He was beaming like a kid who had just won the State Spelling Bee, but of course, he was still one murder behind. I knew that chasing down pedophile-haters wasn’t going to crack the case. “We got some bad news,” I said. “This case is not about Elkins.” We filled him in on the Lucas homicide.
“Damn,” Muller said. “That puts us right back at Square One.”
“You still did a great job,” I said.
“Yeah, thanks. Feel free to express your appreciation,” he said, pointing to the large brandy snifter on his desk. He’d put it there a few months ago with a single dollar bill in it and a sign that said Save The Geeks. Since then, the rest of the squad had fed the kitty. Contributions included a box of condoms, a tube of Preparation H, a Tampax, a Tootsie Pop, and a glassine bag of white powder, most likely Sweet’n Low. Cops. A laugh a minute.
“You say you know how Elkins got the job at Familyland,” Terry said.
“Yeah, is there a second prize for solving that?” Muller is not your basic tough street cop. He’s a sensitive crime fighter who wails the blues when Truth, Justice, and the American Way do not immediately prevail.
“I love it when you sulk,” Terry said. “Don’t make me beg.”
“Alright, alright,” Muller said. “I was chatting online with a perv named Organ Grinder. Love the name. Who said pedophiles weren’t subtle? There’s a guy at Lamaar HR who’s a fact checker on résumés. He’s got a sideline business selling spotless background checks. Grinder was trying to buy one himself, only this guy suddenly disappeared.”
“Who’s on the take at Lamaar?” Terry asked.
“Grinder only had the guy’s cell phone number, but once I got that, it was easy. His name is Anthony Caleo, a.k.a. Tony Cales, a.k.a. Anton Colello. Low-level bozo who runs nickel-and-dime scams. He worked at Wells Fargo and got caught selling good credit ratings to deadbeats. Eventually, they dropped all charges, so he never did time.”
“That won’t solve the case, but I’m sure Brian Curry will back-door you and Annetta to Familyland, when we tell him you tracked down the guy that helped Elkins get the job,” Terry said. “Can you do us one other favor as long as you have some free time? They’re sending some surveillance DVDs over from Familyland. Can you sift through them?”
“Sure.”
“There’s about a thousand DVDs. How long do you think it will it take?”
“A thousand?” Muller said. “Three months, two if I get lucky.”
“How about if you skip lunches?” Terry said.
My phone rang. I was happy for the interruption. “Detective Lomax.”
“Detective, this is Ike Rose, Chairman of Lamaar Studios.” The man on the other end had a strong, clear voice, with no detectable accent.
“Sorry to meet you under such circumstances. What can I do for you?”
“The question is what can I do for you,” he said. “I want the person responsible for these two murders brought to justice, and whatever resources I can bring to bear for you, just let me know.”
Get the Governor off our fucking asses, I thought, but instead I just said, “We appreciate that, sir.”
“I’m flying back from Singapore,” he said. “Can you meet me tonight at eight o’clock? My home in Bel Air. I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but I have to leave for New York tonight at eleven.”
“It’s not an inconvenience,” I said. “My partner and I will be there, but since I don’t recognize your voice, I’ll have to ask you to call your Head of Security and have him call me, repeat the invitation, and give me the address.”
“Done,” he said. “See you tonight. Thank you.”
Thirty seconds later Curry called and made the invitation official. “He suggested that I tag along,” Curry said.
“No problem,” I said. “I’m glad you’ll be there.”
“Amy too.”
“Now I’m really glad you’ll be there,” I said. “One more thing. You’ve got a crooked fact checker working for you. His name is Anthony Caleo.”
“Caleo? The fact checker who cleared Elkins was Antonio Calleno.”
“I think they’re one and the same. Whatever his name is, your fact checker has a history of overlooking the facts if you pay him enough money. If I were you, I’d prosecute.”
“He left town,” Curry said. “His father died in Italy and he took off for the funeral.”
“Brian, I have a feeling he isn’t coming back to clean out his desk. When did he take off?”
“Monday afternoon. The day Elkins turned up dead.”
“Dumb question, but if you wanted to keep the Elkins murder a secret from the employees, how did Caleo find out so fast that he was killed?”
“He worked in HR. They’re the ones who keep all the secrets.”
I almost laughed, but I didn’t think Brian would think it was funny. “Look,” I said, “LAPD can’t invest any manpower trying to find Caleo. He’s a small-time grifter. We’re looking for a serial killer.”
“Agreed,” Curry said. “And if Mr. Rose wants to track him down, we’ll hire private. Right now our priorities are to check all the résumés Caleo-Calleno green-lighted, and, of course, to get you that list of grudge holders. I’ve been working with Darien and a few others, and we’ve done a first pass on people who’d really like to fuck Lamaar. We came up with fifty-seven so far.”
“Fifty-seven? I know I told you not to eliminate anyone, and now I’m paying for it. Do me a favor. You’ve got good cop instincts,” I said. I wasn’t sure he did, but I was trying to motivate him. “Take a hard look at the fifty-seven names you got and put a check mark next to the five you like best.”
“How about if I circle the names instead of checking them?” he said.
“Brian,” I said, losing patience fast. “Circles, squares, checks, stars, I don’t give a shit. Just help me prioritize the fucking list.”
“I already zeroed in on six. They’re circled. Go to your fax machine. I’ll see you tonight.” He hung up.
Six. Maybe Brian Curry wasn’t such a bad cop after all.
CHAPTER 33
The man behind the wheel of the Cadillac Escalade SUV had a Boston Irish face that was puffy from the good life. The veins on his nose said that alcohol had played a big part in it. He pushed the Scan button on the radio, and the dial jumped from station to station every five seconds.
“Are you listening to this?” he said to his passenger. Despite the fact that he lived in L.A. for half a century, he still had a lot of Hah-vahd Yahd in his voice. “The news is all-Lucas-all-the-time. As writ, my friend. As fucking writ.”
The round-shouldered lump in the front seat couldn’t help smiling at the compliment. Short of a Golden Globe or an Academy Award, ‘as writ’ was the ultimate praise a writer could get.
It meant that everything you wrote was produced as you wrote it. In a business rife with directors, divas, and studio executives whose sole purpose in life seemed to be rewriting what the writers had conceived, as writ was a rarity.
He shifted his body so he could look at the driver. “Thanks, but it didn’t take a genius to predict that if we murdered an international movie star, the press would be all over it.” He leaned over and turned off the radio. Then he shoved two Rolaids into his mouth and crunched down on them.
The driver shook his head. “How many of those fucking things you gonna pop?”
“The doctor says I need the calcium.”
“And I say you’re full of shit. You got a nervous stomach over all this?”
The writer could feel the acid eating away at what was left of his stomach lining. He shrugged. “Maybe a little. Who wouldn’t be?”
“We’re two for two,” the driver said. “What’s to be nervous about?”
“My wife was crying when she heard Ronnie Lucas was dead. She said she really liked him. What was I supposed to say to her? Everyone likes Ronnie? That’s one of the reasons we decided to kill him?”
“You decided,” the Irishman said. “Cr
edit where credit is due.”
“Don’t make me the fucking mastermind behind all this. I went along with it. But it wasn’t my idea.”
“Relax, for Christ’s sake. It went smooth. This next one will go smooth too. Keep cool.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’ve got nothing to lose if we…”
“Get caught?” The driver laughed. “Lucky me to have cancer.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean…it’s just that…”
“You sorry you signed on for this?”
Fucking A right I’m sorry I signed on. But he didn’t dare say it. The two men had known each other for decades. The short Texas Baptist and the strapping Boston Mick. They got drunk together, rich together, old together. But this was not the time to tell his old friend the truth. He had already written the scenario in his head. If the others caught on to the fact that he was having second thoughts, they would decide he was a weak link who might go to the cops, and they would hire someone to kill him.
“I believe in what we’re doing a hundred percent,” he said. “I just have to remember that when you go into battle there are always casualties. Let’s drop it for now.” He shoved a stubby finger against the CD button on the dashboard, and the two men listened to Sinatra for the rest of the trip.
CHAPTER 34
Eighty miles from downtown Los Angeles, The Ojai Valley sits on the edge of the majestic Los Padres National Forest, a few minutes from the Pacific Ocean. The little town of Ojai, surrounded by citrus groves and spectacular views, offers perfect weather, clean air, and safe, friendly neighborhoods.
For all its charm and desirability, many of the homes in Ojai are priced under a half million dollars, modest by Southern California standards.
The Escalade passed through the gates of one of the more substantial residences, a six-bedroom, multimillion-dollar stone-and-cedar architectural gem. The sun was dropping fast and a few purple-pink clouds hung overhead.
“It’s almost the end of April and you can still ski up there,” the driver said, pointing to the jagged white peaks in the distance.
The Rolaids and the Sinatra had calmed his passenger, who put on his upbeat game face. “When was the last time your fat Irish ass went down a ski slope?” he said, as he pressed the doorbell.
The houseman opened the front door.
“Freddy, tell me that’s liver and onions I smell,” the Irishman said.
“Yes, sir,” Freddy said. “But I was wondering if I could twist your arm and offer you a cocktail first.”
“Liver and onions and booze. For that you can twist any body part I got. I hate the fucking drive up here, but you always make it worth while.”
“Thank you, sir,” Freddy said, as the guests headed toward the bar in the media room.
“Good evening, boys,” the tall, gaunt man said, when his two cohorts entered the room. “How was your meeting with Fellini?”
The group had decided each of the hired assassins would have a code name. The Sicilian who killed Elkins had been Brutus. The tall Albanian who murdered Ronnie Lucas was Tom Thumb. The third operative was Fellini.
“Fellini checked into the Familyland Hotel yesterday and began scouting for our next victim,” the Irishman said, as he poured vodka into a tall glass.
The writer set a letter opener on the table. “Behold, the weapon.”
Their host picked it up and ran a finger over the long, thin steel blade. “It’s not very sharp.”
“That’s the way they sell it in the gift shop,” the Irishman said. “Believe me, the real one is sharp enough to slice a cunt hair down the middle lengthwise. I personally handed it to Fellini along with the flipbook and the letter.”
“Excellent. And did you discuss the victim?”
“We gave Fellini strict instructions,” the writer said, pouring himself some ginger ale to settle his stomach. “The victim will be a woman. And not just a woman. The script calls for a woman with children.”
A woman with children. That had been one of his finer plot nuances. “Ike Rose and the people at Lamaar will be afraid we’re planning on killing another one of their icons,” he had told the others, once he had worked out the scenario. “The fact that the next victim is a visitor will set their heads spinning, and the fact that she’s a mother will throw them into total corporate hysteria.”
“And who is this lucky woman who gets to die for our cause?” the host said.
“That’s up to Fellini. A single mom would be ideal. If she has a husband, the people at Lamaar will have a hard time keeping him quiet, and it works to our advantage if they can manage to sweep this one under the rug. But a single woman with kids may not be easy to find and then kill at Familyland.”
“And we’re still on target for Sunday?”
“Yes. It will be exactly one week since Elkins, and then,” Irish said, refilling the vodka glass that had already gone dry, “the shit will really hit the fan.”
“Eloquent, as usual,” the host said, “but I prefer to borrow a phrase from my days in the theatre.” He picked up the letter opener and pointed it playfully at the others. “And then, Curtain, End of Act One.”
“As writ,” the Irishman said, winking at his co-conspirator.
CHAPTER 35
Some people say that the true measure of a man is the size of his penis. Others, who are more enlightened, say it’s the size of his soul. But in Los Angeles, like in many places where the rich and shallow gather, it’s the size of his house.
If you live in this town, the odds are you’ve heard about Ike and Carolyn Rose’s house. And like large penises, it’s one thing to hear about it, but quite another to see it up close and personal.
I myself have never been impressed by big, expensive houses. They’re like big, expensive cars. You got one? Good for you. I get around just fine in my Acura, and it costs a lot less to operate. But I must admit that if I were the type to fall victim to habitat envy, the Rose house on Mapleton Drive could do it.
Where do I begin? The front gate, I guess. Two ornate, rose-colored, wrought-iron arches, towering almost thirty feet high, anchored to a pair of even taller stone columns that were the perfect matching shade of rosy pink, as if they came from an artist’s brush, and not an Italian quarry.
Terry and I, still in separate cars, arrived a few minutes before eight. I did a quick calculation, realized we were now in the thirteenth hour of our shift and the night was still young. Serial killers would get their rocks off knowing that they also shorten the life spans of a lot of homicide cops.
We each identified ourselves over the intercom, and a video camera zoomed in on our IDs. The gates swung open electronically, and we drove onto a cobblestone courtyard that was dotted with statuary. Some male, some female, all nude. There was also an oversized fountain that looked like it would be more at home in Florence than in Southern California.
There were no painted lines saying Poor People Park Here so I pulled up to the only two cars in the lot—a black Lincoln Navigator, which I figured must be Curry’s, and a fire-engine red Mazda Miata with the top down, which seemed like a fitting set of wheels for Amy. Terry pulled in next to me.
We climbed a short flight of wide, low-rise marble stairs and stood in front of a set of double doors which were only a modest fifteen feet high. The doormat, which was bigger than my living room rug, said Welcome to Rambling Rose. Obviously this house did not want to be treated like just another number. It had a name.
Before we could ring the bell, an Asian man in a dark suit opened one of the doors. “Good evening, Detectives,” he said. “I’m Herbert Lu. Mr. Rose is expecting you.”
I took a quick look around. The entranceway or foyer or whatever they call the vast space just inside the front door was only slightly smaller than the Astrodome. Fifty or sixty feet above us was a stained glass skylight, but it was too dark for me to get the full effect. A museum-quality chandelier was suspended from the center and stopped about twenty feet over our heads.
In fro
nt of us were the stairs. Not one of those trite, predictable, marble spiral staircases that seem to define New Money in Hollywood, but a gleaming, polished mahogany stairway that rose up from the center of the hall, then fanned out left and right, like a million-dollar version of the letter Y.
“Two words,” Terry whispered. “This is fucking awesome.”
Terry had grown up in a tiny Bronx apartment, which left him with a debilitating case of House Arousal. His palms sweat, his heart races, and he loses all ability to count. “That was four words,” I said. “Take deep breaths. You’ll be fine.”
Mr. Lu had no time for Cop Banter. “Mr. Rose and the others are waiting in the Master Library,” he said.
As opposed to what? The other six Minor Libraries that were sprinkled throughout the house? When does such a busy guy find time to read?
We followed Mr. Lu. He was lean, and even with the dark suit, I could see he was well defined. Probably worked out right here in one of the Minor Gyms reserved for the staff. He was in his fifties, maybe even sixty, but the way he carried himself I decided that however old he was, he’d have no trouble defending this fortress from invaders. I looked for the telltale bulge, but if he was strapped, it didn’t show. My guess was that his large sinewy hands were as lethal as any gun and a lot easier to get through airport security. He was definitely more bodyguard than butler.
We walked at a brisk pace, and I got a quick glimpse at some of the paintings, sculpture, crystal, and antique furniture I never see at IKEA or Target when I’m shopping for Casa de Lomax.
The Master Library was filled with hard-cover books and leathery, manly-man furniture and Nice Things on the Walls, but that’s as much attention as I paid to the décor. At that point, I was tired of seeing the things money could buy for others and fell back into my familiar “nice-house-but-who-gives-a-shit” mode. Terry, on the other hand, was still drooling.
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