Cruel Vintage

by Huston Michaels

  “I believe I rushed you, Benkei. You were not ready for shikantaza. You should return to koan meditation.”

  “Whatever you think is best, Roshi. What is my first lesson?”

  Roshi nodded curtly and said, “If a man follows a path he does not trust, does he walk forward or backward?”

  With that the monk turned, went up the steps and disappeared into the temple.

  DAY 15

  Monday Week 3

  It was still dark when Kaye backed the pickup out of the garage.

  The change in mode of transport was necessary because of his plan for the day, and he wore slacks and a polo shirt instead of the usual biker garb. A sport coat lay on the front seat, with three different colors of baseball caps and a small set of binoculars atop it.

  Traffic was light and he reached his destination well ahead of time. The surroundings weren’t great, but driving around the block a couple of times identified the best available spot: Not obvious, but accessible, with a great view of the Classic Realty office.

  Kaye called Thompson’s office, knowing his Captain wouldn’t be in yet, and left a voice mail about what he was doing, then settled in to wait.

  At 8:40 a.m. the white Escalade pulled into the parking lot, parked in a designated handicapped space, and Megan Sullivan went to work.

  Kaye knew the surveillance was a big risk. If Sullivan saw and recognized him, his LAPD career was likely over despite the message for Thompson, and, based on his interactions thus far with Sloan and Leale, he’d probably face a criminal complaint.

  But he was more and more convinced that Sullivan had knowledge of Avi Geller’s murder, and he needed to know how.

  At 9:15 a.m. Sullivan came out of the office, a Classic Realty lawn sign hanging from one hand, loaded it into the back of the Escalade and took off.

  Single vehicle surveillance is tough compared to a team effort, and Kaye hung back as much as possible without creating too much risk of losing contact at a traffic signal. He was relying on Sullivan not being concerned about being followed and not spending half her time checking her mirrors.

  Which is what Kaye did because of the Kanji notes.

  Twenty minutes later Sullivan parked in front of a beautiful, well-landscaped Tudor-style house in the neighborhood north of Wilshire between UCLA and Beverly Glen.

  Kaye immediately turned into an intersecting side street to avoid driving past her, drove past a half dozen driveways, then made a u-turn and went back to park where he could see the Escalade.

  He decided not to call in his surveillance location, thus avoiding an official record of his whereabouts, and settled in to wait again.

  It was nearly an hour before Sullivan came out of the house, accompanied by a man and woman with their arms intertwined. Sullivan went to the Escalade, grabbed the sign out of the back and, with a ceremonial flair, planted it in the front yard while the couple clapped.

  Hugs and handshakes were exchanged all around before Sullivan took her leave.

  Her next stop was a showing, meeting a young couple with two small children and spending thirty minutes giving them the grand tour of a nice bungalow on the north side of Santa Monica.

  While Kaye watched and waited, his phone buzzed.

  “Kaye, are you out of your mind?” Thompson practically roared when Kaye answered.

  “Not at all, Captain,” Kaye said. “I drove the truck today. She’s not going to make me and I need to do this. It’s a hundred percent legit and related to the case.”

  “It damn well better be,” Thompson said. “Sloan and Leale have already been here looking for you.”

  “What did they want?”

  “They wouldn’t say, but they asked me to call them if you showed up, which I have no plans to do.”

  “With any luck,” Kaye said, “they were looking for me because Sullivan reported that I violated the order over the weekend by calling her. You still have my old phone, right?”

  “Yes, I do,” Thompson replied. “It stayed turned off and in my possession all weekend. If Sullivan reports that you called or texted her from that number, we’ve got her by the shorts.”

  “Thanks, Cap.”

  “How long you going to sit on her?”

  “I can’t do this all day. I’ve got other things to chase down this afternoon.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Maybe. But I meet with Ziva Geller and her lawyer tomorrow.”

  “Okay, just keep me informed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kaye said. “Hey, I need to go. She’s on the move.”

  Sullivan’s next stop was a drug store. Then she got her Escalade washed.

  From the car wash she headed into Santa Monica. The midday traffic and the number of traffic lights forced Kaye to stay closer than he wanted to be, but the sheer volume of vehicles provided some extra cover. He grunted when he remembered it worked the same way for anyone who was following him.

  As Sullivan crossed Lincoln, Kaye knew he had a problem.

  She was going to the Promenade, the portion of 3rd Street restricted to pedestrians, and, based on the time, probably meeting somebody for lunch.

  Sure enough, Sullivan turned on 4th Street and then swung into the first valet parking garage she came to.

  Kaye drove past. There was zero chance of following her into the garage and there wasn’t really a good option for tailing her into the mall.

  It suddenly dawned on him that Megan Sullivan had never actually seen him up close and in person. Her only glimpse had been when he jumped up on the gate at the house and she’d seen the video without knowing it was him. His size was an almost dead giveaway, but from a distance he would likely be okay.

  He swung into the next available parking lot, grabbed a hat and the binoculars, and left the truck for the valet. There was a pedestrian pass-through to 3rd just to his south and he hustled through it, stopping and looking north before entering the Promenade proper.

  Sullivan was almost a full block away, walking north. He set off after her, but not so quickly he’d close the gap by much.

  She turned and cut diagonally across the space and Kaye could tell she was headed for one of the more popular eateries with outdoor tables. As she got close, a woman already seated at a table inside the railing stood to greet her.

  The two women hugged across the railing, but by the time Kaye got the binoculars up Sullivan was blocking his view of the other woman’s face. After a moment, though, Sullivan stepped away and headed for the restaurant entrance.

  Kaye looked through the binoculars again, then lowered them and muttered, “I’ll be damned.”

  He recognized Sullivan’s lunch date.

  Ziva Geller.

  Kaye went back to his truck. He would’ve loved to hear the conversation between the two women.

  He’d gotten what he needed just by seeing them together.

  Plus, he had someone else he needed to find.

  ***

  It’s not far from Santa Monica to Venice.

  Kaye found the address and was surprised to find it was one of the high-end places that back onto one of the area’s eponymous canals.

  It definitely wasn’t cheap real estate, if there was such a thing in Los Angeles anymore, and Kaye recalled Aubrey’s comment about Dennis Bettencourt being on his way to being ‘richer than God’.

  Like all the houses in the neighborhood it was built to take advantage of the canal, not the streets, which were really little more than alleyways. All Kaye could see was a two-story stucco façade, the first floor of which was almost entirely garage door. Two small windows showed on the top floor.

  The driveway, too short to park perpendicular to the garage door, was empty.

  On the east side of the garage a walkway passed under an arbor covered in blossoming trumpet vines and led into the narrow space between houses, toward the canal. As Kaye followed it he considered how to deal with Bettencourt, if he found him. Knowing Bettencourt had priors he decided not to dance around with him, but ju
st go at him a little and see what happened.

  He rang the bell and waited.

  No answer. He knocked loudly, waited a bit, then knocked harder.

  Almost a minute went by before the door opened wide.

  Kaye’s first thought was that six foot six might be a little conservative. The guy was tall, and stared at Kaye with hard eyes. Kaye’s second thought was that Aubrey had been right. The resemblance to a young Robert Mitchum was startling.

  “Storm Chase?” Kaye asked, shifting his gaze to look inside.

  “Look,” the guy said irritably, “how many times do I have to tell you assholes not to come to my house? I’m not looking for new talent at the moment, okay?”

  “That’s good,” Kaye said, holding up his badge wallet, “because I already have a job. Again, are you Dennis Bettencourt, also known as Storm Chase?”

  “I am,” the guy said, his voice softer but his eyes still hard. “What’s this about?”

  “Nicole Ingram.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “You know Rachel Turner?”

  “Yeah, I know Rachel. So what?” Bettencourt said, and Kaye saw the look in the man’s eyes change. “Oh, yeah, you mean Rachel’s old roommate, right?”

  “I do,” Kaye said. “Any chance I can come in?”

  “Actually, no. Not unless you have a warrant.”

  “No warrant. Just looking for some background information.”

  “About Nicole?” Bettencourt asked. “Why? I heard she went home to Texas months ago.”

  “Where’d you hear that?” Kaye asked.

  “Uh…” Bettencourt stammered. “I don’t know. Around, I guess.”

  “She didn’t go home. She was murdered about two weeks ago,” Kaye said.

  “That concerns me how?” Bettencourt asked.

  “That’s what I’m here to find out.”

  “Look, I hardly knew Nicole. I dated Rachel for a while, that’s all. You should talk to her.”

  “Already have. We had a very interesting chat about guys who play rough.”

  Bettencourt’s eyes narrowed slightly before he said, “Then there’s probably nothing else I can tell you.”

  “Did you know that Nicole and Rachel parted on bad terms?” Kaye asked.

  “Yeah,” Bettencourt said, nodding slightly. “Some phony bullshit about Rachel stealing something from Nicole.”

  “A screenplay, or at least part of one,” Kaye said. “Rachel told me it turned up in the trunk of Nicole’s car.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “Did you rough Rachel up while you were dating?” Kaye asked.

  “Why would you ask me that?”

  “You’ve got priors, Dennis. Seems like you like to hit people, especially women.”

  “Hey, I never laid a hand on Rachel she didn’t like.”

  “I hear you’re in the movie business,” Kaye said, looking past Bettencourt into the house. “Must be doing well.”

  “I’m into a lot of stuff,” Bettencourt said glibly, noticing Kaye’s look and pulling the door closed until the view was blocked.

  “Yeah, I hear that, too,” Kaye said, winking and grinning.

  “Okay, yeah, I do porn. So what? Besides, it’s a means to an end, that’s all.”

  “Not judging,” Kaye said. “So there’s nothing you can tell me about Nicole Ingram’s murder?”

  “No.”

  “Okay then. Thanks for the semi-cooperation. Oh, and Megan said to tell you hello.”

  Bettencourt blinked and looked surprised.

  “Megan?”

  “Yeah, Megan Sullivan. She says hi.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Sorry,” Kaye said. “My mistake, I guess.”

  “Go away,” Bettencourt said sharply. “Don’t come back without a warrant. Otherwise, talk to my lawyer.”

  Young, tall Bob Mitchum slammed the door in Kaye’s face.

  That went well, he thought as he headed back to the truck.

  ***

  The address Kaye had for Nicole Ingram was in what City Planners would call a ‘multi-transitional’ neighborhood in West Hollywood. Originally platted back when that part of the Los Angeles basin was developing into the Mecca of the motion picture industry, it had been a quiet collection of modest single-family bungalows, many with a stucco and tile Spanish motif.

  In the 50s and 60s, as Los Angeles grew exponentially, modest two- and three-story apartment buildings began to supplant the bungalows, but retained the Spanish influence. Thirty years after that, all pretense of design went out the window as cheaper, boxier apartments began to spring up, replacing most, but not quite all, of the original houses and apartments. Stucco, mullions and red tile had been replaced with vinyl siding, aluminum sliders and flat, tarred roofs.

  The building turned out to be one of the last remaining multi-unit buildings from the Golden Age days. An ornately carved set of doors opened into a wide, hardwood-floored entryway and hallway. An elaborate carpet runner led from just inside the door down the hallway to the first-floor apartment doors, and off to one side was an old-fashioned bank of slotted mailboxes. To Kaye’s left was a set of stairs, with elaborate newel posts and turned railing.

  His plan was to knock on the door of Nicole Ingram’s former apartment and ask the current occupant if they knew a Ruthie who lived in the building.

  It turned out to be easier. Every mailbox had a name tag affixed. On Number 6 was R. Williams.

  The apartment was on the second floor.

  Kaye knocked and waited.

  “Who is it?” a woman’s voice asked from behind the door.

  “Police, ma’am,” Kaye replied. “LAPD.” He held his badge wallet up to the peephole. “I’m looking for Ruthie Williams.”

  Kaye wasn’t sure who he’d expected Ruthie Williams to be after Rachel Turner had described her as ‘grandma’, but it certainly wasn’t who answered the door.

  Probably at least in her eighties, Ruthie Williams’ silver hair was carefully coiffed, her dress and make-up were flawless and her eyes bright and fierce.

  “Land sakes,” she said, eyeing Kaye. “You’re a big one, aren’t you?”

  “A blessing and a curse, ma’am. Are you Ruthie Williams?”

  “The one and only,” she said, smiling.

  “I was wondering if I could get a few minutes of your time.”

  “Certainly, certainly,” she said, stepping back and holding the door wide open. “Please, come in. May I offer you some refreshment? Coffee, perhaps? Or tea?”

  “No, thank you,” Kaye said as he stepped inside. “I’m Detective Kaye.”

  He stopped short and looked around. It was a time capsule from the post-WWII era. Hardwood floors strewn with elaborate rugs mirrored the planked and coffered ceiling. A stacked stone fireplace dominated one end of the living room and the furniture was all mid-Century modern. Vibrant abstract paintings were everywhere.

  “Nice place,” Kaye said.

  “Thank you, but I know it’s old fashioned.” Ruthie said. “I’ve just lived here for many, many years and I can’t bear to think of changing it.”

  “I’ve been here ten seconds,” Kaye said. “I wouldn’t change it, either.”

  “You’re very kind. Please, sit down,” Ruthie said, gesturing toward a sofa. “Now, what can I possibly do for the police?”

  “I’m here about a former neighbor. Nicole Ingram.”

  Ruthie’s face took on a look of alarm.

  “Please tell me she’s not in trouble.”

  “Worse than that, Ms. Williams,” Kaye said. “I’m afraid Nicole was killed.”

  The words visibly stunned the old woman. Alarm was replaced with shock as a tear slid down her cheek.

  “I know who did it,” she finally managed to whisper. “As God is my witness, I know who did it.”

  “Who would that be, ma’am?” Kaye asked.

  “That tall boy who looked just like Robert Mit
chum, the one Nicole’s roommate liked. Oh, what a horrible person! I always thought he was responsible for Nicole’s disappearance. Now he’s murdered her.”

  “His name is Dennis,” Kaye said. “Can you tell me if he was still around after Rachel Turner moved out? I spoke to Ms. Turner and got the impression she and Dennis broke up before she moved.”

  “First of all,” Ruthie said, “Rachel did not move out. Nicole threw her out. For stealing. I’m sure that horrible young man put her up to it. Just thinking of him makes my skin crawl.”

  “When you say stealing, are you talking about some pages of Nicole’s writing that went missing? I thought they turned up in the trunk of Nicole’s car.”

  “Well, yes, they did,” Ruthie said. “But Nicole was convinced that Rachel took them first.”

  “But she got them back, right?”

  “You don’t understand, Detective Kaye. Ideas are currency in this town. I know. I was a contract studio writer for many years and writers guard their words like treasure because that’s what they are to them.”

  “Nicole’s screenplay was treasure?” Kaye asked.

  “It was brilliant,” Ruthie said. “She asked me to read it because she was very, very nervous about pitching it. I told her not to change a thing.”

  “Did you know she took it to Avi Geller?”

  “I told her to. She said he…” She stopped short and the shock returned to her face. “Oh, no, please tell me Nicole wasn’t the young woman who was shot with Avi.”

  “She was.”

  Ruthie didn’t say anything for several seconds.

  “But that doesn’t make sense,” she said at last. “That was only, what, two weeks ago? Nicole disappeared months and months ago. Where did she go?”

  “That’s one of the things I’m trying to sort out,” Kaye said. “Her parents told me that the last time they talked to Nicole she was excited about going to Santa Barbara to meet with a producer about the screenplay. Do you know who she went to meet?”

  “No, I’m sorry. She didn’t even tell me about that.”

  “Why did you tell her to take it to Avi Geller?” Kaye asked.

  “I’ve been around this town for a long, long time,” Ruthie said. “I keep up on what’s happening, and I don’t mean by watching the gossip shows on television. I’ve known the Gellers for many years, from when Avi first started. I couldn’t think of anyone better for Nicole to get into business with.”