Beverly Hills Dead

47

Tom Terry pulled into a parking space in front of Jimmy’s, a cop bar on Melrose, hopped out of the car and walked into the joint, looking for Lieutenant Ben Morrison.

“I’m right behind you,” Ben said, poking him between the shoulder blades with a finger.

“Don’t shoot until I’ve had a drink,” Tom said. They found a booth and ordered.

“How’s the picture business?” Ben asked.

“I think it must be okay, but somehow I don’t think of myself as being in the picture business. I’m something else; I’m not sure what.”

“Private eye? Philip Marlowe?”

“Hired gun, jack-of-all-trades... I don’t know. Every day is different.”

“That can’t be bad; it’s what I’ve always thought was the best thing about being a cop.”

“Don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining. I really like the work. I just never know what it’s going to be. At least, they haven’t asked me to kill anybody.”

“Well, you may have to kill Hank Harmon, if you want justice for your girl.”

“What are you talking about, Ben?”

“I’m talking about having no case against her. I can’t prove she’s not telling the truth.”

“Have you talked to her again?”

“She came in yesterday with her lawyer and allowed us to print her.”

“And?”

“And her prints are not a match for the ones we got out of Susie’s car. One set was Susie’s — we got them off her corpse — but the other? Who knows? Close your mouth; it’s hanging open.”

“Did you check her arms and chest for scratches or scarring?”

“Yep. Nothing there.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Neither did I. Like you, I made her for the crime right off.”

“Holy shit. I pretty much promised my people that Harmon would go up for murder.”

“Not unless we get a major break. A witness that saw her dump the body would do nicely.”

“How about a witness that saw her walking home from Vance Calder’s house?”

“That would be a big help, but we’ve come up dry there. None of our patrol cars or the Beverly Hills department’s saw anybody like her. We even talked with the garbage truck drivers on that route. Nothing.”

“Ben, it’s not like she planned every detail of this. She came home, found Susan there and went nuts: beat her up, hit her over the head and strangled her. Spur-of-the-moment murders are untidy; the killer always makes a mistake, usually several mistakes.”

“You’re reading from my book,” Morrison said. “I’m with you all the way. I’m just telling you that, if that’s the way it happened, the Harmon girl, once she’d killed her girlfriend, did absolutely everything right. Or maybe she’s just very, very lucky.”

“Nobody’s that lucky,” Tom said. “Was there anything at Calder’s house besides the prints in Susan’s car?”

“We got Harmon’s permission to search her place, and we had a dozen guys go over it; didn’t find a thing.”

“What about at Vance Calder’s place?”

“Same there. Oh, there was one odd item that cropped up.”

“Tell me.”

“The place is beautifully gardened, you know? Lovely plantings, everything kept in tip-top shape by a Japanese gardener.”

“Yeah. I saw it.”

“Well, there was one anomaly: around to one side of the house, next to the garage doors, there was a thick bed of ferns. It looked like something big had wallowed in it, like a deer had slept there.”

“A deer? In Beverly Hills?”

“All right. Maybe a bum caught a night’s sleep there; what do I know? Something mashed down the ferns, messed them up good. The gardener replaced them after we released the premises; it looks like before, now.”

“Makes no sense.”

“You’re telling me.”

“It’s a shame Harmon went for a lawyer; I’ll bet she would have broken, if you’d sweated her.”

“Maybe, but she’s a very cool customer.” He paused. “Or she’s innocent.”

“My money’s on cool.”

“It’s your money.”

“Ben, the papers haven’t said much about Harmon; maybe it’s time her cover was blown.”

“Cover?”

“She’s a dyke, for Christ’s sake. She’s got stuff to hide.”

“I guess, but maybe your girl Susie had stuff to hide, too. I mean, she lived with Harmon for several months, and I’m sure you noticed there was only one bed in the apartment. You think your studio would want that sort of thing brought out about their dead movie star?”

Tom sighed. “You’re right; any heat we brought on Harmon would land on Susan, too, and my studio definitely would not like that. Her picture just went into wide release.”

“What’s wide release?”

“Sorry, that’s studio speak. The picture opened at Christmas in four cities, so it would be eligible for Academy Awards. ‘Wide release’ means it opened all over the country, probably a couple of thousand theaters.”

“Look, Tom, even if Harmon did it, it’s not like she’s a danger to the public. She had her heart broken when her girlfriend jumped ship for a guy, and she reacted badly. She’s not going wild in the streets. She’s gainfully employed at RKO, and the people she works with like her.”

“Management wouldn’t like her if they knew she was a dyke.”

“Aw, c’mon. If any studio started firing three-dollar bills, they wouldn’t have any people left to make the pictures. The last thing they’d want is to have a spotlight thrown on who’s queer in the business, and that’s all firing her would accomplish. As it is, even the scum at Confidential haven’t managed to scrape up enough for a story, let alone a cover. I hear they’ve given up.”

“Was there anything new in the final M.E.’s report?”

Morrison shrugged. “There were some signs of sexual assault. There was some bruising in the anus, and something that might have been a human bite on her vulva. They can’t be sure about that; it might have been an injury when the body was being disposed of.”

“You mean she had something up the ass, and somebody bit her pussy? Is that a dyke thing?”

“Well, I’m told the girls use dildos from time to time, but we found nothing of that sort in Harmon’s apartment. As to biting, I’ve seen that a fair amount in regular folks.”

“Did you talk to any of her other girlfriends?”

Morrison shook his head. “It’s a tight-knit sisterhood,” he said. “Nobody talks about nothing. All we got was what a great gal ol’ Hank is.”

“Well, shit,” Tom said.

“Yeah,” Morrison replied.