Dream House Page 4

  “Why do you need to know which homes?”

  I could picture his frown. “I want a sense of what type of homes are being targeted.” In a way, that was true.

  “Vandals are democratic, Molly. Of course, a run-down neighborhood is a tempting target. So what's your angle?”

  “I'm curious to see if there are patterns. I noticed that some of the vandalism is more serious. Pellet guns, for instance.”

  “We're not living in Mayberry. Everybody's upping the ante. Drivers used to honk at each other. Now they're using AK-47s.” He paused. “So that's your pitch? No offense, Molly, but the IRS manual is probably more exciting.”

  “I'm still fleshing it out.” I wasn't about to tell Connors my theory, which was half-baked at best. “I checked out burglary crime statistics on the LAPD Web site, but there are no details. Vandalism is under Burglary, right?”

  “Right. Unless we're talking gang graffiti. That's handled by S-E-U. Special Enforcement Unit. It used to be called CRASH. Community Resources Against Street Hoodlums. That's tracked pretty regularly.”

  “I'm more interested in home vandalism. Cases in Hollywood, Wilshire, Rampart, Northeast, West L.A., and Southwest.” All of which contained HARP districts.

  “Vandalisms are low priority, although with Bratton as chief, that's changing. Unless there's a stalking or hate crime element—a swastika, for instance. Or if it's a church.” There was a question in his voice.

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “You're looking for a pattern. Any particular MO?”

  Lemons, I thought. “Not that I know of.”

  “If a cop in Burglary noticed a trend in his area, he might write up a crime bulletin that would be distributed to all the divisions and surrounding jurisdictions. Other than that, you'll have to make nice to your pals at the different divisions.”

  “And ask them to photocopy sixty days of DOs? They'll never do it.” If I were a detective, I wouldn't do it.

  “They can try FASTRAC.” He spelled it for me.

  “It sounds liked a subway system.”

  “Focus Accounting Strategy Teamwork Resources Commitment.” He repeated it, slowly, while I wrote down the words. “It's a monthly crime control meeting at the bureau level that examines crime statistics. The statistics are derived from a computerized database managed by CADs at each division. Crime Analysis Detail.”

  “CADs? Who comes up with these acronyms?”

  “So if someone were inclined,” Connors continued, ignoring my comment as I'd known he would, “he could ask CAD to do a search for home vandalisms that occurred within the past two months in that division or bureau. Shouldn't take long.”

  “Do they have street addresses?”

  “Sure.”

  “How often is FASTRAC updated?”

  “Every day. I just finished looking at eighteen pages of printouts from last night.”

  I was loving FASTRAC. If I could buy stock in it, I would. “So if someone were inclined, could he get information from all the division CADs?”

  “Is that a subtle request?”

  “Can you get it for me, Andy? Plus crime bulletins about vandalism, if there are any.”

  “What about your dry cleaning? Do you want me to pick that up? Walk your dog?”

  “I don't have a dog, but it's nice of you to offer. I really appreciate this, Andy.”

  “I'm a homicide detective, in case you forgot.”

  “One of the best.”

  “One of the best?”

  “If I said the best, you'd think I was flattering you just to get my way.”

  “Which you'd never do.” He laughed. “I'll check into it.”

  “When should I stop by to get the report?”

  “I'll phone you. It'll be a while.”

  “You said yourself it shouldn't take long.”

  “You're nagging, Molly.”

  “Sorry.” I call it persistence, but others disagree.

  “The minute we hang up I'm leaving to interview two witnesses. After that I testify downtown. If that's okay with you?”

  I ignored his sarcasm. “It's fine. Thank you.”

  “If I come back to the station today, I'll try to get to it then. If not, tomorrow morning.”

  “If you do get back today, can you fax me the report?”

  Connors groaned. “God, you're relentless! Why the urgency, Molly?”

  “No urgency. W-I-P.”

  “What?”

  “Waiting Is the Pits.”

  “Cut the crap. Are you onto something the department should know about?” The banter had left his voice.

  “It's probably nothing.”

  “Then why are you pursuing it?”

  “Curiosity. And I have time to kill.”

  “A dangerous combination. Ask George.”

  “If I find out there's a pattern, I'll tell you.”

  “Damn right you will,” Connors said.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FEDEX DELIVERED THE PAGE PROOFS OF SINS OF THE Father as I was loading the washing machine. I'd contemplated visiting the Hudson and Schumacher houses vandalized on Monday, but they would have to wait. I was eager to read the typeset pages—one small step away from a book.

  I was nervous, too. I suppose it's like seeing your dream house after the drywall has been covered and the exterior walls stuccoed. It's a real house, and you plan to love everything about it because it's your design, after all. But some things aren't exactly what you imagined from the blueprints and framing, and it's too late to change them without great expense.

  This was a real book. I wanted to love every word and hoped there weren't any “walls” that would have to come down or be moved, because, as the accompanying letter from the production department warned, “This isn't the time to make major changes.”

  With a cup of coffee on my nightstand next to a pad of the smallest yellow Post-its and two freshly sharpened pencils, I settled myself on my full-size bed with the page proofs and the manuscript. It's my ritual. I do all my writing and revisions on the computer in my office, but I always read completed manuscripts or large chunks of them in my bedroom. I can't explain why, but the energy is different here, quieter, and it's not just the absence of the computer's hum. (My mom, who has published one romance novel under the pseudonym Charlotte D'Anjou and is working on another, does her best writing with Beethoven playing in the background.) I also can't explain why words and sentences and paragraphs that had seemed so right three months ago when I reviewed the copyedited manuscript seemed so glaringly wrong now. I winced more than a few times, but at least there were no “walls” to relocate.

  By late afternoon I had finished the pages, many of them now flagged with Post-its. I would read the galleys at least once more before FedExing the pages with corrections to my editor, and I knew that, careful as I was, I'd overlook something. A typo. A missing word. I often see what's in my mind, not on the page. I hoped more objective eyes would catch the errors before the presses rolled.

  On the whole I was satisfied. I was saddened, too. It was a grim story. So was my first book, and the one I'd just finished.

  I often wonder why I'm drawn to write about true crime. I suppose with each book I'm hoping that if I understand the why of that act of violence, I'll be closer to understanding why someone would murder my best friend, Aggie. After five years and three books, I still have no answers—not to Aggie's murder, not to what makes people do the terrible things they do to one another. A part of me knows I never will.

  I phoned the Hollywood station and asked for Connors. He wasn't in, and I didn't leave a message.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “WE ARE SO LATE,” I ANNOUNCED AS ZACK PARKED HIS Honda two blocks from the school where the HARP meeting was taking place. Judging by the number of cars, the attendance was high. “We probably missed the good stuff.”

  “No comment,” Zack said, more pleasant than I would have been if he'd had me drive around for over fifteen minutes in the wro
ng neighborhood.

  “I'm really sorry. I thought Edie said John Burroughs.” I didn't volunteer that I'd cut her off as she was about to give me the address. “If Edie asks, tell her you were delayed, okay?”

  He looked at me. “Is this a sibling rivalry thing?”

  “Kind of.” I unbuckled my seat belt. “Of course, if you'd picked me up earlier . . .”

  Zack raised a brow in a way I find extremely sexy, like everything else about him. “Shifting the blame?”

  “I figured it was worth a try.”

  He laughed. “Fuggedaboutit.”

  “Not a very rabbinic response.”

  “I'm off duty.”

  I waited for him to open my door and got out of the car, tugging down my short black wool skirt, which had slid up during the ride and exposed an expanse of black-tights-covered thigh. When I looked up, he was gazing at me intently with those killer smoky gray-blue eyes.

  “Why are we here again?” he said, his low, gravelly voice making my heart beat faster.

  If you had told me four months ago that I'd be dating a rabbi, or Zack Abrams, I would have asked you what medication you were on. But here I was, in a three-months-and-going-strong relationship with the high school heartthrob who had dumped me and had reappeared twelve years later—a newer, improved version. Life was good.

  “Kenehoreh,” I said in an undertone (the compacted form of keyn ayin horeh—“Let there be no evil eye”), in case Satan was tempted to screw things up. Which he usually was.

  Zack looked puzzled. “What?”

  “I said, ‘Can we hurry?'” The dark November night hid my pinked cheeks.

  Inside the lobby I picked up a packet of HARP literature and entered a cavernous auditorium chillier than outdoors. I scanned the crowd at the front of the room, huddled around posters on easels. I didn't see Edie. With Zack at my side, I took geisha steps down a sloped aisle in new stiletto-heeled boots that pinched my toes and had felt steadier and more comfortable in the store. When it comes to shoes, I'm like Othello, loving “not wisely but too well.”

  “You wanna see chutzpah?” asked a forty-something man with close-cropped silver hair, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room. He took a flyer from the pocket of his black parka and thrust it into my hand. “This is chutzpah.”

  I glanced at the house on the flyer. Nice house.

  “The homeowner's pushing for HARP in Hancock Park, but look at that addition!” The man stabbed at the page. “He's trying to do everything before the area goes HARP. Hypocrite!” He swiveled sharply and tackled someone else.

  People were clustered in threes and fours. I recognized my Larchmont tour guide, talking to a tall, stocky man wearing a brown corduroy jacket. I spotted several yarmulkes and was trying to identify the faces belonging to them when I saw my sister approaching.

  Edie is thirty-four, five years older than I am and four inches shorter. Aside from our brown eyes and highlighted blond hair, originally medium brown (I wear mine long and curly because there's less upkeep; hers is a chin-length bob that she has trimmed once a month), we look nothing alike.

  “You were so late, I thought you weren't coming,” Edie told me after she greeted us and kissed my cheek.

  “My fault,” Zack said.

  Is the guy wonderful, or what?

  “Molly didn't mention that you were interested in HARP,” Edie said, craning her neck to look up at Zack, who at six feet towers over her.

  “I'm not, really. I figured I'd keep Molly company.”

  Edie smiled. “You two seem to be doing lots of that.”

  All that was missing was the wink. “Who are the main players here, Edie?” I asked, to change the subject.

  “Molly says you're living with your parents, Zack. I'm sure you're eager to find a place of your own.”

  “I've seen a few possibilities,” he said. “But I don't want to rush into anything.”

  “You're very wise. And you'll want something large enough for a family.” Edie has a single-mindedness befitting an Iraq arms inspector and is as subtle as TNT.

  “Zack has a Realtor. I'm sure he'll find something.” I darted a glance at him. He looked amused. “Who's the guy holding court?” I pointed at a ruggedly handsome thirty-something with longish dark blond hair. He was wearing a cropped brown suede jacket, camel turtleneck, and tweed fawn-colored slacks. And a large bandage at his temple. “Very Ralph Lauren. What did he do, fall off a horse?”

  “That's Jeremy Dorn, an architect. Someone shot at his house on Monday with a pellet gun. I heard he's okay, but he's playing it up. He's spearheading the HARP drive and chairs the Miracle Mile North board but lives in Hancock Park.”

  He could have been seriously hurt, I thought, regretting my flip comment. Was this the Hudson house I'd read about? I definitely wanted to talk to Dorn for the story I'd promised Amy Brod, my Times contact.

  “What about Man in Gray?” I asked. Gray sports coat, gray shirt, gray tie. The only things not gray were his short brown hair and the small tortoiseshell glasses that were very in, according to my optometrist. He looked more GQ than Ralph Lauren, more professorial than rugged.

  “Ned Vaughan. Another architect.” Edie made it sound like a four-letter word. “He's with the company the city hired to do the historical survey. And the skinny redhead is Linda Cobern from Councilman Harrington's office.” Edie put her mouth near my ear. “She's a witch.”

  Bruce Harrington, Edie had told me, was pro-HARP, playing to the longtime area residents who had put him in office.

  “What are the numbers tonight?” I asked.

  “We're well represented, but so are they.” She frowned. “I made hundreds of calls. So did Roger. Modine,” she added. “But a lot of people haven't showed yet.”

  “The contractor?” That was a surprise.

  “He lives in the area. The HARP rules are affecting his business. That's him over there.” Edie pointed to the man talking to the Larchmont woman. They both looked edgy.

  “Don't the proponents need a certain percentage of area homeowners who want HARP status?” Zack asked.

  Edie sniffed. “We think they fudged the numbers. Also, according to the survey, seventy-five percent of the houses contribute to the neighborhood's historical identity. That's ridiculous.”

  A couple I recognized from Zack's synagogue walked over. He introduced them to Edie. “And you know Molly.”

  “Of course,” the husband said.

  The wife smiled. “We've met.”

  Was their greeting stilted, or was it my imagination? And did Zack seem suddenly awkward? I'm still self-conscious around his congregants, auditioning for a role I'm not sure I want. It doesn't help that my ex and his parents attend this same synagogue, and that many of the congregants were at our wedding.

  “I'm going to play reporter,” I told Zack. “Want to come along?” I'd do better alone but hesitated leaving him with Edie. She'd probably have him sign a prenup by the time I returned.

  “Go do your thing. Don't worry about me.”

  I wondered if he was relieved. Zack has never said, but I imagine he's uncomfortable when we're in public with the way I dress—sleeves and skirts falling short of strict Orthodox rules, necklines a little too low. Nothing risqué, but not appropriate for a rabbi's girlfriend. (I wear pants, too, though not when we're out.) Edie, whose skirts end just above the knee, says I should be sensitive to Zack's position. (“Is a couple of inches such a big deal if you love someone?”) I remind her that I hadn't wanted to go out with a rabbi, that Zack knew what I was like from the first date.

  Bubbie G says, “Az es iz nisht vi ich vill, vill ich vi es iz.” If it's not as I want it, I want it as it is.

  The question was, did I want it?

  Roger Modine had moved off. I scanned the room but couldn't find him. Instead I flitted from cluster to cluster, a bee looking for pollen.

  “. . . philistines tore down a lovely Craftsman and replaced it with a cookie-cutter nouveau Beverly Hills.”<
br />
  “. . . didn't pay over two million dollars so that someone can tell me what kind of landscaping I can have.”

  “Well, that's the point. I wouldn't want a purple house next to mine, or aluminum windows.”

  “. . . can't argue that every house with Spanish tile is a contributing structure!”

  “. . . it's the religious people who need big houses for their large families. Let them go elsewhere.”

  “. . . property values will go down because people won't want to buy with HARP breathing down their backs.”

  Half an hour later I was ready to report that it was a draw. Edie wouldn't be happy, and I didn't have a zinger for my story. So much for the fireworks I'd expected.

  I was crossing the room, looking for Roger Modine, when I heard an auburn-haired woman say the name Linney.

  The Professor.

  She was talking to a tall, large-framed man in his late thirties or early forties with a broad face and wide nose. His outfit—a black leather jacket over a loose, oversize camel sweater and tan slacks—looked almost shabby next to her expensive black wool suit.

  “. . . a shame he couldn't be here tonight,” the woman said. “He's so passionate about historical preservation.”

  “He didn't have a good day, so I promised I'd come here and give him a full report.”

  Was the man Linney's son? I wondered.

  The woman tsked. “Is he still working on his book? I know he was excited about it, before everything happened.”

  “Most of the time, between the Alzheimer's and the Parkinson's, he's too confused. Yesterday he wandered out of the house. Again.” The man sighed. “I'm worried he'll get hurt one of these days.”

  The woman arched a penciled brow. “He was alone?”

  The man's ruddy complexion deepened. “The caregiver says he was taking a nap. When she checked on him, he was gone. I'm not sure she was all that attentive. It doesn't matter now. She quit.”

  “Who's with him now?”

  “A caregiver from a different agency. First Aid. She won't last the week. The Professor can be mean. He yells at them, accuses them of stealing from him, orders them to leave. I'm running out of caregivers and agencies.”