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“I talked to a woman named Anne Whittemore—well, Anne Michaels now. She was Larry’s friend in high school. He said he told her to lie and say that the victim was her fiancé. She denies that, says she really was his fiancé. And get this… after the trial she married the victim’s brother.”
“You think she’s lying?”
“I don’t know. I also met with a woman named Showalter. Her son testified that he gave the murder weapon to Larry. But his mother doesn’t believe that’s what happened.”
“What does he say?”
“He killed himself in eighty-five.”
“So, not much.”
“He had a history of mental illness. His testimony may have been part of his fantasy life.”
“You do realize that creates a problem. The fact that he was mentally ill doesn’t automatically impeach his testimony. And the fact that he’s dead doesn’t help. There’s nothing I can work with.”
“I know.”
“You want to keep looking, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Go ahead. Just be at the deposition on Friday.”
“Deal.”
14
April 10, 1996
Wednesday evening
Ronnie had appointments until nine, so I decided to go out to Downey again. I wanted to see Paulie Michaels. But I didn’t know where he was. I knew a call to information would be useless, there had to be a hundred Paul Michaels in Los Angeles. I decided the best thing to do was to visit his parents first and ask how to get in touch with him. I headed to Downey.
The house on Amorita was still the color of putty and there was still a Big Wheel out front. The only thing new was a ten-year-old Camaro the color of orange soda sitting in the driveway. Unlike the Mercury station wagon, it didn’t have any bumper stickers. In fact, it was spotless and looked like it had been recently waxed. It was someone’s pride and joy.
I walked up the dried-out lawn to the front door and knocked. A minute or so later, an older woman opened the door. She was in her early seventies and wore a dingy house coat.
“Hi,” I said, in my friendliest voice. “I’m trying to find Paulie Michaels. You wouldn’t have his address, would you?”
“Who are you?”
“We went to high school together. I’m on the reunion committee and his invitation came back—”
She turned away from me, nearly shutting the door in my face, and called out, “Paulie! Someone to see you.” Then she wandered away from the door, which I was happy about. Her son would probably know that we didn’t go to high school together. If only because I was about a decade—
And then he was standing in the doorway with a quizzical look on his face. Paulie was losing his white-blond hair, but other than that he still looked like a high school jock. Well, a high school jock who was aging very, very well. He wore a Chevrolet T-shirt—which was very tight and showed off his strong arms and taut belly—a pair of surfer shorts and flip flops.
“What can I do for you?”
His eyes were a mesmerizing blue.
“Are you Paulie Michaels?”
“Just Paul, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Paul. Can you come outside for a minute?”
He stepped outside, anxious and defensive. He tried not to let me see it, but he failed.
