The Detective & the Pipe Girl (22 page)

38

T
he next morning, at 5 a.m. sharp, there were three cars outside of Richard Neese’s house. Down the street a bit but with a line on his heinous Pipe Girl gate. Ott and his partner, Wall, were in an unmarked. Two other cops named Shant and Barker were behind them in another unmarked. And I was in my Mountain Gray Cobalt. Third in line.

The reality was Neese would almost certainly go peacefully. He’d play it cool. He’d let Ott cuff him and take him downtown and he’d have a wry smile plastered on his face the whole time. He wouldn’t say a word. He’d just roll along until he got the chance to call his lawyer. That was everybody’s best guess anyway. But I wanted to be there when Ott threw out some of the stuff we knew to be true, because that’s what would sting Neese, even if he didn’t show it. The Pipe Girl story. The gun that killed Suzanne Neal. The fact that the gun was in White Streak’s possession and that I’d personally seen the same gun right in my face.

And that right now, right across town, there was another crew picking up White Streak. See, once downtown, Neese would know there’d be another guy in another room getting asked the same questions. And that it was highly doubtful their stories would be the same.

Because once they grabbed White Streak and confronted him with the evidence he’d be in a very tough spot. It would look like
he
pulled the trigger, he killed Suzanne, underneath Neese’s command. Which may have been true—that may very well be what happened. But what if Neese had done it himself and just had White Streak get rid of the evidence—which is what I thought.

If that were the case, then White Streak, faced with taking the blame for the whole crime, would have to turn on Neese and tell us what really happened.

And I thought he would. These guys always did. And you had to think a professional criminal like Neese, sitting in the next room over, would make that connection in his head very quickly.

Friends, Richard Neese, as I saw it, was in a serious jam.

And I wanted to see, right up close, the pain doing a dance across his eyes when it all started to come together in his terrible blond-covered head.

It started to rain again. Another light, misty L.A. rain. I moved the focus of my eyes to my windshield. The light little droplets waving around on their way down and landing softly. I watched them float down and hit the glass, hundreds, thousands, millions of them. And then it got a little more serious. It began to break through like it hadn’t at Danny Baker’s. Drops, not big ones, but real drops colliding with the slanted glass of the Cobalt. Real rain.

I looked at the scene now through the glass. Neese’s big gate, the section of the house I could see behind it. And the cars lined up in front of me ready to go in and stick it to Neese. The sky was a purplish blue-gray and the rain gave the scene drama. I looked at everything before me. And, even more so than if it were a bright, sparkling, sunny morning, it was beautiful. The heavy sky. And the rain. The rain coming down. And the anticipation of what was about to happen. I took it in. I took in the scene.

Ott gave me the signal. He’d made contact with Neese and we were headed in. The big gate I’d stared at so much lately opened up. Ott’s car drove in. Shant and Barker followed. I cranked up the Cobalt, and just as I too was going to turn into Neese’s mountain pad, I instead went straight toward Mulholland.

I called Ott. “Something came up. I’ve got to go.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, now.”

I clicked off. Then I swung the Cobalt right on Mulholland and went down the long, winding road, down into the San Fernando Valley, on my way to the Van Nuys airport.

39

V
an Nuys airport was a ways away, down into the valley then northwest for a half hour or so. It was early, yeah, but in L.A. it’s almost impossible to beat the traffic. But at this hour I
sort of
beat it and made it there in good time. Van Nuys airport was where most of the news helicopters in the city operated out of. Government planes and private planes, for people and businesses, used its two runways as well. I’d never visited it before, but I’d driven by it a million times. I pulled in, found a spot, parked, went inside for twenty-one minutes, then exited and got back in my Cobalt.

Then I went back over the hill, crossing over Mulholland on a different road than I’d taken down, but still not far from where Ott was tersely putting Richard Neese into the back of his unmarked, telling him with that blank cop look that they were just going to go down to the station house for a little questioning.

I headed down the other side of the hill into Beverly Hills.

The house I was headed to had a big gate, like all the houses I’d been to lately seemed to have. But this gate was open, wide open, when I got there. So I drove on in, parked, got out of my car, and headed up to the front door. I was about to knock when the door swung open. It was still pretty early, just 7 a.m. or so. But the woman of the house stood right before me dressed for yoga, ready to head out.

Gina Vonz looked chic and sexy, tights over her legs, a yoga mat under her arm, a Gucci pocketbook over her shoulder, expensive shades hiding her eyes despite the rain.

“The detective—at such an early hour.”

“Hi, Gina. Off to do a little morning yoga?”

“You
are
good,” she said. “Arthur’s in his writing studio. Go on back.”

And then she sashayed by me with a smile. She had magic about her. She was sexy, and she knew it. Vonz was right. She could have done more movies. I watched her walk toward her silver Mercedes coupe. She tossed her mat in the back, got in, and disappeared down the driveway, out the open gate.

I walked in the house, shut the door behind me. I walked through all the rooms I’d walked through before. The house felt less welcoming—I felt like a stranger. Maybe the house was just waking up, even though its inhabitants seemed to already be going about their days. No sign of Mountcastle. I wondered where that man-child was.

I went back through the outside patio and reached Vonz’s office. I paused for just a second. And then, without knocking, opened the door and went in.

And there was Vonz. Sitting just like he had been the first day I’d met him. Although this time he appeared more at work than usual. He seemed so at ease that first time, posing almost, a few pieces of paper and a pen in front of him, but in an almost unnatural way. This time, he seemed
in it
. Papers askew, pencil in his hand, face twisted into a frown of concentration.

But the concentration was broken quickly after I entered and he gave me that Cheshire smile and said, “John. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Mind if I sit down,” I said, as I sat down.

He pulled his reading glasses off. “Not at all. What’s happening? Evidently something important.”

“Why would you say that?”

“You usually call before you come. And you have an urgency about you.”

“I always have an urgency about me. You should know that. I’m an impatient bastard. Sometimes to a fault. But I did discover something. And I would say you are right—it’s important.”

He leaned forward. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”

“Well, I’ve kept you up to speed on things as I’ve discovered them.”

Vonz nodded.

“But it’s like an hourglass. At the end of the story information starts pouring though at a much faster rate.”

I told him everything—with recaps when necessary. Full disclosure on Neese and the Pipe Girls. What happened if you talked. The symbol, as tattoo and as intricate design in a fence. And Allison Tarber. How she connected. How she died. How she might have, scratch that,
did have
a tattoo cut out of her body. That I’d made Danny Baker Talk Show Host as the guy on the balcony the night of the murder. That in that moment I thought Danny might have done it—killed Suzanne. That I was very close to hurting Danny until he confessed everything he knew.

And then I told Vonz that I had discovered Danny had lied and told Neese that Suzanne had talked, without the knowledge that that was a sin she would have to die for. Which then caused me to point the finger back at Neese. And which led me to the gun. The gun that had been in my face at the hand of Neese’s henchmen. The smoking gun that matched the bullet that killed Suzanne.

“Jesus,” Vonz purred.

“Yeah,” I said. “From Jimmy Yates all the way around to Danny Baker being with her right before she was killed, then back to the simplest explanation. The same place I’d been much earlier in the story. The same place I’d been the moment I’d discovered the Pipe Girls and how Neese allegedly controlled them. And then: The gun with a bullet match. Neese and his boys have nowhere to turn.”

“So, what happens now?”

“Now? Right now? Richard Neese and White Streak are getting questioned by the LAPD. One of them, or both of them, may have officially been arrested at this point.”

“You know what’s interesting,” Vonz said. “The simplest answer
was
the answer. But you had to go through this complex backstory to get there. You had to go through the other girl, and Danny Baker, and a gun in your face to get there. To get back to your initial suspicion. There’s something to that from a storytelling perspective. The person you first suspected based on simple evidence is the one you actually want, but it’s not for the simple reason you thought. There’s much more to it. Yet, what difference does it make? You’re still right. It’s like one’s gut versus research and methodology. There’s some philosophy there worth exploring.”

“Yeah, that is interesting, Vonz. Except, it turns out the story’s not over. Neese is a bad man and I believe he’s responsible for the death of Allison Tarber. But he didn’t kill Suzanne Neal. They shouldn’t be arresting him for that.”

Vonz twisted his face into an almost amused look of confusion. “Now you’ve got me hooked. Because you just told me that all the evidence you found puts the killing squarely on Neese.”

“Yes, but all the evidence I told you isn’t all the evidence. There’s more—and here it is. Richard Neese didn’t kill Suzanne Neal. You did.”

Vonz sat perfectly still. He stared at me. It was as if any movement on his part would show feelings or emotions he didn’t want me to see.

I said, “It was the cabs that did it. That snapped me off the wrong track and onto the right one. Those cabs honking their horns in New York City. I could hear them through the phone when I talked to you the night I went to deliver your love letter—but wasn’t able to do it.”

Vonz now spoke, “I’m sorry. The cabs?”

“When I was on the phone with you. The traffic, the cabs. I could hear them clearly and they put me right in New York City. And the image that the sound created kept coming back to me as I pursued the case. When I was driving down the road, or in my office, or even questioning someone, I’d think about those cabs. About a group of cabs at night sitting in New York City traffic honking their horns. I just thought it was one of those images that was so singular, so representative of a place, that my mind was going to it randomly because it was kind of beautiful in a way. Anyone who’s ever been to New York City knows that sound. Knows that image. But it wasn’t my mind just giving me some pictures for no reason. It was my mind trying to tell me something.”

Vonz was about to talk.

“I’m not finished,” I said. “See, before I understood what the cabs meant, it was the rain. The rain this morning. I was outside Neese’s house with Ott about to go in when it started to rain. At first, it was just L.A. mist. But then, a light rain on my windshield. And I thought: How appropriate. The rain is adding drama to this scene. If this were a movie, a light rain would be just the thing to give the moment some texture, some melancholy, some emotion. And then I thought: If I were directing this scene and it weren’t raining I’d insist that we bring in some rain machines to create it. To create the perfect feeling for the moment. And sitting there watching the rain hit my windshield, I realized why my mind had kept going back to those cabs. To those honking cabs in New York City. Those cabs, those sounds, were the perfect effect to make me
sure
you were in New York. To complete the scene. It was a really nice touch. Because without you having to say a word I was one hundred percent sure you were on the street in Manhattan.”

Vonz said, “You know, throughout this case, every time I’ve seen you you’ve made things clearer for me. But today? You’ve got me totally confused. What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You never left L.A., Vonz. You tricked me. You made me a player in one of your stories. You took off high in the sky in your gleaming jet for me to see, but you didn’t land in New York. You landed in Van Nuys. I went over there this morning and checked. Simple as that. You took off and you landed across town. Who knows how much you spent on that. Who cares? And then, you called me back, not from New York, but from a studio in good old Los Angeles. Put some cab noises in the background and there’s no way in hell I’m going suspect you or your houseboy Mountcastle of killing someone
that
night. How could you? You were in New York. I saw you leave. I heard the streets behind you. And you were smart. When I came back to you to tell you what had happened to Suzanne you played to the strongest emotion in all of us. Love. You were in
love
with Suzanne. How could I not look into it? It was someone you loved and I had no reason to suspect you. The noble detective would be sure to feel for you. And look into your story. Then: You kept tabs on me. There was a moment when Neese was actually following me. And I looked in my rearview to see what I thought was a sea of generic cars. Toyotas. VWs. Hondas. But I realize now, not just any Honda. Mountcastle’s shitty Honda Civic. The same one he showed up to my office in the first day. So why do that? Why keep tabs on me? It wasn’t so Mountcastle could give you the basic details of what I was doing. I was already doing that myself. The reason Mountcastle was following me was because the deeper I got into the story, the more you realized you had to put the murder
officially
on someone else. And in order to do that you had to have every bit of the story. You had to know what, and who, you had to work with. And that was when you made your smartest move.

“The gun. Mountcastle, Mr. Fat But Fleet of Foot, follows me up the mountain that day. Actually, he doesn’t follow me up the mountain that day. He follows the two guys that kicked the shit out of me—White Streak and Crowbar. They’re not looking for him, they’re looking for me. So they don’t notice him. And I’m too busy making sure my face doesn’t get permanently rearranged to see Mountcastle hiding somewhere. Then they pull a gun on me but it’s wrapped in a towel so I can’t see it. Mountcastle sees
that
and then you guys get even smarter. It stands to reason that I might assume they didn’t shoot me because it was the same gun that shot Suzanne. Turns out that’s not the case. Neese hadn’t ordered them to kill me. They were just scaring me, with a gun that was even scarier because it was ready to kill, homemade silencer and all. With a gun that has nothing to do with Suzanne. But most importantly with a gun I can’t see because it’s wrapped in a towel. Which would later help you and Mountcastle out. Of course Neese didn’t order the murder of me at that point. When you think about it, why would he? He didn’t know what I knew. It would be stupid for them to pop me at that point—my initial conclusion, by the way. But as long as I came back to suspecting they didn’t shoot me because the gun would match the gun that killed Suzanne, you were in business. And as long as I went back eventually and looked for the gun—which I did—you were going to be able to put the murder right on Neese. So I show up at Jumbo’s that night. You hire a second detective to make sure I’m there tracking White Streak. I see that detective’s ridiculous Hummer, but I don’t connect it. Not until later. So while the second detective is watching me watch White Streak at Jumbo’s, Mountcastle goes and puts the actual gun that shot Suzanne in White Streak’s apartment. The second detective doesn’t know what’s going on—it’s just a simple tail. So he could never talk and get you guys in any real trouble. He doesn’t know anything. Meanwhile White Streak has no fucking clue the gun that shot Suzanne is even in his apartment, but what difference does it make as long I go over and find it? And when I do find it, I can’t tell that it’s not the gun that was in my face that day because the gun that was in my face that day was covered up with a towel. So it all fits. The bullet matches. I confirm that these same guys had the same gun in my face. And Neese goes down for the murder. And you get away with everything.

“Problem is, you made a mistake. The cabs. I realized, when it all hit me, that they were just too
loud
. That’s why I’d kept going back to them in my mind. Through the phone, they were just too loud. Too hot. Over the top. Too
present
. A rookie mistake for such an esteemed talent. It was the most important thing on your list—to make sure I thought you were in New York. But you overcooked your sound mix, Doc. I know the area you said you were standing in. Outside of Pete’s Tavern. There isn’t that much traffic there. And yet it sounded like you were in the middle of Times Square on New Year’s Eve. You didn’t respect your audience, Vonz. You made it too obvious. And as a result, that one little hole in your story was big enough for the truth to fit through. Neese isn’t the one who’s going to prison for Suzanne’s murder. You are.”

Vonz looked at me for a long time. He didn’t say a word. He was trying to determine if the information I had was provable. He was thinking, sure, I could prove he didn’t leave. But could I prove he killed a woman?

I said, “How can I prove it? That’s what you’re thinking, aren’t you, Vonz? Listen. You’re a brilliant guy. But you’re not a criminal. If they take down Neese for it, sure, you’ll get off. But once I tell Ott my story, they’re going to recomb Suzanne’s apartment, recomb White Streak’s place, and they’re going to find evidence of you and Mountcastle being there. And no matter how careful you were when you bought that gun, now that we know what to look for, we will put that purchase on you. We will find where you got it. There’s no getting out.”