Hollywood Hills hs-4

by Joseph Wambaugh

  He phoned Nigel Wickland’s cell phone ten minutes later and was not surprised to find his partner awake.

  “It’s me,” Raleigh said.

  Nigel said. “Please don’t tell me there’s something wrong with the replicas.”

  “No,” Raleigh said. “The Bruegers are leaving Italy and coming home.”

  Silence on the line and then, “My work will be tested a lot sooner than we thought. All right, what of it? Just don’t lose your head. The replicas look perfect. Just behave as you always do and it will be fine.”

  “You haven’t heard anything about your van yet, have you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “If you do hear anything… let me know ASAP.”

  “Why?” Nigel said. “Are you going to reimburse me if the thieves strip it?”

  “I’ll feel a lot better when you get the van back, that’s all,” Raleigh said. “So just let me know if it gets impounded for any reason.”

  Nigel clicked off without responding.

  Raleigh wondered if Nigel Wickland was serious when he talked about shooting himself if the thieves got caught. If that happened, suicide didn’t seem to Raleigh like such a bad idea.

  Jonas Claymore and Megan Burke had decided to spend every last dollar she’d wheedled from her mother and buy enough ox to chase the dragon all weekend. This because they would have a windfall as soon as they figured out the best way to approach art dealers with the paintings. It was when he felt euphoric that Jonas got his latest idea.

  He tried to roust Megan out of her stupor and was only half successful. He said, “Baby, I got it.”

  “Got what?” she mumbled.

  “It’s too fucking risky to be messing with art dealers or auction houses. What I think we should do is make them pay us ransom!”

  “Ransom?” she said drowsily.

  “Yeah,” he said. “We call the Wickland Gallery on Monday morning and we talk to the boss there and we say we know how they fucked up the other night and got their paintings swiped, but we’d like to help get them back. Shit, I could even tell him where to pick up his van as an act of good faith. You on this?”

  “Uh-huh,” she muttered.

  “Then get your head in it. All we gotta do is negotiate the price and tell them if they go to the police, we slash the paintings to pieces. Then we set up a money drop. I seen this done a million times in the movies, so I know all the tricks.”

  “Tricks?” she said.

  “What’s the use?” he said. “You’re all spun out. I could get more companionship from a hamster.”

  Jetsam’s neck spasm was not responding to muscle-relaxing drugs and he was advised by his doctor to take a few days off and rest at home. When he phoned Flotsam and told him about it, his partner said, “Do what the croakers tell you, dude. There’s some good surfing coming down and you don’t wanna miss it. So take it easy and rest up.”

  When Jetsam found out that Flotsam was partnered with Nate, he said, “Bro, I’m glad you got teamed with Hollywood Nate. He is like, so hormonally ingenious and cinematically dialed-in, he might put you onto some scintillating starlets from his movie ventures.”

  “He ain’t done it yet, dude,” Flotsam said. “But if he does, I’ll save them for when my li’l pard comes back. I won’t use them all up without you.”

  Hollywood Nate was glad that Snufffy Salcedo was still recuperating, because roll call that night would have driven him mad. The watch commander was conducting it instead of Sergeant Murillo, and he was droning on about the chief’s pet program, the thing he brought with him to the LAPD from the East Coast.

  The lieutenant said, “You should pay particular attention to reporting districts six-forty-three and six-forty-four. CompStat indicates unusual four-five-nine activity there. I’d like some explanations as to why these crimes are happening.”

  Everyone glanced at one another and eyes rolled, and Sergeant Murillo arrived in the nick of time, entering the room and saying, “Lieutenant O’Reilly, call for you from the captain. About the inspection next week.”

  “Oh, yes,” the watch commander said, and went downstairs to take the call.

  Sergeant Murillo sat and said, “Let’s see, what were we talking about?”

  The whole attitude of the troops changed with Sergeant Murillo in charge, and Flotsam said with a smirk, “The super chief’s baby, of course. CompStat. You know, like, let’s explain why this crime happened, where it happened, how it happened, et cetera. What I’d like to say is, it happened because some dude’s been shooting up too much dope and needs money and he kicked down a door to find some. Period. End of story.”

  “We can’t say things like that,” Georgie Adams griped. “With CompStat, nothing is allowed to be random crime. Random is not in the CompStat lexicon. Yet, these’re just jump-on crimes, Sarge. They happen.”

  “But we gotta come up with some goofy answer,” Hollywood Nate said, echoing what he’d heard so many times from Snuffy Salcedo. “Because Mister brought it from back East, and the mayor thinks it’s some kind of special juju, and the media has bought into it, and it’s bullshit.”

  “It’s all about putting the cops on the dots,” Viv Daley said. “You put a pin map on a PowerPoint and it’s supposed to do some kind of magic numbers-crunching.”

  Della Ravelle said, “It’s nothing but pin maps that’ve been around a hundred years but without the computers back then. CompStat is supposed to figure out trends, but what if, like Georgie says, most of street crime is random? We’re expected to invent trends to justify a theory. Mister is a master at stroking City Hall and conning the media.”

  Viv Daley said, “Back East where Mister comes from, not everybody has a car, so crimes can come in clusters in a small area, and cops can maybe look for trends there. But L.A. is a city on wheels. Everybody has at least one car. Everybody’s in motion. One bad guy can scatter his offenses like cold germs all over the map. Where’s the trend?”

  Hollywood Nate said, “I’m gonna create a two-sentence book called CompStat for Dummies. The book will say, ‘It’s a computerized pin map, stupid. Now just go in there and do your Kabuki dance for the chief.’ Think it’ll sell down at PAB?”

  It all stopped when Lieutenant O’Reilly came back into the roll call room and said to Sergeant Murillo, “Did you discuss CompStat and its importance?”

  “Absolutely,” Sergeant Murillo said. “And everybody here is onboard a hundred percent. It’s the best thing that’s happened to the LAPD since Kevlar vests and semiautomatics.”

  Lieutenant O’Reilly looked for irony in his sergeant’s expression but nodded and said, “Fine. Let’s go to work.”

  The moment 6-X-32 drove out of the parking lot and cleared, Hollywood Nate got a cell call. He didn’t recognize the number but answered, and Leona Brueger said, “Hi, gorgeous.”

  “Mrs. Brueger!” Nate said. “Are you home?”

  “Leona, remember?” she said. “And no, I’m not. It’s the middle of the night here and I couldn’t sleep and started thinking of you.”

  “That’s… that’s flattering,” Nate said.

  “I had too much champagne at dinner,” Leona Brueger said. “It always wrecks my sleep. How about talking sexy to me until I get drowsy?”

  Nate said, “I’m, uh, just leaving Hollywood Station with my partner beside me, preparing to crush crime and terrify lawbreakers. I don’t see how I can do that.”

  “Bad timing,” she said. “The story of my life.”

  “Maybe you’ll invite me to a dinner party when you get back,” Nate said. “With some of the industry people?”

  “You actors,” she said. “One-track minds. Okay, I’ll let you guardians of law and order do your thing, but how about checking on my house? Rudy told me that our butler sounded a bit stressed the last time he called. Just make sure everything’s okay.”

  “Absolutely,” Nate said. “I’ll stop by this evening. See you when you get back.”

  “You’ll be seeing me
sooner than you think,” she said. “Bye-bye, gorgeous.”

  Nate closed his cell and said to Flotsam, “I need to make a quick stop up in the Hills.”

  That piqued Flotsam’s interest. “Yeah?” he said with a leer. “You got some smokin’ hot Hills honey up there? Maybe a stupendous starlet from one of your SAG jobs? How about an introduction? My li’l pard and me, we’ll take your leftovers.”

  “Not exactly that,” Nate said. “I met a director who’s asked me to check on the house of his girlfriend. They’re off in Italy for a couple of months. I’ve been meaning to stop but I haven’t had time.”

  “What’s the girlfriend look like?”

  “Old enough to be your mother and mine,” Nate said. “But she’s still pretty hot.”

  “The miracles of modern medicine,” Flotsam said. “My partner met a chick a year or so ago that was rebuilt from spare parts. T and A, all of it. She looked great, but he said he was scared to touch her for fear something would fall off.”

  “We’ll just take a minute to ring the bell and ask the butler if everything’s okay,” Nate said. “And I’ll leave my card to prove I’ve been there.”

  “Is he, like, gonna put you in a movie?”

  “That’s the idea,” Nate said. “I’m thirty-eight years old. My time’s running out.”

  “I’m thirty-five, dude,” Flotsam said. “That’s the good thing about the surfing life. You can do it till your libido expires and way beyond. There’s no sell-by date as long as your knees keep working.”

  As Nate drove up toward Woodrow Wilson Drive, he said, “Magic hour. This is the best time to shoot movies. The light… it’s magic up here.”

  “Dude, when you get to be a star and buy a crib up in the Hills, I’d like to be your part-time houseboy. I know you’re gonna have them starstruck Susies all over you, and my partner and me, we could take turns working for table scraps and whatever Bettys you leave still breathing when you’re done with your monkey sex.”

  “I’ll try to leave them breathing,” Nate said.

  “I hear that the homicide teams ain’t too fond of the people that live up in the Hills,” Flotsam said. “They’re, like, way too busy arranging their toothbrushes according to feng shui to talk to coppers. The detectives are, like, ‘Well, please give us a call after the kid’s yoga, soccer, and lacrosse. It’s only serial murder we’re looking into.’ Me, I prefer the people in east Hollywood, who have their kids the old-fashioned way. The brats up here go around saying, ‘We’re in vitro twins,’ or, ‘I’m a reversal,’ referring to daddy’s vasectomy turnaround. It’s all too weirded for me. But I wouldn’t mind one of them trophy bride Hills-honeys who like to get their religion on.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Flotsam said, “You know, they go, ‘Oh my god, oh my god!’ when they finally get nailed by someone from their own generation after sleeping so long with semi-erect sugar daddies.”

  “I’ll try to remember all that,” Nate said. “When I get to be a star.”

  Hollywood Nate found the address written on Rudy Ressler’s card, stopped at the drive-in gate, and pushed the call button.

  Raleigh Dibble’s voice said, “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Police officers,” Hollywood Nate said. “Could you let us in, please?”

  Raleigh stood petrified in the billiards room, where he’d been shooting pool to kill time as the hands of the clock on the wall seemed locked in place. And now he was paralyzed by the telephone voice. The voice said again, “Hello? Police officers. We need to come in, please.”

  Raleigh pushed the appropriate phone key, put down the pool cue, and walked into the foyer. He vaguely thought about getting something warm to wear because he knew from experience that a jail cell was a chilling experience, even during an arid day like this, when the Santa Anas were baking the Hollywood Hills.

  The black-and-white had already parked in front of the entry arch, and the uniformed officers were getting out by the time Raleigh opened the door, hoping that the handcuffs would not be cinched so tightly this time. He remembered how they’d bruised his wrists when he’d been transported from courtroom to jail.

  He thought that it would be detectives who brought him in this time, but then he remembered that detectives might not be working on the weekend, and he would no doubt see them on Monday morning. He decided to tell these uniformed cops that he had no wish to speak to them without a lawyer present, but on Monday he would make a deal with the detectives and spill his guts. The first thing he’d talk about would be the mastermind, Nigel Wickland.

  The tall, suntanned cop was looking around at the grounds as though he were a potential buyer. The good-looking one was smiling, and he presented a business card to Raleigh, saying, “I’m Officer Nate Weiss from Hollywood Division. Mr. Ressler asked me to stop by and check on the property. And you are?”

  He needed to swallow twice before saying, “Raleigh Dibble. I’m the butler and caretaker here. Mrs. Brueger is away.”

  “Yes, that’s what I was told by Mr. Ressler,” Nate said. “I just wanted to introduce myself and tell you that we’re keeping an eye on things, and if you need anything from us, call me personally. My cell number is on the back.”

  Raleigh said with much emotion, “Thank you! Thank you, Officer!”

  “Do you know what date they’ll be returning?” Nate asked.

  “Tomorrow,” Raleigh said. “They’re coming back tomorrow, I think.”

  “Really?” Nate said, wondering why Leona Brueger had not mentioned that. The woman was full of secrets and surprises.

  Raleigh displayed a lopsided toothy smile that seemed inappropriate to Nate, especially when the butler said, “Mrs. Brueger’s brother-in-law had a stroke and they’re coming home to take care of him.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Nate said. “Please tell Mrs. Brueger and Mr. Ressler that I stopped by and that we’ve been keeping an eye on the place since they’ve been gone. Will you be sure to tell them that?”

  “I’ll be glad to, Officer,” Raleigh said.

  When the cops were driving out the gate, Flotsam said, “I was hoping he’d invite us inside. I wanted to take a tour of that crib to see what it’s gonna be like when I’m your houseboy.”

  “He’s a peculiar guy,” Nate said. “He looked like he just got bad news from an oncologist when we arrived, but at odd moments his smile got beamier than Oprah’s ass.”

  “Who cares? I’ll bet the swimming pool’s big enough to surf on,” Flotsam mused.

  “Something’s not normal with that guy,” Nate went on.

  “Dude, you were expecting normal?” Flotsam said. “This is fucking Hollywood.”

  A short time later they spotted a young man running south on Orange Drive from Hollywood Boulevard, dodging pedestrians, holding something under his shirt. They felt sure he’d snatched a purse from one of the tourists on the Walk of Fame and they closed in on him and caught him two blocks south. They ordered him to put his hands on his head.

  He did, and the hidden object fell to the pavement. It was a box containing a pepperoni pizza that he was trying to keep warm until he got back home with his girlfriend to watch American Idol.

  “See what I mean, dude?” Flotsam said to Hollywood Nate. “It’s this geography.”

  TWENTY

  On Monday morning, Jonas was awake early, feeling electric at the prospect of making real money for the first time ever. He felt the old vibration mode as though he’d been doing crystal meth again, which he had not. He believed that his tweaking days were over now that he’d learned the joys of ox. Jonas’s hands were shaking noticeably while he was trying to get some orange juice into himself to wash down one of the peanut butter sandwiches that Megan had made for their breakfast.

  She swept the little kitchen and made a halfhearted attempt to wipe down the stovetop. But when she opened the refrigerator to give it a wipe, she gave up. There was so much spilled juice and milk and jelly and ice cream on the
shelves that she’d have needed a garden hose to clean it.

  Megan had even washed a load in the coin-operated washer in the community laundry room that they shared with five other apartments, and she had the clothes in the dryer by the time Jonas finished his sandwich. She was hoping for a word of appreciation.

  “Try to dress a little nice for once” was all he said, sneering at her cutoffs and coffee-stained T-shirt.

  Even when she was feeling halfway decent he managed to ruin it for her, so she said, “Why? Are we doing lunch at the Bel Air Hotel?”

  “Meg,” he said, as soberly as possible. “This is gonna be the biggest day of your life. This is way big. You and me gotta look and act… professional. In case.”

  She leaned against the drainboard, one hand on her hip, and said, “In case of what, Jonas?”

  “That’s the thing!” he said. “I don’t know. I’d like to call that house up there if I had the number, but I don’t. So we’re gonna call the Wickland Gallery and jist-”

  “Wing it.”

  “Right.”

  Megan said, “Don’t think for one minute that I’m going to talk for you on this one. Like when you had me talk to the maid after you got the phone number of that no-name actress whose house we were supposed to burgle. She told me to go fuck myself in Spanish and English both.”

  Jonas said, “Don’t start bitching at me, Megan. Put on something clean and we’ll go to the public phones at the cybercafé and make the call. I gotta think of the best way to show the owner that we’re serious people he can deal with.”

  Ruth had opened the Wickland Gallery that morning, which was a bit unusual. Normally, by the time she arrived, Nigel Wickland would already have coffee brewing and croissants set out. She was as meticulously groomed as ever and had removed her teal jacket, hanging it in the little closet in Nigel’s office.

  When he did arrive at 10 A.M., he looked terrible. His eye pouches sagged and his orbs were red-rimmed and watery. His beautiful mane of white hair had been hastily combed, and he was wearing exactly the same shirt, jacket, necktie, and trousers that he’d worn on Friday. That had never happened before in the years she’d worked at Wickland Gallery.