by Todd Grimson
They took her back to the station in a police car, past television reporters at the crime scene, then more at the police station. The decision had been made at some level not to let go of Lisa; she was all they really had unless the catatonic guy started to talk. Watson Random was on his way to try to get her released, but meanwhile they booked her as a material witness, charged her with the theft of the .32 that Casablanca had shot himself with (though they didn’t ask her about this). They were fucking with her, trying to intimidate her … she had to pose for mug shots, she was fingerprinted, stripped, and subjected to an internal examination, she saw the matron putting on the latex glove and said, “This isn’t necessary, this is bullshit.” She was exhausted and naked, listening to them catalog her “tats.” They could do this with impunity, but it was just sadism, power—well sometimes the exercise of power arouses resistance. She’d been cooperative within what she saw as the realm of the possible. They asked her to pee in a container for a drug screen, and she remembered she’d taken the Joy Division a few days ago; obediently she put on the ugly blue one-piece county garment and the clear plastic slip-on jelly sandals, she was led into an interrogation room … no doubt the plan was to work on her when she was feeling as vulnerable as they could make her, and so they would pretend she was a suspect for a day or so while they dog-piled on her.
Lancaster and Gomez questioned her. They acted like she was a common criminal, a bad-check artist or a thief, some small-timer who’d gotten in over her head. Gomez asked when she had first met Boro. How had they been introduced? Lisa said it was through Lou. What were the circumstances? Lisa said she didn’t remember. When would this have been? She didn’t know.
Anita Gomez looked at Lisa as if she couldn’t comprehend her bad attitude, as though Lisa ought to like her and trust her because they were both women. Gomez had a nasally accented voice revealing mediocre intelligence, and she kept on asking boring questions, going back now to begin at the beginning, where Lisa had been born, how many in her family—this could go on for hours, Lisa realized, and build up until her innocent past became a large pressure to talk in similar detail about the parts she didn’t want to talk about. She could see it coming, maybe it was stupid to get openly hostile, but she was exhausted and grief-stricken, she hated them. She said, “I don’t want to talk about my childhood to you motherfuckers. I’m one of the victims in this, my boyfriend was killed, and you’re treating me like shit.”
“We’ve got a mass murder here, and it seems like you’re holding back, you’re being selective about what you choose to tell,” Lancaster said.
“No, I’m not,” Lisa said boldly, another lie. She clutched her Styrofoam cup of coffee, wishing it was still warm. She was frightened, but so used to being frightened she didn’t care—at some point they would have to let her sleep. That was all she wanted. Oblivion. Respite from physical grief and guilt and shame.
Lancaster shook his head in disgust. He muttered something, and tears stung Lisa’s eyes again. She had thought she was dry. Someone brought in a map of the grounds, with the bodies marked. They wanted her to describe the occasion of each one.
Jonathan: shot by Tavinho.
Christine: stabbed by Boro.
Wanda: shot by Tavinho.
Ariel Mendoza: she didn’t know.
Tavinho: probably the unknown person in Aztec garb.
What had happened to Boro? She didn’t know. He’d run away inside the house.
Who was the tall black guy? She didn’t know.
What was the real story on Duane Moyer? How had he died? She didn’t know.
Would she take a polygraph? No.
Whom had she killed? No one.
Were there other people there? Ones that the police didn’t know about? Maybe. It was dark inside. The only light was red, and a lot of the time she and Tavinho had been running.
What about Jonathan’s father, Lou? She had heard he went on a cruise.
PART 4
The ideal film, it seems to me, is when it’s
as though the projector were behind the
beholder’s eyes, and he throws onto the
screen that which he wants to see.
JOHN HUSTON
ONE
Publicitywise, it was almost as if Tomorrowland had come true. The case went from local television feeds to network news, and CNN was all over it from the start. A semicharacteristic, fairly flattering head-and-shoulders shot of Lisa Nova (taken in Berlin, at the film festival, by one of the freelancers who took photos of everyone, because you never know) accompanied most stories on the case, and usually, thanks to Watson Random’s energetic work as spin doctor, she was portrayed not too unfavorably—as, for instance, “the only survivor of the bizarre voodoo drug murders”—and the visuals shown during an update usually featured Watson Random prominently, tall and black with a booming baritone voice, not so much handsome as forceful-looking, with quite a stare, either next to Lisa or on the courthouse steps, cut from there to the yellow-tape-marked crime scene … each day for a while there was a new development, from the discovery of an undisclosed number of shrunken heads, to the press (not the police) breaking the story of Lisa’s arrest in Rio, somebody in Miami coming up with video of her in handcuffs, a sullen look on her face, arms exposed so it was the first time her tattoos were clearly revealed.
Much was made of possible romantic links to the dead boxer Miguel Casablanca, to Roy Hardway, and to Selwyn Popcorn— though the studio’s publicists were doing all they could do to downplay this last liaison, and the studio had acted immediately to help Popcorn get her out of his house (“She needed a place to stay, her apartment was destroyed; I just put her up for a couple of days”). Before Lisa was even out of jail, Robert Hand had spoken to Larry Planet and Popcorn, and Tami Spiegel had found a house to put her in. Popcorn was shortly to leave for New York anyway but he (even though he knew Lisa probably would never know of his role, the symbolics here were very bad—she’d think he was an asshole, disloyal, but there was so much money involved in Call It Love) insisted that she be situated in a nice house with a pool, rent-free for a few months. A payoff. A settlement. Raelyn was privy to just a bit of this, getting Selwyn’s side (he made her promise to convey to Lisa his love, whatever he meant by that), talking also to Larry Planet—for some amount of cover, the house, which was in Topanga Canyon, was put in Raelyn’s name. A double limo switch was needed to get Lisa temporarily free of the press, but this house had high walls around the grounds, and Tami Spiegel said that if security became a problem (she didn’t think it would) to let her know. Larry Planet said that if Tami Spiegel was any trouble, to call him instead.
The existence of the shrunken heads made for quite a sensation, the more so as they couldn’t be identified without skulls or teeth. Plus there was found (in separate locations) the head and body of a young blond woman, aged approximately nineteen. Nude. The tall black man in custody remained catatonic; the police ran his picture, hoping for an ID. They said that Balthasar d’Oro, aka “Boro,” the prime suspect, believed to be a Venezuelan (wherever they got this), was still at large. No photograph of him was yet known.
When it came out that Lou Greenwood, Lou Adolph, Lou Burke had never gone on his cruise, Watson Random (via CNN) asked why they hadn’t been looking for him from the start.
“My client was in a state of shock, but she told them what she could. Instead of acting immediately on this information, they delayed, browbeating Miss Nova, letting precious time expire while they grilled her on such things as an old relationship having nothing to do with this matter. If Mr. d’Oro has gotten out of the country, you may well ask yourself if it was because of this senseless delay”
Random was telegenic, and he liked to be on TV. Lisa had told him quite a lot of the truth. She needed to trust somebody, she needed somebody on her side. So Random knew that Lou and Roy Hard way were dead, and Boro too.
“You think they’re dead, you mean, right? It’s, like, hearsay. You haven’t
seen their bodies.”
“Yeah, I think they’re dead.”
“OK. There’s no reason to talk to the court about hearsay unless we’re really against the wall. I don’t see that happening either, unless there’s something new. How are you doing at your new house?”
“Oh, it’s nice.”
“How are you feeling? They sent Tavinho back to his parents today—are you OK about that? You know, I have two sons and a little girl, but three years ago we lost a boy to meningitis … I’m trying to say that grief is a natural, physical thing. Unfortunately, it’s part of life. If you start feeling it take over, say something to me. You’re under a lot of pressure now, people talking about you, making up somebody to fit their fantasies … it’s a lurid case.”
“I’ll be OK,” Lisa said. “It’s just weird seeing myself on TV every night.” She shifted her weight in the posh leather chair. That wasn’t really what she had wanted to say. She liked Watson Random’s office, and his staff, and Random had been extraordinarily thoughtful since she had become big news (and big bucks). That was all right. She understood.
TWO
There was a beat-up lemon tree and a dying palm outside her window, and tonight, her mind wandering before the news came on, Veronica, Lou’s widow, permitted herself to recall the Jacarandas that had been just outside her window at home, the violet blossoms and sweet smell … she had the VCR set to record The Real Story, which would join, on the tape, a basically nothing Nightline and a pretty sleazy Behind the Scenes, the latter emphasizing the possibilities of Lisa Nova’s sluttishness, her likely complicity in any evildoing. The producers had been moved to show the longest excerpt yet of Lisa’s Rio de Janeiro arrest tape and her part in The L.A. Ripper, freeze-framing just before she got a knife driven into her belly (the first of many wounds to come).
Veronica took a sip of diet Coke diluted by melted ice. Should she wait and take a pill nearer to bedtime, or take one now and chill? Why put off till tomorrow what you can do today?
The Real Story educationally showed stock footage of the Jivaro, in the Amazon, demonstrating how one went about shrinking a head.
Then they broadcast a clip of Dr. Nova accepting an award for the “Nova molecule, ” pointing out that he was now working in the Amazon—making this sound pretty sinister: “the scientist’s daughter …” Finally they showed a clip from Lisa’s first film, Girl, 10, Murders Boys.
Oh, but this was new. Lisa Nova’s former boyfriend, Code Parker, smiling, ring in his nose, peroxide hair blowing in the wind, saying, “She was always interested in the dark side of things. She likes to push things, to see how far she can go. What you might call ail-American kinkiness.” A big grin on his face.
Just at this moment, Veronica’s boyfriend, her former trainer, Steve Zen, came in through the front door, letting the screen door slam. He was lately a male stripper. Tonight he had had a party, a private gig. From the look on his face, it had gone very well. Veronica couldn’t remember if it had been all girls or all boys. His shirt was already unbuttoned; he stepped out of his Bermuda shorts. He’d toweled off, but there was still a fair amount of oil glistening on his shaven torso.
“I’m high as a motherfucker,” he announced. “Will you do me? I gotta come down. I’m skronked.”
“Sure,” Veronica said, taking a syringe out of the backgammon box. The cheap living room was really sort of an intense mess, if that’s what you wanted to see.
“Watch,” Veronica said, her own eyes never leaving the TV set, even as she began to melt the pill, “there she is.”
Footage of Lisa, head down, sunglasses on, ducking into a black limo, wearing black herself. The righteous announcer called her “the mysterious Lisa Nova,” and they showed her in slow motion, grainy color, sullen, jaguar tattoo right there in the Rio night. Then into a commercial for Susan Heller’s new film. Popcorn had directed that, Veronica knew. Call It Love. Then the screen filled with a tight shot of a woman’s wet, soapy belly her navel. Camay soap.
THREE
What was left of her life? Was it what she saw about herself on TV? Lisa couldn’t figure it out. She couldn’t concentrate. A couple times she thought of subjects she wanted to read about and sent Raelyn to
find books about them, and then she had a hard time reading, though she tried.
It was hot, and this place didn’t have air-conditioning, it had ceiling fans. The swimming pool wasn’t very big, but she supposed she couldn’t complain. Caz was scared of the ceiling fans at first, but he got used to them.
She felt bad about Tavinho. She would always love him. Every moment they’d spent together was holy, or she wanted that to be true. What had happened to Christine was more difficult to sort out. Christine had kind of done it to herself.
It was hard, moreover, for Lisa to believe that Boro was really dead. She supposed she had thought he was God. He had been God. Now everything was confused. Or rather, she didn’t understand anything. Not enough. The universe was in chaos.
She couldn’t get very excited about this pool. While Raelyn was gone, off renting videos or buying food, Lisa swam naked, but it just seemed like she was constantly doing her Olympic-style turns, beautifully, she liked her form, but she wanted a longer pool and a diving board. If she’d had a diving board, she might not have started thinking about, well, looking in mirrors.
Sadness was getting boring, no question. Sadness and hate. There were all kinds of people who deserved vengeance from her, but she’d sworn off that, she wouldn’t even think about it, she tried not to think about them, and if accidentally she did, she tried on some level to wish them long and happy lives. Or the fate of being eaten by sharks. What the fuck.
She needed some equipment. Some 35 mm color raw stock, a Panavision camera (which could be rented), a crystal-sync Nagra, batteries, one-quarter-inch Scotch recording tape, three mags, a 35 mm Steenbeck console with a digital frame counter, and a guillotine splicer, some splicing tape, etcetera … Raelyn had said she liked to edit, that was what she did best. Lisa didn’t tell her exactly what she had in mind. She had an experiment planned.
They ate some Indian food, masala and saffron rice and hot strange pickles, thick sweet bread with yogurt in it (Lisa guessed) called naan, and watched some films, including Jackie Chan’s Hong Kong martial arts action movies Armour of God and Project A.
The movies were funny, and Lisa and Raelyn were entertained.
FOUR
Dave Bluestone drove by a sign that said Reality Wrecking, past old men walking slowly in Panama hats in front of buildings that were fuchsia, turquoise, and lime green. There was an elaborate message in an unfamiliar alphabet, newly printed, black on white, perhaps in Tamil, or Azerbaijani. Everyone came to L.A. People from hot climates liked it better than New York, and people from cold climates imagined that they would like to finally be warm. He and Phil Lancaster got out, stretched a bit, walked up to the entrance of the sprawling house. They didn’t have enough information to really put the squeeze on. Maybe next time.
Bluestone knew the city as an infrastructure of freeways: He was always highly aware of exactly where he was, of how far he would ultimately have to drive to get home. He went from dry to green, from poor neighborhoods to security-patrolled areas of unbelievable wealth. If he thought about the sociology of it at all, it was mostly in order to tease his partner, Profit Brown, who thought about it a lot. Profit (whose gravity of manner discouraged flippant remarks about his first name, though many criminals and criminal associates were irrepressible) had originally thought he was going to be a sociologist, and then a high-school sociology teacher, and although he’d ended up a cop, he still occasionally talked about going back to get a teaching certificate and leaving the force. He’d say that he would rather reduce people to socioeconomic statistics than constantly, every time, meet them at their worst. He’d say “I don’t want to get jaded and see the whole world as potential perps … or victims who actively aid and abet their own fate.” It was their running joke
that while Bluestone was irredeemably cynical and thought the worst of everyone he met, almost always to be proven right, the funny thing was that it was Profit Brown who tended, in his personal judgments, to be the more severe. He’d decide somebody was bad and that was it, he just wouldn’t like the person, and some of the time this would show. Usually it didn’t matter, but sometimes it wasn’t a good tactic … still, he didn’t always make up his mind right off the bat.
In the present case. Brown had early on lost faith in any possibility for Lisa Nova’s redemption; in his eyes she was an evil, lying bitch, and he and Bluestone had recognized that Brown would be more effective dealing with other suspects or peripheral characters in the case. Like Mannix, who told him some surprising things. Brown also interviewed Casablanca’s mother, and Hollywood figures who would give him time because he was serious, and black. He talked to Robert Hand and Tami Spiegel and Jules Brandenberg about why and how Lisa had been fired, and he and Bluestone caught Selwyn Popcorn before the director got out of town.
It wasn’t that Bluestone thought Lisa Nova was innocent—clearly she wasn’t that. But if someone murdered her now, or if evidence came up to put her in Tehachapi for however many years, Profit Brown would feel gratified in a way, proven right about her, while Bluestone would in some small way be saddened that it always turned out like this. She might be self-destructive, but she was also full of life.
Detectives Phil Lancaster and Anita Gomez were busy trying to coordinate the technical aspects, to nail down the scene. Boro’s house was completely trashed; in an area of such high property values it was kind of amazing, this disrespect for real estate … the whole structure would probably have to be torn down. How had Boro been able to rent such a place? Well, it had been through a company that was a paper subsidiary of something owned by Lauren Devoto, and Alvin Sender’s name was on the lease.