Fourth Wall (An Anthony Carrick Mystery Book 8)

by Jason Blacker

  “You all know each other from Millstone then?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Yeah, except for that Kyle guy and his friend. All of us were the cool kids who graduated Y2K.”

  I looked at Orpen’s empty cup on the table. I looked at mine in my hands. It was empty too. I had nothing else for him. I looked at Roberts and Beeves. Beeves shrugged.

  “I think that’s all we need,” said Roberts. He pulled out another card and offered it to Orpen.

  “You gave me one yesterday.”

  “And you still have it.”

  Orpen didn’t say anything. He took the card.

  “Don’t leave the city,” said Roberts. “In case we need to talk to you further.”

  “I’m not going anywhere for another couple of weeks. The play ain’t over ‘till the fat lady sings,” he said.

  I frowned at him. That made no sense. But then I thought about it a little longer, and perhaps there was hidden wisdom in the proverb. We didn’t know where this case was going, and drawing any conclusions at this early stage was foolhardy. I stood up to leave. Björk and Orpen remained seated.

  “Did you kill her?” I asked, turning to look at him one last time.

  He shook his head slowly.

  “No wonder crime’s up in this shitty city. You cops don’t have a clue what you’re doing. Chasing your tails.”

  “That’s a no?”

  “Yeah, that’s a no.”

  And we walked out of the house and into the expansive driveway where the sun was already heating it. There was no dew anywhere on anything green, just like no clues for us. Even in the shade the dew had evaporated.

  “Why’d you ask him that? Do you think he did it?” asked Beeves.

  I shrugged.

  “Sometimes you get lucky and a perp confesses. I dunno. I don’t have a fucking clue as to what’s going on with these two murders.”

  Roberts was on his phone.

  “If I can make a suggestion,” said Beeves.

  “I’m all ears,” I said, “like a fucking Basset.”

  Beeves smiled at that.

  “Let’s consider them on their own merits. This one here, the Beale case, looks like it might have been the husband. I mean that’s all we’ve got to go on, right?”

  “Motive?”

  “She was fucking around on him. Seems everybody knows about that.”

  “Except maybe the old man,” I said.

  “Well, we’ll figure that out.”

  I shook my head, took out a cigarette and lit it. I offered one to Beeves. He declined. I blew smoke at the sun.

  “Yeah, but he’s probably worth, I dunno, a hundred mill, a bill, who the fuck knows. Would you commit murder if you had that kinda money on the line.”

  “Maybe if you figured you could get away with it,” said Beeves.

  I looked at him and took a drag on my smoke.

  “But it’s sloppy. I mean, sending a gift basket with the poisoned juice with a note from himself. Seems more like he’s been set up.”

  “Okay, well maybe we’ll get to talk to him soon and see if we get any other clues.”

  I nodded. We needed clues like a nympho needed another dick.

  “And then there’s the Ancher deal,” I said.

  Beeves smiled at me.

  “That’s a slam dunk,” he said. “It’s clear that Peso did it. I mean, we’ve got him threatening her from multiple witnesses. And we have him heading back when the party was ended. And I bet we’ll get his fingerprints around the Ancher home in the next day or so.”

  I nodded. That one was cleaner. But nobody actually saw him do it and a good defense attorney could sow reasonable doubt like a farmer sowing seeds in Eden.

  “If we find him,” I said.

  “We will,” said Beeves. “It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Why is this so hard for you? Seems like a pretty clean and dry case to me.”

  “That’s why I don’t like it. Most times yeah, but when you’ve got money and important people involved, all sorts of seedy shit seems to float to the surface like turds in a clogged toilet. And I can’t see any turds at the moment.”

  Beeves grinned.

  “Well, I’m gonna go down this road until we get information that suggests otherwise,” he said.

  We turned to look at Roberts. He was just hanging up the phone.

  “Good timing. Emmett is at home and he’s ready to see us now.”

  “How nice,” I said.

  Roberts turned to look at me. He wasn’t smiling.

  “No touchy-feely on this one, Anthony. I’m serious. This is all bouquets and sugar. We’re gonna handle him real gently, alright?”

  I nodded.

  “Like a coddled baby,” I said.

  “Seriously. I’ll pull you off this case if you get wise with him or me. We’re gonna treat him like the grieving widower he is unless we get strong evidence to the contrary.”

  I put my hands up in submission.

  “Whatever you say, boss,” I said, and we all walked to our own cars. I followed.

  TWELVE

  Man from Montana

  NORTH of Montana is a tony neighborhood. NOMA to those who think they know what they’re talking about. It’s as pretentious as a trailer park trinket at the Governor’s Ball. And the house we were heading to was probably the most expensive in LA. Definitely top five. I knew of it, like most of us shlemiels did, due to envy, jealousy and also a large dose of animosity. Like I’d said before, the disparity in this city of ours would make Mugabe blush.

  I was nudged up against Roberts’ unmarked car as he pulled into the entrance. The house was shielded by eight-foot walls covered in salmon stucco the same color as the house. The entrance was a large iron gate with a crest and cursive writing on it that simply had ‘LE’.

  Roberts leaned out of his car to push the buzzer at the pillar before the gate. I had my windows down on account of the AC not working in my car. I heard the buzz. Then I heard a British voice on the other end.

  “How may I help you?”

  I figured this wasn’t Emmett. I doubted he answered his own mother let alone a chime from his gate.

  “Captain Roberts from homicide here to see Mr. Emmett.”

  “And who’s that behind you in the older car?”

  He was talking about me. My LeSabre had got me around a lot of places. But around these places it stuck out like a hard on on a transvestite.

  “He’s with me,” said Roberts.

  There was silence for a long few seconds. Then the gate started to open. We drove up a long driveway to the main entrance and parked our cars. The house was a sprawling affair on probably a couple of acres. It backed up against the Riviera Country Club. As we got out of our cars a real, live butler opened the front door. More than that he was in tails and white gloves.

  “Please come in,” he said, as he opened the door for us.

  “And who are you?” asked Roberts, his tone not as friendly as perhaps he had intended it to be.

  “Montgomery Reginald Heathcliffe the third,” he said. “But you, sir, can call me Monty.”

  Monty was about my height and slim. Probably lighter than I was, and in his early sixties. He had a full head of thin, white English hair that was combed back. Other than that he was clean shaven and unremarkable.

  “Is Mr. Emmett in, Monty?” asked Roberts.

  I figured the less I said, the better my chances of sticking around, so I said nothing.

  “Yes, he’s expecting you, sir. Right this way.”

  He took us through the front of the house and all the way to the back. At least the back of one part of it. Just past the kitchen we exited the house into the backyard. Emmett was sitting in an outdoor sofa under the covered patio looking out over his tennis court and pool. He was sipping on something orange. He wore sunglasses, deck shoes, a white, thin linen shirt and light khaki linen trousers.

  He heard the sliding door as we exited the main house an
d put his drink down and stood up to greet us. He shook our hands. His watch was fancy on his tanned wrist. It wasn’t a gaudy large Rolex, rather the more subdued and impressive Patek with a plain face. The watch probably cost more than my yearly earnings. His shirt sleeves were rolled up just a bit. He looked healthy, though soft and his watch was the only object that belied his wealth. Excluding the sunglasses which were Ray Bans of some sort that I’d never seen before. Probably an exclusive limited edition.

  “Captain John Roberts of homicide, Mr. Emmett,” said Roberts, shaking his hand.

  “Please call me Lavan.”

  “This is my colleague Detective Gregory Beeves.”

  “Greg,” said Beeves, shaking Emmett’s hand.

  “And this is private investigator Anthony Carrick who does some consulting for us.”

  I took off my fedora and shook his hand. He had a firm grip and I liked that. He waved his hand at the outdoor chairs and sofas.

  “Please sit,” he said.

  He waited until we sat and did the same. He looked at Monty and nodded. Monty stepped forward.

  “Can I prepare a beverage for you, gentleman?” he asked.

  “What are you enjoying, Lavan?” asked Roberts.

  Emmett picked up his glass which was blistered on the outside and looked at it.

  “This is just a simple vodka and orange.”

  “I’ll take an orange juice,” said Roberts.

  “Lemonade if you have one,” said Beeves.

  “I suppose you gentleman can’t drink with me?” asked Emmett.

  Roberts shook his head sadly.

  “Would love to. Perhaps at another time. We’re on the city’s dime at the moment.”

  Emmett struck me as a man who was not grieving. Or if he was, he kept it private. But I couldn’t see behind those expensive Ray Bans to see what the eyes told.

  “And you, sir,” said Monty looking at me.

  I looked up at him.

  “Ah yes, I’ll just take a pomegranate juice in the bottle,” I said.

  “Very good, sir,” said Monty and he walked away.

  What I felt like was a vodka and orange. Hell, anything with a little bite in it, but I didn’t have a clue what kind of spirit went with pomegranate juice.

  Roberts looked out at the expansive green lawns and hedges in Emmett’s backyard as well as the odd palm tree.

  “It’s a lovely home you have, Lavan,” said Roberts.

  “Thank you. I’ve been here about seven years. Bought it when Mary and I got married,” he said. He looked away.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. And we’re grateful that you’re willing to see us so soon.”

  Emmett looked back at Roberts and smiled thinly. He didn’t say anything.

  “Are you working on anything currently?” asked Roberts.

  Emmett nodded.

  “We’re filming a western out in Arizona at the moment, but I came back in on Friday night for the weekend. I try to come back on the weekends to spend it with my wife. Anyway, we won’t start filming again until mid-week.”

  “Do you have a name for the movie?” asked Roberts.

  “We have a working title. Strictly confidential of course. I trust this information won’t leave us.”

  He looked at all of us as we each nodded in turn.

  “The working title is called ‘Courage of Still Waters’. It’s about an abandoned settler’s child who’s raised by the Cherokee to become a fierce warrior who fights for their freedom.”

  We all nodded thoughtfully. I liked westerns, you just didn’t see them around much anymore. Monty came out with our drinks. He took his time to hand each drink to it’s owner. I took the bottle of pomegranate juice and then I took the glass with ice in it that was offered. The bottle of juice was cold to the touch. It was getting warm under the shaded patio and I wanted to snuggle up with this cold drink.

  I looked at the label. It was Tom’s Pom. I was hoping for Pommie. But perhaps that would’ve been too easy. I opened the bottle and poured the dark purple juice into the glass. I hadn’t drunk it before. Supposed to be a healthy elixir but I wasn’t buying it. I took a sip. It was thinner than it’s color suggested but sweeter than honey dipped candy floss. And yet there was a tanginess to it. I didn’t like it. The hipsters could keep their elixir. I put it back down and decided I was just gonna have to go thirsty.

  “I believe that westerns are going to have a revival over the next few years,” said Emmett.

  Roberts nodded thoughtfully.

  “I was wondering about that. I know Anthony and I are fans, but you don’t see many out at the moment.”

  Emmett smiled at us and looked from Roberts to me and back again.

  “I’m sure you’ll give me your card,” he said to Roberts, “I’ll get you a couple of tickets to the premiere. I’m sure you’ll like it.”

  As much as I wanted this guy to be a dick, you just couldn’t help but like the man. Why the hell he’d married a woman that was clearly only using him for his power and wealth was beyond me. I smiled at Emmett.

  “You and Tony come together,” he said to Roberts.

  “Anthony, please,” I said. “Or Sid. Not Tony.”

  Emmett studied me for a moment but wasn’t fazed.

  “Anthony it is,” he said. “Why Sid?”

  I was about to speak for myself when Roberts decided to steal my thunder.

  “Anthony and I used to work together, first as uniforms and then in homicide. We got a reputation on the street from an incident involving a punk gang back in ninety-two or ninety-three. They gave Anthony that nickname then. And they called me Johnny Rotten.”

  “I see,” said Emmett, “so you’re Sid as in Sid Vicious?”

  I nodded.

  “Anthony can get a bit heavy handed with perps, especially those who happen to be preying on the weak and vulnerable, women and children, like those punks were.”

  Emmett nodded and smiled at me.

  “We need more cops like you,” he said to me, “willing to get a little dirty in the name of justice.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was being serious or egging me on. I didn’t respond.

  “Don’t encourage him,” said Roberts.

  “I also got the nickname ‘Smiling Irish’ too,” I said, wanting a bit of the conversation.

  Emmett frowned and turned up his mouth.

  “That one I don’t get,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve seen you smile once since you’ve been here.”

  I smiled at him then.

  “I used to box,” I said. “I enjoyed it. I smiled a lot in the ring, winning or losing. A friend a long time ago gave me that nickname.”

  Emmett smiled. Then he looked over at Roberts and Beeves.

  “So you’re Johnny Rotten. What’s your nickname?”

  Beeves looked up. He was holding pen and notebook ready for notes.

  “Beast,” he said.

  Emmett nodded. Beeves smiled.

  “It’s an old nickname from high school from my wrestling buddies,” he said.

  Emmett nodded.

  “Do you have a nickname?” asked Roberts.

  Emmett smiled, nodding his head.

  “Not for a long time now though. Back in high school it was Lem or Lemmy.”

  “From Motörhead?” I asked.

  Emmett shrugged.

  “I don’t think so. I liked the band well enough, but I wasn’t a metalhead. I think it just came from my initials. L from Lavan and Em from Emmett. Not quite as interesting as yours.”

  He laughed softly as if to do more than that might crack a rib.

  “But you’re not here to talk about nicknames,” he said.

  “No, I’m afraid not, Lavan,” said Roberts. “We’re here about your wife.”

  Emmett nodded.

  “I suppose there’s no use pretending. We didn’t have the best relationship. Rather I should say it wasn’t much good towards the end. The first year was the best.”

  Emme
tt drifted off and looked out over his property. He sipped his vodka and orange. It was now half empty. And I couldn’t tell if that was metaphorically also his life or not. I thought not.

  “You loved her?”

  That brought Emmett back into the present. He looked at me and smiled sadly.

  “I did. Though love needs to be kindled. It isn’t an inexhaustible flame, Anthony. Without feeding, it can die. And my love for Mary was on life support. That’s why, in case you’re wondering, I don’t seem to be the picture of a grieving widower.”

  I nodded.

  “Were you married before?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “My first wife, Bayla passed away just over ten years ago. It was a good marriage. We have two children, Jarrod and Esther. They’re both adults now. Jarrod’s an attorney, an agent for a lot of actors here in town. Esther works with him.”

  “You must have been married a long time,” I said.

  He nodded, looking out over his lawn again.

  “Yes, almost thirty years. She died from breast cancer. It was devastating.”

  Perhaps that explained it. Perhaps he didn’t want to marry again, certainly not to an older woman who might have reminded him too much of his own wife.

  “So around three years after, you married Mary?” asked Roberts.

  “That sounds about right. I bought this house for us as a wedding present. She didn’t want to live in the house my first wife and I had raised our children in. I understood how she felt.”

  “Do you believe she ever loved you, Lavan?” I asked.

  “Anthony,” said Roberts, giving me a stern look. I wasn’t looking at him. Emmett smiled and looked at Roberts.

  “It’s alright,” he said. “I appreciate Anthony’s honesty.” He turned back to me. “Let’s be clear. I didn’t kill my wife. And to answer your question, yes, I like to think that at one point she loved me. If ever so briefly in the beginning.”

  He took a sip of his drink and put the glass down, turning it on the table in circles.

  “Everyone thought I was an idiot. Even my own lawyer said as much. In hindsight they were right. But the heart wants what it wants. If I’m to be honest, I think perhaps she was a distraction. Someone young and vibrant that helped me see past the death of my first wife. I don’t know if you’ve had someone close to you die of cancer, but it’s an ugly thing. It takes them by little pieces. You lose them slowly so that by the end you can hardly remember the once vibrant and full of life person they were.”