by Philip Cox
‘It’s in the kitchen,’ she called out, still staring at the television.
Quinn walked up and down the kitchen, looking for the bottle. Eventually he found it, standing on the floor, next to the three small boxes they kept for recycling. He picked up the bottle and checked the contents: there was a quarter of an inch left. Not even worth opening the bottle, so he stood it back on the floor.
In the fridge were two bottles of beer. He was not as much a beer drinker as Sam, especially in the evening, when he preferred wine with his meal. He settled on a bottle of still water.
He took the plate of heated spaghetti, bowl of salad and bottle of water into the living room and sat at the table. He was able to see the TV from where he was, and also Holly, who was still sitting at the end of the couch. He noticed an empty wine glass by her feet. So that was where the Merlot went. Holly was staring at the TV, watching an episode of The Ellen Show.
Ray asked, ‘Is that live, or a re-run?’
Holly said nothing. Ray repeated the question.
Without looking over, Holly replied.
‘It’s a re-run.’
‘Oh.’ He swallowed some water. ‘You should have messaged me. I could’ve picked up some more wine on the way home.’
Holly said nothing, just glanced over and nodded.
Ray asked, ‘So how was work today?’ Holly worked in the offices of Meriweather Furnishings, a business owned by her father, Henry Meriweather II, with premises near LAX. Ray’s father-in-law had never said it to his face, but had implied to Holly that he felt his daughter could have done better than a lowly LAPD detective. When Ray had told Leroy this, his partner’s advice was simple: ‘Tell him to go fuck himself.’
Easier said than done if Ray wanted to keep the peace. For his own part, he had many reservations about Holly working with her father. He had said this to her too many times to mention, but she was very close to her father. Or, as Leroy had put it, a fucking daddy’s girl.
The Ellen Show had finished; Holly switched channels a couple times and settled on The Great British Baking Show.
‘So how was your day?’ Ray asked again.
‘Hm?’
‘I asked how was your day.’
‘Oh, same old, same old.’
A few minutes went by without either of them speaking. Ray had now finished his meal. Downing the last of his water, Ray said, ‘So how was your day, Ray? Same old, same old, thanks for asking. Just another day of risking my life for the citizens of Los Angeles.’ He paused. ‘He was a producer of porn films.’
‘Who was?’
‘The guys whose murder we’re investigating.’
‘Right.’
Quinn snorted and took his plate and bowl into the kitchen. He tossed the empty water bottle into the correct recycling box and rinsed the crockery before slotting it into the dishwasher. Then made himself a cup of tea. He didn’t bother to offer Holly one, even when the kettle was loudly whistling. He took his tea down the hall into the spare room. The room, which was intended to be a nursery whenever, but for now contained a desk and chair.
He sat, took his laptop out of his backpack, opened it, and booted up. He first checked their personal email inbox. Nothing of note there unless you like spam. Most of the emails were from places where Holly had done online shopping and had gotten put on their mailing list. He kept saying to her that she should get unsubscribed; when he got the chance he’d do it for her.
Then he browsed the day’s news before logging onto the LAPD portal, keying in his username and password.
LAPD files were mostly digitized, enabling them to be easily stored and accessible anywhere. Sam had said that for some reason the Washington file had not been digitized: his guess was that it had just not progressed far enough. Ray double checked this: there were several cases where the victim was named Washington - no surprise there, he reflected – but none of them were related in any way to Jordan or even Jasmine Washington. He sighed: it was worth a shot.
Logging out of the LAPD portal, he googled Joder Films. He got a standard response, with a link to the company’s website. He shook his head in disbelief at the home page, which pretentiously stated how the mission of the company was to produce high quality erotic movies for the discerning viewer. Another page had a list of the dozens of classic pictures the company had produced, each with a plot of some kind, a cast list, and thumbnails of stills from the movie. The stills were graphic.
Then he checked the cast lists. He knew that Mrs Wheat was a former performer: he was not expecting the name Adrienne Wheat to appear in any list but was there an Adrienne anywhere, with another surname? No, but then she probably acted, if that was the right word, under a different name. He recalled the old gag about if you took the name of somebody’s first pet, and their grandmother’s maiden name, you would get their pornstar name. Poppy Matthews would be his. Very erotic.
He quickly switched back to the google page as he heard Holly pad past to the bathroom. On her way back to the TV she paused outside the room.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
Making sure the google page was on the screen, he leaned back.
‘Just stuff. Stuff for this case.’
‘Daddy says we need to get away for a vacation. Says I need a break. We’ve not been away since the pandemic.’
Ray turned round.
‘Yeah, that’s right. We haven’t. Where did you want to go? Any ideas?’
‘Colorado, maybe.’
‘I’m afraid our budget wouldn’t stretch to Aspen,’ Ray joked.
Holly wasn’t joking.
‘Daddy said that would be beyond our means.’
‘Did he? There’s always Vail if you’re talking Colorado. Or there’s places in Montana, or Utah.’
She nodded.
‘I guess.’
Ray said, ‘I’ll see about getting some vacation time booked. I have a heap owing.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ Holly replied, sounding unconvinced. She returned to her baking show and Ray swung back to the laptop.
‘“Daddy said it would be beyond our means,”’ he muttered. ‘Motherfucker.’ He looked back to make sure Holly had gone then returned to the Joder Films site. He could not find any trace of Mrs Wheat in the text; most of the thumbnails were not of faces so he left the site. Then he googled Martin Wheat himself. The first two results were from Wikipedia and imdb. He clicked on imdb first.
He leaned back as the screen populated. Folding his arms he muttered, ‘Now, that’s interesting.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Leroy was online when Quinn called him.
Not concerning the Wheat investigation, or the Washington cold case.
He was browsing real estate agent sites.
He had looked many times before, and even checked out a couple of properties. He had thought he might like to live downtown. Both were condos, one in a building next to the Disney Concert Hall, and the other on the tenth floor of a place with a view of Angels Flight. But they were both condos: almost palatial inside, but were both just a fancy version of what he had now. Plus, no ocean. He was also staggered at how much the asking prices were. But then, he reflected, prices in the centre of the city were bound to be more expensive. Unless you were looking at Beverly Hills or Bel-Air. Which he wasn’t.
He decided to look west of downtown. There was a bungalow in a side street off Hollywood Boulevard, not far from the Amoeba Music store, but the 3.5 million price tag put him off. One agent had houses off Wilshire, west of the park, both around 1.5 million. They were nice: Leroy did the virtual tour, but just failed to get excited about them. Maybe he was tired; it was getting late. He was also surprised, not having realised how expensive property was. He had always leased since he moved out here.
Finally, he browsed a couple of agents nearer home. One was in Santa Monica, the other was by coincidence a block away from the station.
Resting his weary head on one hand, almost robotically trawled through the pictures
, exterior and interior. Fronts, backs, bedrooms, bathrooms: by now, they all seemed to merge into one. Until one caught his eye.
‘Lookee here,’ he murmured, sitting bolt upright. Now he was paying attention.
The house he had come across was in Venice. He checked the location on the map, and it was five minutes’ drive from where he was now, not that that mattered.
It was a house, a single storey Spanish style residence. At the front of the property was a high hedge, in need of a trim but high enough to hide the house. A wooden gate hung in a gap in the hedge. The other side of the hedge, in front of the house, was a small, raised deck, in the middle of which was a tall yucca. Two small chairs and a table stood on the deck.
Inside, the décor was simple. The walls were plain, whitewashed with a Spanish-style arch between the living room and the kitchen. The focal point of the living room was a fireplace in which was positioned a virtual log fire. It was switched on, with an inviting fire burning. Very homey, Leroy thought. Three plush couches rested around the fireplace.
The kitchen was spacious, with a centre island which comprised a stove and breakfast bar. The kitchen and the living room had French doors which opened onto the back yard. Again, raised decking to match the front, and at the back there was enough space for two more sofas, a table with four chair, and a large gas barbeque. Three steps down from the deck led to the lawn – not particularly big, but well-maintained. Eight feet tall high fences stood both sides and back: plenty of privacy, he thought. He liked that.
There was a small building on the side of the yard, and built in the same style as the house. There was a single entrance door in the same style as the French doors, with the metal doors for vehicular access at the back. Inside, the double garage also had whitewashed interior walls. This made Leroy’s mouth water.
The second floor was as he had expected. One large bedroom with ensuite bathroom with both a bath and walk-in shower; the second was smaller with no bathroom, and the third was being used as an office or study. A second bathroom was situated between these rooms.
But what was the piece de resistance for Leroy was where the house was located. The high hedge and wooden gate opened not onto a busy street, but a path alongside one of the canals. This was why the entrance to the garage was in the street behind.
He sat back and whistled. Even the asking price, which was 1.2 million dollars, was acceptable. He had never believed in love at first sight, until now.
He clicked on the link which calculated how much the mortgage payments would be. He scratched his chin: not that much more than he was paying in rent, and at least by owning, he would benefit from house price inflation. Renting was dead money. He had already been to a mortgage broker, so knew the size of mortgage he could take out, plus some of his savings. Well, most of his savings. Actually, all of his savings, save a few dollars here and there.
Another link was to arrange a viewing. He had a choice of either a face to face tour, or a virtual tour. The virtual tour was a throwback to the pandemic at the beginning of the decade: he wanted to see the house with his own eyes; how people could spend that much money on the strength of looking at a video or Zoom call, he had no idea.
He clicked for a face to face tour, the next day. A pop-up appeared on his screen with thirty minute slots for the next day, the first being eight thirty the next morning. He was pleased to see that, apart from four pm, all the other slots were available. He clicked and booked himself in for eight thirty.
Then Quinn rang.
‘What’s up, Ray?’
‘You still awake, Sam?’
‘Obviously. What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. Only I googled Martin Wheat tonight.’
‘imdb?’
‘No, google.’
‘I’m online now. Let me do it.’
‘Go to Wikipedia, Sam.’
‘Okay.’
‘Then check the biography section.’
‘Okay, I have it now…’ Leroy slowly read down the page then got to where Quinn was talking about. ‘I have him, Ray.’
‘See what I mean?’
‘I do. So let me get this right. Martin Wheat, adult movie producer. Second wife, Adrienne, as we know; first wife Alicia, and before he was married to Alicia Kuschner Wheat, he was in a relationship with a guy called Chase Underwood.’
‘You see the pictures of him and Underwood?’
‘Yeah, looks like two guys out of Lifeguards Monthly. It was some years back.’
‘Yeah, they were around twenty-five. But look what happened to Underwood.’
Leroy scan read the article, paraphrasing out loud as he read.
‘Chase Underwood murdered, April… eleven years back.’
‘I don’t recall the name, Sam. Don’t recall a case.’
‘Yeah, but it was in Hollywood. A house on Hollywood Boulevard it says here. I wonder if that was the same house we went to. So neither of us would have been involved in the investigation.’
‘Says here he was murdered in the house. Killed as he disturbed an intruder. Wheat was away on a shoot.’
‘Hm. Doesn’t say where. I didn’t think film companies like Wheat’s went away on location. I’m wondering if Wheat was interviewed.’
‘He must have been; doesn’t say here.’
‘We’ll check out that investigation. Hopefully, it’s been digitized so I won’t need to have to go downtown again. Can you check it out in the morning: I’ll be in by ten, I guess.’
‘Washington?’
‘Nah. Some personal time.’
‘No problem. Everything okay, Sam?’
‘Okay, I’ll level with you. I want to move, and I’m looking at a house.’
‘What? You’re gonna move? Where’s the house?’
‘Only Venice. Five minutes from here.’
Quinn laughed.
‘Still in Venice? There’s a newsflash. I’ll see you around ten. If the lieutenant asks where you are, what do I say?’
‘You can tell him what I’m doing. That’s cool. See you in the morning, Ray.’
Leroy ended the call, reread the article on Martin Wheat and the murder of Chase Underwood then double checked the confirmation of the next morning’s viewing appointment, powered the laptop off, then went to bed.
Seven o’clock start tomorrow.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
By the time Leroy arrived the next morning, Quinn had already researched the Chase Underwood case. Leroy sat down and wheeled his chair across to Quinn’s desk.
‘So what have you found?’ he asked. ‘Is it another cold case? I hope it’s been digitized.’
Quinn pushed his chair back a few inches so Leroy could see his screen.
‘No, it’s a closed case.’
‘Closed? When is this from?’
Quinn retrieved the original log sheet and tapped on the screen at the date the murder was logged. Leroy edged closer to Quinn’s desk so he could read the screen.
‘You need eyeglasses, Sam,’ chuckled Quinn. ‘Let me.’
Leroy pushed back, folded his arms, and listened while Quinn ran through the case.
‘Chase Underwood, twenty-six years old, native of Los Angeles. Born Ventura. He and Wheat were in a relationship for almost two years; they lived together in that house on West Hollywood Boulevard.’
‘How and when and where was he killed?’
‘Date of death…’ Quinn moved the mouse slightly to get the date. ‘Then. The murder took place in the living room of that house.’
‘Where we spoke to Mrs Wheat?’
‘That very spot. He was bludgeoned to death: multiple blows to the head with, and wait for this… a replica Oscar.’
‘What? As in?’
‘Yup. Look at the picture of the weapon.’
‘You’re telling me that Wheat had a replica Academy Award made? It was a replica?’
‘Just to be sure, I checked the Academy website and there is no Martin Wheat, or Chase Underwood for that matter.
Performance or Craft. And look: it’s definitely an Oscar – not some adult movie equivalent.’
‘Those mothers are heavy.’
‘Eight and a half pounds, apparently.’
‘Jesus. So Wheat got himself a replica Oscar, just to impress. Narcissistic or what? Where was he at the time? He would have been questioned: was he ever a suspect?’
‘He had an alibi. He was away in Santa Barbara.’
‘Location scouting?’
‘Not exactly. Wait for this: he was having a couple of days away with an Alicia Kuschner.’
Leroy slowly nodded.
‘Who was to become Alicia Kuschner Wheat.’
‘You got it. And, as we know, history repeated itself as he began an affair with the current Mrs Wheat.’
‘It did. Was she his only alibi that night?’
‘Her and the hotel – the reception, the bellboy. They were all interviewed.’
‘So he was never in the frame? He could have gotten from Santa Barbara to West Hollywood and back, in a few hours. Wouldn’t have been missed.’
‘Either they felt he was covered by the alibis or the two suspects had more going for them, but it looks like he was never figured for it.’
‘What exactly happened?’
‘It looked as if it was in the evening, late evening. Nine pm. Underwood was in the shower, heard a noise downstairs, went down in a bathrobe to investigate, and the intruder was waiting with that statue. There was no evidence of a break-in, but Wheat said that they kept the doors unlocked until they went to bed, and the doors to the backyard – you know, where there was that fountain – would have been open. The intruder must have climbed the wall, but there was no physical evidence anywhere, and the neighbours didn’t notice anything.’
As Quinn spoke, Lieutenant Perez appeared, and stood behind Leroy. They briefly exchanged greetings.
‘You said it was a closed case,’ said Leroy. ‘Who was charged?’
‘There were two suspects,’ Quinn explained. He clicked the mouse and two mug shots appeared on the screen.
Leroy inched forward.
‘I know one of those faces.’
‘Which?’