Patterns of Brutality: Erter & Dobbs Book 2

by Nick Keller

  Bernie made a sound like “Ughh…” and lay prostrate for a second unable to move.

  Ray Ray collapsed to a knee leaning one big arm on the fountain’s edge heaving, trying to catch his breath. The meathead spat a string of blood out onto the granite basin.

  Bernie rolled over still covering himself and moaning. Catching his breath, he got to a sitting position against the fountain’s bowl. The two looked at each other, just sucking oxygen, unable to speak. Finally, Bernie said between gasps, “You… want some… more?”

  Ray Ray gave him a deeply insulted look.

  Bernie nodded his head. “Okay. Yeah. Good.” He spat a string of red toward the pool but missed. It struck the flagstone decking. Ray Ray limped over to him and helped him to his feet. “You done?” he said.

  “Shit, yeah,” Bernie said.

  “Good,” Ray Ray said and gave him a full-throttle punch to the gut. Bernie moaned—Ooooh!—and hit his knees cradling his stomach. He pulled a breath big and deep and long, and sat there for a second recuperating. Ray Ray picked him back up to his feet and said, “That was for my nuts.”

  “Yep—fair enough,” Bernie said through a tight, red face. He swiped the new sweat popping up over his forehead.

  “Good show,” Ray Ray said.

  “Yeah, you too,” Bernie wheezed and went toward the house listing like a battered ship at sea.

  ***

  CONTROLLING a serious nosebleed with one hand and nursing his lower back with the other, Bernie limped back into the house with his shirt buttonless and hanging loose, exposing his white undershirt. Groaning, he made it to the kitchen island and swiped his gun and holster. Trying to put the straps over his shoulder, he failed so he just let it hang down his back, gun secured. Bernie looked at Mr. G. “Iva’s mine, now,” he said.

  Mr. G’s eyes went to Ray Ray who was nursing a few wounds of his own. He gave Bernie a flick of his wrist and said, “Jesus. Take the bitch.”

  Bernie scooped his wallet and badge up along with his hat and staggered toward the door. When he reached it he turned and said, “I’m walking out of here.” He put his hat on and stepped out.

  19

  RED ROCKET STUDIOS

  Derrick Smyth’s radio chirped. He took it, said, “Smyth here.”

  “This is Officer Berch and Pilmer, sir, up on Mulholland…”

  Derrick had to recollect. Berch and Pilmer—two of the Hollywood Blues he’d assigned to go door-to-door back at the scene. They found something. “Yeah,” Derrick said. “What you got?”

  “We scouted about two miles up Mulholland, came across a Kyle Biggs’ home, some studio production head. Says he threw a party few nights ago for one of his talent. Hasn’t heard from her since.”

  His talent. “Did you give a name?”

  “Yeah—we asked about a Chrissie Newton. He knows her. Says she was there.”

  “He’s positive,” Derrick said.

  “Sounds like it, sir.”

  “Nice work. What’s the address?”

  He punched Mark Neiman’s speed dial on his cell phone. “This is Neiman.”

  “Mark, I hope you haven’t got too far. We got a bite.”

  “Turning around now. Give me the address. I’ll meet you there.”

  THEY PULLED up at virtually the same time, Mark in his black Camaro and Derrick in his Chevy Taho. There was a Black-and-White out front. Their doors opened and closed simultaneously and they made impressed eyes at the house. It was one of Mulholland’s three-and-a-half million dollar jobs with a hideaway front entry and a big, gabled visage. Over the front door was a personalized sign of a stiletto on a phallic symbol framed in black and red—Red Rocket Studios. They made eyes at it discriminately.

  “Hollywood jurisdiction, Mark,” Derrick said.

  “I’ll let you talk.” Mark demurred.

  The door was open and Officer Berch, or Pilmer, was waiting for them in the entrance. Derrick stepped in first. The floor was stone tile and the furniture was spread out. A winding staircase was off the right of a big foyer. A woman with treated, platinum hair, unnaturally perfect tits and a face desperately clinging to two decades ago, was over at the dining table. She’d obviously been crying. A man who looked to be her micro-surgery chiseled male counterpart was standing in the living room. He moved to greet them with a hopeless worry on his face.

  Derrick spoke first. “Are you Kyle Biggs?”

  “Yeah, come in, officers.”

  “I’m Detective Smyth. This is Detective Neiman. You mind if we ask you a few questions?” They flashed their badges respectively.

  “Jesus, are you sure it’s her?” he said.

  The woman got up and moved to him. He put an arm of consolation around her.

  “We’re afraid so,” Derrick said.

  Kyle Biggs was obviously still in shock. “How? I mean, what if it’s a mistake? How can you be so sure it’s her?”

  “The car was registered in her name—a Chrissie Newton. She had her Driver’s license, insurance information, other identifiers.”

  They both made a face like they’d been given the news of her death for the first time all over again. “What about, you know, identifying the body? You going to need someone to—” Mr. Biggs’s words trailed off.

  Derrick cleared his throat. “We’ll call you if we need you, how does that sound?”

  Mr. Biggs nodded.

  Mark said, “I’m just going to…” he pointed to a mantle with trophies and awards adorning it across the room.

  “Please, go ahead,” Mr. Biggs said.

  Mark moved away inspecting the surroundings.

  Derrick said, “How did you know Chrissie?”

  “She was contracted with me. She was one of mine.”

  “She was our angel,” the woman said withholding new tears.

  “You’re a producer?” Derrick asked.

  “A studio head,” Mr. Biggs said. “We own several subsidiaries—modeling agencies, casting agencies. We represent over a hundred working professionals.”

  “And Chrissie Newton was one.”

  “Yes.”

  “She was an actress?” Derrick took a guess. It seemed logical.

  Mr. Biggs nodded. “One of the most talented actresses I’ve ever worked with.”

  “We were so proud,” Mrs. Biggs said.

  “What was so special about Chrissie?”

  They both swooned. Mr. Biggs said, “She was pleasant, easy to work with. She was versatile.”

  Mrs. Biggs said, “And beautiful. Oh, she was so beautiful.” She started to cry again.

  He held her tighter to him and said to Derrick, “She came from a small town. She had that small-town charm about her. Good chemistry.”

  Mrs. Biggs cried, “And she had just signed with Sony. They were going to make her a star.” She lost herself in remorse.

  “Babe, why don’t you sit down?” Mr. Biggs said. She nodded clutching a silk hanky and moved back toward the dining table.

  Derrick said, “I see. So she was here the night of her death.”

  Mr. Biggs invited him to sit at a guest’s set. He said, “It was a party. You know—we hosted it for her. It was a—we were celebrating her move to one of the big studios.”

  “Who was she with that night?”

  “Chrome,” Mr. Biggs said.

  “Chrome?”

  “Jeff Burkes. He’s been her main screen partner. They were so good together. He probably doesn’t even know. My God.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “What all young people do, you know.”

  “They were lovers?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did they leave together?”

  “No. Chrome stayed.”

  “What time did she leave?”

  Mr. Biggs shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you. It was early.”

  “Well, we’re going to have to get a hold of this Chrome.”

  “Sure, I can get you his information.” Mr. Biggs hesitated. “
He’s not a suspect, is he? Chrome—or Jeff—he wouldn’t do something like that.”

  “We’re leaving all options on the table. If Mr. uh—”

  “Burkes.”

  “If Mr. Burkes is innocent, he’s got nothing to worry about. We’d appreciate you letting us deliver the bad news, though.”

  “Uh—okay,” Mr. Biggs said.

  From across the room, Mark called, “What kind of party was this, really?”

  The suddenness of his question made them flinch. They all looked over to him.

  Mr. Biggs said, “What?”

  Mark moved back toward them conversationally. “It was her party, right, so when you say she left early, I assume you mean the ass-crack-of-dawn early, as opposed to eleven-o’clock-early.” He tilted his head. “But no one saw her leave, so who really knows? She had relations with a guy named—” he chuckled ridiculously and continued, “Chrome—but he didn’t leave with her, which implies they didn’t come together, which further implies they weren’t making love like couples do—they were sport fucking.”

  Mr. Biggs looked at him hiding his insult.

  Mark said, “And if they were sport fucking, I’m guessing a lot of people were sport fucking. And where there’s a lot of sport fucking,” he wagged an accusatory finger in the air, “there’s a whole lot of drugs.” He sniffed the air as if chasing the trail of burnt toast and said, “I smell a porn party.”

  Mr. Biggs clicked the roof of his mouth and said, “We prefer to call it the adult entertainment business.”

  “Mmm—call it what you will, Mr. Biggs, but a bunch of people sport fucking each other is going to produce a dead body sooner or later. And those are generally good-looking, young-girl dead bodies. That’s neither adult nor entertaining, in my book.”

  Mr. Biggs got to his feet, his face visibly turning red, and shouted, “Are you saying we had something to do with her death?”

  “Someone was pissed off at something,” Mark said, slinging the accusation out there.

  “Get the fuck out of my house!” He pointed his finger to the door.

  Mark walked out saying, “We’ll be in touch.” He was followed by Derrick who offered an apologetic glance back.

  “HONEY, MAN, HONEY,” Derrick said, pacing Mark from behind, jangling his keys in his pocket.

  Mark reached his car and turned. “What’s that supposed to mean, detective?”

  “You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

  “That’s a cliché, man. And…” He unlocked the car swinging the door open. “It’s not true.”

  “Then what about simple candor?”

  “You guys in Hollywood Station do things your way, we do things ours. Look, Smyth, Mulholland isn’t exactly the mean streets, so I don’t blame you for treating these people like their assholes are made out of golden wreaths. But that guy in there is just as responsible for Chrissie as the perp—throwing fucking orgy parties, everyone whizzing out. He’s a scumbag. It’s obvious. The only difference is he’s got money. Well, I’m not going to pander to him.”

  “These people aren’t suspects, Neiman. You can’t treat them like they are.”

  Mark gave him a reticent smirk and said, “They’re not suspects yet.”

  “And what about this Jeff Burkes? You gonna bust his balls, too?”

  Mark blurted laughter still standing at his car door and said, “You mean Chrome Steele? I’d like to bust him just for being a cheeseball.” He took a breath settling. “Look, he’s in town. I’ll bring him in for questioning. You want to be there?”

  “I’m afraid I’d only be there to police the interrogation.”

  “Right. Then I’ll call you.” He got in his car and started the engine with a sudden, growling rumble. The road curved away behind a hedge. Seeing any oncoming traffic was a trick. He craned over and didn’t see anything, so he started to go but stopped. At the last second a big sedan came winding around the corner. Mark’s eyes bugged. It was a mid-nineties Crown Vic. Two-tone gray. He knew that car.

  Jesus—that’s Bernie fucken Dobbs!

  Bernie’s car cruised on by. Mark pulled out and angled to follow squealing the tires. “What the hell is he doing here?”

  20

  NEIMAN & DOBBS

  Bernie worked to take off his dress shirt, struggling with the seatbelt. In the effort, he left tiny pockmarks of blood on his under shirt from his nose, the gash over his eye and a bleeding lip. He wadded up the Oxford style figuring it was useless now with all its buttons ripped off, and wadded it up against the nosebleed. He cruised around the bends in Mulholland grunting against his injuries. But he felt good. It was a good day. Iva was free, now. She was retired.

  A police siren flashed in the rearview. He looked up sneering, “What the hell…” He squinted, recognizing it’s low grille, the black on black tinted windows. He knew that car.

  Jesus—that’s Mark fucken Neiman!

  He felt panic rise up. Mark was pulling him over. Bernie wasn’t exactly on the job. “Fuck.”

  He came to the nearest pull-off with a grand view of the southern Cali ravines and threw it into park. Mark followed suit pulling up behind him. Bernie had no desire to get out so he waited rolling his window down. The famous Hollywood sign was way off, blurred in the distance. Footsteps crunched in the gravel. He looked up and Mark was there, leering down at him.

  “What the fuck you doing here, Dobbs?”

  “You pulling me over for something, Neiman?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I had personal shit, okay.” He lowered the wadded-up shirt. His face was red and marked up. One eye was half swollen. Nose all bloated. It made Mark chuckle incredulously.

  “Jesus—what the fuck happened to you?”

  “I told you, it was personal.”

  “Personal. You humping bears, Bernie? Bears don’t like that.”

  “What do you care what I hump?”

  “Answer the question, Dobbs!”

  Bernie stabbed an angry look at him and retorted, “What are you doing here, Mark? This ain’t no Central call.”

  “Are you working a case, Bernie?”

  “Are you?”

  Mark stood upright, tight-lipped and controlling a temper. He finally said, “Open your passenger door, Bernie.”

  “Why—you gonna search me, now?”

  “Just open your door.”

  Bernie thought about it and unlocked the passenger. Mark walked around and got in slamming the door shut. He rubbed his face collecting his thoughts. “You’re up to something, Dobbs. What is it?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

  Mark demanded, “Pruitt put you up to this?”

  “Pruitt? Fuck Pruitt!”

  “Are you casing me, Bernie?” He yelled.

  “Christ, you’re fucking paranoid, Mark.”

  “Then what?”

  “I told you, personal business.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I’m not following you. If I was, you’d never know it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Bernie looked over with a sudden thought. “Hey—you following me? Does Pruitt have you following me?”

  “Oh Christ, now you’re fucking paranoid, Dobbs.” They sat in the car sharing uncomfortable space, both staring out the windshield. Bernie dabbed his bleeding nose with his shirt. Mark glanced at him, said, “So what is it then, Cold Case? You on a cold case up in the Hills?”

  Bernie hesitated. Maybe it was a better angle to take—better than admitting he was in love with an escort and had just liberated her from her employer. He grinned and said, “Uh—yeah, I’m on an investigation.” Besides, it was partly true.

  “Get a little close, did ya?” Mark smirked referring to his wounds.

  Bernie locked eyes with him and sneered, “You’re getting a little close, Mark.”

  Mark leaned away from him pulling his eyes down, giving him an untrusting look. It was a point of high coincidence they’d both be investi
gating crimes in Hollywood, within the same square mile or two. They would both admit that. It smacked of similar objectives. “What’re you investigating?” Mark said.

  “Murders,” Bernie said suddenly, dawning the same feeling.

  “What kind of murders?” Mark asked.

  Bernie shook his head. “No, it’s your turn. Why are you here?”

  “Same as you. A murder.”

  “Go on.”

  Mark sighed, relenting. “Okay. A young woman was found this morning, right up the street here.”

  “Yeah—I passed the scene.”

  “Well, she was dead in her car. Got bumped off the road, then she got bumped off the planet.”

  “You said a young woman?” Bernie said, sounding interested.

  “That’s right, why?”

  “Was she…” Bernie laughed disbelievingly at the situation. “Was she an actress?”

  “Maybe. Why?”

  “Because my vics were all actresses. Young, just getting started.”

  “Really?” Mark said. He cleared his throat. “Mine was too.”

  “And your vic—how would you classify the degree of brutality?”

  Mark looked at him deep. The girl had her throat slit, her face removed. He said, suddenly serious, “Off the charts.”

  A moment of silence flittered between them as if giving homage to the dead. Mark finally cried, “Oh shit! No, no, no!”

  Bernie also cried, “Oh hell no!”

  They looked at each other, both realizing they were chasing leads to the same case, one from Cold Case, the other a current crime.

  BERNIE PREFERRED bars to coffee houses. But he also preferred being alone to sitting across from Mark Neiman, so a coffee house would do. He poured a steady stream of sugar into a ceramic café mug, clinking the spoon in circles as he did. Mark watched him with a sideways look.