Eats to Die For! (27 page)

If anybody inside my head has a wizard idea, this would be an excellent time to say so. No? It figures.

But Louie, for some reason, was smiling at me.

“You know, Dave, you can be a genius at times.”

“Thanks. What did I say?” I asked.

“You said you could only get Hanley up if you lit a fire under him. So, we'll light a fire.”

“Louie, that's an expression.”

“Think about it, though,” she said. “We set a fire, the fire department comes, we ask them to call your friend with the police, and we get out of here.”

“Arson is illegal, you know.”

“Only if it's proven.”

I looked at her, hoping to find some indication she was joking, and finding none.

“Have you ever thought about going into politics?”

“Occasionally, but that's no matter. We have to start a fire.”

“This place will go up like tinder!”

“Not if we start a small one.”

“Okay, fine, all right, let's say we agree to start a fire. How do we do it? I don't smoke. Do you smoke?”

“No,” she said. “I wish Regina was here. She smoked like a chimney. Do you think Hanley smokes?”

“I didn't see him with a cigarette. Hey, maybe Bedekian in the office has matches?”

That's good thinking, kid
, Bogie piped up.
Go borrow matches from the manager right before a fire breaks out
.

“I have an idea, Dave,” Louie said, taking off her shirt and then her bra.

“Louie, please don't tell me that your ultimate danger jones is to make love in a burning building,” I moaned.

“Sounds kind of sweet, but this isn't for you,” she replied, then she put her Temple shirt back on, but only fastened the bottom button, which made her look like the cover model for the
Theotologics Today
swimsuit issue.

I couldn't help it; I was getting hard. Louie didn't notice, however; instead she stepped to the window of the room, slid open the curtains, and peered out.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“A smoker.”

About three minutes later, her face broke into a grin and she turned around, winked at me, and then went outside. Barely a minute later she returned with a lit cigarette.

“What did you have to do for that?” I asked.

“Less than you think,” she said. “Now, get that wastebasket over there and find some paper.”

The ancient L.A. city phone book on the desk made the most obvious paper source, so I started ripping out thin pages and dropping them in the basket. She then took the lit cigarette and held the end to them, and in no time, we had quite a little camp fire going.

Picking the basket up carefully, Louie carried it over to the window and stuck the bottom of the curtains in the blaze, igniting them. Then she threw the burning basket on top of the bed and opened the door of the room.

“Next door, hurry. We have to wake the old man up.”

Palmer Hanley proved so hard to awaken that, if not for his snoring, I might have assumed he'd at last reached the final fade-out while we were gone.

Finally he opened his eyes. “I was dreaming,” he muttered.

“Sorry, sir, but we have to leave,” I said.

“Again? How this time, another flatbed truck?”

“Nope,” Louie said. “This time by fire engine.”

Hanley shook his head.

“Thirty years you sit in a room and read and watch TV, and then you get a lifetime of adventure in one day. All right, let's roll. Wait…I smell smoke.”

“That's why the fire truck's coming. We'll explain later.”

The three of us ran outside and watched as smoke billowed out from under the door of room twelve. A few moments later, Bedekian came running out of the office, his arms waving.

“What the hell did you do to my motel?” he screamed.

“We didn't do anything!” Louie lied. “It must be the crappy wiring in this place.”

“Wiring my ass! I'm calling the police!”

“The fire department might be a better choice, don't you think?” I asked.

“Shit!” Bedekian cried, running back into the office and the fire in the room grew larger.

The first siren was heard off in the distance about three minutes later. Meanwhile the woman at the motel, presumably Mrs. Bedekian, ran out with a bucket of water, which she threw through the door of the room onto the flames, then ran back to get more. By the time the first fire engine had shown up, flames were largely out.

Add a successful arson fire to the list of things I can't do.

Even though there was little left of the blaze but smoldering blankets, the firefighters were too busy to be pulled aside. I thought Louie might have a little more luck gaining their attention, but even she was not able to distract them. I was starting to think that this whole, dangerous adventure was so much wasted effort, when another vehicle with a siren arrived.

It was an unmarked police car which screeched to a halt in the Ali Baba's parking lot, and at first sight it filled me with hope. Then I saw the driver get out.

It was Detective Hector Mendoza.

“Oh, holy Mother of God!” he said upon seeing me.

“You know, Hector, I understand that the LAPD is understaffed for a city of this size,” I said, “but isn't there anyone else?”

“This is my turf, asshole,” he replied. “Manager called me. Said he had a firebug. So are you into arson now, Beauchamp?”

“It was the wiring in this garbage hotel. Just look at the place. Hey, where's your new helper?”

“Back at the station.”

Louie came up and asked, “Are you LAPD?”

“Yeah, who are you?”

“Luisa Sandoval,
L.A. Independent Journal
, and I need you to take me back to Windsor Studios.”

“Louie, don't!” I cried.

“Windsor Studios…what the hell are you talking about?”

“Hector, look,” I broke in, “take us back to the stationhouse. I promise I'll explain everything there. I'll even tell you who killed Regina Fontaine.”

“What the hell do you know about that?” Mendoza shouted. “Oh, I get it, you did it, that's how you know.”

“Stop being such a Mexican moron, would you?” I yelled, and while I would have loved to blame that one on one of the regular voices in my head, I'm afraid it was original.

But I was beyond caring. “Take us in, book us if you must! It might prove to be the only place we're safe!”

Mendoza shook his head. “I really don't get it,” he said, “but I'll be happy to book you, Beauchamp. Get in the car. You too, lady.”

“And the old guy, he goes with us,” I said.

“Fine, whatever.”

We started to pile into Mendoza's car when Palmer Hanley said, “You promised me a ride in the fire truck!”

“Sorry, but this is the best I could do,” I said, pulling him onto the seat beside me. Louie got in next and closed the door.

“Whatever all this is, it better be good,” Mendoza said as he drove out of the parking lot.

“When we get to the stationhouse,” I said, “I want to call Colfax.”

“What's Colfax got to do with this?” the detective asked.

“For one thing, he's investigating another murder related to the same case.”

Mendoza suddenly pulled over to the curb and stopped the car.

Turning around to us, he said, “Another murder? All right, I want to hear what this is all about, and I want to hear it right now, and I don't want to hear it from you, Beauchamp. I want to hear it from real people. You,
Independent Journal
, what's this about?”

As though she were dictating copy for a news story, Louie related the case cogently, intelligently, and most impressively, grammatically.

When she was finished, Mendoza said, “You're telling me that old dude is Palmer Hanley?”

“Ninety-five next August,” Hanley offered.

“And the Temple of Theotologics is putting crystal meth in the hamburgers?”

“
Some
kind of meth, is my guess,” Louie responded. “We need to get a sample to be sure, but now that the police are involved, that shouldn't be a problem.”

“And two people were murdered to keep everyone from finding out about the drugged burgers?”

“Two at least, that we know of,” I said.

“And you knew about this and didn't come to the police until now,” Mendoza snapped.

“It's a little hard to contact your friendly neighborhood patrolman when you've been kidnapped and are being held against your will. I asked Mr. Zarian, the guy who runs the
Independent Journal
, to contact Colfax, but he didn't. That was before we realized Zarian was in on all of this.”

“I still can't believe that,” Louie said.

“Now that you know everything, Hector,” I said, “you can call Colfax.”

Mendoza snorted. “That's not going to happen.”

“Why? Oh, I get it. You want all the glory for cracking the case yourself.”

“If I can get it, yeah,” Mendoza said. “But even if I don't, I'm not talking to Colfax. That asshole could've helped me when my fitness for this job was being questioned, but he didn't. So fuck Dane Colfax.”

“I think you're being unfair,” I said. “He still keeps tabs on you.”

“I don't give a shit what you think or what Colfax does. We're playing by my rules now.”

“What does
that
mean?” Louie asked, her earlier bravado having dropped.

She actually looked frightened, though if the danger she felt was great enough to have that aphrodisiac affect on her, it would probably be Palmer Hanley who was the lucky man, since he was sitting in between us.

“Here's what's going to happen,” Mendoza said. “I'm going to take the three of you into the station, not as suspects, but as witnesses. We'll get everything you said here down on paper. Then I'll let my superiors decide what to do with you.”

“All right,” Louie said, relieved.

“Fair enough,” I added.

“By the way, shithead,” Mendoza said, pulling away from the curb, “I like your new look. I only wish I'd done it.”

Since the three of us were in the back seat of the car, I reached across Palmer Hanley and took Louie's hand. She didn't pull it away. Then Hanley put his gnarled hand on ours, and there we were: the Three Musketeers. All for one and one for all, riding to the Palms police station.

Somehow, we'd get through this.

My first thought that something might not be right was when Detective Mendoza pulled into a parking garage.

“Is this the station?” I asked. Mendoza didn't answer. He drove the car down, down, down into the lower levels of the parking garage, until we came to a solid wall. There were empty parking spots all around us, but he took none of them.

“What's going on?” Louie asked.

“Special parking,” the detective said, and holding up a sensor of some sort, pointed it at the concrete wall and pressed the button. The wall began to slide to the side. Louie and I looked at each other, and I sensed we were both feeling danger.

“What is this?” I asked, but the opening in the wall was complete, and we drove through.

“You think you're so fucking smart,” Mendoza commented.

“I don't, actually, but where are we going?”

“Where no one can help you.”

We drove further down and then came to a stop. This had to be the deepest parking garage I'd ever encountered.

Mendoza pulled into a space and stopped the car. “Okay, Beauchamp, get out,” he said. “The other two of you stay where you are.”

I looked at Louie who was breathing hard.

“I said move, Beauchamp,” Mendoza shouted, and this time he produced something that strengthened his argument. It was a gun, pointed directly at my chest. I got out of the car, and so did he.

Suddenly I felt the uncontrollable urge to pee.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

So here's where you came in.

LAPD Detective Hector Mendoza, a man with whom I already had a rocky professional relationship, was pointing a gun at my heart in some kind of secret underground bunker several levels below the ground, while my two companions, Louie Sandoval and Palmer Hanley, remained in the back of the police car, peering through the rear window, and I was about to wet myself.

At the moment, there was only one part of this situation I could explain: Hanley and Louie were locked inside the car and couldn't let themselves out. They looked at me helplessly through the rear windshield, which was quickly steaming up from their breath.

“Hector, I really have to pee,” I told Mendoza.

That made him laugh. “Aw, is little baby gonna piss himself? Go ahead.”

My bladder didn't even wait for his permission. I don't recall having wet myself at any point in my adult life, but I simply couldn't stop it. The feel of the hot liquid running down my leg was one I didn't want to re-experience any time soon, either.

“I wish I had a camera,” Mendoza said, grinning, as the reek of urine filled the stifling bunker.

When I was finished, he asked, “Better?”

“Hector,” I said, refusing to let him see the tears that were threatening to form in my eyes, “even you can't be so blinded with hate for me that you'd simply kill me because you've gotten the chance.”

“Oh, how much you don't understand,” Mendoza replied.

That was when I had the epiphany. “Oh, my god. What an idiot I've been.”

“I won't argue.”

“Cable ties.”

“What?”

“Cable ties.” Jack Daniels had said it; some cops use cable ties instead of handcuffs, and Avery Klemmer had been strangled with nylon cable ties.

“You killed Klemmer, didn't you?”

“See? Even you're capable of figuring things out when a gun's pointed at you.”