He was raised in Green Bay, Wisconsin, by an aunt who owned a beauty parlor. His life’s values were shaped not by books, but by the loving advice of the women sitting under Aunt June’s hair dryers.
A boy with your looks and charm could go far.
A spoonful of honey will catch more flies than a gallon of vinegar.
Look at this boy. He’s so gorgeous. He could be a movie star.
By the time he was thirteen, Damian knew his destiny. Hollywood. At sixteen he dropped out of school and promised he’d be back someday when his picture was on the covers of all those magazines in the beauty shop.
And once Damian set his sights on something, he never gave up.
Winners never quit and quitters never win.
What he lacked in brainpower, he made up for in cunning. Damian Hedge got what he wanted because he was a master at manipulating people.
But these crazies. Nothing penetrates. Why would they kill me? What good am I to them dead? And they’re lying about the money. I just haven’t offered them enough.
“You look like you’re thinking,” Roger said.
“I’m thinking that you win,” Damian said. “You don’t want a million, you don’t want two million, but I can offer you something that you won’t be able to turn down.”
“I doubt it,” Roger said.
“One hundred million dollars,” Damian said.
“And where would someone like you get that kind of money?”
He’s interested. He didn’t say no. Who could turn down a hundred million dollars? I can do this. I can get out of this.
“A man in Germany,” Damian said. “A billionaire. A multi-, multi-, multi-billionaire. He offered me a hundred million dollars to marry his daughter.”
“Well there’s a man who doesn’t think much about his daughter,” Roger said. “She’s lucky you turned him down.”
“But I could accept it now. I could call him. He would wire you the money. A hundred million dollars.”
“How do you feel right about now?” Roger said.
Just undo these straps and I’ll rip your heart out from the inside. “Very weak,” Damian said.
“Well, now you’re lying. Aggie’s got a clamp on the hose, so you ain’t been bleeding the whole time, because she can turn it on and off. You ain’t lost more than a pint and a half of blood, which ain’t enough to make a man your size feel weak. So if you’d lie about that, you’d lie about the hundred million.”
“But I swear I could get it. I swear to Christ.”
“How many movies you made, boy?”
Insane. He’s asking me about movies like he’s interviewing me for some fan magazine. “I made fourteen so far. They grossed close to a billion dollars.”
“Me and Aggie’s made one. Ain’t grossed a penny. That’s because not too many folks have seen it, and them that did, we didn’t charge nothing. I think it’s time for you to see it. You game for that?”
That’s it. He’s a frustrated screenwriter. He wants me to help him get his movie produced. That’s why he took Barry, but Barry probably told him to go fuck himself, so they killed him. “I’d like to see it,” Damian said. “If I like it, I can help you get it distributed. I know the whole power structure in Hollywood. Ask anybody. If Damian Hedge likes a project, it’s a green light all the way, baby.”
Roger pointed a remote control at the TV set mounted in the corner of the small, low-ceilinged room. “Ain’t got what you folks call production values, and Aggie edited it together on the computer, but you’ll get the gist.”
“I can’t see the monitor very well lying flat like this,” Damian said. “Can you loosen the strap a little so I can sit up?”
Roger laughed. “I look like some dumb hillbilly to you? You can see damn good enough.”
Roger clicked the remote, and the picture came on. It was Roger, only he was about twenty years younger. He was holding a baby in his arms and he looked nervous but happy. He waved at the camera, then he waved the baby’s hand. After about thirty seconds the picture jump-cut. Same background, only this time Aggie was holding the baby. Her gray hair was blonde, her skin smooth, her face jubilant.
Nice body. I’d have screwed her back then. Now I’d shoot her through the head. They can’t be serious about making a movie out of this.
There were more shots. Most of them featuring the baby. It was a little girl. She went from toddler to little tomboy to some Girl Scout thing, and then as Damian watched her become a young teenager, he knew.
And his bowels opened up.
“Would you look at that,” Roger said. “Mister Big Time Hollywood Movie Star just shit himself.”
“I think maybe he recognizes the girl in our movie,” Aggie said. “Is that why you’re shitting in your pants, Damian?”
“Please, please, don’t kill me.” Damian was crying. Not acting. Crying. Sniveling. He gasped for air between sobs. “Please, you can hate me; you can shame me; God knows you made me suffer, and maybe I deserve it, and maybe I don’t, but you’re not killers. You’re good, God-fearing people.”
“What do you know about God-fearing people?” Roger said.
Damian could feel the hate. Aggie would be softer, more compassionate. He twisted his head toward her. “I know they don’t kill anyone,” he said.
She looked down at Damian. “But every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats.”
“Slit throats? What do you mean, slit throats?”
“It’s a quote,” Aggie said. “Mencken.”
Damian stared up at her, his face blank.
“H. L. Mencken,” she said. “The writer. You don’t know him?”
“Maybe I do,” Damian said. “I worked with a lot of writers. I just can’t remember all their names. Give me a few of his credits.”
“Go to hell,” Aggie said. She removed the clamp from the hose in Damian’s femoral vein and threw it across the room.
Roger pressed a button on the remote and turned the volume on the TV up high. The girl was about fifteen now. She was on a stage, dressed as Little Orphan Annie. Her voice was rich and powerful as she belted out a musical weather forecast. One that promised sun.
Tomorrow.
Damian Hedge was not nearly smart enough to appreciate the irony.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
It was 4:30 by the time we got back to the office. Donna, the giggly blonde, was at the front desk. “They’re waiting for you two in the roll call room,” she said.
“And who are they?” I said.
“Lt. Kilcullen and some other guy.”
“What other guy?”
“I didn’t ask,” she said. “I figured if your boss is waiting, that ought to be enough motivation to get you up there.”
“Dammit, Parisi,” I said. “You’re so young, and you already think like a cynical cop.”
“Thanks.” She giggled.
“You keep up that stupid girly giggling,” I said, “and someone is going to realize you’d be damn good working undercover.”
There’s a large classroom upstairs with enough chairs and tables for Patrol to hold their daily roll call. The furniture is standard LAPD issue, but the walls are unique to the Hollywood station; they’re plastered with movie posters.
The room was empty now except for two guys, Kilcullen and Irv Ziffer, the best narcotics cop in LA. He’s known to one and all as Ziff the Sniff because of his uncanny ability to ferret out drug deals. He’s well past retirement age, but he refuses to retire, which makes both the department and his wife happy.
Ziff was wearing a garish plaid sport jacket, with crisscrossing reds, blues, browns, oranges, and greens. If there’s a shirt and tie that could possibly go with it, he hasn’t found them. He stood up and shook hands with me and Terry.
“Nice outfit,” I said, shading my eyes. “You look like a paint salesman.”
“A blind paint salesman,” Terry said. “They said you were in court today. Y
ou went dressed like that?”
“All part of my strategy,” Ziff said. “Defense attorney sized me up and figured I’m just some doofus cop.”
“I thought your reputation preceded you,” I said. “Don’t lawyers quake in their briefs when you walk through the courtroom door?”
“This guy was new. And arrogant. I hosed him.”
“I told Ziff about the big drug bust you made today,” Kilcullen said.
“Nice going,” Ziff said. “The streets of LA are a lot safer now that you nabbed some twit bringing her boss his week’s supply of weasel dust.”
“She may be nobody,” Terry said, “but she gave up this guy Carlos.”
“Carlos Jacavez,” Ziff said. “East LA. A bottom-feeder who works out of a Mickey D or some other fast food joint. Low-level dealer. Basically harmless.”
“We should have known that you’d know him,” I said.
“I got his cell number,” Ziff said. “We let him swim in the pond because he’s a good CI who gives us a lot bigger fish than he is. And he doesn’t sell bad junk, so nobody gets hurt.”
“Do you think he had anything to do with kidnapping Damian Hedge?” I asked. “His street name is Carjack.”
“Carlos Jacavez. Car Jac. Like J.Lo. It’s a nickname; not his line of work.”
“So then we got you to come down here in your doofus outfit, and you’ve got bupkis for us,” I said.
“Don’t give up, boys,” Kilcullen said. “He’s got one little tidbit I think you’re going to enjoy. Irv, fill them in on the Cokettes.”
“You ever hear that term before?” Ziff said.
We hadn’t.
Ziff leaned back in his chair. “Okay, this business with Damian Hedge sending a PA out on a drug run…this is nothing new. It’s industry-wide.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning most of the Hollywood assholes who score coke don’t run right out and buy it themselves. They use assistants, like the one you busted. They’re almost always young girls, so we call them the Cokettes. They’re the cute little mules who bring California cornflakes back to their bosses at the studio.”
“And you don’t bust these kids?”
“Mike, this is harmless shit. If I’m trying to track down a shipment of heroin coming through LAX, do you think I give a rat’s ass if Damian Hedge shoves another eightball up his nose? Plus, did you hear what I said about it being industry-wide? It’s so rampant I’m surprised it’s not an Oscar category.”
“And you’re saying that LAPD doesn’t give a shit about rampant drug running?”
“Jesus, Mike. You’re more brutal than that defense lawyer. Of course we give a shit. But…”
“There’s always a ‘but.’”
“Actually, I got two ‘buts,’” Ziff said. “First, we don’t have the manpower to stake out every burger joint, donut shop, and car wash waiting for some production assistant to pass an envelope full of cash to some low-level street pusher. And second, what’s the main industry in Los Angeles? Turnip farming? It’s show business. And it doesn’t make sense for us to lock up our tax revenue base for indulging in recreational drugs for personal use.”
“Personal use?” Terry said. “This Robyn kid was carrying enough recreational drugs to waste a village.”
Ziff just shrugged. “For a guy like Hedge, that’s one lost weekend with a couple of friends and a stable of hookers. It’s not my policy to look the other way. It comes from higher up. But we had an incident about six months ago. Since then the brass and some heavies from the Mayor’s Office have been in meetings with the big studios, trying to get them to police themselves.”
“What kind of an incident?” I said.
“Last year one of these Cokettes made the buy, then got herself rolled and killed by some gangbanger. Believe me, I told the top cops we should do a lot more than sit down and give the studio heads a remedial course in drug enforcement, but they said it’s one isolated incident. It pisses me off. Some little Chinese girl from East Armpit, Montana, or God-knows-where comes to Tinseltown thinking she’s the next Lucy Liu. A few months later, she’d dead. All for a bag of nose candy.”
“Do you know who she made the buy for?”
“This is where it gets interesting,” Ziff said. “We couldn’t make it stick, but we know who she was working for at the time. Barry Gerber. Your boy who just got iced.”
“That’s more than interesting,” I said. “And this happened last year?”
“Sometime in November,” Ziff said.
I looked at Terry. “Gerber and Damian didn’t have a falling- out till New Year’s Eve. They were still working together in November.”
“So this production assistant who got killed…” Terry said, piecing it together as he talked. “She could’ve done drug runs for Gerber and Hedge.”
Ziff nodded. “I only knew about Gerber, but these girls run all kinds of errands for the heavy hitters. So she could easily have worked for both.”
“What do we know about the girl who was murdered?” I said.
“Now you’re getting to the part where I really do have bupkis,” Ziff said. “I’m Narcotics. The case went to Robbery-Homicide over in Central.”
“You said she was Chinese.”
“That I remember, but I’m blanking on her name.”
My adrenaline was pumping. “How about this gangbanger who killed her…did they catch him?”
“You have any idea what my caseload looks like?” Ziff said. “I got too much on my plate to work your side of the street. Talk to someone over in Central.”
“I hope you boys don’t have any plans for the rest of the evening,” Kilcullen said.
“I have to run down to the hospital and check on my father, but I’ll be back,” I said. “Ziff, as usual, you’re a big help. Thanks for coming down here.”
“This is one hell of a place,” he said pointing at the movie posters on the wall. “Where else do I get a chance to talk drug deals surrounded by De Niro, Pacino, and DiCaprio?”
“The Playboy mansion comes to mind,” Terry said.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Terry offered me his car, but I took a Crown Vic from our parking lot, just in case I got stuck at the hospital. The AC was busted, the springs in the driver’s seat were shot, and the odometer was stuck at 81,175. I had no idea whether it was the first, second, or tenth time around.
I crept along Sunset with the rest of the rush-hour traffic and got to UCLA Medical at 6:30. My brother Frankie was in the lobby, sipping a can of Red Bull.
“How’s Dad doing?” I said.
“Okay, I guess. They got his heart to stop sputtering.”
“Now they just gotta work on his mouth.”
“He thinks you’re pissed at him,” Frankie said.
“Well, he’s finally got something right. How many people in his room?”
“It was like a teamsters’ convention up there for a while. The guy in the second bed asked to be transferred to a quieter room. Around five o’clock they wheeled the old man into the OR, and the truckers headed home.”
“I doubt if they headed straight home. Not at five o’clock. Who’s with him now?”
“Angel and Diana. I just came down here for a break. Six straight hours of Big Jim is above and beyond. Did you catch the guy who stun-gunned him?”
“No. And Damian Hedge is still missing, and I don’t know who killed Barry Gerber. I’m having a really rotten day, and I have to go back to work, so let’s go upstairs.”
“One quick phone call,” he said.
He pushed a speed dial on his cell phone. After ten seconds he rolled his eyes. “Voice mail,” he said to me. Then he went back to the phone. “Hey, Leah, it’s Frankie. I’m with my brother now, but I’ll see you real soon. Bye.”
“Who’s Leah?” I said as we walked toward the elevator.
“New girlfriend. She’s age appropriate, doesn’t drink, do drugs, or gamble. And she’s not married. I figured you’d approve.”
“Not that I don’t trust you, but I’d be happier if you gave me her social security number.”
We headed toward the elevator. “I know you had a lousy day, but don’t be too hard on Dad,” he said. “I think he actually feels bad about what he did.”
“He should. Dennis is an ex-cop. He would have had a better chance of saving Damian’s bacon if Dad hadn’t decided to help me fight crime.”
We got out on the third floor and walked through a set of double doors. “Right down the hall. Room 314,” Frankie said. “Oh, hey, there’s Dad’s doctor coming out of the room. Let’s find out when we can bring him home.”
The doc was totally out of shape, with a belly that strained the buttons of his white lab coat. I know the type. He tells his patients to lose weight, quit smoking, and exercise, but it’s okay for him to go to seed. He was in the doorway to Jim’s room, and when he saw us, he walked slowly in our direction.
“Dr. Johnson,” Frankie said. “This is my brother Mike. How’s our father doing?”
The doctor shook his head. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but your father has expired.”
“What?” Frankie said. “What do you mean, expired?”
“His heart gave out, Mr. Lomax. He passed away just a few minutes ago.”
“Oh, God, no.” Frankie ran into the room. I was right behind him.
Big Jim was in the bed, a sheet pulled up over his head. Angel was sitting on the outer edge of the mattress, the upper half of her body sprawled across his chest. She was praying softly in Spanish. Diana was sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed, her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving.
“Doc, how could this happen?” Frankie said. “You said he was fine.”
“Your father may have developed a clot when his heart was out of normal rhythm. There’s always the risk that the defibrillator could jar it loose. We won’t know till after the autopsy.”
Angel lifted her head up from Jim’s massive chest and looked at me. “Mike,” she said. “He was hoping you’d forgive him. But you’re too late.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Damian Hedge was back in the beauty salon in Green Bay. He was ten years old, and his Auntie June had just finished blow-drying his hair.
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