between his knees. “That’s why I brought something more than sirloin to the barbecue.”
“You brought some of your movies too?”
“Just six of them,” said Rollo. “Hey, don’t give me that look. We got enough beer here for an all-night festival of Rollo’s greatest hits.”
Jimmy smiled. For all he knew, Rollo would be up on stage accepting an Oscar someday, squinting into the spotlight as he thanked the little people. In L.A. anything was possible. Even Walsh’s innocence.
After the scavenger hunt Jimmy had run a Nexus search on Walsh’s arrest and trial, hoping to find something that would either bolster or deflate the idea of a setup. The legal documents alone ran to more than four hundred single-spaced pages; Jimmy had been too busy to do more than read the highlights. There was solid forensic evidence against Walsh: His skin was under Heather Grimm’s nails, his semen was in her vagina, and her blood was spattered on his purple silk pajama bottoms. No wonder Walsh had pled guilty even though he had no memory of committing the crime. The silk pajamas alone would have been enough to get a conviction in the hands of the right prosecutor. What was missing from the reports was an in-depth portrait of Heather Grimm, something over and beyond “an innocent girl, with a talent for trigonometry and Spanish club bake sales,” in the memorable words of some clown from the
Times.
Nothing in her bio suggested she had the icy calculation needed to take part in setting up Walsh.
That’s what it came down to. If Walsh had been framed, Heather Grimm had to have been in on it, which meant that the husband would have originally planned on Walsh getting hit with a statutory rape charge. That would have been enough to stop production of
Hammerlock
and stop Walsh’s career. It wouldn’t do much for the great love affair either. So what had happened? Either Walsh had really killed her, or the husband’s plan had escalated. Jimmy intended to ask Walsh exactly what had happened once he invited Heather Grimm into the beach house, what she had said, how she had behaved, her tone of voice, her familiarity with drugs, and the eagerness with which she took part.
“I brought Mr. Walsh a copy of the new SLAP too,” Rollo said proudly. “That scavenger hunt pictorial is already paying off. Next week I’m being interviewed on this public access channel, and the Seven-Eleven where I get breakfast put our page up next to the cash register.”
“Oh, joy.”
“I was a little surprised they used the HOLLYWOOD sign Polaroid,” bubbled Rollo. “Full frontal nudity is cool with me, but I didn’t think SLAP did that. I bet now Jane wishes she had come along.” He saw Jimmy’s expression. “Maybe not.”
The Saab crested the hill, and Jimmy saw a red Ford Escort parked beside the trailer.
“That’s B.K.’s car,” said Rollo. “Party time!”
Jimmy pulled in beside the Escort, turned off the engine, and stepped out into the racket of crickets sawing away, a mating song more desperate than melodic. He lugged the three cases of beer toward the trailer, while Rollo followed behind, carrying the steaks and charcoal. Jimmy stopped so suddenly that Rollo bumped him.
“Hey, watch it,” said Rollo.
Jimmy nodded at apple pies strewn on the ground, a half-gallon of vanilla ice cream melting beside them. He could hear the sound of someone sobbing nearby.
“M-maybe we should come back later,” said Rollo.
Jimmy followed the sound of crying and found a balding, middle-aged man slumped against a stunted lemon tree, holding his head in his hands. He was overdressed in chocolate-brown corduroy pants and a button-down shirt, his thinning hair limp and moist around the crown of his head. Jimmy thought at first that the poor guy had had a sunstroke.
“B.K., dude, what’s wrong?” said Rollo.
B.K. covered his face with his hands.
Jimmy wasn’t interested in B.K. anymore—his attention was drawn now to the koi pond. A
“You brought some of your movies too?”
“Just six of them,” said Rollo. “Hey, don’t give me that look. We got enough beer here for an all-night festival of Rollo’s greatest hits.”
Jimmy smiled. For all he knew, Rollo would be up on stage accepting an Oscar someday, squinting into the spotlight as he thanked the little people. In L.A. anything was possible. Even Walsh’s innocence.
After the scavenger hunt Jimmy had run a Nexus search on Walsh’s arrest and trial, hoping to find something that would either bolster or deflate the idea of a setup. The legal documents alone ran to more than four hundred single-spaced pages; Jimmy had been too busy to do more than read the highlights. There was solid forensic evidence against Walsh: His skin was under Heather Grimm’s nails, his semen was in her vagina, and her blood was spattered on his purple silk pajama bottoms. No wonder Walsh had pled guilty even though he had no memory of committing the crime. The silk pajamas alone would have been enough to get a conviction in the hands of the right prosecutor. What was missing from the reports was an in-depth portrait of Heather Grimm, something over and beyond “an innocent girl, with a talent for trigonometry and Spanish club bake sales,” in the memorable words of some clown from the
Times.
Nothing in her bio suggested she had the icy calculation needed to take part in setting up Walsh.
That’s what it came down to. If Walsh had been framed, Heather Grimm had to have been in on it, which meant that the husband would have originally planned on Walsh getting hit with a statutory rape charge. That would have been enough to stop production of
Hammerlock
and stop Walsh’s career. It wouldn’t do much for the great love affair either. So what had happened? Either Walsh had really killed her, or the husband’s plan had escalated. Jimmy intended to ask Walsh exactly what had happened once he invited Heather Grimm into the beach house, what she had said, how she had behaved, her tone of voice, her familiarity with drugs, and the eagerness with which she took part.
“I brought Mr. Walsh a copy of the new SLAP too,” Rollo said proudly. “That scavenger hunt pictorial is already paying off. Next week I’m being interviewed on this public access channel, and the Seven-Eleven where I get breakfast put our page up next to the cash register.”
“Oh, joy.”
“I was a little surprised they used the HOLLYWOOD sign Polaroid,” bubbled Rollo. “Full frontal nudity is cool with me, but I didn’t think SLAP did that. I bet now Jane wishes she had come along.” He saw Jimmy’s expression. “Maybe not.”
The Saab crested the hill, and Jimmy saw a red Ford Escort parked beside the trailer.
“That’s B.K.’s car,” said Rollo. “Party time!”
Jimmy pulled in beside the Escort, turned off the engine, and stepped out into the racket of crickets sawing away, a mating song more desperate than melodic. He lugged the three cases of beer toward the trailer, while Rollo followed behind, carrying the steaks and charcoal. Jimmy stopped so suddenly that Rollo bumped him.
“Hey, watch it,” said Rollo.
Jimmy nodded at apple pies strewn on the ground, a half-gallon of vanilla ice cream melting beside them. He could hear the sound of someone sobbing nearby.
“M-maybe we should come back later,” said Rollo.
Jimmy followed the sound of crying and found a balding, middle-aged man slumped against a stunted lemon tree, holding his head in his hands. He was overdressed in chocolate-brown corduroy pants and a button-down shirt, his thinning hair limp and moist around the crown of his head. Jimmy thought at first that the poor guy had had a sunstroke.
“B.K., dude, what’s wrong?” said Rollo.
B.K. covered his face with his hands.
Jimmy wasn’t interested in B.K. anymore—his attention was drawn now to the koi pond. A
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