Nickel Package

by David Chill

  I yanked the front door open, walked inside and climbed up a flight of uneven stairs before I found apartment 2F and rapped softly. Then I rapped a little harder, and finally I began to pound my fist. It took a minute, but I did hear stirring in the apartment. Eventually, a few footsteps were audible and a sleepy voice came through the door.

  "Yeah?"

  "UPS," I said. "Got a package."

  "Uh, just leave it by the door."

  "Got to sign for it. Only take a second."

  I heard the sound of two deadbolts snapping and then the door opened. I lowered my shoulder and barreled into the apartment. Chucky Flange was in no position to stop me. And unless he was keeping a pistol in his boxers, it was pretty clear he was unarmed.

  "Hey, what the hell?!" he demanded, scooting back.

  "Let's just say our last meeting was insufficient."

  "Hey, man. I got a gun here."

  "Chucky. Look at me. Remember who I am?"

  He blinked. "Yeah."

  "So you know if you pull a gun on me, there's a good chance you'll be dead in two seconds. Just like Mike Black."

  "Who?"

  "Mike Black," I repeated a little testier. "The guy you tried to help in the kidnapping job the other day. At Laputa. The reason the police detained you. You do recall that, right?"

  He nodded and swallowed.

  "Look," I said, "we can do this the easy way and it won't take long. Or we can do it the hard way and you'll end up putting an ice pack on your face. At the very least."

  He thought about this some more before he finally walked over and sat down on a black vinyl-covered kitchen chair. I took that as an invitation to sit down, too. He was a big man, barrel-chested but with some ripples of fat around his gut, and a wide slab of flesh for a face. He had a small mouth and small black eyes. I sat across from him and put my hands on the table.

  "Do you know what I want from you?" I asked.

  "Uh-uh."

  I looked down at his kitchen table. There was a brass ash tray loaded with cigarette butts, a few empty cans of Bud Lite, and a roll of nickels. I had a funny feeling they were there for a specific purpose. When someone wraps their fist around a roll of coins, the hand becomes tighter and less susceptible to an injury, yet their punches can still do considerable damage.

  "You usually carry around a roll of nickels?" I asked.

  "When I need to," he shrugged.

  "Most people use a roll of quarters."

  "Nickels are cheaper."

  "Okay, Chucky. Keep your hands away from the table. And let me explain how this is going to work. Tell me about Mike Black. I want everything. If you're forthcoming, this is the last time you'll ever see me. If not, I'll have you back in LAPD custody. After I mess up your face. No amount of nickels is going to help you. And you know I can deliver on that promise, too."

  Frankly, given Chucky Flange's bulk, I wasn't entirely certain I could deliver. And I was quite sure that the LAPD was done with him. But hefty threats carry with them the appearance of being real, and they have a remarkable way of getting tongues wagging. Chucky Flange began to talk. He told me some of what I already knew. That he met Mike Black at the gym, had assisted him a few times, usually doing nothing more strenuous than to look menacing. And that Mike Black called him on Wednesday, wanting his help in handling a situation. He needed Chucky around to help pick someone up at Laputa.

  "What did he plan to do to me?"

  "He said he needed to send you a message, teach you a lesson. I don't know, something like that. You were causing problems for his client," he shrugged, holding up his palms. "He told me we'd collect you, drive you to this vacant warehouse in Reseda, tie you up and smack you around a bit. Nothing serious. Just get you scared off. He said it would be fun."

  "Smack me around," I repeated. "That your idea of fun?"

  "Hey, I didn't think about it too much, okay? He said he'd pay me $1,000. For half a day's work. I do construction and business is up and down. When you need money, you don't question things."

  "Go on."

  "Yeah, right. He said we'd pick you up in the Laputa garage, load you into the van and take off. I didn't expect things to get crazy."

  "Who was behind all this? Who was the client?"

  "He didn't give a name. Just that they were high up in the entertainment industry. A real heavy hitter, some big-shot executive. Mike thought we might get more work from them. Maybe even get cast in a movie. I think he mentioned BMB. Something to do with production."

  Chapter 14

  The freeways were typically wide open on a Saturday, and today was no different. The drive from Van Nuys down to Playa Vista took 20 minutes. Decades ago, the Marina Freeway had been called the Richard M. Nixon Freeway. That was in the early 1970s. It was a short-lived nomenclature that was hastily changed after Nixon resigned from office. For years, it was simply referred to as the 90 Freeway, but eventually it was renamed after nearby Marina del Rey.

  I turned left on Culver and drove a few minutes toward the Ballona Wetlands. This was a large, undeveloped parcel of marshland, one of the few open areas still left in Los Angeles. After a rainy winter, one could go to the Wetlands and commune with nature. The foliage would be green and lush, and the mustard plants could sprout well past six feet high. The Wetlands are also home to some exotic birds and small, mischievous wildlife. But over the past few winters, California had had little rain and the drought-stricken plants had become withered, bone-dry and gray. Whatever still lived here was not worth looking at. And the wetlands part of the name had clearly become a misnomer.

  The area is normally not open to the public and an 11-mile chain link fence that surrounds the perimeter testifies to that. Even getting a permit to film there takes some doing. But it appears BMB was able to navigate the bureaucracy and greased whatever levers of power needed lubricating. A group of cars and trailers were situated in a remote patch of the Wetlands, with a number of cameras, booms and lighting fixtures set up.

  I parked and walked over to where a gaggle of below-the-line crew were setting up for the next shot. A couple of actors stood nearby chatting, looking familiar, but in the same way as someone I saw every day in my office building might look familiar. I recognized them, but I couldn't place them. It reminded me of the old joke that in L.A. sometimes the guy standing behind you in the Starbucks line with his baseball cap pulled down low, and a three-day beard growth and a vague resemblance to George Clooney was actually George Clooney. I wandered around the set, looking at faces, casually nodding and smiling. If you acted like you belonged, most people had better things to do than question why you were there. After a couple of minutes of strolling, a familiar sight came into view. Naturally she was on her phone.

  I walked up to Patty Muckenthaler and waved my hand to get her attention. She responded by rolling her eyes, mouthing an obscenity and turning her back to me. In a typical situation, I might have given her a few minutes to finish her call. But that insult, coupled with the strong likelihood she might never be finished with her calls, at least not until the director asked for quiet on the set, propelled me to move things along.

  In the world of criminal law, the simple act of touching someone can be considered assault. It is also very intrusive. In the world of the entertainment industry, touching someone's phone can be taken as a deep sign of disrespect. With little to lose, I walked up to Patty. Her back was still turned to me, so I reached over, grabbed her phone and ripped it out of her hand.

  "She'll call you back," I said into the speaker and hung up.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" she screamed.

  "Getting your attention. I think I achieved that."

  "Give me my phone back!"

  "After we finish our conversation, I'll be happy to."

  "We don't have anything more to talk about," Patty snarled. "In fact, I think you said plenty the other day."

  "And I think you haven't said enough. Not anywhere near enough."

  "Like wha
t?" she demanded. "Do you want to grill me some more about Hector Ferris? You really think I have time to run someone over?"

  "No, Lucas Kanter tells me your calendar is quite full," I said, watching carefully to see her react to the name of a key board member.

  "Lucas Kanter?" she asked, slowing down and showing some genuine curiosity. "What are you talking to him about?"

  "We talked about some of your schemes to get ahead. How to climb the corporate ladder by getting rid of everyone ahead of you."

  Patty stared at me. "Just what do you think you know about me?"

  "I know how you've gotten your last few promotions. Threatening lawsuits, charging sexual harassment. Nice way to define your career. But I also know that four people are dead this week and they all connect back to BMB. And maybe to you."

  "Are you nuts? You think I'm actually involved in killing four people? To get ahead?"

  "I don't like to think so. But I've been involved in a nasty trail of human carnage this week. Someone committed these acts. I don't know if it was you. I just need to figure out why you'd stoop to murder. I don't like to think career ambition could lead to this. But then again, this is show biz."

  "I didn't do anything," she insisted.

  "How do you explain Jay Strong?"

  "Jay? What'd you think, I'd tangle with a guy twice my size, wrestle with him and then shoot him? Are you mad?"

  "How do you know someone was wrestling with him?" I asked.

  "Because that's what the police told me, you idiot. I couldn't believe they would question me about Jay. And then Kitty? They're saying her death was made out to be a suicide, but they think someone shot her, too."

  "Who was Kitty having an affair with?"

  "What?" she asked, blinking her eyes.

  "Don't play dumb. She worked for you. You had to have known she and Jay were having marital problems."

  Patty looked away and thought for a moment. A few members of the crew had apparently seen us having an intense discussion and had wandered over. Patty shooed them away.

  "Kitty and I were friends. Yes, I knew she was having problems in her marriage. But I don't exactly follow everyone around. I may have used some leverage to advance my career. Lucas and his big mouth. But that doesn't mean I killed anyone."

  "Who's job were you after this time?"

  "There are some things that are not your concern," she said.

  "Were you the one charging third-person sexual harassment? Seeing someone at work making sexual advances and filing charges?"

  Patty's mouth opened and her stare turned into a glare. "That's an ongoing legal action," she said, looking around and starting to get her bearings again. "And it's way above your pay grade. Unless you're planning to beat that out of me. I hear you're a tough guy. But there are a bunch of tough guys here."

  "You mean a bunch of actors?" I sneered. "They're more concerned with getting the timbre of their voices right."

  "There's a lot of crew here. You want to fight everyone on the set?"

  I looked at her. There was only so much water I was going to get out of this stone. But just then I noticed something on her wrist and became curious.

  "That's a nice watch. Company Christmas gift?"

  Patty blinked for a moment. "As a matter of fact, it was," she said, seemingly relieved I had changed the subject.

  "A Rolex, I imagine."

  "Yes," she said, holding it up to show me. I eyed it carefully and was surprised at a few things. There was no ticking sound. The second hand was sweeping cleanly around the dial. And the date magnifier actually worked and made the number easier to read.

  "This is a real Rolex," I said.

  "Of course it's a real Rolex."

  "I thought BMB gave out knockoffs to employees."

  "Good Lord. I make a seven-figure income. Do you think senior executives are going to wear cheap, fake watches? Yes, most of the employees got knockoffs. The Presidents got the real deal. We don't get nickel-and-dimed at this level."

  That made sense. And it sparked an idea. But I had another question that was nagging at me.

  "Okay. One last question."

  "Make it quick," she said impatiently.

  "When I met you for breakfast this week, you acted like you hadn't heard about what happened to Hector the night before. That was play acting. A senior executive who was unaware their Security Director had been murdered the day before? Even if you hadn't been notified, it was all over the news. Why were you pretending you didn't know?"

  Patty took a breath. "I had just met you. I didn't know what your role was. Nick wouldn't say and Hector wouldn't say. The timing of our meeting was strange. I thought you might have been the one who ran over Hector. And that maybe you were covering your tracks by meeting with me. And I didn't know what you had up your sleeve. I thought maybe I'd be your next victim."

  As ridiculous as that sounded on the face of things, in hindsight there were strands of truth in what she said. Patty's paranoid mind might well have been in overdrive that day. Paranoia is the height of self-centered behavior, and Patty was clearly as egocentric a person as they came. The idea that I might have nothing better to do but go around and kill people was absurd. But I could also see how it might be possible for someone with the sickest of minds to come to that abhorrent conclusion. And someone had, after all, committed cold-blooded murder, dragging Hector Ferris savagely beneath the wheels of their car.

  I gave Patty her phone back and said goodbye. She responded by storming off. If she mouthed an obscenity, she did so with her back turned to me. I returned to my Pathfinder and drove away, and in two minutes the barren Wetlands were nothing more than a faint blip in my rear-view mirror.

  I had a funny feeling the folks at Celestial Productions would be working on Saturday. Descending into the near-empty garage beneath the Century Plaza Towers, I drove my Pathfinder slowly, stopping at each parked vehicle. With the events of the past few days still fresh in my mind, I kept one eye peeled for hidden assailants with sinister intentions. I found myself reaching into my jacket to make sure my backup .38 was still snug in its holster. The police were still hanging onto the one involved in the Mike Black shooting.

  I drove along and looked at the reserved parking spaces. This being a Saturday, many of them were unoccupied, and the names of countless law firms, consulting groups and production companies were listed. Finally I came upon what I was looking for. Celestial Productions had at least a dozen parking spaces, although only two were being used today. One held a BMW 740, slotted in the space listed for Malcolm Taylor. Another held a dark green Ford Explorer, but there was no name listed, only "employee."

  Pulling into a space nearby, I got out and looked at the two vehicles. The BMW looked glossy and perfect, just like any $100,000 car should look, a shiny testament to someone's success. There was something odd about the Ford Explorer, though. The hood appeared to be new, waxed to a shiny gleam. It looked better than the rest of the vehicle. I walked around the front end and saw that the bumper and the grill were brand new as well, polished chrome that looked like they had just been installed.

  The lobby was empty, not surprising for a Saturday. I signed in with the sleepy guard at the desk and rode the elevator up to the 38th floor. As I walked down the hallway, it was so quiet you could hear the hum of the air conditioning. It was almost as if I had entered an isolation tank.

  I opened the Celestial Productions office door quietly and walked in. The door hinges must have been well-oiled, because they made no sound whatsoever. Even pulling the handle down did not give off a discernible click. This was clearly a building where the designers ensured silence would be golden.

  Adam Gee was sitting at his desk, hunched over his computer, reading something that was transfixing him. He was dressed in a gray t-shirt promoting Coachella, and also wore tan shorts and a pair of orange Nikes. In his hand was a venti cup from Starbucks. Judging from the steam rising upward, It looked like he had barely started in on it.

 
; "Nothing like a pick-me-up on a lazy Saturday afternoon," I observed.

  He jumped in surprise, and a bit of latte sloshed onto his desk. "Oh. Mr. Burnside. I wasn't expecting you."

  "I prefer it that way. People don't get to prepare a script."

  "Yes," he stammered. "Of course. You know, Mr. Taylor stepped out for lunch. He'll be back soon."

  "Actually, I'd like to talk with you."

  "Me?"

  "Mmm-hmmm," I said, sitting down next to him. "Maybe start with the vehicles you drive. Then we can talk about the watches you wear."

  He gave me a long, curious gaze. "I thought I told you about all of that. The watch, too. It was a company gift. And I drive a 15 year-old SUV. It belonged to an uncle of mine. He bought a new car last year and gave me his Explorer. What's this all about?"

  "Hold up your wrist," I said.

  He frowned and raised it. I took a good look at his watch. The sweeping second hand, the working magnifier and the silent movement told me it was real.

  I spoke. "You're aware that the Security Director at BMB was murdered earlier this week."

  "Yes, of course. It was all over the news," he said. "Why?"

  "Where were you on Tuesday evening?"

  "I was at an industry gathering that night," he said, frowning. "AFI had a function. I was there until midnight. And I have witnesses."

  "Then explain how come your SUV has a brand new front end. And why you were driving a BMW when you came over to my office the other day. It's all starting to make sense now. What doesn't make any sense is why. Why would you kill Hector Ferris? And where were you the other night when Kitty Strong's husband, Jay, was shot to death at the Malomar?"