by Louis Barr
“Ian and I will miss you,” I said to Raoul. “Now, get to Houston and break a leg on the shoot.”
“Thanks, I owe it all to you.”
“You don’t owe me anything. You’d have gotten into films sooner than later.”
But Raoul and I knew success in any of the industries never came to most people who’d come to L.A. to get discovered. Talent and looks weren’t enough. You had to know the right people.
Raoul got a text. His ride was at the curb. He hugged Ian and me good-bye.
We watched as Raoul slid onto the back seat of a Steele Productions limo bound for LAX. In about ninety minutes, a Houston-bound jet would be wheels up.
The house felt empty without Raoul’s smile, laugh, and laid-back ways. I hoped his new career would be everything he’d dreamed and more.
I held Ian as he began to cry over losing another person he loved. “Raoul will be back to L.A. before you know it.”
“You promise, Daddy?”
I hugged Ian a little tighter. “I promise, son. I’ll miss Raoul too.”
But I had Mars. Nature’s abhorrence of vacuums had finally caught up with me.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Nerds Love Free Food
Clint, Steele & Whitman Investigations, Monday, May 21
I got to the office after my morning session with Doc Stenton. My mild depression clouds had lifted, letting in the sunlight.
Then yesterday, Mars and I’d confirmed the sparks we’d felt as young men still crackled. I felt centered and at peace with myself. Life was great again.
I went to my desk carrying a fresh cup of coffee, sat, and opened the Danning file. Without a word from the kidnapper, the case remained at a standstill. I knew it was a waste of time worrying about things I could not change. But I wanted to find my half brother, goddammit.
Hope and I had other cases needing our attention. We did a great deal of business with law firms. Before stepping into a courtroom, an attorney needed everything his or her client claimed as an honest-to-God fact verified. Seeking light and truth had become a major source of revenue for Steele & Whitman Investigations.
I began the workday Skyping with one lawyer’s client who’d been released on bail but placed under house arrest with an ankle monitor. Charged with burglarizing a Hancock Park mansion, she came across as polite, charismatic, and fascinating as only a second-story cat burglar can be—make that an alleged second-story cat burglar. I saw the Rodeo Drive casuals she wore and made note of the daylight diamonds in her ears and around one wrist—maybe filched out of someone’s gem safe, maybe not.
Looking at her, I didn’t see an accused felon. Oh, hell no, I saw a fit, petite, be-still-my-foolish-dick, dulcet-toned beautiful woman. I wondered if she offered apprenticeships.
I spent an hour asking her a series of the same questions, each worded five or six different ways like the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory exam. Her story didn’t vary in the slightest. Maybe she’s innocent, I thought.
Her next test would be a face-to-face, come-to-Jesus interrogation with Hope Whitman. Nobody successfully bullshitted Hope for long.
I’d emailed my Skype interview notes to Hope when my phone chimed. Mars was texting me.
Busy?
Taking a breather. Don’t you have a dirty trick or two to pull on some enemy of the United States?
Recently finished fucking up a rebel leader. And it was fun too. Right now, I’m preoccupied with twitching and squirming from yesterday’s horizontal mambo marathon, thank you.
But you love it!
You bet my ass. But I’m texting you because I’ve found nine men who resemble my sketch; probabilities of a match run from fifty to ninety-three percent. Want me to email or drop by with the photos and names of these nine hits?
Thanks, buddy. Bring what you found to my house, dinner tonight 1800 hours.
Nerds luv free food. Want me to bring anything?
Trunks.
???
Sorry, I must’ve slipped into writing Swahili again. Bring swimwear: manties/box trunks/Speedo for diving, swimming, getting all wet, etcetera, etcetera.
K.
BTW, it’s a black tie dinner.
K. LD!
Mars missed my black tie joke. He’d probably been multitasking again, maybe giving a squad of armed insurgents instructions on how to build a pipe bomb and safely wire it to the electrical system of the dictator’s Mercedes.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Unmasked
Clint, The Flats, Monday, May 21
Home at 1730 hours, I unlaced and pulled off my shoes. Ian’s Black Hawk helicopter raced toward me, then hovered about four feet above my head. Chasing it, Sammy stopped short and barked at the drone. I petted the dog. Ian landed the Black Hawk.
“Thanks, Daddy! This Black Hawk’s awesome!”
I knelt in front of him. “You’re welcome, son. That was some fancy flying. And you taught yourself how to do it. I’m proud of you.”
“Piece of cake, Daddy. I only needed to read the instructions.”
“While ignoring this morning’s American history lesson,” Stella narked, carrying today’s huge, blindingly colorful granny purse.
“You can’t waste Stella’s time, son. You only have one hour of lessons weekdays in the summertime.”
“But, Daddy, history sucks!”
“Language! You will focus on your lessons. Don’t make me ground you and your Black Hawk for a week.”
“Sorry, Daddy. Sorry, Stella.”
I walked Stella to the door with the Black Hawk following us like a monster dragonfly. I watched her make her customary breakneck U-turn, then slowly drive toward the street. Closing the door, I told Ian to land the Black Hawk.
“Why?”
“Your uncle is coming for dinner,” I said.
“Uncle Martian!”
I went upstairs to get out of my suit and into something casual. Ian returned to playing with his Black Hawk.
Standing poolside minutes later, I fired up the grill. Mars arrived dressed in a long-sleeved tee that looked like a white-shirted, black tux with painted-on cuff links and bow tie. He’d accessorized the get-up with black shorts and black flip-flops—the funky synthetic rubber kind. He looked like a dork. I shook my head and laughed.
“You said black tie.” He set his messenger bag on the glass-topped table, petted Sammy, and sat down.
The Black Hawk hovered low enough over Mars’s head to ruffle his blond curls.
I sighed inwardly. “Ian, please stop doing that.”
He landed the chopper poolside.
Mars raised his eyebrows. “Wow, man, I bet flying that drone is fun.” He hugged Ian. “Hey, Booboo, may I see the remote?”
Ian held the remote tightly to his chest with both hands. “Do you know how to fly a Black Hawk?”
“Dude, I flew Black Hawks before you were a gleam in your parents’ eyes.”
“Daddy, what does that mean?”
“It means Mars flew helicopters before you were born.” I left it at that.
Ian forked over the remote. “All right, Uncle Martian, show me what you can do.”
I sat down to watch the children play.
“Captain Booboo, Capitol Hill miniature zombies have invaded the pool. I’ve got the fifty caliber bubble gun locked and loaded.”
Mars flew the Black Hawk low across the pool, making staccato machine gun sounds. “Bubble encapsulated Capitol Hill mini zombies now blowing back toward DC. Mission accomplished.”
“There’s no such thing as zombies. Daddy said so.”
Mars landed the Black Hawk. “Your daddy’s right.” He said under his breath, “Except for the far-right congressional automatons.” He opened his messenger bag, pulled out a file, and slid it toward me. “Take a look.”
I studied the first eight photos that resembled the dime-store cowboy, the likeness of him increasing slightly with every picture. The ninth was a college graduation class shot. I stu
died an at-least-twenty-years-younger dime-store cowboy in the top row, third from the left. With Ian standing beside me, I caught myself, and said, “Sonof a—gun. What’s this man’s name?”
Mars smiled. “Third man from the left, top row is one C. Judson Tucker. He goes by Jud. He earned a BS in fire science and is a licensed paramedic. Jud worked a number of years as an LAFD fire fighter and EMT.”
“And he’s presently the security director at Mystic Canyon Casino,” I said.
“Affirmative,” Mars said.
“Do we know what the ‘C’ stands for?”
“I couldn’t find any references to the ‘C,’” Mars began. “Did you ever know what the ‘F’ stood for in F. Scott Fitzgerald?”
“His full name was Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald,” I said. Needing to think for a few moments, I got up and put dinner on the grill.
I now had a link between Jud Tucker, Tom Andrews, and possibly Shane Danning. This gave me something to work with. At the moment, I had fuck all under the evidentiary column, but with some digging and a lot of luck in working the Danning-Andrews-Tucker angles, I might gather enough evidence that would snowball beyond circumstantial straight into compelling. It sounded good in theory.
Jud Tucker had met with me in my office. I knew getting a face-to-face meeting with him at Mystic Canyon Casino wouldn’t happen unless I caught him with his guard down. As he was the casino’s security director, catching him unawares didn’t seem likely either.
I’d need to dig until I got enough solid evidence to get an arrest warrant. And digging for evidence I could do.
I took the steaks, burgers, and corn on the cob off the grill. As we ate, Ian didn’t ask embarrassing questions and avoided making a when-my-penis-gets-big comment. Could he be growing out of his phallic phase of psychosexual development? I wouldn’t hold my breath. Bottom line, we had a leisurely, relaxing, and fun dinner.
Later, Mars and I sat on the pool’s coving, dangling our legs in eighty-degree water and drinking beer. I checked the child monitor I’d set on the glass-topped table. Ian remained sound asleep with Sammy curled up at the foot of the bed.
“I know you don’t mind if I ask a personal question,” Mars said.
“Hoser, not asking each other meddlesome questions ended about an hour after we met at the Point.”
“Roger that. Did the cops think you murdered your parents?”
Home invaders had murdered my parents and their dinner guests about six months after Mars and I graduated West Point. He went to work for military intelligence, and I went into Special Forces training. Both Mars and I had worked under radio silence for years.
“You know spouses, significant others, immediate family members, and friends always top the list of suspects in homicide investigations. Plus, I inherited forty-nine percent of Steele Productions’s stock. But I had an airtight alibi: I was in Afghanistan on the night of the murders. And that only motivated the investigators to dig deeper into my financial records to determine whether I might’ve outsourced the murders.”
“And they found no suspicious cash withdrawals or transfers.”
“They found nothing.” I sipped some more beer. “When I flew home to bury my parents, two LAPD homicide investigators were waiting for me in the terminal. They drove me to the Laurel Canyon house where I’d lived for most of my life.”
I sipped some more beer. “One of the investigators told me bloody shoeprints at the scene indicated there were four male home invaders. The other investigator said the robbery and murders came off with military precision. I told the investigators if that was the case, neither bloody shoeprints nor other forensics would’ve been found at the scene.”
“Bet that insight was not well-received.”
“Roger that. Anyway, one of the investigators said a plastic explosive blew the lock on the rear door. The invaders rushed the dining room, tied, gagged, robbed, and shot my parents’ guests. The investigators surmised while one of them forced my parents upstairs, the other three invaders ransacked the lower floor. Everything had been taken from the safe, probably opened with a gun held either to my father or mother’s head.” I looked into the distance. “After I buried my parents, I put the Laurel Canyon house on the market. I didn’t want to spend another minute in it.” I let out a breath. “It sold quickly.”
“Did the LAPD get assistance from the feds?”
“The FBI and the LAPD collaborated.” I sipped some more beer. “As I mentioned, bloody shoeprints and other forensics found at the scene indicated there were four male home invaders; fingerprints identified three of them. Investigators think one of the invaders murdered the other three. That’s likely the case, but their bodies haven’t been found.”
“Yes, I’d heard that much,” Mars said.
“After ten years, the name of the fourth home invader remains a mystery.” I nudged Mars. “Armed with a sniper rifle and scope, I’m a stainless assassin. Maybe one day I’ll close the case for the LAPD.”
“You didn’t represent the Point at international marksman competitions four years running because you’re handsome and pack a huge rod,” Mars said.
“Thanks, Hoser.” I smiled. “Let’s spend the night together.”
“Here?”
“No, at my next-door neighbor’s house.” I grinned. “Yes, here. In my bed, bare-assed.”
“I’m a boy who can’t say no,” he whispered in my ear.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
O Dark Hundred
Clint, Tuesday, May 22
My bedside phone rang. Jarred awake, I checked the time. It was another unlisted O Dark Hundred call. Not wanting to awaken Mars, I lifted the handset on the first ring and stepped into the hall.
I didn’t speak.
“Clinton Steele?”
The distorted male voice grabbed my attention. “This is he.”
Thanks to Mars’s sketch and a web search, I had a good idea the O Dark Hundred caller was C. Judson “Jud” Tucker. But I played dumb. “Who is this?”
“My name isn’t relevant. All you need to do is shut the fuck up and listen carefully.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ve been whipping Shane Danning. He’s still alive, but he may not be much longer.”
“You don’t need to torture him. Diana and I’ve been waiting for your instructions,” I said angrily.
“But I enjoy making him suffer. The stupid fucker’s half-assed escape attempt killed Tom Andrews.”
The call being digitally recorded, I now had evidence of a Danning-Andrews-Tucker connection.
Tucker’s voice turned taunting. “I could get a wild hair up my ass and toss the world-famous Danning slut’s only son into the hog pen.” He let out a soft laugh. “Did you know once domesticated swine taste human flesh and blood, they become as unpredictable and dangerous as wild boars?”
If he hadn’t handed me a line of bullshit, Jud Tucker owned a farm or ranch. “I’ve listened long enough. What the fuck do you want?”
“To pass along some information. Twenty minutes ago, I gave Diana Danning instructions for wiring five million dollars into an offshore account. When I know the cash has been deposited and the feds haven’t gotten on the money trail, I’ll turn pretty boy Shane over to you, but only to you.”
“All right,” I said. Then I listened for background noise. I only heard the low buzz of the electronic distortion. But with the call being recorded, Hope could use a slower playback speed that might isolate sounds I couldn’t hear. More important, she could filter out the distortion that disguised Tucker’s voice.
“When I’ve moved the five million dollars into accounts that can’t be found by anyone, you and I will talk. If I get as much as a fucking feeling anyone has called the cops or feds, no one will ever find Shane Danning’s body…or yours.”
“Understood,” I said.
“I’ve ordered Diana not to speak to you or anyone in law enforcement. She’s going to follow my instructions to the letter, and you�
��d better be on the same page. I’ll call you tomorrow morning and give you the rest of your orders.”
Jud Tucker ended the call.
A thought had been niggling me. Sometimes the key to a crime didn’t hide behind the victim, but could be found in the character of a family member or friend. I went downstairs to the den.
I did a JFGI, read, and leaned back in my desk chair. On April twenty-seventh, two days after Shane’s abduction, the L.A. Times ran a postage stamp-sized story on the burglary of Diana Danning’s Birds Neighborhood manse. The article didn’t specify what had been stolen or its value. The matter remained under investigation.
Diana had given me an evasive answer when I’d asked if anything out of the ordinary had happened to her during the past few weeks.
I had questions about the burglary. Diana would follow Jud Tucker’s orders and would not talk to me.
But it’s always good to have friends in high places.
Next, I called Mystic Canyon Casino and asked for Jud Tucker’s office. My call was transferred, and after six rings, a woman answered in a blasé tone, “Security.”
“I don’t suppose Mr. Tucker is at his desk,” I said.
“He has the next two days off. I’m his assistant director. May I help you?”
“No, thanks. I’ve a personal matter to discuss with Tucker. May I have his voicemail?”
She transferred my call.
Moments later, I heard the man. Hope and I now had a digital recording of Tucker’s voice to compare with the O Dark Hundred caller’s. I hung up.
Chapter Forty
Twenty-Four Hours
Clint, Steele & Whitman Investigations, Tuesday, May 22
As I entered the office, Hope scowled and yanked out her ear buds. I stood at parade rest beside her desk, and said, “What crawled up your rear end this morning?”
Hope pulled the pencil out of her bouffant and examined the lead. “If this dime-store cowboy Jud Tucker thinks he disguised his voice with his electronic junk, he needs to bang a Louie back to the toy store and demand a refund.”