“I’m thinking about it.” She smiled cryptically.
“Good. Let me know if you need a recommendation.”
“Thank you, Detective. I’d better get back to work. Again, I’m sure glad you’re back.”
“Thanks, Patty.”
Back at his desk, Kaye grabbed the papers and note Thompson had given him. He was going to read the reports, but had second thoughts. Better to talk to this Edler guy first and maybe save some time.
He dialed the number.
“Los Angeles Fire Department, Mulholland Crest Station,” a male voice answered. “Lieutenant Schuyler. How may I help you?”
“Lieutenant, this is Detective Kaye, LAPD. I’m trying to reach a Mark Edler.”
“Yeah, Edler works here, but he’s off until oh-eight hundred tomorrow morning.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll call back.”
“Can I ask what this is about?”
“Something about a guy crashing his new Ferrari.”
“Are you kidding me?” Schuyler said. “I told him to leave that alone. When did he call you?”
“He didn’t call me. He’s been calling my Captain. I just came back to work today from over a month off and my Cap threw this at me.”
“I got it,” Schuyler said. “But trust me, there’s nothing to it. Our guys and your guys both concluded it was an accident.”
“Is Edler a conspiracy kind of guy? You know, always looking for some weird angle?”
“No, he’s not. He’s still on probation, but he’s doing well and has a solid career ahead of him. But he is a total Ferrari freak.”
“What’s that mean?” Kaye asked.
“The kid’s obsessed with them,” Schuyler said. “Knows everything about the cars, the history of the company, all that stuff. You name it, if it has the word Ferrari even near it, he knows it.”
“Would you rather I didn’t call him?”
Schuyler hesitated before answering.
“That’s not my call. It’s your time. If you want to waste it, that’s up to you.”
“I would like to talk to him,” Kaye said. “If nothing else, interdepartmental courtesy. Plus, I can keep my boss happy.”
“That I understand.”
“Thanks, L.T.”
Kaye hung up, leaned back in his chair and thought about Schuyler’s description of Edler. Something about the kid being crazy about Ferraris might make it worth the time to talk to him.
After all, if you have a question, ask an expert, right?
He walked over and grabbed the Dailies off the board. Every day the Department distributed summary sheets of major crimes and suspects for posting in all the stations. Everything was available digitally on the Department intranet, but for some reason the old paper practice simply refused to die.
He soon realized Thompson was right. There was a deep dip in activity during the time that corresponded with the End of Days Plague panic, but over the previous week things had started to pick up. Among others, a serial rapist in The Valley was back in action, as was a crew that specialized in hitting grocery stores just before their armored car pickups. Pros, Kaye thought. Amateurs rob banks. Grocery stores aren’t FDIC insured, so no FBI.
Other than that, what stood out to Kaye was the number of missing persons cases from the days of the panic. He knew that most of them would eventually turn up, but that some never would.
“Kaye,” he heard Thompson’s voice and turned to see the Captain headed his way. “Got something for you.”
“What’s up?”
“Patrol’s requesting a detective at the Paloma Canyon Country Club. A shooting, two victims down.”
“Paloma Canyon County Club?” Kaye asked, thinking he’d heard wrong.
“That’s what they said. They requested a coroner, too, so…”
“On the way,” Kaye said, standing up. He grabbed the Big Boar jacket and slid into it.
Thompson saw the colors and stared at his detective with a look of resignation on his face. Then he turned and headed for his office.
He wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. At least not today.
***
It took Kaye 45 minutes to make his way from the station across town and into the hills above Westwood, even though he pushed the new Road King hard and used every traffic-beating trick he knew.
It made him miss the one-block walk from the Hotel Jerome to the Aspen PD.
Almost.
He turned off Paloma Canyon Road and rolled down the driveway to the guard shack.
“Can I help you?” the young attendant asked, eyeing Kaye closely.
Kaye pulled the Big Boar jacket aside to reveal his badge.
“Detective Kaye, LAPD.”
The kid’s eyes widened and he pushed the button to open the gate.
“The clubhouse is to the left and down the hill about a hundred yards.”
“Got it,” Kaye said. “Thanks.”
Paloma Canyon Country Club opened in 1938 and immediately became a haven for Hollywood’s elite. Mayer, Capra, Bogart, Gable, Astaire, Tracy and Hepburn, they all came. Getting in was based on two simple precepts. One, a membership had to be for sale and, two, you had to have the money to pay the going rate. Memberships now traded for over a hundred times what the charter members had paid way back when. If you weren’t a member, or standing next to one when you showed up, you didn’t get through the gate no matter who you were.
Two LAPD patrol units and a Coroner’s van were parked in the valet drop-off area, but Kaye couldn’t see any activity.
“Detective Kaye?” he heard a woman’s voice as he swung off the bike. He turned and saw a casually dressed, dark-haired woman about thirty.
“That would be me,” Kaye said.
“Carol Soares,” she said, stepping forward and extending her hand. “Assistant club manager. I was also told to expect some crime scene people. Are they with you?”
“No.”
“Do you mind if we wait for them?”
“I’d rather not.”
“I understand,” Soares said, but her eyes told Kaye she didn’t. “Follow me.”
She led Kaye through the clubhouse and out the back. On the way she radioed someone named Johnny and told him to stand by with another cart for the crime scene people.
“Wow,” Kaye said, stopping to soak in the view.
Verdant grass, flanked by dense trees, stretched down the hill in front of them. In the distance the buildings of UCLA and Wilshire Boulevard, and beyond them the Los Angeles Basin, provided an impressive backdrop.
“This is the first tee,” Soares said. “A lot of very famous people have teed up here, and they were all nervous. Are you a golfer, Detective?”
“No.”
“Too bad. You could probably hit a golf ball a half-mile. Come with me, please.” She turned and headed toward a golf cart parked off to the side of the tee box.
They set off down the hill, Soares navigating carefully on the often steep terrain.
“May I make a request?” she asked, glancing sideways.
“Never hurts to ask,” Kaye replied.
“Beyond justice for the victims, of course, my primary concern is maintaining the club’s reputation and our members’ privacy. I hope I can count on the LAPD’s cooperation in doing so.”
Back in Tinseltown was what Kaye thought.
But what he said was, “I’m in no position to speak for the entire Los Angeles Police Department, Ms. Soares. All I can tell you is that I don’t care for press conferences or the media in general, so you can cross me off the publicity hound list. Some case information goes to a department that handles media relations. After that it’s beyond my control.”
“I understand,” Soares said, and this time her eyes told Kaye she meant it. “Thank you.”
Soares stuck to the cart path, which struck Kaye as odd.
“Isn’t there a more direct route?”
“Not really,” she said. “The course is very up and
down. We even have an elevator. We also re-opened not long ago after a major course reconfiguration. The club pro and head groundskeeper would both want my head on a platter if I drove a caravan of carts across the fairways.”
They didn’t encounter anyone else, and Soares finally turned off the path. Through the trees Kaye could make out a group of people up ahead. As they got closer he picked out the uniformed officers that went with the units parked back at the clubhouse. Soares skirted a tee box, its sign proclaiming it to be Number 7, a 209 yard par 3, before passing through a narrow gap in the trees.
From about a hundred feet away Kaye got his first glimpse of the crime scene.
A golf cart, facing the direction of the 7th tee box, sat on the path not far from the mouth of a tunnel that disappeared into the steep hillside. The driver was slumped in the seat, and even at that distance Kaye could see blood on the man’s shirt. Another body sprawled face-down outside the cart and a jump-suited deputy coroner, his back to Kaye, knelt beside the body.
Another cart was parked off to one side.
“Stop here,” Kaye said.
Soares stopped immediately and Kaye got out.
“You don’t want to get closer?” Soared asked.
“This is fine. I want to look around.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll have the rest of your people here as soon as I can.”
“Thank you.”
As Soares pulled away, Kaye surveyed the surroundings.
Were it not for the tunnel, he would have been in a box canyon.
Looking up, he saw carefully groomed landscaping near the ridge top, which to him meant houses. A band of native vegetation, its width varying greatly as it snaked along the hillside, separated the mown grass and strategic plantings of the golf course from the landscaping of the houses above.
The trees were thick in places, non-existent in others. Kaye surmised it had to do with golf course design, but that was unknown territory for him. What mattered to him were sight lines and he checked them carefully as he slowly made his way toward the scene.
A uniform saw him coming and started up the slight hill to meet him.
“Well I’ll be goddamned,” Officer Teresa Hensley said, grinning widely as she got closer.
“Hey, Terry,” Kaye said, also grinning.
Only a few months ago Hensley had been first-on-scene at Dr. Steven Birnbaum’s office.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Hensley asked. “I heard you took extended leave, and nobody thought you’d be back, especially with all the shit flowing out of downtown.”
“Well, I’m back. Today, as a matter of fact.”
“No shit? Welcome back to the circus.”
“Thanks, Terry. But we’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
“I’m with you on that. Too many dead people.”
“Tell me what we’ve got.”
They started toward the scene as Hensley ran it down.
“Two vics. One middle-aged man and one woman young enough to be his daughter, maybe even a granddaughter, but…” She raised her eyebrows and made a face.
“Hey,” Kaye said. “It is Hollywood.”
“Yeah,” Hensley snorted. “Anyway, looks like the guy took two to the chest. We haven’t rolled the woman yet, but there are a couple small exit wounds on her back.”
Kaye focused on the bodies as they got closer. About fifty feet from the cart they stopped. Kaye grabbed his cell phone and took pictures.
“Looks like she tried to run,” he said.
“I agree,” Hensley said. “But she didn’t get far. The shooter must’ve been quick.”
“Who found them?”
“There was a foursome behind them. The tunnel comes through from the sixth green, and when the group finished there they could see this cart blocking the exit.”
“So they drove up on it?”
“Not initially,” Hensley said. “One of them doesn’t like small spaces and didn’t want to go into the tunnel without being able to see a clear way out. They just thought somebody was being rude, but after a few minutes they got pissed.”
“And drove through.”
“One cart did, yeah. The others waited.”
“And somebody called 9-1-1.”
“Not exactly,” Hensley said. “The club doesn’t allow cell phones on the course.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. Slows down play. Plus, down in these canyons service sucks.”
“Okay,” Kaye said. “So somebody had to drive back to the clubhouse for help.”
“Correct.”
“Please tell me they did not move the victims’ cart.”
“They did not, they managed to get around,” Hensley said. “But what’s funny is why.”
“It wasn’t the claustrophobia?”
“No. They’re all in the movie business,” Hensley said. “I recognized three of them instantly, and the guy who does action movies was smart enough to know not to do that. He told me ‘Rule number one, don’t disturb a crime scene’.”
“Good for them,” Kaye said. “You asked them to wait at the clubhouse, right?”
“I asked.”
“I sense a ‘but’…”
“They all said the same thing; they didn’t hear or see anything. They provided personal information, but declined to wait around to be interviewed.” Hensley reached into her pocket and extracted a piece of paper. “Contact information for all four,” she said, handing the paper to Kaye.
He scanned the list, recognizing two of the names.
“Did they hear shots?” he asked.
“Nobody heard a thing. They were on the other side of the tunnel.”
“Makes sense.”
“Based on what they told me, the time gap was maybe fifteen minutes, tops,” Hensley said. “They said our victims had cleared the green and entered the tunnel before they hit in, finished the hole and then waited for the cart to move before coming through and finding… this.”
“Okay,” Kaye said again, looking around some more. “What about the group in front of them? Did they hear anything?”
“According to the lady manager there wasn’t a group right ahead of the vics, but I haven’t verified that. She also told me she cleared the course behind the witnesses so nobody else could come through.”
“I’ll check for a group in front, just in case.”
“Do you still need us?” Hensley asked. “We’ve got calls backing up.”
“Go ahead and clear,” Kaye said. “Thanks, Terry. And, hey, I still owe you that drink from the Birnbaum case. Name the place and time.”
Hensley smiled and said, “You’re off the hook. Debt cancelled.”
“That’s not the Terry I know.”
“The Terry you knew wasn’t engaged.”
Kaye stared at her for a second before saying, “Engaged? Good for you. Do I know the guy? Is he on the job?”
“No, thank God,” Hensley said. “He’s a computer guy, and you don’t know him.”
“Must’ve happened fast.”
“It did,” she said. “I never really believed all that bullshit about knowing right away when you meet the right person, but I do now.”
Kaye instantly remembered the day when Amy had walked in to Harley Charlie’s bike shop. It was right at closing time, the beer was cold, and he’d insulted her by dismissing her, a beautiful woman dressed in a skirt, thinking she couldn’t be a serious customer. Charlie had reamed him up one side and down the other right in front of her, and he instantly regretted it. He hung around the store every day for weeks, praying she’d come back.
Thankfully, she had.
The right person.
“Good for you. I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks, Kaye. We’re outta here. Welcome back, be safe.”
“Always.”
She shook her head and laughed as she turned to leave. Kaye watched as she signaled the other uniform, who met her at the cart parked away from the scene.
As they drove away, he headed for the cart and the detritus of the human condition that silently waited for him.
***
When Kaye was twenty feet from the victims’ cart the deputy coroner stood up, and he was surprised to see Dr. Jaime Archuleta.
Arch was equally surprised to see Kaye.
“I’ll be damned,” Arch said. “I heard you quit.”
“Glad to see you, too, Arch. I took a leave of absence, but as of today, I’m back. You got here fast.”
“Today?” Arch said, spreading his arms to take in the scene. “Nice welcome back, eh? And I was close.”
“What can you tell me?”
“Let’s start with this guy.” Arch pointed to the man slumped in the cart. “Two entry wounds to the left chest, either one of which would have been fatal. No exit wounds. I peeked. Time of death hasn’t been established, but I think it was pretty contemporaneous with the discovery of the bodies.”
“Age?”
“Mid-fifties, plus or minus five.”
“Did you find ID?”
“If he has it, he’s sitting on it and I wasn’t about to pull him off the cart before a detective showed up.”
“What about the woman?”
“Don’t know yet,” Arch said. “Only the two visible wounds on her back, both small, which I’m guessing were caused by bullet fragments exiting. She’s only about half as thick as the man. But we’ll find out when we turn her over. I’d guess her age at twenty to twenty-five, maybe older, maybe younger, but I found no ID on her.”
“Any signs of powder residue or contact burns?”
“None,” Arch said. “The lab boys can test, but I’m betting they don’t find anything. I think – but this is just speculation, okay? – they were shot from long range. The entry wounds look small caliber to me, and no exit wounds tells me I’ll probably find fragmented military-style bullets when I open them up.”
“You mean like a .223 or 5.56?”
“Exactly. But again, speculation. I won’t know for sure until I recover what’s in there. Odds are, though, with that caliber, probably no ballistics.”
“Got it,” Kaye said absently. He was studying the cart, and a couple of things seemed off. There was only one set of clubs in the rack, and there was no blood transfer or damage to the right side seat from pass-through bullet fragments.
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