When the other passengers had moved along, she finally spoke: “Don’t worry about Aleda. She’s with friends. When it’s safe, she’ll call you.”
I was dumbstruck for a moment. “Did Rod send you?”
“Good Lord, no.”
Lena was maybe twenty-five or twenty-six. Too young to have known Aleda before she went underground, and too mainstream to have known her after.
I took her by the arm and quick-stepped her into a vacant public telephone alcove. “You talked to Aleda?”
“Not directly. Only to an old friend of hers.”
“Who?”
“I can’t say.”
“I think you’d better.”
“I can’t take that responsibility.” She looked around nervously. I know it seems melodramatic, but honestly, it’s too dangerous to say anything. My only motive was to reassure you.”
“Okay.” I leaned against the cold wall and took a few deep breaths. When I felt calmer, I tried again.
“How do you know this friend?” I asked.
“We became acquainted during the course of my research on Emily Duchamps and the Peace Movement. We’ve stayed in touch. This friend helped me get my job with Rod. And I returned the favor by using Rod’s office to arrange for Aleda’s release.”
“You did?” I asked, leery. “Not Rod?”
She chuckled sardonically. “Rod couldn’t release a fly from a glass of lemonade unless he had a committee to vote on it.”
“You keep saying Aleda’s friend. If this is someone from the old movement, someone with enough pull to get you a job, he or she should be Rod’s friend, too?”
“Think about this,” Lena said. “If Rod Peebles was such a close associate of Emily Duchamps, why is it that when I requested his federal dossier under the Freedom of Information Act, there wasn’t a single document relating to him on file? No surveillance logs, no booking slips, no indictments, not one scrap of political writing?”
“You’re the scholar,” I said. “You tell me.”
“I just did.” She had said her piece and was edging away from me, back toward the elevator. I walked with her.
“Why do you work for Rod if he’s such scum?” I asked.
“Ongoing research.” She punched the elevator call button. “Rod is one of the political ramifications of the Peace Movement.”
“Thanks, Lena,” I said. “Call if I can ever do anything for you.
I waited until she was gone; then I walked back up into the light of day.
If Lena had been telling the truth, the only old friend I could eliminate was Rod Peebles. I thought it wouldn’t be too difficult to track down Aleda when I was ready. I had a more pressing agenda to work on first: I needed something from Celeste.
Celeste lived on the far west side of town, in the posh Holmby Hills area bordering UCLA. I had to retrieve Max’s car to get out there.
First things first. There was a rank of public telephones across Flower Street. I waited for the light, then walked over and waited my turn in line for a phone. I didn’t have any heavy gold chains, or shopping bags, or even a baby in a stroller. I felt awfully out of place.
Mr. T’s jeweler was behind me, waiting impatiently for the phone. I turned my back on him, dropped in two dimes and dialed Mike’s office.
“Robbery-Homicide. Pellegrino speaking.”
“Is Mike Flint back yet?” I asked.
“This Maggie again?” Pellegrino asked.
“Yes.”
“He’s in. Hold on.” I heard him call out, “Hey Flint, call for you on the love line.”
Mike snapped, “Get a life, Elmer,” before he picked up the phone.
“Flint here,” he said. “Don’t pay any attention to these juveniles. You’d think they didn’t have anything better to do than butt into other people’s private affairs. Hi, Maggie.”
“Hi, Mike. You left your tie under the chair.”
He laughed. “Is that where it was? I had to stop and buy one on my way in. Found exactly what I wanted in the newsstand downstairs. Hand-painted hula dancer. Best one in the place. The only one, too.”
“Are the big boys giving you a hard time?”
“Just something for them to do. How are you?”
“I dropped in on Rod Peebles at his office. Very interesting.”
“Oh.”
“That’s all?” I asked. “Oh?”
“I hoped you were going to say something like, last night was fantastic and what am I doing after work.”
“Mrs. Lim is making noodles for dinner. Enough for two.”
“Is she?” he said, drawing it out.
“What time are you off?”
“Three,” he said.
“I thought it might be a good idea to go hang out by the wishing well around four, the time Emily was supposed to be there, see who walks by. Maybe you could meet me there.”
“You’re all business, aren’t you?”
“Not all business.”
“In that case, I’ll meet you by the wishing well at four. What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“Not much. Get Max’s car. Visit a few old friends.”
“Maggie,” he said, suddenly all seriousness. “Take care of yourself.”
“I’ll see you at four,” I said.
After I hung up, I caught the Dash bus and took it back up through town. I got off at the end of the line on Bernard Street, just north of Chinatown. The Police Academy was maybe a little over a mile further, straight uphill. As long as it wasn’t raining, I thought it would feel good to walk. I crossed under the freeway and found Stadium Way.
The neighborhood below the stadium was interesting, just about all that’s left of old Chavez Ravine. I walked up a steep, curving road, past woodframe and stone houses, heard a few backyard chickens. The storm the night before had given everything a good scouring, washing away the usual coat of dust and smog residue. The houses were pretty rundown, but the air smelled fresh and everything looked bright and shiny. Leftover rainwater dripped from huge trees onto weedy lawns. A rare morning.
There was no sidewalk, so I walked at the side of the street. People greeted me; a toddler honked his trike horn for me. The neighborhood was so peaceful it could only exist in some space warp light years from L.A.
I heard a car approach behind me, so I stepped onto someone’s lawn to give it more room to pass me. The driver went very slow. I hardly looked at the car, an old green Volvo, because, as any woman will tell you, you make eye contact with an asshole who is looking for a pickup and you have a nuisance on your hands. So I only glanced to make sure he wasn’t going to run me down.
A little Toyota truck sped up the hill behind the Volvo and honked impatiently. The Volvo accelerated and passed me with gears grinding. I glanced at his rear as he drove on, noticed that the driver sat low and wore a baseball cap. That is a generic “he.” The hat is all I saw of the driver.
When I came out at the top of the hill, the entire city was fanned out below me. As I skirted Dodger Stadium, the view below was so clear that I could see the ocean, a streak of silver on the horizon where the sun broke through the clouds. I had to stop for a moment to take it all in.
The entire trip had taken less than twenty minutes, but at the end, I felt better than if I’d had a full night’s sleep.
I saw Max’s car ahead in the Police Academy lot, just where I had left it. And in the same pristine condition. Actually better; the rain had washed away the sand and windshield bug kill I had picked up in the desert the day before. The BMW shone.
There were joggers in the hills above the academy. I could hear the police shooting range at a distance, shots fired in pairs-crack crack-followed by a third, single shot. Not quite dancing rhythm, but regular.
Police bodybuilders hung around the weight room above the training field. There was plenty of activity, but overall it was very quiet. I felt mellow.
I took out Max’s keys and set off across Academy Road to the parking lot.