One Day You'll Burn

by Joseph Schneider

“Get back inside,” snapped Haarmann.

  “Don’t order me around. You can’t even, legally.” He turned away, speaking to someone behind him. “It’s the cops. They’re gonna arrest the cave troll. Oh yeah, totally. That’s an awesome idea.” He stepped out, clad only in boxer briefs and a ragged white tee, pocked here and there with cigarette burns. He was soon joined by a short, androgynous woman with close-cropped hair dyed an electric blue. She was pointing the lens of a smartphone at them.

  The landlady frowned. “Hey. Hey, guys. That’s not helping.”

  Morales tapped her on the shoulder. “I need the key.”

  She didn’t seem to hear him. “What you’re doing is—”

  “Ma’am. The key.”

  She handed Morales the key but didn’t take her eyes off the couple. “Just have some respect, you know?”

  “I’ll respect a cop when they learn to respect us,” said the man. He pointed at Haarmann, who was watching Dinan’s door as Morales undid the dead bolt. “Look at him. He’s just achin’ to—”

  Then the door was open, and they charged in.

  * * *

  Dinan’s bed was unmade. Haarmann ran his hand over the sheets. “Cold. If he was here, he left a while ago.”

  Jarsdel had Monson’s warrant with him, and he and Morales began conducting their search. The woman with the blue hair appeared in the doorway, scanning the room with her smartphone. “Wow, look,” she said in a flat, bored voice. “It’s the LAPD in their natural habitat. Someone’s private shit.”

  Morales glanced over at her. “You step one foot in here, I promise you an obstruction of justice charge.”

  “Love the Orwell lingo. Are you from the Ministry of Truth?”

  Jarsdel shut the door in her face.

  Rain began to fall as they resumed their search. Streaks of water appeared on the window overlooking Hyperion. The streaks soon fattened and, before long, sheets of water moved down the glass. The weak light passing into the room washed the walls in ghostly shimmers.

  Morales called Jarsdel over. “What about all this?” He’d opened a desk drawer and discovered a cache of receipts.

  The drumming of the rain became a hammering. Jarsdel glanced up, hoping the flimsy roof could withstand the onslaught. “Good. Might be something in there tells us where to look next.” He used a gloved finger to poke some of the papers aside and found a checkbook. “That too.”

  Morales brought over a large evidence bag. After removing the receipts and checkbook from the drawer, the detectives poked through the remaining contents—piles of keepsakes, trinkets, and plain junk. There was a small Tupperware bowl overflowing with bottle caps, a snow globe depicting Santa tanning himself under a palm tree, and a memo pad bearing the letterhead “Edward R. Rooney, Dean of Students.” Marbles, Ping-Pong balls, and the contents from an open bag of wasabi peas fled from the detectives’ fingers as they sorted through the mess.

  “Could take all day,” said Morales. “Think it’s worth it?”

  Jarsdel sighed.

  “Lotta possibilities. Key to a storage unit, a red quarter, maybe a note sayin’ I did it and here’s why. Whatsa matter? Don’t feel like doin’ real police work?”

  “Just empty the whole drawer,” said Jarsdel.

  Morales did, slowly and carefully. The last to go into the evidence bag were hundreds of loose staples, sounding like the rain as they went in.

  * * *

  Dinan’s wallet and keys were missing from the apartment, and his parking spot in the garage was vacant. A BOLO went out for a black 1980 AMC Eagle with vanity plate FLMNUTT. It was the only vehicle Dinan owned—no van, Dodge Ram or otherwise. Jarsdel had to concede that their only witness to the body dump, Dustin Sparks, was probably unreliable. That would be an enormous hurdle if the case went to trial.

  They returned to Hollywood Station in torrents of driving rain, passing two serious accidents along the way. Waiting for Jarsdel on his desk were copies of Jeff Dinan’s Verizon records going back six months. An attached note from a Sergeant Pokorny reported that efforts by the Technical Investigation Division had been made to ping the phone, but either the battery or the SIM card had been removed. The last call Dinan made had bounced off a cell tower on McCadden and Hawthorn, about a block south of the Egyptian.

  Jarsdel referenced the last page of Dinan’s records and found the call. It had been made three days ago at 5:40 p.m. and lasted just under a minute. He looked across at Morales, who was filling out a report for Lieutenant Gavin.

  “I gotta go out again.”

  “Hell you are,” said Morales, continuing to type. “You ain’t leaving me to dig through all that evidence. I got a FSD guy comin’ in twenty minutes to photograph it.”

  “It’s not that much. Just paperwork from the file cabinets and those tchotchkes we found.”

  “The whats?”

  Jarsdel slid the call log onto Morales’s desk.

  The detective stopped typing, glanced sourly at his partner, and adjusted his reading glasses. “No calls for three days.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Makes sense if he’s runnin’. Watch one episode of Law & Order and you know to ditch your phone.”

  “Look at the time, though. That’s maybe five minutes after I asked him about the altercation with Wolin.”

  Morales scanned the page. “Who’s Raymond Stevens? Why do I know that name?”

  “He’s the guy owns the Cinema Legacy Museum. I interviewed him about Wolin’s Hollywood Dirt thing, remember?”

  “Right, right. Okay, so why don’t I go talk to him, and you stay here with FSD?”

  “You could, but I already have some rapport with the guy. We’re on a first-name basis. If he knows anything that’ll help, he’ll probably be more likely to open up if it’s me.”

  Morales sighed. “Fine, go talk to him. Goddamn it.” He thrust the paper at Jarsdel, who got to his feet. “You’re bringing me back some lunch, though. I want a triple XL Fatburger with the works. And some onion rings.”

  “No, that’s in Barnsdall Park. I’m going the other direction.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be patient.”

  “C’mon. It’s pouring rain. That’ll tack on another hour.”

  “You know what they say, partner—freedom ain’t free.”

  * * *

  The lot on Cherokee was full, so Jarsdel was forced to park in the bowels of the Hollywood & Highland complex. By the time he got off the elevator at street level, the rain had slackened to a faint drizzle, and the costumed street characters had emerged from under eaves and awnings to mingle with the tourists. Jarsdel wove his way around a boy and girl having their picture taken with Shrek and had to stop suddenly when a Minion in full body costume crossed his path without looking.

  Jarsdel’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Morales: HomeSec says no one with Jeff Dinan passport left US last three days. Checking domestic flights now.

  There was a hard tap on his shoulder. Jarsdel turned, irritated, to find himself face-to-face with Catwoman. Even though a cowl masked half her face, he could see she was too old for the role. Her lips—thin and bloodless—were pinched into a frown that bunched the flesh of her chin into a gray prune.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re a cop,” she said, revealing an upper row of crooked, stained teeth.

  “Do you need help?”

  “I’ve been trying to get one of you guys to listen to me for, like, a year.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. Is everything all right?”

  “No!”

  Jarsdel held out a calming hand. “I hear you. Please tell me what the problem is.”

  She exhaled hard, delivering a blast of fetid air into Jarsdel’s face. “It’s Bruce. That’s what I been telling you guys. Bruce is gone.”

  Jarsdel brought out a memo pad and pre
tended to write. “Bruce, okay. Bruce who?”

  “Bruce Wayne.”

  He looked up, his expression weary. “Batman?”

  “But his real name is Bruce.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard.” He put his memo pad away. “I’ll run it up the ladder to Commissioner Gordon.”

  “No. No, no. Not this again. That’s his fucking name.”

  “All right, just ease up on the language—”

  “Dora!” Catwoman beckoned to someone over Jarsdel’s shoulder. He turned to see Dora the Explorer waddling their way, her great round head bobbing as she wordlessly greeted passing tourists. The frozen foam smile spread across her face told everyone she was amazed and delighted to see them.

  “Dora!” called Catwoman again. “C’mere.”

  Dora saw her and gave a dainty wave. When she got close enough, Catwoman pulled her by the arm so they were standing together, facing Jarsdel.

  “This is a cop,” Catwoman said, slowly and deliberately.

  Dora looked up at Jarsdel and put both of her hands to her mouth in a pantomime of surprise.

  “I want you to tell him that Bruce is his name.”

  Dora glanced at Catwoman, then back. She gave two exaggerated nods.

  Catwoman fixed Jarsdel with a look of righteous satisfaction.

  “Got it,” he said. “Batman’s real name is Bruce Wayne.”

  “You don’t get it,” Catwoman said, the anger creeping back into her voice. “He’s a real person.”

  Dora nodded again, vigorously, then had to stop and adjust her head.

  “I’m sorry,” said Jarsdel. “I don’t understand. Are you talking about one of the superheroes here? Who work this block?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you guys. For a thousand years. No one listens.”

  “You’re saying that a gentleman who dresses up as Batman has disappeared?”

  Dora held two thumbs up, then skipped an imaginary hopscotch grid.

  “And his name is actually Bruce Wayne?”

  “Yes,” said Catwoman. “He had it legally changed.”

  Out came the memo pad again. “What’s your name?”

  “Why do you need to know that?”

  “For my report. And if I need to contact you again.”

  “Can’t I make it anonymously?”

  “You can, if that makes you more comfortable. But it could slow things down if we end up investigating.”

  She gave another frustrated, fragrant exhale. “Marcy Kremer.”

  “Address and phone number?”

  As they spoke, Dora began getting restless. She blocked a family as they tried to pass, putting her hands on her hips in a gesture of spunky assertiveness.

  “Excuse us,” said the father.

  Dora motioned pulling out a camera and taking a picture.

  “Not today.” The man led his wife and two children around her and moved on. Dora watched them go, then shook her fist at their departing backs.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Jarsdel, putting his pad away once more.

  Catwoman rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’m really counting on that.” She turned and stalked off westward toward the Chinese Theatre. Dora watched her go, then regarded Jarsdel a moment, unmoving.

  “Hi,” said Jarsdel.

  Dora lifted a hand, wagged a finger at him in sharp disapproval, then headed down the block after Catwoman.

  * * *

  The homeless man who’d been camped out in the doorway adjacent to the Cinema Legacy Museum was now gone. His shopping cart and blanket were still there, but there was no sign of their owner. Probably getting lunch somewhere, Jarsdel thought. Strange, though, that he didn’t take his recycling with him. That stuff was like gold to the vagrants who roamed the area.

  When he entered the museum this time, the security guard wasn’t at his usual spot by the door—just his book, which was open facedown on his stool. He’d apparently finished Helter Skelter and was now reading Ann Rule’s The Stranger Beside Me.

  As before, the place seemed pretty much empty, though Jarsdel could overhear some murmured conversation behind one of the displays. “Hello?” he called.

  Raymond Stevens leaned his head from behind a partition. “Yes?” Then he recognized Jarsdel, and his expression lit up. “Tully! Just a moment, please.” He disappeared for a few seconds, then reemerged, striding toward Jarsdel with his hand out. The polished white stone of his pendant bounced jovially as he approached.

  “I was just giving a personal tour. Always enjoy doing that if I’m able.” The two men shook hands. Stevens went on, “We’ve recently come into a very exciting acquisition. One of the portraits of Jonathan Frid from the Dark Shadows series. I know, I know, it’s technically not a movie. But how could I pass it up? Anyway, what can I do for you?”

  “I—”

  “Did you by any chance bring your lady with you? I’ve been eager to take you on that tour we talked about.”

  “No. Actually, I’m here about something a bit more serious.”

  Stevens affected a somber mien. “More serious than Dark Shadows?”

  His security guard emerged from somewhere in the back of the museum, spinning a key ring on his finger.

  Stevens touched Jarsdel’s arm. “Sorry, one moment.” He turned to the guard. “How did it go?”

  “Fine,” the man said, then recognized Jarsdel and broke into a grin. “Hey, whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”

  Jarsdel had heard that joke before, usually from high schoolers back when he’d been in uniform. It hadn’t grown funnier with time, but Jarsdel gave a dutiful grunt. “Remind me, what was your name?”

  “Brayden. Brayden Wouters. What’s up? We wasn’t supposed to meet or anything, was we?”

  “Brayden was just returning a piece we had on loan,” explained Stevens. “Shame to have to give it up. I might end up making an offer on it, but I think the tentacled old bitch wants to gouge me.”

  Jarsdel flinched, though he had no idea who was being discussed. “Oh? What was it?”

  “The actual blade from The Pit and the Pendulum, if you can imagine. I’m speaking of the 1961 version by the way, with Vincent Price, not the French one. It doesn’t have any of the cranking apparatus or any of that stuff with it, just the blade at the end of a long pole. It’s dull, of course, but my goodness, quite heavy.”

  “Hmm,” said Jarsdel. “That’s wild. Anyway, I was hoping—”

  “Of course, the serious issue. Please.”

  “Thanks. Jeff Dinan’s been missing for a couple days, and—”

  “Jeff? Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would you be looking for him to begin with?”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “Has he done something, or…” Stevens’s face fell. “Oh. This has something to do with the call, doesn’t it? The other day.”

  “What? What’s up?” asked Brayden.

  Jarsdel stayed focused on Stevens. “What can you tell me about it?”

  Stevens seemed to grow paler, if such a thing were possible. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Jarsdel glanced between the two men. “I don’t know. I can’t advise you on anything. I just need to know what you talked about.”

  “I don’t think I did anything wrong,” said Stevens. “He was just so desperate sounding.”

  Jarsdel looked again at Brayden, who appeared to have gone back to his book. Jarsdel wasn’t convinced. “Can we talk alone for a sec?” He took Stevens by the shoulder and led him through the turnstile and past the small reception desk. They stopped under a canoe paddle, mounted horizontally, with an accompanying still from the film Deliverance. There was no rhyme or reason to the museum, Jarsdel thought, just one man’s jumble of semi-collectables, lovingly displayed.

&
nbsp; “The reason I’m here,” he said once he and Stevens were alone, “is because you’re the last known person he spoke with.”

  Stevens looked horrified. “The last? And for three days?”

  Jarsdel let silence answer for him.

  Stevens clutched at his pendant, rubbing at the stone with the pad of his thumb. “He was very upset. Wouldn’t say what was going on, just that he was in some kind of trouble, and would I lend him some money.”

  “Did you?”

  “Not at first. I thought it was a very strange call to get. Like a prank. And we hadn’t really reconnected after that silliness on Halloween. But after we talked a few minutes, I realized he wasn’t faking it.”

  “What happened?”

  “I told him to come over. He sounded so desperate, you understand, and he wasn’t asking for that much money.”

  “How much?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “You keep that kind of cash in the museum?”

  “No, I have a small safe down in my quarters.”

  Jarsdel nodded. “All right. So he came over, and you gave him the money.”

  “Lent him the money. He promised to return it.”

  “Has he borrowed money from you in the past?”

  “No. But I’ve suspected for some time that he’s been developing a gambling addiction.”

  That was news to Jarsdel. “Why do you think that?”

  Stevens considered. “He fancies himself a brilliant poker player. Perhaps this time, he bet more than was on the table. Just a guess.”

  That seemed awfully pat. There wasn’t a big underground poker scene in LA, much less the mob-run, potentially lethal variety. “Did he also borrow a vehicle?”

  “Strange you should ask. He wanted to, but I told him it wouldn’t be possible.”

  “Raymond, I’m going to tell you why he approached you, and maybe that’ll give you some ideas about where he might have gone.”

  Stevens’s customers, an elderly couple, had stepped into view and were examining the spear from Spartacus. “Basically just a big pointy stick,” the man said.

  Stevens looked pained. To Jarsdel, he said, “Let me just tell them I’ll be a few more minutes.”

  “Sure.”