The Rabbit Factory (17 page)

They may not have been bums, but Ronnie Lucas's murder had left most of them bummed. Most of them loved him, although a small minority thought he only worked at the shelter

because it made for great publicity. "He was just like one of us," said a black man, who gave his name as Johnny B. Goode. "Except he was young and handsome and rich and successful." I couldn't quite figure out if Mr. Goode was one of the people who liked Lucas or not.

At least ten of them told us about a new guy who walked off with Ronnie in the general direction of where he had been killed. They described him as tall. Tall was good. I wanted to tell Jessica, but I knew she wouldn't want to be influenced by eyewitnesses. Her evidence was somewhere on Lucas's body or at the scene of the crime. She just had to find it.

Several people said the new guy's name was Mark. One woman swore it was Claudius Maximus. Since the murder weapon was a Mark McGwire bat, I figured Mark was the kind of phony name a sicko would use.

Within a few hours we had a police artist's sketch of our suspect, a raggedy-ass-middle-aged white guy with a scraggly beard and a head full of uncombed dirty brown hair.

"This ain't worth shit," Terry said, waving the sketch at me. "We may as well send out a picture of Dustin Hoffman as Ratso Rizzo. By now, this fuck is showered, shaved, manicured, and dressed for the cover of GQ."

"But he's still tall," I said.

"So was Osama Bin Laden, and they had home movies of him," Terry said. "I can just hear Kilcullen calling the Governor. We've narrowed it down to a tall white guy, sir. Considering that California is chock full of short Hispanics, that's pretty good police work, don't you think?"% ,

Dealing with eighty-three homeless people turned out to be cake compared to dealing with Amy Cheever. Elkins's murder

The Rabbit Factory

had unhinged her, but this one had driven her off the charts. Ronnie Lucas's movies generated huge bucks for Lamaar, and his murder was front-page, worldwide news. The Queen of Miscommunications had a global damage control-job on her hands. That was fine by me and Terry. She'd have less time to meddle in our investigation. Brian Curry was easier to manage. We deputized him. "We need a list of every person you can come up with who might have a big enough grudge against the company to do this," I told him. "I wouldn't have thought anybody had this big a grudge," Curry said.

p."How about Danny Eeg?" I asked. "How about Ben Don

Marvin?"

Curry's head snapped back and his eyes widened. "You've been doing your homework. Okay, Eeg's got a big enough grudge, but it's about money. And Marvin is a white-collar crook. This guy has killed two people." "Brian, your job is to give us suspects, not eliminate them," I said.

"You're right. What do you need?"

"Go back five years in your employee database. Look for wrongful termination lawsuits or any other aggressive reactions to being canned." "We should also take a look at dissatisfied customers, rival studios, even people who lost money when Lamaar scooped up the real estate for Familyland dirt cheap, thirty-plus years ago," Curry said. "Now you're talking. We need last-known addresses, phones, family members, whatever your computer can cough up. And put Daniel Eeg's name at the top of the list."

J

"I'm putting Ben Don Marvin at the top of the list," Curry said. "I thought you said he's a crook, not a killer." "Yeah, but I took his job," Curry said. "If I'm wrong, and it is him, it could be my ass that's next." He half-smiled, but he didn't look happy.

Muller was waiting for us when we rolled into the office. "Good news. I hacked Elkins's passwords and went online pretending I was him. I've been in chat rooms with his buddies and I got a list of probable suspects. I also found out how he got the job at Familyland."

He was beaming like a kid who had just won the State Spelling Bee, but of course, he was still one murder behind. I knew that chasing down pedophile-haters wasn't going to crack the case. "We got some bad news," I said. "This case is not about Elkins." We filled him in on the Lucas homicide.

"Damn," Muller said. "That puts us right back at Square One."

"You still did a great job," I said.

"Yeah, thanks. Feel free to express your appreciation," he said, pointing to the large brandy snifter on his desk. He'd put it there a few months ago with a single dollar bill in it and a sign that said Save The Geeks. Since then, the rest of the squad had fed the kitty. Contributions included a box of condoms, a tube of Preparation H, a Tampax, a Tootsie Pop, and a glassine bag of white powder, most likely Sweet'N Low. Cops. A laugh

a minute.

"You say you know how Elkins got the job at Familyland," Terry said.

"Yeah, is there a second prize for solving that?" Muller is not your basic tough street cop. He's a sensitive crime fighter who wails the blues when Truth, Justice, and the American Way do not immediately prevail. "I love it when you sulk," Terry said. "Don't make me beg."

"Alright, alright," Muller said. "I was chatting online with a perv named Organ Grinder. Love the name. Who said pedophiles weren't subtle? There's a guy at Lamaar HR who's a fact checker on resumes. He's got a sideline business selling spotless background checks. Grinder was trying to buy one himself, only this guy suddenly disappeared." "Who's on the take at Lamaar?" Terry asked.

"Grinder only had the guy's cell phone number, but once I got that, it was easy. His name is Anthony Caleo, a.k.a. Tony Cales, a.k.a. Anton Colello. Low-level bozo who runs nickeland-dime scams. He worked at Wells Fargo and got caught selling good credit ratings to deadbeats. Eventually, they dropped &11 charges, so he never did time." "That won't solve the case, but I'm sure Brian Curry will backdoor you and Annetta to Familyland, when we tell him you tracked down the guy that helped Elkins get the job," Terry said. "Can you do us one other favor as long as you have some free time? They're sending some surveillance DVDs over from Familyland. Can you sift through them?" "Sure."

"There's about a thousand DVDs. How long do you think it will it take?"

I

'"A thousand?" Muller said. "Three months, two if I get lucky."

"How about if you skip lunches?" Terry said.

My phone rang. I was happy for the interruption. "Detective Lomax." "Detective, this is Ike Rose, Chairman of Lamaar Studios." The man on the other end had a strong, clear voice, with no detectable accent. "Sorry to meet you under such circumstances. What can I do for you?" "The question is what can I do for you," he said. "I want the person responsible for these two murders brought to justice, and whatever resources I can bring to bear for you, just let me know."

Get the Governor off our fucking asses, I thought, but instead I just said, "We appreciate that, sir." B"I'm flying back from Singapore," he said. "Can you meet

Śme tonight at eight o'clock? My home in Bel Air. I'm sorry to ťinconvenience you, but I have to leave for New York tonight at eleven."

Ś"It's not an inconvenience," I said. "My partner and I will be there, but since I don't recognize your voice, I'll have to ask you

I Kto call your Head of Security and have him call me, repeat the invitation, and give me the address." "Done," he said. "See you tonight. Thank you."

' MlThirty seconds later Curry called and made the invitation official. "He suggested that I tag along," Curry said. "No problem," I said. "I'm glad you'll be there." "Amy too." "Now I'm really glad you'll be there," I said. "One more

thing. You've got a crooked fact checker working for you. His name is Anthony Caleo."

"Caleo? The fact checker who cleared Elkins was Antonio Calleno."

"I think they're one and the same. Whatever his name is, your fact checker has a history of overlooking the facts if you pay him enough money. If I were you, I'd prosecute." "He left town," Curry said. "His father died in Italy and he took off for the funeral."

"Brian, I have a feeling he isn't coming back to clean out his desk. When did he take off?"

"Monday afternoon. The day Elkins turned up dead."

"Dumb question, but if you wanted to keep the Elkins murder a secret from the employees, how did Caleo find out so fast that he was killed?" "He worked in HR. They're the ones who keep all the secrets."

I almost laughed, but I didn't think Brian would think it was funny. "Look," I said, "LAPD can't invest any manpower trying to find Caleo. He's a small-time grifter. We're looking for a serial killer." "Agreed," Curry said. "And if Mr. Rose wants to track him down, we'll hire private. Right now our priorities are to check all the resumes Caleo-Calleno green-lighted, and, of course, to get you that list of grudge holders. I've been working with Darien and a few others, and we've done a first pass on people who'd really like to fuck Lamaar. We came up with fiftyseven so far." "Fiftyseven? I know I told you not to eliminate anyone, and now I'm paying for it. Do me a favor. You've got good cop

instincts," I said. I wasn't sure he did, but I was trying to motivate him. "Take a hard look at the fiftyseven names you got and put a check mark next to the five you like best." "How about if I circle the names instead of checking them?" he said.

"Brian," I said, losing patience fast. "Circles, squares, checks, stars, I don't give a shit. Just help me prioritize the fucking list." "I already zeroed in on six. They're circled. Go to your fax machine. I'll see you tonight." He hung up. Six. Maybe Brian Curry wasn't such a bad cop after all.

I

The man behind the wheel of the Cadillac Escalade SUV had a Boston Irish face that was puffy from the good life. The veins on his nose said that alcohol had played a big part in it. He pushed the Scan button on the radio, and the dial jumped from station to station every five seconds.

"Are you listening to this?" he said to his passenger. Despite the fact that he lived in L.A. for half a century, he still had a lot of Hah-vahd Yahd in his voice. "The news is all-Lucas-all-the time. As writ, my friend. As fucking writ."

The round-shouldered lump in the front seat couldn't help smiling at the compliment. Short of a Golden Globe or an Academy Award, 'as writ' was the ultimate praise a writer could get.

It meant that everything you wrote was produced as you wrote it. In a business rife with directors, divas, and studio executives whose sole purpose in life seemed to be rewriting what the writers had conceived, as writ was a rarity.

He shifted his body so he could look at the driver. "Thanks, but it didn't take a genius to predict that if we murdered an

Marshall Karp

II international movie star, the press would be all over it." He leaned over and turned off the radio. Then he shoved two Rolaids into his mouth and crunched down on them. The driver shook his head. "How many of those fucking things you gonna pop?" "The doctor says I need the calcium." "And I say you're full of shit. You got a nervous stomach over all this?"

The writer could feel the acid eating away at what was left of his stomach lining. He shrugged. "Maybe a little. Who wouldn't be?" "We're two for two," the driver said. "What's to be nervous about?" "My wife was crying when she heard Ronnie Lucas was dead. She said she really liked him. What was I supposed to say to her? Everyone likes Ronnie? That's one of the reasons we decided to kill him?" "You decided," the Irishman said. "Credit where credit is due." "Don't make me the fucking mastermind behind all this. I went along with it. But it wasn't my idea." "Relax, for Christ's sake. It went smooth. This next one will go smooth too. Keep cool." "That's easy for you to say. You've got nothing to lose if we..." "Get caught?" The driver laughed. "Lucky me to have cancer."

"Sorry, I didn't mean...it's just that..."

"You sorry you signed on for this?"

Fucking A right I'm sorry I signed on. But he didn't dare say it. The two men had known each other for decades. The short Texas Baptist and the strapping Boston Mick. They got drunk together, rich together, old together. But this was not the time to

I

The Rabbit Factory

tell his old friend the truth. He had already written the scenario in his head. If the others caught on to the fact that he was having second thoughts, they would decide he was a weak link who might go to the cops, and they would hire someone to kill him. "I believe in what we're doing a hundred percent," he said. "I just have to remember that when you go into battle there are always casualties. Let's drop it for now." He shoved a stubby finger against the CD button on the dashboard, and the two men listened to Sinatra for the rest of the trip.

I

Eighty miles from downtown Los Angeles, The Ojai Valley sits on the edge of the majestic Los Padres National Forest, a few minutes from the Pacific Ocean. The little town of Ojai, surrounded by citrus groves and spectacular views, offers perfect weather, clean air, and safe, friendly neighborhoods.

For all its charm and desirability, many of the homes in Ojai are priced under a half million dollars, modest by Southern California standards.

The Escalade passed through the gates of one of the more substantial residences, a six-bedroom, multimillion-dollar stoneand-cedar architectural gem. The sun was dropping fast and a few purple-pink clouds hung overhead.

"It's almost the end of April and you can still ski up there," the driver said, pointing to the jagged white peaks in the distance.

The Rolaids and the Sinatra had calmed his passenger, who put on his upbeat game face. "When was the last time your fat Irish ass went down a ski slope?" he said, as he pressed the doorbell.

Marshall Karp

The houseman opened the front door.

"Freddy, tell me that's liver and onions I smell," the Irishman said.

"Yes, sir," Freddy said. "But I was wondering if I could twist your arm and offer you a cocktail first." "Liver and onions and booze. For that you can twist any body part I got. I hate the fucking drive up here, but you always make it worth while." "Thank you, sir," Freddy said, as the guests headed toward the bar in the media room.

"Good evening, boys," the tall, gaunt man said, when his two cohorts entered the room. "How was your meeting with Fellini?"' The group had decided each of the hired assassins would have a code name. The Sicilian who killed Elkins had been Brutus. The tall Albanian who murdered Ronnie Lucas was Tom Thumb. The third operative was Fellini. "Fellini checked into the Familyland Hotel yesterday and began scouting for our next victim," the Irishman said, as he poured vodka into a tall glass. The writer set a letter opener on the table. "Behold, the weapon."