His eyes shifted around the room and eventually settled on his shaking hands. “$15,000 and another $5,000 for arranging the service at Forest Grove.”
By now his forehead was caked with sweat and he was very pale. His lips looked a little blue. I began to get worried. Although I was taking a certain perverse pleasure in scaring this prick, I didn’t want him to die on me.
“You don’t look so good. You don’t happen to have a heart condition or high blood pressure, do you?”
“I have tachycardia and am prone to panic attacks,” he said with a trace of self-pity.
“Relax then, goddamn it. You dying on me would complicate everything.” I crossed to the water cooler, filled a paper cup and handed it to him. “You shouldn’t drink so much coffee. It‘s bad for your heart.”
He accepted the water and drank it gratefully. Bit-by-bit, the color returned to his face.
I leaned in on him. “Did you negotiate only with Borders?”
“There was his friend, too. A tall red-headed fellow with a tongue ring. He’s the one who brought the money by.”
“$20,000 for filling out a form and calling a funeral home. Not a bad payday, if you hadn’t been caught.”
“They still owe me $5,000.”
“They goddamned better well pay up. Lot of nerve, ripping off a right guy like you.” He looked like he wanted to shrivel up and crawl away. I laced my fingers behind my head and leaned back in my chair. “Here’s what I want you to do. I need to have a talk with Borders and his red-headed buddy.”
“But I can’t get involved with--“
“--What do you really know about Lamont’s death?”
“As far as I know, he died of a heart attack at his house on the afternoon of August 16th.”
“Cut it out, Doc. We’re both way smarter than that. If that was really the cause of death, they’d have no reason to kick you 20K to write up a bogus death certificate. This smells like Murder One. Of course, they might let you plead guilty to failing to report a capital crime, along with your conspiracy and mail fraud charges.”
“They didn’t tell me how he died,” he said quietly, “and I didn’t ask. I just looked the other way.”
“Yeah.”
I considered telling him to let Fishburne/Borders and Koncak know that their cover was blown, and that an investigation was underway. I decided against it, as I didn’t want him killed. He was just a small-time fraudster, and the sad truth is that a large number of medical professionals in Los Angeles and Orange County are just like him. Small wonder the cost of health insurance keeps going up. Of course, the insurance companies are even bigger crooks, so you really can’t win.
I sighed. “When are you gonna meet them to get the rest of the money?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Where?”
“McDonald’s on 3rd, on the edge of Koreatown, at 5:00 p.m.”
“All right. I’ll have one of my guys there. Just one other thing; how did you arrange to have Cicero Lamont interred at Forest Grove?”
“Mr. Borders told me that the family wanted the memorial service to take place there. It’s a very nice cemetery.”
“Why not Forest Lawn? That’s where the folks with money usually like to be buried.”
He shrugged. “I guess that’s what the family wanted.”
“That’s the second time you said, ‘the family.’ What family?”
His fine upper lip curled into just the hint of a sneer. Then it clicked. If the bereaved loved ones contact the vampires at the cemetery, they take them to the cleaners. If somebody with an inside connection makes the arrangements, however, someone like Tarkanian, the family gets a discounted rate and the good doctor gets a kickback. The cemetery makes a little less money but they do a volume business. This scumbag was cleaning up.
“Just another way to game the system, ‘eh? Who transported the corpse?”
“Borders and his friend. They drove it over in a flower van.”
I stared at him incredulously. “A flower van?”
“You know, like florists use?” he smirked, his bravado returning.
“Careful.” His smirk evaporated. “What’s the name of the company?”
“Flowers for Every Occasion.”
“I suppose you met them there with the death certificate?” He nodded. “And the family was there too?”
He leaned back in his chair. Perhaps it was because he was once again in the position of being the expert, but he was more composed. “I didn’t see the family.”
“And that was that.”
“Yes,” he said with a trace of bitterness, “until you came along.”
Something had been bothering me about Tarkanian’s face. Suddenly I realized that the right side of it was concave, just under his ear as if a piece of the cheekbone had been removed.
“Here’s how this is gonna go; you keep your mouth shut about me. To you, I’m a ghost. You don’t, I’ll see you get banged up ‘til they schlep you out in a box. We clear?”
“Yes.”
I stood up, adjusted my gun and turned toward the door. “Oh yeah, one other thing. I’d be careful about slinging all that cash around. You don’t want Federal tax evasion charges on top of everything else.”
I walked down the hallway and back through the waiting room. The fires filled the TV and the ladies watched raptly. I didn’t bother to say good-bye. A thin layer of soot had dusted across my forest green paint job. I got in and as I headed west on Los Feliz, toward the Hollywood Hills, I called Jade.
“Hey.” She sounded forlorn.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’d really like to step outside and interact with the goats.”
“Any reason in particular?”
“I love animals.”
“And has there been any street traffic?”
“No, and I’m going to get a dog, a rescue, when this is all over.”
“Good idea and you should hang out on the back porch with the goats. They’ll love you.”
“Glad someone does.”
Bobby called in on the other line. “Sorry, but I’ve gotta take this.”
She hung up.
“What’s up?”
“We’re in front of The Abbey, on Robertson. Seen three or four guys wearing stylish jogging outfits, but none of ‘em were Arnold.”
“How’s Brad?”
“He’s good at walking up to people and starting conversations. Word is the place to go for action is the Full Throttle, on Santa Monica. The doors open at 4:00. We’ll be there.”
“Be careful.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
I hung up and called Audrey. “Anything?”
“No. I’ll hit the clubs tonight, Boss.”
“Okay.”
People were driving erratically as I made my way to Western Avenue. I took it north to Franklin where I hung a left and then right onto Beachwood, heading up into the Hills. The narrow streets wind through the canyons and the street signs are hard to spot. Finally, I found it, a very secluded section of Beachwood Drive, near the top, not far from the Hollywood sign. Arnold’s house, a large, dark brown Tudor, with gables built into the roofline, stood well off the road to the right. I parked behind a gold Mercedes and scoured the area. An ornate, stone staircase angled up the hillside to the front door, and, of course, there was no driveway. That would be in back along with the servants’ entrance. I sat there for several minutes mulling things over, then drove to the end of the street that doubles back sharply. When I came to Arnold’s rear entrance I got out of the car and parked.
Starting up the hillside, I followed a footpath that cut through shrubbery and lodged grass. It was easy to imagine the wind whipping the fire up these tinder dry hillsides. Halfway up, the path spit me back onto what appeared to be a rarely used service road. Tufts of dun-colored grass pushed up through cracks in the asphalt. An almost vertical rock wall, overhung with manzanita and live oak, loomed to my left. Above, the smoke-rimmed sun, bar
ely visible through the foliage, and to my right, the brushy hillside falling off sharply. There was complete silence, other than the wind and the rustling of shrubbery.
Near the top of the incline, I came to a padlocked sheet of stainless steel, built vertically into the rock wall. It reminded me of a ship’s hatch, and I had the sense that there must be an underground storage area, or a bunker built into the hillside. I continued up the road sighting the house clearly now, the gables protruding against the blackened sky.
I spied a man standing at the top of the road, spying on me. He was supporting himself with a walking stick and although his posture seemed casual enough, I had the feeling he was more agile than he wanted me to believe.
“Hi,” I shouted, giving him a cheerful wave and a smile.
He looked about 60, spare of build, and wore an earth-colored mesh jersey with European walking shorts and hiking boots. His crinkly white hair was brushed forward. “Hello there.”
“Sorry for the intrusion.”
“Not a problem, although I must say I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
“Nick Crane. Investigator.”
“That’s exciting, except I can’t imagine why I’d be under investigation.”
I let out a friendly chuckle. “No, no, not you, sir, unless you’re Arnold Clipper?”
He studied me, rubbing the white stubble on his angular jaw, his green eyes hard as flint.
“Never heard of him.”
“Not surprising as he’s a bit of an enigma.”
He nodded and I had the sense of a man with history. “As you’ve come this far and since I can’t offer you Mr. Clipper, perhaps you’d like to come in for a glass of lemonade? I’m not sure I’ll be much help, but I can tell you what I do know.”
He gave a tentative cough as if testing the air, found it unsatisfactory, and turned and started back up the hill. I followed in his wake. His stride was slow but steady and in five minutes we were sitting in his living room, which was filled with fossils, the skeletons of small animals, and black lacquered edifices resembling forts or colonnades. He brought me a glass of lemonade, no ice, and sat across from me on an orange leather footstool.
“Mount,” he said. “Reggie Mount.”
“Wait a minute; I’ve heard your name somewhere. Weren’t you--?”
“--I was,” he said, smacking his lips with a dry popping sound. “I was an adventurer back when such a thing were still possible. I’ve studied the human mind, and I’ve written on a number of topics.”
“That’s what it is. Didn’t you write a book about why people can’t stay married?”
“I did.” He ducked his head, his first sign of modesty. “The Marriage Trap. That was almost thirty years ago. It was a best seller and incurred the wrath of feminists everywhere.”
“My wife read it. She said it was funny.”
“I take it your wife’s not a feminist?”
“I wouldn’t say that. She has her tendencies. She does like men, however, doesn’t blame us for her problems.”
“Such wisdom, if I may quote Shakespeare, is honored more in the breach than the observance.”
“This is great lemonade.”
“Nothing to it. Fresh lemons, clean water, and just enough brown sugar to give it that touch of sweetness. I’ve long wanted to write a cookbook, but have never quite gotten around to it. It would be full of simple, tasty recipes that can be produced on a camp stove. I don’t suppose you get out in the mountains that much, always skulking around in the city.”
“Your backyard is about as close to the mountains as I usually get. I did take my daughter on a hike in the hills a few months ago. Got a tick.”
“Infernal creatures. How did you remove it?”
“With tweezers. Grip and lift. When we met you said you’ve been working. A new book, I suppose?”
“Somehow, in recent years I’ve moved onto the eternal questions. Why is man evil and is there any way to stem the tide?”
“What do you think?”
“My working thesis, which is very radical, is that evil is a diversion and could perhaps be replaced by alternative diversions. Diversions are what keep us going -- sports, music, sex, empire building, books, movies, and, of course, cruelty. Anything to release us from our own inner emptiness.”
“That’s rather deep.”
“Not really. It’s really rather simple. What we fear more than anything is boredom. You hear kids say it all the time. ‘I’ve got nothing to do.’ It makes them miserable. Women tend to fill the void through social interaction. Men fill it through competition, striving and pastimes and when that fails, we bash one another’s brains in, usually in the name of god and country.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen a lot of violent xenophobia in the name of god and something or other.”
He nodded, and his eyes probed mine as if he was scouring my brain. “The problem is that once we divert ourselves, or are diverted into evil, nothing else compares. In effect, we become addicted. That’s why PTSD vets are so miserable. Nothing compares to the twisted thrill kill. It lurks there in the reptilian brain and once it‘s unleashed, it’s hard to turn off. It becomes all-encompassing.”
“I have a good friend who’s a Vietnam vet.”
“And?”
“He’s miserable much of the time. The only time he’s not is when he has something interesting going on.”
“Which is probably rare. Killing is primordial. That’s why serial killers can’t control themselves. The rush, they say, is unbelievable. Nothing else comes close. And then, when blood lust gets all mixed up with sexuality, you’ve got a real fiend on your hands.”
“Were you in Nam?”
“Yes, I certainly was. I was also in Cambodia. Bomber pilot. I started out flying for LBJ, and then I flew for Nixon. I was a patriot, in those days.”
“And now?”
“I’m not so sure. I’m just an old man on a hilltop trying to make sense of it all. The only reason I’m not crazy is because I didn’t see my victims. I was too far away and there was too much smoke in the air. Sometimes I look back on those days and wonder if they ever really happened. But of course, I know they did.” He paused and his eyes drifted off to some ancient regret. He pulled himself back and smiled, “Can I get you a refill?”
“Delighted.”
He brought me the lemonade and looked at me, intrigued. “So, Mr. Crane, here’s what I can tell you.” He spoke slowly, tapping his right index finger into the palm of his left hand as if to punctuate his points. “I rented this house through a management company. They were exceedingly circumspect and gave no hint as to the identity of the actual owner. All they said was that he had moved to another location. Didn’t say where. The rent is high, but the lease was for two years. I just re-leased it last month for another two.”
“Have you gotten to know your neighbors?”
“Does anyone, ever, in Los Angeles?”
I grinned. “I know what you mean.”
“There is one peculiar condition in my lease. Back in the fifties, the owner of this house had made a fortune manufacturing shipping containers, but struggled with mental illness. He built an underground fortress extending from the basement, halfway down the hill. It is apparently terraced, to match the contours of the hillside. When fear struck, he would disappear down there for weeks at a time, or at least that’s the way the story goes. Under the terms of my lease, I have no access to it. The door in my basement has been walled off with masonry. The leasing company was obligated to reveal the presence of the underground chamber for safety reasons, particularly as it could, in theory, undermine the house foundation if there was flooding or an earthquake. The structure is held up by steel columns and I-beams, and is thought to be of sound construction.”
“So that explains the stainless steel door in the rock face.”
“That’s the other entrance, presumably what the owner would use if he wanted to get in. The structure is roughly in the shape of a large three dimensio
nal “L,” like the Knight’s move in chess, only the board would be three-dimensional, descending in steps, like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. I’ve actually got a copy of the blueprints, if you‘d like to see them. I found them tucked up on a shelf in the basement when I was arranging my wine cellar.”
“I’d love to. Thanks.”
Reggie rose stiffly. “One moment.” He took the open stairway to the second floor and returned a minute later, laying the blueprints out on the table.
“Amazing.”
“Indeed. It’s a bit of an engineering triumph,” said Reggie. “There’s enough concrete and steel down there to reinforce a good-sized building.”
“Aren’t you ever curious about what’s there?”
“I was at first, but at my age I’ve learned not to torture myself with what I cannot change, unless, of course, I’m writing about it. The basement door is solid steel, six inches thick, apparently secured by steel crosspieces attached to the wall with huge lag bolts, and that’s behind the masonry wall. No one’s getting in there.”
It crossed my mind that the other door could be breached with the right cutting tool, or maybe even a bump key, but I said nothing. “Does the owner ever enter by the other door?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Interesting.”
“Quite and now I must excuse myself. I’ve got to get back to work and as you may have noticed, evil waits for no man.”
“Indeed. Thanks for the info and lemonade.”
“You’re very welcome.”
On my way down the front steps, I was distracted by a set of curious inlaid tiles built into the staircase, apparently inscribed at the request of the same man who had built the underground shelter. They were scenes from the ancient world: Assyrians in battle garb, pharaohs lying in state, and beautiful Mycenaean wall paintings of colorful fish in the blue Mediterranean, the Levantine sun reflecting on the water.
Nearing the street, I noticed a runner heading east; whether by premonition or natural caution, I stepped back shielding myself. The shock of recognition was profound. It was James Halladay wearing blue shorts and a blue velour sweatshirt, intent on his workout. He passed the house without a glance, looking occasionally at what appeared to be a stopwatch in his right hand. I waited for a reasonable period to give him some distance, and walked back to my car.
Cicero's Dead Page 8