Montecito Heights

by Colin Campbell

  Rampart Police Station was just over a mile away along West Sixth toward the city. Everybody referred to it as New Rampart because it was brand new and clean as a whistle. The building was a long, low single-story cement structure with a half-dozen slitted blue windows on one side and a bank of mirrored glass at the other. It looked like Hitler’s bunker apart from the terra-cotta vertical feature and the curved glass wall beside the front doors. Individual silver letters spelled out

  LOS ANGELES POLICE DEPARTMENT RAMPART STATION

  along the front wall. A tarmac visitors’ parking lot nestled out front between an expanse of sprinklered lawns and flower borders. A well-established tree that must have been there long before the station provided shade to the entrance driveway.

  The Crown Vic didn’t use the entrance driveway, turning instead into the rear parking lot and prisoner reception area. The van bay doors stood open, having recently ingested the hayseed bank robbers. The Crown Vic parked in the far corner near the red and white communications tower. The taller detective let Grant out the back door and stretched his legs.

  “Thanks.”

  “Welcome to Dodge.”

  “You want me to tell you what happened?”

  “We know what happened. But, yeah, in your own words. Not out here though. In the office. I’m Bob Snow. My partner’s Richard Wadd.”

  “You serious?”

  Wadd shrugged his shoulders. “Go at it. I’ve heard all the Dick Wad jokes already.”

  “At least nobody’ll forget you. I’m Jim Grant.”

  Snow nodded. “The Resurrection Man. Nobody’ll forget you either, not even in that crazy disguise you’re wearing. Orange jacket your favorite, is it?”

  “Was. Last one got a bit torn up. This one’s summer weight.”

  “Let’s go in and get some coffee. Oh, hang on. You Brits drink tea, right?”

  The trio crossed the parking lot into the van bay, leaving the sunshine behind. The heavy metal door in the side wall buzzed open. Five minutes later they were through the custody area and entering the detective bureau. Just like the CID office back home.

  Grant smiled. It felt good to be in a police station again.

  Remembering that Americans couldn’t make a decent cup of tea, Grant settled for milky coffee with lots of sugar. He sat at one of the spare desks in front of the LAPD divisional map. Except they weren’t called divisions; in LA, they were called bureaus.

  The two bureaus across the middle of Los Angeles were the West Bureau, covering Wilshire and Hollywood, and the Central Bureau, which covered the east, including Rampart, even though it was just out of town to the west. Grant leaned back in his chair and took a sip of coffee. It was too hot, so he put it on the desk and surveyed the office. Rampart might be a new building, but the office furniture had obviously been carried over from the old place. The desks were dented and careworn. The filing cabinets looked a little newer. The swivel chair that Grant was sitting in creaked when he turned around. One of the wheels was bent and squeaked when it rolled.

  “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  Snow looked up from copying notes out of his book. “I’ve heard about you English. Sarcasm drips from every word.”

  “I prefer ‘dry sense of humor.’ ”

  “Ironic, seeing as how we’re in the dry season.”

  “I’ve heard Americans don’t understand irony.”

  “I didn’t say I understood it. Looked it up once though.”

  Grant tried his coffee again. It was still too hot. “What I’m getting at is, since they built a new station, you’d think they’d freshen up the desks for you.”

  Snow closed his notebook. “The new station isn’t for us. It’s for the populace. Looks good on the street. In here—where we live—they couldn’t give a fuck.”

  “Modern policing. Same the world over.”

  “You’re not going to give me that ‘shit rolls downhill and cops live in the valley’ thing, are you?”

  “You heard about that?”

  “I checked up on you.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Something very strange.”

  “That’s me, all right.”

  Snow picked his coffee up and came over to Grant’s desk. He leaned against the wall map and looked down at the man in the orange windcheater. Steam drifted up from his mug. Snow didn’t seem to mind. He took a deep swig of hot black liquid and didn’t even wince. Maybe this was part of the pissing contest all new arrivals had to suffer.

  Snow kept his tone friendly. “Officially you’re not with the West Yorkshire Police anymore.”

  “Officially and factually. I was allowed to transfer.”

  “To the BPD.”

  Grant nodded. “Boston, Massachusetts, not Boston, Lincolnshire.”

  “So what are you doing out here?”

  “At the bank? Getting cash out of the ATM.”

  “In LA.”

  “I love the movies. I’m on vacation.”

  Snow looked skeptical. He took another deep swig of coffee before speaking. “Because if you’re here on official business, the courtesy is to let the local po-lice know what you’re doing.”

  Grant smiled at Snow’s impression of the Boston pronunciation of police. He reckoned it was intended as a put down of the northeastern force. He was sure the BPD had similar views of the LAPD.

  “No official business. Just taking in the sights.”

  Snow nodded at the sheets of paper on Grant’s desk. “You finished your statement?”

  Grant swiveled in his chair and shuffled the five-page statement into a neat pile. “Signed and dated.”

  “Handwritten. I’d have thought you’d prefer to type it.”

  Grant threw Snow a sideways glance. It looked like the detective really had been checking up on him. His official army record showed him as being a typist.

  “Back home—in Yorkshire—we prefer witness statements to be handwritten. Less chance of being accused of coaching. Just their own words.” Grant smiled. “You’ve got typists, haven’t you?”

  Snow ignored the question and tapped the map behind him. “ATM at the bank—you want to keep your eyes open. LA’s the bank robbery capital of the world. Over five thousand this year already.”

  “I hope they’re not all as stupid as these two.”

  “Some are, some aren’t, but they’re all armed and dangerous.”

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  “Those were impressive moves you put on them.”

  “Thanks. I got lucky.”

  Nobody in the room believed that. Snow reverted to his previous subject. “Not here on official business then?”

  “That’s right.”

  “’Cause I’m getting a vibe here suggesting something else.”

  “You’re a gut instinct kind of cop, huh?”

  “I am.”

  “Best kind, in my opinion.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But there’s nothing for you to worry about. Just something I’m looking into for a friend.”

  “Anyone I’d know?”

  “It’s a small world. Never can tell.” Grant stood up and handed the statement to Snow. “We finished here?”

  Snow glanced at the first page. He didn’t appear to be worried about the content. The CCTV and witnesses at the scene had cleared Grant of any involvement other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time—the right time, as it turned out.

  The detective waved toward his partner. “Need a ride? Dickwad’ll drop you off if you like.”

  Grant smiled. Nicknames were incredibly personal among cops and only shared with trusted colleagues. Being included in that circle meant a lot to him. If Snow was a gut instinct kind of cop, then his instincts had given Grant the all clear.

  Grant shook his head
. “No, thanks, I prefer public transport. Get a better feeling of where I am.”

  “No direct route to your hotel from here.”

  “The Mayfair’s walking distance. Bottom of Witmer, just over there.” Grant indicated one block east and down the hill. “But I’m going up to Hollywood. Check out the Walk of Fame.”

  “Metro’s back at MacArthur Park.”

  “I know. Walk’ll do me good.”

  “This is Los Angeles. Walking’s considered eccentric. You walk too much and you’ll get a name for yourself.”

  “Already got one, it seems.”

  “Resurrection Man. Yeah, that’s gonna stick.”

  Grant finished his coffee and set the empty mug on the desk. “Back in Bradford there’s a guy who walks everywhere in a monk’s robe and sandals. Weird fuck. I get like him, I’ll start worrying. Thanks for the drink.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll show you out.”

  Wadd looked up from his work and waved a hand in farewell. Grant waved back. Snow led Grant through a maze of corridors, bypassing the custody area, until they reached the reception counter. The curved glass wall let sunshine fill the room.

  Grant paused at the front door. “One thing you could do for me.”

  Snow held the door open and waited. Most people would be suspicious of what favor they were about to be asked, but the detective appeared indifferent. “What’s that?”

  “Do you have any contacts in the movie industry? You know, who might have info about film companies and stuff?”

  “You want an audition?”

  “No. Just interested, is all.”

  “Not official business, though, right?”

  “Right.”

  Snow took out his cell phone and began scrolling through the phonebook. When he found the one he wanted, he wrote it in his notebook and tore the page out. “Chuck Tanburro. Ex-LAPD. Works on CSI: NY.”

  “In New York?”

  “In LA. Better weather. Tell him I sent you.”

  “Thanks.”

  They didn’t shake hands, simply held one up in farewell. A familiar cop gesture. Grant stepped out into the sunshine and walked down the driveway. Once he was beyond the shady tree, he turned right, back along West Sixth.

  SEVEN

  The naked women and erect penises didn’t stand out from all the other naked women and erect penises on display at Amoeba Music on Sunset Boulevard. The gaudy, colorful DVD sleeve didn’t stand out either. Thankfully, Amoeba Music displayed its adult titles in alphabetical order. The Hunt for Pink October was filed under H, not T—standard practice for movie listings that treated the as a non-word when it came to titles.

  Grant picked the empty case up and scanned the cover. Senator Richards had been right, you couldn’t identify his daughter from the photo on the sleeve, but Grant recognized her from the clip he’d watched earlier. Pierced nipples. Small, firm breasts. A row of tattooed stars on either side of her crotch. Yes, that was definitely her. He turned the case over and read the back of the sleeve. The synopsis was the same. The cast names he couldn’t remember. The lettering was so small he had to run his fingers across the production details until he found what he wanted. The film company was called Zed Productions, with an address in Long Beach. There was no telephone number. That didn’t surprise him. He doubted there’d be one for Warner Bros. or Paramount on the back of their movies either.

  He considered checking the Hollywood Street Guide he’d just bought from a guy who looked like Brad Pitt but knew the map was too local to cover Long Beach. Then a voice he recognized whispered in his ear.

  “I didn’t think that was your kind of movie.”

  Grant became aware of somebody standing beside him. Body heat transmitted like an oil-filled radiator. Understated perfume that smelled nice but not too strong. He half expected the infectious laugh to follow, but Robin Citrin kept a straight face. Grant held the case in one hand, refusing to hide what he’d been looking at. The smile he gave her was the only reason he couldn’t keep a straight face too.

  “I was looking for Animal Farm, but I think I’m in the wrong section. These are the only cocks I could find.”

  This time she did laugh, and it was not only infectious, it was downright dirty. “That joke doesn’t work over here. Nobody knows what a cock is.”

  “You know what a cock is.”

  “I’m media savvy. Culturally cross-pollinated. The cock thing? Now that’s a whole new reality show right there.”

  “You still chasing me for that?”

  “Catching you, I think.”

  Grant put the case back and turned to look into Citrin’s eyes. They were dark and sensuous. Sexier than anything on the gaudy video sleeves on display. She made the perfume smell sexy too. The mop of unruly black hair looked windswept and suggestive. The white blouse and black trousers looked even more so.

  Grant held a hand up to his mouth and mimed a drinking motion. Citrin nodded and turned toward the stairs. He followed her down to the main shopping floor and out the front doors.

  EIGHT

  “How much?”

  Grant was sitting at a table with his back to the wall, facing the plate-glass window. Outside, the street was busy. According to the street signs, Caffè Etc. was at the intersection of Selma and Cahuenga. According to the map, it was Selma Avenue and North Cahuenga Boulevard. If American sign makers abbreviated any more, you’d be guessing your location by initials.

  Having coffee with Robin Citrin felt good. So good that Grant felt there were distinct possibilities. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  For now, he was more concerned with the money he’d just been offered to become the next Steven Seagal Lawman reality star. It was a sum that dwarfed his wages as a frontline cop and would probably rival the salary of the Chief of Police. He sat back in his chair and leaned against the wall.

  Citrin leaned forward. “I’m not kidding.”

  Grant looked into her eyes. They were focused and serious. “I thought you said I wasn’t Clint Eastwood.”

  “Eastwood’s worth more. Seagal gets more.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “He’d get more than Elvis. Elvis would be top end.”

  Grant took a sip of his milky coffee. A latte. He was beginning to like it and would have to remember that’s what to order. A latte. The cup was a large-scale version of a teacup in a saucer. It was bigger than a soup bowl back home. Any wider and he’d be able to swim in it. He put the cup down and stared out of the window to buy some time.

  There was a street market along Selma Avenue, covered tables and temporary stalls running up either side of the street. Over the top of them he could just make out the red sign of Big Wang’s. Considering what Wang was a euphemism for, he doubted there was a bigger prick in Hollywood apart from maybe Steven Seagal. Beyond the strip mall opposite, the skyline was dotted with enormous billboards advertising the latest movie or TV show. Practically every flat-roofed building had one built across the top. Even Caffè Etc. had a small billboard advertising Western Union and a stretch banner running the length of the building above the window with a giant bug-eyed frog and a wasp. Huge black letters read eyes? and buzz? Grant had no idea what it was promoting.

  He couldn’t think what to say so he simply repeated himself. “Jesus Christ.”

  “You become religious all of a sudden?”

  “I believe that could be it. Yeah.”

  She leaned her elbows on the table. Her voice was low. “Your stock is rising.”

  He watched her eyes. “You noticed.”

  The dirty laugh came again, but she skirted the double-entendre. “Your other stock. Your value to any TV company willing to give you a show.”

  “Give me a show? I’m not Bob Hope.”

  “No. You’re the guy who tackled a pair of armed bank robbers with his bare hands
wearing an orange jacket and a smile.”

  “I didn’t smile.”

  “Creative license.”

  “You see—it’s that creative license that bothers me about reality TV.”

  “Getting shot doesn’t bother you?”

  “I didn’t get shot.”

  “You could have.”

  “You could get killed by a falling block of ice from an incoming jet.”

  “But I wouldn’t have provoked the incoming jet by confronting it with nothing but my dick in my hand.”

  Grant feigned concern, his face turning serious. “You’ve got a dick?”

  “Figure of speech.”

  “Between creative license and figures of speech, what you’re saying is you’re full of shit.”

  “This is LA. We’re all full of shit. The figure you should be concentrating on, though, is the one I just gave you.”

  Grant smiled. “And that’s some figure.”

  Citrin grinned, exposing perfect white teeth and a brilliant California smile, then she turned serious. “The sight of you like Jesus on the cross outside the bank—guns on the floor, surrounded by armed police—that was priceless.”

  “It felt a lot worse at the time.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve watched the footage. Saw your face. Either you’re the coolest guy under pressure I’ve ever met or you hide your fear very well.”

  “We all hide what we don’t want people to see.”

  “Now you’re beginning to sound like Steven Seagal.”

  “Steven Seagal, Lawman. I can’t get over that.”

  “Jim Grant, the Resurrection Man. Get over that.”

  “With the orange jacket and my arms out wide?”

  “It’s your trademark.”

  “You reckon?”

  “It’s no coincidence. Boston, it happened twice. You’ve been here, what? Two days? And you’re crucified again.”

  It was Grant’s turn to shake his head. “My trademark is putting bad guys in jail. I told you: I’m a cop, not a TV star.”