. That gives us enough to petition the court."

"Is that what you've been ruminating about?"

"No. I'm considering going in a different direction."

That was surprising.

"You want to elaborate?"'

"No. I'll let you know when I decide. We'll talk when you get back."

Mysterious. Annoyingly so.

After we hung up, I paid more attention to my lunch while watching Ronnie through the window. He was on his cellular. I realized that was something we had in common. We liked to work. Most of the time, I didn't think we had much in common and I worried about that. Couples were supposed to have things in common.

Then I wondered, was that part of why Ronnie wanted me to work for Lydia? Had he sensed I'd get addicted to my work the way he was to his? It's hard to get addicted to being a bartender—unless you're an alcoholic—so I could see why he'd want to edge me in a different direction. A more challenging one.

I stopped pondering and called the Markers again. The answering machine picked up. I waited for the message to end, just to give them a chance to pick up, and then I hung up. I knew that would cause the machine to record a hang up. I'd probably caused a lot of those in the last few days. Then I was at loose ends. We'd done everything I needed to do over this way and a big part of me was ready to go home.

Ronnie came back inside. "Okay. It's ridiculously hot out there. Even with the mister."

We turned the AC up, closed the drapes, and spent the afternoon in bed. Around dinner time, we found a Chinese restaurant and then went to have a cocktail at Streetbar, which was crowded even on a Thursday night.

"We should buy a place over here," Ronnie said.

"I'm not sure I want to spend much time here. I'm not that enamored of melting parking lots."

Seriously, we'd stopped at Gelson's to pick up some sodas and snacks, and when I got out of the car my foot sank a good quarter inch into the blacktop.

"Not to live in. To rent." He had a look on his face I'd seen before. He was planning his takeover of the world. "Gay men aren't dying as much. These new meds are working. That means more of them are going to live long enough to retire." He opened up his hands and said, "And this is where they'll retire too."

I glanced around the bar and saw that the average age was nearly a decade older than I was. He might have a point.

"What are prices like?" I asked.

"Low compared to what we're used to."

"Let's talk about it after we move into the co-op," I said, knowing full well that wasn't going to work. If he found something he wanted next week, we'd be buying it.

The next morning, we were up by seven and checked out by eight. We skipped the breakfast they offered and went to Elmer's for a traditional breakfast. We were heading out of town by nine-thirty.

Ronnie had a lot of calls to return, so I was driving. We'd agreed I could stop in Eagle Rock on the way back and try the Markers in person. Using a gas station map, I'd plotted the route: the 111 to the 60 then cut up to the 210. The Thomas Guide would take us the rest of the way.

I needed to find Gigi—or at very least find out who she was. It had already occurred to me that the murders of Vera Korenko and Shirley Kessler were connected. At some point, I needed to look into the Kessler murder to see if there was anyone named Gigi involved. I was beginning to worry that was the only way I'd find her.

The drive was easy. Most of the traffic was going in the other direction. Very few people drove into the Los Angeles area for the weekend. Most wanted to escape.

On the way, in between phone calls, I asked Ronnie, "What can you tell me about Eagle Rock?"

"People are discovering it again. It's still relatively affordable. It started out mostly white but then a lot of Filipinos and Mexicans moved in. Now you're getting a lot of artsy types. Rich white kids, mainly. You want to buy up there?"

"No. I just want to know what I'm facing."

Like most of the neighborhood, the Marker house looked to have been built postwar. It was gray stucco, plain and unadorned. Most of the houses around it had started out the same but had since gone through numerous upgrades: brick fences, carports, additions, facades, radical landscaping, wrought iron gates.

It wasn't even eighty degrees–a relief after two days in Palm Springs, otherwise known as Dante's Gay Inferno. Ronnie rolled down the window and kept making calls. I walked up to the front door and knocked. Nothing. I waited. Knocked again. Still nothing.

Next door, they had a lush front yard that probably required more water in a day than a family of five needed to shower for a week. We weren't currently in a drought to my knowledge, but it looked like these people were trying to drive us there all on their own. A woman of about fifty came out and picked up the hose. It wasn't the right time of day to water, so I figured she came out to talk to me.

I walked over to the brick and wrought iron fence, and said, "Hello."

She dropped the hose and came right over.

"They're not here," she said. "They're in San Diego. Their daughter's going through a bad divorce. They're helping out. Not that they can do much. They're in their late seventies and he's got terrible emphysema. I think helping out means they're going to pay for things."

Before I had a chance to answer her, a police cruiser floated down the street and stopped in front of a house kiddy-corner to the Markers. We watched as an officer got out and walked up to the front door. After he was let into the house, I asked the woman in front of me, "Do you know what that's about?"

"The Rabines. Their son, probably. He's a drug addict. Steals from them all the time. Usually, they don't report it, but this time he stole a pistol. They're terrified he'll use it on himself."

She seemed to know a lot more than she should. "This happened this morning?"

"Oh no, it happened a week or so ago. I don't know why they're back today. Maybe they found the gun."

"What else can you tell me about the Markers?"

"I don't like to gossip," she said, putting on a prudish face. Of course, she'd already gossiped about the Markers and her neighbors across the street. But that didn't seem to sink in.

"How long have you lived next door to them?"

"About ten years."

"Do you socialize with them?"

"No. We're not friends. They're not friendly with anyone."

"So it wouldn't be worth my time to talk to the other neighbors?"

"I wouldn't say so."

"Do you know how long they've lived in the house?"

"I think since it was built."

"Do you know when that was?"

"Most of the houses were built right after the war."

"Did you ever hear anything about a woman named Vera Korenko?"

She crinkled her face. "No. Why would I?"

"She was a friend of the Markers. Murdered in 1949."

She got very quiet. "There are rumors that Mr. Marker used to beat his wife. Obviously, that doesn't make him a murderer, but it does make him violent. If the rumors are true. I've never seen anything to suggest that. Even before he ended up on oxygen."

I asked a rather obvious question. "If you don't really talk to them, how do you know so much about them?"

"The Rabines have lived her longer than I have. Much longer. Elsie Rabine talks to Virginia from time to time. Elsie talks to me." She seemed to hear herself and then felt compelled to say, "None of this is gossip. It's just… factual. And you did mention murder."

"I'm not here to criticize," I said.

"Well, I should hope not. I'm only trying to help."