Lost Dog (A Gideon and Sirius Novel Book 3) (18 page)

CHAPTER 24

SOMETHING IS ROTTEN IN THE STATE OF DENMARK

My sneakers made squishing noises as I walked to my car. Over their sounds I listened to a message Katie Rivera had left on my cell. She spoke in a hushed voice, making it difficult to hear.

“I’m not sure if I should be bothering you with this,” she said, “and you can’t attribute it to me, but I just heard that Heather had been inquiring into a situation where potential embezzling occurred. She was questioning charges submitted by a producer who worked for us. I can’t say any more because I’m here at work, but if you call me on my cell, I’ll fill you in on what details I have.”

I reached for the car’s door handle and opened it. Before taking a seat, I waited for some of the pent-up hot air to escape. I poured some water for Sirius and drank some myself before getting in the car.

My call to Katie Rivera went directly to her voice mail. I told her I was available to talk, and asked her to call whenever it was convenient for her.

On went the AC. It brought relief from the heat but not from what ailed me. The weight I’d tried to ignore all day was back. The Heather Moreland clock was ticking. I wanted to believe she was still alive, and had to operate on that premise. Langston Walker was now an additional weight, but without the time crunch. He had already met his fate. His answers could come in their own time.

I heard back from Katie right before reaching the turnoff for the Garden of Angels, a unique cemetery for abandoned babies. The timing of Katie’s call saved me from having to dwell on baby Rose and her burial plot. If not for Rose, I probably would never have gotten together with Lisbet. I owed that poor little one a debt I could never pay. I could only try and pay it forward with the quick and the dead.

“Is it safe for you to talk?” I asked Katie.

“I hope so. Look, this may be nothing, but I heard this morning that Heather might have caught someone with his hand in the cookie jar.”

“I’m surprised she never mentioned that to you.”

“It was business, not personal. And she was supposedly sworn to secrecy under penalty of death.”

Katie gave a little gasp. “That was a bad choice of words. What I meant to say was that there might have been severe repercussions for her had word of the embezzlement gotten out. Movie studios are famous for hushing up anything that might make them look bad.”

“And how did you hear about Heather’s involvement in this?”

“I’d rather not say. But I do know for a fact that only a few people are even aware of this situation. I can’t even tell you how it’s being dealt with. Maybe there’s already been a resolution. Or maybe everything was swept under the rug.”

“Do you know when Heather became aware of this questionable activity?”

“I’m pretty sure it was recently, like in the last week. In our office Heather is referred to as ‘the IRS.’ Part of her job is going over invoices and receipts associated with our corporate accounts.”

Over the years I knew of several prominent examples of embezzlement in Hollywood. Columbia Pictures president David Begelman had been caught forging checks. And recently, a case of purported embezzling at Paramount Pictures had made headlines.

“So you think this unnamed producer might have been involved in Heather’s disappearance?”

“I’m told he was upset by her inquiries and that he threatened to have her fired. But I suppose it does sound ridiculous that he’d be involved with her vanishing.”

“I wish it did sound ridiculous. What other specifics can you give me?”

“If you come at him, he’ll probably demand that a witch hunt take place here to try to find whoever leaked his name. And everyone knows how close Heather and I are.”

“I’ll cite an anonymous source, and then throw out lots of misdirection. But in order to do that, I’ll need to know everything you know.”

Katie sighed. “If this was anyone but Heather, I never would have called you.”

“I know that.”

She sighed again, and then told me what she’d heard, who might be involved, and what she suspected.

Paul Grauer’s assistant carried on a conversation between the two of us. Grauer was the producer whose invoices Heather Moreland had red-flagged, and he was proving an apparent master in self-preservation. When I got tired of the proxy stonewalling, I told the middleman that without Grauer’s cooperation, I would be forced to contact the Department of Justice and pass on what information I had. Immediately after that, Grauer agreed to a six o’clock meeting.

His offices were in Studio City, about five miles from my house. My hope was that I’d have time to go home and change into my standard uniform of a blue blazer and gray pants, but heavy traffic nixed those plans. As it was, I arrived ten minutes late, wearing my hiking outfit of basketball shoes, jeans, and a T-shirt. I tried unsuccessfully to make myself presentable, but half the trail seemed to have attached itself to my clothing. I’d gotten too much sun during my hike, a no-no for burn victims who’ve had skin grafts. I looked in the rearview mirror and did my best to wipe away the dirt. My face was red, my skin was already chafing, and the keloid scarring on my face looked that much more pronounced.

“Dress for success,” I muttered.

Sirius was snoring in the backseat, which was reason enough for me to let sleeping dogs lie. He doesn’t like Hollywood meetings anyway. I suspect that’s because only three dogs—Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, and Strongheart—have been awarded stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. That’s right, no Toto or Beethoven or Marley. And no Pluto either, I thought, thinking of Angie and Heather Moreland.

It was a secure office building, and I had to check in with a guard before being allowed access to the elevators. Grauer’s production company took up much of the tenth floor. As I walked the halls, I could see that most employees had gone home for the day.

A familiar voice greeted me: “Detective Gideon?”

Grauer’s assistant was a midtwenties male fashion plate. Suddenly I felt even more underdressed than I was. He didn’t extend a hand, perhaps afraid that I might take the gleam out of his manicure. “Please follow me,” he said.

He led me through an office into a meeting room, gestured for me to go inside, and said, “Mr. Grauer will be joining you shortly.”

Fifteen minutes passed before Grauer joined me, and he didn’t come alone. Two men entered the meeting room. Only one of them shook my hand, and only one of them spoke.

“Detective Gideon?” asked the older man. “I’m Saul Levine, Mr. Grauer’s attorney.”

Levine was around sixty. He sported a skunk-stripe hairdo that reminded me of Paulie Walnuts in
The Sopranos
. His shark eyes also reminded me of Paulie.

Grauer took a seat across and away from where I had been seated. He made sure Levine was situated between the two of us. His disapproval of me was apparent by his folded arms and frown. He was forty, but trying to look thirty with his stylish clothes and hipster haircut. James Dean had been dead for more than sixty years, but he still had his imitators.

“As I understand it, Detective Gideon,” said Levine, “you are looking into the disappearance of a Disney employee named Heather Moreland.”

“Correct,” I said. I felt as if I was in the presence of a ventriloquist, but I refrained from asking if I should direct my comments to Jeff Dunham or to his dummy, Walter.

“And for some reason you want to question Mr. Grauer about this disappearance?”

“It’s my understanding that Ms. Moreland identified suspicious invoices and billing statements submitted by Mr. Grauer.”

“And how did you come by this information?”

“It turned up in the course of my investigation.”

“So what you have is hearsay?”

“I prefer to categorize it as a potential lead.”

“It sounds like you’re grasping for straws. And your claims come close to constituting defamation of character.”

“Are you denying that Heather Moreland found irregularities in Mr. Grauer’s billing? And are you contesting that she brought these questionable invoices to her superior?”

“There was a misunderstanding. In case you were wondering, Disney has not filed charges against Mr. Grauer, nor do they intend to.”

“I happen to know your client threatened Heather Moreland. He said he would make her ‘pay’ if word of her findings circulated beyond those she had already made aware.”

Grauer whispered in Levine’s ear, who nodded. “My client was just trying to impress upon Ms. Moreland the gravity of the situation and the need to keep matters private.”

I decided to give Grauer my full attention, staring him down while I talked. “He scared an employee who was just trying to do her job. He dropped the F-bomb repeatedly during his tirade, and did his best to intimidate her. He threatened retaliation, and left it to her imagination as to what that might entail. Bullying isn’t a crime, but criminal intent might be. Did you follow through on the threats you made to Ms. Moreland?”

My eyes said what my words couldn’t: you’re an asshole. I tempered my speech, not wanting another complaint in my jacket. But Grauer knew exactly what I was thinking, and because of that he looked away.

“I am sure my client regrets upsetting Ms. Moreland,” said Levine. “But as I said, she didn’t know the full picture. When her superiors were apprised of the situation, the matter was dropped. And while Ms. Moreland should be commended for a job well done, the matter in question was above her pay grade.”

“Heather Moreland is missing,” I said. “That’s what I care about. I couldn’t care less about her supposed pay grade or mine. I need to be satisfied that Mr. Grauer isn’t involved in some way in her disappearance, and the only way that’s going to happen is if you tell me what occurred to provoke his malice.”

The two men looked at each other and seemed to come to an understanding.

“I am going to offer a hypothetical situation,” said Levine. “As you know, public relations are very important in this business. But there is a thin line between what is acceptable and what might be construed as a bribe.

“The film awards season runs from October to the end of February, but the jockeying begins early in the year. In order to have your picture considered for nominations, it’s often necessary to plant the seeds early. And how do you do that? Maybe a star agrees to make appearances, or say something, or write something. Handwritten notes from the right person can be a very effective tool. And while this star is sincere about what he or she thinks, their approbation is an investment in time. Sometimes priming the pump is necessary. Rewarding these efforts is a way of making sure they get done. For the sake of appearances, though, these business expenses can’t be directly linked to the promotion of one particular picture.”

“Caesar’s wife,” I said.

The mouthpiece didn’t get my reference. I tried another. “The Golden Bribes,” I said.

“These were not bribes,” said Levine. “I strongly object to that categorization.”

“Isn’t that what they used to call the Golden Globes?” I asked.

“I hope you’re not implying my client in any way targeted the Hollywood Foreign Press Association, because he most certainly did not.”

Just about everyone in Hollywood believed the fix was in when Pia Zadora was awarded a “best new actress” Golden Globe in 1982 for her role in
Butterfly
, beating out such actresses as Kathleen Turner in
Body Heat
and Elizabeth McGovern in
Ragtime
. It was commonly thought that Zadora’s moviemaker husband, Meshulam Riklis, essentially bought the award. As for her acting, Zadora was also awarded two Golden Raspberries, also known as Razzies, for “worst new star” and “worst actress.”

That was the nadir for the Golden Globes. In the years since, they’d changed their ways and mended their reputation.

If I could believe Levine’s double-talk, Grauer had been trying to create early buzz for his picture. What he’d done was probably not illegal, but neither he nor his clients wanted details of his payola reported in
Variety
,
TMZ
, or the
Hollywood Reporter
.

I had a smoking gun, but not the gun I wanted. I stood up and said to Grauer, “It’s been a real pleasure talking to you.”

CHAPTER 25

LOOKING FOR SMOKE SIGNALS

Lisbet had left on my front-porch light. It was nice not coming home to a dark, empty house. I sat in my car for a few moments, pretending I was decompressing in a hyperbaric chamber. I breathed in and out, trying to put the disappointments of the day behind me. It wouldn’t do to inflict my mood upon Lisbet.

The aroma of chicken greeted me as I stepped into the house. A second greeting was the sound of Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud.” Lisbet and I haven’t decided upon “our song,” but that’s definitely a contender. The third greeting was Lisbet. She emerged from the kitchen and offered a hug.

“Glass of wine?” she asked.

“That would be great,” I said. “Just let me change out of these clothes.”

I went to my bedroom, stripped out of everything, and then put on my most comfortable sweatpants and one of my haiku shirts. Lisbet could only blame herself. She’s the one who’s been supplying me with the haiku T-shirts. This one read:

This is my haiku

You can call me Ishmael

Radioactive

“I like your shirt,” said Lisbet, handing me a glass of white wine.

In the background Ed Sheeran sang of falling in love and staying in love. We both took seats on the couch. Sirius joined us, curling up at our feet.

“I’m not sure about the shirt’s last line,” I said. “I mean, if you’re going for a five-syllable word and a non sequitur, couldn’t you come up with something better than ‘radioactive’?”

“How could you improve upon ‘radioactive’?”

I took a sip of wine and thought about it. “That’s
el-e-men-tar-y
, my dear Watson.”

Lisbet shook her head. “I would have expected a better five-syllable word from you.”

“Give me an
op-por-tun-i-ty
,” I said.

“I think I’ve created a monster.”

“You mean like the
a-bom-in-a-ble
snowman?”

“You have a talent for this game,” she admitted, “but I wish you’d use your
i-mag-in-a-tion
for something else.”

I raised my wineglass to her, but then the five-headed monster showed itself again:
“Con-gra-tu-la-tions!”

Lisbet rolled her eyes, which was certainly the appropriate response. Try as I might to come up with some other five-syllable words, the well seemed to have run dry.

“Hungry?” Lisbet asked.

I had to think about it. When I’m on the hunt, I usually don’t think about food. Up until now I’d attributed the ache in my stomach to disappointment, but realized that in part it was from not having eaten.

“I am.”

“I’ll serve up the meal.”

“And I’ll feed Sirius.”

Her hand reached out and stopped me from getting up. “I already have his dinner set aside. You stay put.”

Sirius must have known what we were talking about, because he followed Lisbet into the kitchen. I put my feet up on an ottoman, stretched back into the sofa, and did my sipping.

Comfort food was on the night’s menu. Lisbet filled the table with fried chicken, baked potatoes, and broccoli. I joined her there, and we both started eating. The food helped to fill some of the void I was feeling.

Lisbet refilled my wineglass. It’s rare for her to have more than one glass. She knows her limits and knows what is good for her. I believe in a sliding scale, which I hope won’t lead to a slippery slope. The wine loosened my tongue, even if I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. I had planned to spare Lisbet the details of my day, but found myself talking about it anyway.

I told her about climbing Skyline Trail and wondering if I was crazy for thinking that someone might have ambushed Langston Walker and then tried to make it look as if he had slipped and hit his head.

“Everyone believes it was an accident,” I said. “I seem to be the only one with doubts.”

“Why would anyone want to kill a retired cop?”

“There’s only one reason I can think of.” I told her about Walker’s ghost remark and his looking into a closed case.

“And you think this individual was so threatened by the possibility of Detective Walker’s reopening the case that he murdered him?”

“If you’ve already murdered someone, is it such a stretch to think you might be capable of committing a second murder?”

Lisbet shook her head. “It’s hard for me to envision that.”

For her sake, I was glad that was so. I wished that it wasn’t so easy for me.

“Everyone knew Langston would be hiking the trail on that day. If I was to choose a spot to ambush him, I would have picked the area where he died.”

“That might just be a coincidence.”

“I know.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to attend his funeral service tomorrow. And I’m going to try to arrange a time to talk to his wife. Maybe she’ll have some insights, or maybe she’ll let me look through his paperwork to see if I can find her husband’s ghost.”

“Now you’re the one who’s haunted.”

“I am frustrated,” I admitted, “but not so much about Walker. I can’t be sure if I’m making something out of nothing. What I am sure about is that I want to study his death further. It’s not his case that has me in a funk, though. It’s Heather Moreland.”

“How can you even be sure that she’s been abducted? Isn’t that still in question?”

I shook my head. “Angie made me sure. Heather Moreland is a stand-up woman. She never would have abandoned her beloved dog.”

I let out some air and made a small confession. “I dreamed about Heather Moreland and Langston Walker last night.”

“You had a fire dream?”

I nodded. Lisbet knows I don’t like to talk about my dreams and the visions that come with them, but on a handful of occasions, she’s been sleeping next to me when they occurred. She’s never pried. The only thing she’s tried to do is catch me during one of my difficult landings. Once or twice I have talked about the moment after. Confession might be good for the soul, but I find it distinctly uncomfortable. Talking about my dreams is tantamount to admitting to PTSD, and that’s something I don’t like doing. I don’t even like to admit it to myself.

“I suspect the dream had something to do with the fake building in West L.A. where I found Angie’s tracking device. I was disappointed it didn’t lead us to Heather, but it also provided me with a ray of hope that she’s alive.”

Lisbet nodded, but I sensed she thought mine was wishful thinking. I explained why I hoped it was not.

“The tracking device was planted at a specific spot. It wasn’t crushed and tossed out in the trash, but instead was purposely situated in West L.A. To my thinking, that’s a good thing. If she was already dead, I don’t think the abductor would have gone to such lengths.”

“Was she—alive—in your dream?”

I didn’t like Lisbet having to tread so carefully and feel the need to be so selective in her choice of words.

“Yes,” I said, “although I never saw her. I could faintly hear her calling for me. But I couldn’t see her. She was obscured by fog.”

“There were no—insights—then?”

I wanted to tell Lisbet to stop walking on goddamn eggshells, but instead took a breath and shook my head.

“At least she was alive in your dream,” said Lisbet.

“There is that.”

I didn’t need to tell Lisbet about the additional pressure I felt with each passing day. She knew. I could feel it in her touch as she stroked my arm.

“This chicken is great,” I said, taking another bite.

She seemed to find that funny. “Save some room for dessert.”

“What did you make?”

“Key lime pie,” she said. “You’ll have to tell me if you want it with whipped cream.”

I remembered how Walker and I had both eschewed whipped cream on the sweet potato pie we’d split.

“There’s a restaurant I want to take you to in the next week or two,” I said. “It’s sort of a fusion soul place.”

“That sounds great.”

Our talk took some of the weight off me. The pressure in my neck eased, making swallowing easier. The food began tasting better, and I didn’t have to fake my enthusiasm. After both of us finished eating, we sat around the dinner table, passing the time in each other’s company. For a few minutes at least, I wasn’t ruminating about the disappearance of Heather Moreland.

I insisted upon doing the dishes, and Lisbet sat in the bar area to keep me company. As hard as she tried to fight off her yawns, several of them surfaced. It was late and she was tired.

When I finished with the dishes, she said, “Coming to bed?”

“In a little while,” I promised.

We hugged, did a little dance, and then she went off to the bedroom. As is our nightly habit, Sirius and I went for a short walk, even though both of us were stiff-legged from our exertions earlier in the day.

When we returned from our outing, I decided it was time for a nightcap and some music. There was still some wine left in the bottle, so I settled into the sofa and donned earphones so as to not disturb Lisbet. I went with a recent release I’d heard: Adam Lambert’s “Ghost Town.” The lyrics struck close to home. The song’s opening, where Lambert talked about dying last night in his dreams, could have been biographical. Every time I had a fire dream, it felt like a little death. There was also the song’s lyric about walking into the flames. Everything that was being sung seemed a little too close for comfort.

Normally there’s a part of me that’s afraid to sleep. It is the “perchance to dream” part. Almost burning to death once was enough. Continuing to do it is sometimes such a scary prospect that I struggle against sleep.

But not tonight.

I joined Lisbet in bed, feeling defiant.
Bring on the flames,
I thought,
and let me burn
. I was willing to have my dream if it would reveal some hidden insight that could assist me in finding Heather Moreland.

An-ti-ci-pa-tion,
I thought, coming up with one last five-syllable word. It didn’t help, though. I slept through the night.

There was not even a hint of smoke. Nor were there any smoke signals to be divined.