Body on the Backlot

by Eva Monteleagre

  He pointed to the chalkboard menu on the wall. Under dessert it read, HEART ATTACK CAKE.

  “It’s dusted with chocolate powder and laced with Kahlua,” he explained.

  His eyes grew large and happy with anticipation. I thought of the pin-wheeling spiral eyes of the mask in Autumn’s bungalow. The hypnotic gaze bounced around in my mind. Who had worn the mask? What was its purpose? How had it ended up in Venice, looking down on the body of Autumn Riley? I recalled Kunda’s explanation of the Goddess Epona being an expression of the life cycle, including death. “Gus, that mask this morning, the moon goddess. Do you know what it signifies?”

  “The mask? It’s a mask of harvest. One part of a ritualistic dance that celebrates the cycles of the moon and the seasons. Regeneration, rebirth, that sort of thing. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Do you want a piece of this heart attack cake or not?”

  “I think I’ll pass,” I said.

  Gus called the waitress and I took the time to look around. When we came in, the place wasn’t so busy, but now it was packed to the rafters as it was a Wednesday and payday. It’s a narrow room with baseball pennants and an old-fashioned jukebox in the corner. The bar had a full load of officers, detectives, firemen, 911 operators, court reporters, and others of the public service ilk. Gus got his heart attack cake and devoured it with a glass of milk.

  Yet another of the incessant reports on the cop scandal came on the bar TV and the barmaid turned up the sound. The cops in Harry’s bar were of every age, race, and class. The television showed a picture of one of the accused cops who had turned stooge in return for immunity. The reporter said the bad cop had finally been given a release date. The bar was a roar of boos and curses. After the newscast was finished, the barmaid turned the sound down and everyone was silent.

  The door to the dark bar opened and sunlight filled the room. All you could really make out at the door was a pair of thick thighs. For a moment, it was as if the woman straddled the sun. More womanly shadows gathered at the entrance then came to life as they strolled in the door. Four cop groupies in full living color looked around with desperate, hungry eyes. I was embarrassed for them only because I heard how the guys talked about them. The four women looked like they belonged together. They ranged from thirties to forties, each dressed in their version of the uniform: short skirts, tight pants, and plunging necklines.

  The one who came in first yelled out, “Has anybody seen Joe?”

  Several cops yelled back. “I got what you need,” and “Here, I am, honey,” then, “Over here! I got your Joe.”

  At Harry’s Bar, a single mother can at least be sure that the guy they pick up has got a job. They can only hope he’ll be a decent role model for their kids. ‘Course, some of the groupies just want to get laid and there were cops aplenty with hot hands.

  A DJ appeared from some back room. He shouted and revved up the tunes, The Funkadelics, I think. It was right on time and a welcomed change of energy if incongruous. At least it took everyone’s attention off the scandal.

  I had been following the scandal, myself, because of my own work history on the force. I had managed to avoid a lot of trouble by taking a leave of absence under the guidance of my shrink, Dr. Mercuri. I came out okay.

  Maybe there were some that considered me a risk. Not my captain. Not Gus. They were in my corner. In my world, that’s a lot. Now, if only I could convince myself. The barmaid had stopped in front of Gus.

  “What’s your poison, tonight?” Gus asked me.

  “A Cosmopolitan,” I said to the barmaid.

  She went to work on the drinks, pouring them with plenty of the good stuff right before our eyes.

  “Why would they be so stupid as to leave wineglasses if they’re in on it?” I asked Gus. “They gotta know their fingerprints are on those glasses.”

  “Fine,” Gus said, “whoever drank the wine with her is probably innocent. Unless, they fucked up. Maybe they’re not a drinker and the wine got to them and they screwed up on that one detail.”

  “You’re dreaming.”

  “Let me dream. But…I’ll bet money it’s the producer’s prints on the wine glasses and his semen on the sheets.”

  “Sure, he already stated that he made a run to get some before he left town.”

  “Don’t be crude, Joan.”

  “Hey, I’m not the one who’s crude. I guess he wanted to be all nice and relaxed before his big money deal.”

  The barmaid placed our poison and quickly moved off. We clinked glasses and drank.

  “It’s important to be cool and calm when you’re talking high investment,” said Gus.

  “Oh, yeah? You know about that?”

  “I’ve lived a life, Joan. I’ve lived a life.”

  “That’s more than Autumn Riley can say.” I swallowed my Cosmopolitan; it went down easy.

  “No need to get all worked up. We don’t even know she’s been murdered yet.”

  “Well, her body is gone. Something’s definitely wrong. She was ambitious, beautiful, had big plans for herself,” I said. “Unless she walks in and orders a drink, I’m callin’ a foul.”

  “Maybe it’s a necrophiliac.”

  “That stole the body?” I asked.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “They’d have to move fast. How quick do those necros fall in love?”

  “At first sight, so I hear.”

  “Jesus, Gus. I never lost a body before.”

  The barmaid strolled by like she couldn’t hear what we were saying and I wondered how many different conversations like this she’d listened to as nursemaid to the cops. I waved to get her attention.

  “Keep it coming,” I said.

  She poured me another quick one. Gus eyed me, apparently judgmental about how fast I’d downed my first drink. I glanced away from him, not wanting to meet his gaze.

  I saw my ex, Carl, enter with Debbie, the rather spectacularly beautiful Korean woman who worked in Missings. Carl spotted me immediately, of course, but I turned away, pointedly giving him my back, and I hoped he’d take the hint. Cop relationships have been known to get way out of hand. Guns, sex, and working the bad streets of LA make for crazy. More than a few cop love affairs have ended in murder and mayhem. That might be one reason why it’s discouraged.

  I was going to say something to Gus about Carl and how ‘bout we get outta there but, just then, the prettiest of the cop groupies slinked up on the other side of Gus. She was blond and buxom, in the standard plunging neckline, short skirt, and high heels, not exactly his type but then, she wasn’t aware of that.

  “Hey,” she said. “Don’t I know you?”

  As Gus swung on the barstool, turning his whole body toward the pretty female, his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and handed it off to me, not missing a beat. I saw him acknowledge Carl with a nod, then focus in on his newest fan.

  “Homicide, Special Section,” I said.

  “Gus?”

  “No, this is Joan.” My voice is low but not that low.

  “Oh, this is Rose Torres, crime lab. I got some info.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “On the voodoo doll: we found nine different types of fingernails in a pouch with nine strips of fabric soaked with menstrual blood, types: A, B, AB, and O. That means the blood could possibly be from nine different people. We’re still running other tests.”

  “And those red fibers?” I asked.

  “They most commonly exist in cheap red carpeting, one often used to decorate cut-rate motels. There were no red fibers on the vic’s shoes or any of her other belongings.”

  “Thanks, Rose. Anything else?”

  “We got the prints on the wineglasses. One set belongs to the victim. The other set has no match yet.”

  “Okay, and how ‘bout those hairs?”

  “Well, we found more black hair in the living room and it matched the hair in the bathroom.”

  “Okay, good. Kee
p us posted.”

  “Will do.”

  I said goodbye and pressed the button on the phone. Gus had politely gotten rid of the hot babe.

  “Whadda we got?” asked Gus. He was a bloodhound on a trail.

  “We got one bona fide voodoo doll, fingernails from nine different women, you can probably ditto that on nine strips of cloth soaked in menstrual blood. We got more black hairs in the living room. The red fibers are from a no-tell motel, and Autumn Riley wasn’t the one who dragged them in.”

  “Well, all right.”

  Beyond Gus, I saw Carl making his way toward us, leaving Debbie behind in a booth. She didn’t look pleased. Did he really think I was going to chat with him and Gus like old times?

  “Gus, give me the keys, I’m going out the back. Carl’s coming this way. Head him off, will ya? Tell him to go back and sit with his date. It’s disrespectful for him to leave her and…”

  “I got it, Joan. You don’t have to write me a memo.”

  Gus handed me the keys. Before I ducked out the back door, I shot a discouraging glance toward Carl who was squeezing his big belly through the crowd.

  I was sitting in the car, resting my eyes, as my grandma would say, when Carl knocked on the window and slid his big tummy in beside me.

  “I can’t miss you if you won’t go away.”

  “Are you going to call me?”

  “Not if you keep harassing me, no.”

  “I just want to talk.”

  I looked into his big brown eyes. “And I just don’t. You see the problem?”

  “Not really. I don’t understand what happened. What happened?”

  “Sometimes you have to give up the life you have to get the life that’s waiting for you.”

  “Sounds like guru talk to me.”

  “You lost me, Carl. You did all the things that I despise. I know you’re a good guy. I know you didn’t mean it. But I just lost that lovin’ feeling, okay? And I can’t get it back for you.”

  “Just give me a chance.”

  He reached over to me and put his hand on my cheek and softly squeezed my earlobe. I could hardly breathe. I felt like I was suffocating.

  “Carl, you see the way you’re touching me now? I know you mean it to be loving but it doesn’t feel like that to me. It feels like you’re trying to control me.”

  He took his hand away.

  “I don’t want you to touch me, to…claim me. When you do that…something curls up inside me and I get…very…angry.”

  “But, why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because I need space and you’re not giving me any. What do I have to do to be free of you? You’re really tempting me to put a restraining order on you. I feel like I need to get it on record somewhere that I don’t want your attention.”

  “Look, you’re free. You don’t have to leave town, put a restraining order on me, or any of that crap. I’ll give you your space. Just promise that if you need anything. Anything at all. You’ll call me. I’m here for you.”

  “Oh yeah? You’re there for me? And what about Debbie? Poor girl is sitting in her booth all alone. Don’t leave her there abandoned for too long, somebody else will snatch her up.”

  “Debbie will wait.”

  “You should respect that.”

  “I do. I respect her. I respect all women.”

  I gave him the most bored look I could muster.

  “Call me. You promised me you would.” He started to get out of the car.

  “Okay, but don’t hold your breath.”

  He stopped and settled back into the seat. “Such a tough bitch. You think I buy that for one second?”

  “You should. You know why? Because Carl, if you don’t get out of this car and go back to your booth, I’m going to shoot you and claim it was self-defense.”

  He got out of the car and walked back into the restaurant without another word. A couple minutes later, Gus slid into the car.

  “How ya doin?”

  “Not great. Thought you were gonna run defense for me.”

  “Yeah, well I was guarding for basketball and he was playing football.”

  I snorted.

  “Maybe you should give him a chance.”

  “Did he ask you to say that?”

  “Okay, yes, of course he did.”

  “He had his chance.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  GUS AND I ENTERED Caroline Johnson Management at six thirty that evening. We were putting in overtime. The firm represented actors and models and was on the second floor of a brick building located on the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Palms. It offered a plush gray carpet, soft lighting, and engaging contemporary artwork displayed on white walls. Voices murmured from behind the cubicles but no one came forward. I stopped at the entrance, not quite sure what the procedure is at a management company. There was no receptionist to greet us, just those gray cubicles with the voices. “She told me to come straight back to her office,” said Gus.

  I noticed an incredibly good-looking man in one of the cubicles as Gus and I walked by. He could have been an actor or a model himself. He gave me an insinuating look and I blushed. I picked up my pace and didn’t look into any more cubicles.

  Caroline Johnson was on the phone and put her hand up for us to wait while she finished her phone call. She wrapped it up quickly and motioned for us to come in and sit down in front of her desk. She was a trim woman in her fifties with brown chic-cut hair and a hip jersey knit ensemble of colorful triangles. We introduced ourselves and Ms. Johnson’s back straightened. She seemed to get larger before our eyes.

  “It’s horrible. Horrible. How could such a thing happen?” She took a big sip from a huge takeout cup of coffee.

  “That’s exactly what we want to know, and we’re hoping you’ll be able to help,” said Gus.

  “Autumn sent me a few photos and I thought they were good. I called her in for an interview, but I hadn’t even signed her yet, so I don’t have much to say.”

  Ms. Johnson used her hands to punctuate her intensity. She wore heavy gold triangular earrings. Her wedding ring finger sported a thick gold band with yet another gold triangle.

  “I just can’t imagine Autumn being prey to a bad element. She didn’t seem the type.”

  “What type is that?” I asked.

  Ms. Johnson bounced her pencil on its eraser a few times then answered, “Well, you know, some girls are more prone to abusive situations. Autumn Riley wasn’t one of those, I’m sure. She was different from the rest I’ll tell you that. I could have done something with her.”

  “Like what?”

  “Quite a few of our people are multitalented, and that Autumn was one of them. I’ve been developing the right connections to nurture the careers of people like Autumn. She had star quality. She could sing, she could act, and she could dance. That’s what we call a triple threat.”

  “Was Autumn referred to you?” asked Gus.

  “Yes. It was one of our other clients, Dani, who told Autumn to send her photos to us. They were close chums.”

  Ms. Johnson’s heel bounced on the carpet. She was like a teenager with too much energy. Maybe she had overdosed on the caffeine.

  “Can we speak to her?” I asked.

  “Dani? We had to let her go.”

  “Why?” asked Gus.

  “She had a drug problem and she slept with everyone. I think she must be a sex addict or something.”

  “Is that usually a problem, if a model sleeps around?” I asked.

  “Well, no.”

  Ms. Johnson drummed her fingers on the phone as if to will it to ring, then said, “But, I’m telling you, Dani fucked everything that walked; she was trash. Though you’re right, that’s not really why we let her go. She was unreliable, and once she showed up at a photo shoot with a black eye and welts across her back. I think she was into some sick stuff.”

  “Do you have an address?” I asked.

  “It’s no good. She moved. Didn’t pay her rent.”
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  “What kind of drugs did Dani use?” I asked.

  “Everything and anything, from what I understand.”

  “Do you have a picture of her?”

  “Not anymore. That Dani was a loser, she doesn’t work for us, and I won’t ever take her back, so I pitched her glossies. I kept hoping Autumn might walk back in here, so I kept her photos and very impressive resume. She was an opera singer, you know.” I nodded numbly.

  “Yes, I wanted to represent that Autumn. She was driven, had a point to prove to her parents.”

  “What’s that?” asked Gus.

  “I overheard Autumn say as much to Dani,” Ms. Johnson answered, “‘I have to be successful,’ she said. ‘I have to show my mom and dad that I can do it.’ It’s a damn shame she’s dead, because that little girl was going to go somewhere and I would have been pleased to take her there.”

  Her phone rang, finally responding to her drumming fingers.

  “I have to get back,” she said, picking up the phone.

  •••

  BACK IN THE CAR, we sped through a progressively upscale neighborhood on our way to the photographer’s studio where Autumn Riley got her glam shots done. The sun was setting with hues of purple, orange, and red as I considered Caroline Johnson. We continued to sail down the winding river of cars, beautiful people and billboard signs on Sunset Boulevard. This part of Hollywood was more than appropriate to the thoughts I was meandering through. Often, the spots a person haunts in life reveal the nature of their murder. Without fail, a murder victim always has a life story that reveals a trail to their demise. Sunset Boulevard, its big money and bigger stakes, make it a dangerous place. The photos and resumes of beautiful and talented women were filed in the trash more than not. And then what? Where did these young women go with their disillusionment? Agents were like a crucial valve in the heart of entertainment. I looked out the car window to see that Taylor Swift was competing with Beyoncé, big-time.

  All the images, in fact, were bigger than life, big as skyscrapers in some cases. Once we snagged the address of the photo studio, we lucked out on a parking spot and docked.

  Evan Shore Photography was a gorgeously lit studio, utilitarian simple with large-scale prints of men and women in photos everywhere. The receptionist, an Asian girl with big pouty lips, was dressed in a pink leather miniskirt, a tiny purple T-shirt, and spacey-looking moon shoes on her feet. She flipped through her files, looking up at us ever so often. I guess, just in case we did something she didn’t think was right. “She got her pictures done here, true.”