Read Online The Detective & the Pipe Girl by Michael Craven - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Craven
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listening to the music. The letter sitting on the Cobalt’s passenger seat, unopened. “Suzanne” written on the front, in Vonz’s hand. Hmm. What to do. How to do it. Dark now. Watching cars pull out from behind her building into the little side street next to it, one after the other. And then, in my rearview, a new, three-series BMW appeared. First on the side street, then behind me, right on Ocean Avenue. Light caught the driver’s face and I could see it was Suzanne. Just a moment of her, but an unmistakable moment, the headlights from another car doing a pass across her face.
She headed north and I followed. She took a right on California, another right on Lincoln, then left onto the 10 Freeway. The 10 Freeway that went all the way from Los Angeles on one coast to Jacksonville, Florida, on the other coast.
Jacksonville, where my aunt lives.
But back to L.A. Back to me following Suzanne. It was about seven, and for L.A. not much traffic. She took the 10 to the 405 North, then got off on the Mulholland Drive exit. Mulholland—that famous snaking road that crested the Hills, giving you beautiful looks of L.A. to the west and to the east.
We took it east, winding atop the mountains, from Sherman Oaks to Bel Air to Beverly Hills and now into the Hollywood Hills. We were near Nicholson’s house and Brando’s old place and you could feel that special, magical, haunting L.A. vibe. This part of Los Angeles had a spooky, seductive mysticism to it—especially at night. And, even now in the present day, you just got the feeling that some combination of Fleetwood Mac was somewhere nearby having a small but lively orgy.
We crossed Laurel Canyon and about a half mile later she turned left into a driveway. A big metal gate opened and closed, taking in her BMW. Lots of gates in this world. Keeping people out. But keeping people in too. This particular gate protected what just felt like a compound. Some multimillion-dollar fortress tucked away in these glamorous Hollywood mountains.
I drove on past, swung a U-turn, parked on a shoulder, stayed focused on the driveway. I stared at the gate. Not just any old gate this one. A big ornate mess with crisscrossing lines of steel and copper and who knows what else. It was hideous. Forty minutes later it opened, allowing Suzanne to leave. I picked her up and followed her all the way home.
She pulled into the alley behind her condo, parked under the building. I pulled back around, this time across the street, on the side of the park, and looked once again at the front of her apartment building. Some moonlight, or was it a streetlight, shone into my car and put a spot right on the envelope still sitting on my front seat. I thought about reading the letter, but didn’t. I wondered what kind of bewitching, artful love letter the maestro Arthur Vonz could write.
I thought: Should I just knock on her door and give her the letter? Blow my cover? Or maybe give it to the security guard, then hang around and make sure he gives it to her?
I grabbed the envelope and got out of the Cobalt. Going security guard route. Make sure he hands it to her. Yes. I knew she was home, and I was reasonably sure I could get a confirmation of delivery. I’d think of something to tell the guard so as to not reveal my identity. No problem.
Some cars were coming down Ocean Avenue so I stood in front of the Cobalt looking at her building still on the other side of the street. There was a soft breeze coming in from the ocean. It felt amazing. I looked up at the palm trees swaying in the wind, set against the sky and the lights of Santa Monica. The kind of night that makes people come to California—and stay. The California dream, in handy, beautiful nighttime form. And the moon was out. It had been moonlight on the letter, not streetlight.
I stood there for a moment looking up at the moon, just sitting there glowing, a yellowish orange. I imagined it briefly as a portal to somewhere else. As a hole in the sky
She headed north and I followed. She took a right on California, another right on Lincoln, then left onto the 10 Freeway. The 10 Freeway that went all the way from Los Angeles on one coast to Jacksonville, Florida, on the other coast.
Jacksonville, where my aunt lives.
But back to L.A. Back to me following Suzanne. It was about seven, and for L.A. not much traffic. She took the 10 to the 405 North, then got off on the Mulholland Drive exit. Mulholland—that famous snaking road that crested the Hills, giving you beautiful looks of L.A. to the west and to the east.
We took it east, winding atop the mountains, from Sherman Oaks to Bel Air to Beverly Hills and now into the Hollywood Hills. We were near Nicholson’s house and Brando’s old place and you could feel that special, magical, haunting L.A. vibe. This part of Los Angeles had a spooky, seductive mysticism to it—especially at night. And, even now in the present day, you just got the feeling that some combination of Fleetwood Mac was somewhere nearby having a small but lively orgy.
We crossed Laurel Canyon and about a half mile later she turned left into a driveway. A big metal gate opened and closed, taking in her BMW. Lots of gates in this world. Keeping people out. But keeping people in too. This particular gate protected what just felt like a compound. Some multimillion-dollar fortress tucked away in these glamorous Hollywood mountains.
I drove on past, swung a U-turn, parked on a shoulder, stayed focused on the driveway. I stared at the gate. Not just any old gate this one. A big ornate mess with crisscrossing lines of steel and copper and who knows what else. It was hideous. Forty minutes later it opened, allowing Suzanne to leave. I picked her up and followed her all the way home.
She pulled into the alley behind her condo, parked under the building. I pulled back around, this time across the street, on the side of the park, and looked once again at the front of her apartment building. Some moonlight, or was it a streetlight, shone into my car and put a spot right on the envelope still sitting on my front seat. I thought about reading the letter, but didn’t. I wondered what kind of bewitching, artful love letter the maestro Arthur Vonz could write.
I thought: Should I just knock on her door and give her the letter? Blow my cover? Or maybe give it to the security guard, then hang around and make sure he gives it to her?
I grabbed the envelope and got out of the Cobalt. Going security guard route. Make sure he hands it to her. Yes. I knew she was home, and I was reasonably sure I could get a confirmation of delivery. I’d think of something to tell the guard so as to not reveal my identity. No problem.
Some cars were coming down Ocean Avenue so I stood in front of the Cobalt looking at her building still on the other side of the street. There was a soft breeze coming in from the ocean. It felt amazing. I looked up at the palm trees swaying in the wind, set against the sky and the lights of Santa Monica. The kind of night that makes people come to California—and stay. The California dream, in handy, beautiful nighttime form. And the moon was out. It had been moonlight on the letter, not streetlight.
I stood there for a moment looking up at the moon, just sitting there glowing, a yellowish orange. I imagined it briefly as a portal to somewhere else. As a hole in the sky
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