He approached his customers, unleashed a fusillade of hushed apologies, and returned.
“Thank you. I’m sorry, you were saying?”
“I went to see Jeff about a case we’re working on. Unfortunately, he’s a person of interest.”
“What, you mean, like a suspect?”
“That’s right.”
“But you’re a homicide detective. So…” Stevens was incredulous. “You’re joking.”
Jarsdel shook his head.
“My God.”
“It was just after I talked to him that he called you. You say you lent him some money—”
“But I didn’t know!”
“No, no. You’re fine. Relax. Based on what you told me, you’re not in any kind of trouble. So you lent him some money—”
Stevens sighed. “My God.”
“Did he give any indication where he was going?”
“No.”
“Maybe just what his next stop was going to be? A friend’s house? A relative?”
“Nothing. He said nothing like that.”
“Is there any place you know that he likes to go? Towns or cities? Maybe where he grew up?”
“He’s from Chicago, I think, originally.”
That was some help. He could find Dinan’s family with a DMV search, then have Chicago PD cruise by and have a talk with them. In the meantime, a quick call to the Illinois state police would put a BOLO on the Eagle. “Think of anything else? Any other place?”
“He likes Tijuana.”
That was one word Jarsdel was hoping he wouldn’t hear. Being in Mexico would effectively put Dinan out of reach. Unless some damning new evidence emerged from the morning’s search, they couldn’t file charges against him, which meant he wouldn’t qualify as a fugitive. As long as he didn’t break any laws, the Mexican police had no cause to detain or extradite him. And with a three-day head start, he could have easily made it all the way through to Guatemala, maybe even Belize. He pulled out his phone.
Check bank withdrawals.
Morales’s reply was immediate and in all caps: THANKS. NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE.
Jarsdel put the phone away. “Anyway, I appreciate you talking to me. It’s been a big help.”
Stevens made a vague gesture with his hands. “It’s the least I can do. You must believe that if I’d known any of this, I wouldn’t have given him the money.”
“I know. And like I said, you don’t have anything to worry about.” He took a card from his wallet. “Please call if there’s anything else you think of.”
“Oh, I already have the one you gave me before.”
“Take another.”
Stevens shrugged and took the card. “Brayden’s unloading some new pieces. Real finds. Oliver Reed’s shirt from Curse of the Werewolf. A devil mask from Black Sunday—the Mario Bava film, not the John Frankenheimer thriller. Lots of horror, I know, but they do make me happy. As a policeman, you may be interested to see the hat worn by Gene Hackman in The French Connection. Fox was very kind to lend it to me. Van’s just out back if you’d like to go see.”
“Sounds cool, but I better follow up on what we talked about. Thanks.”
“Of course. Well, I hope to see you again under more pleasant circumstances. Perhaps with your lady?”
“We’d like that.” They shook hands once more, and Jarsdel started outside. But then he halted, one foot on the sidewalk. An idea had suddenly wormed out of his subconscious and now lay in his mental spotlight, demanding action.
Absurd.
He made it a few more paces before stopping again. It might be absurd, but it wasn’t going away. Besides, it would only take a minute to see for sure. He could surely spare that, couldn’t he? Besides, with all the time he was taking arguing about it with himself, he could have already—
“Fine,” he said aloud and went back into the museum.
Stevens was back with his customers. They’d moved on to the Deliverance paddle. “Gave me nightmares,” the woman said. “And that scene—oh, you know the one I mean. Where Warren Beatty—”
“Ned, Sheila,” her husband said. “That was Ned Beatty.”
“Hey,” said Jarsdel, stepping through the turnstile.
They all turned to face him.
“Sorry to interrupt, but that actually does sound pretty fascinating. The hat from the movie.”
Stevens puffed up with pride. “Of course. Brayden’s getting it now. Just straight toward the back, and there’s a door opening onto an alley. He’s parked there.”
“Great.” Jarsdel passed several exhibits, most of which were small in size and from films he’d never heard of, on his way to the door. Each item was accompanied by a still from the movie depicting a scene in which it had appeared. A pair of earrings, a ring, a cane, a derringer pistol, a playing card. There were some original posters in sleek black frames, their colors too lurid, too dreamlike for contemporary billboards. There was Taste the Blood of Dracula, Vampire Circus, and A Hatchet for the Honeymoon.
To his right, a stairway led down into darkness. The top was cordoned off with a heavy velvet rope, like the kind used in old movie theaters. A sign stood behind the rope reading No Entry Please. Jarsdel guessed the stairs led down to Stevens’s rooms.
Up ahead, he saw a door propped open with a brick, late afternoon sunlight spilling across its threshold. As he reached it, Brayden nudged it open with his elbow and stepped inside. He carried a medium-sized cardboard box.
“Hey,” he said upon seeing Jarsdel. “Boss is up front, I think.”
“Yeah, I know. Changed my mind. He said I could come back here and check out some of the new pieces.”
“Sure. This is the hat. Had to leave a three-thousand-dollar deposit for it—you believe that?”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. And I had to sign a form saying only the museum’s curator would handle it, so no touchy. Goes for both of us.”
“Understood. Let’s crack it open.”
Brayden set the box down on the floor between them and bent to undo the flaps. “They didn’t tape it up, probably to stop some knucklehead from slicing the box open and cutting the merchandise. I guess I’m that knucklehead, ’cause that’s exactly what I would’ve done.”
While Brayden carefully brushed packing peanuts aside, Jarsdel slipped around him toward the exit. The door was still propped open, but he couldn’t see much through the meager opening, so he leaned against it—casually, he hoped. It began to swing outward. He went with it for just a little bit, then looked over his shoulder into the alleyway.
And there it is.
“Crucial,” said Brayden.
Jarsdel glanced back at him, but Brayden was staring awestruck into the box. Jarsdel chanced another look outside.
It was strange, he reflected, even a bit unreal. Like seeing a celebrity in a supermarket. Unexpected and jarringly noncontextual but undeniably there.
“Hey. Here’s the hat. The real deal. Popeye Doyle, man. Hello?”
Jarsdel turned to see Brayden regarding him with naked concern. “Hmm? Oh, yeah. Wow. That’s really something.”
Brayden picked up the box and walked it the few feet over to where Jarsdel stood. “It’s the hat,” he said. “Seriously. This is it.”
“Yes. I can see it. It’s great.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Of course I believe you. It’s definitely the hat.”
“It is.” Brayden held the box between them and peered down into it. “You wanna put it on?”
“That’s kind of you,” said Jarsdel. “But I’ve really gotta run.”
“Is it because I said we weren’t allowed to touch it? Don’t let that be the reason. I don’t think they got, like, a hidden camera in there or anything.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Man, I really wanna put it on.”
&nb
sp; “Thanks for showing it to me.” Jarsdel began to move away when Brayden reached out and touched his arm.
“Hey, I didn’t say something that pissed you off or anything, did I?”
“Sorry, what? No, not at all.”
“Because I know that’s a thing with me sometimes. I’ll say something, and people act funky, and I won’t know why. And you being a cop and everything, a homicide detective, I’d be really embarrassed if that happened. You guys, you’re my heroes. I think I told you that.”
Jarsdel summoned what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “No need for the slightest concern. I really appreciate you taking the time to show me this. It’s quite a piece.”
“It is, right?” He once again dropped his gaze to the hat. “Wonder if it smells like the ’70s.”
“Take good care of it,” said Jarsdel, making his way back toward the museum’s exit. He tried to resist the temptation to look back, failed, and caught a final glimpse of Brayden. He’d put the box down and was at the back door, looking into the alley and probably trying to figure out what Jarsdel had found so fascinating out there.
“Nothing,” Jarsdel murmured as he stepped from the museum’s antiseptic cool and into the sunlight. “Just some old, beat-up Dodge Ram.”
Chapter 21
Morales was at his desk, his expression sullen. It grew darker when he saw Jarsdel’s hands were empty.
“I’m not seein’ any Fatburger.”
“I found the van.”
Morales stared at him.
“I mean,” said Jarsdel, “I think I found it. I don’t know for sure, and we’d have to get FSD in there to prove it, but it would be a pretty big coincidence if it wasn’t it.” He went on to explain where and how he’d seen the vehicle and that it probably belonged to Raymond Stevens.
“Goddamn it, I’m hungry,” said Morales. “Gonna have to get one of those shitty-ass granola bars from the break room to tide me over.”
“Sorry.”
“And the guy from FSD decided he’d rather come tomorrow. Our case isn’t ringing a lot of bells at the Cal State crime lab, apparently, and he was needed elsewhere. Oh, we found Dinan’s car by the way.”
“We did? Where?”
“Right here in LA. It’d been sitting in a parking garage by the Egyptian for more than two days, so they had it towed. Now it’s at that big impound lot downtown. I’m having it moved to Cal State for processing. But again, though, that’s not gonna happen today.”
“So Dinan’s just gone,” said Jarsdel. “Car abandoned, didn’t fly anywhere, no phone or credit card activity—”
“No ATM stuff either. Banks with Wells Fargo but hasn’t touched his balance since last week. That means if he really did boogie on us, he must’ve had a go bag ready. But you know, he doesn’t exactly strike me as the type.”
“Supposedly got five hundred from Stevens.”
“That’s nothing. Wouldn’t last him more than a couple days, even south of the border. Nope, I’m thinkin’ our friend’s no longer among the living.”
They thought about that for a moment. An arrestee in the intake area began singing “Sweet Home Alabama.” Someone shouted at him to shut the fuck up.
“So what’s up with this Stevens guy?” asked Morales. “You say you know him?”
“Met him a couple times. He seemed, I don’t know, harmless, just some effete film historian.”
“Feet?”
“Effete.”
Morales blew out a mouthful of air. “Whatever. Anyway, so what’s this harmless guy doing with our van? And how come he’s the last person Dinan talks to before pulling a Copperfield?”
Jarsdel drummed his fingers on his desk, then said, “Can I ask you a favor?”
“No.”
“There’s an incentive.”
“Hey, I’m not even supposed to work today. I came in special for that warrant.”
“I know.”
“I was gonna leave when you got back. I got errands. And I’m cooking tonight. Got some nice asada to grill up, and then we were gonna watch the new Pixar movie. Steaks been marinating all day.”
Jarsdel nodded. “I won’t screw up your family time, I promise. I don’t even need you that long, but you’ve got more experience with this stuff than I do. The systems and everything. Just run this guy for me, deep as you can, see what comes up.”
“And you’ll do…?”
“Fatburger. Triple XL and a side of onion rings, right?”
* * *
When Jarsdel returned an hour later, Morales was standing over the printer, catching the pages as they spat into his hands. It was a larger stack than Jarsdel had anticipated—perhaps thirty sheets. When the printing had finished, Morales traded them for the offered bag of food.
“Enjoy,” he said. “I’m outta here.”
“What is all this?”
“As much as you’ll get without dealing with the feds. You’ll have to get in touch with USCIS if you want to see his original immigration stuff. Assuming they still have it.”
Jarsdel thumbed through the stack. He saw what he expected to see on a normal check—driver’s license, social security, vehicle information, DMV records—but Morales had also gotten him pages and pages of permits that had been issued by the city for Stevens’s various business ventures. Attached to these permits was supporting documentation listing current and former addresses, financial information, and personal history.
“Hey,” he said to Morales’s departing back, “appreciate it.”
Morales lifted a hand in acknowledgment, and Jarsdel sat down to read.
* * *
Raymond Stevens was originally Radovan Stefanović, formerly of the Republic of Montenegro, who’d immigrated to the United States in 1996 and become a naturalized citizen in 2001. He was forty-nine years old, had no family, and was the sole owner of his businesses, which included the Cinema Legacy Museum, the Hollywood Experience, and something called Exclusive Imports. On his earliest permit application, he’d listed foodservice as his occupation, but in all later paperwork, he identified himself as a businessman. He operated two vehicles, a 2012 Cadillac CTS, silver, and a 2002 Dodge Ram van, white. There was one point on his license from an illegal U-turn in January of 2014, but otherwise, his record was clear—no outstanding warrants or criminal history in the United States. His most significant contact with law enforcement was a complaint he’d once made of vandalism to his museum’s display window.
As biographies went, it certainly wasn’t a showstopper. Despite all Morales had given Jarsdel, it still painted the barest outline of a life. Before he could move forward, he needed to know more about Stevens’s connection with Wolin and the Punyawongs.
He did a search for Exclusive Imports, but it was such a generic name that he came up with dozens of companies from all over the world. Nothing in California, though, that he could see. He again checked the paperwork from LA’s business licensing office and saw he’d been wasting his time. Exclusive Imports had canceled its permits in 2010, the proprietor citing liquidation of company assets as the reason.
Jarsdel moved on to the Hollywood Experience. The website’s banner was done in Broadway typeface, and the company promised to provide a taste of the real Hollywood, touring the residences and hangouts of the major stars of yesteryear. A VIP ticket included a professionally taken photograph of the customer while on the tour, a keepsake frame, and a poolside martini at the Sunset Tower Hotel. Conspicuously absent was any talk of celebrity crime scenes, overdoses, or suicides. It seemed the Hollywood Experience wanted to distance itself as much as possible from the more sensational tours operating in the city.
Its patina of class seemed to be paying off. The company only gave a “select” number of tours each day—whatever that meant—and offered both Mandarin- and English-speaking guides. Jarsdel wrinkled his nose at the redund
ancy of the phrase, “Advance reservations recommended.”
He yawned, scrolling through the site. The “About Us” page boasted that the business had won a Heroes of Hollywood Award from the chamber of commerce. There was a picture from the awards luncheon, and a caption below it read Hollywood Chamber Community Foundation honors The Hollywood Experience, 2014. There was Stevens, receiving the plaque and smiling at the camera with unabashed pride.
Jarsdel picked up a jumbo paperclip and carefully worked it until it was straight. Then, slowly, he began bending the metal into segments, back and forth, feeling them grow hot beneath his fingers before snapping off. He flicked the pieces into his wastebasket.
The desk phone rang, and he snatched it up, grateful for the distraction. “Detective Jarsdel.” He waited, but no one spoke. “Hello?” A soft click, and the line went dead. Jarsdel jammed the phone in its cradle and went back to staring at his computer screen.
The Hollywood Experience. It sounded familiar. He brought out the murder book and began turning pages, not sure what he was looking for.
His cell buzzed. “Fuck’s sake,” he mumbled, unclipping it and checking the screen. Aleena. “Hey, what’s goin’ on?”
He heard her take a shaky breath.
“Hey,” he said, growing alarmed, “what is it?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice strained. “I know you’re probably at work. I could just use a friend today.”
“Why? What’s up? Are you safe?”
“I’m safe. It’s not that.” She sniffed. “Today’s my anniversary. Of the wedding. I thought I could get through it okay, but—”
“Oh, Aleena. Why didn’t you tell me? Yeah, um…” He checked the time—quarter of five. “You want me to come over?”
She blew her nose. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to be that high-maintenance girl who needs her man to come running and—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I think you’re…” He hunted for the right thing to say. “I think that’s a bit of extreme thinking, right? And you know, it’s kind of expected for couples to help each other out from time to time.”
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