Wild L.A.

by Tripp Ellis

  The home was L-shaped, and large windows blended indoor and outdoor spaces. The structure wrapped around the pool that was landscaped with palm trees and a swim-up bar. Gorgeous beauties sunned themselves on lounges by the pool. These were no doubt Nikki’s girls.

  A stairway led down from the patio to the beach. The gate guarding the steps was unlocked.

  We climbed the staircase, emerging poolside, acting like we belonged there.

  The act didn’t last long.

  A blonde with ringlets and oversized sunglasses barked at us, “Who the fuck are you?”

  24

  The blonde was upset. She had every right to be. She sat up in the lounge chair on her elbows, sunscreen and sweat beading on her tanned skin. She had a flat stomach, and the seams of her bikini screamed for mercy against her shapely endowments. She was mid-30s, but her body was indiscernible from the 22-year-olds lounging around her.

  This had to be Nikki Griffin.

  The angry blonde shouted, “Quinton!”

  I had no doubt in my mind that Quinton was her muscle. I flashed my badge, trying to defuse the situation. “Deputy Wild. We spoke on the phone.”

  She snarled at me. “And I told you I had nothing to say. You’re trespassing. Leave now, before I have you thrown in jail.”

  Quinton stormed from the house, marching around the pool. A quick glance told me he wasn’t anyone I wanted to mess with. The sun glared off his bald head. The dark sport-sunglasses he wore concealed his eyes. His body was thick and round, and his head disappeared into his beefy shoulders. “Is there a problem here?”

  “No problem,” I said. “Just asking the lady some questions.”

  “I don’t think the lady wants to answer them.”

  “Get him out of here,” Nikki commanded.

  Quinton reached to grab my arm.

  I jerked away. “I’m leaving.”

  I took a step back and raised my hands innocently as Quinton kept pushing toward me.

  “If you want my advice, Deputy,” Nikki said, “go back to wherever it is you came from. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Quinton was a wall of meat pushing towards us. JD and I maneuvered to the stairs and made our way down the beach.

  Quinton followed along, locking the gate behind us. “Everything above the high water line is private property. I will call the police if you don’t get walking.”

  “Good to see you, too! Have a nice afternoon,” I said, my voice thick with sarcasm.

  We headed back to the public area, plodding through the soft sand, listening to the gulls squawk overhead and the waves crash against the shore.

  “What do you think she’s hiding?” JD asked.

  “I’d sure like to know.”

  We walked down the beach and watched a photographer shoot models for a moment. Then we climbed the steps up the hillside to the parking lot. I called for a Zoomber, and we made the twenty-mile drive down PCH to West Hollywood. It was a little too late to stop by Desmond Ross’s office in Santa Monica and poke the bear.

  The sun hung low over the water, and the sky filled with glorious amber light. The kind of light that made Los Angeles famous. It was the ideal time of day to have a photoshoot or film a movie scene—known as magic hour—that limited window of time where the universe provided the quality of light you just couldn’t match with any type of synthetic lighting.

  By the time we got back to the Château, I was starving. JD and I went up to the room, changed for the evening, and headed back down to the restaurant. There were tons of great places to eat in LA, but I didn’t want to take the time to pick one out, get seated, and wait to be served. Besides, the food wasn’t bad in the hotel.

  The hostess seated us at a table in the corner. A waitress swung by, introduced herself, delivered glasses of water, and asked if we wanted any appetizers.

  “Just give us a minute,” JD said, looking over the menu.

  “Absolutely, sir. I’ll be back to check on you shortly.”

  I knew what I wanted, so I took the opportunity to text Bhodi Hendrix. It was about time I had a few words with the drug dealer. [In from out of town. Looking to party. Blaine sent me. Can you help?]

  I hoped Zach wasn’t lying and that using Blaine as a reference was valid.

  I set the phone on the table and waited for a return. A few minutes later, the phone buzzed with a text from Bhodi. [Blaine owes me money.]

  [Sounds like Blaine’s problem, not mine.]

  A minute went by with no response.

  I texted again. [No worries. I guess I’ll take my business elsewhere.]

  The waitress returned to take our order. Jack ordered the linguini with clam sauce, and I opted for the steak frites again. Call me a creature of habit.

  25

  Jack’s head was on a swivel, surveying the crowd. There were quite a few recognizable faces in the restaurant.

  We were halfway through the meal when I got a text back from Bhodi. [I’ll be at Prism around 11 PM. What do you need?]

  [A ball.] It was a reference to an eight-ball (3.5 grams of cocaine).

  [Don’t waste my time.] The amount obviously wasn’t enough for him.

  [Who am I? Tony Montana?]

  [That’s exactly it. I don’t know who you are.]

  [I can do a half-zip. As long as it’s glacial.] Slang for half an ounce, and pure as arctic ice.

  There was another long pause.

  [Never been stepped on.] It was an assurance the product hadn’t been cut. Half the stuff on the street was cut with substances that ranged from relatively harmless to extremely toxic—laxatives, laundry detergent, boric acid. Not stuff you really want to be putting up your nose. [11 PM. Cash. No bullshit.]

  [$$$?]

  [If you have to ask…]

  [I’ll be there.]

  [Text me when you are in the club.]

  A grin curled on my face.

  “Got a hot date?” JD asked.

  I frowned at him. “No. Just set up a drug buy. We’re going to see what Bhodi knows.”

  We finished our meal and headed up to the room. We had time to kill before hitting Prism, and Jack poured himself a glass of whiskey. I hadn’t told him the story about how I acquired the liquor.

  “Want a drink?”

  “Not yet.”

  JD’s face crinkled.

  “I want to stay sharp for the meeting with Bhodi.”

  “Suit yourself,“ Jack said, tipping back the glass.

  After he was sufficiently lubricated, we left the hotel and hit the strip.

  Prism was a techno club with booming base, swirling lights, and hordes of pretty people. Fog machines billowed smoke onto the dance floor, and spotlights slashed the hazy air. Strobe lights flickered.

  I didn’t want to blow our cover, so I didn’t use my all-access pass. I kept the badge in my pocket. The line wasn’t too bad, but the $40 cover was lame.

  We mingled through the dense club, making our way to the bar. JD ordered a round of drinks, strictly to maintain our cover. I texted Bhodi. [We’re here. Where are you?]

  He buzzed back a moment later. [I’m upstairs in the back, sitting on the couch underneath the fake Picasso.]

  [Be right there.]

  I nudged JD, and we drifted through the club. We spiraled up the staircase and made our way around the upper floor. The center was cutaway, allowing a view of the dance floor below. The upstairs had a calmer, more chill vibe.

  There were two smaller bars rimming the outer wall of the second floor. In the far corner there was a lounge area with couches and coffee tables.

  There was a guy sitting on a couch under the fake Picasso with a couple of hotties—a brunette and a redhead. I assumed that was Bhodi.

  He had shaggy blonde hair, wore a white dress shirt with a red rose pattern embroidered on the left breast and black slacks. The babes on either side wore tight dresses with high hemlines that accentuated thei
r stunning legs.

  "You Bhodi?" I asked as I approached.

  "You Blaine's friend?"

  I nodded.

  He climbed off the couch and shook my hand, then shook JD's. He must have mistaken JD for the famous ‘80s rockstar. A wide grin curled on Bhodi's face. "Why didn't you tell me you were with the legend?"

  JD grinned and went along with it.

  "Big fan," Bhodi said. "You need a half zip, right?"

  I nodded.

  "Let's do this somewhere more private." He motioned for us to follow him.

  Bhodi led us to a hallway by the bathrooms. The dark corridor was empty, not like the bathrooms downstairs that had lines around the corner.

  I flashed a wad of cash. “Will this cover it?”

  “And then some.” Bhodi glanced around, then dug into his pocket. He pulled out half an ounce of cocaine in small baggies and slapped them into my hand. He snatched the cash and looked it over, counting it.

  The flash of my shiny gold badge ruined the party. Bhodi didn't notice the fine print.

  His eyes widened, and he launched into a sprint.

  I grabbed him and slammed him against the wall.

  JD grabbed the wad of cash from his hand.

  "Mother fucker!” Bhodi grumbled. "See, this is why I don't do business with people I don't know." His eyes blazed into JD, still thinking he was the famous ‘80s rocker. "And what's your involvement in this? Are you guys fucking with me?"

  "Nope," I said.

  A snarl twisted his face. “This is bullshit. Talk to Paxton.”

  “Who’s Paxton?” I asked.

  "You know what, I'm not saying shit to you guys without a lawyer."

  “You tell me what I want to know, I might consider letting you go, for a small fee."

  His eyes narrowed at me. "You assholes are all the same."

  “You sold drugs to Mia Sophia,” I said.

  "I didn’t sell shit to nobody."

  "You just sold half an ounce to me. I'm sure when the lab tests this it's going to turn out to be more than just baby laxative." I paused for effect. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

  Bhodi's eyes burned into me.

  He looked at JD. "Your music sucks, by the way.”

  "Start talking," I said.

  “I’m not saying shit until I talk to Paxton. You’re LA County, right? Don’t you assholes talk?”

  JD and I exchanged a curious glance.

  “Yeah. We talk,” I said, rolling with it.

  “Then why are you fucking with me?”

  “Because I want answers. So start talking. Did you sell Mia Sophia drugs?”

  "Okay, yeah. Maybe I sold her something. I sell a lot of people something."

  "Something laced with fentanyl?"

  His face twisted. "What!?"

  "I don't know if you've been keeping up with current events, but Mia Sophia died of a drug overdose."

  “I thought she drowned.”

  “There was enough fentanyl in her system to kill a large elephant.”

  “She didn't get it from me. My shit is 100% Grade A pure. See for yourself."

  "Oh, I intend to test this out," I said. "Do you know Desmond Ross?"

  "I know a lot of people.”

  “You know, I have a theory," I said.

  "I don't really give a shit.”

  "Oh, you will. You want to know what my theory is?"

  "Not really."

  "I think somebody paid you to sell bad drugs to Mia Sophia because they wanted her to keep her mouth shut. That sound familiar?"

  "Sounds like you watch too much TV."

  “Who is Paxton?"

  "Fuck you both. You know what? Arrest me. See what happens.”

  "I bet you've got enough product on you to go away for the foreseeable future."

  It was all bullshit. I had no jurisdiction.

  Bhodi clammed up and just stared at me.

  "Last chance,” I said. “Are you sure there's nothing else you'd like to say?"

  A flashlight blinded my eyes. A silhouetted figure shouted, “Is there a problem here?”

  26

  I couldn’t see shit with the flashlight in my eyes. “I’m a police officer,” I said, the beam drawing closer.

  “LAPD. Let’s see your badge,” Mr. Flashlight said. He was holding a badge of his own.

  I released Bhodi and flashed the shadowy figure my badge. He drew closer and examined it. “You’re a long way from home.”

  He clicked off the flashlight, and it took a second for my eyes to adjust.

  He was still holding his badge for me to see. The guy was in plain clothes—brown leather jacket, dress shirt, pants. I knew right away he was a detective. He had shaggy brown hair, a mustache, and a day’s worth of stubble. There was a faded scar on his right brow and cheek, like someone had taken a broken bottle to his face during a bar fight at some point in the distant past.

  “Beat it,” the cop said to Bhodi.

  I knew what was happening, but I decided to push the issue anyway. “I just busted him on a drug buy.”

  “Like I said, you are well out of your jurisdiction. And he’s one of mine.”

  “A confidential informant?”

  “Yes. And I don’t appreciate you two dildos fucking with my CI.”

  I decided to take the political approach. “My apologies. I’m just trying to track down information.”

  “Information about what?”

  His eyes flicked to JD. “Hey, aren’t you…?”

  JD decided to play it straight. “No. But I get that all the time.”

  “What kind of information do you need?” the detective asked.

  “You just let that guy sell cocaine in the club with impunity?” I asked.

  “It’s a cost of doing business. I let him do his thing, he rats out bigger dealers that come along. You know how it works.”

  I nodded. “It just sucks that scumbags like that get a free pass.”

  “So I can bust bigger scumbags.” He redirected the conversation. “Why are you messing with my CI?”

  “You’re Paxton?” I asked.

  “Yeah, who are you? And why are you here?”

  “Mia Sophia’s mother asked me to look into her death.”

  “There’s nothing to look into,” he said. “And you’re way out of your territory. I don’t like people stepping on my toes. How would you feel if I came down to wherever it is you’re from and started snooping around?”

  “I can’t say that I’d like it.”

  “Well, now that we understand each other.” Paxton looked us over. He stared at JD for a long moment, still confused by his resemblance. “What makes you think Mia’s death wasn’t accidental?”

  I told him about the fentanyl.

  “I read the autopsy report. It didn’t say anything about fentanyl,” Paxton said.

  “I have sources that say different.”

  He shook his head and sighed. “Then, your sources are wrong.” He looked perturbed. “Who are these sources?”

  “I can’t say exactly. They come from a trusted source.”

  He looked at me incredulously, lifting his brow. “So, you heard it from a friend, who heard it from a friend, who heard it from a friend? That might pass for police work down in the Keys. But it doesn’t fly here.”

  “Just following the leads,” I said.

  He surveyed us for a long moment. “Look, if there’s anything I can do to help you two out, call me. But don’t go doing things on your own without approval. You got it?”

  I nodded. “Fair enough.”

  Paxton handed me his card. “I’ll look into this autopsy report thing for you. If something looks funny, I’ll let you know. How do I get in touch with you?”

  I gave him my number and handed him the bag of cocaine I had taken from his informant.

  We left the club and stepped onto the sidewalk. Cars buzzed up and down Sunset.

  "Well, he was a nice guy," JD said in a sar
donic tone.

  "I wouldn't like somebody messing with one of our informants either," I said. “But I sure would like to see Bhodi get his ass nailed. A guy like that belongs behind bars."

  "I have no doubt that guy will get what's coming to him,” JD said. “It just may take longer than either of us would like.”

  “When I brought up the fentanyl with Bhodi, I could see in his eyes that he didn't know what I was talking about."

  "It happens,” JD said with a shrug. “Sometimes somebody down the road cuts the product, and you don't know what's in it." JD started walking west down the sidewalk. "Come on. I want to show you something."

  "Where are we going?"

  A sly smile curled on JD's face. "You'll see."

  We walked downhill, past bars, restaurants, outdoor cafés, and adult novelty stores. It didn't take long for me to figure out where we were going.

  I texted Isabella along the way and asked her to send me background information on Detective Paxton. I wanted to make sure he was on the up and up.

  It’s not unusual for a confidential informant to get a pass as long as he keeps the officers in the loop and provides a constant stream of fresh busts. Departments like the process because it keeps their arrest record high. Good numbers mean they’re doing their job. It lets the politicians point to a statistic and say, “See. We are tough on crime. The neighborhood is getting safer!”

  Who knows? Maybe letting a small fish go to catch a bigger fish is in the best interest of the community. But rotten fish start to stink pretty damn quick. And Bhodi Hendrix was pretty rotten.

  The pink and blue neon glow of Girls Unlimited bathed us as we passed by. The sultry neon outlines beckoned men into the den of iniquity.

  “This is the place I was telling you about,” I said.

  JD gazed at the signage. “Looks like my kind of place. The band will love this. We’ll have to party here one night.”

  I was surprised JD didn’t want to immediately venture inside.

  We kept heading west, past the Serpent Room—the intimate nightclub that had witnessed the demise of more than one celebrity icon. On the corner of San Torino and Sunset, JD motioned to the marquis above Sour Mash. Black letters spelled Wild Fury, Fri. Nt.