Alex Ames - Calendar Moonstone 02 - Brilliant Actors

by Alex Ames

  “Don’t be silly. Let’s see: Thomas Cornelius, my old friend from my New York days. You, my old trusted friend from my Berkeley days. My old mentor Yitzach Feinstein in Philadelphia, he is my most permanent source for diamonds and loot reworking. My ‘preferred business partner’ for the hot stuff, if you will. And of course Uncle Mortimer, who taught me everything.” I looked at Mundy. “That’s it.”

  Mundy smiled coyly at his wine glass. “You are so sweet and innocent sometimes, even as a tough master criminal.”

  I slit my eyes and gave him a load of death rays. “You don’t like to see your name on the list, or what?”

  “Oh no, I belong on that list. Your list is probably right but not at all complete. There is one little factor that you overlooked.”

  Mundy let me flop around for a second or so until I kicked him under the table. “Say it!”

  “Fowler Wynn,” Mundy said.

  “What about him? Oh yeah, I get what you mean. We can add him to the list. He never dealt with me professionally, but he probably knows most about the stuff I dealt with and suspects me, all right.”

  Mundy leaned over. “That’s not what I mean. Every time he suspected you and involved the authorities, he left a trail of your secret identity in the local police computers all over the country. And I am not talking evidence. The investigations into Fowler’s various finger-pointing activities are filed and can be found. Maybe even the FBI already has a collection of all the different files from all over the States. Anyone with access to the FBI computers is able to pull the file and put two and two together. Calendar Moonstone, age thirty-one, master criminal. Could probably even get an idea of your working style.”

  “Shit, I never even thought of that. So every curious policeman can inform himself about my alleged other talents,” I said. I thought of Henry Steward, the file he received from the judge, and wondered if he had done any further investigation on me. He was a thorough cop, so he had, for sure. The thought made me feel uneasy for several reasons.

  “But in order to find that connection with Rip Delaware, you should stick to the names on your list for now. Try to contact them, ask them about Rip, and provide them with a physical description. He has to get rid of his loot, too, so maybe he works with the same contacts as you.”

  “Okay, I promise, I will go through my list and ask them. What about your homework? Did you have a chance to go through Fowler’s Hollywood files?”

  Mundy nodded. “Sure did, and I think I found one thing that no one noticed yet. At least, I didn’t find any references or notes about it.”

  “Will it help me?”

  “In a way, I think it will, but it won’t solve our initial problem of catching the thief.”

  I knocked on the table. “Show me!”

  Mundy made a nerve-wracking procedure of taking some photocopies out of his backpack. “As a good thief, you probably know the standard police procedure when it comes to serial burglaries, but I will tell you anyway.”

  “You know?” I asked him. Mundy’s beat involved local social and political stories.

  “I asked Pete from crime beat. Now, whenever a series of similar burglaries occurs, the police ask the victims to provide a list of the people who visited the house over the last six months or so. Theory is…”

  “…that the burglar may have been a regular visitor or someone who was able to spy out the location,” I interrupted. “Get to the point.” Sometimes Mundy’s overplaying drove me mad.

  “The task force assigned to the Hollywood cat burglar did just that, just by the book. Here are some lists of parties at all locations that were robbed. I left out Swan Collins’ party because we know that Rip Delaware was there.”

  “Fowler had done this, too, but apart from the four names I am investigating, there were no more unidentified.” I scanned the lists but couldn’t see Rip or anyone else I knew.

  “You are thinking like the police, Calendar, or like the computer that did the comparison. But Sherlock Mundy is thinking like a thief!” Mundy was enjoying this. He sorted the lists in front of me, almost knocking over my wine glass. “Look here, Ralph Bismarck. And here: Robert Dakota. And here, I like that one best: Ronald Sacramento. And the one before Swan’s party, another inventive one: Rocky Albany. Get it?”

  “States or state capitals as last names. Makes him sound like a cheesy actor every time.” I looked up. “Did they interview him each and every time?”

  Mundy shook his head. “The procedure calls only for collecting the guest lists and comparing them for doubles or obvious fakes like ‘Michael Mouse.’ They don’t play fancy name games. Anyway, look at these lists; there are about a hundred to five hundred names on each of them. The LAPD has better things to do.”

  I glowed at Mundy, “But my Mun-Bun found the link.”

  “Make Fowler happy and let the police task force check up on these Rip Delaware name-alikes. I bet you one dinner that the addresses are fake or the person in question fell off the face of the earth. Just like your buddy Rip Delaware. And if it turns out that all these names are one and the same vanishing person, we have at least proven that there is one common guy showing up in the homes of the victims shortly before the break-in, which doesn’t get you off the hook automatically but raises a very reasonable doubt.”

  “You sound just like my lawyer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Explaining Henry

  After our late lunch, I collected the latest inventory list of the things stolen. To be safe, I made a cross-check with the material at the bank, which was not too easy, considering that my head was whirling a little bit because of too much wine. I had digital pictures of most jewels, so I sorted them and burned a CD for the police on my trusted iMac at home.

  It was around 6:00 P.M. when I arrived at the Redondo Beach Police headquarters. From accused to victim in two days, I thought when I entered. The procedure didn’t vary from Wednesday’s except that Mable shooed me right into Henry Steward’s office.

  “Calendar, good to see you, hope you got over the burglary a little bit already,” Chief Steward—Henry—said when he shook my hand. He sounded honestly concerned.

  “Thanks, Chief … I mean Henry,” I made a quick face and put my envelope on his table. “Got your list and pictures on a CD. Hope it helps to get the stuff back.”

  We sat, Mable brought in our chief’s brews, and over the steaming mug Henry said, “Don’t get your hopes up. From what I heard, the jewelry gets broken down pretty quickly and is assimilated into the black and white markets within days.”

  I nodded dutifully as if he had told me something new. “That’s what the insurance detective Fowler Wynn told me, too. Let’s hope for the best.”

  “That’s the spirit! I have a tidbit of news for you as well regarding your other case. My detective searched the MO in the federal databases and came up with several hits.” Henry patted a file on his desk. “Seems that this particular style of breaking into a safe was a trademark of a never-apprehended thief in the early seventies. His nickname was ‘The Welder’ because of just that method.” Henry showed me an old Xeroxed picture of a floor safe with similar markings. “That guy opened about a hundred safes in jewelry stores and private homes.”

  I looked up at Henry. “So, it is possible that … what? A grandpa thief robbed my shop?”

  Henry gave a chuckle. “Maybe playing Bingo in Tampa didn’t do the trick for him. But yes, it is possible, but remotely so.”

  “I am still putting my money on Rip Delaware. He had the perfect opportunity to spy out my shop from his pizza window across the street and, in his arrogance, faced me afterward on the beach.”

  Henry looked at me for a few seconds. “Ahh, yes, Mr. Delaware.” He let his words linger for a second, and his demeanor made it clear to me why I never wanted to be caught at something stupid in his bailiwick and be questioned by him afterward.

  “What do mean with this doubting ‘ahh, yes’?” I may have sounded a little annoyed.


  Henry leaned forward over his desk. “Listen, Calendar, this is the way your meeting on the beach has been reported to me by my patrol officer. He had been patrolling the beach road and could oversee your encounter. And before you ask: no, I didn’t have you followed. My officer was simply doing his regular morning patrol and noticed you two. He saw two young people who were having a conversation with, and I quote him here, ‘intimate undertones.’”

  I re-crossed my legs and folded my arms. “Buy him some glasses.”

  “He’s got twenty-twenty vision. I looked it up in his personnel file after his report,” Henry said without humor. “Intimate undertone can be interpreted from friendly touching on the face and shoulder to holding hands and so on. So you did, didn’t you?”

  My silence was agreement enough.

  “So, you see my confusion when you come around making Rip Delaware your lead suspect while you two are seen cheek-to-cheek at Swan Collins’ party and holding hands on the beach.”

  “I still stand strong: Rip slipped me the necklace. Rip robbed my safe. Visuals without sound can be deceptive,” I said, putting down my right foot forcefully.

  We both stared at each other for a moment, not knowing what to say next. This was extraordinary, considering that I was sitting opposite an experienced cop.

  “I’m going to go and fetch us some fresh coffee,” Henry muttered and got out of the office with our mugs half full. I glanced after him. The duty room was still alive with people.

  We were equipped with caffeine again, and I was giving him all the time in the world to think things through.

  “Listen, Calendar, I want to believe you because I think your story makes sense. But I need to understand the reason why he is doing this to you.” Henry had a worried look on his face.

  “As if I hadn’t asked myself that question,” I sighed. “Either I have something he wants or he wants to hurt me because I stepped on his toes once upon our lifetimes. In both instances, I have no answer for you.”

  Henry breathed out all his air and deflated in front of me. “Here am I, elected chief of police, super detective, and I have no clue what is going on. I’m being honest with you. As a police officer, I have to work on hunches, assumptions, and rumors, but in the end it all comes down to pure facts. And the rumors tell me that the young lady opposite of me is a clever jewelry thief that has never been caught in the act.” He lifted his hand preemptively to stop my protesting right away, and I swallowed my words. “So, it doesn’t seem to be far-fetched to assume that you may have stolen something at a certain point of time that Mr. Rip Delaware fancies for himself. And in order to get it, he’s putting pressure on you. And there is another possibility which you have to consider that is even worse: Rip may only believe that you have something in your possession, which you don’t actually have. It will be a lot of work to convince him otherwise.” He waved his hands in the air as if to clear the bad thoughts out of the room. “Calendar, I will only be able to get out of your mess if you help me find that guy. Give me something, and I can give you something. Let the police help you. I am not asking you to tell me anything that puts you in a bad position or anything, but help me, please.”

  I closed my eyes. No police officer had ever talked to me that way; it was a surreal experience. I had to shake my head several times to clear the fog that threatened to suffocate me and made my head spin.

  I got up, steadied myself on the chair backrest, and said, “I appreciate your openness with me, Henry. Just give me a little time to trust you, okay?”

  Henry looked at me for a long moment and nodded his head.

  “There is one thing you could do to help me.” I stepped toward his desk and wrote down the taxi’s license plate number on his notepad. “This is the taxi that Rip used for his getaway. It was a Yellow Fleet car. I would appreciate it if you could find out where it dropped Rip off after he dashed away from me. See you later.”

  Henry toyed with the paper, and I felt his eyes on my back and elsewhere when I left his office.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Phil Grab Trap

  The ride to Brentwood was quick and painless, the traffic surprisingly moderate. Phil Krueger lived in a large mansion with a wide driveway; it appeared to me that those houses had to come straight out of a standardized Hollywood success compensation package. There had to be a single company monopoly that did all the house setups in order to underline the little man’s view of the movie community.

  Phil answered the door himself. He was well-tanned, had full hair, and was around forty-five going on thirty—a man who wouldn’t grow up and continued to live on his boyhood charms. One hand held a French spring water bottle, and he wore white tennis clothes with tight shorts. Great body, great hair, great tan, great ego.

  “Calendar? Great to see you, Nicole told me so much about you. Come in. Anything to drink? Excuse me, but I just finished my tennis lesson. Play tennis? No? You should—good for the legs and arms, keeps you moving constantly, and really burns fat away, not that you have any. Sit down, please do. Here’s your ice tea, sugar and sweetener are over here….” The man spoke in rapid-fire like a machine gun.

  “Did Nicole tell you why I wanted to talk to you?” I started, using a millisecond breathing gap to enter the conversation for the first time.

  “It is about the missing Swan Collins diamonds, though I can’t imagine why you would want to talk to me.” Phil laughed, showing lots of expensive teeth. “I didn’t steal them.”

  “I wanted to talk to you because Nicole and some other sources consider you to be one of Hollywood’s true insiders … and you are supposed to be the best gossiper around.”

  This brought out even more teeth and a louder laugh. He sat down on the other side of the designer sofa, easily sipping his expensive water, eyeing me curiously. “Yeah, Nicole got that right! You come to the right address, baby.”

  “Phil, my problem is this: I need to find the thief in order to get my own head out of the noose. There are two theories: first, a professional burglar did it to earn himself a lot of money.”

  Phil laughed even more; I seemed to entertain him very well. “With Swan’s stones in the bag, he may have earned his bonus. That much is for sure!”

  I smiled and pulled my shoulders back a little to give him a better view of my breasts. Why not loosen him up a little? “The second theory is: someone from the movie community stole the diamonds. Someone who knew Swan and had access to her house.”

  Phil raised his hand in mock despair, “And that is only about half of Hollywood! But why should someone steal from Swan? What would be the motive?”

  “That is exactly why I am sitting here, Phil,” I said.

  “You came to the right … oh, I said that. Silly me.” Booming laugh, he was something of a self-entertainer. “Go on, what can I tell you?”

  “What’s your standing toward Swan Collins? I heard that you had an affair with her a while back,” I started.

  His eyes closed briefly, like a connoisseur remembering a good wine. “We had! Oh, how we had. Very emotional, very stormy, and very, very good sex.”

  Why was everyone in Hollywood bragging about their sex lives? “About when?”

  “Five years ago. I was getting over divorce number … eight? And she just had her first ugly box office knock-out. Remember Joan Who? Won three raspberries that year, the worst romantic comedy ever.”

  “The romantic comedy that was neither,” I remembered the scathing review title in the LA Times.

  “Exactly! She was so devastated and alone, and I helped out.”

  “Still in contact with Swan?”

  “Of course. I mean, she let me organize her Oscar after-show party, didn’t she? We didn’t meet there?”

  “Not surprisingly, a large party.” I smiled. “Could you think of anyone who would want to hurt her?”

  “Would you accept the script line, ‘She is very popular and doesn’t have any enemies, Officer’?” Phil said, winking at me.
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  “Just tell me your impression or what you know,” I replied. I was beginning to become testy toward him.

  “Well, you may have heard that she had some financial investments that went wrong. She invested in some independent movie productions, into some social-web start-ups, and in some real estate. She got out of some in time, but some went belly up.”

  “So, she is short on money?”

  “Not really, I mean, she gets between fifteen and twenty million bucks per movie. Hard to sink that much that quick. But she had some companions and friends who invested along with her, following her on her request—and, for them, the losses were staggering.”

  “So, it could be someone getting back at her. Where has the money gone? Still with Swan! So, let’s get it from her,” I thought aloud.

  “Exactly. But don’t ask me about names, I don’t know most of them,” Phil said, getting up and fetching another water bottle. When he came back, he flopped onto the sofa right beside me.

  “But you could give an educated guess for some names?” I drilled, moving a little further away from him without looking too desperate.

  “Yeah, I know that Jeannie Anthony invested into that fashion dud-com that was a fake from the start, though the girls didn’t know. No one knew until they arrested the CEO with a briefcase full of money on his way out to Brazil. And Nicole Berg was in on one of the marina development deals. That was stopped by the tree-huggers at the last moment, all initial development investments gone down the drain. Did anybody tell you that this small scar behind your ear just hidden by the hairline looks interesting? No girl in Hollywood would dare to keep that.” His hand was moving casually toward my hair to get a better look.