Chapter 30

August 13-18, 1996

In the lobby, I noticed Mrs. Carper at the reception desk. I stopped and asked, "Are things any better with Mr. Gill?"

"Yes and no. He's still up to his tricks, but Mrs. Karpinski sent the loveliest basket of muffins and that went a long way to smooth things over. Was that your idea?"

"No, no, not at all," I lied. Sheila had to deal with these people, so it was better they think the kindness a hundred percent hers.

"Patrick had an episode. He became quite frightened and began to yell. The nurse said it happens frequently?"

"I'm aware of that, yes."

"It seems like he's remembering something. Someone hurting him."

"Well, I'm not sure you should put much stock in that. Patients like Patrick can be reliving things that happened to them, that's true. However, they can also be fantasies. I know it's hard for families, but the elderly can get caught in very negative dream worlds. Losing touch with reality would be easier if it were always a lovely reality they escaped to… but I'm afraid it's not."

Driving back to Long Beach, I fell asleep. That shouldn't have come as a surprise. I'd been told to take a walk around the block every day. I'd managed it on Sunday, but it had exhausted me. As it turned out, sitting in the car for forty-five minutes then walking into a nursing home had a similar effect.

I woke up around the time we got onto the 710. Junior, noticing I was awake, asked, "What do you think? How much of that was real?"

"I think a lot of it was real."

"Even after what that woman at the desk said?"

"Gigi was married to a violent man. A couple of people have said that. I'd guess Patrick was either threatened or attacked because of his connection to Vera."

"And you think Gigi's husband killed Vera?"

"I do."

"Gigi is a nickname," he said. "Georgiana, Georgina, Georgette… almost any name with a G?—"

"Georgia Dawson," I said.

"That's someone you talked to?"

"She worked with Vera. She said Vera never talked about anyone named Gigi."

"I guess we know why she'd say that." After a moment, he said excitedly, "Where do they live? We'll go there now."

"They live in Scottsdale Arizona."

"Oh my. That's a six-hour drive. You're not up for that."

And he was right. I wasn't.

Later that afternoon I tried to take a shower and wiped out the next seventy-two hours. I didn't fall down, but I did slip and slam myself against the tiled wall. As soon as he got home, Ronnie dragged me to the emergency room so they could do an X-ray. Everything was fine, thank God. The last thing I wanted was more surgery. They gave me another, stronger prescription for pain, and the instructions to stay at home for at least a week.

Seven very boring days of TV and not much else. Well, that wasn't entirely true. I knew I was going to have to go over to Scottsdale as soon as I got better. But in the meantime, I had to make sure I knew everything I could about Georgia Dawson and her husband Harper. On Thursday, I let the drugs wear off long enough to call Wallace Philburn. When he picked up, I said, "Wally, it's your old friend Dom. I've got a few more questions."

"Jesus fucking Christ."

"I knew you'd be excited."

He hung up on me. I called again. And again. The sixth time he picked up, and said, "Can't you fucking leave me alone!"

"I'm going to tell you who killed Vera."

There was a long pause, and then he said, "Go ahead. Tell me."

"No. I'm going to ask you questions. From my questions you'll be able to figure it out."

I knew that once I told him he would just hang up again.

"Go ahead. Ask your goddamn questions."

"You put a picture of Harper and Georgia Dawson in your book, but you barely mention them. Why?"

"We had to have some kind of art, and the picture was evocative of the period."

"Tell me everything you remember about the Dawsons."

"Harper Dawson? He killed Vera?"

"Tell me what you know about them. Where were they living when you interviewed them?"

"Oh God… I think they were in Glendale somewhere."

"Glendale's not far from where Vera's body was found."

"No. It's not."

"In your book, you say that Georgia Dawson told you about the trip to Malibu that Vera was planning. She told me she didn't know anything about that. She said you made it up."

"I didn't make it up. That's what she told me."

"You made it sound like Vera was going with show business types."

"They were planning to stay at some movie star's beach house. I don't remember which, I'd have to check my notes."

"Vera and Georgia worked together at Security First National Bank. Is that how you found her?"

"No. I found her through Virginia Marker. They all used to go to a bar called The Blue Fox."

"Is that a lesbian bar?"

"At this point it's a little murky what it was. It was a place on the Sunset Strip—well, before people called it the strip. Before West Hollywood was a thing. It was a dance place. Fags and dykes. Everything went, you know."

"Yeah, I know." I wanted to reach through the phone and ring his sleazy little neck, but I needed him to keep answering questions. "So, let's be clear… Vera, Georgia Dawson, Betty Brooks, Rocky Havoc and Virginia Marker, they all went to The Blue Fox. But you didn't think this had anything to do with lesbians?"

"I never said that. I said my publisher didn't want a book about a dead dyke. And frankly, neither did I. I wanted to sell books. That's what writers do. And no… Rocky Havoc didn't go there. It wasn't a place for bull dykes. It was for the normal looking ones. See, you weren't supposed to have queer dancing. So when the sheriff tried to raid the place, they switched partners. The ones like Rocky made it all little too obvious."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"I don't know what it's got to do with anything."

"Vera and Georgia went to the same bar, and they worked together. How did that happen?"

"Georgia got her the job at the bank."

Which was something I'd started to wonder about.

"I called my publisher about the new edition. They're very excited. I'm going to want to do a detailed interview. When do think we can schedule that?"

I hung up on him. I mean, it was the least I could do. Besides, it was time for another pill, and I needed to spend a couple hours of making a concerted effort not to drool.

Two things happened on that Friday: The body shop called and told me my Jeep was all repaired and ready to be picked up; and Larry Wilkes got out of prison. The body shop called in the morning. I didn't have to pay anything; Sammy's insurance company would pay. Actually, they'd pay and then they'd go after Sammy for the money. No one covered deliberately running someone over. I got Junior to drive John there to pick it up for me.

When it arrived that afternoon, I walked out to the curb and looked it over. It looked like nothing had happened to it. I wished I could say the same about my body. I went back inside and took another pill.

On the six o'clock news there was a story about Larry Wilkes being released from prison. Edwin was right next to him at the microphone. Next to Larry was a young guy, good-looking. I guessed that might be Brysen, his prison boyfriend, who would be around until they determined if there would be a settlement and how much it would be.

He would probably get something, but I doubted it was going to be a lot. The police didn't do a great job, but Larry himself had encouraged a witness to perjure herself. The state was likely to say things would have turned out differently if he'd been honest about his relationship with Pete even though we all knew that wasn't exactly true. They wouldn't want to pay a lot of money, so they'd say whatever they could get away with.

Sunday, I waited until Ronnie kissed me good-bye and went off to show houses. Then I carefully got dressed and walked out to my Jeep. I climbed in and managed to get my safety belt on all by myself. Progress. I pressed the clutch down and started it. I looked at the stick shift and realized I was going to need to remove my sling.

I turned the Jeep off, undid my safety belt and started over. First taking the sling off and then repeating the steps. I put it into first gear and that only caused a tiny bit of pain, so I pulled out into the street. I told myself if I made it to 7th Street I'd go all the way. It was touch-and-go, but I knew it was mostly freeway driving on a Sunday, which wouldn't require me to shift gears often.

It still took an hour, by the end of which I was sweating even though I'd had the air conditioning on full blast. Getting out of the Jeep in front of the gray stucco house, I hoped I'd stop sweating soon. It was only in the mid-seventies.

In the Marker's driveway there was a big blue Buick from the mid-eighties. That meant they were home. Good, the journey was not pointless.

Before I crossed the street, I put my right arm back into the sling, which helped to lower the pain to a sharp ache. I made my way slowly up their driveway and knocked on the door with my left hand. A few moments later, Virginia Marker opened the door. She was a thin, sinewy woman in her later seventies. She had on a pair of peach-colored shorts and a pale-yellow sleeveless blouse. Her skin was well-tanned and loose. From the look on her face, she had a good sense of who I was before I introduced myself.

"I have nothing more to say," she said before I got my full name out. "I have told you everything."

"You've told me very little and most of it lies. I'll be going over to Scottsdale soon to confront Harper and Gloria Dawson. I think you and your husband have information that will help me trap Vera's killer. I'm hoping you'll help me."

After studying me a long time, she said, "Come in then."

She had to hold the door open for me. I slipped by into a small living room with two large reclining chairs on opposite sides of the room. In one of them was Manny Marker. He seemed to be in his early eighties, though he could have been older or younger. He was clearly frail, attached to a tank of oxygen, and you could still hear him struggling to breathe. Like his wife, he wore a pair of shorts and a thin shirt. His arms were covered with bruises of various ages. I wondered what exactly was wrong with him.

"Manny this is Dominick Reilly. He says he knows who killed Vera Korenko."

"And Shirley Kessler," I added.

"Yes, of course, Shirley."

Manny's breathing hastened, as though the prospect of finding their killer excited him. Virginia sat down in the other recliner. There wasn't really anywhere else to sit. The small sofa was covered in newspapers.

Looking straight at Virginia, I said, "You met Vera at a bar called The Blue Fox."

"Yes. I did."

Her husband gasped, "No."

"Manny never went to The Blue Fox. It wasn't his sort of place."

He seemed to want to say something but couldn't get it out.

"Did you go there a lot?" I asked Virginia.

"Oh yes. There was not very much on television," she said, dryly. I doubted that was the reason.

"You have a slight accent. Where are you originally from?"

"France. Manny and I met there after the war. He brought me home with him. I was a war bride. Why do you think Harper Dawson killed Vera?"

"A number of people told me that Vera's girlfriend named Gigi had a violent husband. Georgia lied to me about a number of things and Gigi is a nickname…"

I had to stop. Something was becoming clear. Or at least clearer. It wasn't Georgia Dawson who was Gigi, it was Virginia Marker.

"I'm wrong though, aren't I. You're Gigi."

She just smiled. "Yes. Gigi is a pet name for Virginie, which is my name in French."

I looked at her husband. This frail, crippled creature had killed two women? It seemed impossible.

"How long has he been sick?"

"Several years. Emphysema. He won't last much longer."

"Don't—" he attempted to speak again. She stood up and spoke to him angrily in French. He looked confused. She touched his shoulder and he flinched.

"Does he speak French?" I asked.

"Not a word. He gets the gist, though."

"He beat you, he killed two women you loved, why are you taking care of him?"

"Why do you think I'm taking care of him?"

And then the bruises suddenly meant something different. They weren't there because of his illness, they were there because of his wife. She was now the abuser. It was pay back.

"Why didn't you leave him all those years ago?"

"I was trapped. I lost my family in the war. I didn't know many people in the U.S. I had my daughter to think of. I thought Vera would help me escape him. I thought the same about Shirley. He made sure I couldn't get away. He made sure no one would help me."

I started to say she could have called the police, but that was barely true today. It wouldn't have helped her in 1949. I didn't know what to say. I was out of questions and I had the answer I'd come for.

I thanked them and said good-bye. Before I was out the door Manny said something I didn't quite catch. I turned to wait for him to say it again, but Gigi said, "He says good-bye."

Walking out of the house, I crossed the street to my Jeep. I wasn't sure what to do. An elderly man was being abused. I knew I should do something about that. But then, he'd also brutally raped and murdered two women, not to mention abusing his wife for decades. I wasn't sure he deserved compassion. The only thing I was sure of was that it wasn't up to me.

I turned to go back to the house. It would be better for Gigi if I convinced her to turn him in. They'd take him away and then she wouldn't be tempted?—

A gunshot rang out from inside the house. I was sure she'd just killed him. I stopped in my tracks. I was frozen. I should call?—

And then there was another shot. I couldn't breathe for a moment. I was sure she'd just shot herself too. Could I be wrong? Could it have taken two shots to kill her husband? But he could barely move. She couldn't have missed… No, she'd just killed them both.

I looked around the neighborhood. It was quiet. No one was coming out of their house. No one seemed to be home. Slowly, I walked back to my Jeep. I got in, took off my sling, and drove away.