Hollywood Station (2006)

by Wambaugh, Joseph - Hollywood Station 01

  Farley thought the cops were going to prolong this for as long as possible, but the younger cop ran up to the other one and said, "Kidnapping in progress, Omar's Lounge on Ivar! Let's go, Nate!"

  When Farley and Olive and Little Bart were left standing there outside Pablo's Tacos, Farley said to Little Bart, "Those cops saved your fucking life."

  Bart said, "Dude, you need some help. You're way out there. Way, way out there." And he ran to his car and drove off.

  Olive said, "Farley, let's go home now and -"

  "Olive," he said, "if you say you'll make me a delicious cheese sandwich, I swear I'll knock your fucking tooth out."

  Hollywood detectives had been forced to investigate a number of date rapes, called acquaintance rapes by the police. It was usually "I woke up naked with somebody I didn't know. I was drugged."

  The cases were never prosecuted. Evidentiary requirements necessitated an immediate urine test, but the date rape drugs metabolized in four to six hours. It was always too late for the special analysis that had to be done outside the LAPD crime lab, which did only basic drug screening of controlled substances. In fact, as defense lawyers argued, too much booze produced much the same effect as a date rape drug.

  The date rape cases were reported to Hollywood Station by persons of both genders, but only once was there a criminal filing by the district attorney's office. The victim had vomited shortly after the encounter, and the drug was able to be recovered and identified.

  Six-X-Seventy-six was the unit to receive the code 3 call to Omar's Lounge but Budgie and Fausto were beaten to the call by Wesley Drubb and Hollywood Nate, followed closely by Benny Brewster and B. M. Driscoll, complaining of motion sickness caused by Benny's fast driving.

  The first units to arrive gave way to Budgie and Fausto, since they were assigned the call, and Budgie entered the nightclub to interview the victim. Even though Fausto was the report writer on this night and Budgie was driver, she took over with the report because the victim was a woman.

  When they were being escorted to a private office inside the nightclub, Fausto whispered to her, "This joint gets sold to somebody new just about every time they change the tablecloths. It's impossible to keep track of who the owner is, but you can bet your ass it's a Russian."

  Sara Butler was sitting in the office being tended to by a cocktail waitress who wore a starched white shirt, black bow tie and black pants. The waitress was a natural blonde and pretty, but the kidnap victim, who was about Budgie's age, was both prettier and unnaturally more blond. The straps on her black dress were held together with safety pins, and her pantyhose was in shreds around her ankles. Her knees were scraped and bleeding, as were both her palms. Mascara and eye liner were smeared all over her cheeks, and she was wearing most of her lipstick on her chin. She was angry and she was drunk.

  The cocktail waitress was applying ice in a napkin to the victim's right knee when the cops walked in. A faux fur coat was draped across the chair behind the young woman.

  Budgie sat down and said, "Tell us what happened."

  "I was kidnapped by four Iranians," Sara Butler said.

  "When?" Budgie asked.

  "About an hour ago," Sara Butler said.

  Budgie looked at Fausto, who nodded and went out to broadcast a code 4, meaning sufficient help at the scene, since the suspects were long gone.

  "What did you say when you called it in?" Budgie asked. "We were under the impression that it had just occurred."

  "I don't know what I said, I was so upset."

  "Okay," Budgie said. "From the beginning, please."

  After she'd given all of the contact information for the report, and after listing her occupation as actress, Sara Butler said, "I was supposed to meet my girlfriend here but she called me on my cell and said her husband came home from a trip unexpectedly. And I thought I might as well have a drink since I was here."

  "You had more than one?"

  "I don't know how many I had."

  "Go on."

  "I got talking to some guy at the bar and he started buying me martinis. I didn't have that many."

  Worrying about the liquor license, the cocktail waitress looked at Budgie and said, "We wouldn't serve anyone who's drunk."

  "Continue, please," Budgie said to Sara Butler.

  "So pretty soon I started feeling weird. Dizzy in a weird way. I think the guy slipped me a date rape drug but I didn't drink enough of it to knock me cold."

  "How many martinis did you drink?"

  "No more than four. Or possibly five."

  "That could knock a hippo cold," Budgie said. "Go on."

  "The guy who bought me the martinis offered to drive me home. Said he had a black Mercedes sedan and a driver parked right in front. Said he'd be in the car. I said okay and went to the ladies' room to freshen up."

  "Weren't you worried about the date rape drug?" Budgie asked.

  "Not then. I only thought about it after the kidnapping."

  "Okay, continue."

  "Then I left the club, and there was a long black car at the curb and I went to the back door which was open and got in. And goddamn! There were four drunken Iranians in the car and one of them closed the door and they took off with me, just laughing their asses off. And I realized that it was a limo and I was in the wrong car and I yelled at them to stop and let me out."

  "How did you know they were Iranians?"

  "I go to acting class with two Iranians and they're always jabbering in Farsi. I know Iranians, believe me. Or Persians, as they prefer to call themselves when they live in a free country, the bastards."

  "Okay, and then?"

  "They were groping me and kissing me and I scratched one on the face and he told the driver to stop and they pushed me out of the car right onto the street and I ran back here. I want them arrested and prosecuted for kidnapping."

  "Kidnapping might be very hard to allege in this case," Budgie said, "but let's get the report finished and see what the detectives think."

  "I don't care what the detectives think," Sara Butler said. "I've done half their job for them already."

  And with that she produced a tissue that was carefully folded, and said, "These are fingernail scrapings from the Iranian's face. And my coat there can be examined for latent fingerprints."

  "We can't get fingerprints from fur," Budgie said.

  "Officer, don't tell me what you can't do," Sara Butler said. "My father's a lawyer and I won't have my report swept under the rug by your detectives. The dirt from my dress will identify where I was lying in the gutter in case someone says I wasn't pushed from the car. And those fingernail scrapings will positively identify one of my assailants after a DNA analysis." She paused and said, "And Channel Seven is on the way."

  "Here?"

  "Yes, I called them. So I suggest you take this case very seriously."

  "Tell me, Ms. Butler," Budgie said. "Do you watch CSI?"

  "All the time," Sara Butler said. "And I know that some cheap lawyer for the Iranians might say I got into the car by design and not by accident, but I have that covered as well."

  "I'm sure you do," Budgie said.

  "The man who bought me the martinis can testify that he had a car waiting for me, and that will prove I just made a mistake and got into the wrong car."

  "And I suppose you have the man's name and how we can contact him?"

  "His name is Andrei. He's a Russian gentleman who said he worked as manager at the Gulag in east Hollywood. And he gave me a business card from there. I think you should check on him and see if he's ever been accused of doctoring a girl's drink either at his nightclub or elsewhere. I still think I was affected too suddenly by the martinis."

  "Anything else you'd like to add?" Budgie said, intending to get the hell out before a news team arrived.

  "Only that I intend to have my father call the Gulag or go to the nightclub in person if necessary to make sure someone from the police department properly investigates my crime report. Now, if you'll
excuse me, I've got to get myself together for Channel Seven."

  When Budgie got back outside, Fausto, who had stepped into the office during part of the interview, said, "Would you call that a righteous felony or an example of first-stage alcoholism and a slight PMS issue?"

  "For once, you sexist old bastard," Budgie said, "I think you got it right."

  Dmitri would have been even angrier, if that were possible, had he known that Andrei, his night manager, had been out on his night off trying to pick up a woman who subsequently got herself involved with the police. Dmitri did not want the police at his place of business ever, not for any reason. But this night he had cops all over the place, including Andi McCrea, who'd been called in from home by the night-watch detective Compassionate Charlie Gilford.

  When Charlie told Andi that he was having trouble reaching other members of the homicide unit, two of whom were sick with the flu that was going around, she suggested he try one of the detectives from Robbery, and gave him Brant Hinkle's cell number.

  Charlie rang up Brant Hinkle and told him there was a murder at the Gulag and asked if he'd be willing to help out Andi. Brant said he thought he could manage and that he'd be there ASAP.

  Then Brant closed his cell and looked over at Andi, naked in bed beside him, and said, "That is a very dirty trick."

  She kissed him, jumped out of bed, and said, "You'd rather investigate a homicide with me than lie here alone all night, wouldn't you?"

  "I guess I would at that," Brant said. "Is that what you would call a commitment?"

  Andi said, "When two cops are committed, the definition is similar to the one meaning residents of an asylum. Let's go to work."

  There had been a large private party in the VIP section on the upper level of the Gulag, an area roped off and guarded by a bouncer. Dmitri had assigned two waitresses for the party and wished he'd scheduled three when the party grew much larger than had been expected. Soon the sofas along the walls and every chair was occupied in layers, young women sitting on the laps of any guy who would permit it. Everyone else was standing three deep by a railing, watching the mass of dancers writhing in the pit down below on ground level.

  They were foreign students from a technical college attending this gathering put together by a party promoter who dealt with various Hollywood nightclubs. Most at the soir,e were Arabs, some were Indians, a few were Pakistanis. And there were two uninvited guests from south L. A. who were members of the Crips gang, out for a night in Hollywood, one of whom claimed to be a cousin of the promoter.

  Dmitri had installed a video camera on the patio outside, where customers could go for a smoke, and it was there on the patio that the crime occurred. One of the young Arabs, a twenty-two-year-old student, didn't like something that the taller of the two Crips said to his girlfriend, and a fight started. The taller Crip, who wore a raspberry-colored fedora over a head rag, got knocked down by the Arab with some help from his friends. While several people were separating the combatants, the shorter of the two Crips, the quiet one, walked behind the Arab, reached around, and stabbed him in the belly.

  Then both Crips ran from the patio and out through the nightclub's front door as people screamed and an ambulance was called. The young Arab lay thrashing and bled out, displaying no signs of life even before the RA and the first black-and-whites arrived. Still, he was taken straight to Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital while a paramedic worked on him futilely.

  It was B. M. Driscoll and Benny Brewster who sealed off the area and kept as many actual eyewitnesses in place as they could, but the nightclub had started emptying fast after word got out about the stabbing. When Andi McCrea and Brant Hinkle arrived (in separate cars so as to stay discreet), Benny Brewster and B. M. Driscoll were writing down information from half a dozen of the Arabs and two of their American girlfriends, who were crying.

  Benny Brewster briefed Andi by pointing out the party promoter, Maurice Wooley, a very worried black man who was sitting at the far end of the now-empty bar drinking a tall glass of Jack. He was plump, in his midfifties and wearing a conservative, double-breasted gray suit. He was also bleary-eyed from the booze.

  Benny said to him, "Mr. Wooley, this is Detective McCrea. Tell her about the homie that did the stabbing."

  "I really don't know much about him," the promoter said to Andi. "He's jist somebody from Jordan Downs, where I grew up, is all. I don't live down there no more."

  "I understand he's your cousin," Andi said.

  "A much younger cousin to my play cousin," the promoter said quickly. "I don't know his real name."

  Benny Brewster abruptly changed tack, glared at him, and said, "So what's your cousin to your play cousin's street name? Whadda you call him?"

  The promoter's jowls waddled slightly and he said, "Doobie D. That's all I ever did call him, Doobie D. I swear on my momma's grave."

  Benny scowled and said, "Maybe your momma has room for one more in there."

  Andi said, "What's his phone number?"

  "I dunno," the promoter said, twisting his zircon ring nervously, glancing every few seconds at the tall black cop, who looked about ready to grab him by the throat.

  Andi said, "This officer tells me you invited him here as your guest tonight."

  "That's 'cause I run into him on the street when I went to visit my momma. He said he wanna go to one of them Hollywood parties I promote. And me, I'm a fool. I say, okay, when I get one, I'm gonna let you know. So I get this job and I let him know and I comp him in here as my guest. With one of his crew. And look at the grief I get."

  "If you don't have his number, how did you reach him?"

  "I jist have his e-mail address," the promoter said, handing Andi his cell phone. "His cell company is one of them that you can e-mail or phone."

  When they were finished at the Gulag and ready to go, Andi was approached by a man with an obvious hairpiece and a peculiar smile. He extended his hand to both detectives and said, "I am Dmitri Zotkin, proprietor of the Gulag. I am sick to my heart from the terrible think that has een-wolved my club tonight. I shall be of service if you need any-think. Any-think at all."

  He gave them his card and bowed slightly.

  "We may have some questions for you tomorrow," Andi said.

  "On the back of the card is my cell number," he said. "Anytime you wish to call Dmitri. Please, I shall be at your service."

  After getting back to the station, Andi Googled Doobie D's Internet provider from the text message. Then she left a phone message with the provider, requesting that the customer's name and phone number be pulled up, with the assurance that a search warrant would be faxed to them in the morning before the provider faxed the account information to her.

  Andi said to Brant, "We'll write a three-page search warrant and run it over to the Hollywood court tomorrow. Have you ever done it?"

  "I'm real rusty," he said.

  "The provider will triangulate from the cell site towers. If we're real lucky and Doobie D uses his phone, the provider will call us every hour or so to tell us where he is. It's like a GPS on the cell phone. If he disposes of the cell, we're outta luck."

  "Are we gonna finally get home to get the rest of our night's sleep, do you think?"

  Looking at those green eyes of his, she said, "Is that all you're thinking about, sleep?"

  "It's one of the things I'm thinking about," he said.

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  THE ORACLE SHOWED up at roll call that Thursday evening with a detective whom most of them had seen around the station and a few of the older cops knew by name.

  The Oracle said, "Okay, listen up. This is Detective Chernenko. He has a few things to say to you, and it's important."

  Viktor stood before them in his usual rumpled suit with food stains on the lapels and said, "Good evening to you. I am investigating the jewelry store two-eleven where your Officer Takara was so very brave. And I also have very much interest in the two-eleven of three days ago at the ATM where the guard was killed. I am think
ing that the same two people did both of them and now everybody agrees with me.

  "What I wish is that you watch out for anybody who might be stealing from a mailbox. It is a crime very typical of addicts, so you might watch for tweakers who are hanging around the blue mailboxes on the corners of the streets. Especially in the area of Gower south of Hollywood Boulevard. If you find a suspect, look for a device like string and tape that they use to fish in a mailbox. If you find nothing, please write a good FI on the suspect and leave it for me at end-of-watch. Any question?"

  Wesley Drubb turned and glanced at Hollywood Nate, who looked sheepish, obviously thinking what Wesley was thinking.

  Fausto Gamboa, the old man of the midwatch, said, "Why Gower south of the boulevard, Viktor? Can you share it with us?"

  "Yes, it is no big secret, Fausto," Viktor said. "It is a very small clue. I believe that information about the jewels was learned from a letter stolen from a mailbox there on Gower."

  Wesley Drubb looked at Hollywood Nate again but couldn't wait to see if Nate was going to admit that they might have lost a lead several days ago. Wesley raised his hand.

  The Oracle said, "Yeah, Drubb. Got a question?"

  Wesley said, "Last week we got a call about two homeless guys fighting on Hollywood Boulevard. One of them said that a couple weeks before, he saw a guy and a woman stealing mail from a blue mailbox a few blocks south of Hollywood Boulevard on Gower."

  That didn't elicit too much excitement in itself but Viktor was mildly interested and said, "Did he provide more details than that?"

  Looking at Nate again. "Yes, he did. He said the guy was driving an old blue Pinto. And his partner was a woman. And he heard the woman call him Freddy or Morley."

  "Thank you, Officer," Viktor said. "I will check recent FIs for the name of Freddy and the name of Morley, but of course that will not be easy."

  The Oracle saw Wesley glance at Hollywood Nate again, and he said to Wesley, "I think you're not through, Drubb. Was there something more?"

  "Yes, Sarge," Wesley said. "The homeless guy had a card with the mail thief's license number written on it."