The Detective & The Pipe Girl: A Mystery

by Michael Craven

The left side of my head hurt. Burned. My left ear rang. I said to him, “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Black Suit Number Two grabbed my arm and began walking me out. We walked right by Neese, whose black eyes were still on me.

  I said to him, “Did I pass the test, Chief?”

  He said, “Not really. You pretty much lost that fight.”

  Okay. He had a point.

  The Black Suits took me out onto the street, a bit down from the valet stand.

  Black Suit Number Two: “Don’t come back.”

  I said, “Tell Nick I’ll see him at rehearsal. I have a few ideas I think we can work on.”

  “What?”

  “You know, because I had initially said that I was in the band.”

  He looked at me blankly.

  “Never mind.”

  I started walking toward the Cobalt. I found it, got in. I drove six blocks away, away from the party, away from the long line of cars. I parked, put my seat in full recline, and closed my eyes. I was drunk. I was high. I was wiped out. I crashed for three hours or so. I woke up, 3, 4 a.m., cranked up the Cobalt, went home, went to bed.

  20

  The next morning I went to my office and sat at my desk. I was just thinking, looking over my notes, looking at the pictures of a dead Suzanne Neal. I was tired. I was hungover. The pictures of Suzanne were particularly affecting. Gruesome.

  And just sad.

  I looked at her two tattoos. The rose, which looked like a rose, and the pyramid, which looked like this:

  I snapped a picture of the pyramid with my phone, then got in my Cobalt and headed to Neese’s. Yep, I was going to sit out there and wait again. I parked farther away from his house this time, but close enough that I still had a good line on his gate. Two hours later, the black Merc came out.

  I picked him up. He drove to Rebecca Heath’s apartment in Beverly Hills. I pictured her topless in that sarong. Oh yes. She came out of her apartment and got in his car. Man, she was sexy. Involuntarily, my mouth twitched a little bit watching her cross the condo’s front lawn. That model walk, the one I’d seen her exhibit in Neese’s house.

  I was excited to see where this was going to take me. But Rebecca got out of the Merc ten minutes later and walked back inside. Then Neese pulled off.

  And so did I. A few cars back from Neese, but right on him. At the La Cienega and Olympic intersection I got very unlucky. It happens. Neese went through the intersection, and headed south down La Cienega toward the 10 Freeway. Right then a traffic cop pulled up, signaled with his hands for all traffic to stay put, then turned off the traffic light, walked into the intersection, and started directing traffic himself.

  Don’t know why this happened. They were fixing something or something. I lost Neese. Three, four minutes later I went through the intersection taking the route Neese took. Nothing. I made it to the 10, took it west, nothing. Then I decided to head to the 405, which would take me back to Neese’s house. I looked in my rearview and saw, wait, was that a big, new black Merc? I took a careful look. No, just a bunch of L.A. traffic. Freaking hallucinating. A sea of generic cars like mine. A VW. A Toyota. A Kia. A Honda. A Veedub-ota-ia-onda. They’re all the same. And then, wait, yes, Neese was behind me. He had picked me up picking him up and now he was behind me. Right behind me. Well played, Neese. Truth is, I didn’t beat myself up about getting made. I wasn’t being too discreet. I didn’t care if he made me. I wanted it. And I got it. And now, friends, I knew Neese wanted to talk again. Well, well, so does Darvelle. When I got to the 405, I took it to Venice Boulevard, then made my way to Venice Beach, then to the Venice Pier parking lot. I paid, parked, walked onto the pier. I knew Neese was behind me but I didn’t look.

  It was cloudy at the beach. Some might call it depressing. But it actually gave the beach character. It was gray and cool and not what you envisioned the California beach to be. A melancholic, substantive vibe. Even the guy I saw Rollerblading down the boardwalk in a tight Speedo with a parrot on his shoulder and a Walkman from 1983 seemed less absurd, less cartoony, more understandable, more just a guy doing his thing.

  The waves were big, crashing into and underneath the pier. I walked all the way out to the end, took a long, dramatic look at the ocean, then turned around. Neese, his long, horrible hair flowing in the wind, was twenty yards away, heading toward me. I gave him a big wave. He got to me and said with whatever the opposite of a smile is, “Nice to see you.”

  “Really? You really feel that way?”

  “What do you want? And who are you?”

  He wasn’t mincing words. And I wasn’t going to either. “I want to know how you knew Suzanne Neal. What your relationship was. I want to know why she’s dead. I want to know if anything you know can help me find out who killed her. Comprende?”

  I have no idea why I said, “Comprende?”

  If I’d caught him off guard by going right to Suzanne Neal, by intimating that I already knew for sure that he knew her, he didn’t show it. He was cop-level stoic.

  “Why do you think I know anything about what you’re talking about?”

  I looked at him. I saw his black heart again. Without the aid of very potent marijuana. Neese was telling me through his performance that he was a serious guy. But I already knew that.

  He continued, “Before you answer that, who the fuck are you?”

  “My name is John Darvelle. I’m a detective.”

  “Who hired you?”

  “I’m working for myself.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Suzanne Neal is dead. And she went to your house the night she died. I saw her.”

  He looked at me. I could see possibilities, options, decisions moving across his coal eyes.

  He said, “You don’t know who you’re fucking with.”

  He was right. I didn’t. But I also really didn’t care that much. I’d been in trouble before. That’s the beautiful part of having experience in any field. It relaxes you. Some.

  I said, “You’re rich. You hang out with beautiful women. And you’re involved in my story. And I want you to know something. I will find out what you know.”

  He began to speak. This time with less edge, with more California charm and even an intelligence I hadn’t yet seen. “Listen, Kung Fu. I know you’re tough. But I don’t know why Suzanne got killed. You want the truth? I’m sad. I’m really sad. Suzanne was beautiful. And I don’t mean the way she looked. I mean in here.”

  He pointed to his heart.

  He continued. “I’d love to continue telling you about my feelings for Suzanne. But instead I’m just going to tell you to leave me the fuck alone.”

  At that moment I knew we weren’t alone. He had a couple guys either on the pier or in the parking lot. I knew it. I felt it. I wondered if they’d make a move on me right out here in public. I didn’t look around. I just looked at Neese.

  “Look, Neese. Let’s suppose you’re telling the truth. Then you’ve got nothing to hide. So give me something you know about Suzanne Neal.”

  He rediscovered his prior tone. “I know she was an actress who I occasionally slept with who got killed a few nights ago.”

  “You occasionally slept with her, huh? I’ve noticed you’ve got other beautiful women in your life as well. They tend to hang around you.”

  “Yeah. Sue me.”

  I wasn’t going to full-on accuse him of anything I thought he might be involved with. Not this guy. Not yet, not now. Later maybe, probably, but not now. I simply needed more information. My story was only just unfolding. But I did want to ask him something else. See if I could get anything, even just a reaction, on something I was curious about. I pulled out my phone, and opened up the picture of Suzanne’s tattoo pyramid.

  “I want to show you something.”

  He stared at me, expressionless.

  It then occurred to me that saying, “I want to show you something” on the Venice Pier had probably been said a time or two. But with very, very different results.

  I
showed Neese the picture.

  “Suzanne’s tattoo,” Neese said.

  “What is it? Why did she get a pyramid tattoo?”

  Neese’s face twisted into a smile. He laughed; it seemed real. It was real. “Come on, Darvelle. What does it mean? Nothing. Just like all of them. Maybe she got it in college when she was studying ancient fucking Egypt. I don’t fucking know. She had a rose as well. Why aren’t you showing me that one?” He laughed again. “Jesus, man, I was beginning to think you were good.”

  I looked at him. Then I looked around at the pier, at the parking lot, to see if I could make his goons. Hard to tell out here. As diverse a crowd as you could find, maybe anywhere.

  “I’ll be seeing you, Neese.”

  I turned and walked away.

  “Darvelle,” he said. And I turned around.

  The levity was gone.

  “Let this one go.”

  I looked at him and told him something with my expression: Not going to happen.

  I turned and walked back to the Cobalt. All the way down the pier without turning around. I could feel Neese’s eyes on me the whole way.

  21

  Home. Called Arthur Vonz, not there, left message. Then: Long run around lovely Mar Vista followed by a swim in my pool. Now: Sitting out in the sun, drying off, thinking, thinking. My cell rang, I was ready for it.

  “Arthur,” I said.

  “John, how are you doing?”

  Vonz sounded pleasantly surprised.

  “Well. Listen. I want to talk to you. Not on the phone. Can we set up a time?”

  “Yeah, of course. What’s up?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you. When are you free?”

  “Uh . . . today, now. I’m at my offices. On the Paramount lot. Come on over. I’m in and out of meetings, but we’ll make time. Just give them my production company name at the gate. Sparrow Productions. Security will have a pass for you and’ll give you directions to my bungalows.”

  We hung up. I drove over to Paramount Pictures. On Melrose, deep in Hollywood. The legendary studio that produced Chinatown and The Godfather and Starlight. Another big security gate. Another impediment to entrance. But this time I had ammunition. I was here to see Arthur Vonz. The Arthur Vonz. The security guard—smiling, inviting, polite—pointed and said, “Park over there.” And then he handed me a little map and pointed out exactly where to go.

  On the lot. Some big stages, some big, bland buildings, some California bungalows tucked under trees. The suits sitting in their fourth-floor offices, the artists, directors, writers, producers working out of the charming, and private, bungalows that dotted the lot.

  I wound my way through the lot toward Vonz’s. It really did still have some of that old-school Hollywood magic. Like, a piece of the lot was built to look like a section of New York City. You’re walking along and suddenly you’re in front of the façade of a New York deli. That looked real. I caught a couple actors walking around in costume. Cop show. At least I thought they were actors. Yeah, for sure. Too good-looking. Too much positivity, and eagerness, in their eyes.

  I was toward the back of the lot, the big buildings and stages giving way now to the bungalows. I was ducking under trees, navigating between little buildings, walking across little yards lined with verdant green foliage, with bright California flowers. It was quiet, peaceful, a nice place for a director to decide what movie to shoot next.

  The Vonz bungalow, a tan stucco building underneath the shade of trees with a charming little sidewalk leading you to it. Some benches outside, out front, for people to sit on and chat. I walked into the building. There were three secretaries working the phones. Behind them, there were three offices I could see inhabited by two women and one man. All on the phone. One of the secretaries motioned for me to sit down on the nice leather couch, but before I could, a door at the end of the hall opened and there was Vonz. He was with a tallish bald man whom I instantly liked.

  “John, welcome,” Vonz said, and smiled.

  Vonz had the dashing thing going. White pants, blazer, some reading specs sitting on the end of his nose.

  We shook.

  “You ever see the movie Saturn Rain?”

  Sounds like a space movie, but it’s not. It’s a movie about a Vegas stripper.

  “Yeah, sure. I loved it.”

  “This guy right here wrote it. Bruce Parrish.”

  I shook his hand.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  “Yeah, you too,” he said.

  Vonz said to me, “Bruce’s writing a script for us.” Then to Bruce, “See you in a couple weeks.”

  “Yes you will,” Parrish said, and he disappeared out the door.

  Vonz ushered me into his office. Surprisingly simple. Not decorated with the flair of his house or his home office. A big nice desk with some chairs in front of it, posters of his movies on the walls, some stylish couches, and a sitting area off to one side. Vonz sat behind his desk. I sat in front of it. Vonz pushed a button on his desk and the door shut behind me.

  “That’s what you get when you win a couple Academy Awards, huh?”

  Vonz smiled. “So, what’s going on?”

  “I couldn’t let the Suzanne thing go,” I said. “I’m looking into it. I thought I’d tell you what I’ve found out so far.”

  Vonz didn’t respond verbally, but he did with his body language. He leaned forward and an intensity came over him.

  I told him what I knew, what had happened. Without any conjecture. As I told him his face grew tired. But when I finished talking he said, “Wow. Good. Thank you for coming by. I’m glad. I’m glad you’re looking into it.”

  He thought for a moment. He spun his chair around and looked at the wall behind him for a bit, then spun back to look at me. “I know what it’s like to not be able to let something go. And to pursue it on your own. My Amazon picture. We were just about to shoot and I just didn’t feel I was ready. I felt something was missing with respect to my knowledge of the subject. I couldn’t let it go. So I went, on my own dime, and lived with the tribe we depicted in the film. I held up the production to do it. Nobody could really understand why I was doing it. We had done so much preparation. But I needed to do it. So I understand why you looked into it on your own. Because you needed to do it. But, bottom line, you got on this case because of me. Not to mention, I want to know what happened too. It’s a long-winded way of saying: I’ll pay you for your time.”

  “You want to pay me, okay. I’ll bill you. But not for the past week, that was on me. From now on.”

  He nodded.

  “I’m going to read your letter.”

  He nodded.

  “And I also want to ask you something.”

  He nodded again.

  “Was Suzanne a prostitute? Did you pay her for sex?”

  He looked at me for a long time and then curiously started laughing. But it wasn’t a laugh you get from a good joke or from someone tickling your feet with a feather. It was a laugh of shame.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “That’s what you think it all means, that she was a prostitute?”

  “Have you ever heard the term I mentioned? Pipe Girl?”

  “No, is that a term for prostitute?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you might know.”

  He shook his head.

  I said, “Well, whether or not it means prostitute, Suzanne potentially being one would have occurred to me either way. It already had when Ott asked me if I’d ever heard the term. Look, I don’t know exactly what is happening and I could definitely be wrong.”

  “If Suzanne was a prostitute, I didn’t know about it. And that was never a part of our relationship. There was never any talk of a financial arrangement. Did I take her on vacation, yes. Did I buy her things, did I pay for things, yes. But it wasn’t any different from how I’ve treated any woman I’ve ever dated, and that includes my wife. And Suzanne never asked, even a little bit, for anything. Like I said, what I felt wit
h Suzanne was love.”

  I looked at Vonz. I believed him. That he had no clue whether or not Suzanne was a girl for hire. And that he loved her. I know, I know, it doesn’t mean Suzanne wasn’t a pro. She didn’t seem like one though. To Vonz. To me either. Was she? We’ll see. Yes, we’ll see.

  “Jesus,” he said. “I guess it makes sense. Nice place. A few men in her life. And a dangerous guy up on Mulholland who seems to associate with very attractive women.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But there’s a missing piece to this puzzle. It’s not that simple. I know it. I can feel it.”

  I told Vonz I’d keep him posted. Well, now that he was paying me it was part of the job. I walked out of his office, through the reception area, then opened the exit door. And who did I bump into? Mr. Man-Child himself. Mountcastle. He was paler and blobbier than ever, still dressed like a schoolboy. And right now, covered in sweat, holding a bunch of scripts that said “Property of Paramount Pictures” on the front.

  I didn’t say anything to him. But I didn’t let him come in the door. I made him back away and let me out first. He moved away deftly; the freak was still light on his feet. But he did move away, and let me come through. Small victories, people. Small victories.

  22

  There was a guy I needed to talk to. His name was Marlon Pucci. Marlon was a New York City mob guy who had gotten out of the business by the skin of his teeth and had moved to Oceanside, California, just north of Carlsbad, to retire. His mob name was Marlon the Marlin. Why? Because his claim to fame was that he killed a guy once and took the body way out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean to dump it. So, thus, the seafaring nickname. Look, I didn’t make it up. It doesn’t really make sense. It’s not like Marlon was some waterman. He was a New York mobster who hung around a pool hall in polyester pants and pleather blazers.

  But the thing is, he sort of started becoming his nickname. Retrofitting. Even before he moved to Oceanside, back in New York, he started talking about retiring on a boat, about the freedom the sea offered. He even got an anchor tattoo on his left forearm. His friends would say: “Marlon, you know nothing about the ocean, fishing, boats, anything. You’ve been out in the ocean literally one time, and it wasn’t to enjoy the fucking freedom of the sea. It was to dump a dead body so you didn’t go to prison. What are you talking about?”