by Tony Bulmer
Ramirez frowned, ‘You catch up with the Barrington kid?‘
I shot him a knowing smile.
Ramirez raised a finger, pointed it right at me with a jabbing motion.
I don’t like that kind of thing.
When some one points a finger at me, it makes me want to take a hold of it and twist it into a knot. Then, when I have smashed them into the floor and I am looking down at them, with my foot clamped hard across their neck, I often find that common courtesy is more forthcoming.
Ramirez said, ‘The kid who sold the dope to Saquina Johnson is dead.’
‘Unfortunate.’
‘Don’t suppose you, or that ham brained partner of yours would know anything about that would you Costello?’
‘Only what you have chosen to tell me detective, but if you give me the name of the scumbag who sold her the dope I will make inquiries.’
Ramirez said, ‘You better tell the Barrington kid she is playing a dangerous game, with dangerous people. We got a connection running to the Saquina Johnson death. Looks like someone is trying to kill everyone who is connected to this thing. Could be your client is next Costello, you thought about that?
You think the Barrington girl is involved? In what way?
‘That girl is a dirty druggie, up for anything,’ snapped Kozak nastily ‘So we find out you know something about these deaths, that leaves you as an accessory to murder.’
I gave Kozak a patient look, ‘You give me the shivers detective, but for all the wrong reasons.’
Kozak took a step forward, made like he was going to take a swing, but Ramirez held out a friendly arm and held his partner back.
Ramirez said, ‘We cannot prove yet that Ms Barrington was at the Peninsula Hotel the night Ms Johnson and her friend met with their unfortunate fates, but we got witnesses say she was.’
‘We want to speak with the kid, see what she knows,’ added Kozak, ‘You know where we can find her?’
Dead Famous 27
Mid-morning in the Weinman residence. It had been a long night for everyone. Joe Russell pacing the house, until the early hours, making sure the place was secure. Making double sure the Barrington kid didn’t climb out the window of the guest bedroom and shimmy out for freedom. Joe was a seasoned professional when it came to guard duty. Long years of experience in the US Marine Corps had enabled him to stay alert through a sleepless night and beyond. After long hours of patrol he sank back into a strategically placed armchair and waited. The girl was the first to rise, when she did he was ready, he padded down the marble hallway and took up position next to the door and waited.
Roxy Barrington sat in the bathroom planning what to do next. That creep Costello had jammed the slide on the window from the outside with a thick piece of wood. No way she was going to get out, without breaking the glass and that big-lug minder Costello had left behind, would come busting in for sure. She could hear him now, lurking outside the bathroom. Probably listening with his ear to the door, to hear what she was up to. This hadn’t been the plan. So much still left to do, and so little time to do it in. But she was nothing if not resourceful. Over resourceful in fact, isn’t that what that despicable little pervert Hector Blandell had said? Sitting on the toilet seat, she opened her handbag, and looked inside: a pharmacopeia of delights. She decided she would have to bring her plans forward, no other choice.
Joe Russell leaned into the bathroom door and rapped hard against it, ‘You alright in there Ms Barrington?’ Ridiculous that she would be anything other than all right of course, but he had to ask anyway. Having to babysit the Barrington brat really burned Joe. Babysitting wasn’t his thing, not by a long shot.
‘You finished in there princess? Because you got thirty seconds more and I am busting this door off its hinges, so as I can make sure you are still breathing.’
‘Patience, Mr. Russell, your bullying tone is very distracting.’
‘Never mind the tone princess, I want you out here where I can see you.’
‘I really cannot stand another night here Mr. Russell—being cooped up in this house—watching baseball on the television—it is so—déclassé.’
Déclassé.
Joe frowned, ‘I don’t know what you are driving at princess, but you got some gripe against baseball you better keep it to yourself.’
The bathroom door opened. Roxy Barrington stood there silhouetted in her sparkling evening dress. Joe thought it looked strangely out of place in the daytime. Worse, the girl was giving it pouty, her bottom-lip quivering like a spoilt child. She had her hair pinned back against her head now, in a tight pony-tail, the look made her face look hard and angular. Joe never paid much mind to the culture of celebrity. He had known many successful people in his role as a personal protection specialist, but with Roxy Barrington it was different, her image was all-pervasive, from the mall to the five o’clock news, her face was everywhere. Miss iconic: a stranger, and yet strangely familiar.
‘What the hell were you doing in there, any normal person could have gone to the john twelve times, the time you took.’ Joe frowned, ‘I liked your hair better before, Why do you tie it back like that?’
‘I want to go back to my Hotel.’
‘What about your boyfriend.’
Roxy Barrington smiled, piano wide, I don’t have a boyfriend Mr. Russell.’ The emphasis was derisive, mocking, as if the very idea of being associated with a relationship was repulsive to her.
Joe raised his eyebrows, like he gave a shit anyway. ‘You tell the Lawyer? My guess is he will be heartbroken—assuming he has a heart to break.’
‘Amusing Mr. Russell, but Al is merely a friend.’
Joe raised an eyebrow, fascinated by how easily the Barrington girl could deliver a cold hard lie, then smile, like it meant nothing at all. No emotion, not a trace of self-doubt. Joe marked the lie as a reference point. The kid was nasty and dangerous with it, figuring she could walk on whoever she wanted, with zero consequences. Joe stood in the doorway, watching the girl preen in the bathroom mirror, smoothing out her hair again, then reapplying lipstick to her pouting lips. Sooner he got rid of the kid the better. Growing up in Canoga Park they had a place for wild-child runaways like Roxy Barrington: Reform School. Thousands of blue collar kids without the money, the choices or the common sense to take life any other way ended up there. No celebrity magazines, or TV specials, just a cold hard primer on the way life was.
As Joe watched, the girl finally finished up in the bathroom, brushing against him as she passed by. Joe felt her slender young fingers slide across his arm. A flash back from the naked hillside, seeing her dress fall down around her ankles. Joe gritted his teeth. Followed in her wake, as she flounced out into the open plan living room.
‘See you tomorrow Al,’ she breezed.
Al Weinman sat at the bar in a monogrammed robe, noshing a breakfast bagel with dripping cream cheese. His attention drawn, he peered up from a laptop computer that sat on the counter, and said, ‘What do you mean tomorrow?’
My father is giving that little friend of yours Saquina Johnson, the perfect send off, at Forest lawns—if you will remember.’
Weinman looked sulky, he stared at her as the cream cheese drooped off his bagel, ‘You going back to the Hotel?’ he asked, flinging a look at Joe.
Roxy Barrington gave him a brilliant smile, like that was the cutest and most astute thing that anyone had ever asked her, she paused momentarily rocking back on her heels, like she had been given a surprise gift. Joe noticed she used the move to pep out her breasts, stick her ass in the air, like it was begging to be spanked. So obvious he almost laughed.
Weinman looked disappointed, said: sure he would be at the funeral—maybe he would catch her later for something more up beat—a night at the opera perhaps?
Roxy Barrington played the no brainer move, told Weinman opera was even duller than Basketball. Joe rolled his eyes, took a deep breath of patience and looked at his watch to see how much longer the torture would last.
Dead Famous 28
I had barely got back to the CCP office in Marina Del Rey, when City Attorney Cheyenne Wallis patched though on the speakerphone. I sat back in my director’s chair, feet up on the desk, and examined the rubber toecap of my Converse sneaker with one eye closed.
‘Mr. Costello, do you have a moment?’
I aimed at the toe of my sneaker with a trigger-spray bottle of Lysol 4 in1 and let rip with a narrow jet—zammo—bacteria free and lemon fresh, all in one handy dispensement. I paused to examine the results. My dog Max bobbed his head up around the corner of the table. I threw him a look, lodging the telephone receiver between my shoulder and my ear as Max eyed the happy cow cookie jar full of dog treats that I keep on my desk.
‘Good to speak again Ms Wallis, and so soon too,’ I reached onto my desk for the cookie jar and pulled out one of Max’s treats. I tossed it blind over the top of my desk and Max reared up on his hind legs to snatch it mid-flight.
‘I was hoping Mr. Costello…’
‘Please, my friends call me Danny.’
A pause then, ‘I was hoping…Danny that we could have a follow up session to our meeting yesterday.’
‘You got to be kidding—the Commissioner is getting lonesome for my company all ready? I know we are best friends and all, but this has got to be some kind of record.’
A further pause, then, ‘I am afraid the Commissioners schedule is very hectic at the moment… Danny. I was rather hoping we could organize a less formal meeting; so that we might talk over some of the finer points of our conversation the other day.’
I noticed Max’s head bobbing around on the other side of my desk, his long pink tongue lolling out, at a jaunty angle, all of a sudden he reared up, planting his front paws precariously on the edge of my desk and barked. I tossed him another cookie and he disappeared from view.
I tilted my chair just a little further back and gazed out my office window, perusing the Santa Monica skyline and the soft curving bay, where the Pacific Ocean melts into the mountains of Malibu. ‘You heard of the Cuban grill on Washington,’ I asked. I hate to divulge my favorite eatery, to anyone other than my closest associates, but what the hell.
Cheyenne Wallis paused a beat, said, yes she knew the place I was talking about and we agreed to meet at two.
I figured that Jardine must have thought of another of his filthy little caveats, to cut me out of the loop on the Saquina Johnson job. It made sense he would send Cheyenne Wallis over to sugar coat the legal threats with her special blend of public relations schmooze. It is never nice to be schmoozed by big government bureaucrats, but when they are as cute as Cheyenne Wallis I am prepared to make exceptions.
And so it was, that I rolled up Washington Boulevard, heading for the Beach. The Cuban Grill is so close to the surf, you can taste the fresh salt air blowing in from the Pacific Ocean. I parked up my big, red Dodge pick-up truck just as close to the front of the restaurant as I could get. The city had installed one of their bullshit smart-meters out front, the kind that will rob you blind, then call three sets of emergency services for help you even think about over staying your legally allotted welcome. Meanwhile, across the street, white-shirted valet parkers were charging ten bucks a pop, to anyone dumb enough to fork over.
When I walked in the restaurant I was surprised to see that City Attorney Wallis had already scored a primo table, up front in the veranda area. If you are going to eat Cuban at Venice Beach, veranda seating is the only way to play it. I strolled up to the table, peered down at her over my sunglasses and gave her a happy to see you hello.
Cheyenne Wallis looked even more delectable than the first time we met. She was wearing a charcoal business two piece, twinned with a blouse that dived lower than I should be looking. Not exactly beach wear, but I wasn’t going to pull her up on a dress code violation. She stood up, held out her hand, and gave me a smile I wanted to order as an appetizer.
‘Mr. Costello…’
‘Danny…’
Again the delicious smile. Her hair had that just washed look, floating down around her shoulders on the gentle ocean breeze. As she shook my hand, I noticed the grip was firmer than before, like she was genuinely pleased to see me.
‘Thank you for agreeing to this meeting at such short notice, Danny.’
‘Always a pleasure,’ I said as I took a seat. I gave her a look over the top of my sunglasses, then snapped them off quick, parking them inside the breast pocket of my shirt, ‘I have to confess I am surprised though, the Commissioner was borderline snippety yesterday, we may be buddies from way back, but that kind of treatment leaves old friends—especially old friends who are “on side with the department” wondering where they stand on the Christmas card list.’
Cheyenne Wallis smiled. ‘That’s funny Danny, you are a real joker, but the Commissioner showed me your file. He had underlined several long paragraphs with dayglo highlighters.’ A beautiful eyebrow twisted upwards, as though it was expecting comment.
‘Like I said, me and the Commissioner go way back—he is a numbers man—does everything by them. I on the other hand am almost entirely results driven. It has led to “bright and lively” differences of opinion on a number of occasions, but I think my record as a friend of the department speaks for itself.’
Again the smile, ‘I understand you have had dealings with detective Ramirez and his partner from Robbery Homicide.’
‘Two of the sweetest, kindest, most vulnerable human beings I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. Seems like they have a lot to deal with right now.’
Cheyenne Wallis gave me a tight look, ‘You could say that. After our meeting yesterday we had a catch up session. Laid the whole case on the table and gave it a look-see. Things are turning dirtier than the Commissioner anticipated.’
‘With the greatest possible respect, what the hell do these momentous events have to do with me and my Company.’
‘I want you to be our inside guy Danny. I want to know everything and anything that is happening within the Barrington Family—their associates too.’
‘Sounds suspiciously like a conflict of interest case to me.’
‘How much they paying you Danny?’
‘Private sector premium, if that’s what you are wondering.’
‘Sly Barrington has a history, you know that don’t you Danny?’
‘We all got history Cheyenne, you included.’
She gave me a dark, fleeting look, like I was about to cross the line. The look melted as quickly as it arrived. She said, ‘Several of Mr. Barrington’s associates and rivals have disappeared with out trace. A number have been murdered in extremely brutal execution style shootings. No evidence as to who might have carried out these killings of course, but people of Barrington’s stature rarely leave connections. I have to tell you however that the department is watching him and his business empire very carefully indeed. Sly Barrington is a criminal Danny, a criminal who is currently the subject of Federal investigation.’
‘Criminals kill criminals every day, I would have thought that makes your job easier Cheyenne.’
‘What if he decides to kill you Danny? Once this IPO deal he is fast tracking with the Wall Street people has been issued, where will that leave you. Surplus to requirements?’
‘You are giving me the shivers.’
‘Not intended, I can assure you, merely laying out a risk assessment.’
‘I like it when you lay things out your attorneyness. And since we are sharing, you might tell me exactly what’s happening with the Saquina Johnson case, your colleagues at the department are keeping so close.’
‘The information is confidential Danny, you know that…’
I leaned across the table, ‘You can tell me,’ I said. I gave her the famous Costello smile—see what she thought of that.
‘Drinks?’ The waitresses approach had been stealthy and cunning, when she saw she was interrupting, she took a step back, asked us if we would like a few minutes. I said no problem,
I would take a San Pellegrino and whatever the lady wants. Cheyenne Wallis gave a quick smile, signaled to make it two.
I leaned back in my chair, ‘You were saying?’
‘I was?’
‘Absolutely, because that is what this coy little meeting is about isn’t it, breaking open a connection—you do believe there is a connection in the Saquina Johnson case don’t you?’
‘There may be a connection, but, the evidence is highly circumstantial.
‘What you got thus far?’
Cheyenne Wallis looked earnest, lowering her voice so she couldn’t be heard at surrounding tables and said, ‘We have four bodies.’
‘Four—you got to be kidding.’
‘I am afraid not,’ she said grimly. When the girl OD’d at the awards ceremony her young assistant was found dead in the bathtub at the Peninsula Hotel. At first it looked like suicide—an accidental drowning at least. But forensic evidence leads us to believe the girl was murdered.
Why?
‘A drug connection is our main lead at present, but the young assistant was having a lesbian relationship with Ms Johnson, so there may be another angle there—we are currently looking into it.
‘What about the husband, Saquina Johnson was married to that half-wit rapper Shaquil Johnson right.’
‘The husband has an alibi and a room full of witnesses to prove it.’
‘Enemies?’
‘Numerous. A whole mail-truck of crazed fan mail, so bizarre and depraved we have five officers working around the clock on it. But there is more. We chased down the connection who sold Ms Johnson the narcotics, a mid level dealer name of Remi Martin. Turns out Martin was murdered very soon after Ms Johnson died. Who ever killed him tried to make it look like suicide. But the killer was sloppy, almost like they were laying down a challenge, like they wanted to be caught.
‘You got any suspects?’
‘We have a number of connections—a highly dangerous and extremely rare narcotic tranquilizer called Thiopental. We found it in Ms Johnson, we also found it in her friend and the drug dealer Martin had a whole fridge of the stuff. But it doesn’t stop there.