“Hostile and vindictive,” I said. “Sculpting and tearing it apart.”
“I spoke to the Pasadena cops, but all they remember is the nuisance call. They sent me the report. Nothing illuminating. The neighbors also said Kipper rarely if ever entertains visitors, but every so often there was a blond lady around. I showed them Julie’s picture, they thought maybe it was her.”
“Maybe?”
“These are folks in their eighties and no one got a close look. Blond is what they remember—very, very light blond hair, the way Julie’s was. So looks like Kipper was telling the truth when he said they’d maintained a relationship.”
“How often was she there?”
“Irregularly. Sometimes once a month, sometimes twice. One of the old gals did tell me she’s sure the blonde sometimes stayed the night because she saw her and Kipper getting into Kipper’s Ferrari the next morning.”
“Occasional intimacy,” I said.
“Maybe she came by to pick up the alimony in person, and they forgot why they split up. That got me thinking about what you said—Julie’s dependency. What if she decided she no longer wanted any part of that, told Kipper so, and things got nasty? He wouldn’t kill her at his place. Not with the neighbors looking over his shoulder, that police report already on file. You’ve been talking about a smart, calculating guy, and he’s a bright one. Do I have any way to prove it? Nyet. But there’s nothing else in my scope.”
“What’s the state of Kipper’s finances?”
“I’m light-years away from any kind of warrant on his accounts, but from all appearances, he’s doing well. In addition to the Testarossa, he’s got a vintage bathtub Porsche, an old MG, and a Toyota Land Cruiser. The house is stately and pretty, he keeps up the gardening and the maintenance—the place sparkles from the curb. Neighbors say he dresses sharp, even on casual days. One coot said he looked ‘Hollywood.’ Which in Pasadena is damn near felonious. Another one—an old lady—went on about Kipper liking black. Described it as ‘an undertaker uniform.’ Then her husband chimes in, and says, ‘No, he looks like one of the stiffs.’ Ninety-one, and he’s cracking wise. Maybe it was the gin and tonic talking—they invited me in for a drinkie. I think I was the most exciting thing in the ’hood since the last Rose Bowl.”
“Gin and tonics with the old folk,” I said. “Refined.”
“The Queen Mother drank gin and tonics and she lived to 101. But I had Coke. Let me tell you, it was tempting—they were pouring Bombay, and I haven’t had much fun, recently. Virtue triumphed. Goddammit. Anyway, Kipper is still on my screen. The hostile, aggressive loner. Also, I did ask around about tall redheaded homeless gals. A few possibles surfaced on the Westside or Pacific Division, but all turned out to be wrong. One of the shelters in Hollywood does remember a woman named Bernadine or Ernadine who fits the description. Tall, big bones, crazy, midthirties or about. She drops in occasionally to dry out, but they haven’t seen her in a while. The shelter supervisor had the feeling she’d fallen quite a ways.”
“Why?”
“When her head cleared, she could sound fairly intelligent.”
“No last name?”
“Unlike the public shelters, the privates don’t always keep records—it’s a church group, Dove House. Pure good deeds, no questions asked.”
“When Bernadine sounded intelligent,” I said, “what did she talk about?”
“I dunno. Why? This was just time-killing because I dead-ended on Kipper.”
“Just wondering if she was a fan of the arts.”
“All of a sudden you think it’s worth pursuing?”
“Not really.”
“What?”
“Forget it,” I said. “I don’t want to waste your time.”
“Right now my time isn’t exactly precious. Julie Kipper’s uncle called this morning, politely inquiring as to my progress, and I had to tell him there was none. What’s on your mind, Alex?”
I told him about the other killings I’d found, recounted my talk with Paul Brancusi.
“Wilfred Reedy I remember,” he said. “Another of Rick’s favorite jazz guys. I think that one was a dope thing. Reedy pissing off a dealer, or something like that.”
“Reedy was an addict?”
“Reedy’s kid was an addict. He OD’d and died and Reedy got hot about all the dealing near the South Central clubs, started making noise. I could be wrong, but that’s what I remember.”