You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Kills You by Robert J. Randisi Page B

is a cop snooping around on his own.”
    “Then you do believe me,” I said with relief.
    “I believe something is going on.”
    “So you’ll take that guy Max in?”
    “No,” Stanze said. “You and me are going to make him thinkthat I believe him and not you, and then I’m going to watch him and this place. I also want to talk to Miss Monroe.”
    “That’s not a problem.”
    “Good. Then let’s go downstairs and put on a show for our friend.”

Twenty-five
    W E PULLED UP IN Marilyn’s driveway. Stanze allowed me to go in first and prepare her. He had heard that she was “fragile.”
    I went to the door and rang the bell.
    “Eddie—” she said when she opened it, but I grabbed her shoulders, pushed her inside and closed the door behind us.
    “Marilyn, where’s Jerry?”
    “He’s in the kitchen,” she said, eyes wide. “He made me these fantastic grilled cheese sandwiches. He’s a great cook—”
    “Let’s go in the kitchen.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Tell you in a minute.”
    “Hey, Mr. G.,” Jerry said when we walked in. “You want something to eat?”
    “No, Jerry. Listen up. I’ve got a cop outside. A detective. I checked with the LAPD and they have no record of arresting Danny. Also, he’s not in the morgue. This detective is being very helpful, and he believes what I’m tellin’ him.”
    “Why wouldn’t he, Mr. G.?”
    “I’ll tell you later,” I said. “Right now I think you should goout the back to the guesthouse and stay there. We’ll keep you being here to ourselves, as insurance.”
    The doorbell rang.
    “We need insurance, Mr. G.?” Jerry asked.
    “We might, Jerry. Somethin’s goin’ on. I’ll tell you about it later.”
    “Okay, Mr. G., whatever you say.”
    Jerry went out the back door.
    “Should I let the detective in, Eddie?” Marilyn asked.
    “I’ll get it, Marilyn,” I said. “Listen, you can tell this man the truth, just don’t mention Jerry, okay?”
    “I understand, Eddie. How do I look?”
    “Like a dream.”
    “Oh, Eddie …”
    I went to answer the door.
    Stanze didn’t want it to show, but Marilyn had the same effect on him that she had on all men, especially in person.
    “Miss Monroe, I just need to verify a few things that Mr. Gianelli has told me, and then ask you a few other questions. All right?”
    “Okay.”
    He looked at me. “No offense, but I’d like to do this alone.”
    He didn’t want me coaching her.
    “No problem. I’ll wait in the kitchen. You, uh, want a grilled cheese sandwich, Detective?”
    “No, thanks.”
    I went into the kitchen. The sandwiches had cooled off, but they were still good.
    Marilyn told me later how the interview had gone down …
    “Mr. Gianelli tells me he met you through Dean Martin. Is that true?”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “You’re friends with Mr. Martin?”
    “Yes.”
    “Ma’am, I really don’t mean to offend you, but—”
    “Dino and I are just friends, Detective,” she said. “I do have men in my life who are just friends.”
    “Like Eddie?”
    “Yes,” she said, “exactly like Eddie.”
    “Okay,” he said.
    They went over Marilyn’s problem about her feeling she was being watched. Also, the way she felt about being blamed for Clark Gable’s death.
    “Well, that’s just silly,” Stanze said. “I read about him doing his own stunts. He was too old to be doing that stuff.”
    “I know,” she said. “We tried to tell him …”
    “We?”
    “Me and Kay, his wife.”
    “I see. Now, Mr. Gianelli tells me you never saw his friend? Danny?”
    “No, sir. I guess he was very good at his job.”
    “Um, yeah … have you seen anyone watching your house lately?”
    “No.”
    “Following you?”
    “I haven’t been out in days.”
    “Why not?”
    She shrugged. “I guess I don’t want to be followed.”
    “So you feel if you go out someone will follow you?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you don’t mean, like, photographers?”
    “Oh, no. They’re always there. No, I mean