The Rabbit Factory (18 page)

Their host picked it up and ran a finger over the long, thin steel blade. "It's not very sharp." "That's the way they sell it in the gift shop," the Irishman said. "Believe me, the real one is sharp enough to slice a cunt hair down the middle lengthwise. I personally handed it to Fellini along with the flipbook and the letter." "Excellent. And did you discuss the victim?"

"We gave Fellini strict instructions," the writer said, pouring

The Rabbit Factory

himself some ginger ale to settle his stomach. "The victim will be a woman. And not just a woman. The script calls for a woman with children."

A woman with children. That had been one of his finer plot nuances. "Ike Rose and the people at Lamaar will be afraid we're planning on killing another one of their icons," he had told the others, once he had worked out the scenario. "The fact that the next victim is a visitor will set their heads spinning, and the fact that she's a mother will throw them into total corporate hysteria."

"And who is this lucky woman who gets to die for our cause?" the host said.

"That's up to Fellini. A single mom would be ideal. If she has a husband, the people at Lamaar will have a hard time keeping him quiet, and it works to our advantage if they can manage to sweep this one under the rug. But a single woman with kids may not be easy to find and then kill at Familyland."

"And we're still on target for Sunday?"

"Yes. It will be exactly one week since Elkins, and then," Irish said, refilling the vodka glass that had already gone dry, "the shit will really hit the fan."

"Eloquent, as usual," the host said, "but I prefer to borrow a phrase from my days in the theatre." He picked up the letter opener and pointed it playfully at the others. "And then, Curtain, End of Act One."

"As writ," the Irishman said, winking at his co-conspirator.

ome people say that the true measure of a man is the size I I of his penis. Others, who are more enlightened, say it's the KJ size of his soul. But in Los Angeles, like in many places where the rich and shallow gather, it's the size of his house. If you live in this town, the odds are you've heard about Ike and Carolyn Rose's house. And like large penises, it's one thing to hear about it, but quite another to see it up close and personal. I myself have never been impressed by big, expensive houses. They're like big, expensive cars. You got one? Good for you. I get around just fine in my Acura, and it costs a lot less to operate. But I must admit that if I were the type to fall victim to habitat envy, the Rose house on Mapleton Drive could do it. Where do I begin? The front gate, I guess. Two ornate, rose colored, wrought-iron arches, towering almost thirty feet high, anchored to a pair of even taller stone columns that were the perfect matching shade of rosy pink, as if they came from an artist's brush, and not an Italian quarry. I

Terry and I, still in separate cars, arrived a few minutes before eight. I did a quick calculation, realized we were now in

the thirteenth hour of our shift and the night was still young. Serial killers would get their rocks off knowing that they also shorten the life spans of a lot of homicide cops.

We each identified ourselves over the intercom, and a video camera zoomed in on our IDs. The gates swung open electronically, and we drove onto a cobblestone courtyard that was dotted with statuary. Some male, some female, all nude. There was also an oversized fountain that looked like it would be more at home in Florence than in Southern California.

There were no painted lines saying Poor People Park Here so I pulled up to the only two cars in the lot--a black Lincoln Navigator, which I figured must be Curry's, and a fire-engine red Mazda Miata with the top down, which seemed like a fitting set of wheels for Amy. Terry pulled in next to me.

We climbed a short flight of wide, low-rise marble stairs and stood in front of a set of double doors which were only a modest fifteen feet high. The doormat, which was bigger than my living room rug, said Welcome to Rambling Rose. Obviously this house did not want to be treated like just another number. It had a name.

Before we could ring the bell, an Asian man in a dark suit opened one of the doors. "Good evening, Detectives," he said. "I'm Herbert Lu. Mr. Rose is expecting you."

II took a quick look around. The entranceway or foyer or

whatever they call the vast space just inside the front door was _ mionly slightly smaller than the Astrodome. Fifty or sixty feet

'"above us was a stained glass skylight, but it was too dark for

me to get the full effect. A museum-quality chandelier was suspended from the center and stopped about twenty feet over our heads.

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In front of us were the stairs. Not one of those trite, predictable, marble spiral staircases that seem to define New Money in Hollywood, but a gleaming, polished mahogany stairway that rose up from the center of the hall, then fanned out left and right, like a million-dollar version of the letter Y.

"Two words," Terry whispered. "This is fucking awesome."

Terry had grown up in a tiny Bronx apartment, which left him with a debilitating case of House Arousal. His palms sweat, his heart races, and he loses all ability to count. "That was four words," I said. "Take deep breaths. You'll be fine."

Mr. Lu had no time for Cop Banter. "Mr. Rose and the others are waiting in the Master Library," he said.

As opposed to what? The other six Minor Libraries that were sprinkled throughout the house? When does such a busy guy find time to read?:

We followed Mr. Lu. He was lean, and even with the dark suit, I could see he was well defined. Probably worked out right here in one of the Minor Gyms reserved for the staff. He was in his fifties, maybe even sixty, but the way he carried himself I decided that however old he was, he'd have no trouble defending this fortress from invaders. I looked for the telltale bulge, but if he was strapped, it didn't show. My guess was that his large sinewy hands were as lethal as any gun and a lot easier to get through airport security. He was definitely more bodyguard than butler.

We walked at a brisk pace, and I got a quick glimpse at some of the paintings, sculpture, crystal, and antique furniture I never see at IKEA or Target when I'm shopping for Casa de Lomax.

The Master Library was filled with hard-cover books and

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leathery, manly-man furniture and Nice Things on the Walls, but that's as much attention as I paid to the decor. At that point, I was tired of seeing the things money could buy for others and fell back into my familiar "nice-house-but-who-gives-a-shit" mode. Terry, on the other hand, was still drooling.

Our new best friends, Curry and Amy, were there, talking to a dark-haired, good-looking man of about forty-five. He looked a lot like the Ike Rose I had seen on the cover of Fortune, except this guy was only about five-foot-four.

"Detectives," he said, striding over and shaking Terry's hand, then mine. "I'm Ike Rose. Thanks for coming over to the house." His voice was strong and deep and commanding. The voice of a linebacker inside the body of a jockey.

I said hello without mentioning that he was shorter than his pictures, and silently marveled that he lived where he lived, / lived where / lived, and we both referred to where we lived as "the house." Either he should have said, "Thanks for coming over to the hundred-million-dollar mansion," or I should start saying, "Thank you for visiting my embarrassing little hovel."

"I hope you don't mind, but I asked my assistant Richard to sit in and take notes." Richard was sitting in an armchair with a pad on his lap. He was about Rose's age and was wearing a buttery yellow, V-neck cashmere sweater and a pair of casual cream-colored slacks that cost about ten times what I pay for pants at The Gap. He also had on a thousand dollars worth of shoe leather and a Patek Philippe wristwatch that cost in the general vicinity of a year of my hard-earned salary. Assistant, my ass. More likely, Richard was Rose's wealthy attorney sitting in on the meeting off the record, so his name wouldn't show up in any official police reports. He did not get up to shake hands.

I

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Rose offered us refreshments, and we said, No thank you. 1Then he invited us to sit down in one of the many seating areas that peppered the room. We did, and the foreplay was over.

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G' ;

/ / f " entlemen," Rose said, "Brian and Amy have filled me in on where we are. What I'd like to know

from you is where we're going from here." "Sir," I said, "I'm sure there are politicians who count on your company for tax dollars and on you personally for campaign contributions. And I'm sure they would like me to spend the next ten minutes giving you the politically correct speech on how we are doing everything we can to bring to justice the person or persons who are responsible for committing these heinous crimes, blah, blah, blah. But since you're a busy man, let me just assure you that this is a Priority One case, we are doing everything we can, and I'll save you nine minutes and fifty seconds of political rhetoric."

Rose smiled. "Thank you. If the politicians ask, I'll tell them you gave me the full ten-minute song and dance. Go on."

"The top line is that when Elkins turned out to be a convicted sex offender, we thought the killer might be someone whose life he contaminated. But after Ronnie Lucas and the second flipbook, we focused on suspects who might want to

damage your company."

"Did you talk to Danny Eeg?" he said.

"Not yet, but he's high on a list we got from Brian just a few hours ago." I opted not to tell him that my own father had pointed to Eeg while Ronnie Lucas was still at home, having dinner with his kids and making love to his wife.

"I find it hard to believe that any man would solve his problems with the corporation by murdering our people," he said, "but it looks like somebody is gunning for us, and I guess Eeg is as good a place to start as anyone. How soon do you plan to question him?"

"He lives in upstate New York," I said. "I spoke to the Ulster County Sheriffs Office this afternoon. They're going to send someone to talk to him."

His face stiffened and his voice kicked up a notch. "A county sheriff? Why... why the hell don't you fly out there yourself?"

Considering all the cop movies Rose made, he knew nothing about police procedure. "Sir," I said, "if he lived nearby, we would. But we can't spend the taxpayers' money on airfare till we at least talk to him and see if he has an alibi."

"Screw the taxpayers' money. Take one of our corporate jets," he said. "Two first-class seats. No charge."

Fat chance, I thought. The D.A.'s office would scream Conflict of Interest, and tell me to go coach on the Redeye. Better to clear it with Kilcullen, who won't care how I go as long as I come back with a collar. "We may take you up on that," I said. "For now, there are too many names on the grudge list for us to meet them all face to face. We're looking for evidence that will point us toward one of them."

"What if Eeg hired someone?" It was Amy. "Check his bank records. He may have left a paper trail."

I didn't want to elaborate on the futility of getting our hands on people's financial records. Not to mention that you don't pay your hit man by personal check. "We'll look into it," I said. "Mr. Rose, let me ask you a question. You're a busy executive. Surely you didn't invite us here to have us fill you in on where we stand twelve hours after we've concluded these are serial murders. Your staff can give you updates any time of the day or night. So... why are we here?"

Amy jumped up. "Why are you here? Do you know who this man is? You're here because Mr. Rose wants you here!"

"Amy," Rose said. That was all. Just the one word. He communicated the rest by looking down at the rich leather sofa. She sat. I can't get Andre to sit that fast, and I know damn well that Amy is a lot harder to train.

"Good question, Detective Lomax," Rose said. "Three reasons. First I wanted to meet you gentlemen. I've read your bios, or whatever you cops call your resumes, but I wanted to meet you face to face. I'm sure you know that I have enough clout to pull you off the case if I don't like what I see."

"If we'd have known we were auditioning for the head of a studio, we'd have dressed better. Apart from my partner's brown suit, how are we doing?"

Rose laughed and the others followed. Except Richard. He was playing the assistant, and I guess assistants don't participate in Executive Laughter. "You got your work cut out for you," Rose said, "but so far, you're doing okay."

He was full of shit. That wasn't why he sent for us. I nodded a polite thank you for the empty compliment.

"Second," he said, "I wanted to reiterate what I said earlier on the phone. We'll do whatever we can to help. This company has resources no police department ever dreamed of. We have over sixty thousand employees around the world. My personal Rolodex has corporate CEOs, international celebrities, presidents, prime ministers, princes--I don't know how any of these people can possibly help you, but if they can, they will. We also have deep pockets, which means if you need a plane to get somewhere, we've got twelve of them. If you need a satellite to spy on someone, we've got one of those. We are ready to do whatever we can to help you stop these murders from going past this..." He held up two fingers in a V. Just like the second flipbook.

Now he was really full of shit. He had already told me over the phone that his universe was at our disposal. We didn't need a face-to-face to repeat it. I waited for him to get to the real reason he asked us over.

"Daddy."

All eyes turned to the opposite end of the room, where a pretty little girl, about eight or nine, was standing in the doorway. She had dark eyes, dark curly hair, and was dressed in a pink nightgown that was hand-painted from collar to hem with a giant Rambunctious Rabbit.

Rose dissolved from Corporate Mogul to Fawning Father in half a second. A big grin fanned out across his face, and he stretched out both arms and said, "Hannah Banana."