hand away. She was, after all, Frankâs ex, and I was there representing him.
She drew on the cigarette again and said, âI decided to leave Spain for a while, travel . . . Actually, thatâs not true. I was approached to be in a film that Blake Edwards is shooting in Rome called The Pink Panther. The Producer, Martin Jurow, came to see me. He found me in Madrid and practically begged me to be in it. It should have been flattering, but instead it went to my head. I was . . . horrible to them, demanded that they move the shoot from Rome to Madrid to accommodate me. Finally, Jurow slipped a note underneath my door.â
âUninviting you?â I asked.
She nodded.
âI canât blame them, really,â she said. âSince then I have been all over Europe, to New York, here in L.A. and then . . . nothing.â
âWhat do you mean, nothing?â
âI mean, I canât remember. I . . . blacked out. And I woke up in a hotel room in Chicago.â
âWhat hotel?â
âThe Drake, I think.â
âAnd what else?â
âI had . . . blood on my hands.â
âBlood? Are you sure?â
âYes,â she said.
âWhat did you do?â
âI washed it off. I checked my clothes. There was blood there, too.â
âWhere are those clothes?â
âI . . . packed them for some reason, but when I got here I threw them in the back of the closet in the bedroom.â
âWait here.â
I went into the bedroom to the closet. In the back, on the floor, in a crumpled mess I found a blouse and a bra, both stained with what looked like blood. But there was also a silk nightie with blood on it, as well. And the towel she must have used to dry her hands was stained red. I wrapped the blouse, bra and nightie in the towel and left them there, then went back to her.
âWas I dreaming that too?â she asked.
âNo,â I said. âThereâs blood on them all right.â
âOh God . . .â
I crouched down in front of her and took her by the shoulders, forcing her to look me in the eyes.
âCome on, Ava. Think. What happened?â
âI . . . donât know. I have been thinking for the past three days. I canât recall.â
âAll right,â I said, âtell me this. How much time did you lose in this blackout?â
âI . . . I figured it was about forty hours.â
Eight hours shy of two days. A lot of damage could be done in that much time.
I was about to ask another question when there was a knock at the door.
âEddie!â She became very frightened.
âGo into the bedroom,â I told her. âStay there. It might just be a bell boy coming for the dishes, but donât come out. Youâll be able to hear whatâs being said.â
âAll right.â
She hurried into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar.
EIGHTEEN
I opened the door, half expecting and fully hoping it would be Randy, the bell boy. It wasnât. It was two guys in suits with âcopâ written across their foreheads.
âAre you Eddie Gianelli?â one of them asked.
âWhoâs askinâ?â
They both showed me their nice shiny detective badges.
âL.A.P.D.,â one of them said. âDetectives Reasoner and Crider.â
âWhich is which?â I asked.
âIâm Reasoner,â the spokesman said. He was a little shorter and broader than his partner, but they were both about the same age, mid-forties. My guess was they had been partners for a long time. âWould you mind coming with us?â
âWhatâs this about?â I asked.
âA cab driver named Larry Carver,â Crider said. âAlthough, it seems somebody might have thought he was you.â
âI see. Couldnât I come down to headquarters in the morning and make a statement?â
âIâm afraid
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