“Run a ‘vehicles registered to’ on Sullivan,” Kaye said.
“Nothing,” Patty said a moment later.
“Nothing?” Kaye echoed. “She drives a white Escalade.”
“Is she married? Own a business?” Patty asked.
“I don’t know,” Kaye said.
“Let me try something,” Patty said, and her fingers flew over the keyboard while Kaye watched.
“Okay, got it,” Patty said a moment later. “Got the white Escalade and a silver Jaguar at the address on her license, registered to a Thomas Burton. Maybe her husband and she uses her maiden name?”
“Probably,” Kaye said. “But no black Explorer.”
“Was that the jackpot?” Patty asked.
“Yep,” Kaye said. “Would’ve been. Thanks, Patty. Oh, hey, I should know better than to ask, but have you heard anything back from the State on Valle delle Viti?”
“Nothing yet,” she replied. “Sometimes that kind of stuff takes a while. I’ll call and rattle their cage.”
***
Kaye went in search of something to eat and got a sandwich to go from the deli around the corner. When he got back to his desk, Lister and Hilliard were at their desks.
“How goes the battle?” Kaye asked.
“Runnin’ down a dream,” Lister said, smiling. “Chasing mysteries. The usual.”
Hilliard looked at Kaye and slowly shook his head.
“Hear anything back on your headless guy?” Kaye asked him.
“Talked to RHD yesterday,” Hilliard replied. “They’ve identified the victim.”
“Who was he?” Kaye asked.
“One Dr. Clifford Collum. A consultant of some sort with an office in the building. It fits. His body was only about four spaces from where his car was parked.”
“Somebody was waiting for him,” Kaye said.
“That’s what I think, too,” Hilliard said. “But RHD’s still digging on the guy to figure out why.”
“Did they get anything from the security video?” Kaye asked.
“A little,” Hilliard said. “And what they got was, well, weird.”
“What was weird about it?”
“According to Tom Gannett, the case lead, the system was lousy to begin with, then, to make matters worse, somebody tampered with it,” Hilliard said. “They got nothing of the actual murder, even though it was right out there in front of God and everybody else.”
“That’s too bad,” Kaye said.
“Yeah,” Hilliard said. “They’re running down the vehicles that came and went around the estimated time of death, and there’s one that has them stumped.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, a motorcycle going up and down in the right time window, but there’s no footage on the gate cameras of it ever entering or leaving the garage.”
“Are there residences in the building?” Kaye asked.
“Nope,” Hilliard said. “Strictly a nine-to-five professional ghetto. They searched the entire place. No Hayabusa.”
“Hayabusa?” Kaye asked, sitting up straight. “What color?”
“I didn’t ask,” Hilliard said. “Why? That mean something to you?”
“I’m looking for a white ‘Busa on another homicide.”
“You think it’s connected?” Hilliard asked, interested now.
“Probably not,” Kaye said. “But I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Call Gannett,” Hilliard said.
“I’ll do that. But no suspect info?”
“Full leathers, full helmet,” Hilliard replied. “Otherwise, nothing.”
“Wanted, dead or alive,” Lister sung under her breath.
“Lister, what the hell?” Hilliard asked.
“It’s a song,” Lister said, exasperated. “About a cowboy on a steel horse. Van Halen. Don’t you listen to music?”
Hilliard just stared at her, then turned to Kaye and said, “I give up.”
“Patience,” Kaye said, smiling. He knew Lister was a good cop. She just needed some seasoning.
“Yeah, I listen to music,” Hilliard said to Lister. “And I’m not happy to be stuck with you. At least some of the time.”
Lister looked at Kaye and smiled.
“There’s hope,” she said.
***
While he ate lunch Kaye made a mental list of questions for Tom Gannett, but decided not to call. It wasn’t his case and there was certainly more than one Hayabusa in the greater Los Angeles area.
Instead, he went to the board and grabbed the latest crop of Dailies off the hook. The third one down, released just that morning, was a summary of the parking garage murder. It bore two photos: One a portrait of a smiling Clifford Collum, head attached, and one grainy still from the garage security video.
A white Hayabusa, its rider clad head-to-toe in black leathers and wearing a full helmet with a full, tinted visor.
He took the bulletin back to his desk, opened the traffic cam video from Mulholland and Laurel Canyon, and compared the images.
He wouldn’t have testified in court that they were one and same bike and rider, but there were too many similarities, including that he thought the garage rider was also a woman, to ignore.
He changed his mind again, looked up Gannett’s number and called.
“Robbery Homicide,” a gruff voice answered. “Gannett.”
“Tom, Ben Kaye.”
“I heard you quit.”
“Leave of absence. Death in the family,” he said to deflect questions. “I’m back.”
“Good. We need you. What’s up?”
Kaye gave Gannett the two minute summary on the Ferrari case. Gannett was silent until Kaye finished, then asked several cogent questions.
“So, why are you calling me?” was the last one.
“I think we’re looking for the same woman,” Kaye replied.
“A woman?”
Kaye heard the skepticism in Gannett’s voice.
“Yeah,” he said. “Not a hundred percent sure, but you should check to see if your vic had any connection to a guy named Leigh Howell, went by the first name Rod. He’s the victim in my case. Plus, I’ve got better video from traffic cams, and based on size, build and gear, I think it’s a woman.”
“Can you send me the traffic video?”
“You bet,” Kaye said. “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to run your case, but I have a suggestion.”
“What’s that?”
“You might want to check high end dojos with a kendo sensei.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Your victim was killed in a staged seppuku, a ritual Japanese suicide,” Kaye said. “Whoever did it has a knowledge base and the skill to go along with it. They had to learn it somewhere.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Gannett said.
“I don’t know if all the garage video was as grainy as the photo on the Daily –”
“It is,” Gannett interrupted. “Shitty system, shitty coverage.”
“You might want to take the best side shot, with the most contrast, you have and have Tech try to enhance it.”
“What would I be looking for?” Gannett asked, and Kaye caught the first hint of offense in the RHD detective’s voice.
“The hilt of a katana, a –”
“I know what a katana is,” Gannett interrupted again. “Why would I look for one?”
“Chet Hilliard used the word ‘surgical’ when he described the decapitation cut to me. That would require a very sharp, long-bladed sword like a katana. If the rider is the killer, she had to be carrying it somewhere. Look behind her head and see if the hilt is sticking out of her jacket. If it is, at least you have a solid suspect.”
There was a protracted silence, and Kaye knew Gannett was deciding whether to consider the suggestion or tell him to fuck off.
“I’ll check it out,” Gannett said at last. “Hey, you sure you don’t want to come downtown and work? We’ve got a slot. Hell, we’ve got more than one.”
>
“I’m happy where I am, but thanks.”
“Think about it.”
“I’ll do that,” Kaye said, “If you find anything, let me know.”
“Sure,” Gannett said. “Thanks, Kaye, and welcome back.”
Kaye forwarded the traffic cam video to Gannett and checked the time.
He needed to talk to Ziva Geller about Nicole Ingram, and should probably have Howard Feinmann there, too.
He grabbed the phone and called the lawyer’s office. Five minutes later he had a meeting for the following Monday set up and was headed out when his desk phone rang.
The caller ID read ‘desk’, so he answered it.
“Detective, this is Hudson at the front desk. There’s a Bradley Ingram here to see you.”
“Tell him I’ll be right down.”
Kaye shrugged out of the Big Boar jacket, grabbed his paper brains and headed for the lobby.
Bradley Ingram looked like he came straight off a western movie set. Tall and lanky, bushy mustache, too-long denim pants puddled atop cowboy boots with a riding heel, silver belt buckle and a western-cut sport coat over a white shirt with pearl button snaps. A bolo tie with silver aglets and a silver and turquoise clasp finished the look.
The only thing missing, Kaye thought, was a Stetson.
“Mr. Ingram,” he said as he approached and extended his hand, “I’m Detective Kaye. We spoke on the phone. I’m very sorry for your loss, sir.”
“I appreciate that, Detective,” Ingram said as he shook Kaye’s hand. “I don’t mean to bother you, but I wanted to pass on some information that might help.”
“You are not bothering me, Mr. Ingram. Let’s go someplace we can talk.” He led Ingram through the security door and found a vacant interview room in the Patrol area.
“Have you talked with Doctor Archuleta yet?” Kaye asked as they sat down.
“This morning,” Ingram replied. “I also made the identification, if that helps.”
“It does,” Kaye said. “Thank you. I know it’s not easy.”
“You got that right,” Ingram said. “I don’t know if I was more worried about making sure it was her or coming all this way after all this time and finding out it wasn’t, then having to call and tell her momma we still don’t know.”
“I wouldn’t have called you and put you through this if I wasn’t sure,” Kaye said. “But I can’t make a legal identification. I hope you understand.”
“I do, and I appreciate how you handled it.”
“How’s Mrs. Ingram?”
“Crushed,” Ingram said, then paused for a beat before adding, “like me.”
Kaye saw tears in the man’s eyes.
“Did you get everything arranged with Dr. Archuleta?” he asked.
“I did,” Ingram said, nodding. “I guess I should say ‘we’, because without Dr. Archuleta’s help I wouldn’t have known what to do. Not exactly something you study up on and practice ahead of time.” He stopped for another beat and added, “I take my girl home tomorrow.”
Kaye sat quietly and watched Bradley Ingram sag under the weight of his sorrow.
“You said you had some information for me?” he asked after a bit.
“Oh, yeah,” Ingram said as though he’d forgotten, then reached under the sport coat into his shirt pocket and came out with a piece of paper. “I’ve got a couple names for you. We think they were friends of Nicole’s.”
He handed the paper to Kaye, who unfolded it and looked at the names.
Rachel Turner.
Storm Chase.
Ruthie.
“Who were these people to Nicole?” he asked.
“Rachel Turner was Nicole’s roommate when Nicole first moved to Los Angeles, but she moved on after a while. I think the two of them had some sort of falling out.”
“And Storm Chase?”
“We’re not real sure,” Ingram said. “Syl – my wife – found the name in a text she got from Nicole a few months before… Before Nicole went missing. Being from tornado country, Nicole kind of made fun of the name, to tell you the truth, but she mentioned it several times after that.”
“Could be a stage name,” Kaye said. “But you never know. I’ll track it down. Any idea if Storm is a male or female?”
“Nope,” Ingram said, shaking his head. “Syl was worried it was a stripper’s name and the influence it might have on Nicole. Sorry, but those are the only two last names we found. Lots of first names, like Ruthie, but…”
“But you put Ruthie on the list. Who was she?”
“We think she was one of Nicole’s neighbors. Syl doesn’t remember Nicole ever telling her Ruthie’s last name, but Nicole talked about her a lot.”
“Was Rachel Turner your daughter’s roommate at the address on the missing person report?” Kaye asked. “Or someplace else?”
“That address was the only place Nicole lived while she was out here. She loved her apartment,” Ingram said. “In fact, that’s my next stop. I had them put Nicole’s stuff in storage after she’d been missing long enough to miss a month’s rent. I need to go settle up and go through it. There are a few things her momma wants. The rest will go to charity.”
“I don’t know if you know, or not,” Kaye said, “but our Missing Persons detectives went through the apartment. They found no sign of foul play.”
“Yes,” Ingram said. “We knew that. The Santa Barbara deputy called us.”
“I almost hate to ask you this, Mr. Ingram, but do you have a photograph of Nicole I could get from you? What she looked like at the time she went missing?” He almost said ‘not what she looked like when she was shot’, but caught himself in time.
“You bet,” Ingram said, reaching into his coat for his wallet. He opened it and fished out a wallet-sized photo and handed it to Kaye.
It was a much better picture than the one on the missing persons flier. Nicole Ingram had been a real beauty before the heroin.
“Thank you,” Kaye said. “I’ll get this back to you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just catch the son of a bitch that did this.”
“I plan to,” Kaye said.
Kaye walked the grieving father to the door.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said as he shook Ingram’s hand again.
***
Back at his desk, Kaye composed and sent an e-mail to Deputy Stephenson in Santa Barbara, letting him know that Nicole Ingram had been officially identified by next of kin, and the body released. Stephenson could close his case.
Next, he bent to the task of finding out who Storm Chase was.
It didn’t take long.
Storm Chase was the professional name of one Dennis Bettencourt, an actor in, and producer of, a multitude of porn films.
Kaye leaned back, tented his fingers, and stared at the monitor.
Good girl from the Southwest comes to Hollywood to make it big, meets and falls in with the wrong people, life takes multiple turns for the worse, and she ends up addicted to heroin and dead on a golf course cart path.
In a sad way, it all made sense. Heroin-addicted porn actresses didn’t usually call their momma to catch up.
But how the hell did she end up on a golf course with Avi Geller? Was Geller paying for her company?
He was glad he hadn’t known about Storm Chase before talking to Bradley Ingram. Telling a father that one of his daughter’s friends was a porn star wasn’t high on his list. One thing, though, was certain: He was going to make sure he and Dennis Bettencourt got better acquainted in the very near future.
No sooner had he done a print screen and closed his browser when a pop-up notified him he had an e-mail from Patty.
Detective Kaye:
Figures… Because I called the State about the Valle delle Viti information it came today. The company’s Disclosure Form is attached. I hope you have better luck figuring it out than I did.
Patty Phillips P.A.
The attachment was a copy of a California Form LLC-S; Application t
o Register a Foreign Limited Liability Company.
According to the form, Valle delle Viti, LLC was a private company held by Valle delle Viti SRL of Reggio Calabria, Italy. The California offices were in the Village of Chumash Oaks. The only other information on the form’s front page was that the Registered Agent for Valle delle Viti LLC was one Jeffrey E. King. No separate address was listed.
The second page was a Statement of Authority from the Italian government certifying that Valle delle Viti SRL was legally authorized to do business in that country.
It told Kaye absolutely nothing. He knew that most LLCs appointed an in-house attorney as their Registered Agent, or went with a firm providing those services, but Registered Agents were not required by law to be members of the bar, and there must be thousands of Jeff Kings in California.
He wasn’t chasing that shadow. Not yet, anyway.
Frustrated, he worried about how he was going to unravel Valle delle Viti enough to figure out what was going on.
He sighed and decided he’d worry about it tomorrow.
DAY 12
Friday Week 2
It was obvious why it was nicknamed The Blue Whale.
Huge, it dwarfed everything around it, and the blue glass exterior was dazzling. Officially, it was now the Blue Center on West Hollywood’s renowned Pacific Design Center campus. The original giant, blue building had been joined over the years by equally stunning, but smaller scale, red, green and yellow structures.
After finding a parking spot for the ’61 Duo Glide, it took Kaye nearly a half-hour just to find Human Resources, only to find the door locked and hours posted showing they didn’t open until 10:00 a.m.
He found a sidewalk coffee shop and waited.
When he walked in at 10:01 a.m. the young man behind the counter, his spiked hair tinted, appropriately enough, blue and the sleeves of his taupe linen sport coat rolled up to his elbows, looked up and froze in horror.
“It’s okay,” Kaye said, suppressing a smile and holding up his badge wallet. “I’m a cop, not the Grim Reaper.”
“Oh, thank GOD!” the staffer said, clutching a hand to his chest. “I thought…Oh, well, the worst!”
“Well, you can relax. I’m Detective Kaye, LAPD, and I’m here on business.”
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