Chapter 6

July 24, 1996

Late Wednesday afternoon

After Anne Michaels left, Lydia called me into her office and said, "We have to do better. I can't go into a deposition not knowing all the answers."

I was sure she was talking about when Larry asked Anne to lie. Quickly, I said, "I'm sorry about that."

"I'm not blaming you, Dom. I should have asked you about that. Ultimately, it's my responsibility."

"But I'm here to make things easier for you."

Before we broke out in an argument about which of us fucked up more, she shifted, saying, "I don't think I'm as over the shooting as I thought."

"You're safe," I said.

"That's not it. I keep thinking it through, trying to see where I went wrong. I keep seeing him with that knife at Karen's throat, knowing it was my fault."

It wasn't her fault. It was Stu Whatley's fault. But that wasn't what she was talking about. She was talking about responsibility. She'd taken Whatley's case. He was innocent of the crime he'd been imprisoned for but had still been a violent rapist. She'd made a decision that had led to violence. I knew what that was like.

"You're helping people. That can come at a cost."

"We're helping people," she said. "The deposition still went okay. I'm pretty happy," she said, getting back to the deposition. "I think we've got what we need. We need to get the rest of the discovery provided to Raymond Harris. Hopefully, he'll have a transcript from that phone conversation. Also, notes from the interview Anne described with the police."

"What should we do to prepare for meeting him Friday?"

"I need to get him to agree to be deposed on what he knows about Larry's sexuality, and whether he said the things that Larry says he said."

"And Anne," I pointed out.

"Well, no. She didn't speak to him directly. What she said is only what Larry said. Or what she's worked out for herself. It supports his story, that's all."

The file Harris had sent over contained the letter of engagement Larry signed when he hired Harris, notes from two different visits to county jail which were cryptic and confusing, several newspaper articles about the murder, notes from an interview he'd done with Larry's parents—his father seemed to believe he killed Pete, his mother wasn't sure what to believe. And that was about it.

"You'll probably need him to walk through his notes of his visits with Larry," I said. "I haven't been able to make heads or tails of them."

"We'll need to do that eventually, but I don't know if there's anything in there that will help us get a new trial."

"If Larry said anything about his sexuality, that would help. And, when he said it. If Harris suggested he not let on that he was gay before he came up with the engagement idea—you know what, that engagement idea came from an article in The Downey Ledger almost immediately after the murder. A source told the newspaper that Pete had recently become engaged, but there was no mention to whom. I'm pretty sure Sammy Blanchard was the source trying to throw suspicion in another direction."

"Well, it worked," Lydia said.

"It did."

"We can't prove that, though. A journalist is not going to want to give up their source. If anything, it hurts us. Anne was vague about when she spoke to Larry. The newspaper mention of the engagement was just a couple days after the murder, right?"

"Yes, that's right."

"If their phone call happened after the newspaper article, then we have a problem we'll need to solve. How did that end up in the newspaper before Larry and Anne cooked up the idea?"

"Should we talk to the journalist? You never know, they might tell us something."

"Let's try to establish when Larry and Anne had that conversation, and we'll go from there."

Karen walked into the office and handed me a slip of paper with Wallace Philburn's name, address and phone number on it. I took a quick look and said thank you. Karen walked out of the office. Lydia didn't bother asking what that was about.

"I'm going to take off tomorrow and work on the Karpinski thing," I told her.

"Okay. Just keep track of your hours. And then add ten percent," she said, smiling meanly.

"Do you want to be kept up to speed on that?"

"Not really. I'll ask if I get curious, but I have enough bad stuff in my head."

After that, I left and went to Hot Times, the coffee shop across from Park Pantry. I ordered a large latte with whole milk, then sat down at a table on the far side of the room. There was a TV over the fireplace playing some kind of music video countdown. I opened Canyon Girl and turned to the third chapter, which began with a discussion of women's rights groups in the 1940s. Philburn talked about the ways in which women's entry into the workforce during the war increased their desire for more equal treatment. He mentioned several groups but eventually focused on one, Sisters of Artemis. It took about five pages, but he finally connected Vera Korenko to the group. Apparently, it was from this group that she drew most of her friendships.

My name was called and I went up to the counter to get my coffee. I tipped the barista, who'd made a pretty design in my cup, and went back to my table. Alanis Morisette was pondering irony on the TV screen. The song had prompted several discussions in my house about what was irony and what was coincidence. Honestly, I'm still fuzzy on the whole thing.

Back at my seat, I kept reading. Apparently, Philburn had tracked down and interviewed several of Vera's friends. One friend, Rochelle "Rocky" Havoc, who by the sixties was living in Long Beach, remembered Vera as being "whip smart, headstrong and sometimes reckless." Betty Brooks lived in Glendale with her husband and three kids, "Vera was the sweetest girl, a little dreamy, I think. She really believed she could make the world a better place." He spent a lot of time with Manny and Virginia Marker, who'd socialized with Vera for a time the year before she was killed. Virginia wasn't quoted in the chapter, but Manny was, "Vera was a bad influence. I put up with it for a long time and then I put my foot down. We didn't see her again after the fall of 1948. When I heard that she'd been killed, I can't say I was surprised."

I checked my pockets for a pencil to circle these names. Then I remembered it was a library book. I popped out to my Jeep and grabbed a notebook from the glove compartment. Back inside, I was about to write down the names, when I heard, "My goodness, imagine meeting you here."

I looked up and there was our roommate, Junior Clybourne. Despite the fact that it was summer in California, Junior was dressed in corduroy slacks, a black shirt and a paisley vest all topped off by an extra-long white scarf. Even though he had a brown fedora on his head, I could see from the wisps of gray hair sticking out that he needed a haircut. He looked dangerously thin—despite the surprising amount of my food he ate.

I said hello and asked how he was.

"Oh, rushed off my feet. I volunteered to help out at The Center. Horrible mistake. They've got me counseling newbies; boys who just learned they're positive. I call my little spiel ‘the tour'."

He hurried off to order.

I went back to writing down the names of Vera's friends. Then I flipped back to the photo section and wrote down the name of the detective who'd worked her case, as well as the boy who'd found her body. You never know.

I'd just gone back to the book, about to start chapter four, when Junior plunked himself down at my table, and said, "Why on earth are you reading that?"

"It's for a case I'm working on."

"I remember that poor girl. An awful thing."

"Um, she was killed in 1949. How old are you?"

"Never ask a lady her age. I didn't mean I remember from when it happened. I was still a child. Mostly. No, there was another murder in the late sixties. Similar. Lesbian girl. People started talking about the Canyon Girl again."

"Do you think Vera Korenko was a lesbian?"

"That's what people were saying."

"Have you ever heard of the Sisters of Artemis?"

"Of course. I'm not sure they're still around, but they were definitely around in the seventies. They used to march in the parade."

"You have quite a memory."

"Not really. The pride parade in L.A. was much different in the seventies. The last time I went, four or five years ago, my God it was three hours long. Everybody and their Aunt Sally wants to be in it now. Seriously, the last time I went I kept waiting for people to march by carrying signs that said, ‘I met a gay person once.' In the seventies, the whole thing was over in half an hour. Much easier to remember who was there."

"Do you know anything about them? The book describes it as a feminist group in the forties."

"Yeah, well, when I first came out, which was nineteen—" He brushed his hand across his mouth to obscure the date. "—feminism was code for lesbian. It's not so much anymore. Unless you listen to conservative talk radio."

"You listen to conservative talk radio?"

"Of course, I do. I love a good laugh."

I have to say, the idea that Vera might be a lesbian made immediate sense to me. Patrick was gay, Vera was gay. Somehow, they met and decided to have a relationship of convenience. Telling the world they were nice normal heterosexuals planning to get married, while doing as they pleased. Of course, how that might lead to Vera's grisly death was a mystery.

While I had those thoughts, Junior had forged on. "—of course, you are keeping the house on 2nd Street, aren't you?"

Oh, he was talking about the co-op and the future. "Yes, of course, one of Ronnie's absolutes is that once you own a piece of property you never ever sell it."

"I imagine you'll be renting out your bedroom?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I hope you'll be a bit more selective than you were with me. I mean, everything worked out, but you didn't know that when you let me into your home."

"I think Ronnie's going to look for a flight attendant." Though as I said that I wondered if it was still true. He'd wanted flight attendants when we lived there because they weren't around a lot. If we're not living there, I suppose it didn't matter. We could rent to anyone.

"I wonder, would it be possible for me to rent your bedroom? You could rent out the one I'm in now."

Our bedroom had its own tiny bathroom. Ronnie was going to want extra for that, and Junior was already paying less than he wanted. The difference would be hundreds a month. I was not making that decision on my own.

"You'll need to ask Ronnie."

"Of course," he said, clearly disappointed. "Well, I'm off to give ‘the tour.' See you at home."

I went back and reread the part about her friends. Rocky. Duh. That was definitely the kind of name a lesbian in the forties might choose. Betty said Vera dreamed of making the world a better place… for lesbians? Manny Marker said Vera was a bad influence. Well, now I knew what kind of bad influence.

I'd slipped my cellular phone into my shirt pocket rather than leave it in the Jeep. I took it out and dialed the number Karen had given me. The phone number had a 619 area code. That was most of the southern part of the state from San Diego to Nevada. Philburn's street address was in Palm Springs. I'd been trying to wait until it was time for nighttime minutes but honestly, I wasn't sure when they started. I'd have to get the bill from Ronnie so I could charge this call back to the Karpinskis.

A man picked up.

"Yes, I'm trying to reach Wallace Philburn."

"Speaking. Who is this?"

"I'm reading Canyon Girl right now and I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?"

"So, you're a reader?" he asked, a tiny bit of excitement in his voice. "Are you enjoying the book?"

"It's fascinating."

"Well, thank you. It's always a delight to hear from a fan. I didn't know people were still buying the book. I haven't seen it in a bookstore in forever."

"I got it from the library."

"Oh. Well, I suppose… Have you heard of this Interweb site called Amazon? Don't get the book there. They're going to destroy bookstores, which means destroying books."

"When you wrote the book, did you know the Sisters of Artemis was a lesbian organization?"

"Who are you? You didn't introduce yourself."

"Dominick Reilly."

"Let me guess, you're investigating Vera Korenko's murder?"

"I am."

"For?"

"The family of Patrick Gill."

And then he hung up on me.