Chapter 7

I woke up the next morning to the sight of Tina Callahan doing situps on a padded incline bench that was tilted up like the roof of a Swiss chalet. Sweat trickled down her neck and chest. Whatever body fat she possessed was covered by two small pieces of black lycra. She was counting off the situps with explosive little grunts, which must be what woke me up.

"When's the big title fight, champ?"

She smiled through gritted teeth and did four more situps, then unhooked her ankles and slid to the floor. Her abdominal muscles, pumped full of blood, stood out like a relief map of the sea floor.

"Would you believe I used to be an aerobics instructor?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorta addicted to exercise. How about you?"

"Last night was more exercise than I've had in months." I sat up, realizing as I did so that I was naked. My head felt fuzzy and thick.

"Last night was fun," she said. "I'm going to grab a shower and then I've got to get to work. Help yourself to some breakfast." She got to her feet and went into the bathroom, stripping off her bra top as she walked.

I found my shorts and put them on, then went into the kitchen and snooped around with out much hope. There was orange juice and skim milk and four different kinds of bran cereal. No eggs or bacon or donuts. I poured myself a bowl of flakes and sat down at her little dinette to crunch away.

In less time than I would have thought possible, she appeared in the doorway, dressed for work in jeans and a blouse.

"Just shut the door behind you when you leave," she said.

"What about your car?"

"I jogged over and got it this morning while you were asleep."

"Ah."

"Hey, be careful in San Diego, OK? Lemme know if you find the tapes."

"OK. Have a nice day at work, honey."

She smiled and went out the door. I heard her Accord start up and drive away. I'm sure I wasn't looking very kissable at the moment, but it would have been a nice gesture.

Her cat was staring at me with undisguised hostility, back arched and fur standing up. I can take a hint. I put on the rest of my clothes, made Tina's bed, and then headed back home. It was Saturday, so I took a long shower and then put on a big pot of coffee. After the third cup, I started cheering up. I started thinking of reasons why Tina and I were incompatible, and came up with ten off the top of my head. Then I tried to think of good reasons for us to get together, and couldn't think of half that many. I decided it was time to put her out of my mind, and start doing some detecting.

I gathered up all the equipment and supplies I thought I might need, loaded them into my van, and headed south toward San Diego.

The late George Cahn's house turned out to be a modern, sprawling, structure that would probably be described in a real estate listing as a ranch. It was very white and very angular, and had a U- shaped footprint that surrounded a big pool. It wasn't exactly ugly, but it seemed a bit tacky and outdated, like it was trying too hard to be cool. You sort of expected to see Don Johnson leaning against a palm tree, wearing white shoes and Ray-bans.

I parked on the street across from the open front gate and took a closer look. The elaborate landscaping looked neglected, particularly the lawn, which had no doubt been trampled over by hordes of heavy- footed cops. There were leaves and bugs floating in the pool. There weren't any obvious signs that it was a crime scene, just a notice taped to the front door which I couldn't read from the street. I supposed the physical evidence teams had finished up and the yellow tape had been taken down. I wondered if prospective buyers would be aware that the previous owner had been killed inside the house. Probably. In fact, it might increase the asking price.

I climbed over the seat into the back of the van and put on a pair of white coveralls and a light blue cap. Then I parked a little ways farther up the street and walked back, turning up Cahn's driveway with a confident heads-up stride, like I had every right to be there. There didn't seem to be anyone else around, but you never know when someone might be watching from afar. Someone like me, for instance.

There was a long-handled skimmer mounted on brackets near the pool, and I grabbed it and went to work. For ten or fifteen minutes I idly skimmed the pool while I studied the house and surrounding yard and got comfortable with the environment. There was plenty of privacy - the neighboring houses were blocked by tall hedges and by the U- shape of the house itself. Carrying the skimmer, I walked along the inside perimeter of the house, looking for possible ways to get in. The back door was locked, and so was the sliding glass door near the pool. The front door I knew would be locked, and I didn't want to expose myself to the street. I concentrated on the windows. Unfortunately they were the kind that swing open from the top about a foot, and that's it. Nobody opens windows in southern California except maybe to clean them.

No basement windows to wriggle into, no secluded doors with substandard locks. The place might be tacky, but it was secure. As I walked past the sliding glass door a second time, I realized that something hadn't felt quite right when I had tried it. A locked sliding door will generally slide a fraction of an inch before stopping, but this one hadn't budged. I tried it again, giving it a harder yank, and it made a loud popping sound and clattered halfway open. Not locked, just a tight seal.

Startled, I slid it shut again and looked around guiltily. My plan had been to scout out possible points of entry for when I came back under cover of darkness. But plans were made to be changed. I put down the skimmer, popped the door open again, slipped inside, and shut it behind me.

I was standing in a little tiled area which separated the kitchen from the living room. The house was completely silent - no refrigerator or air conditioner sounds to provide the usual background noise. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see that all the exposed surfaces were coated with the bluish-gray smudging of fingerprint powder. Apparently the police had straightened the place up as they investigated, because there was little sign of a violent search.

I took a few deep breaths to settle myself, and then I took a pair of thin plastic gloves out of my pocket and pulled them on. There are several hiding places people use so often that they are almost cliches to those of us in the business of finding things, probably because everyone reads the same novels and watches the same movies. In the kitchen, people hide things inside the stove and refrigerator, and inside canisters of flour and sugar. I opened the fridge and saw that it had been cleaned out so that the food wouldn't spoil. I found a few canisters, but they had already been emptied out.

The pattern continued through the rest of the first floor - every hiding place I checked showed signs of being previously searched. Lamps had been opened, light fixtures had been pulled out to look above the ceiling, toilet tanks had been pried open and checked, cushions had been unzipped or sliced open. I got the distinct impression that I was wasting my time.

While I was performing my fruitless search, I did notice a couple interesting things. The location of the murder, for one thing. In a small first-floor bedroom that appeared to be a guest suite, there was a bed with a blood-covered mattress. Every square inch of hard surface in the room had powder on it, and the smell of forensic chemicals lingered in the air. From the amount of blood, I imagined that the bullet had ripped open an artery, and that George Cahn had "bled out," as the paramedics call it. In any case, he hadn't bought it in the master bedroom - that would help the real estate agents.

The other interesting thing was the photographs. The walls were filled with framed snapshots of Cahn and his friends, most taken right here at his home. The standard pose was Cahn standing with his right arm draped chummily around another person. If it was a man, his hand was on the guy's shoulder, and Cahn wore a serious look. If it was a woman, he had his hand on her ass or cupping her tit, and he had a shit-eating grin on his face. Cahn himself was a well-tanned, bald man of medium height and lean build, with a big nose and a neatly- trimmed gray beard. Not bad looking for a guy in his fifties.

A wild party seemed to be going on at all times - in the background of every picture you could see people frolicking in the pool, crowding into the hot tub, or milling around half-naked in the big living room. There seemed to be more women than men, and the women were all dressed like sluts, if they were dressed at all. Claire's comments about Cahn's party lifestyle certainly seemed to be on target.

I recognized a few of the women as porn actresses, which was no surprise. What did surprise me was that I recognized some of the men as well. It appeared that Cahn's circle of friends extended outside the adult film industry to mainstream Hollywood. Burt Reynolds and George Hamilton were there. Some of the younger men looked familiar as well, but their names didn't come to me. They all looked to be enjoying themselves, and why not? I'm sure I would have enjoyed Cahn's parties too.

I found the stairs and went up to the second floor. Up here the place was less of a mess. It seemed that the police had focused on the first floor. Maybe the killer hadn't tossed the second floor, so the police hadn't bothered with the forensics. They had continued their search, of course. Every room bore the unmistakable signs of a thorough going-over.

The long hall that connected the bedrooms was lined with pictures, but a few of them were missing. Official police souvenirs, or maybe the people in them were considered potential suspects. I spotted a picture of Cahn with his arm around Edward Burke, and I had to laugh. Burke was wearing a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to the waist, and his trademark bushy gray eyebrows looked even more unkempt than usual. The nubile blonde he was with might have been a third of his age. I wondered if Barry Rank knew that his good buddy liked to party with porn stars.

The master bedroom was at the end of the hall, and it was huge. A wall of windows overlooked the pool. The other wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling cabinets made of polished, expensive-looking wood. In the middle of the room was a big, round bed. The ceiling was mirrored and had track lighting that could no doubt be adjusted to suit any mood. I could see where the mirrors and fixtures had been removed and then sloppily replaced by the police search team.

I went over to the windows and looked out. From here Cahn could have kept an eye on the action in the pool and hot tub while he entertained his choice of the female guests. They would have been eager to sleep with him, of course. Oversexed girls in their late teens and early twenties, trying to make it in a competitive business - a powerful producer like Cahn probably had to fight them off with a stick.