by Louis Barr
I put the cop talk into plain English as I read.
On February twentieth, Deputy Scott Valentine Davidson arrived at the Windbag Saloon at approximately 2240 hours. Davidson had dinner, a single glass of beer, and talked with several acquaintances. At approximately 2335 hours, Davidson paid his tab and departed.
Around 2340 hours, patrons heard a gunshot near the Windbag Saloon’s parking area. The bartender contacted the police.
Responding officers arrived on the scene at 2347 and saw an adult male lying supine, parallel to a GMC pickup parked in the southeast corner of the Windbag Saloon’s lot. Responding officers could not find a pulse, nor did the victim appear to be breathing. CPR procedures were initiated.
An EMT crew arrived OTS at 2350 hours; repeated attempts to resuscitate the victim failed. Time of death was recorded as 2359.
A current California driver’s license identified the victim as Scott V. Davidson. OTS evidence indicated the cause of death was an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. A 9mm S&W semiautomatic was found 11.8 inches from the victim’s right hand. A single shell casing was recovered 4.6 feet from the body.
Police Investigator L. Roberts had signed the report.
I next thumbed through the medical examiner’s autopsy report. Scott Valentine Davidson was forty-four years, nine months old, six-one, 174.7 pounds with dark blond hair and hazel eyes.
Preliminary findings indicated Davidson was in perfect health. With the exception of an appendectomy scar, no other identifying marks were found on the body. No prescription or illicit drugs were detected in his bloodstream. His blood alcohol level was .01.
The cause of death was extensive head and brain trauma resulting from a 9mm hollow point bullet. Stippling surrounding the entry wound on the right temple indicated the weapon was fired at close range, as might have occurred in a suicide. Gunpowder residue on Davidson’s right hand might further indicate the gunshot wound was self-inflicted. No prints were lifted from the 9mm shell casing found at the scene.
I leaned back in my desk chair. Gunpowder residue tests consistently proved unreliable at best, and could not be construed as conclusive evidence of suicide. Davidson could have spent some time on the department’s firing range that day or a week ago. Also, the explosion of gasses in a fired gun generally destroyed any partial or latent fingerprints that may have been on the shell’s casing. On the surface, it appeared Deputy Davidson had taken his own life.
Or maybe someone had taken his life from him. There were some things missing—an irregularity or two that stuck out like a warthog at a cat show, I thought.
For instance, why would Davidson climb into his pickup to get his gun and step back onto the parking lot to shoot himself? He could’ve done the job inside the cab.
Davidson’s low blood alcohol level also nudged me. Wouldn’t a guy planning to kill himself get at least halfway drunk? The BAL told me he drank one glass or bottle of beer. Maybe fear of the bartender asking for his keys and calling a taxi could’ve kept the deputy sober, but not likely.
Statistically, about twenty-five percent of those who commit suicide leave a note. Men write something more often than women. Why didn’t the lead investigator’s report mention a suicide note or the lack of one?
“Am I interrupting you?” Diana said from my office door.
“No, come in.” I stood and met her halfway to my desk. I removed her star-going-incognito sunglasses and saw she’d been crying.
I handed her a tissue and let her cry on my shoulder. I wrapped her left hand under my right arm and helped her to a client chair. I sat beside her.
Diana wore no makeup. She’d pulled her hair into a loose chignon. Multiple strands had strayed from the knot. She’d dressed in walking shoes, jeans, and a short-sleeved blouse. The sadness in her eyes almost made me flinch.
“Diana,” I began in a gentle tone, “repeat what the caller said.”
She let out her breath and began speaking in a beaten voice, “He said he wants five million dollars for Shane’s release.” She stiffened. “I told him I’d need a little time to pull together that much money. I begged him not to harm my son and asked to speak to Shane. The kidnapper hung up.”
Again, she cried.
I’d set a box of tissues on the edge of the desk. She pulled out a couple, wiped her eyes, and dabbed her nose. Her shoulders slumped, and she leaned back into the chair.
“I know this is difficult for you, but please try to bear with me.”
She nodded slightly.
I held her left hand in both of mine. “Can you tell me anything about the caller’s voice?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m asking about cadence, inflection, choice of words, American or non national.”
“He had a deep, masculine voice…definitely American.” She paused for a few moments. “He spoke almost gently, as if he were a counselor or a minister. He didn’t sound angry.”
“That’s great, Diana.” I knew I was pushing it but I went ahead. “Could you estimate an age from his voice?”
“Neither youthful nor elderly. I’d guess early to mid-forties.”
“Did you hear anything in the background such as a TV or radio, running water, an engine or traffic noise?”
Diana held perfectly still for several moments. “I heard absolutely nothing in the background.”
Being a ransom demand for the return of her son, a pile-driver could’ve been operating ten feet from the caller and she might not have heard it.
“Do you recall anything else the man said?”
“He said he staged the Laguna shopping trip to prove Shane was still alive. He warned me not to call the police or FBI.”
I could’ve guessed she didn’t contact Captain Flynn. The wealthy didn’t always involve law enforcement following the kidnapper’s ransom demand. Statistically, the odds were better for a kidnap victim’s safe return when directives were followed to the letter without the involvement of the cops or the feds.
Diana quietly cleared her throat. “The kidnapper expects your participation in Shane’s release. If you refuse to help, or if one of us calls the cops, no one will ever find my son’s body…nor yours. The caller said to wait for further instructions.” Diana again dabbed her eyes. “Will you please help?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. You know, I didn’t answer your question last night about Shane’s father.”
I’d wanted a sibling or siblings all my life and didn’t want to wait for Diana to tell me. “Shane is my half brother.”
She looked into my eyes. “Yes.”
I briefly considered the many things I could say about a brother and family ties, but I kept quiet about all that for now. Someone had kidnapped Shane. Finding my half brother became my only priority.
“Hope Whitman, my business partner, will come to your house and install a digital recorder on your phone lines.”
“That’s fine. I only want my beautiful boy back.”
Diana slid her sunglasses on and stood to leave. She leaned on me as I escorted her out of my office and down the hall.
Hope sprang from her chair and pulled Diana into her arms. Diana’s shoulders shook.
“Don’t cry, dear. Everything’s going to be all right. Clint and I will see to it.”
“We need a digital recorder on all of Diana’s phones as well as all of mine.”
Hope nodded and dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “Go on now. Let us girls have some tea and tears alone.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Two Deuces
Clint, Tuesday, May 15
Leaving the ladies to their tea and sympathy, I walked outside to my car, pulled out my phone, and called Captain Flynn. I caught him at his desk.
“Captain, can you do a late lunch?”
“Why? Are you looking for an escort to a quiche-tasting gala? Or maybe a bodyguard for the grand opening of a new dance club?”
I chuckled. “So bicurious, yet so homo
phobic. What’s a handsome Irish American fence-straddling cop to do?”
“In a pig’s ass I’m straddling anything. Why the hell do you want to meet for lunch?”
“It’s called information sharing.” I unlocked my car while listening to Flynn’s whining about his never-ending duties. He finally named his latest greasy-spoon-from-hell discovery.
“I’ll meet you there around 1330 hours.” I slid behind the wheel and headed for Westwood Village.
I rolled to the curb in front of a shell pink stucco California bungalow with a tile roof. The windows gleamed in the sunlight. The lawn looked like a putting green, shaded on two sides by a perfectly clipped hedge. A pair of colorful, hand-thrown pots filled with lavender and pink impatiens decorated the stoop. I damned near rolled my eyes over the MX5 Miata Sport parked in the carport. The two young men living here didn’t need a JumboTron announcing which team they played on.
I climbed the steps and pressed the doorbell. The chimes played the opening notes of the Village People’s “YMCA.” This pair of college boys had to be the bane of upscale and uptight Westwood.
A dark-haired young man wearing cut-off jeans and a faded Nirvana T-shirt opened the front door. He greeted me with the blank stare of his generation.
He was either incredibly brave, fucking stupid, or stoned out of his mind to open the door to a stranger without the chain in place. I smiled winningly. “I’m Detective Steele, working with the LAPD on Shane Danning’s disappearance.”
I got no response. I pushed ahead. “Are you Blaine Vogel or Blake Walsh?”
“I’m Blake. Blaine hasn’t pulled his lazy ass out of bed yet.”
“I need to speak to both of you. May I come in?”
Blake shrugged and swung the door open wide.
I stepped into a nicely furnished living room, sat on the black leather sofa, and checked my surroundings. Two male university students living under the same roof with no stacks of books, no athletic gear, no beer can pyramids, no pizza boxes, and no overflowing ashtrays. The place neither smelled of dirty sweat socks, nor garbage, nor doobage. The fuck?
Before Blake could make a move at getting his partner out of bed, Blaine Vogel came thumping down the stairs wearing nothing but bright orange, red, and yellow boxers.
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs when he saw me.
He leered. “Well, hello. I’m guessing you’re not here handing out copies of The Watchtower.”
Blake moved to stand beside his partner. “This is Detective…”
“Steele,” I finished.
“Yeah, that,” Blake said. “He’s with the LAPD.”
Blaine ran his fingers through his dark-haired bed head. “No shit? I take it you’re an investigator.”
I only smiled.
Vogel adjusted his loud boxers to accommodate his morning wood and sat in a leather armchair that matched the sofa. “Don’t you LAPD investigators usually work in pairs?”
“Budget cuts,” I said. “Besides, you guys don’t look too dangerous to me.” I smiled. “Mr. Vogel, it’s evident you’re not packing anything.”
Blake Walsh snickered.
Blaine Vogel sneered and adjusted his boxers again. “I suppose you’ve got some more questions about what we saw that night.”
I pulled my tablet from my messenger bag and waited, openly scrutinizing Walsh and Vogel’s eyes and body language. They appeared calm and relaxed.
Blake perched on the arm of Blaine’s chair. Both young men looked at me in expectation of my first question. I made them wait while I read my tablet notes.
“You live in a quiet, upscale neighborhood. As university students, how do you swing it financially?” I looked steadily at the young men.
Blake broke the silence. “Blaine’s dad owns rental properties all over Los Angeles and Orange Counties.”
“I get the place rent-free from Dad as long as I maintain my four-point GPA,” Blaine said. “Blake and I will both start law school this fall.”
I smiled. “It doesn’t come much better than that. I read the sworn statements each of you gave the responding officers regarding Shane Danning’s disappearance. The two of you didn’t agree on anything you saw that night.” I looked directly at them. “Investigators always focus on conflicting statements, and you two gave the LAPD an ass-ton of them.”
Blaine returned my stare and shrugged. “Fuck, dude, Blake and I had gotten tanked that night.” His tone turned edgy. “What did you call them? Conflicting statements?”
I nodded without breaking eye contact.
“Besides being drunk off our asses, it was fucking dark along the block where Danning got picked up.”
Blake nodded in agreement.
My voice turned skeptical. “Still, you clearly saw Shane Danning.”
Blake and Blaine shared a glance. Blaine said, “At the time, we didn’t know he’s the son of a movie star.” He wore a randy grin. “Danning gave us a come hither smile in the Jugs & Mugs Saloon. Then the fucker blew us off. We followed him out, hoping he might change his mind about a three-way.”
I looked up from my note taking. “Did either of you talk to Danning that night?”
They told me no in unison.
Blaine grinned. “We didn’t need to talk to him. Merely looking at that hot dude turned me and Blake into lusting fuck pigs.”
“What the hell’s this line of questioning about?” Blake said. “After he was spotted in Laguna, everyone knows Shane Danning’s alive and well.”
I didn’t mention the new development in the Danning case. I did lean closer to Vogel and Walsh. “You thought Danning might have gotten abducted. One of you called 9-1-1. Then you gave the responding officers conflicting statements on almost everything you saw. That bothers the hell out of me. People lie to cops all the time.”
Neither Vogel nor Walsh spoke.
“Is there anything you told the responding officers you’d like to amend? Maybe there’s something you saw but remembered later,” I added.
Blaine shook his head.
“Uh,” Blake began, “maybe one thing.”
Blaine narrowed his eyes at his partner, but only for a second.
“Go ahead,” I urged.
“It hit me the next day, while Blaine and I watched Fortune and Men’s Eyes on DVD.”
Blaine leaned closer to me. “I like the prison shower scene where Rocky rapes Smitty, making him scream and plead like a little girl. Dude, that’s nothing but fucking hot. Ever see that movie?”
“I’ve seen it.” I also saw Blake pinch Blaine’s glans before stuffing his partner’s stiff prick back into his flashy boxers.
Blaine scowled. “That fucking hurt.”
Blake frowned and punched his partner hard in the arm. “I meant it to hurt. Quit being a whining little bitch. Anyway, that shower scene made me realize something.”
“What’s that?”
“Danning didn’t yell for help—not even when it looked to me like the bigger man overpowered him.” Blake shrugged. “It’s all moot, since we know Shane Danning’s fine.”
I sighed inwardly. You’re going nowhere with these two deuces. It’s time to fold. I stood to leave. “Thanks for your time.”
Blake Walsh and Blaine Vogel’s eyes met in a silent exchange.
Vogel smirked.
Walsh sneered.
I showed myself out.
Chapter Twenty-Four
A Presence That Wraps Around You
Clint, Tuesday, May 15
While parked at the curb in front of Vogel and Walsh’s shell pink bungalow, I called Raoul. I heard the sounds of nail guns and a table saw when he answered.
“So tell me, did you get laid last night?” Raoul said.
“A gentleman never speaks of such things.”
Raoul chuckled. “You did!”
I changed the subject. “You’re on the path to your first starring role. I can feel it.”
“Thanks, but I’m on the path to wondering whether I have w
hat it takes to make it in the film industry.” Raoul laughed. “I keep asking myself whether I want to continue chasing what’s likely nothing but a pipe dream.”
“Don’t ever stop chasing your dream. I called to tell you I’m taking your brand-new, high-resolution portfolio to Vona’s office.”
Raoul thanked me. “You know what they say around here: Carpenter is only another word for a wannabe underwear model.”
“Hmm, never thought of that. Maybe—”
“Jenson, for fuck sakes, where’s your hard hat and safety glasses?” He returned to our call. “Moose, I gotta have a chat with the new guy before I’m filling out worksite accident reports for the next ten years. I’ll see you tonight.”
I tossed my phone on the passenger seat and pointed the car toward Century City.
Thanks to the family business, I’d heard all the Hollywood folklore, including the story behind the Western Los Angeles neighborhood called Century City.
After several box office flops, culminating in the millions-over-budget bomb Cleopatra, cash-strapped Twentieth Century Fox sold a hundred and eighty acres of studio backlots to a commercial developer. Century City rose from Fox’s ashes and offered some of the most costly office space in Southern California.
I turned onto Avenue of the Stars and rolled to a stop in front of a glass tower. A valet greeted me by name as I got out of my car. In the lobby, I stepped into a private elevator that shot me to the top floor.
Designer furnishings and original oil paintings by SoCal artists decorated Steele Productions’s reception suite. Kenny, an actor wannabe from Miami, talked into a phone headset as I neared his desk. He winked at me and pointed down a long hall, letting me know that Vona Steele had sequestered herself in her sanctum sanctorum.
Outside of Aunt Vona’s closed office doors, her executive assistant, Devin McLean, sat at his desk keyboarding. He’d come to work wearing a light gray suit and a regimental tie. Devin’s hair had begun to silver at the temples, but his dark eyes still had a Burt Reynolds gleam in them.
While Dad directed films and played all the Hollywood games and Mom planned, coordinated, and conducted charity events for all the right causes, Devin had been my standby father. He picked me up and hugged me as I did my toddler pratfalls while he babysat me during office hours. He taught me how to swim, ride a bicycle, pitch a baseball, throw a football, shoot hoops, and how to defend myself. He guided me along my adolescent rites of passage leading to adulthood: uncut male hygiene, using a straight-edged razor without shaving my face off, how to knot a neck tie and a bow tie. He gave me driving lessons. He attended my high school graduation. Devin didn’t turn judgmental when I told him I liked both genders. He listened. “Then you’ll get the best of both worlds,” he’d said. A former Marine Corps sergeant, Devin encouraged me when I told him I’d been thinking about applying to West Point.