by Paul Bishop
“I knew you would be at the federal building.”
Fey's eyes widened, and she raised her eyebrows. “Having me followed again?”
“No. You've proven too savvy in the past.”
“Then how did you know?”
“I have a client who wants to talk to you,” Wyatt said instead of answering.
“This is your favor?”
“Yes. My client is in prison. San Quentin.”
“The Q?”
“Yes. I know this will greatly inconvenience you, especially in the middle of a murder investigation.”
Fey laughed. “You expect me to go now?”
“Yes.”
Fey stood up. “I'm sorry, Wyatt. I know I owe you a favor. Talk to me again when this investigation is over.”
“My client has found God. He wants to confess and atone for his sins.”
“Is he maintaining he's innocent as well?”
“Of the crime for which he was convicted, yes.”
“Him and every other inmate in the Q, and every other state penitentiary. They've all found God, and they're all innocent. There are no guilty men in prison.”
“I'm serious, Fey.”
“I can't go flying up to San Quentin in the middle of a homicide investigation.”
“I don't think it should wait.”
Fey bowed her head and shook it. “I'll bite. Why shouldn't it wait.”
Devon Wyatt paused for effect as if he were playing to a jury in a courtroom. “Because my client is Eldon Dodge.”
TWENTY TWO
Whip Whitman looked at Fey through squinted eyes. He finished polishing his round-rimmed glasses and fitted them back over his ears. “Is Wyatt trying to run some kind of scam?”
Fey parted her hands in front of her in a gesture of exasperation. “Hard to tell, but he must have an agenda.”
“He always has an agenda,” Monk said.
“But so do we,” Fey said. “It doesn’t mean they have to be in conflict.”
Fey and Monk were sitting in Whitman's office at the rear of the RHD squad room. It was a closed-door session. Fey laid everything out for Whitman, including Ellis Kavanaugh's money, the codicil in Kavanaugh's will, the possible connection she had uncovered between Kavanaugh and Bianca, Freddie Mackerbee's reaction when he discovered the money was from a thirty year old robbery involving Eldon Dodge, and now Devon Wyatt's forcefully presented request. The only thing she held back was the still unthinkable possibility of somehow being related to Jenna Kavanaugh.
Whitman rubbed a long-fingered hand across his chin. “I was warned about you,” he said. A slight upturn at the corners of his mouth took insult out of the words.
“Warned?” Fey asked.
“I was told whatever you get involved in is never simple.”
Monk gave a short chortle.
Fey gave him a sharp look. “Thanks, partner.”
“Anytime.”
“I was also warned about the banter,” Whitman said. This time he wasn't as amused. “What do you want to do?”
“I don't think we have a choice,” Fey said. “I have to talk to Dodge.”
“How are you going to get there?”
Fey checked her watch. “If I contact Air Support Division, maybe they'll fly me to Q in the fixed wing. I could be there and back in eight hours.”
Whitman was nodding his head. “This thing smells of wild goose chasing, but let's take the chance. I can't see a downside.”
Fey turned to Monk. “You’ll keep everybody pushing while I'm gone?”
“Absoluetly.”
“Keep Alphabet and Brindle working the composite. If they get a lead, organize a follow-up. Don't let anyone get hurt rushing into something.”
“Yes, mother.” Monk said. “What about Hammer and Nails?”
“They should stay on Ferris Jackson. If they go off on a tangent, it's okay. They know what they're doing.” Fey thought for a moment and came to another decision. “Can you go to Hollywood Park and find out what really happened when Ellis Kavanaugh was trampled. There has to be more to the story.”
“Leave it with me,” Monk said.
Fey took a penetrating look at her second-in-command's strong features etched in ebony-colored skin. His slim body and shiny, shaven scalp gave him an sleek appearance. Over the years, Fey had discovered there was more to Monk than the wrapping. He was steady. True blue. A rock in any storm. He had always been there for Fey, and he always would be. He wasn't glamorous, but he was the magnetic force holding together the spinning orbits of the other team members.
“One day, partner,” Fey said, “we're going to get a case that only goes in one direction at a time.”
“Never happen,” Monk said. “We're Chubby Checkerized. Everything we do, we do with a twist.”
“Just make sure it all gets straightened out in the end,” Whitman told them.
***
“I don't like handling sloppy seconds,” Brindle told her partner. On her toes, she bounced up the few steps leading to the offices of Citadel Productions, the company who owned the crime scene warehouse.
“Sorry for volunteering us” Alphabet said, lumbering after her. “My tongue got ahead of my brain.”
Brindle paused on the entry, passing on the obvious comeback. Instead, she turned to Alphabet with a frown. “If you ask me, Hammer and Nails get far too much rope.” This was the real issue.
Alphabet shrugged his simian-like shoulders. “As long as they keep coming up with the goods, nobody is going to rein them in. You have to admit they did a great job with the composite. I wanted the chance to take it further.”
“They did do a good job, but it wasn't anything we couldn't have done.”
Alphabet shrugged.
“I'm serious,” Brindle was insistent.
“I know you are,” Alphabet said. “But your pride and ego are talking. You may not like Hammer and Nails getting all the kudos, but it doesn't alter the fact they are the go-to team. We've got a way to go to match them.”
“Following up on their leads is not going to help.”
“It will if things pan out under our control.”
“They'll still get the credit.”
“Then perhaps we better get this cleared up and earn some of our own.”
Across the street, the blue roof and architecturally interesting lines of the Pacific Design Center contrasted with the white stucco of the art drecko building the detectives were about to enter.
As a city, West Hollywood was more trendy than cutting edge. The area of Los Angeles Brindle and Alphabet were visiting, which was a few blocks east of West Hollywood, could not help being influenced by its faux-arty neighbor. Taste had been replaced by hip, and what was hip this morning was bland by noon.
Brindle straighten Alphabet's tie, wishing she could do something about the way he tied it with the back coming out longer than the front.
“What?” he said, touching the tie himself.
“Nothing,” she said, and turned to open the door. If somebody had told her two years ago she would come to enjoy working with a fat, bald, Jewish guy, who looked like a Bassett hound and dressed like an unmade bed, she would have laughed hysterically. But times change, and so do people.
Alphabet had never made a pass at her. He liked her, even fancied her. She knew he did. But he always remained a gentleman, as if she were somehow beyond his reach. It was beginning to bug her. She really couldn't see herself in bed with him, could she? Then why had she started feeling incomplete when he wasn't around?
Inside the carved, hardwood front door of the main building was an entrance to a hair salon on the left and an open glass door leading to an antique shop on the right. Straight ahead another wooden door bore the Citadel Productions logo. Alphabet opened it and found a flight of stairs leading to the second floor. Brindle led the way up. Behind her, Alphabet's eyes appreciated the definition of her nylon-encased calf muscles.
When he first started working with Brindle,
he felt clumsy around her fragile beauty, but she had proven over time to be anything but fragile. They had kicked butt side-by-side on several occasions. The sight of her still took his breath away, but at least he could be around her now and not make a fool of himself like a tongue-tied high school kid.
Nice Jewish boys were not supposed to bring exotic black women home to mother, even supposing in his wildest dreams she would come. Alphabet didn't care what his mother thought, but he didn't ever want Brindle to laugh at him, or disappear like a wraith, if he let her know how he felt. Better all-around to keep everything inside.
At the top of the stairs a plump receptionist in jeans and a sweatshirt sat behind a desk. She guarded the entrance to a corridor of offices on the right, and two larger offices, with front facing windows, to the left. There were framed movie posters on the walls with obscure titles and lots of close-ups of women screaming.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asked. She had a throaty voice. Alphabet figured she would sound sexy as hell on the phone.
Brindle displayed her badge. “I'm Detective Jones. This is my partner, Detective Cohen.” She nodded toward Alphabet. “We'd like to talk to Mr. Avery.” Brindle had found the name of the production company's owner in the original murder book started by the Hollywood homicide detectives.
“I'm Janice Hancock, Mr. Avery's assistant. Is this about what happened at the warehouse? We've already had detectives talk to us. We haven't used the place in ages.”
Brindle smiled tightly. “This is a follow-up. I'm sure you understand the seriousness of the investigation.”
“If you tell me what you want, perhaps we can avoid disturbing Mr. Avery.”
Brindle had little patience for receptionists or assistants who thought they had a right to know what you wanted to talk to their bosses about. She looked pointedly at the movie posters on the wall, her face clearly showing what she thought of them. “I'm sure Mr. Avery can spare a moment from closing his next major motion picture deal. We'd prefer to talk directly with him.”
Janice Hancock dug her heels in. “He's a very busy man.”
Brindle leaned forward. “So am I,” she said, ignoring the ambiguity of the statement. Without comment, she walked past the reception desk and headed for the front offices.
Janice Hancock moved to stop her, but Alphabet's bulk suddenly blocked her way.
“Don't bother yourself,” Alphabet said kindly. “There's no stopping her when she gets in one of her moods.”
Janice relaxed back into her chair, looking sulky.
Brindle moved between the closed doors of the two front offices. Neither door had a name on the outside, but she didn't hesitate. Opening the door on the right, she saw a slender man in his forties, with a clipped beard, talking on the telephone. To compensate for his receding hairline, he had grown his hair long in back and gathered it together in a short ponytail. Very Hollywood. Very producer-like. This had to be Martin Avery.
Startled by the intrusion, Avery covered the mouthpiece of the phone with the palm of a hand, showing annoyance. He then began to absorb Brindle's beauty. “Casting for Bitches' Night Out isn't until two this afternoon,” he said. “And where's Janice? You should have checked in with her and left your resume.”
Brindle displayed her badge. Avery held up his free hand.
“No, you're not right for the cop,” he said. “We need somebody more butch. Perhaps, if you're nice to me, you might have a chance at playing the maid. She dies in the first fifteen minutes, but it's a glorious death. See Janice, she'll give you the lines.” He swiveled his chair, continuing to talk on the phone.
Brindle pulled the phone jack out of the wall and spun Avery's chair forward.
This time Avery was angry. “I told you, you're not butch enough for the cop. I'm not impressed by method acting.”
“I am Detective Jones, LAPD Robbery-Homicide. I need to ask you some questions about the warehouse your company owns.”
“No. No. No.” Avery shook his head. He stood up, grabbing Brindle's arm. “The character's name is Cleopatra Smith. Jones has already been used. Now, get out of my office. You actors get more and more brazen every day.”
Brindle looked at the hand gripping her arm. Avery ignored the danger sign. Turning Brindle to escort her from the room, he suddenly yelped in pain as Brindle twisted his thumb back, freeing her arm.
With Avery on his toes, Brindle swung him back into his chair. She shoved her face toward Avery's. “Is this butch enough for you?”
Alphabet had stepped into the office. “Easy, girl,” he said softly.
When Avery tried to talk, Brindle twisted his thumb harder. Avery's body arched. She put a finger from her free hand to her lips, and Avery fell silent in his pain.
Displaying her badge again, Brindle lessened her pain/compliance hold just enough so Avery could concentrate. “I am a real detective, not some Tinseltown bimbo who can't wait to give you a blow job to get a part in a fourth-rate slasher flick. Do you understand?”
Avery nodded his head.
“My partner and I are investigating the murder of the woman found in your Hollywood warehouse, and we have a few questions we need to ask you. Now, if we're done dancing, perhaps you can answer those questions and get back to talking to your coke connection.”
“How did you know . . .” Avery trailed off, caught in the implications of his words.
Brindle chuckled. She released Avery's thumb, and stepped back. He slumped in his executive leather chair, sweat beading heavily across his forehead. Janice Hancock was standing in the office doorway behind Alphabet. She had a knuckle in her mouth.
“Get out of here!” Avery yelled at her. “I'll deal with this. You're fired.”
Brindle stepped forward. Avery snatched his injured thumb and put it behind his back. “Sorry, Janice. Forget what I said. How about getting us some coffee?”
Brindle gave Avery a hard look. “If I find out you've fired her, or given her a bad time in any way, I'll be back, and we'll see if you can still make films without opposable thumbs.”
Avery tugged his pony tail. “Sorry for the misunderstanding.” He struggled to rearrange himself more comfortably in his chair. “What can I do to help?”
“Did your company ever produce a film called Bad Blood?” Brindle asked.
“Two years ago. It was about a vampire with ulcers who survives by mercy killing women suffering with AIDs.”
“How uplifting,” Alphabet said.
“Hey, we made the film for five-hundred-thousand dollars. It grossed over three million going straight to video in America, and another fifteen million in worldwide release.”
“So, it never financially made it into the black?”
Avery laughed. “Citadel Productions lost its shirt on paper.”
“How many stunt men did you employ on the film?”
“Stunt men?” Avery laughed again. “You must be joking. You don't get stunt men when you're making a film for five-hundred-thousand. What you get is people who are about as sharp as Nerf balls who are willing to fall off very tall buildings in unsafe conditions because they think it will make them a star.”
“At least you're honest,” Alphabet said.
Avery looked stricken. “I wouldn’t survive in this town if I was.”
Janice came back with the coffee. Alphabet slid a folded copy of the composite into Brindle's hand. She shook it open and slid it onto Avery's desk.
“Does this resemble any of your Nerf balls?”
Both Avery and Janice leaned forward. Brindle watched Avery for reaction, while Alphabet watched Janice. There was no verbal or physical communication between the two detectives, but the feeling between them was fizzing.
Avery's expression didn't change, but Alphabet saw Janice's eyes widen.
Avery pushed the composite away. “Nope, don't know him. Nerf balls come and go. I never pay attention to them.”
“How about you?” Alphabet asked Janice.
Her hesitation
answered the question.
Avery turned to look at her. “If you know the guy, tell them. We don’t need grief from someone screwing around in our properties.”
“It looks like a guy I dated.”
“Did he work on Bad Blood?” Brindle asked.
Janice nodded her head. “A couple of other titles as well. We probably have a publicity package on him. Let me see if I can find it.”
Janice left the room, but returned shortly. She was clutching an eight-by-ten glossy. She put it next to the composite. It wasn't a perfect match, but there was a striking resemblance, same blond crewcut, same long nose.
“Do you still see him?” Brindle asked, comparing the photo to the composite.
“No,” Janice said forcefully.
Brindle gave her a sharp glance. “Why not?”
“He was good looking, but weird. Always talking about bondage and stuff. I think he was more interested in my ten-year-old daughter than in me.”
Brindle felt her heart kick up a gear. “What was his name?”
“Ricky Preston. I'm sure it was a stage name, but if he told me his real name, I don't remember it.”
“Do you have his address?”
“The twice we went out, he picked me up. But his agent's number is probably on the back of the publicity photo.”
Brindle flipped the still over, saw the agent's information. She showed it to Alphabet.
“Wait for backup, or go it alone?” Alphabet asked his partner. He grinned.
“You can wait for backup,” Brindle told him, with violence in her eyes. “I'm going to go find this butt-wipe and pull his lungs out through his nose.”
“Now, that's butch,” Avery said. “Are you sure you don't want to be in pictures?”
TWENTY THREE
Devon Wyatt wasn't about to travel in a police department single-engine plane, which may or may not get them to their destination without any unscheduled hard landings. As soon as Fey telephoned him and explained her plans for getting to San Quentin, Wyatt swept them aside and swung into action.
Within thirty minutes, Fey was sitting in the back of a limousine next to Wyatt on the way to the airport where Wyatt's personal jet waited.