on how much she knew about Frankie Lynde.
She had spent the last days of her leave investigating the case. She had her PPD shield and I.D. card, but tried to avoid using them as it could backfire on her. She went to XXX Marks the Spot and lied to the manager, telling him she was a friend of Frankie’s. It would not be the first lie she’d tell in her quest to get closer to Lynde. Seeing the club in person told her volumes. It was no place for a woman to go alone, unless she was looking to be picked up. And Lynde had been picked up, by a woman after a silly bit of role-playing. Lynde wouldn’t have been the first officer who answered the call of the dark side.
Vining called Steve Schuyler, the LAPD detective in charge of Lynde’s missing person case. She again claimed to be a friend of Frankie’s. He wouldn’t give her information over the phone and told her to come in. She decided that would be really stepping over the line. She dropped it. Without proving her bona fides to Schuyler, she was just another wacko off the street. Besides, she was returning to duty shortly and could more legitimately follow up then.
She went around him and called a female LAPD sergeant she knew slightly. The sergeant didn’t know Lynde personally but filled in the blanks of the media reports and gave her Lynde’s home address. She said that Lynde had been good at her job in vice prostitution. Maybe too good.
Vining went to Frankie’s home in Studio City on the southeastern edge of the San Fernando Valley. It was an older apartment building that had been converted to condominiums. A sign on the façade said “The Royal Palms” in wooden script. Two stories of stucco surrounded a courtyard with a swimming pool. Chaise longues were lined up like coffins on a battlefield. The earth-toned paint and palm trees were designed to make the place look upscale and resortlike, an effect that was undone by the 101 freeway that ran behind the complex.
Someone had left a stone propping open the locked front gate. Vining entered and walked upstairs where she found an elderly woman locking the door to Lynde’s unit. Vining badged her.
“The police were here already.” Her voice wavered but her gaze was clear and direct. The top of her stiff coiffure barely reached the middle of Vining’s chest.
“I’m Detective Nan Vining and I’m investigating for the city of Pasadena. We’ve had leads on the case. We’re assisting LAPD.”
Vining knew she’d be toast if the woman checked out her story.
The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Bodek and said she was Lynde’s neighbor across the walkway. She took care of Lynde’s place, bringing in mail and newspapers, whenever Lynde was gone. She volunteered that this had happened a lot before Lynde disappeared.
“Could you let me inside?”
She felt a pang of guilt. Elderly people tended to trust others, especially authority figures, a trait that made Mrs. Bodek’s generation a frequent victim of scams. Vining was taking advantage of that trust. Her guilt faded quickly. She had to see. She had to learn more about Frankie Lynde.
She learned the old lady was nobody’s fool.
Mrs. Bodek narrowed her eyes at Vining. “Do you have another I.D.? I don’t mean to be rude, but how do I know that badge isn’t fake?”
Vining dug inside her handbag for her police I.D. card. Mrs. Bodek scrutinized it to her satisfaction, returned it, and unlocked the door.
Vining feared a panic attack upon entering Lynde’s condo, but none came. Maybe she was cured or maybe the place felt like home.
“Did Officer Lynde have a boyfriend?” She was counting on Mrs. Bodek being the type who peeked out of her drapes at her neighbors’ comings and goings.
“There was one who came around sometimes. Tall, dark man. Short hair. Like a crew cut. Kind of bad skin. Old acne scars. That policeman who’s looking into Frankie’s disappearance came one day with a picture.”
“Detective Schuyler?”
“That sounds right. I
She had spent the last days of her leave investigating the case. She had her PPD shield and I.D. card, but tried to avoid using them as it could backfire on her. She went to XXX Marks the Spot and lied to the manager, telling him she was a friend of Frankie’s. It would not be the first lie she’d tell in her quest to get closer to Lynde. Seeing the club in person told her volumes. It was no place for a woman to go alone, unless she was looking to be picked up. And Lynde had been picked up, by a woman after a silly bit of role-playing. Lynde wouldn’t have been the first officer who answered the call of the dark side.
Vining called Steve Schuyler, the LAPD detective in charge of Lynde’s missing person case. She again claimed to be a friend of Frankie’s. He wouldn’t give her information over the phone and told her to come in. She decided that would be really stepping over the line. She dropped it. Without proving her bona fides to Schuyler, she was just another wacko off the street. Besides, she was returning to duty shortly and could more legitimately follow up then.
She went around him and called a female LAPD sergeant she knew slightly. The sergeant didn’t know Lynde personally but filled in the blanks of the media reports and gave her Lynde’s home address. She said that Lynde had been good at her job in vice prostitution. Maybe too good.
Vining went to Frankie’s home in Studio City on the southeastern edge of the San Fernando Valley. It was an older apartment building that had been converted to condominiums. A sign on the façade said “The Royal Palms” in wooden script. Two stories of stucco surrounded a courtyard with a swimming pool. Chaise longues were lined up like coffins on a battlefield. The earth-toned paint and palm trees were designed to make the place look upscale and resortlike, an effect that was undone by the 101 freeway that ran behind the complex.
Someone had left a stone propping open the locked front gate. Vining entered and walked upstairs where she found an elderly woman locking the door to Lynde’s unit. Vining badged her.
“The police were here already.” Her voice wavered but her gaze was clear and direct. The top of her stiff coiffure barely reached the middle of Vining’s chest.
“I’m Detective Nan Vining and I’m investigating for the city of Pasadena. We’ve had leads on the case. We’re assisting LAPD.”
Vining knew she’d be toast if the woman checked out her story.
The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Bodek and said she was Lynde’s neighbor across the walkway. She took care of Lynde’s place, bringing in mail and newspapers, whenever Lynde was gone. She volunteered that this had happened a lot before Lynde disappeared.
“Could you let me inside?”
She felt a pang of guilt. Elderly people tended to trust others, especially authority figures, a trait that made Mrs. Bodek’s generation a frequent victim of scams. Vining was taking advantage of that trust. Her guilt faded quickly. She had to see. She had to learn more about Frankie Lynde.
She learned the old lady was nobody’s fool.
Mrs. Bodek narrowed her eyes at Vining. “Do you have another I.D.? I don’t mean to be rude, but how do I know that badge isn’t fake?”
Vining dug inside her handbag for her police I.D. card. Mrs. Bodek scrutinized it to her satisfaction, returned it, and unlocked the door.
Vining feared a panic attack upon entering Lynde’s condo, but none came. Maybe she was cured or maybe the place felt like home.
“Did Officer Lynde have a boyfriend?” She was counting on Mrs. Bodek being the type who peeked out of her drapes at her neighbors’ comings and goings.
“There was one who came around sometimes. Tall, dark man. Short hair. Like a crew cut. Kind of bad skin. Old acne scars. That policeman who’s looking into Frankie’s disappearance came one day with a picture.”
“Detective Schuyler?”
“That sounds right. I
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