Brother Frank invented a new way to accidentally bash himself on the head with an acting trophy, I think not.â
âAnd why Brother Frank? It makes absolutely no sense,â Wes said. âUnlessâ¦â He seemed to get lost in the thought. âHolly said his cousins belong to a gang. Think that could be related?â
âWes, he was killed in Dottieâs dressing room, not on the corner of Western and Sunset.â
âWhich brings up the question of all questions. You think Dottie did it?â
âNo. I donât. Sheâs soâ¦soâ¦loopy.â
âRight. She may be getting desperate, but I donât think sheâs reached the point where sheâs murdering men who wonât sleep with her.â
Weâd been through this many times. This is where one of us said, well, the police will investigate. And the other one said, yeah, unconvincingly.
âWhatâs really odd, Madeline, is the news coverage. There is none. Nobodyâs got this story.â
âYou noticed that too?â I asked, glancing across the van at Wesley. Perched in the co-pilot captainâs chair you get this super high-up view of the world. Pretty cool.
âA man is killed at a Hollywood studio. That is usually considered news. Man, Dottie has lucked out.â
âPerhaps itâs the studio.â
âKeeping things quiet?â
âIt happened in their private kingdom,â I said. âTheyâre in control. They have their own security. When the police were notified, I bet it was done at a very high level, with lots of secrecy.â
âJust think what other crimes could be committed on the lot, with no one the wiser.â
âNo kidding,â I said.
âItâs suspicious,â Wes said. âYou know when the cops get involved nothing stays quiet for long. Reporters hang out at the station and these kinds of stories leak. Someoneâs controlling this. Someone with more clout than the studio.â
It dawned on me. âMaybe itâs the church,â I said. âTheyâve got to be sensitive about a Jesuit killed by an unknown assailant. And Brother Frank del Valle had ties to gangs.â
âYes. And then the pope is comingâ¦â
Wes turned the van up Vine and drove past the cylindrical Capital Records building, whose kitsch architecture resembled a stack of records. The red light at the tip of its roof antenna blinked on and off. Every twenty seconds the light blinked out the word âHollywoodâ in Morse code. In case, I donât know, some sailor got lost?
âLetâs get crazy for a minute,â I offered. âThe mayor of our city goes toâ¦what church?â
Wes smiled.
âAnd didnât I hear that the mayor got married again?â I asked.
âI hear you. He needs a favor, you think, to get his last marriage annulled so this new wife will be kosher.â
âExactly. In the doing-a-big-favor-for-the-pontiff department, how would keeping this whole mess out of the glare of the worldâs press rank?â
Wes said quietly, âUp there.â We were waiting out a red light at Melrose and Wes turned his head to look at me.
âLet me just get this straight,â he said. âYou think the mayor is conspiring with the Catholic church and a major Hollywood studio and a famous redhead to cover up the death of a young Jesuit.â
âOnly in a nice way,â I said. âSee, everybody is happy in this scenario.â
âSo what youâre saying,â Wes said with escalating sarcasm, âis this could just be a win-win-win-win situation.â He shook his head.
âWhat a world, what a world,â I muttered, quoting a melting witch.
âSo, who is going to go to bat for poor Brother Frank?â Wes asked, full of concern. Then it hit him. He should not be giving me any ideas. I hated to melt. I preferred drying off and fighting. He spun on a dime and
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