by Louis Barr
Devin stood and stepped around his desk, smiling warmly. He and I did a bro hug.
“Great seeing you.” He fingered the sleeve of my jacket. “Looks like James Lewis tailoring.”
“It is.” I looked Devin over from head to toe. “But you’re still the one man in this building who always looks as if he stepped off the cover of GQ.” Devin McLean’s physique completed the package.
I grinned at Devin as a muted thump and splat seeped through Vona’s office doors. “She’s reading screenplays,” I said.
“Affirmative.” Devin picked up his desk phone and told Vona I wanted to speak with her. He dropped the handset back in its cradle and winked at me. “I suggest entering with due caution.”
After a ten-second delay in thumps and splats, I pushed my way into Vona’s office. The opening door shoveled the tossed scripts into a pile.
An L-shaped mahogany desk dominated the huge corner office, backdropped by floor-to-ceiling glass offering a spectacular view of the Pacific.
Aunt Vona stood with open arms as I approached. Dark-haired, svelte, and six feet tall, Vona Steele turned heads when she entered a room. But it was her poise that held every Tom, Dick, and Mary’s attention.
We hugged and exchanged real, not air, cheek kisses. I took a seat in one of the soft leather chairs fronting the desk. Vona sat several inches higher, enabling her to look down upon her visitors. But being tall myself, that old movie mogul trick didn’t work on me.
Vona’s eyes met mine. “What’s on your mind, Clint?”
I got right on it. “Have you found Peter Remington?”
Vona sighed. “As I’ve told you more than once, you’re the perfect man to play Peter Remington.”
I shook my head. “I’ve watched some of the best and the worst actors at work. I recognized years ago that I fell under the latter category.”
“Bullshit,” Vona bellowed. She lowered her voice. “You’re a talented actor. It comes with being a successful private detective.” She frowned. “Why must you be the only person in all of goddammed Baghdad who doesn’t want the starring role in a major motion picture.”
I smiled. “Appreciate your offer, but I’ve found the perfect male lead for your Remington project.”
The original Peter Remington TV series had been a huge hit in the late fifties and early sixties. Private investigator Remington was a beatnik who spent his time hanging out in coffee houses with his dreamy but dazed girlfriend, smoking doobage, and unwittingly solving crimes. The new Peter Remington would be young, blond, metro hip, and deadly.
I stood, then sat on the edge of Vona’s desk. “Look, I know an all-around great actor who’s the perfect man to play Peter Remington.”
“What’s his name?”
I told her.
She pondered the name for several seconds. “I believe I’ve heard talk of his stagecraft.”
“Then do yourself a favor and test Raoul. Del Kendal is his talent agent.”
“Are you sleeping with him?”
“With Del Kendal?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
Ignoring the pejorative, I kept my voice in neutral. “Raoul’s a friend. He and I aren’t sleeping together. Never have, never will. Even if I were, what’s that got to do with anything?”
“You believe this Raoul Martinez, a friend of yours, is perfect for the lead in a multimillion-dollar motion picture. What if I disagree?”
“You told me you wanted a fresh face for the lead. Test Raoul for the part.” I shrugged. “If you love him, sign him. If not, wish him luck and send him packing.”
I passed a flash drive to Vona. “Take a look at our Peter Remington.”
She slid the flash drive into a port and opened a series of stills I’d shot of Raoul. She nodded without speaking.
“Raoul Martinez has the looks and voice for the big screen,” I began. “He moves with a masculine, seductive grace that’s not affected. Most important, he has the solid acting skills and those ineffable qualities of a star.” I sat without uttering another word.
Vona watched my videos of Raoul for almost four minutes—an eternity for producers-directors. She met my eyes. “He’s strikingly handsome and sexy.” She turned back to the monitor. “You’re right. Raoul has presence that wraps around you, and Jesus H Christ, the man can act.” She smiled. “You did some great cinematography here, by the way.” She fell thoughtful for several seconds. “All right, I’ll ask Devin to contact Del Kendal and arrange a screen test.”
“You won’t regret it,” I said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
All in One Nasty Package
Clint, North Hollywood, Tuesday, May 15
I drove past the pub several times before spotting the dimly lighted “B ER” neon sign above the door. With its pair of boarded-up windows, the place looked like a crack house closed for repairs.
Spotting Flynn sitting at a corner table, I crossed the pub and slid onto a red tuck and roll booth that could’ve once been the bench seat from a fifties-era Coupe de Ville (JFGI). The cracked vinyl reeked from decades of accumulated methane that, with a single static spark, might level the entire block.
“Is this shithole someone’s idea of Irish shabby chic?”
Flynn scowled. “The owners focus on beer and food, not the goddammed décor. Quit your bitching.”
Flynn had ordered drinks before I’d gotten here. A pint of stout awaited me. I peered at a shape in the foam. “Did a cockroach fall off the ceiling and land in my beer?”
“If you’d gotten your ass here on time, you would’ve seen a lovely carving of a harp in the foam.” Flynn shook his head in disgust. “You could get the shit beaten out of both of us traipsing in dressed like a frigging male supermodel. In case it escaped your flighty attention, we got construction workers left and right in here.”
“No one in this dump cares a fiddler’s flying fart less about my suit and tie.” I drank some beer and wiped the foam off my upper lip with the back of my hand, flipping the suds onto the floor. “There, was that gauche-butch enough for you and your construction boys galore, or should I add a rampant belch?”
“Only if you can say the entire alphabet before the end of your belch.”
That Flynn, what a tool.
The waitress appeared and rattled off today’s special. “We gotta aged eight-ounce beef steak smothered in a lovely brown gravy—comes with garden-fresh peas and fluffy mashed potatoes.”
The special being cheap, Flynn ordered it. I asked for the fresh garden salad, no dressing.
Flynn took a pull of beer. “You come waltzing in here dressed to the fucking nines and order a salad. You won’t be happy until we gotta fight our way out the fucking door.”
“Did you often get beaten up by the neighbor kids when you were a child?” I glanced around and let out a rumbling chuckle. “You only need to follow me to the door, princess. I can hand any guy in here his ass.” I turned serious. “Diana Danning received something like a ransom demand around O Dark Hundred hours today.”
Flynn leaned toward me. “What the hell d’ya mean by ‘something like a ransom demand’? Either it was or it wasn’t.”
“The male caller demanded five million bucks for Shane’s release, but he didn’t specify how, when, and where the ransom needed to be delivered.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“He warned Diana not to call anyone in law enforcement, or she’d never see her son again.” I shrugged. “He said she’d get more instructions later.”
“If Danning got kidnapped, it must’ve happened after he was seen in Laguna. Shit, I’d wager he’s still shacked up, and someone’s trying to profit off his lark.”
I gave Flynn a noncommittal shrug.
The waitress served Flynn his mystery meat, instant mashed potatoes, and canned peas special. My fresh garden salad consisted of wilted iceberg lettuce, one cherry tomato with a gray spot, and a hint of shredded carrot.
I checked the bottom of the salad fo
r insect remains and/or rodent droppings. I found a curly black hair. I shoved the plate aside and sipped some beer.
“You’ve heard nada about a ransom demand.”
With his mouth filled with mystery meat, Flynn frowned at me.
“Let’s say someone did kidnap Shane,” I opened. “When the story gets leaked by a cop, and you know it will, Shane Danning gets dead.” I didn’t mention whoever called Diana this morning also threatened my life if the cops or the feds got involved. “Imagine the shitstorm the brass will drop on your head if the missing son of a Hollywood legend is found dead because of some cop’s big mouth.” I silently counted to five. “If you want me to look into Danning’s alleged kidnapping and the ransom demand, let’s go balls out—deputize me.”
Flynn swallowed his mouthful of meat from an unknown source, sipped some beer, then said, “I’d planned to do that.”
Flynn fished through several pockets, pulled out a badge case speckled with lint, and slid it across the table. “You’re deputized,” he said. “Even though you’re official, don’t get caught doing anything I got to explain to the brass.”
“Moi?” I said with mock annoyance.
“Talk with me before you make a move.”
“You know I will.” I dusted off the badge and pocketed it. I glanced at the bill, stood, and pulled cash off my money clip. “Been real. I’ll be in touch.”
“Wait a goddammed minute. I got something for you,” Flynn said.
“Don’t say you got me something like a gift subscription to Vatican Digest.”
“Shut your gob and sit down. There’s a reason I deputized you that has nothing to do with Danning’s alleged kidnapping and half-assed ransom demand.”
I dropped back onto the tuck and roll.
Flynn leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Two weeks ago, a twenty-seven-year-old man disappeared. His girlfriend reported him missing.”
Flynn had my attention. “What’s the missing man’s name?”
“Tom Andrews, a pit boss at Mystic Canyon Casino.”
“Christ on a crotch rocket, we might have a Tom Andrews–Shane Danning connection.”
Flynn cocked an eyebrow. “Do we now.”
I told Flynn about Danning’s alleged gambling habit.
“And when were you planning to tell me about this?”
“I said he allegedly had a habit. I can’t verify it. Besides, gambling didn’t become relevant until you told me about the missing pit boss. What’s Tom Andrews’s physical description?”
“Six-two, one hundred and eighty pounds, dark brown, hazel. I got a photo of him. He’s a good-looking man.”
Flynn passed me a file he’d kept beside him. I opened it and saw the photo of Tom Andrews. I thought him handsome in a self-assured, I’m-too-sexy-for-my-jockstrap sort of way.
I read Flynn’s fact sheet on Tom Andrews: military honorable discharge, full-time employment at Mystic Canyon casino, and part-time university student.
I turned the page. Tom Andrews clocked out at 2310 hours on May first. Casino cameras showed him leaving employee parking about five minutes later. Credit card charges indicated Andrews stopped for gas and fast food not far from his house.
I looked at Flynn. “Why did Andrews clock out ten minutes after the end of his shift?”
“What ten minutes?”
“Andrews clocked out at 2310. His shift ended at 2300. Assuming he’s a nonexempt wage-earning employee, he likely would’ve clocked out at 2300, give or take a minute or two.”
Flynn shrugged. “How the ever-lovin’ hell should I know? Maybe he took a shit, then changed out of his uniform while still on the clock. Maybe he chatted up a working girl at one of the casino’s bars, then spent a few minutes in the men’s room interfering with himself. You’re fretting over nothing.”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Talk to Andrews’s supervisor if those ten minutes bother you.”
I shook my head. “You know how secretive casinos are about everything, including personnel matters.”
Flynn leaned back on the bench. “Andrews drove home and parked his pickup in the driveway.” He held up a hand. “Before you ask, the interior of his house looked neat and orderly. We found no evidence of a forced entry and no apparent burglary. Andrews’s luggage and clothing were in the bedroom closet.”
I looked directly into Flynn’s eyes. “After Andrews parked his pickup, someone must’ve grabbed him between the driveway and his house.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“Did any of Andrews’s neighbors see or hear anything?”
Flynn looked at me steadily without speaking.
I shook my head in disgust. “What I figured.”
If Shane Danning had a gambling habit, it didn’t take Columbo (JFGI) to see his potential connection to Tom Andrews. It could be a coincidental link, but private investigators don’t believe in coincidence. Except when it is.
But if there was a tie, how in the hell were they linked? One worked for a casino, while the other allegedly spent a lot of time sitting at the poker tables losing his ass. I didn’t see a nexus there.
I turned my attention back to Flynn. “We can assume Andrews would have driven away in his pickup had he blown town on his own volition. You mentioned Andrews’s girlfriend reported him missing. I take it she’s not a suspect.”
“She has a strong alibi for the night Andrews disappeared.”
I squinted at Hal. “Yeah?”
“She’s a registered nurse. On the night Andrews disappeared, she worked from 2300 hours to 1100 hours the following day, verified by her supervisor, coworkers, and the timed notes she wrote in her patients’ charts.”
The nurse seemed innocent. But how many other girlfriends did Andrews have? His cocky looks suggested he might have been involved with more than one woman, I thought. “Did you speak with Andrews’s boss?”
“A couple of Mystic Canyon PD uniforms talked with him. Andrews’s boss didn’t add anything to what we already knew,” Flynn said.
“And you couldn’t push Tom Andrews’s boss. It’s not your case, not your jurisdiction, and you didn’t want to step on any of the local cops’ toes,” I said.
Flynn smiled.
I smiled back, understanding what Flynn hadn’t said. I could question anyone, anywhere about anything. The downside being, even though deputized, some people would realize I was out of LAPD jurisdiction and wouldn’t hesitate telling me to take a flying fuck at the moon.
“The name and direct line number of Andrews’s boss is in the file I gave you.”
Tom Andrews’s boss was named Jud Tucker. I closed the file. “You and I know men are usually abducted only for ransom, torture, rape and/or murder. Do you think we might have a serial kidnapper, rapist, pathological sadist, and killer rolled into one nasty package?”
“Yes,” Flynn said calmly, “we may have such a monster on our hands.”
A few minutes later, I unlocked my car and slid behind the wheel. Shane Danning and Tom Andrews’s cases looked strikingly similar. Their vehicles were both left behind, no immediate ransom demands, and no apparent reasons for their disappearances. Then we had the potential gambling link—Shane Danning allegedly loved poker too much, and Tom Andrews worked as a pit boss at the largest casino outside of Vegas. But that’s only a coincidental link. The real connection appeared to be their kidnappings.
With random serial felons being the hardest to catch, finding connections between the killer’s victims could make an arrest far easier. The Tom Andrews–Shane Danning link and the similarities in their disappearances might be our first breaks in both cases.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Turn Around
Clint, The Flats, Tuesday, May 15
I got home shortly after 1730 hours, pulled off my dress oxfords, and let out a breath. Heathcliff lay curled up and sleeping in the hall table’s ceramic bowl—the bowl where I used to drop my wallet, car fob, pocket change, and house key. I scratched
behind the big cat’s ears. Heathcliff purred without waking.
Ian came charging down the hall, waving a small envelope and yelling, “Daddy, look what I got!”
Heathcliff jumped to the floor, then hauled ass to parts unknown, his ears back, his bushy tail straight up and flicking.
I picked Ian up and hugged him. “May I see the envelope, please?”
Ian handed me a birthday party invitation from his friend, Sage Pruitt. “Wow, your first piece of postal service mail. That’s cool.”
Ian’s missing two-front-teeth smile showed such joy that my heart broke a little bit. I hugged him again.
“I wanna go, Daddy.”
Stella came down the hall, wildly colored, monster purse in hand. “Ian, make your sentence a request, not a demand, and use proper English.”
Stella never cut the boy any slack. She waged a one-woman war to slow the dumbing down of Americans. I loved her for that. But I didn’t remind her that she called all refrigerators “Frigidaires,” every lunch was “dinner,” and every dinner was “supper.” She would forever keep her Midwestern figures of speech. I would forever keep my goddammed mouth shut about them.
“May I go to Sage’s birthday party, please?”
“That’s excellent, Master Steele,” Stella said.
“Yes, you may,” I said.