Bloodthirsty

by Marshall Karp

  “Come on, man. You cracked the Lamaar murders. You sold your story to the movies. You’re celebrity cops.”

  Celebrity cops. I could see Terry’s body language change as the magical words danced around in his brain. He cocked his head and smiled. He went from bored cop to bemused superstar. His pen rested on a blank page in his notebook. I was sure he was going to ask the garbageman, “Who do I make this one out to?” Instead he said, “What makes you think we’re celebrity cops?”

  “I read all about you guys in the trades.”

  Terry was enjoying this. “Garbagemen have trades?”

  Hairston laughed. He was enjoying it too. Ortiz, on the other hand, looked like he was personally constipated by the tons of waste that were backing up on his watch.

  “My wife is an actress,” Hairston said. “She’s on a soap, General Hospital. I read the article in The Hollywood Reporter. Halsey Bates bought your story.”

  “Yeah, Halsey’s a great guy,” Terry said. “We had dinner with him last night. First we caught the opening of his new movie, I.C.U. They’re hoping it opens at fifty million. I’m thinking sixty.”

  The movie business is filled with assholes. Terry has the potential to be their king.

  Hairston’s pupils were starting to dilate and his mouth was half open. He had a new idol. And Terry had a new audience.

  “Gentlemen,” I said. “I hate to interrupt, but we have a corpse and a truckload of garbage, both of which are festering in the heat.” I gave Hairston my card. “Otis, if you think of anything, call us. We’re at the Hollywood station on Wilcox.”

  “One more question,” Hairston said. “Are you guys shooting your movie yet?”

  “We’re in pre-production,” Terry said. “Mike and I both have producer credits. Right, partner?”

  “Right. I can’t wait to see my name on the screen.” We had been in the movie business for a minute and a half and already we were lying to the public.

  “So you’re still casting,” Hairston said, more excited about meeting a live Hollywood producer than finding a dead one. “Let me get you my wife’s headshot and résumé. Her name is Melissa Little. I’m sure you’ve seen her on TV.”

  He started for the truck. In LA, even the garbageman has a spec script or his wife’s headshot available at all times. Then he stopped and turned back to us. “But you haven’t shot anything yet, right? Nothing’s in the can.”

  Terry looked back at the big black can that contained the rigid remains of the late Barry Gerber. Then he turned back to me to make sure I caught the euphoric grin plastered across his ugly mug.

  “No, Otis,” he said. “Nothing’s in the can. Nothing we can use anyway.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  When people have a problem, they call the cops. When they have a problem with the cops, they call the fire department.

  “What now?” Terry said when we heard the sirens.

  Two fire engines and a chief’s car made their way up the hill and then had to stop. El Contento had become a sprawling parking lot.

  Terry and I were a few hundred feet away, but I could see that the men in the trucks were dressed for battle—bunker coats, helmets, full turnout gear. Then the guy on the passenger side of the chief’s car got out. He had on his dress blues, a white shirt, tie, and one of those little conductor’s caps with a badge on it that gleamed in the sun.

  In his right hand he had a bullhorn, which he lifted to his face.

  “Asshole alert,” Terry said.

  The bullhorn crackled, then spoke. “Who’s running this show?”

  “Don’t look at me, Lomax,” Terry said. “I’m just here working off my community service.”

  I’m a Detective II, so I have a grade on Terry. I headed toward the chief’s car. He looked like he had more of an attitude than an emergency, so I walked. I don’t know how many TV cameras were on the scene, but I’d bet they were all pointed my way and rolling.

  As I got closer he put his bullhorn on the ground and yelled out, “I knew some dumb white boy cop had to be in charge. If it isn’t Mike Fucking Lomax.”

  He took off his cap.

  “George Fucking Fong,” I said. “I knew this had to be a dumb Chinese fire drill, but I didn’t realize they were going to send an actual dumb Chinaman.”

  We shook hands, and I took a deep breath and let it out. If this was going to be an interdepartmental pissing contest, at least I was dealing with someone I knew, respected, and had pissed with before.

  “Don’t tell me there’s a fire up there,” I said.

  “Not yet,” he said. “But if there is, those people would be toast. You’re blocking our way up and you’re blocking their way out.”

  “George, I got a dead celebrity in a garbage can. He’s the one blocking the street. Why can’t you just detour around him?”

  “Obviously they don’t send homicide cops to traffic school. This part of El Contento snakes around in a circle. There’s only one road in and out and you’re blocking it. People are trapped. A few of them called. They’d like to get down the hill to buy booze and rent dirty movies or whatever these rich folks who live in the Hills do on a Monday morning. But LAPD created a bottleneck. Technically I’d have to call it a fire hazard.”

  “So they called the fire department? Jesus, if people want to get out, why the hell didn’t they just ask us to move some of these cars?”

  “They did ask one of your cops but apparently he got a little nasty.”

  “Ed Sauer,” I said. “He’s trying hard to make us look bad.”

  “It’s working. And it looks like you’ll be looking bad on the five o’clock news.” He pointed at the media vans. “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera.”

  “Fong you, George. I got a high-profile murder to solve. You know what ‘high-profile’ means when you’re a homicide detective?”

  “Same as it means in the FD. Brass. Brass looking over your shoulder, brass breathing down your neck, brass up your ass.”

  “And the first thing LAPD does to show how competent we are is to create a fire hazard. Did you have to bring two engines to tell me to move a few parked cars?”

  “I would have come up here alone, but one of the callers said he may have smelled smoke. I figure it’s bullshit, but I read in a fortune cookie once that where there’s smoke, there’s fire, so bring hoses and big red trucks. Now, if you can get your boys to move these vehicles, I can go back to the firehouse and watch Regis and Kelly till the bell rings again.”

  He bent down and picked up his bullhorn. “You want to try this? All the movie cops use one.”

  “No thanks. Good to see you again, George. As long as we’re on TV, why don’t you shake my hand and pretend you like me. That way I won’t look like a total idiot, and it’ll be good for inter-departmental public relations.”

  He gave me a warm handshake and a pat on the back. “I do like you, Mike. Right about now, I just wouldn’t want to be you.”

  Right about now I didn’t want to be me either.

  I had two cops move the vehicles, and stationed two more to direct traffic. We spent the next three hours canvassing. We couldn’t find anything that could even pass for a weapon. And despite the fact that we had six cops questioning homeowners, maids, gardeners, and the FedEx delivery guy, we got the classic answer from our guys in uniform.

  Nobody saw nothing.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A team of detectives went to UCLA Medical Center and interviewed the man who owned the house where Barry was dumped. Ali Hammoud was a prominent Lebanese cardiologist and not, as Sauer had suggested, an Arab terrorist.

  His wife Jennifer was in Denver on business. According to the doctor’s statement, he took the garbage out the night before, left for work before the truck arrived, and never noticed the extra can.

  “Did he know the victim?” Terry asked when I filled him in.

  “No. Never even heard of him.”

  “I’d rule him out as a suspect, but it should at least be a m
isdemeanor to live in LA and not know all your major movie producers.”

  By one o’clock we had wrapped up at the scene, stopped at a Taco Bell for a couple of Gordita Supremes, which I’m convinced kill more cops than bullets, and were back in the car on the way to see Barry Gerber’s widow.

  “Take a look at this,” Terry said, handing me the eight-by-ten glossy Otis Hairston had given him. “Melissa Little, the garbageman’s wife.”

  “She’s white,” I said.

  “And blonde. And beautiful. And just look at her résumé. Besides the soap, she’s done commercials for Budweiser, Honda, and Tampax. I actually remember her from the Budweiser ad.”

  “You mean you don’t watch Tampax commercials?”

  “Mike, my whole life is a Tampax commercial. I live with Marilyn and three teenage girls on the corner of Estrogen Avenue and Drama Queen Boulevard. Rebecca spent the entire month of April crying because some boy told her that her nose was too big. If the freaking house were burning down, Sarah would have to change her shoes at least five times before she could make a run for it. Emily is only fifteen and she wants to have a huge hunk of shrapnel installed in her belly button and a tattoo of the solar system on her butt. And Al Gore called to say that it has been confirmed by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration that Marilyn’s hot flashes are the real cause of global warming.”

  I was laughing hard now, but he didn’t let up.

  “And I swear to God, Mike…I swear to God in heaven, that if I ever come home and find the toilet seat up, I will break down and weep. And then I’ll take my gun and start firing into the closets, because you gotta know that one of those crazy hormonal women has to be hiding a man in there.”

  I applauded. “That’s good stuff. You should really do one of those open mic nights at a comedy club and try it out.”

  “No. I’m still working on my material. I’m not ready to do stand-up in public. Even with just you and me in the car, I did it sitting down.”

  “Should I file Melissa’s picture in the murder book with the rest of our case files?” I said.

  “No, I’m giving it to Halsey. She’s going to be in our movie.”

  “Terry, at the risk of penetrating your impenetrable denial system, I’d like to remind you that we don’t have a movie. And the producer from last night—the one you thought was just a little late—he is now officially the extremely late Barry Gerber.”

  “You’re always seeing the glass half-empty.”

  “Terry, he’s dead. I’m seeing the glass as completely empty.”

  “Did you see the movie The Player?”

  “No.”

  “Robert Altman. It’s a classic. Tim Robbins is this hotshot studio executive and he calls someone from his car phone and says, ‘I’ll see you after my AA meeting.’ And the guy says, ‘I didn’t realize you had a drinking problem.’ And Tim says ‘I don’t, but that’s where all the deals are being made these days.’”

  “Is there a point to this?” I said.

  “I know Barry is dead. But who’s investigating his murder? You and me, babe. That’s a whole lot of show-biz contacts we’ll be making.”

  “We’re not supposed to be making deals. In case you forgot, we’ve been recruited to solve a homicide, babe. Or should I call you Detective Babe?”

  “To hell with the homicide. This is our big break. We’ll be hanging with the Hollywood heavies, taking meetings, doing lunch at Spago. And if some producer doesn’t like our movie pitch, we’ll put the rubber hose to him.”

  And that’s when I punched him. Not hard enough to make him lose control of the wheel. Just a swift knuckle sandwich to the shoulder. “You bastard. You ball-busting, chain-yanking bastard.”

  Terry’s laugh is permanently set on Extra Loud. This time it was even louder. “Gotcha,” he said, pounding on the steering wheel. “You should’ve seen the look on your face. Like Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon when he realizes that Mel Gibson is totally certifiable.”

  “You want to know why it was so easy for you to yank my chain?” I said. “Because you’ve been totally certifiable yourself.” I waved the picture of the garbageman’s wife at him. “We’re in pre-production?”

  “I might have exaggerated a little.”

  “Terry, you know I love you,” I said.

  “You’re starting to sound like Marilyn. The next word is usually but.”

  “But,” I said. “I can’t deal with this show business shit. I know you’re working on Plan B. I know you want to be the next Will Ferrell or Conan O’Brien or, or…”

  “Weird Al Yankovic.”

  “Whatever. But when I’m on the job, I want to work with a smart cop, not a Hollywood asshole.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I wasn’t fishing for an apology, just an agreement.”

  “Then I retract the apology and I agree. I realize I’ve been pushing it lately. I’ll be a little less Hollywood asshole.”

  “A lot less.”

  “Jesus, I didn’t realize I was pushing it that hard,” he said. “Okay, I’ll be ninety percent less Hollywood asshole.”

  “A hundred percent.”

  “Ninety-seven. I need the three percent wiggle room, or it’s a deal breaker. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll take it. Thank you.”

  “But I can still be funny, right?”

  “That’s a requirement,” I said. “If you weren’t funny, I’d have shot you years ago.”

  “Whoa,” he said. “Now you’re really starting to sound like Marilyn.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “I did a little research on Barry Gerber,” Terry said as we made our way toward Bel Air

  “When?”

  “Last week when I thought we might go into business with him. He’s got some sketchy shit in his past.”

  “I’m a big fan of sketchy shit,” I said. “How come you never told me?”

  “I wanted to see what your take was on him, minus the dirt I dug up.”

  “And where did you dig up all this dirt?” I said.

  “Google.” He grinned. I knew he was lying, and he knew I knew.

  “As long as you used the Internet,” I said. “Because we both know it’s a felony for a cop to tap into NCIC or the LAPD database for personal stuff.”

  “Actually, it’s only a felony if you get caught, indicted, and convicted. But you know me. If I ever used department resources to further my movie career, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

  “So what did Google have to say about Barry Gerber?”

  “His cars seem to get broken into, vandalized, or stolen in some real bad neighborhoods. Seven incidents in ten years.”

  “His insurance company probably dumped him on the third claim.”

  “He never filed. Every one of them was picked up by the cops. One time they find a brand-new Mercedes coupe all chopped up in South Central. They trace it to Barry, and he says, ‘I’ll be darned, Officer. I didn’t know it was missing.’ The cops who interviewed him didn’t believe him, but they don’t give a shit. If LAPD didn’t find the car, it never would have been in our files.”

  “Google’s files,” I reminded him.

  “Right. The other incidents happened in East LA, Hollywood—never in any of your upscale zip codes. He either had bad car karma or a very dark side.”

  “Remember what Baker-Broome said about him?” I said. “‘He’s probably got his nose in some blow and his dick in some underage coke whore.’ And Halsey said he preferred street trash over the high-priced spread. What else do you have on him?”

  “The usual trade mag stuff. He’s done a shitload of movies and TV. Worth about four hundred million. He’s married to a drop-dead gorgeous model from Trinidad. Her name is Royal Summerhaven.”

  “I’m just playing detective here,” I said, “but with a name like Royal Summerhaven, I’m guessing there could be a disparity in their ages.”

  “She’s twenty-seven. E
xactly half his age.”

  “True love knows no bounds when a beautiful, brown-skinned, exotic woman meets a fat, dumpy, Jewish producer with four hundred mil in the bank.”

  “Depending on which website you believe,” Terry said, “his house in Bel Air is either the third or fourth most expensive house in LA. It’s called Park Place, like the expensive property in Monopoly.”

  “The one next to it is even more expensive,” I said. “How come he didn’t call it Boardwalk?”

  “That’s what he calls his house in Malibu.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  If you’ve seen one fifty-million-dollar house, you’ve seen them all. Terry usually drools, but it’s too far removed from my reality for me to even care.

  The Gerber estate covered two acres on St. Cloud Road in Bel Air. We went through the ritual of stopping at the front gate, flashing our IDs at the closed-circuit camera, poking along the winding driveway at the posted 5 mph, parking in a designated visitor spot, and climbing the front steps.

  Terry stopped to take it all in. “It’s amazing how much bad taste you can buy if you’ve got enough money,” he said.

  “I thought you like houses you can’t afford to own,” I said.

  “Not this one. Doric columns with gargoyles? It’s like the architect couldn’t decide between a plantation or a castle in Transylvania, so he built them both. Let’s see who answers the doorbell, Scarlett O’Hara or Count Dracula.”

  “I’ve got five bucks that says Mexican maid,” I said.

  I was right. A short woman in a gray maid’s uniform answered the door. Her name, Carmen, was stitched on her left pocket. We identified ourselves, and got the same nervous look we usually get from immigrant help. Even if they’re not hiding six cousins at home from the INS, they’re just not comfortable with the gringo police. She asked us to wait.

  A minute later, a tall elegant woman with bronze skin and silver hair came to the door. She wore a red and blue floral print dress that looked like it might be silk. “I’m Katryn,” she said. “Royal Summerhaven’s mother.”

  “Mrs. Summerhaven, I’m Detective Mike Lomax with LAPD. I’m sorry for your loss.”