Dream House Read online

  “I admire you, Hank. I'm sure this isn't easy.”

  Nice sentiments, but her tone was mocking and I wondered why. Hank didn't seem to notice.

  “I keep telling myself he's more frustrated than I am,” he said. “And he's lonely. He doesn't see much of anyone. Well, Ned Vaughan comes over, of course. So does the former neighbor, Tim Bolt. But the Professor yells at Ned and Tim, too, so I don't know how long that'll last. The last time they came by, he refused to see them.”

  “You may have to place him in a home,” she said, not mocking now.

  Hank tightened his lips. “I can't do that. Maggie would never— I just can't.”

  Maggie was Margaret, I assumed.

  “I'm sure you know best,” the woman said. “I should go see Jeremy and rescue him from that awful Linda Cobern. Do you want to come with me?”

  “I don't think so.” His cheek twitched.

  “Oh, of course. I'm sorry.” Her satisfied smile said she wasn't sorry at all. “Well, it's nice that you're getting out, Hank. I'm sure we'll be seeing more of you.”

  He watched her as she walked over to Dorn. There was anger in his cold brown eyes and the set of his wide jaw, in the flare of his nostrils. I wondered at whom the anger was directed. Dorn or the woman? Or both.

  It wasn't the best time to introduce myself, but I grabbed the opportunity and stepped closer. “Excuse me? I couldn't help overhearing you talk about Professor Linney.”

  He turned and stared at me, the anger replaced with a guarded expression.

  “I drove him to the Fuller house yesterday,” I said. “I'm Molly Blume.”

  “Hank Reston.” The tension left his face. “Thanks. I hope he didn't put you out too much. He can be a handful.” He tried a smile but looked weary, as if the weight of the world were lying on his broad shoulders.

  “A little stubborn, but he wasn't a problem.” I smiled back. “I was happy to help. It was so sad, though. He was agitated about not being able to see his daughter. At least the neighbor was able to calm him down.”

  Hank nodded. “Tim has known the family for years. He called me on my cell phone, and I came right over.”

  “Professor Linney is your father?”

  “Father-in-law.” His eyes were focused over my head. “Would you excuse me? There's someone I have to talk to. Thanks again for your help.” And he was gone.

  I was consumed with curiosity, but I couldn't run after him and force him to tell all. Turning, I watched him walk up to Roger Modine, of all people. Two birds, I thought, and not one stone. Modine was in a heated conversation with Ned Vaughan, glowering at him as though he wanted to throttle him. Reston placed a hand on Modine's shoulder and apparently defused whatever had been going on, because the contractor calmed down and Vaughan laughed, though he still looked nervous.

  Several roads led to Jeremy Dorn. I walked over to him, passing the black-suited woman, who had joined another cluster. Dorn had the glazed smile of a Jeopardy contestant who hasn't buzzed once. A tense Linda Cobern was listening to the silver-haired man who had thrust the flyer at me.

  “Nothing's decided, Mr. Seltzer,” Linda said.

  “It's un-American! If Harrington thinks he'll get my vote next time . . .”

  I waited until he stormed off. “A lot of people seem unhappy with the regulation that comes with HARP,” I said.

  “That's because they don't understand how it works.” Linda Cobern studied me. “Do you live in the area?”

  I had the feeling that if I lied, she'd demand to see a picture ID. “No, but I'm interested in the subject.”

  “You're a reporter.” She cocked her head. “I don't remember seeing you before. Are you with the Chronicle?”

  The local paper. “I freelance. Apparently, there's real friction between the two sides.”

  “I wouldn't call it friction.” Her smile was tight, as though she were afraid to crack a facial mask. “People have opinions. That's healthy.”

  “According to police reports, a number of homes in the area have been vandalized lately. The victims seem to be on one side of the HARP issue or the other.” I turned to Dorn. “I understand your home was vandalized this week.”

  A woman screamed. Something crashed. I turned to my right. One of the easels had been toppled.

  “You put that there!” the woman yelled at the silver-haired Seltzer. She pointed to the floor.

  “It wasn't me!”

  Linda Cobern tightened her lips. “Excuse me.” She headed toward the easel, Dorn at her heels. Whatever had prompted the scream was making people keep their distance.

  I followed them. Lying on the floor next to the fallen easel was a dead bird.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Thursday, November 6. 7:53 A.M. 1300 block of South Curson Avenue. “I'm gonna kill you. I wanna see blood. Red is my favorite color,” a man yelled across the street at a neighbor. (Wilshire)

  “A DEAD BIRD,” CONNORS SAID. “VERY HITCHCOCK.”

  “I think it's a symbol for a Harpy. A plundering bird. That's what some people call the HARP board members.”

  “I know what a Harpy is, Molly. In mythology, an ugly, filthy creature with the head of a woman and the body of a bird. More loosely, any rapacious person or animal.”

  “I'm impressed.”

  “I got a thirteen forty on my SATs. Okay.” He clasped his hands behind his head. “'Splain it to me, Lucy. From the beginning.”

  Connors had borrowed a chair for me and pushed back his own, propping his tan cowboy boots on his desk (“table” in cop talk). Even sitting, he gives a tall appearance, and though his face is unremarkable, and he has a significant bald spot on the crown of his thinning brown hair, there's something enormously appealing about him. Sexy, too.

  I started with Fennel and Strom, then told him about the other vandalized homes. “Highland, Larchmont, Arden, Hudson, McCadden, Schumacher. There seems to be a war going on between HARP proponents and opponents.”

  “Homes are vandalized all the time, Molly.”

  “True.” I nodded. “But three of them belong to people who are on HARP boards. Or in Fennel's case, used to be. But he's still involved. There may be a fourth, in Carthay Circle. I haven't checked that one yet.”

  I was encouraged by the interest in Connors's hazel eyes. One boot came down. “Go on.”

  “That's it. Well, except for the bird, which raises the creepiness level. Obviously, someone's targeting HARP board members, and from the escalating violence, it looks like his anger is growing. One of the victims needed stitches. Next time it could be worse.”

  “Any idea who's doing this?”

  Roger Modine's name popped into my head. “Not really.”

  “Ennhhhh.” Connors imitated a buzzer. “Try again. You've spent three days on this. You must have something.”

  I wanted to talk to Modine first, but Connors is generous with information. “There's a contractor who's lost projects thanks to delays imposed by the homeowners groups. Some of his remodels have been vandalized. But there were a lot of anti-HARP people at last night's meeting, Andy. Any one of them could have brought in the dead bird.”

  “Who's the contractor?”

  “Roger Modine. RM Construction.”

  Connors wrote that down. “You could have told me all this over the phone, Molly. Why the visit? Not that it isn't a treat to see you.”

  I handed him a list of names. “I got this off the Internet last night. These are the members of all the HARP boards in the city. I'm hoping you can find out if any of their homes have been vandalized lately. I need it ASAP.”

  “For your pattern,” Connors said.

  “And my story. My deadline is in four hours.” I'd worked on the story until three in the morning. If Amy had it by noon, it would run in Friday's morning edition.

  He scanned the list. “A lot of names.”

  “Sixty. Five members on each board.”

  “Do you know any of them?”

  “Jeremy Dorn. I met him a
t the meeting. He's on the Miracle Mile HARP board. And Rita Benton.” The Lemon Bandit's victim. I'd spoken to her and her husband. “She chairs the Angelino Heights board.”

  Connors tapped the list against his fingertips. “I'll check into this.”

  “FASTRAC?”

  “D-C-T-S.”

  I smiled. “I'm not even going to ask.”

  “Detective Case Tracking System. But there are two conditions.” He fixed me with his I'm-not-kidding look. “One, you don't talk to Modine until I say so.”

  I had enough sources without him: Jeremy Dorn, Linda Cobern. Rita and Hal Benton had insisted on anonymity, but a dozen other neighborhood residents hadn't.

  “What's the second condition?” I asked.

  “You don't mention the dead bird.”

  “Why not?” I needed the bird. The bird gave the story edge.

  “Because it's a detail that may be valuable if we find this guy. And we don't want to encourage copycats.”

  “There were over a hundred people at the meeting last night, Andy. They all know about the bird. Believe me, the bird has flown the nest.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  I'M NOT A GOOD WAITER, AS YOU MAY HAVE NOTICED. And my deadline was looming like the Titanic's iceberg. I finished my Crime Sheet column, checked the data against my notes and the police reports, and e-mailed the file to my editor.

  Zack had phoned when I was out. I returned his call and learned he was visiting a congregant at the hospital. I didn't like the way last night had ended—my fault. I'd been preoccupied with the dead bird, and though he'd said he understood that I couldn't do our nightly phone marathon because of my deadline, he'd seemed distant. Maybe he was annoyed. Maybe he welcomed the reprieve.

  Maybe my imagination was working overtime. Zack had dumped me in high school. My ex-husband had cheated on me. So, yes, I'm insecure when it comes to men. Zack was different now, and I trusted him. But I was pondering our relationship. He probably was, too. Did he want me “as is”?

  With the soundtrack of Mamma Mia to keep me company (I love everything ABBA), I dusted and vacuumed and folded the laundry I'd washed yesterday. Then I resumed work on the galleys. I'd reread thirty pages when Connors phoned.

  “Four homes in the past three weeks, not counting Fennel, Dorn, and Benton.” He sounded tense. “One of them late last night.”

  “Four more?” That was more than I'd expected.

  “I thought you'd be thrilled. Not enough for your story?”

  Connors likes to kid around, but he was touching some of my buttons. “I'm not thrilled that homes are being vandalized and people are traumatized and injured. But, yes, I'm gratified that I'm right. Now that we know, maybe we can put a stop to it.”

  “We?”

  “You. The men in blue.” His attitude was really annoying. “You should be thanking me. What's your problem?”

  “Vince Porter.”

  I frowned. “What?”

  “I called him about the vandalism, since a lot of it's in his backyard. He's pissed you didn't go to him. He thinks you're trying to make him look bad.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You told him I asked you to check this out?”

  “He guessed. You asked a lot of questions about vandalism on Monday, he said. You mentioned HARP. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together. And, yeah, I forgot. Thank you. Nice work. I mean that.”

  “Thanks.” I didn't relish a confrontation with Porter. “Seven homes isn't a coincidence, is it, Andy?”

  “I don't think so.” He was glum now.

  “What kind of vandalism?”

  “What you saw, for the most part. Graffiti, shattered windows, smashed concrete. One woman had stitches. No dead birds, in case you're wondering.”

  I ignored that. “Which HARP areas were involved?”

  “Angelino Heights, Carthay Circle, Whitley Heights, Spaulding Square.”

  “The Carthay Circle house is the one on Schumacher?”

  Connors didn't answer right away. “Yes.”

  “What's the homeowner's name?”

  “Sorry.”

  I had the address in my police report. I could find out. “Can you tell me which other homes were vandalized?”

  “Again, sorry.”

  Sometimes I can push. I could tell this wasn't one of those times. I wondered why. “What about those FASTRAC pages? When do you think you'll have those for me?”

  “It'll take some time. I've been busy running these names and following up.”

  Something told me he was holding back. Maybe Porter had pressured him to shut me out. “Following up?”

  “We've issued a crime bulletin to all the divisions with the names and addresses of all HARP board members. We're talking to Burglary in all divisions with HARP districts. I already talked to Porter. Carthay is his. So is Harvard Heights. Rampart covers Angelino Heights.”

  “What jurisdiction is Spaulding Square?”

  “Ours. So are Whitley Heights and Melrose Hill. We're increasing patrols and alerting board members. I assume the other divisions will be doing much the same thing. It's a hard line, warning people without frightening them. Which brings me to your story. What are you writing?”

  “What I said. That not everyone's happy with HARP, that there's been a suspicious amount of home vandalism, that it all seems to be connected.”

  “You didn't talk to Modine, did you?”

  “I promised I wouldn't. Have I ever lied to you?”

  “Not that I know of. That doesn't mean you haven't. Don't mention that the victims are board members, Molly.”

  “Are you writing this, or am I?”

  “This is serious, Molly.”

  “Exactly. I'm a reporter. I report news. This is news. You said yourself it's not a coincidence.”

  “I said I don't think it is. What if we're wrong? You print that, you could be panicking people for nothing.”

  “What's the downside, Andy? People are more careful? Neighbors look out for each other? Ooh, how horrible.”

  “I don't want our guy to know that we know. Okay, Lois Lane? It gives us an advantage. If he knows we're watching board members' homes, where does he go then?”

  “You're going to stake out sixty houses?” I said, ignoring Connors's question. I had to admit he had a point. Still . . . “I'll have to see how it plays out.”

  I returned to my computer and my story, but Connors had bothered me. It wasn't what he didn't want me to write. It was what he hadn't told me—the names, the addresses. His hedging about FASTRAC. I'd attributed his attitude to pressure from Porter, but maybe it was something else. And maybe the police weren't planning on watching sixty houses.

  “Walter Fennel's house was vandalized,” I told my computer screen. “So were Jeremy Dorn's and Rita Benton's. Rita and Dorn head HARP boards. And Fennel . . .” I tried to remember what Mindy had said.

  I checked my notes. Fennel had chaired his HARP board until a month ago. I phoned Hollywood, asked for Connors, and played computer mah jongg while I waited.

  “Did I mention I'm busy?” he said when he came on the line.

  “The four other homeowners who were vandalized,” I said. “They were heads of their HARP boards, right?”

  “No comment.”

  “That's a yes.”

  “You print that, and don't ever ask me for help again,” he warned.

  “Andy—”

  “The vandalism last night? Someone threw a torch through the front window.”

  I shut my eyes for a second and sighed. “Was anyone—”

  “Luckily, the owners had moved out. They're doing extensive restorations. Luckily, there wasn't much damage. There are five other HARP board chairs. We plan to watch every one of their houses. We want to get this guy, Molly. But if you print this, he won't show, will he? And next time we might not be so lucky.”

  I can tell you it wasn't an easy decision. I agonized for some time, inserting the fact that six of the victims (seven, if you counted F
ennel) were heads of HARP boards. Deleting it. Inserting it again. One little sentence, but it made a huge difference.

  I asked myself what Woodward or Bernstein would do. What would Ellen Goodman do? Wasn't it my responsibility to tell my readers the complete truth? Or was that ego masquerading as righteousness?

  And what about the public's safety? What if all board members were being targeted? Shouldn't they all be warned?

  I saved three versions of my story on the computer. “HARPs—Sweet Chords or Discord?” At 11:47 I addressed an e-mail to Amy Brod at the Times and attached the version that speculated about HARP board members being targeted, but didn't narrow it down to the board chairpersons. A compromise. I kept the bird.

  I tapped the computer mouse, deliberating. I won't tell you it was a portentous moment. It wasn't. And while I'm not a fan of the if-only-I'd-known school of writing, I do sometimes wonder whether things would have turned out differently if I'd never pressed SEND. Connors says no, but I think he's being kind.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Friday, November 7. 7:28 P.M. 11100 block of Venice Boulevard. A woman reported that she went to her car in the morning and found a note on the windshield. “Nice car, hope it stays that way? Still buying lots of beer. Loser.” (Culver City)

  MY FAMILY AND I HAD FINISHED THE BIRKAT HAMAZON (grace after meals) when we smelled the smoke. It curled into the dining room through the inch of open window, and we realized why the fire engines we'd heard earlier, their sirens a shrill accompaniment to the Sabbath zemirot we'd been singing, had seemed so close. Only three blocks away, we soon learned.

  My dad and my brothers—Noah is twenty-four, Joey is two years younger—pushed their chairs away from the table and stood in unison, their movements choreographed by curiosity.

  “We'll be back soon, Celia,” my dad told my mom.

  He slipped on the suit jacket he'd draped over the back of his chair. My brothers did the same.

  “You and the boys should take coats, Steven,” she called as they hurried out of the room, her smile a half reproach. She removed the cream-colored lace mantilla from her shoulder-length chestnut brown hair and folded it.