Dial Emmy For Murder Part 14

"My name is Sadowski," she said. "Tom changed his name to Nolan for his acting."

"Sorry," Jakes said. "Mrs. Sadowski, did Tom work much as an actor?"

"On and off," she said. "He always told us when he was going to be in something. H-he hadn't booked anything in a while."

I stood and listened as Jakes continued to ask questions. Watching him only confirmed what I already suspected to be true-he was very good at his job. I guess last year, when he was questioning me, I was too busy to notice. He asked her things I knew he had the answers to, but they always seemed to set up another question he needed answered. He had a way with women, was very good putting them at ease, but I knew that much already, didn't I?

"Mrs. Sadowski-" he started, but she stopped him.

"Just call me Margie, okay? It's better than Missus. Makes me feel so . . . old."

"Okay, Margie," he said. "Did Tom ever tell you that he'd been threatened by anyone? Or did he have a fight with anyone?"

"I told the other detectives, Tom didn't fight. He was . . . gentle. People liked him. I can't think of anyone who'd do this to him. I've wracked my brain for just one reason."

"And your husband?"

"He doesn't know anything-he knows less about Tom than I do. They didn't . . . get along. Not since Tom quit law school to act."

"Your husband is a lawyer?"

"Yes," she said. "Corporate. He has his own firm, a small one. He had dreams of Tom working with him. He's very bitter-was very bitter-that it never happened."

"What about you, Margie?"

"What do you mean?" She looked at me. I kept my librarian's face blank.

"Are you bitter? About anything?"

"Well . . . yeah," she said, looking at him like he was crazy. She hugged herself tighter. "I'm bitter about losing my son."

"Do you have any other children?"

"No." She looked in my direction again and this time spoke to me. "Do you have a cigarette? I'm trying to quit." She wrung her hands and then shook them out. "Don't know what to do with my hands."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't smoke."

She looked at Jakes.

"Sorry."

"It's becoming such a nonsmoking world," she complained.

Jakes asked a few more questions, thanked her and then asked for the address of her husband's office. After that we left.

"You're very good at this," I said, in the car.

"Does that surprise you?"

"No," I said. "I've been on the receiving end of your questions, remember?"

"I've been doing it for a long time." He started the car.

"Are we going to see the husband now?"

"No," he said. "We'll go see Aaron Summers's folks."

"Why not the husband?"

"Because she'll call him now and he'll be waiting for us," he answered. "I want to talk to him when he's not expecting us."

"Tomorrow?"

"Probably."

He put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb.

Chapter 26.

Aaron Summers's parents lived in a much more up-scale neighborhood than Tom Nolan's, in an area adjacent to Hollywood called Hanc.o.c.k Park. Gorgeous homes built in the twenties and thirties. Unfortunately, it's surrounded by a not so nice section of Hollywood. We had to wait at the front gate while Jakes identified himself and then drive up a circular driveway, where he parked behind a Lexus and a big yellow Hummer.

We were let in by a maid who walked us through the house and out back by a pool, where Mr. and Mrs. Summers were sitting, both in bathing suits.

"Detective . . . ," the man said.

"Jakes."

"And?" He looked at me. Were we going to get away with this again?

"My a.s.sociate," Jakes said.

The man waited, and when Jakes didn't say anything else he asked, "What can we do for you and your a.s.sociate, Detective Jakes?"

I looked at the woman I a.s.sumed was his wife. She had bleached blond hair, big dark gla.s.ses and fake b.o.o.bs of the Pamela Anderson variety on a toned body barely covered by a bikini. Does everybody in LA live at the gym but me? Apparently so. She was about thirty. I suddenly realized this couldn't be Aaron's mother. Probably wife number two-or more.

Her husband was a direct contrast to her, about thirty years older. The black hair on his flabby chest and portly stomach was wet with perspiration, as was his bald dome.

I looked at Jakes. He was staring straight at Mr. Summers. I admired his dedication to duty and the fact that he wasn't mesmerized by the double Ds.

"We're here to talk to you about your son, Aaron," Jakes said.

"Talk to his mother, not me."

"Why not you?"

"He and I hadn't talked for a long time before he . . . died."

"He didn't just die, Mr. Summers," Jakes said. "Somebody killed him."

"Same thing."

"No," Jakes said, "it's not the same thing. Frankly, I'm a little disappointed by your att.i.tude, Mr. Summers."

"Well, I was very disappointed in Aaron," the man said.

Was this the same situation as with Tom Nolan's father? I wondered. Father disappointed in son's choice of career? Did this happen with daughters, too? I thought about Sarah and wondered what she would decide to do for a career, and how I'd feel about it. Short of her taking up lap dancing, I doubted I'd have a problem with whatever she chose to do.

"You didn't approve of his career?"

"That acting thing? That's not a career," the man said. "That's a joke. You know how many parts he's had in six years? Two. And a million auditions he never got called back for."

"That's the business," Jakes said.

"It's his mother's fault," Summers said. "She encouraged him."

"When's the last time you saw your son, Mr. Summers?" Jakes asked.

"Months ago. He came to borrow money."

"You didn't give it to him, did you?"

"Bingo."

"And is this Mrs. Summers?" Jakes asked, looking at the woman in the bikini.

"It is."

"We're newlyweds," she gushed, speaking for the first time. "We got married last week."

"Congratulations," Jakes said. "Have you ever met Aaron?"

"Never. I wanted to, though. So sad. I was looking forward to being a stepmommy. I've seen pictures. He was very cute. Just like his dad." She wrapped herself around her new husband and bit his earlobe.

"She doesn't know anything about him," Summers said, pus.h.i.+ng her away. "Hey, look, I told this to the other cops."

"Well, now you're telling it to me," Jakes said. "I've got a few more questions. . . ."

After about half a dozen more questions Jakes said, "By the way, Mr. Summers, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a producer."

That surprised both Jakes and me.

"And you have such a low opinion of acting?" Jakes asked.

"And actors."

"Well, not all actors. I'm an actor, er, actress," Mrs. Summers said proudly. "That's how we met."

Summers just looked at Jakes and said, "Is that all?"

Jakes closed the pad he'd been using to jot down notes. "I may need to talk to you again, Mr. Summers."

"Like I said," Summers replied, "talk to his mother. And his landlady. She probably knew more about him than I did."

"We'll do that. Don't worry."

We didn't speak until we got in the car and closed the door.

"Why do these people-both parents we spoke to today-have such a low opinion of actors?" Jakes asked.

"I think it's the profession," I said, "not the individuals."

"Okay," he said, "why the profession?"

"You have to be crazy to be an actor, Jakes," I said. "I thought you'd know that after being in your job all these years. I mean, you've dealt with crazy actors before, right?"

He grinned. "Present company excepted?"

"Oh," I said, "no."

Chapter 27.

"None of these victims were married?" I asked as we drove to the home of Jackson Masters's parents.

"No, none of them," Jakes said. "At least, not as far as we know. I talked with people they worked with already."

"That's right," I said. "They weren't full-time actors. What else did they do?"

"Aaron Summers was a bartender," Jakes said. "Very popular with the ladies. Wasn't unusual for him to end up going home with someone on any given night. Or day, from what I've heard."

"What about Tom Nolan?"

"Waiter," Jakes said. "Food service seems to be a big day job for you actors. At the time of his death he was working at a cafe in Hollywood. Same story. The other waiters and waitresses said he was a ladies' man."

"And we know Jackson was."