Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder

by Bill O'Reilly

  “Who they playing?” Tommy said smiling broadly.

  “You see. You men are all alike. Well, you’re a bit different. You’re bigger.”

  “And smarter, don’t forget that.”

  Ashley laughed. “I don’t know, Detective. If you were really smart, you’d have said you prefer me to the Knicks no matter what. Then I’d be yours forever.”

  “Yeah, but under false pretenses. I’m a man of integrity, you see.”

  “Oh, that’s quite obvious.” Ashley laughed, her eyes full of mischief. Tommy was beguiled. He was used to hard-edged women, not someone like Ashley, who was playful and spontaneous. “Now, enough of this,” Ashley said. “I want to talk about sex. Tell me everything about your sex life, Detective O’Malley, and don’t leave anything out.”

  O’Malley shook his head and laughed out loud, something he rarely did. Ashley sensed the guy really liked her, and there was something very sweet about him. Great, she thought. Last week there were no guys. This week, two show up. Why is life always so complicated?

  * * *

  16

  LOS ANGELES

  NOVEMBER 1994

  In Los Angeles, a man using the alias of Peter Grant walked off an American Airlines flight that had originated at JFK airport in New York. Grant was feeling tired and stiff. Though he had paid twelve hundred dollars in cash for his one-way ticket, it had only bought him an uncomfortable seat in coach class. Walk-up airline prices were absurdly high, he knew, but paying them in this case was the smartest move he could make, even if he had to sit in a seat designed for a jockey.

  After foolishly going undisguised on Martha’s Vineyard, he was now taking major precautions. He had purchased a Nevada driver’s license bearing the name of Peter Grant from an outfit that had advertised in the classified pages of Merc magazine. The firm was called “What’s Up, Documents,” and its display ad promised to provide “facsimile” documents of all kinds at reasonable prices.

  It was a simple transaction. “Peter Grant” had his picture taken wearing a false mustache and brown contact lenses. He sent the picture, along with one hundred dollars in cash, to the document company with instructions to send the “facsimile” driver’s license to a post office box in New York City. His phony license arrived in two weeks. The workmanship was excellent. The day after receiving the license, he canceled the P.O. box, which he had rented for cash under the alias of Peter Grant.

  After arriving in L.A., Grant immediately took a taxi to “Ray’s Rapid Rent-a-Car” on Airport Way, about two miles from the terminal complex. Over the phone a week earlier, Ray himself had assured Mr. Grant that paying cash in advance would be fine. Fifty dollars a day for a ’92 Nissan Maxima, plus a five-hundred-dollar deposit. At check-in, Ray noticed that Peter Grant was from Nevada and asked if he got to Vegas much. Mr. Grant shook his head no. Within forty-five minutes, Peter Grant was driving north toward Malibu. Since he was paying cash for everything, there would be no paper trail that could ever place him in California.

  At their New York desks, the paper was piling high as Tommy O’Malley and Jackson Davis went over computer printouts of everyone terminated from GNN since 1980. The list seemed endless and the work was tedious, so they almost felt relief when the “hello phone” rang across the room. The “hello phone” was a private number that informants were to use—it was always answered by a cop who said “hello” rather than “Manhattan North Homicide.” The phone also could not be traced to the police department.

  All this was necessary because, in the past, some bad guys had bribed corrupt phone workers for the records of suspected informants. More than one had been murdered when a police phone number was found on his call sheet.

  Jackson Davis answered the phone, and Tommy noticed Jackson’s expression growing solemn. After conversing for about five minutes, Jackson returned to his desk.

  “I think we might have Robo Melton.”

  Tommy sat up straight. “Really?”

  “Yeah, that was KY”—a code name the cops gave to this particular informant because the guy thought he was slick. “He says our pal Robo roughed up one of his girlfriends, a stripper named TZ Monroe, really bad. TZ is really pissed and out for extreme retribution. KY says she knows where some of Robot’s secrets lie.”

  “So let’s go see TZ. That does have a lyrical ring to it.” Tommy grinned at Jackson. “And in what first class establishment can we find the lovely and charming Ms. Monroe?”

  “Bare Essentials on 33rd and Fifth.”

  “A downtown girl. How fortunate for us. You drive, Jack. I’m too excited.”

  Bare Essentials was one of the girlie bars that were springing up throughout America’s larger cities. In the age of AIDS, watching replaced doing in many quarters, and nude dancing in a so-called “upscale atmosphere” became big business. It was also the perfect setup for members of organized crime to launder money. In these clubs, cash flowed freely.

  Tommy and Jackson drove downtown on the FDR drive, a construction nightmare that, on a daily basis, horrified drivers from all over the world. It took the detectives forty-five minutes to travel eight miles. They arrived just in time for the advertised happy hour and the lap dancing special.

  The doorman greeting them at Bare Essentials was quite a human specimen: a neck that looked like a milk box, a small head, and—not surprisingly—even smaller, beady eyes. “Can I help you gentlemen?” The guy slurred his speech, making his question sound like one jumbled word.

  “NYPD, fella. We need to speak to a lady named TZ Monroe.” Jackson said the words with authority as he flashed his gold shield.

  “I’ll have to talk to Richie about that.”

  “Ah, Richie,” Tommy said. “You run along and get Richie. Meantime, we’re going in to look around. It’s getting cold out here.”

  “Can’t letcha.”

  Tommy and Jackson looked at each other. They lived for moments like these. “Listen, sonny. We’re going in and you can’t stop us. And if you try, very bad things will happen to you.” Tommy was moving closer to the doorman. In this kind of confrontation, his size always worked for him.

  The doorman blinked nervously and backed away. “Richie ain’t gonna like this.”

  “Oh, he’ll get used to it,” Tommy said as he and Jackson walked past the frustrated bouncer. “By the way, pinhead, lay off the steroids. They shrink your dick.”

  The inside decor of Bare Essentials was crushed black velvet and gold chrome. Upon entering, there was a long bar on the left, floor-to-ceiling mirrors on the right, and beyond, in the center of a long, rectangular room, an elevated stage. Around the stage were scores of round tables surrounded by velvet-covered chairs. About sixty men and perhaps a half dozen women sat around the tables watching naked female dancers writhe. Two dancers were on the main stage, five others atop individual tables.

  As they slowly strolled through the club, Tommy and Jackson discussed what kind of a person would shell out the twenty dollar cover charge, pay $7.50 a drink, and another twenty bucks for one of the ladies to dance on top of his table. For a “lap dance,” where a woman squirms around on one’s upper legs and groin area, the price went up to thirty-five dollars plus tip. Tommy and Jackson agreed that most of the guys in the place were horny businessmen on expense accounts.

  There were now six young women dancing with no clothes on—one of the table ladies had called it quits. Five of the dancers were obvious recipients of breast implants. Their unmoving chests were massively mounted, way out of proportion to the rest of their bodies. No matter how hard the naked ladies danced, their breasts stood firmly at attention. The sixth of the dancers was Latin, petite, and all natural.

  Tommy and Jackson sat at a table about thirty feet from the stage where a nude woman with extremely long legs was swaying, her back to them. Keeping decent time to a song by Anita Baker, she bent forward and looked back at the audience through her parted legs. Spotting Tommy and Jackson, she waved. They waved back.

  �
�Lovely girl, don’t you think, Jack?”

  “All the right qualities,” Jackson answered.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen. Can I be of service?”

  Tommy and Jackson looked up to see a bulky man, about 5'9", with slicked back hair, a ponytail, and diamond studded earrings, looking down at them. The man was wearing an expensive, black silk suit. He looked like a dark closet.

  “I bet you’re Richie,” Tommy said, boredom lacing his voice. “We would like to talk with one of your employees, lady by the name of TZ Monroe.” Both Tommy and Jackson produced their shields.

  “She’s on a break right now. Can I ask what this is about?”

  “No you can’t, Richie. We just need a few moments of Ms. Monroe’s time. It has nothing to do with the fine establishment you’re running here. So we’d appreciate it if you would go get TZ and then, when we’re finished speaking with her, if you would not ask her any questions. Am I making myself understood?” Tommy’s severe look bore into the strip club manager. He knew the guy was a low-level thug who didn’t like taking orders. He hoped the guy would make a mistake.

  But like a feral animal, Richie sensed danger. He didn’t want to have to explain a cop altercation to his boss and brother-in-law, Carmine. He decided to cooperate.

  “I’ll get TZ. Would you like to use my office?”

  “What a kind gesture. Thank you, Richie,” Tommy said. And the detectives followed the pony-tailed man to the back of the club.

  A few minutes later, Theresa “TZ” Monroe walked into the small office wearing very little but a well practiced scowl. She was actually tiny. Slender legs, slim hips, small waist, and enormous breasts. Tommy and Jackson stared—all of TZ was visible through her see-through top, including a pierced nipple and a small red tattoo of a devil just below her navel.

  TZ sat down and the interview began. She wore a black wig, teased high, and had big brown eyes—the hard eyes of someone who hustles men for a living. When the detectives told her they were after Robo Melton, her eyes opened wider. She hated Robo, she said. He had beat her up because she wouldn’t screw one of his friends. She couldn’t dance for two weeks. That cost her more than three thousand dollars. Before that incident, she had been tight with Robo. He told her everything. Would the detectives like to know where he hid his murder weapons? Yes, the detectives would. Well, then, said TZ Monroe, if she could get paid, she would pass along the information.

  Set back about sixty feet off the Pacific Coast Highway, the Surf’s Up Motel on the outskirts of Malibu was one of those places where commerce is conducted one hour at a time. The perfect place for Peter Grant. The check-in guy at the seedy inn gladly took the tired-looking man’s cash, in advance, for a three-day stay—an extended period of time for Surf’s Up clientele. The guest asked for a room in the back—one that was more private, less noisy—and was checked in within ten minutes. The clerk, a young surfer dude, took little notice. Just another middle-aged guy with a mustache and a baseball cap, probably on the prowl for a hooker.

  Peter Grant suspected that the man he was interested in, Martin Moore, lived in the Malibu area, but he wasn’t completely certain. Moore’s company, News Resources, was headquartered in the upscale suburb of Brentwood on San Vincente Boulevard, very near to where O.J. Simpson lived. Moore’s home number was unlisted so, using the name of a television executive in New York, Peter Grant had called Moore’s office from a public phone saying he wanted to send Moore an “emergency Federal Express package.” He hoped the secretary would give him Moore’s home address. She would not, saying only that Moore had left for the beach, and wouldn’t be available until tomorrow. The secretary asked if the caller wanted to send the package to the office.

  Peter Grant politely declined, saying he would call back. As he hung up the phone, Grant figured that the beach the woman had referred to was probably Malibu, about ten miles northwest of Brentwood. Malibu was a prestigious area. Martin Moore coveted prestige.

  The following morning, after a restless night’s sleep on a mattress that sagged like a hammock, Peter Grant drove to the address of Martin Moore’s News Resources Company. The television research firm was located on the fifth floor of a modern brick building, just down the block from Brentwood’s most famous bookstore, Dutton’s. Moore’s building featured underground parking, which was a break for Grant. He guessed that an ego like Moore’s would have a private parking space with his name prominently displayed on the wall.

  He was right. It took Grant just four minutes of walking around the garage to locate a well-polished silver Jaguar. Written on the grimy white concrete above it in yellow block letters was the name of its proud owner: “Mr. Moore.”

  At about 6:15 that evening, Moore’s silver Jag pulled out of the underground garage’s driveway and turned right on San Vincente. Traffic was heavy as the car moved slowly along, taking a right on Bundy and then a left on Sunset heading toward the Pacific Ocean. Martin Moore did not notice the black Nissan following a half block behind him. He was far too busy talking on his car phone.

  “Gordon, how are you? How are the overnights?” Moore was talking to the general manager of a Denver TV station. The station was slipping in the news ratings and Moore was being paid fifty thousand dollars plus expenses to find out why. Overnight ratings data provide instant analysis of how a station is performing on a daily basis.

  After listening impatiently to the general manager’s tale of woe, Moore got right to the point. “I’ve got in some initial research and it looks like you’re going to have to make some changes with the on-air talent. That weatherman, Len Weaver, has no demographic appeal at all. He’s skewing very old. Every time someone in Colorado dies, your ratings go down.” Moore laughed. It was a line he used often. He turned right at Sunset, heading north onto the Pacific Coast Highway.

  “I know he’s been at the station for fifteen years, but your core audience is bored with him. My advice is to put him on the early morning shift, and let him go when his contract is up. You need some hot babe doing the weather. Got to get those male viewers up, pardon the pun.”

  Peter Grant had no trouble weaving through the evening traffic, keeping about three car lengths behind Martin Moore. The sun was already down, and dusk was rapidly turning to darkness. He was glad Moore was on the phone. His reconnaissance and subsequent plan would rely heavily on surprise. All distractions aided the predator.

  The silver Jag headed up the highway doing about sixty. As he neared Malibu, the land of mudslides and sprinting brush fires, Grant reminded himself that this was one of the most expensive places on earth to live. Thus, it was quite a shock when he encountered an atmosphere only describable as honky-tonk. Rundown beach shacks lined the west side of the roadway overlooking the ocean. On the right side, strips of low rent motels and fast food joints stood in front of eroding hillsides. Grant shook his head and grinned as he passed a giant revolving KFC chicken bucket.

  Next came a twenty foot statue of a Mexican waiter complete with sombrero holding a tray full of south of the border cuisine. Finally, the electric blue sign of Alice’s Restaurant appeared, signaling the heart of Malibu Beach.

  Martin Moore exited the highway at Webb Way, taking a right on Old Malibu Road. Grant was relieved. If Moore had taken a left and driven into the famed Malibu Colony, where the likes of Johnny Carson and Tom Hanks lived, Grant’s task would have been impossible. The Colony is carefully guarded around the clock.

  After seeing that the two-lane road was uncrowded, Grant slowed his vehicle, staying well back as Moore drove north. A pickup truck swerved in front of him, its back bumper emblazoned with a sticker reading “Suicidal Tendencies.” About two miles down the road, Peter Grant saw the Jaguar’s brake lights illuminate. He accelerated, wanting to see where Martin Moore was turning.

  Having finished his phone conversation, Moore wheeled into the driveway of his rented house. He paid eight thousand dollars a month for the three-bedroom home, owned by an Iranian businessman, which overlooked the bea
ch. Moore hit the garage door remote and eased the Jag down the narrow driveway and into the small, attached garage. He was in for the night.

  Grant passed Moore’s home as the automatic garage door descended. He leisurely drove by, noting the house and its surroundings. Moore’s place was the last one on the road, perched on a small cliff. The lot south of him was under construction. When it was finished, that new house would be just a few feet away from Moore’s rental. To the north was nothing but rock.

  About a hundred yards up the road, Peter Grant stopped, got out of his car, and looked back. Moore’s house had direct access to the beach. Moore could walk out his back door and reach the water in seconds. The house was two stories high, and highlighted by a large patio filled with hanging plants and wrought iron furniture. The structure itself was weather-beaten and ringed by a white fence about seven feet high. Moore had plenty of privacy.

  Peter Grant’s eyes swept the landscape. He realized that the well-secured house would be a formidable opponent—much tougher to crack than the fat, out-of-shape Moore would be. He would need a little time to come up with a suitable strategy.

  Jackson Davis was finishing up the paperwork on the informant KY and the stripper TZ Monroe. Each was to receive one thousand dollars in cash, courtesy of the City of New York, once Robo Melton was taken into custody, and evidence linking him to murder was seized. Davis made sure everything was in order in case the “cheese-eaters,” a derogatory name used to describe the NYPD’s internal affairs investigators, ever came sniffing around. Both KY and TZ were assigned code numbers, and photocopies of the cash vouchers and receipts were filed in triplicate.

  TZ Monroe had spun a great tale. After a few drinks in a quiet bar away from the strip club, TZ told Jackson and Tommy how Robo Melton, after smoking a pipeful of crack, would brag about his murders. Rock cocaine made him feel powerful, TZ said. Robo was so proud of his “hits” that he kept each murder weapon as a trophy, stashing seven guns in the basement of his mother’s house in Teaneck, New Jersey. Robo also hid drugs and cash there. He would visit his mother every Tuesday night for a home-cooked meal.