Tuesday morning is scorching. The finches in their bamboo cage by the window sing loudly with the sun’s praise, sweetly unaware of our troubles. It’s been nearly one week since the murders, and three days of waiting for any word. It arrives around noon.
The phone rings. Sharon stops dead in her tracks, takes a deep breath, and calmly walks over to the telephone. “Yes? Okay? That’s fine. Just a minute.” She puts her hand over the receiver and speaks directly to me. “Do you mind speaking to Detective Lange again?”
“No. Sure.”
“That’s fine. No problem. Good-bye.” She hangs up. “Well… Tom Lange will be here in about half an hour. He has something important he would like to speak to the both of us about. It has to do with John… of course.” I can’t tell if she is being sarcastic.
“Is he all right?”
“Yep. He’s in protective custody. He got ahold of Big Tom and told him his life’s been threatened. Apparently Big Tom got him into protective custody, and now Lange wants to speak to us.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know.” This time she definitely sounds disgusted.
“Sharon?” I ask, deciding to break the rule of silence around the name “Big Tom.” “Who exactly is Big Tom, anyway?” After all this time, I know the man’s voice, I know he is a friend, but to my knowledge this is the first time he was ever connected to the police.
“He’s a vice cop. What did you think?” She looks amazed that I don’t know.
“What’s that?”
“John’s a stool pigeon! Didn’t you know?” She sees my confusion. “An informer! Get it? John was arrested before you even got here in New Jersey… Point Pleasant, where you were born, interestingly enough. He’s been turning people from the porn business in to authorities for years now!”
Sparks of realization ignite inside me as I remember the many times John took Big Tom’s calls with urgency. So Big Tom is helping John. Then, for the first time, I think that maybe… maybe everything will be all right. John has a friend on the side of the law, and he will protect us.
Peeking down the courtyard from the sun-warmed porch, we watch Detective Lange, square and balding, saunter toward the cottage. Casually he looks from side to side, scoping out each cottage window and alleyway. The image of him, cautious, ready to react, proves to us that we are most likely being watched… by more than the police. Sharon herds the dogs into the bedroom while I let Lange in.
“Dawn.” He nods. “Good to see you again.”
“Hi. Come in.”
“And you’re Sharon? Sharon Holmes, I take it?” He sticks his hand out for a formal handshake.
“Yes. Hi. How are you?”
“Mind if I have a seat?”
“Certainly.” Sharon offers a space on the couch.
“Well… you both probably know this is about John.”
“Is he safe?” I ask, jumping into the conversation.
“He’s out of jail, if that’s what you mean, and we have him in protective custody. We know he was receiving some threats from the inside.”
“Who was threatening him?” Afraid of what I might hear, I hold my breath.
“Well, could be a number of people. We have a pretty good guess, and that’s why I’m here.” He pauses, wiping the sweat from his head. “We have every reason to believe the two of you may be in real danger.”
Our bodies lean in his direction like metal drawn to a magnet as we give him our undivided attention.
“Like I said, John is being held in protective custody. He has disclosed to us that he is willing to turn over certain information in exchange for entrance into the Witness Protection Program. John has also indicated that this is something he would be willing to do… well… only if…” He clears his throat. “Only if he speaks to the two of you first.”
“You mean speak to him… over the phone? Or…?” Sharon asks.
“No. I’m here to ask you if you would be willing to meet with John.”
“When? Now?”
“Yes. Myself and my partner are ready to take you to him right away.”
He has someone waiting outside, I think. This is real. I look at Sharon and wait for her to answer for us. I think she must want to go see him as badly as I do.
Deep in thought, she stares at her foot on the green vinyl stool.
“Sharon?” I prompt.
“All right,” she answers slowly and meticulously. “For how long, and what about the dogs?”
“So you both agree?”
We nod.
Tom stretches his legs, glances nervously out the window, and asks to use the phone. “I can have your dogs taken wherever you like and, well, as for how long… That’s up to you and John. But realistically, you should be prepared to be away at least a couple days, maybe longer. It’ll depend on how long it will take for all the interviews to be completed.”
He picks up the receiver and dials. “Yeah. It’s me. Tell him they said yes and we will be on our way as soon as we close things up here. Sure. Hey, John. They told you. Good. Sure. Just a minute.” He places his hand over the mouthpiece and holds the phone out for either of us. “He wants to talk to you two.”
Sharon doesn’t budge, so I grab the phone first. “John. Are you okay?”
“Dawn? Oh, baby, I’m so glad you’re coming. You’re coming, right? And Sharon?”
“Yeah, Sharon’s coming too.”
“Good. Listen, baby.” I can hear him press his mouth over the receiver and whisper. “Say as little as possible. Everything is being tapped. I need you to do me a favor. Please? When you pack your things, go into my office, and in the top file cabinet drawer are my papers.”
“Uh-huh.” My God! He wants me to sneak him some drugs.
“Can you bring me my papers, baby? You know—my important papers. You got that?” His voice changes, becoming louder and more formal. “Very important, okay? Wrap them up like I showed ya, and they’ll be fine. Thanks, baby. I love you.”
“Sure, John. Love you too.”
“Baby? Is Sharon there?”
“Yeah. Just a sec.” I look at Sharon, who still sits like stone.
“He wants to talk to you.”
Sharon snaps out of her daze, pulls her glasses off, and rubs her eyes hard as if to erase the next moments in time. “Hello. Yes. Okay. Love you too. Good-bye.” I figure he told her the phones were tapped and kept it short.
“Well. Let’s get this over with.”
The looming shape of the Bonaventure Hotel in downtown Los Angeles towers dark and gray above our heads as we approach the curved and mirrored exterior. Sharon and I are impassive in the backseat of the undercover car and barely make a sound. I am biting my already worn-down fingernails; Sharon, hands neatly placed in her lap, twiddles her thumbs.
True to his word, Tom Lange has arranged everything expediently. The dogs are boarded with our vet, and the house is locked up and kept on a twenty-four-hour guard. Two sets of officers are stationed downtown to watch both the hotel entrances and the streets outside for any unusual activity or excess drivers-by.
We arrive at the main entrance, met by plainclothes officers who instantly surround us and head to the main lobby. Their height and width block my view of the lobby and keep us hidden. Whisked to the twenty-second floor, swiftly and undercover in the see-through tube elevator, we are hurried out to an unassuming suite nearby. They’re even blocking us from the windows, I think. Is there a sniper?
The room is bustling, swarming with officers of every shape and size pressing black boxy walkie-talkies to their mouths. A drug-sniffing German shepherd yanks at his leash to smell us as we enter. At the end of the king-sized bed, an oblong foldout table is propped with two more detectives waiting to search our bags. The room is the hub for this covert operation—“Operation John Holmes”—and everything moves smoothly, like a well-oiled machine. No time to ask questions.