“Three weeks later he issued his famous Memo From the Beach. After living, breathing, and soaking up every aspect of the Lamaar Company for less than one calendar month, he spent a weekend at his beach house in Malibu and wrote a fifty-seven-page document on how to fix it. He never said fix. He used ‘re’ words. Reshape, revitalize, resuscitate, reinvigorate, rejuvenate, re-energize, and my favorite—reanimate.
“The world has changed, he said. And for that they paid him millions. A new millennium is upon us. We have to give the people what they want. And for that they heaped stock options on him. And what in Mr. Ike Rose’s Talmudic opinion did the people want?”
Lamaar struggled to lift his head from the pillow and screamed at the camera. “Violence, profanity, infidelity, nudity, fathers fucking daughters and granddaughters. Incest. Innnnn-cesssst.”
His head fell back on the pillow. He put one hand over his eyes and took short, shallow breaths. A minute passed before he removed his hand from his eyes and spoke again. This time, his voice was calm, softer, a little raspy from the beating he had just given his ancient vocal cords. “Do you know the word heterodoxy, Mr. Lomax?” he said.
“No, sir.”
“It’s like heresy or blasphemy. A sin against God. My father used to use it in his sermons. Ike Rose committed heterodoxy. His first foray into reanimating my vision was a movie called Home for the Holidays.
“I told him it was a huge mistake. I said it would ruin the Lamaar image. He opened a new division called Freeze Frame to release it. He said this way the Lamaar name won’t be associated with an R movie. But that’s bullshit. The Fundamentalists know it’s a Lamaar film, the Christian Right knows it, The Moral Majority knows it. Who does that kike bastard think he’s kidding?
“I wanted to stop him, but I was powerless. They turned me into fucking Colonel Sanders. He created Kentucky Fried Chicken then sold it to a conglomerate. They put his face on every bucket of chicken, but he had no say in running the company. I too was stripped of my power. To make matters worse, the movie was a blockbuster. It cost $30 million to make and pulled in $266.4 million. Wall Street loved him.
“I knew what that meant. Little by little, the balance would shift until debauchery and depravity replaced morality and virtue. Familyland would become Paganland. My partners told me to stay calm. Today’s audiences aren’t looking for 1950s family fun, they told me. Lebrecht said R-rated movies are a sign of the times. But then I found out Ike Rose wasn’t stopping there. He’s been negotiating to build a multi-billion-dollar complex in Las Vegas. The Lamaar name right in the middle of America’s cultural hellhole—gambling, prostitution, drugs, all run by organized crime. That’s not the legacy I wanted when I died.”
He was breathing heavily, but while the voice analyzer clearly registered stress, the technician bent his thumb upwards to signal that it was also registering honesty.
“I hated Rose and everything he was doing. I couldn’t sleep. And then one night, I realized that Father had been right. My simple drawings had turned into a company that was a purveyor of filth. My only salvation was to destroy the Sodom and Gomorrah I had built. I was indeed its Creator, and I had the right—no, the obligation—to wipe it from the face of the Earth.
“I met with Kevin, Mitch, and Klaus. They were wealthy beyond imagination and they all knew I was responsible for the lives they had been blessed with. They were loyal. I didn’t have to prod them.
“We decided I should fake my own death. Everyone knew I hated the way the company was being run. If I were still alive, I would be a suspect. But if I were dead, I would have the power to orchestrate its demise. We put together a master plan the same way we used to produce a feature film. It didn’t happen overnight. It was fine-tuned, perfected. Nothing was left to chance. I have a question, Detective. How did you figure out I was still alive?”
“You made a videotape two days after you supposedly died,” I said. “We watched the source tape and there was a minor earthquake in the middle of filming. That time-stamped it for us.”
Lamaar shook his head. “Damn,” he said. “The earthquake…the fucking earthquake.” He let out a pitiful sigh.
“I have a question,” I said. “Why did you make the tape after you faked your death? Why didn’t you make it before?”
“I did, I did,” he said. “We shot it on May 19, two days before I died. It was supposed to be shown at my funeral. But the day after I faked my death and moved in here, Klaus came racing in and told me that the tape had been destroyed. It was sent out to be duped, but somehow it wound up in a box of tapes that were scheduled to be erased for re-use.
“I was devastated. I had wanted that tape to be my legacy, a testimonial to what I had created. Klaus said we could reshoot it. I remember ranting and raving that we couldn’t reshoot because I was dead. But he had a plan. Before dawn on May 23 we sneaked back into the studio, shot a second version, and backdated it. No one saw us. I remember that earthquake. I thought it was my father rumbling down in hell, pissed off that I really wasn’t dead.”
Henry Collins entered the room and held up a clear plastic bag. Inside the bag was a pink-and-white fuzzy hunk of fabric and wire mesh with a jagged cut along the bottom. It was Rambo’s ear.
“LAPD has a rabbit head that’s missing one of those,” I said.
“This is just one of a dozen things we’ve found that connects them,” Collins said. “Including Lebrecht’s phony passport. They didn’t go out of their way to hide anything.”
Church looked at the time remaining on the dialysis machine. “Another eight minutes and we’ll be done irrigating Lamaar’s kidneys. Let’s transport him back to L.A. I’ll need a Med-Evac. Set it down at the high school.”
“I’m on it,” Collins said and left.
“Mr. Lamaar,” Church said. “We have no more questions for now. As soon as you get unhooked from that machine we’re going to take you back to Los Angeles.”
“I don’t want to go back,” Lamaar said.
“Sir, with all due respect,” Church said, “you don’t have a choice. We’re in charge now.”
“No,” Lamaar said. “You’re not.” He picked up the empty syringe from the tray at his side.
“Sir?” Church said, and started to move toward him.
“Stop right there,” Lamaar said.
“What’s in the syringe, Mr. Lamaar?” Church asked.
“Nothing.” He smiled. “Just air. Thirty ccs of God’s good air.” He snapped the syringe into a piece of blue plastic that was on one of his blood lines.
“Dios mio.” It was Jesus.
“Jesus, what the fuck is going on here?” Church yelled.
Jesus moved toward the recliner. “Señor, por favor.”
“Don’t come any closer,” Lamaar said, and Jesus stopped a few feet from the chair. “The man asked you a question. He wants to know what’s going on.”
“There’s a luer lock on the return tube,” Jesus said. “It’s there if I have to inject antibiotics into the lines. But he just connected an empty syringe. The air bubble is like instant death. It will kill him in seconds.”
“Mr. Lamaar,” Church said. “We can negotiate here. You don’t even have to go to jail. A good lawyer can…”
“A good lawyer can what? Get me a nice corner suite at a home for the criminally insane? Save it, Mr. Church. I’m in charge of this production. Detective Lomax, I didn’t hear anyone yell ‘cut.’ Is that videotape still running?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Good. Because you’re only gonna get one take.”
His right forearm tightened as he pressed his thumb down hard on the plunger. He gasped sharply. His body seized up and convulsed for a few seconds, then his hand fell to his lap and his head dropped. A red light started to strobe and the monitor let out a series of shrill beeps alerting us to what we already knew.
The Prince of Joy and Laughter was finally dead.
CHAPTER 108
“Motherfucker!” Church
screamed. “Cocksucking, son of a…”
“Tape’s still rolling,” the technician said.
Church stormed over to the recliner and shoved two fingers into Lamaar’s carotid artery. “Jesus, turn that fucking thing off.” The nurse killed the beeping monitor.
Church pulled his fingers from Lamaar’s neck. “I think he’s done with the dialysis, too.” Jesus turned off the pump and began to recite the Hail Mary in Spanish.
“Quiet!” Church yelled. He checked his watch and turned to the camera in total disgust. “8:11 p.m. The suspect, Dean Lamaar, using an empty syringe, apparently pumped air into his dialysis line and killed himself. The coroner will determine actual cause of death. Stop the videotape.”
“Tape stopped,” the tech said.
Church scowled at Lamaar’s lifeless body. “Motherfucking, cocksucking, asshole fuck.” Jesus stared at the floor, his lips moving rapidly, either in silent prayer, or he was cursing out Church for hurling insults at his late patient.
“Come on, Garet,” I said. “Let’s step to the other side of the looking glass.” I put my arm on his shoulder and walked him through the magic bookcase into Lebrecht’s media room.
“When I was a rookie, I used to work with this old-timer, Sergeant Paulivici,” I said. “We had this running gag between us. Every time something really weird would happen on a case, I’d say, Paulie, now I’ve seen everything, and he’d say, Kid, you ain’t seen nothing yet. He was always right.”
“I think maybe this time you’re right,” Church said. “Now you have seen everything.”
Church assembled his agents and filled them in on the most recent demise of Dean Lamaar. “But don’t worry if you missed it,” he said. “The fucker killed himself on videotape, so the whole world can see how vigilant we are when we question a suspect. Henry, you still got a chopper coming to pick up Lamaar?”
“It’ll be here in fifteen,” Collins said.
“Get him a hearse,” Church said. “Lomax, Biggs, and I are taking the chopper back to L.A. You stay and finish searching the house. What’s the story on Lebrecht and Freddy?”
“They’re on the way back with Chandler and her team. Are we charging the nurse with anything?’
“I doubt if he’s involved with the operation, but I don’t want him wandering the streets just yet,” Church said. “Bring him in. Tell him he’s a material witness to a crime.”
Collins shrugged. “What crime?”
“Suicide.”
CHAPTER 109
When we got back to L.A., Terry called Kilcullen, and I asked Church how to reach Ike Rose. “I think we should give him the good news.”
He frowned. “Bad idea.” Then he shook his head. “Fuck it, the guy’s been through enough. Call him, but if it leaks that we nailed the people behind it, the rest of the network will scatter like roaches when the lights go on.”
He gave me a number with a 573 area code. Curry answered. “We got them,” I said. “You can’t come out of your spider hole yet, but we got them.”
“Hallelujah,” he said. “Who are they?”
“Kennedy, Barber, Lebrecht, and believe it or not, Dean Lamaar.”
“Elvis isn’t in on it, too, is he?”
“I know it sounds like movie magic, but I just spent two hours talking to Dean Lamaar.”
“He’s alive?”
“Not exactly.” I took Brian through the events of the past two days, ending with Lamaar’s on-camera suicide. His only response was a loud exhale.
“Can you tell me where you are?” I asked.
“I guess I can now. We’re guests of the President of the United States at the Fort Leonard Wood army base in Missouri.”
“How’d you swing that?”
“Ike called the President and said he needed to get his people the hell out of Dodge. Ten minutes later The Secretary of the Army called back and gave us a choice of four military bases. This one came with the continental breakfast, a Jacuzzi, and a strict no-tipping policy. Plus it’s in the middle of fucking nowhere, which helps us sleep better at night. When can we come back to L.A.?”
“Lamaar still has some wet workers in the field,” I said. “Give us some time to sweep them clean.”
“The stock market opens in the morning,” Brian said. “The sooner Ike can announce that these guys have been caught…”
“Brian, Garet was nervous that I could be jumping the gun by telling Ike. The people who are out there doing the killing are still out there. If Ike goes public, Garet Church will do a lot more than cut off his rabbit ears.”
“Understood. I’ll keep him in check,” he said. “Congratulations, bro. You just solved the biggest case of your career.”
“I didn’t solve it on my own. There were hundreds of people involved, including my girlfriend, who figured out that there was something fishy about the Deanie’s Farewell tape.”
“Mike, I got a flash for you. The TV news shows don’t want to interview hundreds of people who were involved. They want heroes. And you’re the guy who cracked the code. When this story breaks, it’s going to be front page from here to Oshkosh. And you, Detective Lomax, are about to become a media star.”
Brian was close. I didn’t exactly become a media star, but I definitely got my fifteen minutes.
CHAPTER 110
Mitch Barber sat in The Box, one ankle shackled to the leg of a gray metal table. It was a sterile room with gray industrial flooring and four white walls, one of which had a four-by-six-foot mirror built in. Barber stared at the mirror. Church, Terry, and I sat on the other side of it, staring back.
The door behind Barber opened and Agent Mal Strang, known to one and all as Patch, entered the room. He was tall and lanky, with parchment skin and wispy red hair. He was pushing retirement, the oldest agent I’d seen so far. He wore a black eye patch over his left eye.
“What happened to his eye?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Church said. “He only wears it to put people off.”
“Good evening, Mr. Barber,” Patch said.
“I want a lawyer,” Barber answered. “They read me my rights. I told them I want a lawyer.”
“If I had murdered as many people as you, I’d want one, too,” Patch said. “How old are you?”
“Eighty-one.”
“Enlighten me, sir,” Patch said. “At your advanced age, does the death penalty scare you?”
“Of course it scares me.”
“It’s not that bad, sir,” Patch said. “They strap you to a gurney, put the needle in your arm, turn the spigot. It’s not a bad way to die. In fact, in your case, it would be a fantastic way to die.”
Barber looked at him like he was nuts.
“And, sir, if you tell me what I want to know, I can personally guarantee you that you will die by lethal injection.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Barber said. “What happens if I don’t tell you what you want to know?”
“That would be ugly, sir,” Patch said. “You’d still get the death sentence, but we’d lock you up with a prison population of lifers, murderers, and sickos. No solitary. No isolation. No protection. It’s amazing how many convicted killers have a warped sense of justice. They see this rich old white guy and they think, Hey man, somebody’s gotta pay for them poor fucking souls who got murdered at Burger King. But they don’t kill you right away. You’ll wish they did, but they never do. Now that’s a terrible way to die. Would you like to avoid that?”
Barber started to whimper. He nodded his head.
“That’s where I come in, sir,” Patch said. “You and your partners have a bunch of hired assassins out there. I will give you thirty seconds to tell me who and where they are. When the thirty seconds are up, I’ll leave the room, and make the same offer to one of your partners. The first one of you to accept will live to see the needle. The other two get fucked.” He laughed. “Often and hard. Your thirty seconds starts now.”
Barber panicked. “It’s a good offer,” he said. �
��I’ll talk it over with my lawyer when he gets here.”
“I hope he doesn’t get stuck in traffic, sir,” Patch said, looking at his watch. “This offer will be retracted in sixteen seconds. Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen.”
“I have a good defense,” Barber said. “I was brainwashed by the others. They said they’d kill me if I backed out.”
“Ah, the famous Third Reich defense,” Strang said. “‘I was only following orders.’ Six, five, four.”
“This isn’t fair. This is blackmail,” Barber said.
“See what I mean by a warped sense of justice?” Patch said. “Here you are, a mass murderer, and you’re angry at me, a humble blackmailer. Your time is up, Mr. Barber. I guess I pegged you wrong, but I have the feeling that Mr. Kennedy is more the kind of man who will tell us anything to avoid being gang raped. Goodbye.”
He turned and headed for the door.
Barber screamed. “Stop, please, stop!”
Patch kept walking. He opened the door, stepped out, let the door close most of the way, then stuck his head back in the room. “Yes, sir?” he said.
“I accept,” Barber whimpered. “I’ll talk.”
CHAPTER 111
He talked. Names, specialties, how they were recruited, how they were paid. “We had a cast of ten,” he said. A cast. Three of them were still active.
Church took over for Patch. “What are they planning to do next?”
“Lebrecht told them to sit tight and wait for instructions.”
“And they’re willing to do that?” Church asked.
“They get paid by the day whether they work or not.”
“Well, let’s put them to work,” Church said. “That’s the only way we’re going to flush them out. How do you contact them?”
“Klaus contacts them by e-mail.”
An hour later Lebrecht’s PC was in the FBI computer lab. He had trashed his e-mail program, but it took the techies about a nanosecond to restore it.
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