Jarsdel turned to Morales. “I think I’ll do this one alone,” he said. “Wait for me downstairs?”
Morales looked at Dinan, then back to his partner. “You sure?” he said, keeping his voice low. “Guy decides to play, he’ll make you into a little stain.”
“I’m sure.”
Morales shrugged “You got it. Gonna go get some Red Vines.”
After he was gone, Jarsdel faced Dinan again. “Just us now.”
“Who was that? Your bodyguard?”
“That,” said Jarsdel, “is one of the finest detectives working in law enforcement today. Helped catch the Bell Gardens Butcher. It was his idea to use low-angle sun photography to find the clandestine graves of the victims. Smart, right?”
Dinan’s confidence began to return. He stood straighter, using his bulk to fill the doorway. “Look, I got a show soon. And I would say that you coming here, you know, with a gun and badge and everything isn’t really all that cool. You’re taking a personal incident and making more out of it, under color of authority. I bet that’s way against police regulations.”
Jarsdel stepped closer. “Let’s talk inside.”
“Dude—”
“Believe me, I’m doing you a favor. This could just as easily happen downstairs in front of all your friends, or it could happen over at Hollywood Station. I’m giving you an opportunity to salvage a little dignity.”
Dinan stared at him, and Jarsdel could see fear, uncertainty, and ego playing tag across the big man’s face. Finally, Dinan moved aside and let him pass into the booth, then shut the door. It was just the two of them now. Jarsdel took a seat on the threadbare couch, stretching out, taking up as much room as he could.
“So this is some kind of intimidation ploy? Some kind of ‘Hey, I’m a cop, and you can’t talk to my woman like that’ kind of thing? What do you want? A formal apology? Fine. I’m sorry. So very, very sorry. Okay?”
“What can you tell me about Grant Wolin?”
“Who?”
“Guy you threatened out front.”
“I didn’t. What guy?”
So it would be that way. Jarsdel didn’t mind. “I’ll make it easy, so you won’t feel the need to bullshit me. I have a source who can positively identify you as the man who assaulted Grant Wolin, right in front of this theater.”
That wasn’t strictly true. When he’d gone to see Ramesh after rereading the transcript of their interview, all he’d gotten was confirmation that the Egyptian was the scene of the incident involving Wolin and the jars of Hollywood dirt. Jarsdel was taking a gamble, but he could already see it was paying off. Dinan was rattled, off-balance.
He pressed on. “You flipped over his cart, chased him off the property. Said you’d mess up his face if he ever came back.” That was also a fabrication, but it too seemed to have hit home.
Dinan sagged onto a stool, obscuring it with his colossal mass. It made for a peculiar illusion, as if the man were somehow hovering in a sitting position. “Look, whatever he said, he wasn’t on the sidewalk—he was on Egyptian property. That’s private property. I asked him nice if he would go, but he didn’t go. I never touched him. Why do you care? What does this have to do with you?”
“Because—”
“I mean, he’s complaining? He’s complaining to the cops? You know what? I think that fucking sucks. Guy was on private property. And that was, like, six months ago. I don’t get it.”
“He’s not complaining. He’s dead.”
“I mean, isn’t there a statute of limitations on that kinda shit? Wait—huh?”
“The body in Thai Town. The one you asked me about at my parents’ place.”
At first, Dinan just looked at him blankly. Then, slowly, understanding set in. His expression became one of pained disbelief, the skin around his eyes and mouth creasing deeper and deeper until Jarsdel feared his face might collapse in upon itself. The great beard shuddered, then gave a few quick jerks as the lips beneath struggled to form words. Jarsdel was impressed. If it was an act, it was a good one.
“Are you serious?” Dinan finally asked, voice barely above a whisper. The beard jerked again—once, twice.
“I’m serious he’s dead, and I’m serious you’re the only person I’ve met who’s gotten physical with him.”
“I didn’t—I didn’t touch him. Okay? I knocked over his crap. You know?”
“I do know. I also know you warned him never to come back. But I guess he didn’t listen, right?”
“That was just schoolyard shit, man.”
“Uh-huh. You told me what you once did at school, remember? First the guy’s ankle, then his wrist, right? I’m sure you get up to even more sophisticated stuff now you’re all grown up.”
“Wait, just stop. Stop. I’m not…do you honestly think I killed this guy?”
“I think you might have had something to do with it, yes.”
Dinan hung his head, shaking it in slow, ponderous arcs.
Good, thought Jarsdel. Here it comes. Easier than I hoped.
But when Dinan looked up, he was smiling. “You’re fucking with me.”
“Nope.”
“You are. This is revenge for Halloween. Who told you about the thing with the dirt guy? One of your cop buddies? Figures that motherfucker would’ve called the cops. So they told you, and you knew I already knew about that body in Thai Town, so you thought, ‘Hey, this is perfect.’ Well.” He slapped his thighs, then stood. “I’ve got a show tonight, and I still have to check the perfs on one of the trailers. I’ll thank you to leave now.”
Jarsdel gave him a hard, steady look. “You sure this is how you want to play it?”
Dinan raised a hand, pointing a tree branch of a finger at the open doorway.
Jarsdel took his time getting to his feet, surveying the room with affected disinterest. The wall of autographs, the inflatable moose head, the posters. I Spit on Your Grave, Hell of the Living Dead, Cannibal Ferox. The last boasted of being banned in thirty-one countries. Below the tagline—“Make them die SLOWLY”—the tableau was dominated by a predictably busty blond, blouse torn and ravaged, lying supine, screaming and streaked with blood. A muscular, dark-skinned man in a grass skirt stood over her, gripping a machete. His face was hidden, the top half of his body vanishing beyond the poster’s border.
“Charming,” said Jarsdel. “Anyone in that movie get cooked alive?”
Dinan flinched. He opened his mouth, about to say something, then reconsidered. He jabbed his finger in the direction of the exit.
Jarsdel nodded and crossed the room. He stopped in the doorway and turned back. “You sure got a thing for death as art. I’m betting there’re some pretty whacked-out fantasies crawling around in that head of yours. I don’t know, maybe you’re tired of them. Tell you what…” Jarsdel approached the demon/schoolgirl rape statue, taking out one of his business cards. He balanced it carefully against where the demon’s engorged cock plunged between the girl’s pale cheeks. “You want some relief, you want to stop this, gimme a call. Can’t be a whole lot of fun seeing the world through a mind like yours.”
Chapter 18
When Tully Jarsdel was a PhD candidate, he’d shared an office with thirteen other teacher’s assistants, their name cards stacked on the door like a movie’s closing credits. The plastic slab of a desk assigned to him was his only on Tuesdays and Thursdays from eleven to one, and even then, the other ones in the room were usually occupied with conferences, which so often included the tearful pleas of a freshman who’d just been handed her first C.
Jarsdel hated that room. It felt like a betrayal. After years of visiting his dads in their offices, he’d pictured dark, rich woods, books with nobly battered spines, a rolltop bureau with a bottle of Buffalo Trace tucked away in the bottom drawer. No—something European. Sherry, or maybe calvados. And frowning down on it all, a gaudily f
ramed oil of some long-forgotten academic.
Instead, he’d been dumped in a kind of customer-service boiler room. No partitions, no windows, just buzzing fluorescents and plenty of oscillating fans. Certainly no art, except for, incredibly, a motivational poster depicting a bald eagle in flight. Jarsdel hadn’t known whether it was supposed to be amusing in a postmodern way, but he tore it down the day he left.
He hadn’t thought of any of that in years, but the wound reopened easily enough when he stepped through Richie Berman’s door. The USC Millard Rausch Screenwriting Professorship came with a six-figure grant and a private office that would’ve suited Louis B. Mayer. Antique chairs of burgundy leather were arranged around an exquisite custom poker table, complete with carved chip wells and inset cup holders. The walls were white plaster, save for one, which a muralist had transformed into a trompe l’oeil of a nocturnal beachscape. The painting was sumptuous, almost photo-real in detail. Coconut palms swayed over moonlit sands, while in the distance, couples in formal evening dress danced on a raised stage flanked by tiki torches. Nearby, a jazz quartet played under a fronded canopy. Behind Berman’s desk—not a rolltop, but an art nouveau wonder—a built-in shelf showcased an assortment of Emmy, Golden Globe, and Writers Guild awards. Framed posters of the corresponding film and TV projects, autographed by the actors in silver Sharpie, hung on either side. Finally, the capstone, the real gut punch of Jarsdel’s envy, came in the form of a crescent-shaped wet bar occupying the far corner. Beneath the mahogany top, illuminated, frosted-glass windows allowed for discrete glimpses of the bar’s wares.
He’d been waiting in the anteroom, watching Berman’s assistant send off a flurry of double-thumbed texts, when the man himself swept in. He glistened with sweat and wore a starched karate uniform with a dragon patch on the right shoulder. A tattered black belt, so faded it appeared gray, was cinched around his waist, and the hand gripping the straps of his gym bag bore hard, flat knuckles. He flashed a gleaming smile.
“Hello, monsieur.” He stuck out a hand.
Jarsdel shook it, wincing inwardly at the man’s startling strength, and followed him into the office. He’d been overwhelmed at first, unable to take in the scene in its entirety, until Berman sat him down while he changed his shirt. Then Jarsdel had enough time to survey the room, between glimpses of Berman’s coiled bundles of sinew, to feel sufficiently inadequate.
“Thanks for fitting me in on such short notice,” said Jarsdel.
“Sure.” The screenwriting professor slipped on a fitted white tee, then fastened a Patek Philippe onto his wrist. Instead of sitting behind his desk, he grabbed one of the poker chairs and dragged it over. “Sorry about the outfit. I teach a Chinese Kenpo class at the gym on Wednesdays. You probably did lots of hand-to-hand in the academy, right?”
“Basic stuff, mostly holds and locks. All nonlethal. Very little striking.”
“Figures. Post Rodney King, you guys’ve had to do your jobs pretty much with your hands tied behind your backs.”
Jarsdel didn’t answer, just made a vague, noncommittal sound in his throat. He hadn’t forgotten the look on Berman’s face when his career had come up at his parents’ dinner. Sadness, with just the right hint of disdain. And as was the case with most people who didn’t like cops, Berman turned sycophantic when confronted with one.
“What do you carry?”
“Glock 40.”
“Nice. Got one of those myself.” Berman’s smile returned. “So what’s up? How you been? How’re your folks?”
“They’re great.”
“Okay.” He chuckled. “That’s it for small talk, huh? Gotta admit, I’m pretty curious about what’s goin’ on. Something about ‘one of my colleagues.’ I’m gonna have to save that voicemail. Sincerely hope you’re talking about Bud over in animation. Even if you’re not, I’m still gonna play it for him.”
“No,” said Jarsdel. “What can you—”
“Oh, hey, sorry. You want a drink?” Berman pointed at the wet bar.
“No, thanks. Jeff Dinan. What can you tell me about him?”
“Jeff? Film guy Jeff?”
“His name came up in an investigation, and I’m following up.”
“His name came up in an investigation. If this were a screenplay,” said Berman, “I’d say that’s a lousy line. I’d say let’s rewrite it.”
“How’d you meet?”
“God, I don’t know. New Beverly, maybe. Yeah, Richard Fleischer double feature. Compulsion and 10 Rillington Place. You serious about this? You actually sitting here asking me about Jeff Dinan? Officially?”
“He’s a person of interest.”
“Jesus. You are serious. What the hell could he’ve possibly done?”
“I can’t say at this time. But it would be helpful if you could give me a feel for him. What can you tell me?”
“Not a whole lot. I mean, we’re not extremely close. He’s just a fun guy. His bona fides come from that projectionist gig at the Egyptian. He’s not a professor or anything, but he’s sharp. Knows a lot about movies. A real fan, like me.” Berman paused a moment before adding, “Maybe even more. Movies are his whole life.”
“How do you mean?”
“You know. Always quoting this or that. Doesn’t want to talk about anything else. Corner you for hours with Kurosawa or Satyajit Ray. Smart, though, like I said. Knows his stuff.”
“In your interactions with him, you ever notice any unusual behavior?”
“Like what? Jerking off into his pudding?”
“Like a temper. Anything like that.”
“Jesus,” Berman said again. “He hurt somebody?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t—”
“Yeah, yeah. Right. Okay. Wow. Uh, I’ve seen him get pretty worked up during a discussion, stuff like that. He’s a passionate guy. Loves his little corner of the world. Defends it if he feels he’s dealing with someone who’s ignorant or doesn’t appreciate it.”
Jarsdel nodded for him to go on.
Berman exhaled, thinking. “Worst I saw was an argument he had with one of my grad students. It was about the Oscars. Jeff hates the Oscars, and this guy was bragging about how he could name all the Best Picture winners in order. Jeff said something way outta line, and—”
“What? What’d he say?”
“I didn’t really catch it, but you could tell by the reaction. The other guy was all ‘Excuse me? Excuse me? The fuck you say?’ And Jeff doesn’t say anything back, but he gets up and just kinda looms at him, and you know he’s a pretty big guy. You’ve seen him. And with that beard and everything, he’s like something outta Game of Thrones.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Once the kid saw how outsized he was, he made some snarky remark and bounced. But it was a little hairy there for a second.”
“You think—”
“To be honest, I wouldn’t want to fight him. And I’m a fifth-degree black belt. Because with a guy that big, you’d have to kill him to stop him. Take the knee out, break a wrist, he can still put you in the morgue. That’s the thing with big guys. They think they own the world, but what they don’t realize is that no one’s gonna show them any mercy once push comes to shove. Lights out is the only way. He keeps up like that, and one day, someone’s just gonna shoot him.” Berman gave a strained laugh.
“So you think Jeff’s dangerous?”
“Do I think he’s dangerous? You mean, more than just a bigmouth but actually dangerous? I don’t know…it’s one thing to maybe not have the greatest social skills in the world, but…man. I have no idea.”
Jarsdel changed his approach. “You remember that Halloween screening of his?”
“Boy, do I. I couldn’t make it, and he gave me endless shit.”
“I took my girlfriend.” Jarsdel hadn’t yet had occasion to refer to Aleena by that title, and he liked it. �
��We were having a good time. Then when we went up to the booth to say hi, he got very strange.”
“Strange how?”
“A lot like what you described. Aggressive. Told a story about a time he kicked the shit out of a schoolmate. That, plus all the posters and stuff…” Jarsdel shrugged. “Seems like he gets a little turned on by violence.”
Berman fell quiet. Jarsdel let the silence play out. He sensed there was something coming and didn’t want to push any harder. He glanced at a bookshelf stocked solely with copies of Berman’s The No Bullshit Guide to Screenwriting. For propriety’s sake, the i in bullshit had been replaced with a dripping fountain pen. Jarsdel’s dads had told him the book cost nearly twenty dollars and was required reading for anyone enrolled in Berman’s undergrad introductory class. “Easiest A on campus,” Baba had said. “Only gets you two units, but it’s basically impossible to fail, so everyone takes it. Lecture hall filled to capacity. Three hundred kids, and he teaches two sections every quarter. Summer too. An army of TAs, so he never has to grade a single paper, just gets up there and talks about movies. If he’s feeling especially lazy, he’ll actually just read sections of his book aloud and then analyze them for the students, as if it’s goddamn Joyce or Tolstoy.” Baba had shaken his head in amazement and, with a reluctant admiration, added, “He’s on a sixth edition with that fucking thing. That madar kharbeh prints his own money.”
Berman cleared his throat and leaned forward, his face suddenly anxious. “Look, I’m taking this conversation very seriously. And because I’m taking it seriously, I don’t want to get a guy in trouble based on something stupid. Because for all his nonsense, I’ve never seen Jeff hurt anybody or directly threaten anybody. I like him. I do. And I really don’t think there’s any more to his quirkiness than just a guy who’s maybe compensating for not being that popular in high school.”
Jarsdel waited to a count of five, then asked, “But there is something else, isn’t there?”
Berman leaned back and drew in a long breath. When he spoke, he didn’t meet Jarsdel’s eyes, instead fixating on a point on the carpet somewhere between them. Jarsdel had seen it before, the guilt of giving someone up, the shoulders hunched, head bowed.
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