Exposure

by Alan Russell

  She didn’t respond.

  “I’m asking you a question, Lanie.”

  She sighed, made the briefest eye contact, then shook her head.

  “Did you hear about the explosion at the coroner’s office?”

  “Someone planted a bomb. That’s really all I know.”

  “It was big news.”

  “I was preoccupied at the time.”

  “Domingo’s body no longer exists. It was vaporized.”

  “I wondered . . .” she said, then stopped talking for a moment to consider her words before continuing, “about that.”

  “Wondered why the police hadn’t come to arrest you?”

  No nod, but that was clearly her answer.

  “The body of a man named Frank Kurtz was stuffed with Semtex, a plastic explosive. Kurtz was a huge man. His body was taken into the coroner’s office just a few hours after Domingo’s was. The detonation wiped out better than half a floor. It was a major explosion. The miracle is that it didn’t kill any of the living. But it did a hell of a job on the dead.

  “The three cold storage rooms that housed the dead were obliterated. I’m not talking about the structure being blown into chunks and pieces. The explosion went way beyond that. Walls and windows disappeared. Flesh and blood and bone were liquefied. What the bomb didn’t erase, the fire did.

  “There have been a lot of theories put forth on the bombing. More than a dozen individuals have purportedly called to claim responsibility. The explosion has been linked to everyone from the Klan to the Mexican Mafia. Frank Kurtz had a history of dealing drugs. Some believe that his being made into a human bomb was a warning to the DEA. Kurtz was also a biker. Some think the Hells Angels used his death to strike out at the government’s crackdown against them. And, of course, there is no shortage of people with axes to grind against the coroner’s office that might have used a bomb to strike back at them. Those are among the more rational theories. There are a few websites devoted solely to the bombing. If you want to see paranoia taken to the extreme, you ought to check them out.

  “But nowhere among all the theories is the explanation for what I think happened: Frank Kurtz was murdered not because he dealt drugs, or was in the Hells Angels, or was a member of the Aryan Brotherhood, but because he was a big, big man who could be stuffed with a lot of plastic explosive. And the bombing had nothing to do with terrorism. It was not an Oklahoma City or Twin Towers type of statement. What occurred was overkill in every sense of the word. The dead do tell tales. The forensic team working the LA coroner’s office is among the world’s best. Someone didn’t want the dead to talk.”

  Graham had thought Lanie would be excited by what he had to say, but by appearance she remained impassive.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying, Lanie? There were over fifty bodies in the cold storage rooms. After the bombing, they were mostly gone. There was no Domingo Avila, and no corpus delicti.”

  Graham turned his head from the road and tried to take a read of her eyes. Tired eyes looked back at him, eyes that didn’t reflect any hope, eyes that still only saw the tunnel.

  “Someone,” he said, “some group, didn’t want Domingo Avila to be autopsied.”

  She finally spoke. “If you are hoping for some kind of admission, you’re not going to get it.”

  “What I’m hoping is that you see this goes far beyond you and the accident. Why else would anyone go to these lengths to manufacture such a gruesome bomb?”

  “I will deny everything.”

  For a moment, Graham couldn’t understand what she was saying. Then he realized she was once again being protective.

  “You think your Mossad did the bombing, don’t you?”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  “Tunnel vision, Lanie. You only see Domingo’s death and nothing else. He dominates your perspective. But let me throw out some ‘what-ifs’ to you.

  “What if the brothers aren’t Mossad agents at all? What if you were being used to get close to the real target, the man who will likely be our next president?”

  Her defenses were up. She kept shaking her head, not buying any of it.

  “What if,” Graham said, “you didn’t kill Domingo Avila?”

  She continued to shake her head. Even in the darkness, Graham could see the wetness of her eyes.

  “I went to the scene of the accident, Lanie, and I think I figured out how they did it. Domingo came at you right as you were emerging out of the tunnel, didn’t he? It was the same tunnel where Warren Beatty’s character in Heaven Can Wait had a car come at him while he was riding a bicycle. Maybe that’s what gave them the idea. I am sure you didn’t have time to react. I suspect you didn’t see Domingo, and suddenly he was there. But what if he was pushed? Or more likely, what if he was already dead? An autopsy would have shown that. An autopsy might have revealed that he died in a very different manner than being hit by an automobile. An autopsy could have shown that death occurred much earlier that night.

  “Behind the tunnel, there’s the creek. Someone could have brought Domingo’s body and bicycle up that way. And just outside the tunnel there’s a perfect spot to wait. They probably had a transmitter on your car. They might have even subtly suggested you get a rental for privacy. And there they waited, knowing you and your passenger would be coming along. The tunnel’s not that large. They would have rolled Domingo and his bicycle out just before you passed.

  “I can even take all this beyond a what-if. The night he died, the last time Domingo’s friends saw him on his bicycle was around nine o’clock. That was almost four hours before you supposedly hit him. And there were no witnesses that came forward to say they saw Domingo riding up Malibu Canyon Road that night.”

  It wasn’t conclusive. The police investigation, brief as it was, revealed that Domingo was known to ride his bicycle at odd hours, and that he was one for wooing the senoritas, no matter how far the ride or how late the night. But Graham didn’t tell that to Lanie.

  He couldn’t, not with the way she was suddenly sobbing for joy.

  Later, in her bed, she whispered to him, “When I was younger, I used to have this terrible nightmare that I murdered someone. I can remember waking up two or three times from that nightmare, and being absolutely distraught. I think my victims were people I was angry at, and my subconscious was letting me vent my feelings. It was always so real to me. I would always awaken in tears and despair at the thought of what I had done. I can’t tell you the feeling of indescribable relief that came over me when I realized it was all a dream, and that I hadn’t killed anyone.”

  Graham knew that was Lanie’s way of telling him that she now had some hope that she hadn’t done that “terrible thing.” They had talked little since her cry in the car, but it was clear that Lanie was rethinking all that had occurred.

  “You told me they were blackmailing you,” she said. “If I was set up, isn’t it possible that you were set up as well?”

  “No,” said Graham. “I only have myself to blame for what happened.”

  There was no one to lift his nightmare from him. He responded without inflection, but what she heard made her draw closer to him.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For saving my life.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She was warm in his arms. They hadn’t made love. Each was content just to hold the other.

  Graham asked, “When you took your pills, did you have a near-death experience? See a white light? Anything like that?”

  Lanie shook her head. “At one point I had this feeling of drifting off, though. You’ll never guess what brought me back.”

  “What?”

  “The thought of TMZ profiling me ad nauseam. I didn’t want my life to end on that kind of a note.”

  “First saved by a paparazzo, and then save
d by tabloid TV.”

  She laughed. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Their fingers came together and intertwined. “You would have given her a ride to the gas station,” Lanie said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When Gwyneth Paltrow ran out of gas, the paparazzi took shots of her walking to the service station. I know you would have given her a ride.”

  “No,” said Graham. “Would you want a picture of a star in a car, or a picture of a star holding a gas can? The human element is her running out of gas.”

  Graham looked at Lanie. “I would have given you a ride, though.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Both of them slept deeply and well, something neither had done in too long a time. Chin propped on hand, Graham watched Lanie get ready.

  “I was hoping you would keep sleeping,” she said.

  “This is better than sleep.”

  “I thought you were jaded.”

  “I am. But I’m not blind.”

  There was a bounce to her step, and her inimitable eyes gleamed. Her long neck was once again held straight and high, her carriage defying gravity. Graham hoped he was right in his belief that she hadn’t caused Domingo’s death. He was setting her up for a very hard fall if he was wrong.

  Lanie came over and sat on the bed. “I wish I could linger.”

  “So do I. But I need to get an early start as well.”

  She didn’t have to ask him what he was working on. “Do you have any idea who’s behind all this?”

  “No, but I’m going to find out.”

  “Be careful.”

  “They’re the ones who should be afraid. I’m one of the dreaded paparazzi, remember? We’re supposed to be worse than marauding Huns, Visigoths, Mongols, or Vandals. Knowing what I am should put fear in the heart of my enemies.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “Neither am I,” he said, with more than a little steel in his declaration.

  She leaned forward, kissed him on his nose, then on his lips. He couldn’t tell if she was kissing like a friend, or a lover. Either way, he didn’t mind it.

  “My driver’s waiting,” she said.

  “Star treatment.”

  “I usually drive myself. But on long shooting days, the studio sends a limo. I think it’s their way of keeping me captive from start to finish.”

  “You ever feel like Cinderella being taken in her carriage to the royal ball?”

  “Yes. But most of the time I feel like Cinderella hearing the clock tower chime midnight, and knowing my carriage is about to turn into a pumpkin.”

  “Have I told you that my car’s pumpkin-proof? Most people don’t spring for that option, but I did.”

  “That’s very reassuring. Will you and your squash-free vehicle be available tonight?”

  “Just call.”

  “There’s just something about a man in uniform,” Graham said, whistling.

  “Fuck you.”

  Ran, aka Roy, was dressed in his maintenance blues. He got into the car and dropped the memory card into Graham’s waiting hands.

  “Did I tell you what your payback’s gonna be for all this?” Ran asked.

  “I’ve been afraid to ask.”

  “You like a man in uniform? That’s good. My friend Dave, the one who manages that security company, is throwing us a great gig. Next week you and me are going to be rent-a-cops at an exclusive party.”

  “I’ve told you before, I don’t do well in polyester.”

  “Poor boy. We’ll be part of this team of about twenty rent-a-cops, and get this, our assignment’s going to be to keep people like us well away from the talent. They’re going to put the foxes in charge of the henhouse.”

  “You’re not serious, are you?”

  Ran nodded. “The best thing is, we’ll be double-dipping. We’ll be getting paid for the guard shift, four hours work at twenty bucks an hour, while doing our own work. By the way, I got dibs on your boutonniere camera. Maybe you should use that necktie jobbie you got. Anyway, here’s the deal: I get half the money from any pictures you sell that night. The rent-a-cop money will be all yours.”

  As a rule, Graham didn’t do that kind of work, and Ran knew it. Occasionally Graham resorted to a disguise, but usually he chose to get his shots in other ways. Ran actually liked going in character, and couldn’t understand Graham’s reluctance to do the same. When they sniped at one another, Ran liked to paint him as being a snob.

  “You really don’t even need me, do you?” asked Graham. “The only reason you want me at that function is to demean me.”

  Ran couldn’t hide his smile. “I’ll probably take as many photos of you in your guard outfit,” he said, “as I will of Angelina Jolie’s lips and Jessica Fox’s backside.”

  Both of the men waited for the photos to download. It was a long shot, Graham knew, but he needed to bring Smith and his confederates out in the open.

  With Ran looking over his shoulder, Graham started to scroll through the camera trap shots. Ran hadn’t been kidding about Rex’s posing for the camera. There were half a dozen pictures of the dog in action. But there were also pictures that interested him. Two of the shots taken from the front of Graham’s apartment showed the same man in profile approaching his door. The man was wearing a hat, tinted glasses, and a bulky sweatshirt: clothing that would make it difficult for anyone to get a good look at him. Graham had never seen him before.

  “Is that a scar on his face,” asked Ran, “or is the image just grainy?”

  Graham touched the screen, running his finger along the man’s face. “Scar,” he said. “You can see it in both pictures.”

  He scrolled to the next block of pictures. The garage exit sign camera had captured a number of his neighbors passing by. It had also caught Scar.

  “What’s he doing in that shot?” Ran asked.

  The man was leaning down for something, that much was clear. In the other shot, he was looking away from the apartment. Graham studied the two pictures and tried to figure out the sequence.

  “He’s picking up a rock,” Graham said.

  “Looks more like he’s tying his shoe.”

  “That’s what he would have wanted any onlooker to think, in the unlikely event he had any witnesses. The shot we’re missing between the two pictures would have shown him throwing the rock at my bedroom window.”

  Ran shook his head. “I don’t see it.”

  “Then look again. You can see that a few seconds passed between the photos. In the second shot he’s already tossed the stone. He would have done it casually. Someone watching him might not even have noticed.”

  “You got a good imagination,” said Ran. “If he tossed that rock, what’s he doing looking away from where he supposedly threw it?”

  “More misdirection for any onlookers.” Pointing, Graham said, “Look at the window in the first image. Then check it out in the second.”

  Ran examined the photos closely. He almost needed a magnifying glass to see. In each of the shots, the bedroom window was in the background, something easy to overlook. “Son of a bitch.”

  In the first shot the window was intact; in the second, it was broken.

  “He moved outside of infrared beam range,” Graham said, “and there he would have gauged the response to his rock throwing.”

  Ran was still looking at the two pictures. “Dammit. In all the photos, this guy seems to be at an angle or looking down. The camera never got a good bead on him.”

  Graham scrolled through the pictures. Toward the end, he was rewarded. There was a picture of Scar walking along the pathway out back. He still managed to have his head averted downward, but it was the best of all the shots.

  The light had penetrated the dark barrier of Scar’s glasses. His eyes were clearly visible.
They stared out from his sockets, unblinking and unrelenting. It was probably just a by-product of the image, but Graham had this feeling that death was staring at him.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Curson Avenue was blocked off because of some filming going on. It was a common event in LA, with studios appropriating neighborhoods for their productions, but it put Graham that much more on edge. He was able to make his way over to Wilshire, and thought about Lanie when he saw the Museum Square building, home of the Screen Actors Guild.

  Driving along Wilshire, he saw buildings that were regularly featured on television shows and movies. For Angelenos, suspending reality was sometimes difficult when your own turf was always up on the screen.

  The area he was navigating was part of the so-called Miracle Mile, a name coined by one of its developers. The mile part was about right, the approximate distance one traveled when going along Wilshire between Highland and Fairfax. As for the miracle, no shrines had been built on its path, unless you wanted to count the nearby CBS Studios, or some of the production companies housed in buildings along Wilshire.

  Ran had wanted to know why Graham picked La Brea Tar Pits for his meeting with Smith. “It’s the right place,” he had told him, “to draw in the dire wolves.”

  Ran had looked at him as if he were crazy.

  The tar pits were one of Graham’s favorite visiting places. His familiarity with the Museum Row area, and Rancho La Brea and the George C. Page Museum in particular, had made the spot an obvious choice for the meeting place. If LA was New Age, the tar pits were Ice Age. On display were remains of animals that roamed the Los Angeles Basin in the last ice age between ten thousand and forty thousand years ago. Over two hundred tons of fossil bones had been removed from the tar pits. The most common remains were those of dire wolves; almost four thousand had been excavated. The wolves were drawn in by their entrapped prey, and they themselves became victims.

  Now it was Graham’s turn to play lamb to the wolf.

  Even from half a block away, he could smell the methane from the tar pits. Some of the buildings in the area still had methane detectors. The 1985 Fairfax fire had alerted many to the dangers of the methane permeating the soil. Fueled by the underground gas, a large area of sidewalk on Fairfax Avenue had burst into flames. The methane still surfaced along the Miracle Mile, sometimes quite dramatically. An olive tree had recently exploded into flames when a lit cigarette was thrown into its hollow trunk.