“So no one’s responsible for anything?”
“We’re in the body that does what the mind attached to it tells it to do. And that body is held responsible, rewarded or punished according to the standards of our culture and our time. But this idea that there’s some objective goodness that’s counting on you, that’s counting on the righteous people of the world to fight on its behalf…I don’t know. Because what we think of as wickedness is just another expression of natural processes, a product of the same system that made goodness. Isn’t it all the same to the universe? Does it actually care if someone’s nice or not?”
Jarsdel could tell by her urgency that the question wasn’t rhetorical. She was waiting for an answer. “I just think,” Jarsdel began, then swallowed, buying himself more time. “No, I’m certain that living for the benefit of others is…that it’s a more rewarding path. Both for yourself and for the people around you.”
“But I’m talking about a person’s value,” Aleena pressed. “Their core, below all the influences. How do you really know what a person’s value is, their worth? If they’re good or bad or if it even matters at all?”
Even in the dim light of Little Dom’s dining room, Jarsdel could see her eyes were wet, the lashes flecked with tears. He wasn’t sure if it was for the dog, Abby, or for something bigger—her dead marriage and the entire life it had represented, a life that was now and forever out of reach, one that had been cheated of its possibilities, aborted. Jarsdel wondered if it haunted her and directed another surge of fury at the man who’d robbed her of it. Even though, he knew, that same killer was largely responsible for the relationship he now shared with this woman.
Aleena reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “Hey. Forget it. You still in the mood for kettle corn and Val Kilmer?”
Chapter 19
An elk’s head was mounted on the wall behind Judge Lori Monson’s desk. It gazed at Jarsdel through blank, black eyes that were somehow compelling, hypnotic even, and he found himself staring into them whenever the judge’s attention wasn’t on him.
Monson was in her seventies, with gray hair done in a marcel wave and cheery, pleasant features. She resembled what an artist’s conception of what Mrs. Claus might look like, down to the gold, wire-framed glasses. But Monson was one of the most hotly disliked jurists in the Stanley Mosk Courthouse, maybe the entire city, by the defense attorneys unlucky enough to draw her on a case. Morales had told Jarsdel that she had once been a member of the defense bar herself, specializing in civil rights, and in the ’70s and ’80s was as loathed by the LAPD as she was now loved by it. The reason for her dramatic change was a single client—Stuart Boyett—whom she’d helped acquit on a murder charge after proving a patrolman had planted evidence in his car. Boyett celebrated his release by abducting and murdering a four-year-old boy. Monson shuttered her law practice shortly thereafter and started working for the district attorney’s office. Once a staunch opponent of the death penalty, she went on to successfully prosecute no fewer than a dozen capital cases. Later, as judge, Monson sentenced an equal number of men to San Quentin’s Green Room before the state put a moratorium on executions. If anyone was going to sign their warrant, it would be her.
But Judge Monson looked up from the paperwork and frowned. “I’m not seeing a lot of hard evidence here.”
Morales shifted in his chair. “That’s right, Your Honor, but we have reason to believe the item we’re after will provide us with what we need to move forward.”
“Wouldn’t it be grand if it worked that way, Detective. Unfortunately, you need evidence to uncover more evidence. I don’t approve of fishing expeditions.”
“Your Honor,” said Jarsdel, “we think the circumstantial case is strong enough to support this warrant. Mr. Dinan is the only individual we know of who’s had a physical altercation with our victim. In broad daylight, right in front of the Egyptian. That’s a movie thea—”
“I know what the Egyptian is, thank you, Detective. I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday.”
“Forgive me, Your Honor.”
Monson turned a few pages of the warrant application. “I see you have an affidavit here from a Ramesh Ramjoo. Is that a male or a female?”
“Male.”
“Mr. Ramesh Ramjoo, then. States that his friend, the late Grant Wolin, was the one who came to him with the tale of this alleged assault.”
“That’s right.”
“He didn’t see it take place himself.”
Jarsdel hesitated. “No, but—”
“No police report?”
“None was filed at the time.”
“And I imagine you don’t have any actual witnesses, or they’d be on this application.”
“No, Your Honor, but I—”
“Detective Jarsdel, how is it that you can present me with such a textbook case of hearsay? Come now. ‘A man, who’s now dead, alleges you once struck him.’ That would be setting quite a precedent. Just imagine the swarm of new civil and criminal cases that could be brought before the bench, depending solely on anecdotal evidence gathered from the deceased.”
“Pardon me, Your Honor,” said Morales, “but Mr. Dinan freely admitted to the assault during an interview with Detective Jarsdel.”
Monson shuffled through the pages again. “I see he admits to knocking over a cart. Property damage. Not assault.” Monson steepled her fingers and leaned back. “It’s not good enough. Not nearly.”
Jarsdel bit his lip. He had another card to play, a gift from Detective Barnhardt and her background in psychotherapy. “Your Honor, if I may.”
“You may.”
“We have a credible source who affirms that the document in question contains scenes of mayhem and graphic death. Our victim was tortured, perhaps for hours, until he expired. We think the screenplay could paint a valuable picture of how this man’s mind works, perhaps establish a pattern of violent thoughts or obsessions.”
Morales cut in. “And let’s emphasize that we’re not asking to violate anyone’s privacy. We don’t want to search his house or his vehicle or his person. All we want to do is read a script—a script that’s been kicking around Hollywood for years. Something he’s freely shown countless people.”
Monson’s frown of concern lifted slightly at its corners. “And you know for a fact this script is where you say it is? At the Writers Guild?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Jarsdel. “I talked to them on the phone. There’s only one script registered by a Jeffrey Dinan. But they won’t give us access to it without a court order.”
“It says here,” said Monson, referring to the warrant application, “that you’re requesting a copy.”
“That’s right.”
“Hmm. Tell you what I’ll do…” She handed the application back across the desk, unsigned.
Jarsdel took it, unhappily. His eyes met the elk’s again, and he wondered if Monson had been the one to bring the noble beast down.
She went on, “Bring that back to me, rephrasing that you’d just like to read it at the Guild. No copies. If you end up finding what you’re looking for, we’ll proceed from there. Do that, and I’ll sign.”
Jarsdel brightened. “Certainly, Your Honor.”
“Good. Will that do it, gentlemen?”
The detectives thanked her and left to rewrite the warrant.
* * *
Something was bothering Jarsdel. He tried to sleep but couldn’t. At first, he thought he might be too hot and stuck one leg out from under his blanket, but then he was too cold. He liked the pressure, the weight of the sheets on his body, and having a limb naked and exposed felt strange.
He’d had a full day, and it should have been good, deep sleep. But now he thought he’d need a glass of something to help him nod off. Frustrated, he got out of bed and went into the kitchen. He opened his liquor cabinet and eyed a bo
ttle of Bulleit Rye. Maybe that and some TV would do the trick. The clock on the microwave said it was quarter to eleven, and he had to be up by five.
He thought of the way the alcohol would feel, hot on his tongue and in his throat, and decided he wasn’t in the mood. He closed the liquor cabinet and stood there, thinking.
What was it? It had started the night before, after his dinner with Aleena. Some quiet but nagging little voice insisting he’d missed something, like catching a few scattered notes of music and then trying to place them.
He replayed the conversation they’d had at dinner. Most of it had been casual, nothing too significant, until that Frank Sinatra song had come on. Then she’d been upset, and instead of comforting her, Jarsdel had managed first to insult her, then engage her in a debate about moral responsibility. The irony was that of all people, he should have been the most helpful and compassionate. He understood what it was like to leave a life behind, to make a vicious, sudden turn and abandon what was old and familiar, only then to have it run beside you, dogging you, a sputtering film strip that every now and then came into bright and terrible focus. The life you could have had.
The difference was, of course, that Jarsdel had made a choice. Leaving Maureen, his career, it had all been up to him. For Aleena, that decision had been made by a killer, a phantom who’d dropped out of a clear, blue day to wreak devastation and heartache. A fairy-tale ogre, a plague sent by a spiteful god.
Jarsdel asked himself, selfishly he supposed, whether he’d always have to contend with Aleena’s unrealized life with her ex-husband. Or how many times a perfect moment would be ruined by a trigger of some kind, like the song, and pull her away from him.
The song.
Something about the song. She’d begun to cry because it had been the first dance at her wedding. A dance they’d probably rehearsed for weeks on end. And she’d had to listen to the song dozens of times. No wonder she’d been so well-conditioned to associate it with the day their dog had been murdered.
Her wedding day. How had the killer known it was her wedding day? In each case, he’d known. The couples had been picked completely at random, according to the computer, yet they were all drawn together by that single commonality. Their wedding day.
The song.
What about it?
And then he thought he might know. Depending on what the other couples told him, he really might. He checked the clock on the microwave again. Almost eleven. Aleena could already be asleep, but it didn’t matter. He grabbed his phone.
* * *
Early the following morning, a fight broke out between two arrestees in Hollywood Station’s main holding area. After repeated attempts to break up the scuffle, a nearby officer chose to deploy her pepper spray—a by-the-book decision that had the desired effect of sending the combatants into a state of groaning, mucousy compliance. Only then was it discovered that the station’s supply of baby shampoo—the most effective over-the-counter neutralizing agent for capsaicin—was missing. While a patrol officer sped to Rite Aid to pick up some more, the desk sergeant raided the break room fridge and seized two quarts of half-and-half, which he used to alleviate some of the prisoners’ suffering.
The mess was mostly cleaned up by the time the detectives arrived to start their day, but a tiny bit of pepper spray residue had made it onto the handle of the men’s room door. Abe Rutenberg discovered this the hard way and so also required a dose of baby shampoo. When Jarsdel found him in the break room, the webbing of his thumb was a bright, angry red, and he still hadn’t stopped scratching.
“You’re probably not in the mood to hear this,” said Jarsdel, “but I’d like to run an idea by you.”
Rutenberg had the fridge open and used his good hand to hunt through the contents. “Most of this shit oughta get dumped. Someone’s gonna die of food poisoning. Where’s the goddamned, mother-jumping half-and-half?”
Jarsdel told his story while Rutenberg grimaced his way through a cup of coffee lightened with nondairy creamer. After he’d finished, Rutenberg called his partner in to join them and had Jarsdel repeat it for her.
When it was over, Rutenberg and Barnhardt exchanged an amused look.
“What do you think?” Jarsdel asked.
“I don’t know,” said Barnhardt. “All the couples so far were in their twenties. I don’t think Abe and I fit the profile.”
“I know,” said Jarsdel, “but I don’t think he’s picking them based on age. It just happens most couples who get married are going to be in their twenties. You guys’ll do fine. Just make sure you’re clear you have a dog. Bring it up however you can. Naturally, of course. I don’t know, maybe one of you asks the other if wherever you’re going on your honeymoon takes pets. Or talk about how you’re going to board the dog while you’re away. Whatever, just make sure you do it in front of him.”
“I actually do have a dog,” said Barnhardt. “My husband got me one two Christmases ago.”
“Big?”
“No, a Maltese.”
“Great, maybe even bring it with you a time or two. Do you have a crate or a carrier or something?”
“I’d die if anything happened to her.”
“It won’t. He only goes after them on the day. And we won’t even need the dog to be there when he makes his move.”
She turned to her partner. “What about you?”
Abe shrugged. “Gotta admit, it’s the best theory come along since Rick Jackson and his dog park idea. You HH2 whiz kids, raising the bar around here. If you’re good with it, Kay, I’m with you. Besides, might actually be fun.”
Barnhardt considered, then began working her wedding ring loose from her finger. “Guess I’ll have to keep this in my nightstand for the next few weeks.”
* * *
The Writers Guild of America building was located at 7000 West Third Street, less than a block from Jarsdel’s apartment at Park La Brea, making the trip the one and likely only time in his career he wouldn’t have to drive on an official errand. Armed with his warrant, he entered the lobby and approached a young receptionist who would have been pretty if she weren’t so alarmingly thin.
She gave him a reserved smile. “Good afternoon. Can I help you?”
“Hi, yes, I’m Detective Jarsdel with the LAPD.” He showed his badge and went on, “I’m not sure exactly who I need to talk to, but I need a script recovered for me. From the depository.”
Her eyes widened, meerkat-like, at the sight of the badge. “Oh. I…uh…I don’t know either. Let me call our depository custodian.”
Jarsdel waited on a sofa bench and thumbed through an issue of Los Angeles magazine. After a few minutes, a man stepped out of an elevator and crossed to the front desk. He was middle-aged, with a belly that stood out in relief under an otherwise loose-fitting polo shirt. He had a brief, whispered conversation with the receptionist, who pointed a tremulous finger at Jarsdel. The man turned, spotted Jarsdel, and approached. The detective stood, and the two shook hands.
“Leon Buxbaum. Understand you’re looking for a script?”
“That’s right. I have a warrant here.” Jarsdel handed it over.
Buxbaum raised his eyebrows. “Never actually seen one of these. My predecessor had to deal with a court order once for a copyright case, but that was a civil matter. You’re not asking to go into the actual depository, are you? Because I don’t see that on here.”
“No, I can’t think why it would be necessary,” said Jarsdel. “I assumed you’d just bring it to me and I could read it somewhere.”
“Sure. We have a room you could do that in. Or I could just make you a copy, and you’d take it with you.”
“Actually, I’m not allowed to have a copy. The warrant’s explicit on that, I’m afraid.”
Buxbaum shrugged. “Okay. Follow me, please.” The two took the elevator to the second floor, and Buxbaum installed Jarsde
l in a small conference room while he went to find the document.
Jarsdel didn’t have to wait long. Buxbaum came back with a large, sealed envelope. He pulled a tab near the flap, breaking the seal, and removed a second, slightly smaller envelope. This too he opened and was about to reach inside when he stopped and looked at Jarsdel.
“I can touch it, right? No worry about fingerprints or anything?”
“Oh, sure. You can touch it. It’s fine.”
Buxbaum tilted the envelope and gave it a gentle shake, and the script dropped into his waiting hand. He laid it on the table as carefully as if it were a rare first edition. “You’re lucky. This had one more month on it, then it was off to the shredder.”
“What do you mean?”
“We only keep screenplays five years unless the artist extends the registration. This was about to lapse.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Sure. People forget they’ve got their work here. Then all of a sudden, for whatever reason, they need a copy, and we have to tell them sorry, it’s gone.”
“You don’t let writers know when their work’s about to expire?”
“You have any idea how many scripts we’ve got in the vault?”
Jarsdel didn’t, but he saw Buxbaum’s point.
“Anyway, take your time. When you’re finished, just bring it down to Lisa at the desk. Like a glass of water or anything?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Okay. Well, it was nice meeting you.”
Buxbaum left the room, and Jarsdel turned to the last page of the screenplay to see how much he’d have to read. It was nearly two hundred pages long. He didn’t know much about screenwriting, but that seemed like a lot. He went back to the title page.
KINGDOM OF SORROW
by Jeffrey M. Dinan
This was followed by a WGA registration number, the words writer’s draft, a completion date, and a copyright warning. Jarsdel opened to page one and began to read.
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