Eyewitness. Part 7

He lead them into the main dining room, then wandered off toward the back of the club with a vague wave of his hand. "I'll be in my office if you want me. I.et Rhonda know when you're ready to leave." His voice and his footsteps faded away, pulling silence after them.

Mary jammed her hands into the pockets of her windbreaker' This feels weird," she whispered. " It's so different"

MacDougal didn't say anything, just kept pace a few steps behind her as she began to weave her way slowly through the maze of tables.

The room looked smaller than she remembered it. And of course it had the slightly tawdry look all nightclubs have in daylight.

"There used to be a fountain here," she said, trailing her fingers across a tabletop. " " And a skylight. "

"Guess they wanted more room for the customers." MacDougal's voice seemed too loud in that empty room.

"This used to be a really happening place," Mary said, turning in a slow circle. "It was really nice in here then, believe it or not. Plus, it was hot. I mean, it was the place to be, if you wanted to see and be seen, you know? All the stars, important people used to come in here. And Belle-" She stopped. " " Belle? "

Mary began moving again, shoulders hunched inside her windbreaker. " " Stage is still the same, " she murmured. " " No piano, though. Guess stand-up comics don't require much in the way of musical accompaniment."

MacDougal remained silent, even when the silence began to seem like another presence in the room, crowding them with its company. He had a way of doing that, she'd noticed , a way of not asking the questions she knew he most wanted the answers to. She thought about digging her heels in and waiting him out in some sort of childish battle of wills, like a staring contest. But the truth was, deep down inside she really did want to give him those answers, because carrying them around all by herself had gotten to be too much of a burden. She was just. so tired. And she was pretty sure he knew it.

"I'll never forget the first time I saw this place," she said softly. "I walked in looking for a jobI mean, I was right off the bus, you know? I was staying in this scuzzy hotel downtown by the bus depot, almost out of money. Anyway, I was desperate enough, even though I figured a ritzy place like this wasn't ever going to hire me, not even as a c.o.c.ktail waitress, but I thought... what the heck, I've got nothing to lose by asking, right?"

She could feel MacDougal behind her, big and broad, solid and strong. Strangely, now she found his silence more encouragement than goad. He wasn't going to rush or pressure her, or try to direct her into memory paths of his choosing. He was letting her explore any sidetracks she wanted to, take all the time she needed, including time to close her eyes, to touch, taste, smell and hear. to feel again. To remember.

Chapter 7.

Caesar's Garden seemed dark and cool to her after the suns.h.i.+ne brilliance outside. The sun was s.h.i.+ning in the dining room, too, a slanting cone of light that came throccgh a skylight above the marble fountacn in the middle of the room. But it was cool, magccal light, with a milky, s.h.i.+mmery translucence that made being in that place seem almost like being underwater. Mary could hear the silvery music of the water in the fountain, too, and feel its chaste kiss on her hot cheeks.

Beyond the cone of sunlight it was dark, except fora soft purple glow coming from a stage near the back of the room. As she moved toward it, she could hear a different music piano music, light and playful Then there was laughter, and a voice as sweet and pure as a crystal bell. " " Oh, I like that, Ronnie-let's put that in the transition, okay? Now-let's try it from the chorus, second time throccgh. "

"I even remember the song-it was " Sweet Caroline," " Mary said. " " A Neil Diamond oldie. But I swear, it seemed as though I'd never heard it before. And her voice-G.o.d , that voice. It was really different from her speaking voice, you know. Rich and gutsy, like it came from way down here. " She pressed her fist against her stomach.

"And that was Belle?" MacDougal asked softly.

"Yes." She said it on a whispery exhalation. "That was Belle. I remember thinking, Oh, G.o.d, if I could just sing like that! I mean, there'd be no stopping me. She really had something. If she'd wanted to, she could have gone anywhere Madonna?-shoot, she was better than Madonna. She was the headliner here, you know, and all these big name stars that used to come here-they really loved her. Everybody loved.. "

The last word got caught in her throat. She cleared it hastily and moved on again, mounting the two wide steps to the stage, which was bare except for a high metal stool with a chord less mike lying on top of it. She picked up the mike almost without thinking and hitched herself onto the stool, hooking a foot around one of the legs. She felt the microphone grow warm in her hand. " " But you got the job, " prompted MacDougal.

She glanced at him guiltily. He'd followed her up onto the stage and was standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets , watching her with shadowed, unreadable eyes. His suit jacket was. .h.i.tched up, so she could see the smooth leathery sheen of a gun holster on his hip. It gave her a jolt to see it there; it had been a while since she'd thought of him as a cop. It was getting harder and harder to remember that about him.

"Yeah," she said dryly, "I got the job. The manager comes running up, see, and he's ready to give me the heave ho , and I'm arguing and begging him to give me just a chance, just one chance. Belle heard the commotion, I guess, because she stopped singing and came over to see what was going on. I don't know what she saw in me, I really don't." She laughed, a rocky chuckle that hurt her throat, and self-consciously jammed a hand through her hair. "I must have been a pitiful sight.

"But anyway, Belle says, " Oh, come on, Charlie, give the kid a break. " I mean it-I'm dead serious, that's what she said. Like it came straight out of one of those old Holly wood musicals, you know? I swear, I thought I must have fainted from hunger, or something, and was having this incredible dream. I thought Belle was Carole Lombard, Greer Garson and Carol Channing all rolled into one."

She looked down at the microphone, which she'd begun to roll back and forth along her thigh. After a moment she shruggerl. "So, that's it. I got the job. Belle took me home with her and fed me and gave me a place to stay. It was supposed to be just temporary, you know, while I was getting on my feet. But... somehow, we got to be really good friends, and uh.. : '

She had to stop again, struggling with it, trying, with deep breaths and short, dry laughter, to keep the pain at bay. Not counting last night, she'd never cried for Belle; she'd never had a chance. Someday she thought she'd have to, but not now. Please, G.o.d, she thought. Not now.

"I just never moved out," she went on, when she knew her voice was steady again, speaking rapidly, because she wasn't sure how long her self-control would last. "We were-she was kind of like my big sister. She was always looking out for me, giving me advice on how to get along in the big bad city, how to stay out of trouble. Of course, I didn't always want to stay out of trouble, right? I mean, that's what I came to the " big bad city' for. If I'd wanted to stay out of trouble, I could have stayed in-" She caught herself, just barely in time. " I'd have stayed home. "

She shook her head, letting her shoulders slump and the microphone dangle between her knees. " " I don't know why she put up with me. "

MacDougal came closer, casually strolling. "But you sang here, too, didn't you? You weren't just a c.o.c.ktail waitress."

Mary nodded. There was a terrible lump in her throat, and the mike burned like cold iron in her hands. "Yeah." She cleared her throat. "That was Belle's doing, too. Whenever she could manage it, she'd let me go on for her. You know, just a song or two, sometimes when she wasn't feeling well, or had a sore throat, or something. No big deal."

"qNo big deal?" MacDougal said gently. He was directly in front of her now. She looked up bravely to meet his eyes and found them gleaming with a little spark of curiosity . and something else deeper down, like the soft, steady glow of candle flames. "Wasn't that what you wanted? To be a singer? "

She looked away again and hitched one shoulder, a movement that was more defensive than dismissive. " " Sure. That's why I came here. I wanted to be a singer, dancer, movie star-everything. Oh, I had big, big dreams. "

His voice was still gentle, not quite teasing. "And.. were you that good? "

Remembered feelings surged inside her-power, pride, confidenoe and anger. "If I didn't think I was, I wouldn't have come, now, would I? ".

"Easy." He touched her chin with a knuckle, nudging it downward. The light in his eyes softened. "Hey, I believe you. The way you look right now, sitting there with that microphone to your hand... you look right at home. Natural "

He was still touching her, brus.h.i.+ng his knuckles lightly along the edge of her j aw. She felt a desperate need to swallow , but her throat seemed paralyzed. It had become too warm in that room, too dark, too. close. She gave her head a quick, painful shake. "It was along time ago. A lot's changed. Everything... has changed. I've changed."

His fingers slowly uncurled, fanning along the side of her neck. She had to fight the urge to close her eyes.

He shook his head and murmured, "I can see you, the way you must have looked back then.. with that soft light, then the spotlight... your hair..."

Her hand flew unbidden to the back of her neck, and found his there already. "I don't look anything like I did then. My hair-"

She felt his fingers weaving through the short hair on the nape of her neck, ruffling it, then smoothing it down. " " Your hair's different, I know. A lot shorter. "

"How... ? You didn't-" Unreasoning panic seized her. Her eyes clung to his.

His smile slipped, became wry. "No, no, I never saw you-heard you sing." The warmth of his hand pooled at the base of her skull, gently ma.s.saging. "I've seen your publicity photos. You had" he laughed, his voice turning husky " " an awful lot of hair. "

"Oh, man-ma.s.ses of hair." She found that she was laughing, too, in unaccountable confusion, suddenly incapable of looking at him. " " Movie star hair. Oh, well. : She scrubbed at her head with her fingers, making it awkward for him to keep his hand where it was. He let it drop away from her, allowing her to comb her fingers through her hair, leaving it in deliberate and total disarray.

The laughter died. "I told you-a lot's changed. I've changed. That person.. " " " Joy Donnelly? "

She nodded, all at once too overwhelmed to speak. After a moment she whispered, "That's not me anymore, don't you understand? I left that all behind me. Years ago."

" But. don't you ever miss it? I mean, the music. the life? "

She couldn't answer, exoept to shrug and look away from him in feeble denial.

But he pursued her, his words soft and relentless. "How could you not miss it? The music, at least. You don't just give something like that up. It must still be there, inside you somewhere. Mary or Joy, it's still got to be a part of who you are, right? "

She'd closed her eyes, but his words a.s.saulted her, anyway , pounding like hailstones upon the frail shelter she'd erected over her emotions. Furious with him, she pivoted on the stool, twisting away from him, out of reach of his pelting words. But one last one found her, anyway, whispered softly, like a single drop of rain.

"Right?"

Oh, G.o.d, she thought. And then there was no more thought, only feeling, great, howling storms of feeling. She felt helpless, buffeted, scared and alone. She heard the music -felt it-first as something faint and faraway, like a child crying in the storm. It grew closer and louder until it seemed a part of the storm, too.

She sat rigid and still on the stool, the microphone trembling in her hand, while the tumult of her own emotions threatened to deafen her, and the pressure grew and grew inside. She felt her chest straining to draw breath into a s.p.a.ce that had no room for it, no room for anything, except for pain, and. memory.

The opening notes of the Andrew lloyd Webber song, fragile, almost crystalline, impossibly high, then the dizzying drop down, down, to the very bottom of her register. She could feel it vibrating in her chest, sultry and rich, like a bow stroking across the strings of a cello. Oh, how she ached to let it out, to open her throat and her mouth as she had that wonderful night and just let it go, to feel the power of it onoe again, and the joy The pressure was terrible. She thought it would tear her apart. Her throat ached with the st ram she felt as if she couldn't breathe, as if there was a band around her neck , choking her.

A band. bloodred, studded with diamonds.

The music and the tumult inside her faded away suddenly , leaving her cold and empty. She became aware of the mike in her hand, clammy and sweat-slippery, and the press of the metal stool against her bottom. She drew a deep breath and after a moment said in a flat, dead voice, "I:et's get out of here."

Outside, the Santa Ana had picked up a little, swirling around corners and chasing debris down the gutters. After the chill inside the club-and inside her-it felt good to Mary, at least the heat of it did, even though she knew it was turning her hair to straw and her skin to sandpaper. The hot, dry winds from out of the Mojave Desert could do strange things to people. Maybe, she thought, that's why I feel like this. so precarious and edgy.

She glanced sideways at MacDougal, wondering if the winds were bothering him, too. He certainly looked as if something was bothering him. He was squinting, lips pressed tightly together and j aw hard as rock, while the wind lifted the tails of his jacket and whipped his pant legs and generally played havoc with his hair. He looked grim, she thought, and out-of-sorts. He'd looked like that ever since they'd left the comedy club. That sense of comrades.h.i.+p she'd felt earlier, when he'd taken her hand and they'd run across Sunset together, those strange moments of communion in the club. they might never have happened at all. He was all cop now, and in a hurry to get somewhere.

Mary had long legs, but she had to really stretch to keep up with him, and by the time they reached his car she was hot and out of breath.

"Santa Anas get to you?" she asked only a little tartly as she waited, hip-shot and puffing, for him to unlock her door.

"No, why?" He barely glanced at her.

"Just wondering." The car was like an oven. She tossed her windbreaker into the back seat and waited for him to open his side and create a cross breeze. "I thought you seemed a little... edgy, that's all: '

Now he did look at her. "I have a lot of work to do," he said pointedly, "and I'm late getting started. So if you don't mind..." He waved her into her seat and she complied, if somewhat gingerly, with a soft hiss as she toucherl the metal seat-belt buckle.

"What is it you do?" she asked him when they were on Sunset again, heading east with the air conditioner blasting a hot wind in their faces. "Exactly..."

Doug glanced over at her in surprise, the question jolting him out of the quagmire his thoughts were in. Those moments with her in the club. they'd changed him somohow , in some way he couldn't figure out. He'd felt so close to something. something he'd been searching for for along, long time. He didn't know exactly what it was, but whatever it was was gone now, and his sense of disappointment and loss had left him brooding and cranky.

But now she was waiting, those big brown eyes of hers fixed on him without a trace of irony or guile. Was it possible he hadn't told her?

Then it occurred to him, with a sense of shock, that he'd only known her a few hours-less than a day-and that he hadn't had time to tell her much of anything. Plus, in the time they'd been together he'd been focused on getting her to tell him something, right? And anyway, he told himself angrily, why should he tell her about himself? She was just a witness he was protecting, a temporary part of his life. It wasn't as if they were starting off a relations.h.i.+p, or something "I thought you knew," he said gruffly. "I'm a detective. Homicide. I, uh, investigate homicides."

"Oh-right," she said, and was silent for a moment. Then, without inflection, she asked, "Was it your case?"

He didn't pretend not to know what she meant. "Yeah , it was my case-along with a lot of other people, of course. There was a whole team a.s.signed to that one. "

The hard edge in her voice made him curious. He didn't ask about it, though, just shrugged and said, "It was a big case-sensational. The news media got into the act, played up the Hollywood angle, so there was a lot of interest nationwide The public wanted the laller caught. So did we." He paused and added grimly, "We still do."

She didn't reply to that, didn't say anything at all until he was sitting at a light, waiting to turn south on Vine. Then, her head swiveling as she watched a hooker making her unhurried way up the street, she said in that same, tight voice, "What if it was her? Would you go to so much trouble?"

"What?" Doug glanced over at her, but she was still gazing out the window at the hooker. He looked, too, noticing that the woman had a folded wad of money tucked away in the bosom of her dress, which he'd swear was so tight he could almost read the denominations on the bills.

"That girl-what if she was the one they found strangled , instead of Belle? What if the media didn't give a d.a.m.n , what if there wasn't any nationwide interest?" Now she was looking straight at him, with eyes that seemed too bright. "Would you be trying so hard to find the killer?"

"Absolutely." He said it with quiet conviction, and watched that strange glow fade from her eyes. "And I'll tell you why." He faced forward as the light up ahead changed and traffic began to move again. "See, that girl, no matter what she's doing now, is somebody's daughter. We try never to forget that."

He felt her head turn once more to gaze silently out the window as he turned the corner onto Vine Street.

"Sunset and Vine," Preacher announced, craning to read the street signs. "I guess this is it."

"Hollywood," said JoJo with a happy sigh.

"Yeah," said Daisy, "now all we have to do is find the police station. Any ideas?"

"We could ask," suggested JoJo.

Preacher shook his head. "I think the less attention we call to ourselves, the better. We don't need anybody wondering why individuals like ourselves are driving a nice car like this. Perhaps if we just drive around for a while, we might stumble upon it: '

"Uh-uh," said Daisy. "Bad idea. We're runnin' low on gas. I don't have any money-you got any money, Preacherq" He shook his head sorrowfully. "JoJo?" Same response. " " Okay, then. First thing we gotta do is park this thing someplace. Someplace where they ain't gonna tow it off, or put a bunch of parking tickets all over it "

Preacher thought for a moment. "Shopping oenter parking lot, I would think. Attract less attention than we would in a residential neighborhood. Pick one with a nice big supermarket , Mrs. Pepper, or at the very least, a restaurant. I'm feeling the need of a little sustenanq."

Daisy shot him a look. "If you're talkin' about food, me, too. You think they lock up their Dumpsters in this neighborhood ? "

"One way to find out," said Preacher. "Here, this looks like a good one. Pull in here. JoJo and I will go scout around and see what we can find. You'd better stay here in case we need to make a- "

"Wait," said Daisy, "I got a better idea. Look over there. Ain't that a school?"

"Hollywood High School," read Preacher, swiveling as they drove by. " " Well, well. : '

Daisy stuck her arm out the window to signal and made a last second left turn. "It's past lunchtime," she said with a hungry gleam in her eyes. "Trash cans'll be overflowing with goodies. You wouldn't believe what those school kids throw away."

"Um-umm, smart move," Preacher agreed, while JoJo began to bounce on the back seat in eager antic.i.p.ation. "Very smart, indeed. Okay-food first, then we look for the police station. Look sharp, now. Try not to attract any undo attention."

Daisy Pepper snorted. "You kidding? Look around you , man. This place is full of weirdos. We're gonna fit right m: '

It was early evening, and the squad room was winding down after another busy day in Tinseltown. Most of the desks were empty; the phones rang sporadically. People called to one another, brief s.n.a.t.c.hes of small talk and laughter, a little coa.r.s.e humor as they sc.r.a.ped back chain , gathered up jackets and called it quits-hopefully, but probably not, for the night.

Doug was still at his desk, trying hard to stay awake. After he'd dropped Joy off at his pl are he'd come back to the station, intending to spend the afternoon catching up on paperwork. There'd been a few distractions. He'd started a routine check on the name Mary Jo Delinsky, for one thing, which so far hadn't turned up a thing, not even a parking ticket. He hadn't really expected it to, but he needed all bases covered. Then he'd checked in with the San Diego PD , to see if there'd been any progress on the "drive-by," or a make on the partial plate he'd been able to pick up at the scene. Nothing on either one. But then, he hadn't expected much on that score, either.

Along about five o'clock he'd finally accepted a call from Jim Shannon, since ducking him was beginning to raise a few eyebrows. G.o.d, he hated to have to do this, keep Jim shut out of things, but he knew it was for his ex-partner's own good. But it was hard, when he could hear the tension and frustration in his friend's voice-shoot, he knew just how he felt, like an old fire horse getting a whiff of the smoke.

But much as he'd have loved having his old partner working with him on this case again, just like old times, he knew he couldn't let Jim take the risk, not with so much at stake. The man was like a brother to Doug. He had a real good shot at the chief's job, and after that, who knows? For a guy like Jim Shannon, the sky was pretty much the limit. No way in h.e.l.l Doug was going to let him screw all that up over one hostile witness.

Ah, yes. The witness. Mary Jo Delinsky-he thought she'd told him the truth about that being her name, although there was a part of him that was always going to think of her as Joy. It just seemed to suit her, somehow. By any name, she was all he could think about.

Who are you Mary-Joy? Where did you come from with your big dreams and your heartbreaking smile and your eyes full of hope ? What did they see, those eyes, that you 're so afraid to tell me7 Trust me-that's what he'd said to Jim. Trust me, partner , I swear I'll let you know the minute I find out anything I think she'll open up to me, if I can just get her to trust me.

Trust me. Doug pressed his fingers against his burning eyelids and released a soft huff of silent, ironic laughter. It was a hard thing to have to admit to himself, because he was used to being trusted, but after this afternoon, he was beginning to wonder if she ever would. d.a.m.n-she was just so. so bottled up. So full of pain. It was driving him crazy, not being able to reach her, not being able to get at what was eating her alive.

The thing was, he kept wanting to. to reach for her, touch her, hold her in his arms and make it all go away. And that was driving him crazy, too. He was afraid he was getting too close to this one. Too close to her Ah, h.e.l.l, he was tired, that's all. He'd been operating for a couple days, now, with nothing but a few hours' nap on a sofa with a long-legged woman in his lap. He'd just as well give it up, go on home, turn in early, call it a night. And hope the phone didn't ring.

He drove home through a soft purple dusk. The Santa Ana had died its usual fitful death, the air had a cool sweetness to it, and already streaks of mauve clouds were reaching like fingers over the mountains to the north. It was getting into the dinner hour, and except for frantic housewives rus.h.i.+ng to and from the supermarket, traffic was light. There was a kind of peacefulness about the streets-that pause, sometimes infinitesimal, between daytime business and nighttime business, like the quiet of the qungle just before the predators come out to prowl.

Doug d.a.m.n near fell asleep at the traffic light while he was waiting to cross Franklin. G.o.d, he was tired. In spite of that, he made himself climb the outside steps; he hadn't been getting enough exercise, lately, or eating right, either, and he was beginning to feel it in his legs and around his middle. But, oh, Lordy, those steps had never seemed longer. He noticed that they'd gotten a pretty good layer of bougainvillea blossoms built up, and made a mental note to get them swept off before the fall rains started. They could be slippery, and downright dangerous, when wet.

When he opened his front door, Maurice greeted him with a reference to his mother that sounded almost affectionate. Once again the place was empty and silent, but this time there was a light on in the kitchen, a box of cornflakes on the counter and a cereal bowl and spoon in the sink. And permeating the whole house, a subtle warmth, an indefinable aura made up of all sorts of scents-coffee, cat food, orange juice, soap. and something mystifyingly foreign, but unmistakably female.