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Since I was in the valley, I decided to drive over to Toluca Lake and drop in on Richland Keswick. His apartment was on smoggy Vineland Avenue right where the 101 and the 134 crossed. The building was a creamy white box. One of those places that were going up everywhere, the ones that seemed to be made of cardboard and paste. They looked like they’d come apart in a heavy rain.
I rang the bell for 204, which said Winchell, and waited. After a bit, a man’s voice said, “Yeah?” over the intercom.
“Richland Keswick?”
“Who is this?”
“Nick Nowak.”
“Oh.”
The security door buzzed, a sound that reminded me of an electrocution, and I grabbed it. I walked through a tiny lobby to the elevator. Getting in, I pressed the button for the second floor. The inside of the building seemed as cheap and flimsy as the outside. It wasn’t the kind of place I’d want to be in an earthquake, although the building materials might be light enough that you could just shake them off after the place fell down.
When I got off at the second floor, I turned and saw that 204 was at the far end of the hallway. I walked down, and before I could knock the door opened and there stood Richland Keswick. He was older, of course, his hair had started to turn gray, and a few extra pounds clung to his middle.
“Long time no see,” he said.
I punched him square in the nose.
5
April 3, 1996
Late Wednesday morning
Richland’s living room looked like something out of one of those newspaper flyers that arrives in the mail. The ones that sell a complete room full of cheesy furniture for $999. There were three matching black leather pieces: a sofa, a loveseat and an occasional chair. The coffee and end tables were glass and brass. There was an Erté print on the wall. It was the home of a single, straight man. One who thought he had taste.
He was sitting on the sofa with a wad of paper towels shoved up against his nose and a cold can of beer tucked up against the back of his neck. He didn’t seem too happy.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I didn’t do it. I’m dead, remember?”
“You’re mad because I told Lydia Gonzalez who you are.”
“That’s a possibility.”
“She promised she wouldn’t tell you she knew.”
“She broke that promise.”
“Yeah, I figured that out the moment your fist found my face.”
“You shouldn’t have told Lydia where I was.”
“You’re right, I shouldn’t have. But… I mean, she’s Lydia. I’ve never been able to say no to her.”
“You did a lot more than that… tell me how it came up.”
“She told me she and Duncan were moving to Long Beach and I told her you were there. I might have had a drink or two. I might have been showing off.”
“You don’t like Duncan?”
“I don’t like any man she’s with who’s not me. I mean, have you ever really looked at her? She’s so—I guess you wouldn’t appreciate her that way.”
Great. My whole life was on the line because this dickwad wanted to impress a girl.
“So after the book came out, nothing happened?”
