LaBrava Read Free Page B

she was gonna play this society woman.”
    “Jeanie—”
    “Yeah, very good-looking girl, lot of class. She married a guy—not long after that she married a guy she met down here. Lawyer, very wealthy, use to represent some of the big hotels. They had a house on Pine Tree Drive, I mean a mansion, faced the Eden Roc across Indian Creek. You know where I mean? Right in there, by Arthur Godfrey Road. Then Jerry, Jerry Breen was the guy’s name, had some trouble with the IRS, had to sell the place. I don’t know if it was tax fraud or what. He didn’t go to jail, anything like that, but it cost him, I’ll tell you. He died about oh, ten years ago. Yeah, Jeanie was a movie actress. They got married she retired, gave it up.”
    “What was her name before?”
    “Just lately I got a feeling something funny’s going on. She call me last week, start talking about she’s got some kind of problem, then changes the subject. I don’t know if she means with the booze or what.”
    “You say she was a movie actress.”
    “She was a star. You see her on TV once in a while, they show the old movies.”
    “Her name Jeanie or Jean?”
    “Jean. Jean—the hell was her name? You believe it? I’m used to thinking of her as Jeanie Breen.” Maurice pointed. “Atlantic Boulevard. See it? Mile and a half. You better get over.” Maurice rolled his window down.
    “Jean Simmons?”
    “Naw, not Jean Simmons.” Maurice was half-turned now, watching for cars coming up in the inside lane. “I’ll tell you when.”
    “Gene Tierney?” Laura . He’d watched it on television in Bess Truman’s living room. “How’s she spell her name?”
    “Jean. How do you spell Jean? J-e-a-n.”
    Jean Harlow was dead. LaBrava looked at the rearview mirror, watched headlights lagging behind, in no hurry. “Jeanne Crain?”
    “Naw, not Jeanne Crain. Get ready,” Maurice said. “Not after this car but the one after it, I think you can make it.”

3
----
     
    THEY PARKED IN THE REAR and walked around to the front of the one-story building on Northeast Fourth Street, Delray Beach. From the outside the place reminded LaBrava of a dental clinic: stucco and darkwood trim, low-cost construction; a surface that appeared to be solid but would not stop a bullet. A laminated door that would not stop much of anything. LaBrava, former guardian of presidents and people in high places, automatically studying, making an appraisal. Oh, man, but tired of it. In an orange glow of light they read the three-by-five card taped to the door.
     

    CRISIS CENTER
South County Mental Health
EMERGENCY SCREENING SERVICE
     
    They had to ring the bell and wait, Maurice sighing with impatience, until a girl about twenty-one with long blond hair opened the door and Maurice said, “I come to get Mrs. Breen.”
    “You’re Mr. Zola, right? Hi, I’m Pam.”
    She locked the door again and they followed her—broad hips compacted within tight jeans—through an empty waiting room and hallway, LaBrava looking around and judging this place, at the low end of institutional decor. He had never seen so many stains and burns. Like people came in here to throw up or set the place on fire with cigarettes. There were cracks and broken holes in the dull-yellow drywall, fist marks. He could see people trying to punch their way out. They came to a doorway, the room inside was dark.
    “She’s in here. Asleep.”
    Maurice stuck his head in. “She’s on the floor.”
    “There’s a mattress,” Pam said. “She’s fine, didn’t give us a bit of trouble. The cops that brought her in described her condition as staggering, speech slurred, I guess she didn’t know where she was.”
    Maurice said, “Was there a problem, a disturbance of any kind?”
    “Well, not really. I mean there’s no charge against her. She was walking down the street with a drink in her hand.”
    Maurice frowned. “A drink? Outside?”
    “They said she came out of a bar, on Palmetto. They saw her on the