Chapter 29

August 12-13, 1996

On Monday, I stopped taking the pills. There was pain, but I wanted to be able to think. There was still a lot I had to do on the Vera Korenko murder and I needed to have my wits about me. I'd spent much of Sunday attempting to make a list of what I'd need to do, and between the Percocet and everyone coming and going I hadn't gotten far.

The first useful thing I did was send Junior to the library for me. "Get me whatever you can find on the Shirley Kessler murder. You said you remembered it. Ask the librarian to help you and then copy everything."

I gave him forty dollars and didn't expect to see any of it back. Once he was gone, I got up and brought the phone over to the couch, carefully sat down again, and called Georgia Dawson.

"Hi Georgia, this is Dom Reilly again."

"Oh, hello."

"I have some additional questions for you."

"I don't know. I'm not sure about this."

"Why are you not sure?"

"Harp and I got into a terrible fight after the last time you called."

"Was there a reason for that?"

"Harp doesn't think we should dredge up the past, that's how he says it, ‘dredge up the past'. I don't see the harm, though. I mean, it's nice to think about how things were."

"When you were friends with Vera, did she talk about her other friends?"

"Oh, she did. She was very popular."

"Did she mention a woman named Gigi?"

She was quiet for a long time. So long in fact that I asked, "Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm here. I'm sorry, I was thinking. I don't think she ever talked about anyone named Gigi, but now that you're asking me, I don't remember a lot of names. I just remember she mentioned different people. But now… I couldn't tell you anyone's name."

"What about Manny and Virginia Marker?"

"They were in the book, weren't they? I'd never heard of them before. Who are they?"

"Did Vera ever talk about a girlfriend whose husband beat her?"

"Heavens no. I think I would remember that. But then, well… people didn't talk about that kind of thing then. It was considered impolite."

"What about your husband? Would he remember?"

"Oh no, he's useless when it comes to people's names."

"In Philburn's book, he said you knew about the trip to Malibu. You don't remember who Vera was going with?"

"I don't remember… I think Mr. Philburn made that up. Not everything he wrote was true."

That raised an interesting question. If she was telling the truth, then how did Philburn know about the trip to Malibu? I doubt that he went to the Academy Library. That would suggest an ambition I didn't think he had. Georgia was lying to me.

"Maybe you didn't really know Vera that well."

"What? Why would you say that to me? Why are you being cruel?"

"I'm just trying to get to the truth. And I think you're lying to me."

I heard the phone crash into its cradle as she hung up on me. Yeah, she was lying to me. But why? What was the point?

After I got hung up on, I flipped through the TV channels and settled on an old episode of Andy Griffith's show. I fell asleep before I could figure out what kind of trouble Barney Fife had gotten himself into this time.

The front door flew open and Junior blew in. I sprung awake, having no idea how long I'd slept.

"Well, that was traumatic. You didn't tell me I'd have to operate machinery," Junior said, flopping into one of the orange chairs. "I nearly lost a finger when those frightening pieces of glass crashed together."

Just a bit of an exaggeration. He dropped a stack of copies onto the coffee table. "I've read every word. I'm now an expert on the Shirley Kessler murder. Ask me anything."

"Is there a woman named Gigi mentioned?"

"No. There is not."

"Who was the investigating officer?"

"Gunner Olavson."

"Who was he with?"

"Highland Park Division."

"That's LAPD?"

"Yes. The girl's body was found at Elyria Canyon."

"Where is that?"

"Mount Washington."

"Nineteen-sixty-eight is twenty-eight years ago. You think he's still a cop?"

"Absolutely," Junior said.

"We need to find him."

He said, "On it," then switched orange chairs to the one that was next to the phone. Ronnie and I had a ridiculous number of phones. Not counting our cellular, there was a phone in the living room, another in the kitchen, one in his office and one in our bedroom. Actually, there were two lines in his office, one was dedicated to the fax machine. It would have been kind of crazy if Ronnie hadn't been able to take them off his taxes.

Junior dialed 411 and asked for the LAPD general line, then he agreed to be connected (for an extra charge). When he got through, he said, "Yes, can you connect me to Highland Park Division? Oh, oh, I see… Can you connect me? No? All right, hold a moment."

He grabbed a pen off the coffee table. I'd collected a ridiculous number of things there while recuperating.

"Go ahead… uh-huh… uh-huh… thank you."

Hanging up, he said, "Highland Park Division is now Northeast Division." He immediately began to dial. "Yes, hello. Could you connect me with Gunner Olavson? Oh. Oh my. You couldn't… I see. I understand."

Apparently, whoever he was speaking with hung up because he looked at me and said, "Retired."

Then he dialed 411 again. "Yes. Gunner Olavson." A moment later he said, "I'm not sure, could be an F or a V. Uh-huh. Okay. Yes, that sounds like it. Can you connect me?" He waited. "Gunner Olavson? Fabulous. Hold please."

Junior brought the phone to me, holding it well in front of him. I took it, saying, "Hello, Gunnar Olavson?"

"Yeah, it's still me."

I explained a bit about who I was and what I wanted to know, then said, "I'm surprised you're not still on the job."

"I've been retired less than a year. This is about Shirley Kessler?"

"Well, that's not completely right. I'm trying to get information. I've been looking into the death of Vera Korenko. I think there might be a connection."

"Yeah, I've heard of that case before."

"Do you remember if there was a woman named Gigi mentioned anywhere in your case?"

He was silent for a long time. "Yeah. We could never find her. Did you find her?"

"Not yet. She was married but sometimes went with women. It's that what you know?"

"Shirley was crazy about her. That's all I know, except that her husband beat the crap out of her now and then. At least, according to Shirley's friends."

"Yeah, I heard that too. Can I run some other names by you?"

"Yeah, go ahead."

"Harper and Georgia Dawson?"

"Not sure."

"Rocky Havoc."

"Yeah, we interviewed her. Bartender. Kind of political."

"Not a suspect, though?"

"No."

"I didn't think so."

"Betty Brooks?"

"No."

"Manny and Virginia Marker?"

"No. My mother's name was Virginia, Ginny, I'd have remembered that."

"Anyway, could I look at your murder book?"

He was silent.

"The case is archived."

"You didn't bring home a copy?"

"My wife would kill me if I did something like that."

That wasn't exactly a ‘no'. I left a long silence.

"There's someone I can talk to, though. Let me see what I can do."

"Thank you."

I gave him my number and Ronnie's fax. After I hung up, Junior caught me up on his difficulties with the Section 8 people. I barely paid attention. Basically, they wanted to come and look at the house. Or more specifically, my bedroom.

"Talk to Ronnie."

I sat up, and then stood up. A bolt of pain ran through my right side. Taking a few deep breaths, I turned toward the kitchen.

"What do you need? I can get it for you?"

"That's fine," I said, then began walking. Ronnie had made me some lunch and left it in the fridge. Just a turkey sandwich and potato salad, but I didn't have to make it.

I was part way there when I realized I was not getting through the whole day without my pills. I called for Junior and asked him to go upstairs and get my Percocet from the bedroom. And I knew the rest of the day was about to slip away from me.

First thing Tuesday morning, I asked Junior if he could drive a stick.

"Of course I can."

"That's not a double entendre."

"The first three cars I owned were stick shifts."

"Good. Where's my Jeep? I need you to drive me to Eagle Rock."

"Your Jeep's in the shop. We'll take my car."

Why didn't I think he had a car?Everyone had a car. Even desperately poor people had cars in California.

After breakfast we left the house. He led me around the corner and then down the alley behind our house. We didn't have a garage—one of the reasons Ronnie had gotten the house for a song. It wasn't that difficult to park on the street in our neighborhood, so it didn't matter much to us. Halfway down the alley, Junior took out his keys and unlocked a padlock on a garage. He pushed the garage door up, and behind it was his car. He was renting a garage from one of our neighbors. Ronnie was going to kill him.

He drove a 1982 Oldsmobile Toronado, mint green with a darker green landau roof. The car was in pristine condition, looking like he'd just driven it off the showroom floor. I waited while he pulled out of the garage, then got out to lock the door.

"Get in, get in," he said.

I opened the passenger door. The seats were plush, forest green velvet. The dashboard was imitation burled wood. As carefully as possible, I folded myself and slid into the passenger's seat. I tried to pull my seatbelt around me, but I couldn't. I had to ask Junior to do it. When he was done, he said, "Well, off for a big adventure."

On the way we talked about cars. Junior told me about every car he'd ever owned. And then every car he remembered his parents owning. "The first car I remember is a 1941 Nash Ambassador. It was teal blue with a mint green top. Are you sensing a theme? When I saw this car, I simply had to have it because of the color. We kept that Nash forever. They didn't even make cars for years during the war. What was your first car?"

"I had a 1960 Valiant. It had been in an accident, so the frame was bent. It went through tires like you wouldn't believe." It also had taillights that looked like they were squinting at you.

I should have shut up then and there. But I didn't. I'd taken another pain pill before we left so my judgement was off. I told him about my baby blue '74 Duster that had gotten blown up. And the sherbet green '79 Nova with mag wheels I'd been given by a mobster.

"Okay, there are some interesting stories there… care to explain?"

"Oh, um, no… not really."

"Well, I've never had anyone give me a car, no less a mobster. And I've been blown in a car but never had a car blow up."

I was deeply regretting the conversation.

Finally, we got to Beverly Hills and Our Lady of Angels Care Home. Junior's mouth fell open even before we parked. He bent over the steering wheel to get a good look at the place.

"Oh, my Lord. If we hadn't driven here I'd think we were in heaven."

We got out of the car. He had to come around and give me a hand getting out. Stopping at the reception desk, I gave my name and they let us in. Edward had done as he'd promised. As we headed to Patrick's room, a nice-looking, young orderly walked by. Junior leaned into me and said, "Oh yes, this is heaven."

In Patrick's room, we found him sitting in a chair by the window. The television was on as it had been before. Jennie Jones was interviewing Richard Simmons. I turned the sound down.

"Patrick. Hello. I'm Dom Reilly. I was here before. This is my friend Junior."

He looked at us, seeming to attempt focusing. In a whisper he asked, "Where am I?"

"Oh darling, this is the most fabulous place," Junior gushed. "You're so lucky. I'd kill for a two-week stay."

"A hotel?"

"Exactly."

"Patrick, do you remember I asked you questions?"

"No."

"Questions about Vera?"

He looked at me blankly. That concerned me. Had he forgotten Vera? Was the whole reason for my investigation a moot point? Not that it mattered. Sheila just wanted to know what to say to him. But, well, I wanted to know. I wanted to know who'd killed Vera.

Junior said to me, "You should sit down in that chair, Dom. I don't want you falling on your face."

I must have looked more unstable than I felt. I gingerly eased myself into a chair across from Patrick.

"Now—"

"Patrick," Junior interrupted me. "Do you remember the movie The Girl From Albany?"

That got a smile from Patrick. He said, "I was there."

"You were there? In the movie?"

"Ivan had us to see the set. Do you know Ivan?"

"I do. Ivan is fabulous."

"Fabulous…"

"Patrick, who went with you to see the set?" I asked.

"It was so big. There were ten janitors to clean the floor when it got dirty. It couldn't be dirty. It would ruin the shot."

Junior began humming. That made Patrick smile. Junior stopped, and said, "That was the set for ‘I'm Too Blue to Be Blue' wasn't it?"

I think that was for my benefit.

"Who was with you when you went to see it?" I asked again.

"Vera and…"

He stopped. A blank look came over his face.

"Was it Gigi? Was Gigi with you?"

Fear filled his face and then terror. "No! No, don't hit me! Stop!"

"It's okay, darling. No one's going to hit you."

"Help! Help me!"

The nurse we'd walked by before rushed into the room. Junior was thrilled.

"We haven't done anything to him. Not a thing."

"It's all right. Mr. Gill has these episodes." He raised his voice, "Patrick, everything's okay. No one here is going to hurt you."

Patrick was shaking, tears coming down his face. He looked terrorized.

"Can you tell me who hurt you, Patrick?" I asked as gently as I could.

"Vera," he whispered. "I killed Vera."

"No, dear, you didn't," Junior said.

"I did."