When they got there, Nate said to their prisoner, "Here's the deal. I'm giving you not only a burger and fries, but a get-out-of-jail-free pass. You're gonna sit in the little holding tank for thirty minutes and eat your burger, and I'll even buy you a Coke. Then, after my partner writes an FI card on you for future reference, I'm gonna let you out and you're gonna walk back up to the boulevard and get your shopping cart and go home to your nest, wherever that is."
"You mean I ain't going to jail or detox?"
"That's right. I got an important phone call to make, so I can't waste time dicking around with you. Deal?"
"Hot damn!" Filmore said.
When their passenger got out of the car in the station parking lot, Wesley looked at the car seat and said to Filmore, "What's that all over the seat? Beach sand?"
"No, that's psoriasis," said Filmore U. Bracken.
"Oh, gross!" Wesley cried.
B. M. Driscoll and Benny Brewster caught the call to the apartment building on Stanley north of Fountain. They were half a block from the L. A. Sheriff's Department jurisdiction of West Hollywood, and later Benny Brewster thought about that and wished it could've occurred just half a block south.
The apartment manager answered their ring and asked them inside. It was by no means a down-market property. In fact, B. M. Driscoll was thinking he wouldn't mind living there if he could afford the rent. The woman wore a blazer and skirt and looked as though she had just come home from work. Her silver-streaked hair was cut like a man's, and she was what is called handsome in women her age.
She said, "I'm Cora Sheldon, and I called about the new tenant in number fourteen. Her name is Eileen Leffer. She moved in last month from Oxnard and has two young children." She paused and read from the rental agreement, "A six-year-old son, Terry, and a seven-year-old daughter, Sylvia. She said she's a model and seemed very respectable and promised to get us references but hasn't done it yet. I think there might be a problem."
"What kinda problem?" Benny asked.
"I work during the day, but we never see or hear a peep from the kids. The owner of the building used to rent our furnished units to adults only, so this is new to me. I've never been married, but I think normal kids should be heard from sometimes, and these two are not. I don't think they're enrolled in any school. Even on weekends when I'm home, I never hear or see the kids."
"Have you investigated?" B. M. Driscoll asked. "You know, knocked on the door with maybe an offer of a friendly cup of coffee?"
"Twice. Neither time was there a response. I'm worried. I have a key, but I'm afraid to just open the door and look."
"We got no probable cause to enter," Benny said. "When was the last time you knocked on the door?"
"Last night at eight o'clock."
"Gimme the key," B. M. Driscoll said. "And you come with us. If there's nobody home, we all just tiptoe away and nobody's the wiser. We wouldn't do this except for the presence of little kids."
When they got to number fourteen, Benny knocked. No answer. He tapped sharply with the butt of his flashlight. Still no answer.
Benny called out, "Police officers. Anybody home?" and knocked again.
Cora Sheldon was doing a lot of lip biting then, and B. M. Driscoll put the pass key in the lock and opened the door, turning on the living room light. The room was messy, with magazines strewn around and a couple of vodka bottles lying on the floor. The kitchen smelled of garbage, and when they looked in, they saw the sink stacked with dirty dishes. The gas range was a mess with something white that had boiled over.
B. M. Driscoll switched on a hallway light and looked into the bathroom, which was more of a mess than the kitchen. Benny checked the master bedroom, saw an unmade bed and a bra and panties on the floor, and returned with a shrug.
The other bedroom door was closed. Cora Sheldon said, "The second bedroom has twin beds. That would be the children's room."
B. M. Driscoll walked to the door and opened it, turning on the light. It was worse by far than the master bedroom. There were dishes with peanut butter and crackers on the floor and on the dresser top. In front of the TV were empty soda cans, and boxes of breakfast cereal were lying on the floor.
"Well, she's not much of a housekeeper," he said, "but other than that?"
"Partner," Benny said, pointing at the bed, then walking to it and shining his light at wine-dark stains. "Looks like blood."
"Oh my god!" Cora Sheldon said as B. M. Driscoll looked under the bed and Benny went to the closet, whose door was partially open.
And there they were. Both children were sitting under hanging garments belonging to their mother. The six-year-old boy began sobbing, and his seven-year-old sister put her arm around him. Both children were blue-eyed, and the boy was a blond and his sister a brunette. Neither had had a decent wash for a few days, and both were terrified. The boy wore shorts and a food-stained T-shirt and no shoes. The girl wore a cotton dress trimmed with lace, also food-stained. On her feet she wore white socks and pink sneakers.
"We won't hurt you, come on out," Benny said, and Cora Sheldon repeated, "Oh my god!"
"Where's your mommy?" B. M. Driscoll asked.
"She went with Steve," the girl said.
"Does Steve live here?" Benny asked, and when Cora Sheldon said, "I didn't rent to anyone named -" he shushed her by putting up his hand.
The little girl said, "Sometimes."
B. M. Driscoll said, "Have they been gone for a long time?"
The little girl said, "I think so."
"For two days? Three days? Longer?"
"I don't know," she said.
"Okay, come on out and let's get a look at you," he said.
Benny was inspecting the stain on the bed, and he said to the girl, "Has somebody hurt you?"
She nodded then and started crying, walking painfully from the closet.
"Who?" Benny asked. "Who hurt you?"
"Steve," she said.
"How?" Benny asked. "How did he hurt you?"
"Here," she said, and when she lifted her cotton dress slightly, they saw dried blood crusted on both legs from her thighs down, and what looked like dark bloodstains on her lace-trimmed white cotton socks.
"Out, please!" Benny said to Cora Sheldon, taking both children by the hands and walking them into the living room, first closing the bedroom door to protect it as a crime scene.
B. M. Driscoll grabbed his rover to inform detectives that they had some work to do and that they needed transportation to the hospital for the children.
"Wait in your apartment, Ms. Sheldon," Benny said.
Looking at the children, she said, "Oh," and then started to weep and walked out the door.
When she had gone, the girl turned to her younger brother and said, "Don't cry, Terry. Mommy's coming home soon."
It was nearly midnight when Flotsam and Jetsam were in the station to get a sergeant's signature on a robbery report. A drag queen claimed to have been walking down the boulevard on a legitimate errand when a car carrying two guys stopped and one of them jumped out and stole the drag queen's purse, which contained fifty dollars as well as a "gorgeous" new wig that cost three hundred and fifty. Then he'd punched the drag queen before driving away.
Jetsam was in the process of calling to see what kind of record the dragon had, like maybe multiple prostitution arrests, when the desk officer asked Flotsam to watch the desk while he ran upstairs and had a nice hot b.m.
Flotsam said okay and was there when a very angry and outraged Filmore U. Bracken came shuffling into the lobby.
Flotsam took a look at the old derelict and said, "Dude, you are too hammered to be entering a police station of your own volition."
"I wanna make a complaint," the codger said.
"What kinda complaint?"
"Against a policeman."
"What'd he do?"
"I gotta admit he bought me a hamburger."
"Yeah, well, I can see why you're mad," Flotsam said. "Shoulda been filet mignon, right?"
"He brought me here for the hamburger and left my property with a big fat degenerate at a dirty bookstore on Hollywood Boulevard."
"Which dirty bookstore?"
"I can point it out to you. Anyways, the degenerate didn't watch my property like he said he would and now it's gone. Everything in my shopping cart."
"And what, pray tell, was in your cart?"
"My anvil."
"An anvil?"
"Yeah, it's my life."
"Damn," Flotsam said. "You're a blacksmith? The Mounted Platoon might have a job for you."
"I wanna see the boss and make a complaint."
"What's your name?"
"Filmore Upton Bracken."
"Wait here a minute, Mr. Bracken," Flotsam said. "I'm going to talk this over with the sergeant."
While Jetsam waited for the Oracle to approve and sign the crime report, Flotsam went to the phone books and quickly looked up the law offices of Harold G. Lowenstein, a notorious and hated lawyer in LAPD circles who had made a living suing cops and the city that hired them. Somebody was always saying what they would do to Harold G. Lowenstein if they ever popped him for drunk driving.
Flotsam then dialed the number to the lobby phone. After the eighth ring, as he started to think his idea wasn't going to work, the phone was picked up.
Filmore Upton Bracken said, "Hello?"
"Mr. Bracken?" Flotsam said, doing his best impression of Anthony Hopkins playing a butler. "Am I speaking to Mr. Filmore Upton Bracken?"
"Yeah, who's this?"
"This is the emergency hotline for the law offices of Harold G. Lowenstein, Esquire, Mr. Bracken. A Los Angeles police officer just phoned us from Hollywood Station saying that you may need our services."
"Yeah? You're a lawyer?"
"I'm just a paralegal, Mr. Bracken," Flotsam said. "But Mr. Lowenstein is very interested in any case involving malfeasance on the part of LAPD officers. Could you please come to our offices tomorrow at eleven A. M. and discuss the matter?"
"You bet I can. Lemme get a pencil from the desk here."
He was gone for a moment, and Flotsam could hear him yelling, "Hey, I need a goddamn pencil!"
When Filmore returned, he said, "Shoot, brother."
Flotsam gave him the address of Harold G. Lowenstein's Sunset Strip law office, including the suite number, and then said, "Mr. Bracken, the officer who just phoned on your behalf said that you are probably without means at present, so do not be intimidated if our somewhat sheltered employees try to discourage you. Mr. Lowenstein will want to see you personally, so don't take no for an answer from some snippy receptionist."
"I'll kick ass if anybody tries to stop me," Filmore said.
"That's the spirit, Mr. Bracken," Flotsam said, his accent shifting closer to the burr of Sean Connery and away from Anthony Hopkins.
"I'll be there at eleven."
Filmore was waiting in the lobby when Flotsam returned, saying, "Mr. Bracken? The sergeant will see you now."
Filmore drew himself up on his tiptoes to lock eyeballs with the tall cop and said, "Fuck the sergeant. He can talk to my lawyer. I'm suing all you bastards. When I'm through, I'll own this goddamn place, and maybe if you're lucky I'll buy you a hamburger sometime. Asshole."
And with that, Filmore Upton Bracken shuffled out the door with a grin as wide as Hollywood Boulevard.
When B. M. Driscoll and Benny Brewster went end-of-watch in the early-morning hours, Flotsam and Jetsam were in the locker room, sharing Filmore Upton Bracken adventures with Hollywood Nate and Wesley Drubb.
After the chuckles subsided, Nate said to Flotsam and Jetsam, "By the way, you guys're invited to a birthday party. My newest little friend is throwing it at her place in Westwood. Might be one or two chicks from the entertainment industry for you to meet."
"Any of the tribe coming?" Flotsam asked. "No offense, but I got a two-Jew limit. Three or more Hollywood hebes gather and they start sticking political lapel pins on every animate and inanimate object in sight, which might include my dead ass."
"Why, you filthy anti-Semitic surfer swine," Nate said.
"You inviting Budgie?" Flotsam asked.
"Probably," Nate said.
"Okay, we'll come. My partner admires her from afar."
They stopped the banter when B. M. Driscoll and Benny Brewster came in looking very grim. Both began quickly and quietly undressing.
"What's wrong with you guys?" Jetsam asked. "They taking Wrestlemania off the air?"
"You don't wanna know," B. M. Driscoll said, almost tearing the buttons from his uniform shirt as though he just wanted out of it. "Bad shit. Little kids."
"So lighten up," Flotsam said. "Don't you guys listen to the Oracle? This Job can be fun. Get happy."
Suddenly, Jetsam did his Bono impersonation, singing, "Two shots of happy, one shot of saaaaaad."
Benny Brewster peeled off his body armor and furiously crammed the vest into the locker, saying, "No shots of happy tonight, man. Just one shot of sad. Real sad."
Chapter THIRTEEN
EXCUSE ME, PLEASE, Andrea," Viktor Chernenko said late in the morning. There were only six detectives in the squad room, the rest being out in the field or in court or, in the case of Hollywood detectives, nonexistent due to the manpower shortage and budget constraints.
"Yes, Viktor?" Andi said, smiling over her coffee cup, fingers still on the computer keyboard.
"I think you are looking very lovely today, Andrea," Viktor said with his usual diffident smile. "I believe I recognize your most beautiful yellow sweater from the Bananas Republic, where my wife, Maria, shops."
"Yeah, I bought it there."
Then he walked back to his cubicle. This was the way with Viktor. He wanted something, but it might take him half a day to get around to asking. On the other hand, nobody ever paid her the compliments that Viktor did when he needed a woman detective for something or other.
Andi was glad to see that Brant Hinkle was still teamed with Viktor, and because of that she'd probably agree to do whatever Viktor got around to requesting. Ever since Brant had arrived, her belief in his possibilities kept increasing. She'd checked him out by now and found that he'd just turned fifty-three, had only been married and divorced once-a rarity among cops these days-had two adult married daughters, and based on his serial number, had about five more years on the Job than she had. In other words, he was a likely prospect. And she knew he was interested by the way he looked at her, but as yet he hadn't made a move.
Another twenty minutes passed and she was about to go out in the field and call on a couple of witnesses to a so-called attempted murder where a pimp/boyfriend slapped around a whore and fired two shots in her direction when she ran away. Without a doubt, the whore would have changed her mind by now or had it changed for her and all would be forgiven. But Andi needed to go through the motions just in case tomorrow night he murdered her.
"Andrea," Viktor said when he approached her desk the second time.
"Yes, Viktor."
"Will you be so kind to help Brant and me? We have a mission for a woman, and as you see, today you are the only woman here."
"How long will it take?"
"A few hours, and I would be honored to buy your lunch."
Andi glanced over at Brant Hinkle, who was talking on the phone, wearing little half-glasses as he wrote on a legal pad, and she said, "Okay, Viktor. My damaged hooker can wait."
Viktor drove east to Glendale with Andi beside him and Brant in the backseat. Viktor was very solicitous, apologizing because the air conditioner didn't work in their car.
"So okay," Andi said, "all I have to do is tail this Russian guy from his job at the auto parts store to wherever he eats lunch?"
Viktor said, "We have been told that he always walks to a fast-food place, but there are several that are close by."
Brant said, "Viktor's informant says this guy Lidorov is very tail conscious, but he probably won't be looking for a woman to be on him."
"That is all," Viktor said. "My informant is sometimes reliable, sometimes not."
"Your evidence for a DNA comparison isn't all that reliable either," she said, turning in her seat to look at Brant, who raised his eyebrows as if to say, Viktor is obsessive.
Viktor said, "Andrea, when I did my follow-up investigation and found the cigarette butt in that jewelry store far behind the cabinet, I know in my heart it was left there by the suspect."
"Even though the victim was too terrified to remember for sure if the guy left the butt or took it with him," Brant said doubtfully.
"It is an intestines feeling," Viktor said. "And this Russian in Glendale has two convictions for armed robbery of jewelry stores."
"I've heard you say you're not sure the man from the jewelry store two-eleven is even a Russian," Andi said.
Viktor said, "The accent that the store owner heard from the man was different from the woman's. But everybody is Russian Mafia to people in Hollywood. Actually, Glendale has a very big Armenian population. Many go to the Gulag, where my tip has come from. Criminals from all over former USSR go to the Gulag to drink and dine, including criminals from former Soviet Armenia. But for now, we have this Russian who was a jewel robber in his past life."
"This isn't much to go on," Andi said.
"We have nothing else," Viktor said. "Except I believe that a theft of mail from a certain mailbox on Gower is where the information about the diamonds was learned about. If only I could get a clue to the mail thief."
"We can't stake out every mailbox in the area, Viktor," Brant said.
"No, Brant, we cannot," Viktor said. "So that is why I would like to try this thing today. I know it is a far shot."
They parked on the next block, and Viktor diligently watched the front door of the auto parts store through binoculars while Andi turned in her seat to chat with Brant about how he liked Hollywood so far and where was he on the lieutenant's list.
Brant was surprised to learn that Andi had a son in the army serving in Afghanistan, and said, "Don't think I say this to all the ladies, but really, you don't look old enough."
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