Listen, this is a . . . I don’t know how to make this clear to you. It’s the Mary Smith murder case. The Hollywood celebrity killings. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“All right, sir, I think I understand. What was the name again?”
“Lowenstein-Bell. Marti. I know her husband’s name is Michael Bell. You might find it under that. I don’t know for certain if she’s dead. I just got this awful message. I’m a reporter at the
L.A. Times
. My name is Arnold Griner. Detective Galletta knows who I am.”
“Sir, I have the information now. I’m going to put you on hold for just a minute.”
“
No, don’t
—”
Chapter 25
LAPD DISPATCH PUT OUT A CALL at 8:42 A.M. , sending officers, backup, and emergency medical personnel to the Lowenstein-Bell address in Bel Air.
Two separate 911 calls on the same incident had come within a few minutes of each other. The first one was from the
Los Angeles Times
. The second came from the Lowenstein-Bell residence itself.
Officers Jeff Campbell and Patrick Beneke were first at the scene. Campbell suspected before they arrived that this was another celebrity murder. The address alone was unusual for this kind of call, but dispatch had mentioned a single adult female victim. And possible knife wounds. The couple who owned the house were both Hollywood types. It added up to trouble no matter what.
A short, dark-haired woman in a gray-and-white maid’s uniform was waiting in the driveway. She was wringing some kind of towel. As the patrolmen got closer, they could see that the woman was sobbing, and walking in circles.
“Great,” Beneke said. “Just what we need, some Carmelita who doesn’t even speak English, bawling her eyes out and acting
muy loco
.”
Campbell responded the way he always did to the younger officer’s tiresome, racist cynicism. “Shut the hell up, Beneke. I don’t want to hear it. She’s terrified.”
As soon as they were out of the car, the maid went hysterical.
“Aquí, aquí, aquí!”
she screeched, motioning them toward the front door.
“Aquí! Aquí!”
The residence was an ultramodern stone-and-glass structure high in the Santa Monica Mountains. As he approached, Officer Campbell could see straight through the green-glass entryway to the back patio and the sweeping coastal view beyond.
What was that on the front-door glass?
It looked totally out of place. A label or a sticker of some kind. A kiddie decal? With a large
A
on it.
He had to practically pry the maid’s grip from his forearm. “Ma’am, just please be calm.
Uno momento, por favor. Como te llamas?
”
The woman may or may not have heard him. Her Spanish came much too quickly for him to understand. She pointed toward the house several more times.
“Let’s just get in there,” Beneke insisted. “We’re wasting time with her. She’s living the
vida loca
.”
Two more cruisers and an ambulance pulled up. One of the paramedics spoke quickly, and more efficiently, with the maid.
“In the pool in the back,” he reported. “No one else is here—as far as she knows.”
“She don’t know shit,” said Beneke.
“We’ll go around,” Campbell said. He and Beneke took the north side of the house, their weapons drawn. The other teams went to the south, straight through a set of hedges.
Campbell felt the old rush of adrenaline as they worked their way through a dense cluster of hydrangea. Homicide calls used to be almost exhilarating. Now they just made him feel light-headed and weak in the legs.
He squinted through the thick brush as best he could. From what he knew of the Hollywood murders, there was no way the killer would still be around.
“You see anything?” he whispered to his partner, who was twenty-nine, a California cowboy, and a total asshole most of the time.
“Yeah, a bunch of flowers,” Beneke answered. “We were the first ones here. Why’d you let them go ahead of us like that?”
Campbell stifled his first response. “Just keep
“All right, sir, I think I understand. What was the name again?”
“Lowenstein-Bell. Marti. I know her husband’s name is Michael Bell. You might find it under that. I don’t know for certain if she’s dead. I just got this awful message. I’m a reporter at the
L.A. Times
. My name is Arnold Griner. Detective Galletta knows who I am.”
“Sir, I have the information now. I’m going to put you on hold for just a minute.”
“
No, don’t
—”
Chapter 25
LAPD DISPATCH PUT OUT A CALL at 8:42 A.M. , sending officers, backup, and emergency medical personnel to the Lowenstein-Bell address in Bel Air.
Two separate 911 calls on the same incident had come within a few minutes of each other. The first one was from the
Los Angeles Times
. The second came from the Lowenstein-Bell residence itself.
Officers Jeff Campbell and Patrick Beneke were first at the scene. Campbell suspected before they arrived that this was another celebrity murder. The address alone was unusual for this kind of call, but dispatch had mentioned a single adult female victim. And possible knife wounds. The couple who owned the house were both Hollywood types. It added up to trouble no matter what.
A short, dark-haired woman in a gray-and-white maid’s uniform was waiting in the driveway. She was wringing some kind of towel. As the patrolmen got closer, they could see that the woman was sobbing, and walking in circles.
“Great,” Beneke said. “Just what we need, some Carmelita who doesn’t even speak English, bawling her eyes out and acting
muy loco
.”
Campbell responded the way he always did to the younger officer’s tiresome, racist cynicism. “Shut the hell up, Beneke. I don’t want to hear it. She’s terrified.”
As soon as they were out of the car, the maid went hysterical.
“Aquí, aquí, aquí!”
she screeched, motioning them toward the front door.
“Aquí! Aquí!”
The residence was an ultramodern stone-and-glass structure high in the Santa Monica Mountains. As he approached, Officer Campbell could see straight through the green-glass entryway to the back patio and the sweeping coastal view beyond.
What was that on the front-door glass?
It looked totally out of place. A label or a sticker of some kind. A kiddie decal? With a large
A
on it.
He had to practically pry the maid’s grip from his forearm. “Ma’am, just please be calm.
Uno momento, por favor. Como te llamas?
”
The woman may or may not have heard him. Her Spanish came much too quickly for him to understand. She pointed toward the house several more times.
“Let’s just get in there,” Beneke insisted. “We’re wasting time with her. She’s living the
vida loca
.”
Two more cruisers and an ambulance pulled up. One of the paramedics spoke quickly, and more efficiently, with the maid.
“In the pool in the back,” he reported. “No one else is here—as far as she knows.”
“She don’t know shit,” said Beneke.
“We’ll go around,” Campbell said. He and Beneke took the north side of the house, their weapons drawn. The other teams went to the south, straight through a set of hedges.
Campbell felt the old rush of adrenaline as they worked their way through a dense cluster of hydrangea. Homicide calls used to be almost exhilarating. Now they just made him feel light-headed and weak in the legs.
He squinted through the thick brush as best he could. From what he knew of the Hollywood murders, there was no way the killer would still be around.
“You see anything?” he whispered to his partner, who was twenty-nine, a California cowboy, and a total asshole most of the time.
“Yeah, a bunch of flowers,” Beneke answered. “We were the first ones here. Why’d you let them go ahead of us like that?”
Campbell stifled his first response. “Just keep
Similar Books
