by Alan Russell
“Whatever the gunman was looking for,” I said, “he didn’t find it. Since that’s the case, I doubt he’ll bother to come back.”
“You think so?” she asked.
“I do,” I said.
But I still wondered what had brought him to the shelter in the first place.
Chapter Twenty
Don’t Call Us, We’ll Call You
Before leaving Angie’s Rescues, I made a call to Vincente Calderon, a tech I know who works in the Firearm Analysis Unit of LAPD’s Forensic Science Division.
“Qué pasó, Vincente?” I said. “This is Michael Gideon.”
“Neither wheedling, nor sweet-talking, nor cajoling will move you up in line, Gideon,” he said. “If it’s not time sensitive—and those parameters are defined very narrowly—we’ll get to whatever you want us to look at based on the date of your request.”
“‘Cajoling’?” I said. “‘Wheedling’? I think you must have me mistaken for someone else.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “What’s the purpose of your call?”
“I wanted to give you a heads-up about a file I’m sending your way. It’s CCTV video of a man walking around an animal shelter brandishing a gun with a sound suppressor. I’m hoping you can use your magic to determine the make and model of the gun, as well as the suppressor. From what I could see, there wasn’t any good face shot available, but maybe you can slow it down and find something. Short of that, I’m curious if you can give us your best guess as to the height and weight of the intruder, and whether you can determine if there is anything else that might help us identify the suspect.”
“Identifying the gun and suppressor shouldn’t be hard,” he said. “However, if you want face shots or anything of that nature, we’ll have to pass on the file to Photography.”
“What’s most important to me is getting the make and model of the gun. Any advice on expediting that process?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Fill out the paperwork correctly.”
“Don’t call us, we’ll call you?”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“That’s because I’m just quoting you from the last time we talked.”
“And who says you don’t listen?”
“What’s the expected wait these days?”
“Three, four weeks if you’re lucky.”
“What if you unofficially look at the tape for two minutes, and then send me the Vincente best guess on the gun?”
“Remember when you were a kid waiting in line and someone else tried to cut in? That’s when you and everyone else would start yelling, ‘No cutsies.’”
“I’m not cutting in line. It’s more like I’m asking for clarification on something you might be able to tell me at a glance.”
“You should have been a lawyer, Gideon.”
“Now, that’s a low blow. But I’ll forgive you if you look at the tape.”
“I can live without your forgiveness.”
“Thank you for your consideration.”
Calderon hung up on me, which wasn’t totally surprising.
In the subject line of the email containing the file footage, I wrote, Pretty please with a cherry on top. And in the body of the email, I added, Forget two minutes. I’d even be happy with a one-minute thumbnail sketch.
Confessions of a squeaky wheel, I thought. I wasn’t sure if Calderon would budge in his timeframe; time would tell.
My next call was to a fish restaurant in Calabasas that Chase Durand—one of the three wannabe directors of Macho Libre, who referred to himself as Marty—had conveniently provided as his workplace on social media. The hostess confirmed that Chase was working that day. After learning they were a dog-friendly restaurant, I made a reservation and requested that Chase be my server.
There was time enough for me to do some shopping, so on the way home I stopped at a pet-supply store. I had in mind a specific animal carrier, and though they had various crates, cages, and kennels, there was nothing like what I wanted. The year before, I’d use my garden cart to help transport a wounded Angie, and I decided to employ it once more. It had been big enough for Angie, so it would easily accommodate Emily.
After I got home, I made a bed inside the cart, and then lifted Emily inside. She made no move to try and get out, and seemed pleased with me doing the pulling of her rickshaw. Sirius jogged at her side as we wheeled it out to the car. Then Emily was lifted onto a seat in the car, and her transportation was stowed in the back.
Our destination was the Commons at Calabasas, one of those outdoor malls with a little bit of everything. We arrived before noon and got a parking space near the restaurant where I’d made the reservation. I pulled my makeshift buggy. Passersby probably expected to see a baby inside; instead, they got a scarred pit bull.
Despite the good weather, no one had yet opted for outdoor dining at the restaurant. I lifted Emily from the cart, and she and Sirius did their sniffing of the patio. Finally, they settled on a table. I tied Emily’s leash to one of the table legs, and with a voice command told Sirius to lie down and await my return.
After cutting through the patio, I walked up to the hostess stand, where a young, petite blond woman greeted me. “My name is Gideon,” I said. “I had a reservation for the patio and requested Chase as my server. My entire party is here.”
The hostess’s brows furrowed. “Aren’t you a single?” she asked.
“Yes and no,” I said. “I was told I could dine on the patio with my two dogs.”
“Oh, that’s great!” she said. “I’ll make sure the busser brings out two water bowls.”
“Much appreciated,” I said.
“No worries,” she said. “Chase should be out to see you very shortly.”
I retraced my steps to the patio and received a standing ovation and tail wagging commensurate with my time away. Since Emily was already up, I removed her e-collar.
There were saltines and oyster crackers on the table. I opened the oyster crackers, popped a few in my mouth, and then threw one Sirius’s way. He nonchalantly snagged it out of the air. Then I threw one to Emily. It was apparent no one had ever tossed a treat to her, as she had not yet developed any mouth-eye coordination and it bounced off her head.
“It’s a bad habit anyway,” I said, and took one of the crackers and carefully offered it up to her. Some dogs aren’t very mindful of fingers when being given snacks; Emily comported herself like a well-trained lady, carefully taking the oyster cracker out of my hand.
“Your full name must be Emily Post,” I said, and turned to Sirius. “Perhaps she’ll teach you manners.”
He was watching me carefully, ready to be tossed another cracker. I obliged him.
Our waters were served by a cheerful Mexican busser who looked to be about the age of Mateo Ramos. In a thick accent he said, “Good morning.”
“Morning,” I said.
He paused in his reply to think. “I guess it is afternoon,” he said.
I looked at the time, saw it was just past noon, and nodded. “Buenas tardes,” I said.
“Buenas tardes,” he agreed.
Chase Durand appeared right after the busser left us. He had long hair, styled and parted down the middle, brown with blond highlights. Unlike the busser, he didn’t seem at all pleased to see me, or the dogs. His pout grew even more pronounced when I put my wallet badge down on the table. I didn’t read him his rights, but I wanted to make sure he knew who I was. Apparently, that wasn’t necessary.
“I’ve been told I shouldn’t be talking to you,” he said.
“Who told you that?”
He didn’t directly answer, but instead said, “I should have a lawyer present when you ask me questions.”
“Fine by me,” I said. “Is your lawyer available now?”
“I’m working,” Chase said.
“We’re both working. That means I don’t have time to play social secretary with you, me, and your lawyer. If you want, I can assign a time for the three
of us to talk tomorrow.”
In a surly voice he said, “What do you want to know?”
“You can start with today’s specials,” I said.
That threw him off for a second, but then he transitioned from suspect to server. “We have grilled salmon with a beet-top salsa verde and a lemon-ginger yogurt. And we also have a grilled Mediterranean-style swordfish with artichokes, kalamata olives, capers, roasted red peppers, and grape tomatoes, served on a bed of rice.”
Neither special made me salivate. My two friends were salivating, but I suspected that was because of the oyster crackers in my hand.
“I’ll have the fish and chips,” I said. “And they’ll have the fish and chips.”
“Two separate orders?”
I nodded.
“Anything to drink?” he asked.
“The water is good.”
“Anything else? An appetizer, soup, or salad?”
“Caesar salad,” I said. “No anchovies.”
“Very good,” he said, resorting to server speak. “Will that be everything?”
“As tempting as it might be,” I said, “I’d ask you to not spit in my food. That’s a felony. Last year a server learned that lesson the hard way when a DNA analysis was done on some food that a table asked to be boxed up. The diners grew suspicious that their food might have been adulterated after opening one of the takeout containers and seeing what looked like expectorant. That’s a roundabout way of me warning you that cops frequently work with DNA, and we’re naturally suspicious.”
“That warning wasn’t necessary,” said Chase, assuming a posture of rectitude.
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” I said.
And it probably wasn’t, but at least I’d have some peace of mind when the food arrived. Servers have a tough job, and I know it’s not wise to get on their bad side. Still, like it or not, I had a reason for being there, and I didn’t want Chase to retaliate against me with anything other than cold food and bad service. I could live with those.
There are some jobs I know I’m woefully ill-equipped to handle. Being a waiter is one of them. Servers need to have the patience of Job. That’s not me. I would be a Sweeney Todd kind of server and spend much of each shift fantasizing about how to go about killing my patrons and recycling them.
As the minutes passed, the patio area began to fill up with other diners, but none of them had dogs. Chase brought out my Caesar salad. “Pepper?” he asked.
“Please,” I said.
He did some grinding, and I said, “Thank you.”
Instead of taking his leave, Chase nervously shifted his pepper grinder from hand to hand. In a low voice meant just for me, he said, “I was just helping with Jason’s film. I wasn’t even paid.”
“So it was charity work on your part?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “There was an informal agreement that if the film or films were released, I’d get twenty-five percent of the profits.”
“I thought Hollywood accounting made sure there were never such things as profits.”
“That’s true in theatrical movies,” Chase said, “but not necessarily in shorts or direct to DVD.”
“So Macho Libre was going to be a short?”
Chase opened his mouth, and then closed it. “That’s something you’ll need to ask Jason. I think he was envisioning a series of shorts. He talked about putting teasers on YouTube, and then streaming the film for money, or making it available through DVD.”
“You didn’t pay for anything?”
He shook his head. “It was financed by Jason and . . . ”
Chase reconsidered saying the second name. I wasn’t as reticent. “Brad Steinberg?” I asked. “Aka Hitch? And Jason was Quentin and you’re Marty?”
His face reddened. “Those names were just in fun,” he said, trying to explain.
“So Brad and Jason financed the film?”
“Brad paid for most of it. It must be nice being a trust fund baby.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I wouldn’t either. You think I’d be working this job if I was?”
“Brad has a trust fund?”
“His family has money. Right now, he’s going to USC film school and getting his MFA. That will cost a boatload of money.”
“Did you go to film school?”
He nodded. “That’s where I met Jason. The two of us graduated last May.”
“Where did you go?”
“We were undergrads at Cal State Northridge, majoring in film production. Neither of us could afford USC, so we went to what’s called ‘the people’s film school.’”
I didn’t bother to tell him I’d also gone to CSUN, where I’d been an undeclared major for most of my too many years there.
“Did you get your degree?”
Chase nodded and said, “For all the good that’s done me. That’s why I’ve been trying to do some shorts on a shoestring. If I don’t get an entry-level job in the industry, the shorts might help me get into graduate school.”
“But not USC?”
“The University of Spoiled Children?” he asked. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good school, but I could never go there without a scholarship.”
Then he took his leave of the table by saying, “Duty calls.”
I chewed on my salad and on our conversation. Chase hadn’t clung very long to his threat to lawyer up. Of course the cynic in me guessed that he had decided to act out the role of the sincere-but-poor film student, all the while minimizing his involvement with Macho Libre. But why was he reluctant to talk about someone else’s failed movie that had been shut down, purportedly for lack of funds? Why was it a sensitive subject for all those involved? Jason Cunningham had clearly called Chase and Brad, warning them about talking with me.
The busser came around with a water pitcher. He refilled my glass, and then poured water in the two water bowls.
“Ah, poor doggie,” he said to Emily. “You hurt?”
Emily waved her nubbin, glad for his attention. He offered his hand and she licked it. Then he ran his hand along her neck.
“Her leg was broken,” I explained, “but it seems to be healing well.”
He gestured to all the stitching and scabs. “What happen?”
My Spanish wasn’t good enough to explain adequately. My English was probably not good enough either. Evil is not easily expounded upon. It’s an ugliness like a bad cancer, and too often, like cancer, it’s hidden from view.
“Bad people,” I said. “They caused her to be hurt.”
“That is a shame,” he said.
The way he said the word shame—casting it in evil and sorrow—was just right.
“Yes,” I said, “a shame.”
Chase appeared right after the busser left. He carried out a tray with my orders of fish and chips. The entrees came with coleslaw, malt vinegar, several lemon slices, and tartar sauce.
“I brought two plastic plates for the dogs,” he said. “Do you want me to serve them?”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I can take care of that.”
“Can I get you anything else?” he asked.
“I’m good,” I said. “Although I am curious as to what WW is.”
“WW?” he asked.
“On social media you referred to the movie that you and your friends were doing as WW. I’ve been wondering what that stood for.”
“I—I can’t recall,” Chase said, and then hurried off.
He couldn’t pull off the scene. It was probably a good thing that he wanted to be a director instead of an actor.
At the appearance of the fish and chips, my dogs roused themselves from their sleepy stupor and were suddenly alert. I cut up the fish my friends were having, making sure there were no bones. I also scraped away the breading so they were getting mostly fish. It was a case of do as I say, not as I do, as I ate my fish with all the batter intact. Fish and chips are comfort food; all of us were comforted.
With full stomachs, we enjoyed the warmth
of the sun. Eventually, Chase reappeared and asked, “Can I interest you in dessert?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “Just the check.”
He returned with it a few minutes later. Instead of giving him a credit card, I offered him my business card.
“I don’t know what happened during the shoot,” I said, “but I do know that whoever talks first always gets the best deal. Call me.”
He didn’t say anything, but he did take my card. I ended up paying in cash and gave him a twenty-five percent tip for presumably not spitting in my food.
Chapter Twenty-One
Once Upon an Octopus
I opened the car windows, fired up my laptop, and wrote a report of my lunch meeting. Whenever possible, I always try and get everything down while it’s still fresh in my mind. The reports aren’t only for my own record keeping. If a case goes to court, defense lawyers always request copies of any reports. That’s reason enough to try and get everything right. The prospect of having defense lawyers hold your feet to the fire is always great motivation.
Now that I’d talked to both Jason Cunningham and Chase Durand, there was only one member of the “tres amigos” wannabe directors’ club left to contact. I called the number I had for Brad Steinberg but got a recording. It was possible he was in class, or he might have been ducking my calls. Either way, I was confident I could track him down in the next day or two. I had his home address, a good idea of his school schedule, and I knew his favorite haunts based on his social media postings. In fact, he made a habit of posting from one particular Starbucks on Ventura Boulevard in Tarzana most mornings at 8:30 and most afternoons at around 4:30. He must have liked both the coffee and the complimentary Wi-Fi; from what I could determine, it was his home away from home.
My cell phone rang, and on the display I could see Bud Bennet was calling. “Budweiser,” I said.
“Wiser, no,” he said, “but we might have gotten lucky.”
“I’m listening.”
“Yesterday you asked me to expand my search and see if in nearby counties there were reports of any dead dogs suspected to have been involved in dogfighting. Lo and behold, I hit pay dirt in San Bernardino County. Two years ago, half a dozen dogs were left in a remote desert location about thirty miles from the Nevada border. As it so happens, three of those dogs had bullet wounds.”