Dead and Not So Buried

by James L. Conway

  “Sperm.”

  “Sperm?”

  “Sperm.”

  “Okay, I’m confused.”

  “Unless you’ve been living under a rock,” Hagler said, “you must remember Lisa’s tragic marriage to Hudson King.”

  Hudson King, a movie star in the James Dean mode, had met and married Lisa in a much-publicized whirlwind romance about four years ago, while they were making Night Train to Nowhere together. He died less than a year later.

  “Of course. I’m sorry, Lisa.” A nod accepted my condolences, and I went on: “And the sperm is his?”

  Another nod. “Hudson and I wanted children, but not right away. Then he got diagnosed with colon cancer. The doctors thought he could beat it, but he was going to need chemo and that can make you sterile.”

  I got it. “So he made a few deposits just in case.”

  “The chemo didn’t work. Nothing worked. And even though I lost Hudson, I still have a chance to have his baby.”

  “Someday,” Hagler hastily added. “Maybe in a couple of years, when a maternity leave wouldn’t be so catastrophic to your career.”

  Or your commissions, I thought.

  Lisa said, “I got a call from the sperm bank, CryoZy Laboratories in Beverly Hills, about an hour before the note arrived. They told me they’d been broken into last night and Hudson’s sperm had been stolen.”

  I made a mental note to make sure Mary Rocket sent Ruiz and his dust collectors to the sperm bank, and to take a look at their surveillance cameras.

  Then Lisa asked the million-dollar question. “But this really isn’t about blackmail, is it? I know what happened to Winslow and dear David. I’m next on the Gravesnatcher’s list, aren’t I?

  He wants to kill me.”

  “Let me put it this way. The first ransom was paid, but Winslow was thrown off his balcony. The second ransom was paid, but Hunter was still blown up. There’s every reason to believe the Gravesnatcher wants your money and your life.”

  “In that case, let me be perfectly clear,” Hagler puffed. “Lisa’s not going to die. So fuck the sperm. Fuck the Gravesnatcher. And fuck you. Lisa, darling, this’ll blow over eventually and you can make a triumphant, and well-publicized, return to Hollywood. In the meantime, you’re out of here.”

  “Is Lisa going to run or disappear?” I asked.

  Hagler was confused. “What do you mean?”

  “If she runs—moves to Hawaii or Hong Kong, for that matter—the Gravesnatcher can just get on a plane and go after her. Now if she plans on disappearing—giving up the business, changing her name, surgically altering her face—she’s got a better chance, but no guarantees. Remember, the Gravesnatcher’s now got at least four million dollars in cash at his disposal. And he’s motivated. Lisa’s on his list. I got a feeling he’s not going to give up just because she changes area codes.”

  Hagler started to speak, but Lisa laid a firm hand on her shoulder. “What’re you saying, Gideon?”

  “Your best chance is for me to catch him. I can’t do that unless you and I deliver the ransom.”

  Hagler laughed. “You mean like that Keystone Cops act at Magic Land yesterday?”

  I stiffened. “That wasn’t my fault. The police insisted on following me. This time we’ll do it my way and catch him.”

  Lisa stared out the sliding glass doors at her magnificent backyard. “It’s funny, this is one of those crossroads we encounter once or twice in a lifetime. Pick the right path or suffer ever after.” She sighed. “I’ve often envied the characters I’ve played because they get to make this kind of momentous decision once or twice a movie. But when my characters make a decision it’s dictated by the writer, and the writer knows how the story will end. Who knows how this will end? Who tells me which path to pick?”

  “Me,” I said. “I’m in this, too. My card’s clipped to every one of these ransom notes and, until we’ve caught the Gravesnatcher, I’m not safe either. Say yes and you help both of us. Hell, you may still be able to have Hudson’s baby ...”

  “You have a plan?”

  “Not yet, but I will by tonight.”

  Lisa looked at me, considering, and then made a decision. “Okay, Gideon. I’ll get the money; you get a plan.”

  Plan? Plan? I Don’t Need

  No Stinking Plan

  I’d lied to Lisa. I already had a plan. The problem was, it was illegal. Sort of. Okay, totally, but I was desperate. Instead of fucking around with a police stakeout, a transmitter hidden in the lining of a backpack, or dye-tainted money, I’d decided to end it once and for all. I was going to plant a little surprise with the ransom. A letter bomb.

  I didn’t want to kill him, just incapacitate him long enough to capture him. So as I drove from Brentwood to Sherman Oaks I reviewed how to make a letter bomb—a skill I learned from Stacy when we were married, one that she had learned from the Army while spending three years in green.

  What I didn’t do was call Mary Rocket. I knew the Captain was waiting for the details of Lisa’s ransom demand, but I wasn’t ready to talk to the cops yet. Not when visions of letter bombs were still dancing in my brain.

  I reached my strip mall and pulled into my parking lot. Or tried to. The lot was full—mobbed with TV vans, reporters, and photographers all waiting for some news to show up.

  Me. I was the news. The PI at the center of the Gravesnatcher case. You can’t have your fifteen minutes of fame without a press conference. And mine was waiting for me.

  But I didn’t have time for it. I had to try and figure out who the hell the Gravesnatcher was. Barring that, I had an illegal explosive device to manufacture so I could blow the bastard’s hands off.

  I thought about turning around and heading for my apartment. Too bad everything I needed was in the office. Besides, once the press gets your scent, there’s no escape. So I parked in the JACK IN THE BOX lot across the street, and walked into the lion’s den.

  I heard a “There he is ...” when I was halfway across Ventura Boulevard. They swarmed me.

  The up-and-coming cute blond from Channel 4: “What can you tell us about the Gravesnatcher?”

  The gone-to-seed comb-over from 9: “Who’s next on his list?”

  The bounced-from-one-station-to-the-other silver-haired old pro, now on 7: “Why you, Gideon? What’s he got against you?”

  The ambitious I’ll-do-anything-to-get-to-the-network redhead from 2: “Isn’t it true you’re actually working with the Gravesnatcher?”

  I bulled through them all, climbed the first two steps of the stairway, then turned back to make a statement. “Look, I’d love to help you all, but I can’t. This is an ongoing police investigation and I’m not permitted to comment.”

  “Don’t you have anything to say to the families of those people you shot at Magic Land?” The bitch from Channel 2 again.

  “I didn’t shoot anyone, and if you were doing your job, you’d know that.”

  She smiled, happy. I’d risen to her bait and she had her sound bite for the six o’clock news.

  They shouted more questions at me, but I ignored them, trotted up the stairs and into my office.

  “Vultures,” I said slamming the door.

  “Tell me about it,” Hillary said. She was sitting in front of the file cabinet, a thick pile of folders on her lap, a yellow pad filled with handwritten names next to her. “I’ve been, like, besieged all day. Makes you wonder how the rock stars do it—paparazzi, rabid, clawing fans, naked pictures in the mail. I mean, really, what ever happened to the right of privacy?”

  “Have I gotten any naked pictures?”

  “No. You’ve only been famous for about six minutes. However, fame isn’t without its rewards. It’s given us knowledge. And knowledge is power.”

  “What knowledge is that?”

  “The answering machine can take fifty-three messages before it gets all exhausted and frizzes out.”

  “Fifty-three messages?!”

  “Might have been a hundred and fift
y-three if the machine hadn’t crashed and burned.” She flipped through her notes. “Let’s see, most of the messages are from media types wanting interviews. Could be good for Rear Entry sales ...”

  “Not until the case is over. Then I’ll talk to everyone.”

  “Eighteen people called applying for the secretary job. I figure we better wait to see if the Gravesnatcher kills you first.”

  “Depressing but prudent.”

  “Eleven producers called wanting to buy the rights to your life. I referred them to Elliot. Oh, and some cops were here. They’ve tapped our phones and set up a trace to a substation in North Hollywood. If the Gravesnatcher calls, and we keep him on the line for, like, thirty seconds, they’ll have a location.”

  I didn’t think the Gravesnatcher was stupid enough to stay on the phone for that long, but hey, you’ve got to try everything.

  “And Captain Rocket’s called. Five times. Want me to get her?”

  I needed more time to think before I brought the cops back in. “No, we’ll call her later.” I picked up her yellow pad. Page after page of names. “How you coming on our list of potential suspects?”

  “Well, including everyone in the Rolodex, and about half your files, so far, I’m up to, like, a zillion names. Private investigation is a very people-intensive endeavor.”

  BRRRING.

  The phone rang. Hillary reached for it, then stopped, a funny expression on her face. “That doesn’t sound like our phone.”

  BRRRING.

  Hillary leaned her head toward the phone, listening. “Nope.” She picked it up. “Dial tone.”

  BRRRING.

  It was that same old-fashioned ringtone I’d heard at Magic Land. Hillary and I followed the sound to my desk, to my upper left hand drawer. I opened it and found a cheap Motorola cell phone.

  “When you’d buy that?” Hillary asked.

  “I didn’t.” But I knew who did. I picked up the phone. “The Gravesnatcher, I presume.”

  “I hate that name,” he said in that familiar, condescending voice. “So fucking Hollywood.”

  “You don’t like Hollywood?”

  “Hollywood is a town populated with temporary people making permanent decisions.”

  “Do I sense a little frustration there?”

  “No, my time has come. Now I’m number one on the call sheet.”

  Number one on the call sheet? I wonder if he realized he’d just made his first mistake. Just given me the first real clue as to his identity.

  He switched subjects, asked: “The cops tap your phone yet?”

  I thought about lying but realized that if I was ever going to catch this guy, he had to trust me. “Yeah. Tap and trace. You stay on my phone long enough, they’ll have your location.”

  “I’m not that stupid.”

  I eyed the Motorola. “Apparently not. When did you plant the phone?”“Last night. Last month. Last year. What difference does it make? The news said you had nothing to do with the cops being at Magic Land.”

  “That’s right. The cops and I had a deal I’d go in alone, like you wanted. They broke their word.”

  “Assholes.”

  “And they probably won’t let me go to the Hollywood Bowl without an ‘escort,’ either.”

  “So don’t tell them.”

  “Have to. They know I went to see Lisa. They’ll want to see the ransom note.”

  “Fine, give it to them. Let them think we’re meeting at the Bowl, but you go somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “The L.A. Zoo. Gorilla cages. Same time. And Lisa better be with you.”

  “Why? Let’s leave Lisa out of this. Just you and me, okay?”

  “No.” The line went dead.

  Breadcrumbs Upon

  The Waters

  Roy hung up and smiled. He’d surprised the PI with the hidden cell phone. Kincaid hadn’t liked that, Roy could tell. Well, tough shit. Kincaid had a lot more surprises coming before this was over.

  Roy looked around his one-bedroom Westwood apartment. It was cookie cutter common, one of fifty-eight units in the twenty-five-year-old building. Each with the same tan and white walls, fake fireplace with an electric glowing log, ten by ten bedroom with mirrors on the closet doors to make the room look bigger, tiny kitchen, minuscule bathroom and a view of one of the complex’s brick walls. The walls and countertops were covered with memorabilia. Pictures, mostly, but a few plaques and ribbons. The flotsam and jetsam of his glory years. There were photos of his high school and college productions, as well as photos from most of his TV roles.

  It was the first apartment Roy had looked at when he hit town seven years ago, and he took it instantly. Not because he liked it, because that didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to be here long, just until he landed his first movie or TV series.

  Roy looked at the red plaid living room set he’d bought on sale at Sears the same day he’d rented the apartment. Again, Roy figured he’d only need it for a few weeks and then he’d just leave it when he moved to new digs at the beach. That was seven years ago. He was still stuck in this dump on Kelton Avenue with a red plaid couch and matching love seat. Red plaid, what was he thinking?

  He’d been so sure he would become a star. Never considered any alternative. Never dreamed he’d be fucked over by a writer, a producer, a starlet and a private dick.

  A headline from the L.A. Times screamed at him from the kitchen counter. “Gravesnatcher stalks Hollywood.” The press was making him out to be the bad guy. Hell, he was the good guy. He was the one whose career had been ruined. He was the one that Winslow, Hunter, Lisa, Kincaid and that bastard Jerry Marshall had destroyed. He was the one that deserved retribution.

  And he was getting it. He’d be out of this rattrap in no time with millions of dollars.

  But Kincaid had to keep following the breadcrumbs.

  This part of the plan made Roy nervous. It seemed reckless. Too in your face. Why taunt the son of a bitch? But Roy had a partner, and his partner insisted. And hey, his partner hadn’t been wrong yet.

  Elementary, My Dear Hillary

  “He’s an actor.”

  “Who?”

  “The Gravesnatcher. He just slipped, told me he was number one on the call sheet.”

  “Number one on the what?”

  “Call sheet. A call sheet is used on movie sets every day to announce what time the crew will start filming, which scenes will be shot in what order and what actors are scheduled to work at what times. The star of the show is always listed first.”

  “Ergo, number one on the call sheet. Cool.”

  “Also, an actor pretends to be different people. Which explains his phone statement, ‘I am anyone.’”

  “You are brilliant! Another mystery solved. So I’ll narrow my file search to actors. Have you worked for that many actors?”

  “As clients, no. But I’ve come across hundreds while investigating cases. L.A. may have gotten a handle on the smog, but actors are an epidemic.”

  Hillary sighed. “Hope shattered, she returns to the Everest of files.”

  “Don’t despair just yet. The Gravesnatcher’s left us another clue.” I held up the cell phone.

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Not the arches, loops and whorls kind. He’s too smart for that. But maybe the electronic kind. The phone was on when he planted it. Had to be for it to ring. If he made a call on the phone before sticking it in the drawer, we might get a lead to follow.”

  All I had to do is hit the SEND button. If he hadn’t made a call, nothing would happen. If he had, the number would flash on the small, LED screen as the number was automatically dialed. I pressed SEND.

  A number appeared.

  A number I recognized.

  485-2129. 485 is the LAPD prefix. And I’d worked at the 2129 extension.

  An operator answered and told me what I already knew: “Robbery Homicide, can I help you?”

  “Sorry, wrong number.” I hung up.

  Hillary
said, “You have a really funny look on your face. Like you just saw a ghost or something.”

  “The Gravesnatcher called the LAPD.”

  “That makes, like, no sense.” Then it hit her. “Unless he ... no that’s not possible. He can’t be working with a cop, can he?”

  “The Gravesnatcher hasn’t left a single clue at any crime scene. Makes you wonder, is he really that good or is he working with someone?”

  “I’m not wondering. Why else would he call the cops?”

  Why else indeed. Piccolo was right. Well, partly right. The Gravesnatcher had a partner; it just wasn’t me. Then something hit me. “This isn’t a throw-away phone with pre-paid minutes. This is a Motorola phone with a Verizon logo. Somebody’s paying the bill.”

  We had a contact at Verizon who always needed money to feed a gambling addiction; I scrolled through the menu and found the number. “Hillary, give Robin a call at Verizon, see if he can get a name to go with this number.” I read it to her.

  Hillary didn’t say anything so I looked up. She was standing in my office doorway, staring into the reception room. “Hillary?”

  “He’s out.”

  “Who’s out?”

  “The Gravesnatcher.”

  “Out where? The reception area?”

  “Out in the world.”

  Just once I’d like to have a normal conversation with Hillary. “We already know this, don’t we?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Yes and no?”

  “Yes, we know he’s out in the world, but, like, until right now we didn’t know for sure who he was.”

  “You know who he is?”

  “Everyone knows who he is. Everyone watching TV, I mean.”

  “There’s something on TV about the Gravesnatcher?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  I followed her into the reception room where the TV showed the up-and-coming cute blond from Channel 4 doing a live remote from the front of our building. “To recap: Moments ago the police department released this picture of Jason Tucker...” A mug shot of Jason Tucker appeared on the screen.