Lost Light

resemble a stack of records. The Usher Hotel, now being renovated as luxury apartments as part of the Hollywood core-area redesign and development. I could see the lighted homes rising up on the dark hillsides in Beechwood Canyon and Whitley Heights. I could see the ten-story image of a local basketball legend on the side of an otherwise nondescript office building. Smaller in stature but still covering the side of a building was a Marlboro Man with a drooping cigarette in his mouth, his steely coolness replaced by a symbol of impotence.
    Hollywood was always best viewed at night. It could only hold its mystique in darkness. In sunlight the curtain comes up and the intrigue is gone, replaced by a sense of hidden danger. It was a place of takers and users, of broken sidewalks and dreams. You build a city in the desert, water it with false hopes and false idols, and eventually this is what happens. The desert reclaims it, turns it arid, leaves it barren. Human tumbleweeds drift across its streets, predators hide in the rocks.
    I took the Mulholland exit and crossed over the freeway, then at the split took Woodrow Wilson on up the side of the mountain. My house was dark. The only light I saw when I came through the carport door was the red glow from the answering machine on the kitchen counter. I hit a light switch and then pushed the PLAYBACK button on the phone.
    There were two messages. The first was from Kiz Rider and she had already told me about that. The second was from Lawton Cross. He had held back on me once again. He said he had something, his voice croaking into the phone like static. I pictured his wife holding the phone to his mouth.
    The message had been left two hours before. It was getting late but I called back. The man lived in a chair. What was late to him? I had no idea.
    Danny Cross answered. She must have had caller ID on the phone because her hello was clipped and carried an edge of malice in it. Or was I reading too much into it?
    “Danny, it’s Harry. I’m returning your husband’s call.”
    “He’s asleep.”
    “Can you wake him, please? It sounded important.”
    “I can tell you what he wanted to tell you.”
    “Okay.”
    “He wanted to tell you that when he was working he used to keep copies of his active files. He kept them here in the home office.”
    I didn’t recall seeing an office in the house.
    “Full copies?”
    “I don’t know. He had a filing cabinet and it was full.”
    “Had?”
    “His sitting room is where the office was. I had to move everything out. It’s all in the garage now.”
    I realized I needed to stop the flow of information from her. Too much had already been said on the phone. Paranoia was raising its ugly head again.
    “I’m coming out tonight,” I said.
    “No, it’s too late. I’m going to bed soon.”
    “I’ll be there in half an hour, Danny. Wait up for me.”
    I hung the phone up before she could further dispute my intentions. Without having gone further into the house than the kitchen I turned and left, this time leaving the light on.
    A light rain had begun to fall in the Valley. Oil beaded on the freeway and slowed everybody down. I used all of the half hour and more to get to the house on Melba and shortly after I pulled into the driveway the garage door started to go up. Danny Cross had been watching for me. I got out of the Mercedes and entered the garage.
    It was a two-car garage and it was cluttered with stacked boxes and furniture. There was an old Chevy Malibu with its hood sprung like somebody had been working on the engine and had just lowered the lid without latching it while taking a break. I think I remembered something about Lawton Cross driving a ’60s muscle car as a private vehicle. But there was a thick layer of dust on the car and boxes stacked on its roof. One thing for sure was that he was never going to work on it or drive it again.
    A door that connected to the house opened and Danny stood there in a long bathrobe with a belt knotted tightly around her thin waist. She had the same look of disapproval she always had on her face and that I had become quite used to. It was too bad. She was a beautiful woman. Or had been, at least.
    “Danny,” I said, nodding. “I won’t be long. If you can just point me in -”
    “It’s all over there next to the washing machine. The file cabinets.”
    She pointed to a spot in front of the Malibu where there was a laundry alcove. I walked around the car and found two