Montecito Heights

by Colin Campbell

  The driver pulled over, and the gunless gunman indicated for Grant to get out. He did. The door was yanked shut behind him, but the car didn’t drive away. The engine purred, adding exhaust fumes to the smell of burgers and candyfloss. Fresh air and the scent of flowers fought a losing battle. Nobody moved. The man on the bridge stood still. The Hawaiians sat frozen in the car. Grant grew bored waiting for instructions, so he walked toward the bridge.

  He was halfway there before the man nodded at the visiting Yorkshireman. Grant nodded back and stepped onto the bridge to meet the head of the Dominguez drug cartel.

  “You have cost me a lot of money.”

  Rodrigo Dominguez spoke in measured tones with only a hint of an accent, but there was weight in his delivery that went way beyond the words. Dominguez was maybe sixty years old but carried himself with the easy grace of a much younger man. He was medium height and medium build and possibly the most dangerous man Grant had ever met. He could feel the power emanating from him like a force field. There was no outward display of anger or violence, but it was there in the steely glare and deeply etched lines across his face. This man wouldn’t think twice about ordering Grant’s death if business required it.

  Grant didn’t speak. He decided to tread carefully.

  Dominguez’s expression didn’t change. His chiseled features were as craggy and tanned as dried parchment. His eyes were hard and gray. There was no emotion in them, just fierce concentration.

  “I do not like losing money.”

  Grant didn’t speak.

  Dominguez cast his eyes around the cemetery, nodding at certain grave sights to punctuate his words. The first was on the eastern shore of the lake, beneath a neatly trimmed conifer and a tall, slim palm tree.

  “That is the tomb of Tyrone Power. Hollywood star that played Zorro.”

  He indicated a much simpler marble grave shaped like a park bench on the opposite shore behind them.

  “Fay Wray. A personal friend of King Kong.”

  He nodded across the right-hand driveway toward the crematorium, where a more impressive memorial overlooked a long, narrow water feature and fountain.

  “Douglas Fairbanks, Junior and Senior. Zorro multiplied by two.”

  Grant didn’t speak.

  Dominguez raised an arm toward the house-size crypt on the island across the bridge. It had the Doric marble pillars and angled roof of a Greek temple and stood perhaps twenty-five feet tall. The walls were hand carved white stone with two slitted windows in the side elevation and a door from the patio at the end of the bridge.

  “William A. Clark, Junior. Founder of the Los Angeles Philharmonic.” Dominguez lowered his arm and turned his stare on Grant. “Do you know what they all have in common?”

  Grant couldn’t resist. “They’re all dead?”

  Dominguez wasn’t swayed. “They all generate money even though they are dead.” The stare intensified. “You, on the other hand, would just be dead. Worth nothing but a handful of dust and a prayer.”

  The eyes hardened.

  “That is the only reason you are still alive.”

  Grant wasn’t easily spooked, but he felt the short hairs bristle up the back of his neck. Goose pimples broke out on his forearms despite the heat. This was like staring death in the face and knowing there was nothing you could do about it. A swan drifted past on the lake and made a squawking call to its mate amid the lily pads. A helicopter thudded across the sky somewhere over the Hollywood Freeway. A tourist took a photograph of Tyrone Powers’ memorial.

  Grant didn’t speak.

  Dominguez’s tone didn’t change. He could have been discussing the weather.

  “You are worth nothing to me dead.”

  Grant decided to test the water. “You haven’t just threatened an officer of the law, have you?”

  “I don’t make threats. I make promises.”

  “To cops?”

  “Cops. Priests. Mothers and their babies. The world is a dangerous place.”

  “But you didn’t just threaten me?”

  “Would you like a confession? Want me to speak into the microphone like in all those TV cop shows? It wouldn’t do you any good. The wire would be buried with your ashes, and the only benefit would be the worms and the flowers that you would fertilize.”

  “I don’t wear a wire to the banana shop.”

  “Yes. The fruit. I heard about that. Very considerate of you. I also don’t think you wear a wire to your lover’s bed. The beautiful Robin Citrin.”

  This time the bristling hairs sparked all over Grant’s body. He managed to keep the shock out of his voice but wasn’t sure his eyes hadn’t flared.

  “Too dangerous. The battery can give you a shock.”

  “I agree. I do not believe you are recording this conversation. So let me get to the point. Walk with me.”

  Dominguez walked across the bridge to the island and stood in the shadow of the mausoleum. Grant followed, keeping pace with the man from south of the border. He waited for the proposition because he was certain one was coming. The car doors opened, and the Hawaiians got out. A second car pulled up behind them. Same type, same color, tinted windows; nobody got out of that one. Grant stepped into the shade. The amorous swan squawked loudly, and its mate squawked back. There was a commotion in the water. Dominguez ignored the disturbance.

  “You are moving in opulent circles.”

  Grant looked into Dominguez’s eyes, trying to gauge how much he knew and how much was speculation. The slate-gray eyes gave nothing away. He would make an excellent poker player. The craggy features remained impassive as he spoke.

  “Senator Richards is a wealthy and influential man.”

  “He is. I’m not.”

  “Don’t do yourself down. By association you have acquired a modicum of that wealth. You are being paid, are you not? And by helping him, you are also exerting an element of influence over his future.”

  “Not as much as you’d think.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is how much that knowledge is worth to me. You have a debt to pay.”

  “Snake Pass? Papers valued the shipment at something like fifteen million.”

  “An exaggeration. The press cannot be relied upon, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Still, more than pocket change, that much powder.”

  “An inconvenience. Cost price to me was nowhere near fifteen million.”

  “Money like that—not even a low-budget Hollywood movie. You’d be better off robbing banks. LA’s the capital of both.”

  “I don’t watch movies. And I own a bank. What this is, is a debt. And you are the one who owes it.”

  Grant shrugged. “I’m just on a street cop’s salary.”

  “You are doing yourself down again. You are currently employed by one of the wealthiest men in Southern California. A man who wants to keep certain things quiet to protect his political career.”

  “You thinking of blackmailing him?”

  “No. I am blackmailing you. Richards is the leverage and the money man.”

  Grant thought about something else. “You into kidnapping as well as drugs?”

  “In my time as the executive officer of our business, it cannot be ruled out.”

  “So is this a ransom demand?”

  If Dominguez was surprised, he didn’t show it. His face remained placid and his voice calm.

  “The Richards girl? I have no interest in her foolishness. She is wherever she is and has nothing to do with me.”

  Grant believed him. “Why d’you think I’m bothered about Senator Richards’ reputation, then?”

  “If the senator’s problems become public, he is not the only one who will fall.”

  The goose pimples returned. Grant wondered just how much Dominguez knew about why he was in Los Angeles.
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  “Whoever falls, it won’t be me. I’m just an honest cop.”

  “Honest but not exclusive. You now have a very lucrative TV contract.”

  Again Grant was forced to wonder how much the drug lord knew. “Not yet, I don’t.”

  “The contract yes. The money no. But to keep you happy, they will pay you in advance because they know you give good copy.”

  “You sound like a newspaper man.”

  “I am a practical man. You should try it sometime.”

  Dominguez nodded toward the second car. The door locks popped, and a big guy in a dark suit got out. He wasn’t wearing a chauffeur’s cap, but he was the driver. Two more guys got out of the back, dressed in dark clothes and carrying machine guns held loosely across their stomachs.

  “You will pay me one hundred thousand dollars.”

  One of the gunmen came across the bridge. Dominguez began to walk toward him and waved a hand at Grant.

  “You have three days.”

  The two men crossed paths on the bridge, and the guy with the machine gun walked up to Grant. Grant was in the open. No cover. Even with his relaxed stance and flexed knees, the nearest place he could reach was the corner of the mausoleum ten feet away. A guy with a pistol might miss with a snap shot. A machine gun would cut Grant down before he got three feet away.

  Dominguez stopped on the bridge and turned back toward Grant.

  “And just in case you really aren’t worried about Senator Richards, remember there are other people who could get hurt because of this. One of them I am sure you do care about. She would find it difficult to work a camera without hands.”

  The normal reaction would be to lunge at Dominguez. Grant wasn’t normal. In a situation like this you had to focus on what you could control and not worry about extraneous matters. There was a man with a machine gun between Grant and the drug lord. The man with the machine gun raised his hand.

  Dominguez walked to the open car door and got in. The raised hand held a blank business card with a cell number written in ink. Grant took it, and the guy turned and walked away. He crossed the grass and got into the second car, and all the doors closed at once. The Hawaiians smiled across the lawn, and the passenger winked. He pointed a finger at Grant like a makeshift gun and dropped the thumb like a hammer. Bang.

  The cars pulled away slowly. They didn’t spit gravel as they sped off. That only happened in the movies. They crawled, slowly and respectfully, like a funeral procession taking grieving relatives away from the graveside.

  Grant watched them go back down to the bottom of the cemetery and out the main gates. The sun had moved across the sky without losing any of its ability to bake. The two swans kissed and made up. The tourist photographing Tyrone Powers had disappeared. The helicopter had drifted across the Hollywood Freeway.

  Grant looked at his watch. Almost twelve. He walked back to the driveway and headed for the concession stand. Confrontations always made him feel hungry. He bought a burger and a Pepsi. Ten minutes later, he dropped the empties in the trashcan and opened his cell. Robin Citrin answered on the first ring.

  “You get all that?”

  That was becoming his catchphrase. The helicopter returned and hovered over Santa Monica Boulevard. Citrin gave the thumbs up through the window.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Grant was sitting on an ornamental stone beside the Hollywood Forever sign when Citrin pulled up at the curb in the minivan. The side door slid open with the usual pffft hiss, and she waved him in. When Grant was sitting on the back seat, the driver closed the door and set off toward downtown.

  Citrin was busy working the controls of a portable video monitor. Grant saw a long shot of the Hawaiians letting him out of the black car in the cemetery. The angle was shifting slowly as the helicopter kept its distance. The orange jacket stood out in the sunshine against the bright green lawns. The zoom lens followed Grant to the bridge. Crackly audio came out of the twin speakers. There were snatches of dialogue, but the predominant sound was the loud, thumping beat of the helicopter blades.

  Citrin turned the volume down.

  “The directional mike works better on the ground or in a static vehicle. In a chopper—too much noise. That didn’t look friendly, though.”

  Grant considered how much to say without panicking her. There had been an implied threat against the woman in his life, but he had three days before that would become a problem. Seventy-two hours was a long time. He reckoned he’d have this thing sorted before then. He had to tell Citrin something, though.

  “It goes back to an old case. I don’t think he likes me very much.”

  “I’d say that’s an understatement.”

  Grant smiled. “Understatement is my middle name.”

  “Bull’s-eye should be your first. Lot of guys with guns down there.”

  “You worried about me?”

  Citrin wasn’t smiling. “I am, yes. This is reality TV. Don’t want you really getting shot.”

  “That’s reality for you. People carry guns, somebody’s gonna get shot.”

  “Doesn’t seem to bother you.”

  “Funny thing about guns. In the movies, everybody’s a crack shot unless it’s one of those Die Hard films, spraying machine gun fire everywhere and only thing they do is shatter the windows. But mainly, in the movies, a quick-draw gunslinger can hit a running man or shoot a gun out of his hand and never miss. In reality, if you’re more than six feet away, it’s a lottery.”

  “Some people win the lottery.”

  “Most people lose.”

  “With handguns?”

  “Yes.”

  Citrin pointed at the video monitor. “Those guys from the second car. They’re not carrying handguns.”

  The screen showed the two men in black cradling machine guns across their stomachs. One of them walked toward Grant while Dominguez crossed the bridge.

  “Strictly speaking, they are. Handheld weapons that can be fired single-handed. But I get your point. Machine pistols. I’d have trouble dodging the shit storm they’d be able to unleash.”

  “Exactly. Maybe we should run this past L. Q. This is getting deeper than just following your daily routine.”

  “Hang fire for a bit. They were for show—to put the willies up me.”

  “Put the what?”

  “Scare me. They weren’t going to shoot. The head guy wants my help.”

  “Didn’t look like he was asking for help.”

  “More like demanding it. Anyway, the next three days should be fairly quiet.”

  “And after that?”

  “After that, you’ll have a great show.”

  “Jim. Don’t go doing anything stupid.”

  Grant waved the objection aside and took the notebook out of his pocket. “Did you see where they went?”

  Citrin seemed happy to change the subject.

  “Hollywood Freeway, heading south. We lost them in traffic after they split up near Echo Park.”

  “Lost them? You were in a chopper, for Chrissakes.”

  “D’you know how many black cars there are on the freeway? Most popular color in America. Big ugly square things.”

  Grant shrugged and smiled. “Turning circle of a bus. I know. You sound like my cab driver.”

  “I’m turning into your cab driver. Where d’you want to go?”

  Grant was busy leafing through the notebook until he came to the numbers he’d jotted down in the cemetery as soon as the cars had driven off. The plates of both cars recorded before he forgot them. Good police practice. It was only in TV shows and movies that cops could remember car numbers off the top of their heads. He flicked open his cell phone.

  “Hotel will do fine, thanks. Just want to get someone to run the plates.”

  He scrolled the settings until he found the phonebook, then selected Chuck Tanb
urro’s number. He was about to hit the call button when the phone began to ring. The caller ID showed it was Tanburro. Grant answered the call.

  “What’s up? I was just going to call you. Can you run a plate for me?”

  “I’m not a cop anymore. Remember?”

  The minivan was dropping down through Wilshire Center toward West Seventh. There wasn’t much traffic on the surface streets, most of the through travelers preferring the freeway system. The driver was taking it nice and easy. Grant smiled into the phone even though Tanburro couldn’t see him. He knew the ex-cop would help.

  “You’ve still got contacts on the job, though.”

  “I do. And that’s why I’m calling.”

  Grant felt a tingle of gooseflesh up the back of his neck. Tanburro obviously had some information, and that could only be good. Citrin sensed the change in mood. Grant listened.

  “The girl’s bank card just got used in East LA. She’s at the ATM now.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Citrin’s driver got the minivan to the bank on East Cesar E. Chavez Avenue in record time. The bank was part of an L-shaped strip mall at the junction with East Cesar and Gage. The L wrapped around two sides of the parking lot at the intersection. The smallest branch of the Bank of America was in the angle of the L. It used to be PLS Check Cashers, and the building retained the low-rent nature of that business while adding the familiar red signage and a single cash machine beside the door. The ATM had the same transparent shelter for its customers as the MacArthur Park branch.

  There was nobody at the cash machine.

  The minivan cut across traffic and swung straight into the parking lot. The side door did its pffft hiss thing, and Grant was scouring the pedestrians before his feet hit the ground. Most appeared to be Mexican or Spanish American. There were no blacks and only two white Anglos. One of them was male. The female didn’t have short spiky black hair. Angelina Richards was nowhere in sight.