Grave Endings Read Online Free PDF

flat-panel computer screen, I began entering
Crime Sheet
data. I inherited the column four years ago from Amy Brod, a friend from a UCLA journalism extension course who suggested me as her replacement when she moved to the L.A.
Times.
Amy had warned that the data entering was mindnumbingly tedious, but two years of writing newsletters and brochures for corporations and fund-raising organizations had inured me to “boring,” and I’d had only modest success placing feature articles in magazines and local papers, including the
Times.
A weekly byline, I’d hoped, would give me exposure and credibility and a toe in the larger media door, along with access to detectives who could help me research the true-crime book I’d begun writing. Like my grandmother, I’ve always been fascinated and repelled by crime and criminals, real and fictional. Aggie’s murder had intensified my need for answers—not just the
who,
but the
why.
    Amy was right about the data entering, particularly since my editor, George, discourages ironic commentary. But overall, the job is great. It’s been a window on the complex, layered identity of the city I love and from which Orthodox Judaism has insulated me most of my life. If you’re Orthodox, you tend to live in close-knit communities that provide the necessities: Orthodox private schools; kosher markets, butchers, and bakeries; a ritual bath; synagogues within walking distance. Until I strayed from Orthodox observance in my early twenties, most of my friends—many of whom I’d known since elementary school—were Orthodox, too.
    I also enjoy the camaraderie with many of the detectives I’ve come to know, and I still feel a thrill of anticipation when I step into a police station. The crimes I report are mostly repetitive and often mundane, but there are invariably entries that pique my interest. A few have taken me in unexpected directions in the quest for truth, and one, on a dark journey that almost cost me my life and still has me shaking when I allow myself to think about it.
    Today, though, my mind was on Creeley. The only crime that mattered to me was Aggie’s murder; the only truth, Creeley’s involvement. After an hour during which I found myself rereading the same crime data three or four times and making more typos than sense, I phoned Connors. He wasn’t in. I had no intention of contacting Porter, who probably wouldn’t take my call anyway. So I went online.
    My mailbox was cluttered with the usual variety of enticing offers: Russian mail-order brides; Viagra and other prescription drugs that you can get cheaper anywhere in the world than in this country (which, as you probably know, spends all the research and development dollars for said pharmaceuticals); fast-track college diplomas; enhancements for male genitalia (“Ladies, your man needs this bad!”); septic tank repair; “Bikini Zone” No Diets; tips to help stop annoying pop-ups; search engine secrets; LOWEST MORTGAGES IN 35 YEARS!; new technology that will enable you to find anyone (with the exception of the person sending you this offer); frightening, sordid, and pathetic invitations to engage in teen sex.
    When I’m particularly offended, or when I have writer’s block or am procrastinating, I report spam to my Internet service provider (ISP), which promises to block future posts from the offenders. But the ingenious, friendly folks who send spam seem to have all the time in the world along with an endless supply of e-mail addresses, and I’m pretty certain that my missives to my ISP end up in a virtual circular file. So most of the time, I press DELETE.
    That’s what I did now. Then I logged on to Google, a search engine that more than makes up for the spam, and typed, “Roland Creeley in Los Angeles, California.”
Creeley
is an unusual name—a plus for me—and there were only two hits: One was on Goldwyn Terrace, the