In the end she was able to restore the position of Iwata’s nasal bones, telling him that this would allow for proper healing. He left with his nose bandaged, the bruises under his eyes already turning blue.
Iwata arrived back at his apartment at 2 p.m. He was too wired for rest, his mind going over the pieces. Meredith, Talky, Geneviève, Mara, John Smith. Two were dead, one was missing, one in danger.
Iwata couldn’t prove that the man who had attacked him was the murderer but he had been in Geneviève’s house. He had Mara’s driver’s licence. If it wasn’t the murderer, then what was he doing there? Iwata had too many questions for a head too full of agonies.
Rubbing his sore eyes, he typed the name ‘Mara Zambrano’ into MARPLE. Eleven names appeared, but only one matched the exact name. But that woman was in her mid-fifties and lived in Nevada. There was a Maya Zambrano, there was a Mayra Zambrano and there were eight Maria Zambranos. Only two were in the right age range and neither of them lived in California. If it was her real name, MARPLE was telling him Mara was a ghost. Yet he’d seen her at Noir. Heard her laughter. Felt her hand. Smelled her.
Iwata typed in the address from her driver’s licence. It corresponded to a real road but a bogus house number and zip code. Could it be a fake licence? Iwata tapped it against his lips in thought. Mara. Mara. Mara. Who are you?
From the Santa Monica Freeway, Iwata could see Vermont Avenue, home to the city’s Salvadoran diaspora. A quarter of the country had fled the civil war in the eighties, many arriving in LA. Since then, Vermont had become a long corridor of strife and redemption, home to whole generations with stories to tell. But to many Angelenos today, Vermont Avenue just meant good pupusas.
Iwata overtook an orange-and-grey bus. Rush hour had no clearly defined shape or schedule. Down at street level, he saw Spanglish signs advertising cleaning, childcare and income-tax services. An entire life could be lived out in Los Angeles without a word of English: slimming classes in Spanish, Ponzi schemes in Pashto, Tarot readings in Tagalog. There were a million Mitsuwas, havens where the mother tongue could be heard and compatriots conversed with. This city was a never-ending jacket of innumerable pockets, pockets that contained foreign cultures to slip into and forget the outside, forget America, whatever that was meant to be.
Iwata exited the freeway and headed south through arid hills and factories. In the shimmering distance oil derricks pecked at the land like drunken vultures. As he drove he felt the blows from last night hardening into bruises, the pain embedded deep in the muscle. The cool air rushing through the windows was pleasant against his busted nose, his closing eye.
At a red light he relived the sensation of being smothered by the cushion, the closeness to death. In that surreal haze he remembered that his attacker had said something. Iwata tried to distil it, closing his eyes. The driver behind hit his horn and the word became clear.
He said, ‘Sorry.’ The man had said, ‘Sorry.’
‘You’re the one that killed Meredith,’ Iwata whispered.
He turned on to Sepulveda, then Slauson, then Bristol Parkway, finally stopping outside a business park on Green Valley Circle. Iwata got out, crossed the parking lot, and entered Suite G. Inside there was a sleek reception of dark wood surfaces, neutral carpets and black ceramic figurines. There were gold letters on the wall:
Fox Hills Feminization – The Real You
Dr Aidan Van Coeszvelt, MD, FACS
Iwata walked in with one aubergine-coloured eye and a nose guard that gave him the look of a graceless bird, but the receptionist beamed at him like he was all tuxes and roses.
‘I need to speak with Dr Van Coeszvelt.’ He flashed his ID.
‘Oh. I’ll check if he’s available.’
A minute later Dr Van Coeszvelt emerged. He was a tall man – balding, with small eyes and large spectacles perched on a long, pink nose. He spoke in low tones with the receptionist, his eyes on her breasts. Pretending not to notice, she pointed at Iwata, who stood now.
‘Dr Van Coeszvelt.’ They shook hands. ‘A pleasure. I’m Inspector Iwata.’
Though the man smiled with the control of a surgeon, Iwata also saw concern in his brow. People tended not to like the word ‘inspector’.
‘Inspector …?’
‘Iwata.’ Again he showed his ID.
‘What’s this about?’
‘A client of yours.’
‘Will this take long?’
‘Shouldn’t take more than a minute.’
Van Coeszvelt led the way into a lavish side office and offered Iwata a seat. His tone was warm enough but it was clear he was unaccustomed to being the one without the answers in this room.
‘So.’ He linked his fingers on the bureau. ‘How can I help you?’
‘First, could you tell me a little bit about your practice?’
Van Coeszvelt sat back in his chair. He liked this territory. ‘We offer an extensive range of cosmetic-surgery procedures across the male-to-female panorama while avoiding cookie-cutter outcomes. Ultimately, we deliver bespoke results to bring forth the client’s most feminine beauty.’
Iwata nodded. It was a nice pitch. ‘Procedures – could you give me specifics?’
‘Breast augmentation, chin reduction, fillers and injectables, tracheal shave, endocrinology – everything the client needs.’
‘And Geneviève Darlington. A patient of yours, correct?’
‘The name doesn’t ring a bell.’
Iwata brought up the photo of Geneviève’s credit-card statement on his phone. The surgeon peered at it. ‘Then I suppose she is a client. Though I wouldn’t be able to disclose any personal information, of course.’
‘She’s missing.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Now I suppose I know why you’re here …’
‘Did she ever mention anyone or anything, even in passing, that gave you concern for her wellbeing?’
‘We only ever discussed medical matters.’
‘So you do remember her, then?’
‘You jogged my memory.’ The surgeon glanced sharply down to his watch. ‘Now, I’m sorry, but I do have an appointment coming up.’
‘Last question. Did you know Meredith Nichol?’ Iwata took out the photograph of her.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Van Coeszvelt answered coolly, but Iwata caught the twitch in his face.
‘She was murdered, Doctor.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘It doesn’t jog your memory?’
‘I’ve answered your questions. You’ll appreciate I have work.’
Iwata stood. On the way out he paid particular attention to the locks and security.
That afternoon Iwata watched the business park from across the road. As he listened to the radio he thought about the ocean and the man that had photographed Meredith and Geneviève against it. Did he live there? Did he rise in the mornings marvelling at his view? Did he buy the house for it? Did seawater run in his veins? Was that why he had to be close to the waves?
Iwata imagined John Smith taking the photographs. On the one hand, it wouldn’t make much sense for him to be advertising the sexual services of his murder victims. On the other, perhaps it gave him some kind of kick. Posing as a photographer would also be a good pretext to get his victims into his home. Either way, if Iwata could find that ocean view, he’d find answers.
It was gone 6 p.m. when the receptionist and Van Coeszvelt left the building. Over the sharp tips of the ghost pines the sunset was melted neapolitan. A security guard made an uninterested loop around the grounds every twenty minutes or so. Iwata opened his glovebox and shuffled through his collection of expired IDs and lanyards he’d bought from flea markets, all of them belonging to Asian men of varying ages and professions. Nobody ever scrutinized the photograph itself too much and he was always ready to palm them off with a joke about weight loss or going grey. The crucial thing was the lanyard itself. People wanted to believe Iwata had a reason to be there. Wanted to believe that he was legit
imate. It was an easier world to live in.
Iwata picked some techie that had been made redundant, looped it around his neck and got out of the Bronco. From the trunk, he took out his more heavy-duty lock picks.
Ninety minutes later, Iwata was back in his office, going over Van Coeszvelt’s records. It didn’t take long to see that the surgeon had lied – Meredith had been his client. The pages showed that she’d had regular blood work to ensure her hormones weren’t putting her in any danger. Her anti-androgen had been causing a slightly increased level of potassium in her body, which increased the risk of heart attack
Since then, Meredith had undergone breast-implant procedures and consulted with Van Coeszvelt over sex realignment. There had also been minor rhinoplasty and a lip lift noted in her records. But Meredith’s last appointment had been over a year ago.
Why lie about her? He tried to picture the surgeon being John Smith. But it didn’t stick. Van Coeszvelt was too tall for the man he had fought with, his voice all wrong, his posture off. Then again, there was a murder victim and a missing person sitting in his filing cabinet. Two trans women, two patients, two employees, two friends. Iwata supposed those kinds of connections were worth lying about.
In financial matters there were further oddities. Both Meredith and Geneviève had been billed by the clinic, but the paperwork showed they weren’t the ones paying. Nor, seemingly, was any individual. Instead, an entity was settling the bill: Grupo Valle Dorado.
Iwata learned it was a real-estate investment fund, its glossy little website full of smiling stock models and shiny new homes but no addresses, no names, no official business registration number. Why the hell would an investment fund in Mexico be paying for Meredith’s and Geneviève’s procedures?
Iwata span in his chair and looked out of the window. The Best of Luck was gone today.
‘Where are you when I need you?’
He picked up the sex catalogue Mingo had given him and left the office.
It was 11 p.m. After touring every sex shop in Hollywood, Iwata stopped in a small, dull lot on Vanowen. Hollywood Zest was above a cheque-casher and a chicken rotisserie, its windows blacked out. On the door, there were two words:
ADULTS ONLY
An electronic chime resounded as Iwata entered, as though a game were beginning. The shop was much bigger than was apparent from the outside. It smelled of artificial citrus and used socks. The shelves were stacked with dusty DVDs, a zoo of colour, flesh, penchants. Each shelf was ordered according to genre: creampies, bondage, amateur, squirting, gangbangs … on and on it went. An inflatable sex doll in the corner was wearing a T-shirt that read:
YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE CRAZY
TO WORK HERE BUT IT HELPS
For some reason John Mellencamp’s ‘Jack & Diane’ was playing.
There were four customers but the shop still felt empty. They all kept their eyes on the porn and off each other. The small man behind the counter gave Iwata a brief nod – welcome, pervert. He was bearded and seemed tired, a young Kubrick lookalike wearing a teriyaki-stained ‘This Guy Needs a Beer’ T-shirt. The book in his hands was Getting Things Done: The Art of Stress-free Productivity, a middle finger bulging a nostril as he read.
‘Welcome to Hollywood Zest,’ he droned. ‘We’ve got a promotion going. Any six movies for four.’
‘I’m looking for something else.’
‘Speciality stuff is through that purple drape.’
Iwata placed the sex catalogue on the counter. Kubrick looked at it like it was a dead fish. ‘You’re in the wrong place, Jack.’
‘If you know the wrong place from the right place’ – Iwata placed a fifty-dollar bill next to the catalogue – ‘then you can help point me in the right direction.’
Kubrick chewed his lips for a moment, then picked up the money. ‘Follow me.’
The back room was wall to wall with metal shelves supporting cardboard boxes of DVDs, sex toys, lubricants, butt plugs, whips, tingle-inducing liquids. Posters of nineties porn stars lined the walls, broken price-tag guns and bottles of air freshener were strewn about the floor.
‘I can give you five minutes, or until a customer is ready to pay.’ He nodded at the CCTV screen. ‘Whichever comes first.’
Iwata nodded.
‘You wanna know what that thing is.’ Kubrick jutted his chin at the catalogue. ‘And you already figured it’s not the regular kind, huh?’
‘It has no contact information, no names, no back matter or legal stuff.’
‘Think of it like an artist who wants to paint family portraits for the wealthy. He needs somewhere to advertise, right?’
‘Advertise what?’
‘Content on commission – movies or images.’
‘So why hide that in some catalogue?’
‘Okay, let’s take the zeroes that come in here every day. They’re dinosaurs. Maybe they’re technophobes, maybe their probation doesn’t allow an internet connection. Whatever, point is, they don’t get we live in a porno Promised Land, Jack.’
‘I don’t follow.’
Kubrick picked up a green rubber cock and waggled it around as he spoke. ‘Half the world is pleasuring itself to tits and ass online, right? So what does that lead to?’
‘Blindness?’
‘Normalization. Thirty years ago half the adult male population of middle America didn’t know what the fuck an orgasm was. Now ten-year-olds know what ass-to-mouth is. So what do you think that leads to? It leads to people needing bigger, badder, harder to get off. And that leads to a market for niche content.’
‘Hasn’t that always been there? You’ve got a room behind a purple drape right here.’
‘I’m talking stuff you can’t buy legally. People being hurt. And I mean hurt. Real people being abused. Kids. Animals. People dying of fucking cancer. Trust me, amigo. It’s easier not to know you live in a world where hospice fetishes exist. Take my word for it, anything you think people can’t whack off to? You’re dead wrong.’
‘That still doesn’t answer my question about the catalogue. And why go through print? Why not online?’
‘The internet used to be the Wild West. But more and more these days it’s getting to be a tricky racket.’ Kubrick nodded at the catalogue. ‘These folks are going retro to stay under the radar. There’s no information in there other than phone numbers and bodies, right? That’s no accident. Encrypted communications lead to product agreement. Let’s say I want a transvestite to be tied up to a palm tree, whipped with belts by Cuban midgets, and I want her to use my Christian name as she looks to camera. Once that’s thrashed out, money is transferred abroad to a dummy account and the movie gets made absolutely to specification. Everyone gets off or gets paid, everyone walks away.’
Iwata flipped to pages fourteen and eighteen. ‘I need specifics – these two girls. I need to know who photographed them.’
Kubrick peered at them. ‘Easy enough. That’s Nova’s work.’
‘Who?’
‘Nova Entertainment. One of the more respected names. Boutique stuff. High-end commissions from clients with tendencies that run to … let’s say the exotic. Exotic prices too.’
‘So he advertises the girls he’s working with in this and the commissions come in?’
‘Exactamundo.’
‘Does the client only ever want movies?’
‘Sometimes images. Sometimes they even want to meet the girl or the boy in question.’
‘Who owns Nova Entertainment?’
‘No idea. That’s the point. Neither do the clients. It’s not a cake-decoration business.’
Iwata thought about this. ‘Do you have any other copies of this catalogue?’
Kubrick shrugged. ‘You’re free to look around.’ He glanced up at the CCTV screen. A bookish man wearing sunglasses had just come up to the counter. ‘Break’s over, Jack.’ He tossed Iwata the rubber cock. ‘Hope you find your happy ending.’
By midnight, Iwata was back in his apartment. Before leaving Ho
llywood Zest he had found more nameless sex catalogues going back a few years, all of them featuring Nova’s work. And on those pages he had found a connection: three more trans women – all of them in the box of missing persons Kate Floccari had given him.
Iwata cross-checked them with the files he had copied from Fox Hills Feminization. Another connection: all of the three missing women were also past clients of Van Coeszvelt. Again, their bills were all paid for by the Mexican investment fund Valle Dorado.
‘A surgery, a Mexican investment fund and a sex-salesman photographer,’ Iwata
looked at his plant. ‘Any ideas?’
MARPLE told him Nova Entertainment was a small business connected to an address in Beverly Hills and registered to one Benedict Novacek.
Iwata did not know if he was John Smith. He did not know if he was the man that had tried to kill him the other night. But whoever he was, Benedict Novacek was connected to a lot of missing women. One, at least, was dead.
Porno Kubrick had said Nova was not in the cake-decoration business and Iwata found it unlikely he would be forthcoming. Iwata unlocked the bottom drawer of his bureau and took out the gun. It had no bullets but it looked the part.
Sunset Boulevard was a never-ending serpent known for its scales of neon, its alleyways like venom glands, its diet strictly composed of dreamers and wannabes. This far west, however, Sunset was a pampered domesticated pet – all old-world mansions and pruned hedges, strip clubs replaced by country clubs, the wannabes replaced by those who wanted for nothing. Tudor manors had tennis courts, French Regency villas were gussied up with infinity pools – everywhere Iwata looked he saw the aping of long-dead epochs.
Delfern Drive was a quiet, silk-stocking street of loud hedges and missionary-style houses the size of holiday resorts. The only sound was the whistling of Mexican gardeners mixing in with the birdsong. At the top of the street Iwata stopped outside a large Craftsman home surrounded by white walls and Jeffrey pines. He got out and buzzed the intercom.
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