by Jesse Miles
“You haul me in, I have no choice but to clam up and lawyer up. I don’t have any evidence related to the shooting beyond what I saw on the LA Times microfilm this morning. I only have suspicions.”
“I also have suspicions. I’m suspicious you stated the caliber as .380.”
“It’s part of a weak inference, far below the threshold for evidence. I need to do some more snooping and peeping before I make any specific accusations.”
Mondrian smiled sarcastically. “Weak inference. I like that. Spoken like a true college boy. Salvo, that bloody shooting took place right here, right where we’re standing.” He pointed to the gutter. “That case had the strangest smell of any amateur-night, fucked-up robbery I ever came across. I also had the honor of notifying the victim’s widow. You may think I’m a tough guy, but I’m really a softy. When a citizen is murdered, and I have to face the victim’s family, the faces always stay with me.”
“I can sympathize with that. I got a good look at Julieta Reguillo when I talked to Rosie at the laundry.”
“Did you speak with Mrs. Reguillo?”
“Rosie said it wouldn’t be a good idea, so I backed off.”
“What did you expect to get from her?”
“I was going to ask if she had heard anything new regarding her husband’s murder.”
“I’ve talked to her a few times myself over the years, and I got nothing from her. Every time I talked to her, I got the impression I was pushing her closer to her grave. How do you think you can add to our investigative efforts and to the well-being of our community?”
“I can’t give you any specifics yet.”
“What gives you the idea you have any authority in the matter?”
“After Rosie told me about Mrs. Reguillo, and I saw the woman up close, I walked out to my car, and I had a vision. Lady Justice was pulling down her blindfold, giving me the stink eye. That’s my authority.”
Mondrian’s face was absolutely expressionless, a technique at which good police detectives excel. He looked me up and down and took his time with it, then walked back to Cassidy. They talked quietly for a minute or two without taking their eyes off me.
Mondrian came back and handed me his business card. “I have three things to say. First of all, we know about your father, and if that case ever heats up and you need manpower, you can call me, even if I’m retired. I may show up in a wheelchair, but I’ll be there. Second, I’m going to expect a call from you within twenty-four hours with a full report on what you know about the Reguillo shooting. I want nothing held back. I don’t get the call, we’re coming after you like a pack of hyenas. Third, as far as I am concerned, all the snoopers and peepers in the world can go fuck themselves.”
They hopped in their car and made a smooth U-turn. I called Franz at his auto repair shop and invited myself over for a visit. During the drive, Gabe sent me an email containing the information I had requested on Zara’s and Cinnamon’s cars.
I stopped in a mini-mall parking lot and read Gabe’s report. In 2012, Cinnamon owned a Jaguar XF; the car was reported stolen in 2014. Zara owned a Mercedes S550 sedan; two days after the shooting of Luis Reguillo, she traded that car on a new Bentley. After two more changes of ownership, her old Mercedes now resided in Burbank, across the street from the Warner Brothers Ranch, an annex of the nearby Warner Brothers Studios.
At Franz’s shop I gave him an overview of the shooting and presented a hypothetical situation in which someone drops a handful of cartridge casings onto a car floor, and one casing vanishes. Franz said to look inside the air vents under the seats.
Then I used his desktop computer to find the phone number for the current owner of Zara’s old Mercedes. The owner’s name was Vladislav Como. Franz called Mr. Como and identified himself as the owner of a local German auto repair shop. Franz said he heard there was a clean-looking Mercedes S550 in a garage over by the Warner Brothers Ranch, and he was interested in purchasing the car.
Mr. Como said the Benz was in perfect running order and cosmetically excellent. If the price were right, he might be willing to sell. He would be happy to show the car, but he was going out of town for the weekend. Franz arranged to send a friend named Jack Salvo to look at the car the following morning at ten.
Before I departed, Franz loaned me a mechanic’s inspection camera probe and showed me how to use the compact device. The monitor had a handle, and the camera was at the end of a thin, flexible cable. I was looking forward to playing with it.
42
4
During the drive back to my side of the hill, the Friday rush-hour traffic was the usual stop-and-go. I inched along the freeway and placed a call to Zara.
She answered immediately. “I was just about to call you.”
I said, “Did you see what happened to Cinnamon Strauss?”
“Yes, I did, and I don’t know what to think. The police said it might be murder. What do you think?”
“She had a history of treating men shabbily. There could be a long list of suspects.”
“Let’s change the subject dramatically. Arden and I have Mother’s house entirely to ourselves this weekend. I thought it would be nice if you and I had lunch in the gazebo tomorrow. The weather is going to be glorious and the view is phenomenal. And it can be so quiet up there, you think you’ve lost your hearing.”
“That sounds great, but tomorrow morning I have to look at a car for a case I’m working on. How would you like to be my assistant?”
“The private dick’s assistant? That sounds like fun. We can make a day of it. Where are we going?”
“Burbank. I would have to pick you up at nine.”
“I’ll be at Mother’s house, sitting on the front porch, and the gate will be open for you. Nine o’clock sharp.”
As soon as that call ended, another one came in from Rocky Platt. “Hey, Socrates, I just had a conversation with a pissed-off West Valley detective. He said you invaded his territory, and you were investigating an unsolved murder in the West Valley Division.”
“Detective Mondrian?”
“That’s him. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I wasn’t exactly investigating. I was just making inquiries.”
“No need to split hairs. What the fuck is going on? Is this related to the two stiffs you came across during the last week?”
“The total number of stiffs for the week might be up to three.”
“Is that speculation, or should I roll the meat wagon?”
“Speculation.”
“How soon can we talk?”
“Six-fifteen at my office?”
“I’ll see you there.”
Rocky showed up right on time. He came through the door without saying a word and placed a wooden chair at my writing table. He got settled with his notebook and pen in hand, and an ill-tempered scowl on his face.
He said, “First, the ground rules. I don’t give a shit about any of your investigative shortcuts, such as how you miraculously find unlocked doors everywhere you go and how you would never dream of climbing through someone’s bedroom window and reading their diary. I am going to be an exceptionally good listener. Start talking. From the beginning.”
I talked, and Rocky took notes. I told of my searching Rod Damian’s house eight hours after finding Lillie Manning’s body, following Rod to ShangriLA, peering in the window of Cal Lamont’s apartment, and watching Marty Trask and his helpers interrogate Cal.
Rocky said, “So you knew, over a week ago, that Lillie was dealing dope.”
“I was starting to suspect it, but I didn’t jump to any conclusions.”
“You also knew about Cinnamon Strauss at that point in time, a week before you claim you first spoke to her.”
“I heard the name Cinnamon being thrown around Cal Lamont’s apartment, but I didn’t put it together with her last name until later, and I never spoke with her until Wednesday afternoon, just like I told you and Stevenson.”
When I recounted the me
eting at Whole Foods between Cinnamon and Cal Lamont, Rocky said, “Where is this Cal character now? He would have to be a suspect in the fire. We need to talk to him.”
“He left town Thursday morning, driving to his parents’ home near Boston. The events of this past week scared the crap out of him, and he gave up on LA. He’s probably traveling through Ohio or Pennsylvania at this moment. I’ve seen him up close, and if he committed an arson murder, I’ll eat my shorts.”
When I told about my meeting with Richard Halliday and how I’d learned Cinnamon Strauss soaked his father for over two million dollars, I said, “I want to leave the Halliday family out of this. They almost certainly haven’t done anything wrong, and Richard Halliday was straight with me.”
Rocky shook his head sadly. “I’ve seen women do some cold things in my life, but cutting off the geezer as soon as that house was transferred over . . . that’s colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra. I don’t see how we can exclude Richard Halliday from the arson fire. He would have hated Cinnamon Strauss for taking his father for a ride.”
I said, “You would have to keep him on your list, just on general principles, but my money says Halliday wouldn’t do anything to endanger his family, and he wouldn’t have the stomach to be associated with a violent crime.”
Rocky didn’t push me for a lot of detail on Marty Trask and the Blue Jay party. He knew about Trask and didn’t think the authorities would ever nail him for anything.
He was equally unconcerned about Dr. Marshall Mirabeau. When I described the apartment Mirabeau had set up behind his office, Rocky said, “It’s amazing how many rich guys have girlie apartments next to their offices.”
When I started telling Rocky about my visit to Latigo Alliance and Sebastien Thurman, he interrupted, “Isn’t Thurman the cop who shot the armed robber in the gonads, got kicked off the force?”
“Same guy.”
Rocky laughed. “I always thought Internal Affairs went a little rough on Thurman. Should have given him two weeks off with pay . . . and a fucking medal.”
I told how I tracked down Cal Lamont and Dewey Rubens. “When I found Rubens, things started to get interesting. He said Cinnamon was the one who found Lillie dead. She told Dewey she only took four 8-balls, and she split that amount with him. I think there was a stack of money and a few ounces of blow at the Castellammare house, and Cinnamon grabbed almost all of it, and then she stiffed Dewey.”
“How hard did you have to lean on Dewey to get him to spill?”
“He struck my fist with his stomach, and I was forced to defend myself.”
Rocky nodded enthusiastically. “That would be a clear case of self-defense. But back to your story, Rubens said Cinnamon only took four 8-balls. You say she ended up with a much bigger haul. You just pulling that out of your ass, or you have something to go on?”
“This Tuesday, during Lillie’s funeral and memorial, I happened to be in Cinnamon’s house.”
“Where was Cinnamon?”
“At the funeral. Anyway, I found fifty thousand in cash and coke in a cookie tin hidden in the crawl space over Cinnamon’s kitchen pantry.”
“What did you do with it?”
“Left it there.”
“Including all the contents?”
I nodded.
Rocky made a sour face. “That’s just beautiful . . . the evidence burned up in the fire . . . but maybe not. It might have survived. It was in a metal can, and the crime scene hasn’t been released.”
I said, “You won’t find it in the ashes. Last night, that same cookie tin was on top of the refrigerator in Rod Damian’s kitchen, minus the cash and the dope.”
“You sure it was the same exact one?”
“Same design, and it had the same little dent near the center of the lid, like something fell on it.”
“Where was Damian when you were in his house?”
“I don’t know for sure, but there’s a strong possibility he was wrapped up in the back of a van, on the way to a shallow grave out in the desert.”
Rocky was taking notes at full speed. “Keep going!”
“Rod normally keeps his Porsche garaged and perfectly detailed. Last night it was left outside, top down, alarm not set, leaves on the seats. His back door was slightly ajar. Nobody home. His wallet, five hundred cash, and a fifteen-thousand-dollar wristwatch were on top of his dresser. All his expensive clothing and expensive sports equipment appeared to be untouched.”
“Is Damian the third stiff of the week you were referring to?”
“I didn’t actually see a body. The bamboo dining table looked like it had been broken during a fight. There were droplets of blood, or something very similar to it, on the wall and floor. It looked like somebody did a hasty cleanup.”
“So if someone whacked Rod, who was it?”
“My money is on Marty Trask. In the first place, he was attracted to Lillie Manning in a big way.”
“How would you know that?”
“Zara Manning told me, and here’s why it’s important. Marty may have thought Rod was responsible for Lillie’s death. If Marty or his boys found the missing cash and coke in Rod’s possession, it would seem to them that Rod found Lillie on the floor, and he grabbed the loot and abandoned her. Based on what I know about Marty Trask, that would have been a very unhealthy thing for Rod to do.”
Rocky leaned his chair back on two legs and rocked back and forth. He tends to do that when his brain is going full speed. “So Trask fronted the coke to Lillie and expected to get paid back and to also help her make money after she got her allowance cut off. Trask was thinking he would score points with her and maybe get into her pants.”
“That’s how I see it, and here’s another angle. After I talked to you and Stevenson yesterday morning at the fire scene, I called Marty, and later in the day we had dinner at Musso and Frank, in Hollywood. His purpose was to feel me out, try to figure what I knew that might hurt him. He was also trying to convince me, in a friendly but menacing way, that it would be best for both of us if I didn’t mention his name to anybody.
“When I arrived at Rod’s house, less than an hour after I left the restaurant, the spots I found on the floor and wall were somewhat fresh. Droplets were still tacky. I think Marty’s boys were taking care of Rod at the same time Marty was looking across the table at me, enjoying his swordfish and fries, demonstrating his good table manners. And now I’m part of his alibi, just in case anyone tries to link him to Rod’s disappearance.”
Rocky set his chair down flat. “Plus, a sociopath like Trask would get off on looking you in the eye and smiling and eating dinner while his gorillas were icing someone. And while we’re at it, give me the details on Trask’s hired help.”
I gave descriptions of June, Corey, and the big Asian guy whose name I never got. The license plates of the white Chevy SS and Marty’s BMW sedan were in my notes, but the black Mustang following me Friday afternoon had been too far away.
Rocky paused and looked over his notes. “There is a giant shitload of compromise in all this evidence, the way you cut a few legal corners in obtaining it. If the DA’s office tries to indict anyone based on this, they’re gonna look like a bunch of monkeys trying to fuck a football. But here’s the question that makes my head spin. How does all this connect with a 2012 liquor store shooting in Canoga Park?”
I said, “I don’t know yet, but I have an interesting day planned for tomorrow. I’ll call you when I have something.”
I could tell from Rocky’s body language that he was going to give me a little more breathing room, but not much more. He went out the door, and I closed down my office and headed for home.
43
4
At eight fifty-five the next morning, I arrived at the Manning residence. Zara was sitting on the front steps, dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a heather-gray hoodie over a black T-shirt. She had a knack for looking glamorous in a budget outfit.
We drove most of the way to Burbank on Mulholla
nd Drive. During much of the drive, the San Fernando Valley stretched out to our left. A warm desert wind had risen again, clearing out the air across the Valley.
I slowed during the stretch from Coldwater to Laurel Canyon. “This series of curves was the major LA street race scene up until the early 1980s, when LAPD finally cracked down in a big way.” I pulled into a turnout. “This is where I went over the edge in my Corvette twenty years ago. I had to crawl a hundred feet back up to the road.”
“Were you racing someone?”
“Just going too fast for the corner.”
“Did the police catch you?”
“No, two silly girls in a convertible picked me up and gave me a ride home.”
She laughed good-naturedly. “I’m certainly glad to hear I’m not the only one with a scandalous past.”
Twenty minutes later, we parked across the street from the Warner Brothers Ranch in Burbank. The Mercedes owner lived in a triplex he and his wife owned and managed. When we knocked on the door, his wife said the garage was open, and I was welcome to go back to the alley and look at the car. If I wanted to drive it, she would have to go along. If I wanted to buy the car, her husband wouldn’t return to Burbank until Monday afternoon, and I could negotiate with him at that time.
Zara and I walked back to the garage. I didn’t think Zara would recognize her old car immediately, and I was right. Too many thousands of black Mercedes sedans were running around LA, and this Benz had shiny new license plates and frames.
I said, “The exterior is in nice shape, no apparent body work, very little wheel rash. Tires look almost new.”
Zara said, “How does this used car relate to an investigation?”
“I’m about to find out.”
I opened the right rear door, set my briefcase on the back seat, and took out the inspection probe camera. With my knees on the garage floor, I clicked on the device and pushed the camera cable under the front passenger seat. By contorting myself to where I could lay my head on the carpet, I could see the air vent under the seat. With a little maneuvering and grunting, I worked the cable into the vent, then sat up and looked at the monitor. Something small and shiny was on the screen. I gently pushed the cable in farther. The shiny object was cylindrical. I pushed a little more. The object was an expended cartridge casing. No doubt about it.