“I’m with you there.”
“Did surveillance ever pick up Hector again?” I asked.
“No”
“Those losers!”
“Take it easy.”
“Too many are already doing that, it’s crowded with take it easy.”
“Come off the ‘tude, will ya? Let’s put it together.”
“Okay, the missing girls are all beautiful, spirited girls. They’re all, um, eighteen years old, same age as Autumn Riley. They’re successful, popular, you know. They’re not bookworms or members of the chess club, they’re social creatures, trendy, uh, confident—adventurous, even. They’re not runaways, but their parents’ pride and joy. They’re all sexy…”
“What? What is it?” Gus asked.
“What day is this?
“It’s Thursday, Joan.”
“Thursday is under-twenty-one night at De Sade’s Cage. I just talked to Kunda. She said The Barb and Dewey were going to be at De Sade’s Cage tonight and that something big was going down.”
Gus was quiet as it sunk in.
“How does she know this?”
What do you mean, how does she know? She says she’s psychic; I’m comin’ with,” I said.
“Okay, then. What time?”
“Early, eight. You know most kids that age have to go to school in the morning.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“Thanks, Gus.”
“Just doing my job.”
I hung up and Eddy gave me a serious look. “It’s about to break?” he asked.
“One can only pray.”
“I’d say you do a lot more than that.”
Just then, the mail truck on my computer announced an arrival. I pulled up my browser and printed out the email from Rose. The photo of the jewelry was a perfect match to the descriptions in the files as well as my own memory.
My cell phone chirped. It was Anthony Sauri, surveillance.
“We got an update on Hector in Malibu Canyon. A sheriff’s helicopter spotted an SUV with the license number you gave us. Could be foul play.”
“What do you mean, foul play? Is he alive?”
“We’ve got a body down in the ravine. Might be Hector. Can’t tell if he’s dead or alive, but he’s looking pretty bad from here.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I called Gus back and told him to meet me. I drove up the winding Malibu Canyon road. Huge boulders of sandstone and blue sky betrayed the tone of my journey. I got there in time to see a fire department helicopter pulling a harnessed fireman and Hector in a rescue litter up from the precipitous cliffs of the green canyon.
I recognized upon sight that Hector had been brutalized by more than his fall into the ravine. There was a pattern of blue-black-and-purple chevron welts across his face, one arm hung separated from the shoulder, and it was clear that his right shin had a compound fracture. He was still alive when they released him from the cables and put him on the gurney. I went to his side. His smaller eye was swollen shut and blood dripped out both nostrils. Gus arrived just then and came over toward us.
“Hector, it’s me, Joan Lambert.”
“Joan.”
“Right. Joan. Hector, please. Where are the girls? Where’s Tommy? Where’s the missing boy?”
“Puma. Puma. Basura.”
“He’s speaking Spanish. What’s puma basura mean?” I asked Gus.
“Basura? Dirt. It means dirt. Puma? That’s a type of mountain lion.”
“Puma. Basura,” repeated Hector. “Joan.”
Hector reached out to me and he clutched my arm.
His Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle tattoo was blood-streaked.
“Lo siento,” he said, and his head dropped to the side.
He went unconscious after that and the paramedics took him away.
“He’s sorry,” said Gus.
“Well, goddammit, he oughta be,” I said, and a thousand tears welled up in me. A thousand tears for Hector, for every child he sold on the streets of Hollywood, for all runaways, for all the missing children, for abused children living in their own homes.
“I don’t think he’s gonna make it,” said Gus.
Gus walked over to Hector’s SUV parked dangerously close to the precipice. It looked like it could fall any moment into the deep cavernous canyon. I followed Gus over to the car. It was big, black, and ominous looking. On the shoulder of the road was a tire iron. Gus bent down to inspect it. It matched the chevron marks on Hector’s face exactly. Just as I stepped toward Gus and the tire iron, I tripped on a rock and pitched forward. I was about to fall off the cliff when it was as if someone very strong grabbed me under my left arm, right below the shoulder, and saved me from going over the cliff. You know how an adult grabs a kid sometimes? Gus turned toward me with alarm and looked incredulous.
“Whoa nelly, you okay there? I thought we were gonna lose you just then.”
“Yeah, I kinda had a misstep there.” I looked around for my angel but saw none.
“Is it too optimistic to believe there might be fingerprints on the tire iron?” I asked trying to change the subject.
“You never know, in the heat of a moment, people sometimes lose their sense,” said Gus, giving me a strange look.
“He was lured here so his body could be dumped,” I said.
“Yes, but why leave the SUV sitting out here like a big sign?”
“Sloppy, maybe. Mafia used to dump bodies here. Once, an old rusted limo wasn’t discovered here until decades after the crime.”
Gus pulled out a cigarette, lit it. “So then the question is, why would The Barb do this to his own guy?”
“Who knows? Maybe it has something to do with Autumn Riley. Every damn thing seems to center around her.”
“Hector was involved somehow with The Barb and Autumn Riley, he let you know that when he gave Autumn your doll, plus we know he supplied the Tylers,” said Gus.
“But he was getting out of that according to Mary.”
“So maybe The Barb got word about the Tyler case breaking and he knew Hector was their supplier?”
“The Barb would not have liked that,” I said.
“I guess not. Hector’s connection to the Tylers wouldn’t be such good PR. It could ruin The Barb’s new champagne career as Autumn’s manager.”
“What’s puma basura mean, Gus?”
“Hell, I wish I knew. Puma is mountain lion and basura is dirt.”
I stared at the SUV, not really seeing anything. And then I noticed the sticker. I moved closer to get a better look at it.
“What is it?” asked Gus.
It was a sticker for Topanga emergency access for this year.
“Only residents got these special stickers so they can be identified for access to their homes whenever there is a flood or fire,” I said as a statement.
“That’s right. Topanga, sanctuary for the rugged individualists and artists. Now, doctors and lawyers are populating the area. Guess no place is safe anymore.”
“There’s forest areas in Topanga still. It’s considered remote from Los Angeles and it’s not far from here, maybe about ten minutes.”
“Hector’s plates came up with an address in Echo Park,” said Gus, “but he wasn’t living there anymore.”
We raced over mountain passages to the Topanga Town Council, which was essentially a log cabin set back in the woods next to a creek. An elderly woman answered the door. I recognized her. She was a respected character actress. She had long, curly white hair pulled back into a braid down to her waist and a twinkle to her blue eyes. She smiled easily and greeted us warmly. When I asked her for the address of Hector Cardona, an applicant for the Topanga emergency access sticker, her mouth formed into an “o” and her eyes went to the creek.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you. This year the creek was jammed up by debris and it rose all the way to my storage shed. All the files were destroyed. It was a terrible mess and…I don’t have those records this year.”
“I sure don’t. We organized a cleanup and the whole community came out to clear the creek so it won’t happen again. Try me next year.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
WE DROVE ACROSS TOWN to De Sade’s Cage. The sun was setting and it warmed the back of my neck. I hardly noticed the traffic because the words “puma basura” kept repeating in my mind. Mountain lion dirt? Mountain lion grounds? I knew the land in Topanga and Malibu were considered to be sacred territory by the Chumash, an indigenous Native American tribe. Perhaps the girls and Tommy were being held in a cave in the mountains somewhere. We arrived at De Sade’s Cage a few minutes before eight and entered.
The music coming out of the speakers was a horrible clash of electro-tech noise and shouts. The place was filling up quickly. Androgynous young men and women in overt sexual display crowded in, bringing an adolescent nervous energy with them. We sat at the bar and the bartender, the same guy I had questioned the night we arrested The Barb and Dewey, did a double take when he saw me. I walked over to him and I knew he had something for me. I only hoped I’d be able to hear what he had to say over the music.
“Hey, how are you?” he shouted.
“Great,” I lied. People should know better than to ever ask how I am. “I see you’re still here.” He shrugged. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“The girl you were asking about last time? She’s performing here tonight.”
“Autumn Riley?”
“She goes by Zombita now.”
“Right, I heard that.”
Gus and I looked at each other. I searched the room and a rising concern, a near hysteria, colored my perception of each and every young girl. Which one would be the next one on the list to be abducted, and for what purpose?
I went to the ladies’ room several times in hopes of spotting Zombita backstage, but no luck. I bought cigarettes at the bar and went out back to have a smoke, thinking I might see her drive up.
A crowd of kids strolled in. I finished my cigarette and smashed the butt out with the heel of my boot. I was about to go back into the club when an all-terrain military vehicle that had been transformed into a limousine with tinted windows pulled into the parking lot. It was huge. I decided to have another smoke. The limo parked. Its tires were caked with dirt and the back had mud splattered across it.
The limo driver popped out in a tux and he opened the door. Next, skinny black-jeaned legs came out of the limo, topped by a silver jacket and bleach-blond hair. The Barb. The limo driver and The Barb turned to a woman who disembarked from the military vehicle. She moved slowly and was dressed in a low-cut black body stocking. Her body looked bony, like she had lost some weight, but it was Autumn Riley all right, aka: Zombita. She had pieces of chiffon-like gray-and-silver material tied around her arms and barbed wire wound around her waist, ankles, and wrists. Chills went up and down my body. A visceral desire to pull my gun, lunge forward, and rescue her from her captors rose up in me. I had to keep reminding myself that this was a career move for her. Autumn’s face was painted white and gray with black circles drawn around her eyes. I was reminded of the moon goddess mask I’d seen in her bungalow. Her hair was woven into elaborate sexy dreadlocks in which several rags of silvery-gray material were tied. The Barb took her by the arm and led her toward the club entrance. She was clutching my Raggedy Ann doll.
One of the under-twenty-ones approached Zombita as she made her way into the club. The young girl looked like she was stoned; she stumbled a bit and blocked their entrance.
“Oh, hey,” she said.
“Look out, will ya?” said The Barb.
“You’re Zombita, right?” the girl asked.
“Yeah, she’s Zombita,” said The Barb.
“I hear your show is really incredible!” exclaimed the girl as she stumbled backward into the entrance, truly blocking them.
Autumn merely stood there with a vacant stare on her face. I couldn’t tell if it was from drugs or part of her act. “You ‘eard right, missy, and if you let us through, you might even get to see it,” The Barb insisted. “We need to get by you, now.”
“Oh, ahm sorry,” she said and stood aside.
Autumn didn’t pay the slightest attention to the exchange, just held onto that implacable stare out to the middle of nowhere. Once the girl was out of the way, Autumn dutifully entered the dark club, The Barb still clutching her arm.
I went out to the Humvee stretch and approached the driver. He was leaning on the hood, smoking a cigarette. He filled out his tux nicely, had peppered hair, and his skin appeared too perfect, like maybe he had on makeup.
“Hi,” I said. “Aren’t you an actor or something?”
“Oh, I used to be when I was younger and had time for that sort of thing.”
“What did I see you in?” I asked.
“Maybe some equity waiver theater. I don’t know. I did a few commercials, that’s probably it.”
“What’s your name?”
“Larry Duvane.”
“You always drive for Zombita?”
“Nah, this is the first time.”
He dropped the cigarette, ground it out with his nice leather shoe, and shot me an uncomfortable look.
“Look, you better move on,” he said. “These people asked me not to talk to anybody, you know.”
I pulled out my badge and flashed him the silver and gold. He looked disappointed, hurt even.
“Where did you pick her up?” I asked. “It’s important that you tell me quickly.”
“Some weird place out in Topanga, far out and off the beaten path if you know what I mean. My worksheet didn’t have an address and the road wasn’t even paved. Doubt they have running water out there. Didn’t see no phone lines or nothin’. Coyotes, saw a couple of those.”
“Larry, could I have your work order, please?” I knew that limo drivers wrote up each job, listing names, phone numbers, exact times, etc. He reluctantly reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the white sheet and handed it to me. The worksheet didn’t have an address, just as Larry had said, but it did have a small printed map to the location.
“Open her up, will you?”
Larry opened the door of the limo and I had a look-see. The interior of the limousine was gray leather and featured an elaborate custom-made wet bar with cut crystal and several decanters. There were gray-and-black velvet pillows perfectly placed and a television that was playing music videos.
“They left the television on,” I said.
“They requested it stay on the whole time.”
“Why?”
“Zombita’s first music video is going to be featured on Hot Rock Stars tonight. They’re gonna come out and check every so often.”
“It’s a big night for them. A limo, Hot Rock Stars deals and everything.”
“Big night.”
“Don’t mention that I asked you these questions, okay? It’s a delicate situation we have here.”
“One thing,” Larry added. “Is that girl all right? Is she in danger?”
“I can’t discuss it with you, Larry. Sorry. I’m keeping this map, you don’t need it do you?”
“You can have it, there’s another copy at the office.”
I left Larry with a perplexed look on his face and walked back to the club. Inside, Gus was nowhere to be found. I had a seat and tried to figure where he’d gone off to. I took a good long look at the map, intending to commit it to memory.
At that moment, Glenn Addams made his entrance sans entourage. He scanned the room then sat at a table in the corner, alone. Gus approached from the back of the club. When he sat down, I gestured over to Addams and I watched as it registered with Gus.
“What’s Addams doing here?” asked Gus.
“Maybe he’s gonna catch a rising star. Where’ve you been?”
“I was listening to Jesse Cand interview Zombita.”
“And?”
“Autumn Riley is dead, Zombita l
ives and she’s a hot rock star.”
“That’ll make a nice headline,” I said.
“Right. Wonder what PR genius thought that up.”
“Gus, I got a question for you.”
“Shoot,” he said.
“What kind of road do you have, if it’s not paved?”
“Dirt.”
I pointed at the map.
Gus squinted trying to see, then read out loud, “Piuma Heights.” Then he nodded seriously, taking in every detail.
“Piuma Heights is a dirt road,” I said. “Basura.”
“What is that?” asked Gus.
“It’s a map I got from Zombita’s limo driver.”
The crowd shouted and hooted. The band came out on stage, women in black tights, black turtlenecks, and white painted faces, The Ghouls. Their music had a reggae-blues sound to it.
After a few tunes, Zombita appeared on stage in the midst of a smoke bomb. She walked stiff-legged through the smoke, arms straight out in front of her, like some bride of Frankenstein. The crowd screamed, hooted, and hollered. Zombita suddenly looked wild-eyed at the audience like a frightened animal, then approached the microphone as if she were hunting it. When she was on the mike, she opened her mouth as though to eat it but instead she sang, her voice low and sultry, her body a sinewy snake. The sound of her voice was a jeweled evening mist. Silver ripples of her sparkly bodysuit caught the stage lights and momentarily blinded the audience.
Autumn must have worked hard in preparation for this performance. It explained the Marlene Dietrich DVD that we had found at the crime scene. Autumn’s act was a direct rip-off with a modern edge to it. She was a natural performer and quite good. Her songs were nearly all original, sexy and sometimes angry, violent. The range of her voice was awesome in its power and ability. Under different circumstances, I might have enjoyed the show.
A thought too horrible to contemplate had entered my consciousness. There it was in front of me and it chilled me to my core. My mind clicked with the images of the voodoo doll next to the jewelry on her dresser and the menstrual blood of nine young women. They had to have still been alive in order to create the voodoo doll. I thought of the Autumn her parents knew and that Eddy had found so charming. Was this Autumn, this Zombita, somebody else’s work or her own? What was she? How much did Autumn, now a real-life zombie, believe in these things she seemed to have embraced? I thought of Dani and her gruesome death and the Tylers and their unholy activities. I went back in my mind to the first time I heard Autumn Riley’s name. Such a strong name, a good family name. I recalled the chimerical quality of her bungalow on the beach and the sleeping beauty within, how I had held her hand in a distressing empathy. And now, I had before me a puzzle too horrible to contemplate that, if completed, would reveal a repulsive portrait of who and what Zombita was.
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