Gary Brandner Read online

  It was no use. Kettering knew this was not the work of some punk with a spray can. No use pretending that it was.

  He closed the door and rolled the dead bolt home. Tomorrow he would work some more on cleaning off the panel. He retreated to his refuge, the creaky old recliner.

  With the remote-control unit he punched on the television and cycled through the channels. There were reruns of sitcoms that weren't funny the first time around. There was yet another show about a cool black cop and a comical white cop. A TV movie with Ed Asner taking on society's problems. Alan Thicke was hosting some trivial awards show. Something British and boring on PBS. News ...

  Wait a minute. A familiar face looked back at him from the newscast. The girl reporter with the cropped red hair stood out in front of the stucco apartment building where the hostage thing had gone down that day. She was holding a sponge-ball hand mike. The sun was bright in her eyes, making her squint slightly. Kettering mentally gave the woman points for not switching the shot around so she could look better on camera.

  "Today in this unpretentious apartment in West Valley, a potentially dangerous situation was defused by the courageous work of a Valley policeman. Sergeant Brian Kettering entered an apartment alone where a suspect was holding a woman hostage at knife point. Because of the sergeant's swift response, the suspect was captured and the woman freed with minor injuries. Too often efficient police work like this is overlooked in the media's haste to find fault with our law-enforcement people. This is Charity Moline, Hotline News, returning you to the Channel Six studios in Hollywood."

  The buttery-voiced anchorman came on and Kettering punched the screen to darkness. He checked his watch. Quarter to nine. Charity Moline's report was taped this afternoon. She probably would not be at the television studio at this hour.

  He walked out to where his coat hung over the back of a dining room chair. The business card was in the pocket where he'd dropped it and forgotten about it. No, he admitted, he hadn't forgotten about it at all.

  The card bore two telephone numbers. One was the Channel 6 number in Hollywood, the other had a North Hollywood prefix. Not that far from West Valley. Kettering punched out the digits and listened to the burr of the phone ringing on the other end.

  "Hello?" She had a good voice. Just a touch husky, without the breathiness affected by so many women.

  "Charity Moline?"

  "Well, hello, Sergeant."

  "You've got a good ear."

  "It's part of my business."

  "I saw your report on Channel Six just now."

  "Oh?" She wasn't helping him any.

  "Well, hell, I guess what I called for was to say thanks."

  "I just told the folks what happened."

  "And I'm sorry if I was abrupt with you today."

  "You're entitled."

  A long five seconds ticked past.

  "I was wondering, well, would you like to have a drink someplace?"

  "You mean tonight?"

  "Yeah. Tonight."

  "Sure."

  "You know the Rose and Dragon on Ventura?"

  "I know it."

  "Half an hour?"

  "See you there."

  When he hung up the phone, Kettering was sweating. After eighteen years of marriage he had just made his first real date with another woman. Sure, there had been an occasional groupie from the local cop's hangout, but this was different. What did he have in mind?

  No time to think about that now. Kettering hurried to the bathroom to grab a quick shave.

  Chapter 4

  The Rose and Dragon was a typical English pub as visualized by the typical Southern California entrepreneur. The exterior was done in an approximation of Tudor style with white stucco walls crisscrossed by dark beams.

  Kettering parked the Camaro in the lot and entered through the heavy door. In the center of the oak panel was a brass shield bearing a coat of arms that did not mean anything.

  He walked past the hostess who was taking reservations and went into the bar. It was dark and comfortable, and not busy on a weeknight.

  Behind the long bar were ads for Watney's Red Lion and Guinness stout. And a dart board. After that the designer apparently tired of the England motif and reverted to Ventura Boulevard Modern.

  There were round, high-backed booths in comfortable red vinyl that provided a little privacy for those who wanted it. On each table was a candle in a red-glass chimney. The dinner menu specialized in steaks and prime rib, the bar provided good honest drinks.

  At a piano bar a woman with a hard face and stiff blond hair played an endless repertoire of show tunes with no visible show of emotion.

  Kettering stood for a moment scanning the customers as his eyes accustomed themselves to the dim light. Most of the crowd appeared to be regulars - casually dressed Valley people taking a break from their designer kitchens and patio barbecues. One long table was occupied by a loud group of aerospace employees who were either celebrating a new government contract or lamenting a general layoff.

  Kettering had deliberately chosen a place where he seldom went and was not likely to be recognized. Not that he was doing anything really wrong, he reminded himself, but it could be an awkward moment if he ran into anybody who knew him or Mavis. Conscience makes cowards, he thought.

  He made his way to the bar, took a stool, and ordered Wild Turkey on the rocks. He dipped a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the bar and munched thoughtfully.

  He was feeling ridiculously nervous. Like a high school kid on his first date. Did high school kids still get nervous? Kettering wondered. Nowadays they seemed to be born knowing all about sex and drugs and related pleasures. But maybe it was all a facade.

  Back in the prehistoric times of the early sixties, when he was in high school, Kettering would rather have died than let on he was still a virgin, which he was until his eighteenth birthday. On that occasion several of his buddies from the football team had taken him to a Milwaukee whorehouse and chipped in for his first piece of ass. The woman was on the downhill side of thirty and not real enthusiastic about taking on a kid, but she had enough expertise to make young Brian Kettering believe he had just had the premier screw of all time.

  He saw Charity Moline in the mirror behind the bar when she came in. She was wearing a silk, summery dress that was belted at her waist. That waist, he thought, couldn't be much more than twenty inches. Her hair was shiny and had a bounce, as though she had just washed it.

  She smiled at him in the mirror and came over. He swiveled on the stool to greet her.

  "I'm not late, am I?"

  "No. I was a little early." He did not add that he had deliberately slowed himself down after showering, shaving for the second time today, and putting on his one good sport coat, which had cost him $300 on sale at Dorman-Winthrop. "Do you want to get a booth?"

  "No, the bar's fine." She eased onto the stool next to his with a whisper of silk. "What are you drinking?"

  "Wild Turkey."

  "That's good bourbon," she said. "I'll have one of those."

  "Really?"

  "Sure. What did you expect me to order, a strawberry margarita?"

  "I don't know. I'd have guessed white wine."

  "That's for insecure females who are afraid of what they might do if they had a real drink."

  "You're not?"

  "Not insecure or not afraid?"

  "Either one."

  "I think I can handle it."

  "I wouldn't be surprised."

  With a tingle of pleasure Kettering realized they were going through the opening steps of the mating dance. When he overheard conversations like this, he had always thought they sounded juvenile and inane. It was different, he discovered, when you were one of the players.

  He signaled the bartender. It pleased him that Charity Moline did not make the usual token offer to pay for her own drink. There were times when a wise woman let a man be a man.

  They toasted each other and drank slowly. She smiled her apprecia
tion of the bourbon. He lit a cigarette. She declined to take one, but went up another notch in his estimation when she did not frown or fan the smoke away.

  "So," she said, "why are we here, Sergeant?"

  Caught off balance, he quickly recovered. "My wife went out tonight to some class she's taking. My kid's somewhere goofing off. There was nothing good on TV. I was alone and I was bored."

  "And you thought of me."

  "Not right away."

  "Uh-huh." She peered up at him through dark lashes. "Problems at home, Sergeant?"

  "Nothing I can't handle."

  "If you say so."

  "You don't really want to hear about my problems, do you?"

  "Not unless you want to tell me."

  He glanced at her hand. She wore several rings but none on the wedding finger.

  "You're not married?"

  "Not anymore."

  "Kids?"

  "Nope. That was lucky, as things turned out."

  "Bad scene?"

  "I thought so at the time. I was married at twenty to the best-looking guy I'd ever seen outside the movies. I mean, he was gorgeous. The trouble was, I was maybe three times as smart as he."

  "What happened?"

  "He met a topless dancer whose tits were bigger than mine. When I told him he had to make a choice, he chose her."

  "You're right, he wasn't very smart."

  "Thanks, but I've got to admit the dancer was really something. Boobs to make a man cry. The two of them rode off together on his motorcycle and I haven't seen him since. The best thing he did for me was not to leave me with a kid."

  "So now you're a television newslady."

  "At the moment. I like the business, but I want to get into the writing end. Doing thirty-second bites on camera doesn't give much chance for in-depth journalism."

  "You look good on camera, though."

  "Sure I do. That's how I got the job. But I don't want to spend the next few years searching the face in the mirror for the wrinkles that will put me back on the street."

  He groped for something to say. "I like the way you handled the story today."

  "I'm a reporter, Sergeant. I won't kid you that there aren't people at Channel Six who are into cop bashing. It's a popular sport in my business. But like I told you, I don't play that game."

  "That's good to know."

  "So what really happened there today? What made you go in that apartment alone? I know that's not the way the book says you're supposed to handle it."

  "That's the point my lieutenant made. Vigorously. Do you really want to hear about it?"

  "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."

  Kettering downed his drink and ordered another for both of them. He found himself talking easily to this red-haired young woman, not only about his actions with the blade artist today, but about other cases and other cops, and about his feelings about being one of them. He told her how it felt to hold the head of a six-year-old girl in his lap and watch the light go out of her eyes as she died of a gunshot wound. He talked about the sleepless nights that followed the one and only time he had to kill somebody. A doped-up crazy punk who just robbed a 7-Eleven was firing his Uzi at anything that moved. Kettering brought him down with a single bullet through the eye socket.

  "Pretty good shooting," Charity said.

  "No it wasn't. I was diving for cover, just aiming in his general direction to keep him occupied."

  "And it bothered you afterward that you killed him? Even though you may have saved several lives?"

  "Sure it bothered me. I don't say there aren't a lot of people on the streets who deserve to die, but killing somebody doesn't feel good."

  Charity talked some more about how she had left home early after her stepfather put some unfatherly moves on her. She married the handsome dunce, and when it ended a year later, she worked her way through college as an all-night disc jockey on a little station in Tucson. A degree from the University of Arizona in communications got her nothing much, but her looks got her a job as weather girl on a TV station in Bakersfield. She was offered a co-anchor spot there, but took the Channel 6 job because the Los Angeles market held bigger possibilities.

  Sometime during the evening, without either of them suggesting it, Kettering and Charity Moline moved over to the piano bar. While the hard-faced blonde played Cole Porter songs, Charity talked with wit and intelligence about her life in the high-tension world of television. Kettering found himself enjoying her and laughing easily at her stories of misadventures among the celebrities.

  It seemed completely natural when she put a hand on his arm to emphasize a point. There was nothing outwardly suggestive in the gesture, but it sent a jolt through Kettering's nervous system.

  The piano lady hit a series of descending chords. "That's it for tonight, folks." She scooped the bills and change from the brandy snifter. "You've got time for a last call. This gal's outta here."

  Kettering checked his watch. "I don't believe it. We just got here, didn't we?"

  Charity smiled her good smile at him. "Time flies when you're having fun."

  They stood up. Kettering pulled out his wadded bills and paid the cocktail waitress. Suddenly uncomfortable, he looked at Charity.

  Her eyes were clear and green and innocent of coquetry. "I guess we can't go to your place."

  He shook his head.

  "So why don't you follow me to mine?"

  Like everything else about tonight's encounter, the suggestion seemed natural and inevitable to Kettering, although he would have sworn that going home with Charity Moline was the furthest thing from his intentions when he set out from home.

  "Where are you parked?" he said.

  "Over there."

  She pointed at a silver-gray Mazda RX-7 across the parking lot.

  "Nice car."

  "I've got to spend my salary on something."

  "I'll pull up behind you." Kettering watched appreciatively as she swung across the lot to her car. She had the free, long-legged stride of today's independent woman, but the roll of her ass was a constant reminder of her femininity.

  He turned and headed for his own car, and was suddenly overcome with a sensation of bone-chilling cold. A huge shadow seemed to darken the parking-lot lights. Traffic sounds from the boulevard dropped to a whisper.

  Kettering's mind raced. He was seized by a feeling of unreasoning dread. For an instant he wondered if he were having a heart attack.

  Then, as quickly as it had come, the sensation was gone. The lights of the parking lot were as bright as before. Traffic on Ventura produced the usual noise level. And the night was warm, but still Kettering shivered. He looked over to see the lights of the Mazda come on as Charity started the engine. He gave her a wave and continued to his own car.

  Kettering eased in behind the wheel and took several deep breaths before starting the Camaro. When he was back in control, he drove up behind Charity. She gave him a beep on the horn and took off.

  Charity drove the sports car with confidence, not dawdling, yet not showing off with fancy cornering moves. As he followed her up into the hills above the Hollywood Freeway, Kettering reflected that the Mazda was high on the desirable list for car thieves. He hoped she had a secure place to park it.

  She lived in a stone cottage on one of the small streets that twisted up off Laurel Canyon. The house had a kind of Walt Disney look, with rounded roof corners and a profusion of flowers all around it which, even at night, gave off an intoxicating fragrance.

  Charity parked the Mazda on the street with no special precautions, but somehow Kettering felt it would be safe there. Who would dare steal a car from such a woman from in front of such an enchanted cottage?

  He slid the dusty Camaro in behind her and got out, aware of how shabby his car looked next to hers. He resolved to leave it at the police garage for a wash job tomorrow.

  Charity Moline came back and took his hand and led him up the flagstone steps to the little house. He forgot all about his car.


  She keyed open the front door and they went in. The single lamp she had left burning revealed a cozy, comfortable living room with lots of throw pillows and soft chairs and colorful rugs. The wall had a large abstract painting. To Kettering's eye it looked like a spill on the floor of a restaurant kitchen. The room was clean but not especially tidy. A pair of running shoes stood beside one of the chairs. Magazines covered the tabletops. Books were stacked everywhere.

  Charity cut short his inventory as she turned to face him. They stood facing each other for no more than a second. She came naturally into his arms and he kissed her. There was no pretense of holding back. When they kissed, her tongue slipped into his mouth with an easy familiarity. Her small, round breasts mashed against his chest. When the kiss ended, they were both breathing hard.

  "Do you want a drink?" she said.

  He shook his head.

  "The bedroom's back this way."

  Kettering followed her. On the way he peeled off his $300 sport jacket and tossed it over a chair. He had his shirt off by the time they reached the bed. Charity gently pushed him down and finished the job of undressing him.

  When they were naked in each other's arms, Charity said, "You may not believe it, Sergeant, but I don't do this a lot."

  "Neither do I," he said.

  Her eyes glittered in the semidarkness. She pulled away from him, just a little bit. "Are you very sure you want to do it now?"

  "Come back here."

  The time for talk was over. Kettering rolled her over onto her back. She opened her legs for him and he knelt between them. He clamped his hands on her smooth, firm buttocks, and pulled her to him. She took him into her with a sharp intake of breath. She closed around him like a wet satin fist.

  ***

  Afterwards he lay on his back, eyes closed, breathing deeply. She used a forefinger to make little splashes in the sweat that had pooled in his navel.