Hollywood Hills hs-4

by Joseph Wambaugh

  “He was double-parked in a van the other night and I warned him to move on,” Nate said.

  “Yeah? He seems to get a lotta warnings,” Georgie said. “We also gave him one a few days ago.”

  “Was he driving a cargo van at the time?”

  Georgie shook his head and said, “A VW bug.”

  “He works for an art gallery,” Nate said with a grin. “He’ll sell you crappy paintings on the cheap.”

  “Not him,” Georgie said. “He’s unemployed.”

  “Bullshit,” Hollywood Nate said. “Open the tank for a minute.”

  Georgie opened the door, and Nate said, “Hey, man, remember me?”

  Jonas gave Nate a glum look and said, “No.”

  “You were double-parked in Thai Town delivering crappy art. Remember?” Nate said.

  “You got the wrong guy,” Jonas said, alert now and worried.

  “Dude,” Nate said. “You were driving a fucking van. It had the name of an art gallery on it. Wicker. Something like that.”

  “Not me, Officer,” Jonas said. “I’m outta work. This officer and his partner stopped me last week when I was on my way to a job interview up in the Hollywood Hills.” He turned to Georgie Adams and said, “Ain’t that right, Officer?”

  “Wickland,” Nate said. “It was the Wickland Gallery. You were doing a delivery for them.”

  Jonas managed his most sincere smile and said, “I look like a bunch of people, Officer. This always happens. People confuse me with somebody else. No, it wasn’t me. I’m unemployed.”

  Hollywood Nate looked at Georgie Adams and said, “I even remember his voice. It’s him. What the hell’s going on here?”

  Before Nate and Flotsam went back into the field, Nate decided to call the Wickland Gallery, but he got a recorded message giving the gallery’s daytime store hours. Then Nate called the Beverly Hills Police Department and tried to find out if there had been a van reported stolen by the owner of the Wickland Gallery on Wilshire Boulevard. Viv Daley was on the computer, doing what she could without having a license number to work with. All responses were negative.

  “Better leave a note for the detectives or call them in the morning,” Viv suggested to Hollywood Nate.

  “He was double-parked in front of an apartment building,” Nate said. “I wish I’d seen which apartment he came out of.”

  Georgie said, “If that van wasn’t hot, then Jonas Claymore does work for the Wickland Gallery and he was doing something extracurricular over there in Thai Town that night. It could mean anything.”

  Flotsam said to Hollywood Nate, “Dude, maybe he lives there and went home to check his voice mail. Or, like, maybe his girlfriend lives there and he went by for a quickie and he don’t want the boss to know about it.”

  Georgie said, “The art gallery oughtta clear it up for you one way or the other.”

  “Yeah, it’s probably nothing much,” Hollywood Nate agreed. “I’ll call the gallery tomorrow before I send the detectives on a wild goose chase.”

  Raleigh Dibble had been trying all evening to reach Nigel Wickland on his cell phone, but all he got was voice mail. He was certain that Nigel was avoiding him. At 7:30 P.M. Raleigh became convinced that fate had provided a gift of unfathomable worth. Rudy Ressler phoned and said that they weren’t coming home yet. They’d decided to stay over in New York to visit old friends of Leona’s because she was exhausted from the long journey.

  “I don’t mind telling you I can’t wait to get back to L.A.,” Ressler said to Raleigh. “This doesn’t make me happy. By the way, how’s Marty?”

  “Serious but not critical,” Raleigh said. “He’s in and out of consciousness. I call every day.” They had bought him time!

  “I’ll call when we’re sure of our flight, but right now it looks like Wednesday,” Rudy Ressler said. “I think we’ll be at the Waldorf for old times’ sake. That’s where Leona and Sammy went on their honeymoon.”

  “Enjoy yourself in New York,” Raleigh said. “Why don’t you take in a Broadway show? Stay as long as you like. Everything here is out of control.”

  “ ‘Out of control’?” Rudy Resssler said.

  “No, I said under control,” Raleigh said quickly.

  When Raleigh hung up, he tried again to reach Nigel Wickland, who at last answered.

  “Where the hell’ve you been?” Raleigh said.

  “I’ve had a very busy day. What’s happened?”

  “You tell me. Did they make contact today? What’ve you heard?”

  “Nothing,” Nigel said. “There was nothing to report since his first call to me, so I didn’t phone you.”

  “Well, I phoned you. Half a dozen times.”

  “My mobile went dead. I forgot to charge it. I’m sorry.”

  “Next time I’m calling your gallery phone whether you like it or not,” Raleigh said.

  “Don’t do that,” Nigel said. “Ruth is already getting suspicious.”

  A pause and then, “Suspicious about what? Is something going on?”

  “No, I just meant that she’s observing my anxious behavior and asking me if there’s anything wrong. She’s not used to having people wanting to speak to me personally. She’s not stupid, Raleigh.”

  “Okay, keep your cell phone charged and in your goddamn pocket. I have some good news to report. Mrs. Brueger won’t be coming home until the day after tomorrow at the earliest. We have time, Nigel!”

  “Time?”

  “Time to return the paintings to this house and get ourselves out of this nightmare. And if those thieves ever come at you again with demands, you just lie and deny and nobody can prove anything.”

  “Yes,” Nigel said, “but restoring you to your former blissful existence depends on the thieves phoning me, doesn’t it? I have the twelve thousand they want, but I can’t do a thing until they make contact, so calm yourself until then.”

  “Calm myself?” Raleigh said. “I’m having erratic heartbeats. Any day now I could stroke out and end up in the hospital bed next to Marty Brueger.”

  “Raleigh,” Nigel Wickland said. “If our thieves perform as planned, I’ll pay them off and we’ll return the paintings to their vulgar frames in the home of your parvenu mistress. But I should’ve thought it would be better to risk being in a hospital bed next to a Marty Brueger than to spend the rest of your life as a domestic servant, wiping his ass or the ass of someone like him. But I guess you’ve already made your career choice, haven’t you?”

  When Raleigh hung up, he thought, What an offensive, elitist, supercilious fucking faggot! He hated Nigel Wickland more than he’d ever hated anyone. His face was aflame and his hands were shaking when he went to the butler’s pantry and poured a stiff shot of Jack Daniel’s. Then he felt his pulse again. It was beating more erratically than ever.

  He went into the great room and sat, trying to get some comfort from the wealth surrounding him. Something was nagging and it didn’t come to him until after he’d finished the Jack. Then he realized, the thief surely should have called Nigel today but Nigel didn’t seem at all upset about it. What had Nigel said about his employee? he tried to recall. Something about Ruth being already suspicious enough? Could there be something going on at the Wickland Gallery that would arouse real suspicion from her?

  Raleigh had always doubted that Nigel Wickland would give him an honest fifty-fifty split when the paintings were sold in Europe, and he had intended to deal with that when the time came. He decided to visit the gallery tomorrow whether Nigel Wickland liked it or not.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Jonas Claymore did not like the bunk, the food, or his cellmate in the Hollywood Station jail, where he spent the night. The cellmate was a Latino with a vicious-looking scar that ran from the bridge of his nose across his jaw to his throat. He was fully inked out with gang tatts, and he snored so noisily that Jonas couldn’t have slept even if he hadn’t been jonesing.

  Jonas had tried to reach Megan on the phone an hour after he was booked, bu
t she did not answer his cell. He wasn’t sure if they’d impounded his car or left it locked in the strip-mall parking lot as he had begged them to do, but either way the cell might still be in the car. The disloyal bitch had probably bailed the second she’d seen the cops pull into the lot. She could’ve run into Pablo’s and warned him, but no, all she’d thought of was herself. She didn’t care that he was in a place where a guy looked up his ass like a plumber inspecting a drainpipe. Jonas decided then to just give her a few Franklins when he saw her next and kick her out of his apartment along with her fucking cat.

  The next morning Jonas learned that he’d be taken by sheriff’s deputies to arraignment at Division 30 of the Criminal Courts Building downtown on Temple Street, but he would have to spend another night in the Hollywood jail while the paperwork was being done. He was outraged.

  Megan Burke’s night had been slightly better than Jonas Claymore’s. The perks she’d bought from Wilbur had helped her get a few hours’ sleep all curled up with Cuddles, who seemed overjoyed to be sleeping on the bed with her mistress in the place that Jonas previously claimed. In the morning the calico cat crawled up on the pillow and purred happily while Megan stroked her, and they stayed like that until Megan decided that Cuddles needed her breakfast.

  She knew there’d be hell to pay when Jonas got out of jail, so she made several calls and was told that his bail would be set later, or he might be given an OR release before day’s end. She was told to call back in the afternoon for further information. Instead, she began calling motels with ads that said pets were welcome.

  Megan packed what clothes were worth packing along with enough cat food for a few days, and by 1 P.M., a Sikh taxi driver was helping her carry her suitcase, a carrier containing Cuddles, and two large objects wrapped in mover’s blankets. Those he had to strap to the luggage rack. She took the Sikh’s cell phone number and promised him a $100 tip if he would pick her up whenever she called him and take her and her possessions to a destination in Beverly Hills and then to LAX. She said to be sure to bring the same taxi with the luggage rack for the bundles.

  Before Megan left Jonas Claymore’s apartment for the last time, she wrote a note and left it on the kitchen table. It said, “You told me there would be an 80–20 split and that the 80 % was for the brains. I agree. Here is your 20 %, less the $500 that I gave you last night.” She left $1,900 on the kitchen table beside the note, along with her apartment key and his cell phone.

  Hollywood Nate woke earlier than usual that day, probably because he had the Wickland Gallery on his mind. He phoned and Ruth answered.

  He said, “This is Officer Weiss at Hollywood Division, LAPD. I had occasion to question someone in a Wickland Gallery cargo van the night before last, and we need to know if your van was stolen.”

  Ruth said, “Oh, that must’ve been Mr. Wickland’s nephew. He borrowed it and left it in east Hollywood. We had to pick it up yesterday morning.”

  “That explains it,” Nate said. “Is his name Jonas Claymore?”

  “Reginald something,” Ruth said. “He’s a bit of a black sheep, according to Mr. Wickland. Is he in trouble?”

  “He was arrested for possession of a controlled substance,” Nate said. “For some reason he’s denying ever being in the van. We’re not sure why. It’s possible that he was using it to do drug deals or for some other illegal activity.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Ruth said. “That may explain why he just abandoned the van on the street the way he did. Mr. Wickland’s gone to the bank. I’ll tell him when he gets back, but I don’t think he’s going to drive over there and bail him out.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Nate said. “At least I know now that he didn’t steal the van from you.”

  When Nate got to work, he told all of the midwatch officers who knew about the Wickland Gallery van what he’d learned.

  “I figured it was nothing,” Georgie Adams said. “Just some little ass-wipe taking advantage of his uncle.”

  Nigel had to endure an in-person meeting to convince the bank manager that neither a bunco artist nor an extortionist was victimizing him, and that he had a good and legitmate reason for needing such a large amount of cash. He was told that he could pick up the $100,000 the next afternoon after 1 P.M. That withdrawal had wiped out Nigel’s savings account and put his commercial account in grave jeopardy. He planned to call his European art auctioneer to find out if he could get a wire transfer of some advance money as soon as the paintings were received over there.

  When he got back, Ruth said, “The LAPD called. Your nephew got himself arrested for drug possession. You can call Officer Weiss at Hollywood Station if you’re interested.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, it appears that he was stopped in our van on the evening you loaned it to him and now they have him on a drug charge.”

  “Did they give his name?”

  Ruth smiled quizzically and said, “Don’t you know your own nephew’s name?”

  Nigel said, “He might have used an alias.”

  “You said that his name is Reginald, but they have him under the name of Jonas Claymore.”

  “That’s him,” Nigel said. “He’s using his father’s name. Always in trouble, that boy.” He entered his office and closed the door behind him.

  Forty minutes later his cell phone rang.

  “It’s Valerie,” Megan said. She was in her motel room, lying on the bed with Cuddles, who seemed excited by their new surroundings.

  “I’ll have it tomorrow, sometime after two P.M.,” Nigel said.

  “Why not today?”

  “You can’t walk into a bank and draw out that kind of money unless you’re superrich. That money is all I have. I’m penniless now.”

  “You’ll be okay when you sell the paintings,” Megan said. “They’re very valuable, according to Mr. Dibble.”

  “Yes, dear Mr. Dibble.” Then he said, “Is your partner still in the dark about our bonus arrangement?”

  “He’s very much in the dark,” Megan said. “He believes the paintings are yours and he doesn’t even know the name Sammy Brueger. He’s a brain-dead addict, to tell you the truth.”

  “Will he be accompanying you here tomorrow when you bring the paintings?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Just wondering,” Nigel said, trying to decide how he could use the information he’d just learned from Ruth. Her crime partner was in jail. Would she be alone? Was violence still an option? Could he possibly eliminate both of the thieves?

  “But I will have protection,” Megan said as though telepathic. “There will be someone delivering me and the paintings and waiting for me outside. You’ll be able to see him.”

  “My dear girl,” Nigel said. “I am not a dangerous man. You have nothing to fear.”

  “I’m going to be with a gentleman in a turban,” Megan said, “who looks like he could easily cut the throat of anyone who tried to hurt me. But first he would call the police immediately if I didn’t walk out of your gallery wearing a happy face.”

  Raleigh Dibble couldn’t bear it any longer. He pulled the Brueger Mercedes out of the garage and drove to Beverly Hills late that afternoon. Another day was almost over, and still no call from Nigel Wickland. His suspicion that Nigel was secretly dealing with the thieves was overwhelming now, and his nerves were in tatters. He dressed in his best sport coat over somewhat threadbare gabardine trousers with a white dress shirt and necktie. He arrived at the Wickland Gallery thirty minutes before closing and was met by Ruth, who was turning out the painting lights over some of the more valuable consignment pieces.

  “May I help you?” she said.

  “I need to see Mr. Wickland,” he said. “My name is Raleigh Dibble.”

  Ruth smiled and said, “Oh, yes, Mr. Dibble, I remember you. Sorry, but Mr. Wickland left early today.”

  “Really?” Raleigh said. “I talked to him today and he didn’t say he was leaving.”

  Ruth looked at Raleigh and said, “I don�
��t recall taking a call from you today for Mr. Wickland.”

  “I called him on his cell,” Raleigh said, trying a convivial smile. “I’m a personal friend.”

  Ruth looked doubtful until Raleigh rattled off Nigel’s cell phone number. Then she said, “Sorry. It’s just that so many people seem to want to talk personally to Mr. Wickland these days.”

  “I know how it is,” Raleigh said. “We’re working together on an estate sale for my aunt, and I’m dealing with some of the same people.” Then he took a wild shot and said, “I guess the fellow came in yesterday that I’ve been working with? Or was it today? Anyway, I told the gentleman to come and speak with Nigel personally and bring a couple of the estate’s paintings. Did he arrive?”

  “Nobody brought any paintings in yesterday or today,” Ruth said.

  “Oh,” Raleigh said, feeling that maybe he had it wrong after all. “Didn’t someone come and ask to see Nigel privately?”

  “Not a gentleman,” Ruth said. “Only a young lady yesterday. I don’t know if she was from the estate or not.”

  “I see,” Raleigh said, and now he was sure it was hopeless. Nigel would be furious when he found out that he was pumping this employee for information. He made a last feeble attempt and said apologetically, “I guess it wasn’t my client, unless the young lady happened to bring some paintings here with her.”

  Ruth laughed and said, “Dear me, no. The poor little thing was lucky she could carry her purse let alone any paintings. She was so frail.”

  Raleigh looked away quickly and felt that sensation again, the blood rushing to his head and ice cubes in the gut. He said, “Was she a very young woman with dark hair?”

  “Yes, she was so adorable in her little candy-striped dress,” Ruth said. “I guess she’s also working with you on this estate sale?”

  After a long pause Raleigh said, “Yes, she’s the granddaughter of my aunt. Everybody’s trying to get in on the money from the family art collection.”