by Louis Barr
I scanned the responding officers’ reports. As is common with multiple eyewitnesses, Walsh and Vogel disagreed on almost everything they thought they’d seen.
Walsh claimed the victim didn’t move when the van driver blocked the sidewalk.
Vogel said Danning froze for several seconds, started to run, and stumbled. The driver caught him, pinned his arms behind his back, and frog-marched Danning into the van.
Walsh stated with certainty the driver stretched his arm across Danning’s shoulders and walked him to the van’s passenger side door.
With the streetlights out, Vogel could not positively identify the van’s year, color, make or model. He thought the vehicle might’ve been a dark-colored, late model Ford. He could not see the tag.
Walsh could not guess the year, make, model, or color of the van. But he thought the tag included either a “V” or “W,” either a “3” or an ‘8,” and a definite “9.”
Fuck me sideways, so much for the accounts of eyewitnesses, I thought. I continued reading, hoping I might pluck a dime or two out of the bullshit.
Neither Walsh nor Vogel could give a complete description of the van’s driver. Walsh thought he was about five feet ten inches tall. Vogel said he was six-three or four and might have weighed around three hundred pounds.
Walsh and Vogel had seen Danning in the Jugs & Mugs Saloon on the night of April twenty-fifth. They agreed on Danning’s description: twenty-seven to thirty years old, about six feet two inches tall, a hundred eighty to ninety pounds, and dark hair.
“He’s one of the sexiest men I’ve ever seen,” Vogel told the cops, “but he blew us off when we smiled at him.”
Neither of the eyewitnesses knew his name at the time.
I yawned, stretched, and turned the page.
One of the responding officers had pulled her flashlight and walked the block, stopping when she spotted a man’s wallet near the curb.
Pulling on gloves, she retrieved and opened the black leather wallet. She found no cash, no credit cards, no driver’s license; only Shane Danning’s FAA pilot certificate and a government issued photo ID. The officer instantly recognized Danning’s face and surname.
I looked up from the file. Since Danning’s wallet held only his pilot creds, the eyewitnesses may have seen a mugging that escalated into an abduction once the van driver read and recognized his victim’s Hollywood royalty surname. Then again, it was possible with the streetlights not working on that block, the eyewitnesses saw a premeditated kidnapping.
I supposed there were those possibilities, or Danning had gotten picked up by a friend, and his wallet had slipped out of his hip pocket when he stepped off the curb.
Sometimes a guy who went clubbing would slip his cash, a credit card, and driver’s license into his front pants pockets and leave his wallet at home.
I checked the file for Walsh and Vogel’s phone numbers. Roommates, they had given responding officers what looked like a landline. University students who didn’t give their cell numbers seemed strange to me.
I called the students’ landline and leaned back in my swivel chair.
Two rings…four rings…six rings…and the voice mail answered. “A pleasant hello. You have reached Blake and Blaine’s mental help hotline. Please leave a message…maybe we’ll call.”
I hung up. I needed a face-to-face with these boys.
The copy of the missing person file included the phone number of Shane Danning’s ex, Kristopher/Kristina Morgotti. I also needed a face-to-face meeting with the cross-dressing gossip columnist.
But I’d give Morgotti a call when I was about two blocks from her house.
Chapter Nine
Closed-Toe Wedges, Antique Swedish Clogs, and Shitkickers
Clint, Tuesday, May 1
There’s a neighborhood in the Hollywood Hills not far from southern Laurel Canyon called Mount Olympus. Here, the neo-glam mansions are as over the top as the area’s name.
Turning onto Janus Drive, I pulled to the curb and called Kris Morgotti and told her I’d be arriving soon with some follow-up questions concerning Shane Danning.
It took me less than two minutes to find Morgotti’s address. I parked in the circular drive and stepped into another shimmering, blue-sky Los Angeles morning.
Skirting a fountain, I loped to the white manse’s double doors flanked by potted dwarf lemon trees. I pressed the bell, faintly hearing the bongs from within. I wondered whether Kristina or Kristopher would come to the door.
I got Kristina Morgotti in her bare feet. Standing about five feet nine inches tall, she wore a white silk blouse, a light gray skirt hanging a gnat’s ass above her knees, and a blue blazer with heavily padded shoulders à la Joan Crawford (JFGI).
Kristina said in a dusky voice à la Tallulah Bankhead (JFGI), “I didn’t expect you to arrive so quickly. I’m working. What the ever-loving fuck do you want?”
I smiled at her.
She gasped. “OMFG! That square chin and those twin dimples could break a girl’s heart.”
She gave me an unabashed down-up, stopping and holding midway.
I shyly shuffled my feet and started to introduce myself.
She flapped one of her manicured hands. “Sweetheart, I know who you are.” She opened the door wide. “I told the police all I could recall about Shane, and nearly everything about our relationship. I can’t imagine what you think I might add to that wretched tale.”
I’d bet the cross-dressing Queen of Snark knew a hell of a lot more about Danning’s disappearance than she’d told Captain Flynn. I smiled. “I’ve a few follow-up questions. May I come in?”
She stepped aside. “Get in before I change my mind and slam the door in your handsome face.”
I wasted no time in getting my ass inside.
Looking down, Kristina Morgotti gasped again. “My goodness, Grandma, what big feet you have.”
I whispered a laugh. “You know what they say, Ms. Morgotti…big feet, unusually large…shoes.”
Kristina smiled. “Before you take another step, please remove your unusually large…shitkickers.”
Standing on one leg, then the other, I unlaced my combat boots, not shitkickers, and dropped them one at a time onto the entry hall’s black marble floor. I gave the gossip columnist an imitation earnest look. “Would you like me to take my socks off too?”
“You can keep your socks on—for the time being.”
I followed her down the entry hall into an open great room with thick white carpet and black leather furniture. Impressionist oil paintings hung on the walls.
The mansion stood on a promontory. A wall of floor-to-ceiling glass provided a spectacular view of mountains and ocean. Apparently, innuendos, suppositions, and simply making shit up paid well.
“Please sit down,” Kristina said, settling herself on a sofa.
She crossed her long, shapely legs. If I hadn’t known better, no one could’ve convinced me that Kristina was a Kristopher.
I sat in the armchair straight across from Kristina. I pulled out my tablet and checked my notes. “You’ve heard someone spotted Shane in Laguna last night.”
Morgotti shrugged. “That’s old news. I posted a report about Danning’s sighting on my Hollywood Nights website around one thirty this morning.”
Sometimes the gossip grapevine worked faster than the internet, telephone, and tell-a-cop. Rumor had it Morgotti paid police snitches for information about stars’ embarrassing misdemeanors and criminal busts. Or so I’d been told by a cop.
“In my Hollywood Nights archives, I’ve a photo of producer-director Vona Steele standing beside you at a black tie fundraiser. You’re fabulously photogenic, but seeing you in the flesh…shit, that shot did not do you justice.”
“Thank you,” I said kind of shyly. Never mind I’d willfully, intentionally, and with malice aforethought arrived dressed like a brazen boy tart to catch Morgotti’s eye. Her flattery suggested I’d hooked said eye.
“I usually know everythi
ng about all the industries’ leaders and their family members. You, however, have kept under my radar since your lovely wife’s tragic accident.” Kristina looked directly into my eyes. “Neither my photographers nor I have spotted you out on the town in ages. I’m dying to know what you’ve been doing with yourself.”
“That’s easy to answer. Between my job and my single parent status, I don’t get out much anymore.”
Kristina gave me another dismissive hand wave. Then she took the offensive. “You did an abrupt about face on your military career. When you became a private eye, we at Hollywood Nights wondered what motivated such a drastic change in occupations.”
“There’s no secret to that either. I’d completed my mandatory military service in exchange for my free West Point education, then I mustered out of Delta Force.” My smile showed lots of teeth. “Miz Morgotti, if you don’t mind, I came to ask questions, not to answer them.”
Morgotti winked garishly, à la Rona Barrett (JFGI). “But I saw you get out of that shiny black sports car. A ride like that plus your surname points to work in TV, music, or films, not taking photos of cheating spouses and searching for someone’s lost cat.”
“My partner and I don’t handle missing pet or cheating spouse cases.” A chuckle rumbled in my chest. “As to my car, you’re asking about my old Dodge?”
I didn’t mention I had to win a bidding war at a Valley garage that restored classic sports cars to buy my ten-cylinder, six-speed, limited edition 2004 Mamba Package Viper.
She sighed. “Since you’re not willing to talk about your shiny ride, let’s shift gears. No pun intended.” Kristina leaned closer. “The grapevine says Steele Productions has something huge in the pipe. You must have your fingers in that project.”
“As Steele Productions’s silent partner, I’m not directly involved in the company’s projects and day-to-day operations.” I glanced at my tablet notes. “According to LAPD Captain Hal Flynn’s file, you and Shane had a chance meeting and the two of you exchanged phone numbers. Take it from there, please.”
“If you insist.” Kristina shook her head, smiling at her memories of her first date with Shane. “I didn’t expect to hear from him ever again. I almost fell out of my closed-toe wedges—no wait, they were my antique Swedish clogs—when he called and asked me to have dinner with him. I pounced on his invitation like a mongoose on a cobra. Who the hell wouldn’t? According to Tinsel Town gossip, I knew I’d get an unforgettable fuck and maybe some Diana grist for my Hollywood Nights mill.”
“Did you get one, both, or nada on your first date?” I asked.
“I got a fabulous fuck from Shane, but fuck-all about Diana. While we were dating, he never said anything negative about his mother.” Kristina winked. “Shane’s a loyal Mama’s boy.”
“Did problems with Diana lead to your and Shane’s split?”
Morgotti chortled. “Heavens no. We didn’t run into Mama problems, because whatever Diana demanded, Shane got right on it.”
I nodded, but kept my poker face. “Tell me more about your relationship with Shane.”
“For such a hot man, you ask a fucking lot of questions.” She stopped to think. “Shane often told me he wanted to find one person for a long-term relationship.” Kristina’s voice turned rueful. “Christ, I’ve had enough one-night romances to know a player when I see one.”
“But your relationship lasted about six months.”
Kristina folded her well-turned legs beneath her. “Yes, like a doe-eyed starlet, I kept hoping Shane would settle down.”
“You wanted a monogamous relationship.”
“Hell yes, that’s what I wanted. Shane’s an intelligent, sexy, funny, and colorful man who knows how to use that big prick of his to the maximum.” She smiled sadly. “But in his mind, monogamy is a board game where you buy property, pay rent, and get your ass thrown in jail.”
I looked straight into Morgotti’s eyes. “Did Shane tell you about his indiscretions?”
“In roundabout ways. He’d call me while he was getting a sloppy blow job or when he was screwing someone else.” Turning to look out the wall of glass, Kristina fell silent.
“Sorry to hear that.” I could see Danning’s indiscretions hit Morgotti hard. But it all sounded Hollywood ordinary to me.
I considered ending the interview, but decided to take another run at Morgotti. “It seems you’d accepted Shane’s playboy ways. What finally ended the relationship?”
Kristina turned from the tall windows to face me. “If you want the dirt, what would you say to a quid pro quo?”
I leaned closer to Morgotti. “I’m listening.”
She looked straight into my eyes. “I want you to pull out that monster cock of yours and fuck me. Then I’ll tell you the rest of the Shane Danning saga.” She winked. “It’s something I’ve told no one.”
Kristina had my attention. She’d apparently committed at least one lie of omission in her statement to Captain Flynn.
And I’d never slept with a beautiful cross-dresser with a rich, dusky voice that damn near had me dropping my jeans.
But I leaned toward her and said, “Here’s my counter offer. Sex is off the table, but tell me why your and Shane’s relationship ended, and I’ll persuade Vona to give Hollywood Nights certain first-print rights to Steele Productions’s upcoming film project.” I grinned. “This movie will be huge.”
“Excellent!” Morgotti cheered, clapping her manicured hands. “Can’t blame a girl for trying for the big package, pun intended.” She exhaled a breath. “Okay, I’ll take negotiated first-print rights to the film and tell you what ended my relationship with Shane.”
“We have a deal.”
I needed to give Diana the reason why Shane went AWOL on her, his home, and a career he loved. Maybe Morgotti had the answers. I waited for her to drop a dime on her ex.
“Shane’s indiscretions didn’t end our relationship.”
I settled back in the armchair.
“Shane came into a sizable trust when he turned twenty-five.”
“I know.” I’d read about the trust in Flynn’s file notes.
“He pissed away his monthly trust dole on clothes, electronics, and other toys. At some point, he added casino weekends with models and celebrities he wanted to fuck. For the record, I wasn’t one of them.”
“So noted.”
“When we met, I didn’t know about Shane’s gambling addiction.”
Holy shit, I’d heard something new. Captain Flynn didn’t mention anything in his notes about Danning allegedly having a gambling problem. Maintaining my nonchalance, I asked, “California or Nevada casinos?”
She answered without hesitating, “Both.”
I crossed my right ankle onto my left knee. “Did Shane mention taking on some high-interest loans to support his habit?”
She let out a long breath. “It’s possible, but I’d like to believe Shane knew enough to stay away from the loan sharks.” She looked at the floor. “His gambling losses had him pawning almost everything he owned, except his car and some furniture. I asked him to consider rehab. He told me he didn’t have a problem with gambling.”
I nodded.
“We split over two months ago. I remember because it was Valentine’s Day.” She once again looked out the wall of glass before speaking, finally saying, “Anyway, on Valentine’s Day, he asked me for a five thousand dollar loan. He said he’d landed a second job and could pay me back within a month.” She shook her head. “I knew he wanted a gambling stake, and I refused. We argued, he brushed past me and unintentionally knocked me on my ass. I told him we were finished. He packed his duffel, and walked out, slamming the door behind him.” She again smiled sadly. “End of another Hollywood love story.”
“Did you see or speak to Shane after you threw him out?”
She shook her head. “Not once.”
I asked if she knew where in Laguna I might find Shane.
“I’ve no idea about Laguna. When Shane and I want
ed sun and surf, we went to Malibu.” She looked down her nose and spoke like a snooty socialite. “On Malibu, Mommy Dearest has a stunning manse and a private beach.”
Kristina slid her feet to the floor and stood. “You’ll forgive me, but I’ve a column to finish writing.”
I stood and crossed the great room. I pulled on and laced up my combat boots, not shitkickers, and thanked Kristina Morgotti for her time.
“If you ever change your mind about my initial offer, give me a call.”
“Your number’s in my cell.” I extended my hand but changed my mind. I hugged her.
I slid behind the wheel of my Dodge, knowing one thing for certain: There was more to Shane’s disappearance than a “fucking lark.”
Chapter Ten
Disparate and Desperate
Clint, Hollywood, Tuesday, May 1
I parked on the street in front of Shane Danning’s single story wood frame house. His new Porsche remained in the carport—dusty but not missing any parts as far as I could tell. I got out of my car and did a quick recon.
At first glance, the exterior of Danning’s house looked all right, if your idea of all right wasn’t highly defined. Removing my sunglasses, I saw fissures etching the driveway’s pavement. The lawn needed watering. The house bore a patina of age and neglect from roof to foundation.
I slid the key into the front door’s lock and had to jiggle the goddammed thing for about thirty seconds before the deadbolt slid home. I stepped inside.
The musty scent of an old house enveloped me. The hardwood floors needed sanding and a few coats of varnish. The walls hadn’t been painted in years.
The only son of a Hollywood legend lived in a dump like this? I knew airline pilots’ salaries barely put them above the federal poverty line. But hell, consider the prestige of flying seven miles up at almost five hundred miles per hour in a huge tin can with wings, sophisticated electronics, great big engines, and everything. Maybe Shane lived in a house that could’ve been condemned because he was trying to prove he could make it on his own with a trust fund and his prestigious but low-paying career.