by Neil Russell
“Socks, what the hell…?”
“He’ll understand. And when the car gets here, go out and wait in it.”
The assistant chief’s office faced east looking down Santa Monica Boulevard. The courthouse was a block over. But despite the nearness of the traffic and the comings and goings of the court, no noise seeped inside. Other than the breathing of the room’s occupants, the only sound was the gentle clicking of a Harley Davidson wall clock with a large, white skull on it, which Dante was staring at.
When I entered, Dante made eye contact with me, then went back to looking at the clock. He was smaller and heavier than I expected, but then I’d only seen him once before, and he’d been sitting in a vehicle in the dark. His face was pocked with deep, ridged acne scars, and I could smell the strong odor of scared sweat that’s always on the recently arrested, even the most hardened criminals.
Manarca introduced me to Kahane, then said, “Meet Dante Bruzzi. He came in on a French passport under the name Gerard Paul. But he’s not frog. He’s Italian.”
“Sicilian, you fuckin’ cocksucker,” Dante snarled.
Manarca smiled. “We’ve bonded.”
I looked at the prisoner. “Hello, Dante, remember me?”
He twisted his head toward Manarca. “I want a lawyer.”
It was the same voice I’d heard that night on the 405. But here I could detect an accent. Its edges had been worn smooth, but it was there.
Manarca shot back, “What for? There’s nothing official going on. In fact, you’re not even here. You’re downstairs taking a nap.” To me, the detective said, “Normally, international crap takes forever, but this guy’s prints popped a sheet so fast, he must be quite a star back home. Lives in some shit town called Apollonica. On Corsica. That’s a frog island in the—”
“I know.”
Manarca nodded. “Mr. Bruzzi spent seven years in Florida. Was supposed to be going to school in Tallahassee, but there’s no record he ever attended a class. Call me a cynic, but I don’t think he was cleaning pools either.”
I looked at the prisoner. So now I knew where he fit. Dante was the Hyena’s English-speaker. Nobody ever shoots the translator. I guessed his age at thirty-five. His eyes were as coal black as his hair, and his skin was dark Med. He’d never been handsome, and the acne scars didn’t help. Suddenly, the Sicilian took a deep breath and pursed his lips. Instantly, Manarca drove four fingers into his solar plexus, and Dante began coughing violently and gasping for air.
“He’s a spitter,” said Manarca. “I found out the hard way.”
“You want to tell me why you killed Dr. York?” I asked.
Dante just looked at me. “Fuck you,” he said.
Manarca said, “That’s his version of the Fifth. Pretty much all he says. From the looks of the garage where we picked him up, at least two more people had been staying there, but they’re gone. One of them was probably your friend, Tino.”
Suddenly, Bruzzi said, “I didn’t kill anybody.”
“Not even Kiki Videz?” I countered.
“Never heard of him.”
“Before she died, Kim told me about the City of War,” I said.
I saw Manarca’s eyebrows arch.
Dante stared at me and almost stopped breathing. Then he suddenly relaxed. “Fuckin’ Americans. And your women are the worst—especially the educated ones. All this freedom shit…and lawyers. The rest of the world doesn’t work that way, but you never get it. Not until it’s too late. Did she really think we’d let her publish an article? And those fuckin’ pictures? I’m glad she’s dead. You’re next.”
The door had finally cracked open. I tried to give it another push. “It must have really pissed you off when she just ignored you.”
He sneered, “Like I said, your women are the worst.”
“So is that why you gave her the handjob in the back of the van? A little Mediterranean humiliation before she got dumped in the ocean?”
He exploded. “A Sicilian would never do that! And I stopped Tino as soon as—”
I interrupted him. “Now that you bring him up, where is Tino?”
“Fuck you.”
I looked at him. “And the Hyena? Or do you just call him Uncle Gaetano?”
I didn’t expect an answer, and I didn’t get one. So I added, “Well, if you happen to be talking to him, tell him I’m looking forward to sticking a Glock up his fat ass.”
He tried to come across the table at me, chair and all, but Detective Kahane put a pair of meaty hands on his shoulders and pulled him back down. Then Kahane got a good grip on a handful of Dante’s hair and held on.
Bruzzi writhed and snorted and tried to bite the cop, so Manarca dug his fingers back into his gut, and the show stopped.
I stood. “Not much more to learn here,” I said.
Manarca nodded. “I could have saved you the trip, but since we’re just getting acquainted, I thought you’d want to see for yourself. Care to tell me who Uncle Gaetano is?”
He was right. I wouldn’t have trusted him. But next time I might. “Gaetano ‘The White Hyena’ Bruzzi. Some kind of Sicilian godfather. That’s all I know.” I could tell Manarca wasn’t buying in, but, to his credit, he let it slide. “What are you charging him with?” I asked.
“The guy whose garage he was living in has an expired visa, so we’re gonna keep them both on ice until we get everybody’s papers straightened out. The way the Feds move, that’ll give me at least a month to come up with something of my own. And right now there’s a Detective Davis in Manhattan Beach comparing Mr. Bruzzi’s prints to the ones they found in that Kempthorn kid’s house.”
I looked at Dante, but if he was worried, he didn’t show it. “Maybe you’ll catch a break,” I said to Manarca.
He winked. “I’ve got a hunch.”
I stood and walked around the table. I could see Manarca and Kahane weren’t sure what I was doing, so the Beverly Hills detective took a firmer grip on the prisoner’s hair. Dante was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. I undid the button on his left cuff and pulled it over his forearm. His skin was unmarked. I did the same with the right. No spider there either.
Dante locked eyes with me, and I could feel the hatred. “Like I thought,” I said. “Not a warrior. Il leccaculo.”
Despite the cuffs and the grip Kahane had on him, Bruzzi nearly levitated out of his chair. Saliva flew, and he let go with a stream of obscenities that were impressive even from a criminal.
Manarca burst out laughing.
“What did you call him?” asked Kahane.
Manarca answered for me. “Il leccaculo. ‘The ass-licker.’ But it goes way beyond that. In the old country, one of them would have to die.”
I turned to leave, then turned back. “I almost forgot,” I said and slid the gold earring with the interlocking N and D across the table. It stopped in front of Dante. His stare was all the confirmation I needed. To Manarca, I said, “You might want to give County a heads-up. Mr. Bruzzi here likes them before they start to shave. Dresses them up like Barbie.”
I saw Kahane dig his fingers a little tighter into Dante’s scalp.
Manarca walked me out. When the door closed, he said, “We found the mate to that earring in the frog’s garage. Where’d you get yours?”
I didn’t answer.
He started to say something else then decided it would be a waste of time, so he switched gears. “City of War?”
I looked at him. “You now know exactly as much as I do.”
25
Private Sanctuary and Silent Requiem
I’d expected D. J. Kaplan to send my preferred town car or SUV, but when I got downstairs, Archer was sitting in a super-stretch Caddie up to her elbows in a platter of Spago sandwiches he’d included. Add in the case of designer water and the Nate’n Al’s chocolate chip cheesecake, and I smelled a favor request coming from D. J. before long. Archer offered me a ham and cheese. I declined.
I asked the driver, a burly guy named Buck who ha
d Brooklyn written all over him, if he had the socks, and he handed me a brown paper bag. I opened it and found a Beretta 9mm. I’d have preferred something smaller, but at least D. J. hadn’t sent a Magnum.
Archer looked at the gun but made no comment and went back to her sandwich. I gave Buck the Princeton Street address. Then I dialed Benny Joe. I was pissed at myself for not having done this before, especially after my conversation with Marta Videz, but better late than never.
The phone rang for easily three minutes before he picked up. He sounded half-asleep. “What the fuck time is it?”
“How you doing with those negatives?”
“Guy was a helluva shooter. Had a real fuckin’ eye. I’ll have something for you tomorrow.”
“Forget it.”
“What the fuck! You got any idea how many hours I put in!”
“You can have the Babe Ruth pictures for your trouble.”
“You fuckin’ shittin’ me?”
“Nope, consider them yours.”
“Tell that rat fuck Praxis, okay?”
“Okay. Now here’s what I need, and you don’t have to do anything but exercise that brain of yours. You awake?”
“Wait’ll I open a beer.”
I heard rummaging, then a can being opened and its contents being gulped. Finally, Benny Joe said, “Bedroom fridge. What a fuckin’ country. Okay, shoot.”
“Where would a woman hide photographs?”
“This is like some kind of fuckin’ joke, right? Okay, I’ll bite. Tell me.”
“I’m serious. They would be important enough that they might get her killed.”
“In her snatch. How the fuck should I know?”
“Stand up.”
“What?”
“Get the fuck out of bed.”
I heard groaning sounds and a loud burp. “Okay, asshole, I’m up.”
“Now walk around the room. Get the blood flowing.” I waited a few seconds. “You moving yet?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Now listen to me. You’re a genius with all things photographic. That means you think differently when it comes to cameras and film. If you were half as good at poker as you are at pictures, you’d know exactly what a civilian had when he bet out.”
“Jesus, what I do ain’t a fuckin’ game.”
“Oh, it’s not? Then why does the government keep trying to get you to come back? And why are all those assassination photos hanging on your walls? Because guys like you would stop in the middle of getting laid if an idea came to you that would beat one of your competitors at some bullshit thing no one else would even notice. You’re the ultimate competitor, Benny Joe. So kick Lee Harvey out of your fucking head for a few minutes, and put those cells to work on the problem.”
There was silence.
“Okay, what were her hobbies?”
“Art, same as her business.”
“This is about that fuckin’ broad who got killed, isn’t it?”
“Forget that. Focus.”
“Left- or right-handed?”
I had to think for a moment. She smoked and ate mostly with her left hand. “Left,” I guessed.
“Age? No, forget that. It only matters that she was a broad. Car?”
“Mustang. GT. Silver.”
“House or apartment?”
“House.”
“Favorite movie?”
Favorite movie? What the…? “We watched Papillon once.”
Benny Joe groaned. “Jesus Christ, Rail, just about everybody with a pulse has had to watch Papillon with you. You’re gonna show McQueen to a broad, it’s gotta be fuckin’ Thomas Crown.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’ll try to remember that. I don’t know what her favorite movie was.”
“You’re sure not making this any fuckin’ easier. Next time you’re going to get shot up with some chick, ask some fuckin’ questions beforehand, asshole. Okay, give me something personal. Something she might not have told anyone else.”
I thought about how she liked to have her nipples worked, but I didn’t think that was what he had in mind. And I didn’t need another lecture about how I was doing that wrong. Then it came to me. “She was probably molested by her father.”
“Jesus Christ. Why the fuck didn’t you say that before?”
“Explain.”
“Pictures aren’t like jewels. You don’t put them in a safe-deposit box and trot them out for parties. They’re fuckin’ personal, man. You need to have them close—so you can look at them whenever you need a fix. And if they’re important enough to fuckin’ hide, then they’ve got to be someplace you think is safe—even if it’s not. Like me and my fuckin’ hole in the yard.”
I understood. “So her bedroom is out.”
“Right, it’s where her father would have come to her. The whole house is fuckin’ out if it’s the one she lived in with him. It wouldn’t matter if he was dead a thousand fuckin’ years. He’d still be there.”
Suddenly, it came to me. “Cactus,” I said out loud.
“I thought you just said cactus,” said Benny Joe.
“I did. And you are a genius. You’ve earned the right to go back to bed.”
“Nah, I just opened a fuckin’ beer, remember?”
As we drove toward Princeton Street, I asked Archer about the greenhouse in the backyard.
“It was my mother’s,” she said. “Everything she touched died, but that didn’t stop her. Went through her tulip phase, then orchids, the works. I finally figured out that it didn’t matter if anything grew or not. It filled time.”
“What about Kim?”
She thought for a moment. “As soon as she and Truman moved in, Kim was out there puttering around. I don’t remember what she grew, but Bess said everything green loved her.”
“What about cactus?”
Archer looked at me. “I saw that stuff in the yard, but Kim must have put it in later. Growing up, it was all hedges and flowers.”
Buck let us out in front, and I told him to get a cup of coffee and come back in an hour. I didn’t want him sitting there in seven miles of black steel.
Archer stood behind me as I pushed open the greenhouse door. She looked at the wilderness of needles. “Jesus Christ, a cactus Amazon. What was she doing with all this shit? There used to be just a couple of boxes of dead daisies and a million fucking spiders. Willy City.”
I knelt down where two massive organ-pipe cactus in identical pots pressed against each other. At least eight feet tall and with spines reaching out six inches, they looked lethal. But something was different about them. Everywhere else, smaller bunches of cactus had been shoved into the spaces between the larger ones, creating a solid curtain of green. Here, that hadn’t been done.
I noticed that twelve inches of spines had been clipped off one of the stalks. Same with the adjacent one, leaving a clearance the width of my hand. On a hunch, I reached through. Nothing. Gingerly, I extended my arm and reached from side to side as far as I could, half-expecting to be impaled, but all I hit was more empty space.
Pulling back my arm, I rocked one of the organ-pipe pots back and forth until I had widened the gap a couple of feet. Squinting into the darkness beyond, I could see a narrow passageway. I turned to Archer. “In the kitchen cabinet next to the water glasses, there’s a flashlight.”
A few moments later, Archer was back with a small halogen Maglite. As she handed it to me, I noticed brown dirt in the grooves of the grip, and I had a feeling it wasn’t the first time it had been out here.
With the Maglite between my teeth as a headlight, I wriggled on my hands and knees between the two large cactus. I was a lot bigger than Kim, and my sides and back brushed against the sentry plants, making the going painful.
About five feet in, I was no longer crawling on the bare plank floor but instead on carpet remnants, carefully cut and tacked down.
“Where the hell are you?” Archer called. “I can’t see anything.”
I thought back to that first night
with Kim. I think ev eryone should have a completely unexpected place in their home, don’t you?
“Ali Baba’s cave,” I answered.
“What?”
“Where Kim came to get away from her father.”
The tunnel wound around and through the plants, but because each had had its spines clipped off high enough for passage, I was able to avoid most of the hazards as long as I stayed low. Finally, I saw an open area ahead, and I guessed I was near the far corner of the greenhouse, where the thorny creeper overhead made the place almost completely dark.
I don’t think anyone could have prepared me for what I saw next. Reflecting back at me in the glow of the flashlight were the whites of hundreds of eyes. It took me a few seconds to realize they were dolls. In all shapes and sizes, some new, most old and well-worn, lined up row after row on makeshift brick and plank shelves that reached up at least five feet.
The space wasn’t high enough for me to stand, but I could crouch without too much discomfort, and I found two thin, battery-operated lights shaped like candles. They’d probably been pilfered from Bess’s Christmas decorations years ago. The first one was dead, but the second came on and lit the area well enough for me to turn off the flashlight.
I heard Archer. “Hey, I see light over there. I sure hope it’s you, because if not, I’m outta here.”
“You want to come in?” I called back.
“Not a chance. I’ll live it on the replay.”
I took in the rest of Kim’s furnishings. A stack of children’s Golden Books, some doll furniture, an air mattress, two pillows, a blanket, a small picnic cooler and a cigar box of costume jewelry. There was dust, but not a lot. It hadn’t been that long since she’d been here.
Kim had created a safe place the only way she’d known how, and I wondered how many nights she’d crouched out here in the dark while Truman York prowled the house in a sexual rage. Spiders, mice and cactus had been a lot less threatening than her father. And like Benny Joe had said, even dead, he was still there. And I’d been rough on her because she hadn’t told me the complete truth the first time I’d asked. Even though I hadn’t known, I still felt small.