The Rabbit Factory (35 page)

To complicate matters, Dean had no heirs to pass the com)iiny to, and because he kept the power all to himself, there were no likely candidates who could fill his shoes.

By the early nineties Dean Lamaar started to make big mis

takes. Clinging to the tried and true, he spent a fortune on hand-drawn animated features that were expensive to produce and weren't right for the times. The movie division lost money three years in a row. His TV shows did better, but the up-fronl costs were high and the paybacks from syndication wouldn't happen for five years.

Lamaar stock kept dropping, and by the late nineties Walt Street had lost faith in the company, which was still being managed with an iron hand by its aging founder. In 1999, shortly after Dean's seventy-fifth birthday, Nakamachi, a Japanese electronics company, made a hostile takeover bid to buy Lamaar Enterprises.

Dean tried to block the sale, but he didn't have enougli votes. Nakamachi bought the company for the bargain price ol $22 billion. They promised Deanie a lifetime contract and total creative freedom. Everything would be the same, they said, except they would assume the financial burden that was draining him dry.

Ike Rose came on board as CEO. His immediate goal was to drive the stock up. With ten million options of his own, he had plenty of incentive.

Ike brought in new blood to fill the executive suites. Lonjj range plans were made, new business units were formed, new areas in the world of entertainment were researched and devel oped. It quickly became clear to Dean Lamaar that creative freedom did not translate to corporate power.

He still played a key role in the company. He was the patri arch, the icon, the symbol that America trusted. So they trotted ' him out at parades and let him make boring videos for an attrai-l tion that nobody wanted to visit. He was a Minister without

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m Portfolio, and, while his remaining years were miserable, he TMrrfused to leave the company he founded. So Kennedy, Barber, Hliul Lebrecht stuck with him. The day after his funeral the three _B>I them resigned.

H I had wondered why they all left at the same time. The last frw paragraphs of the article put their decision in perspective. There's no question that these are three talented men who >iade enormous contributions to the entertainment industry. Hit they were followers. And when their leader passed from the :'vne there was no place for them at the new Lamaar Company. Klaus Lebrecht summed it all up with these words. "We could we given notice and slowly phased out of our jobs, but we all

Terry was reading the article in the men's room when Brian Mlliid me. "If I tell the FBI something, do they pass it on to ii i ~C he said.

No. They keep the best clues to themselves, and then all of midden the Special Agent in Charge calls a press conference id says Colonel Mustard did it in the Conservatory with the , iŤ mill-stick, and we're all dumbfounded because we never got W clue. What did you tell them that might help us?"

"We've been working on the significance of the $266.4 four Illlhon, and I think we hit on something. We had a movie that ti.s released five years ago. Home for the Holidays. It grossed (t()A million. It doesn't feel like a random coincidence."

"My wife and I saw it," I said. "Is that the one where the Hilly reunites for Christmas and somebody kills the father?" Kight. And then you find out that he had sexually abused

his daughter and now he was doing it to the granddaughter." "A Christmas classic. I never realized it was a Lamaar movie." "It was and it wasn't. Ike Rose read the script and knew it Ś had the potential to be a hit. But it was too ugly to put the j Lamaar name on it, so he created a new division, Freeze Frame Films. Now all of our R-rated movies come from Freeze Frame. It's very profitable, but some of the old-timers at Lamaar think it hurts our image. They call it Sleaze Frame."

"Was there any bad blood when you made Home for the Holidays?" I asked. "Actors getting fired? Writers screwed out of royalties? There's got to be a good reason why someone would ask for every penny the movie grossed."

"No, it came out on time and on budget. Things went smooth. People got along. It was a hit at the box office and got nominated for Best Supporting Actress, Best Director, and Best Original Screenplay, but none of them won."

"What did the FBI guys say when you gave them this?" "Nothing."

"That's exactly what they passed on to us. Nothing." I thanked him and put in a call to Garet Church, the senior FBI Agent on the Lamaar investigation. I had worked with Gari-t before and I liked him. He was less of a jerk than most of tlu Feds I had dealt with.

"Hello, Lomax," he said. "You got any information to deposit in the FBI bank or are you calling me to make a withdrawal?"

"I'm calling to give you a possible a lead. The Cartoon Corps."

"The three old men? Old news. We questioned them already."

"And you didn't share your findings with LAPD?" "We talked to them yesterday when you were in New York i hatting with Eeg. Nice of you to share those findings." "Shit. I hate being caught not cooperating. You should have ťi copy of my report in the morning." "Save the paper," he said. "We sent our own team out to see ,vg today."

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"Well, then," I said, "in the spirit of interdepartmental cooprration, what did you get from Kennedy, Barber, and Lebrecht?" "Zip. They're three old farts with prostate problems. We didn't tell them all the gory details, but we did tell them about I Ik; extortion plot. None of them can imagine anyone wanting hurt the company except Eeg." "And you're satisfied that their noses are all clean?" "They're all over eighty years old and barely spry enough to t ii >janize a lawn party. Besides where's the motive?" "I'm not sure, but it could be the same motive as Eeg. Dean ,,imaar might have fucked them out of money. Like, I don't know, 266.4 million bucks." M "Actually that was the box office gross on one of Lamaar's J tin ivies."

h "Gracious of you to finally share that little tidbit with LAPD."

H "The difference between you and me, Lomax, is that I love

Bbcing caught not cooperating. I don't have any fucking idea if llic 266 million is something Lamaar held out on with the three

Ś Old geezers. But if you smell a motive, why don't you go talk to llirm and see what you come up with? Maybe you're right. Whoever hired these professional assassins doesn't have to be ť.iy." "Professional assassins? It sounds like you know something."

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"Actually, we know exactly who murdered Eddie Elkin.s Those Familyland surveillance DVDs from the day he got killed panned out." "I thought LAPD was working on that."

"You were a little understaffed, so we pitched in. We have a name and lots of pictures. We also have strong leads on two . of the other hits.". , "Would you care to share some of the details with your local police?" "There's a Joint Task Force Meeting tomorrow morning .il j nine. And you, my friend, are cordially invited. I was just about to call you." "Thanks for keeping us in the loop. See you tomorrow."

I told Terry about the meeting.Ś

"You know what a Joint Task Force Meeting is, don't you?" 1 he said. "A bunch of cops getting together to see who has thr j biggest dick." "Biggs, nobody likes a dick-measuring contest better than you," I said. "But I got class. I only take out enough to win."

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ferry and I met for an early breakfast at the Denny's on Sunset. The plan was to go to the Joint Task Force Meeting, then see what we could learn from the three )UI men who had spent fifty years working with Dean Lamaar. Vv were just mopping up the last of our Grand Slam breakfasts when my cell rang. "This is Ike Rose. The motherfuckers broke into my "laughter's bedroom."

"Where are you now?" I said, throwing money on the table .incl heading out the door. Terry didn't wait for an explanation. _He was right behind me. "I'm at my house. We're okay. I mean we're physically okay. How fast can you get here?" "We're on our way."

"Don't send for backup. I don't want fifty fucking squad cars parked outside with their lights flashing." He hung up. We took two cars. When we got to the house on Mapleton I >rive, Mr. Lu was standing inside the front gates. As soon as he iccognized us, the gates swung open. He jumped into my car.

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"What happened?" I said.

"Mr. Rose will explain," he said. "Just drive fast please."

I drove fast. Terry was right behind me. We came to a screeching cop-movie stop on the cobblestone and raced up the marble steps. Rose was standing in front of the double doors. "Thank you for coming," he said. "Motherfuckers."

I assumed those were two separate thoughts.

"Look at this," he said, sprinting up the Y-shaped mahogany stairway. We followed him and stopped at the second room on the left. The door was closed. "This is Hannah's room. Lu was up here this morning and noticed that the door was shut, which it never is. So he opened it." With that, Rose swung open the bedroom door and we saw what had sent him over the edge. The room was a Hollywood designer's vision of a rich girl's dream bedroom. Large and predominantly pink, it had pricey white furniture, plush pink carpeting, a mural of hundreds of Lamaar characters covering one wall, shelf after shelf of toys, dolls, and stuffed animals, and a massive canopy bed. The bedding was saturated in what appeared to be blood. There was no body, but there was a white outline of one on the spattered red sheet. It was child-sized. In the center was a pink teddy bear that had been slit from its neck to its crotch. White stuffing spilled out, some of which had soaked up the red. "Oh Jesus," Terry said. "Where's your little girl?"

"I sent Hannah and my wife out of town Sunday night. They're safe."

Terry sniffed the sheet. "I don't think this is real blood," he said, "but this is Hollywood, so you can probably buy prop blood at Wal-Mart. It's damp, but it's been drying for a while. They probably got in while you were asleep."

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j, "We have a pretty decent alarm system," Rose said.

; "So does Bank of America," Terry said, "but it doesn't keep everybody out. We're probably dealing with pros."

"They left a note on her night table." Rose picked up a plastic bag that looked like the one that had been jammed into ludy Kaiser's chest.

"If that's evidence," Terry said, "please don't handle it." "Way too late. I opened it. I wanted to make sure they weren't holding her hostage. This was inside the bag."

fl It was a 5-by-7 photograph. Rose held it up by the edges so Terry and I could see it. It was a picture of an open hand. The killers were now up to five fingers. In the center of the hand it Śsaid, You can't hide your family forever. Are you really sure you want to save Lamaar $266.4 million? "Direct and to the point," Terry said, sliding the picture back ufc> the bag.

"Thank God I sent Hannah away. If she had been here..." "Whoever did this knew she wasn't here," Terry said. "The lake blood, the chalk outline, even the note says they know slie's in hiding. They came to give you a message. This is what P could happen." H "Are you sure Hannah is in a safe place?" I asked him. "I just called. My wife and daughter are both..." He held Ś hack. But only for a second. "They're both fine. Arabella Leone's people are guarding them." "Good choice," Terry said. "The Leones have been in the H protection business almost as long as LAPD." "I know the history of the Leone family. But I've also h worked with Arabella for four years. I trust her. After you were here last week I went to Vegas and I told her what was going

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Marshall Karp

on. She told me straight up and down that whatever might be happening to Lamaar was our own dirty laundry. She offered me her help. I said yes." He pointed a finger at me. "I under-1 stand you paid her a visit as well, Detective."

"She offered me her help, too," I said. "I said no." "She's got resources at her disposal that LAPD doesn't have." Ike said.

"True," Terry said. "Her people have a much better view of the bottom of the barrel than we do."

Rose rubbed his hand over his chin. He hadn't shaved yet or combed his hair. His eye sockets were dark from lack of sleep. He looked more like a desk sergeant who had pulled a double shift than a millionaire CEO.

There was a picture of Hannah on her dresser. She was wearing a green-and-white gym uniform and had her right foot on a soccer ball. Rose picked it up and stared at it. "You got kids, Detective?"

"Three daughters."

"If their bedroom looked like this, what would you do?" "I would do whatever it takes to keep my kids safe." "So would I. I've decided to pay the ransom." "Are you sure you want to do that?" Terry asked. "My mission at Lamaar is to get out from under the shadow of the cartoon bunny rabbit image. Next month we cut the ribbon on Phase One of a multi-billion-dollar entertainment complex in Vegas. Whoever is behind this extortion plot is threatening to destroy that deal. I was willing to fight them. But they have a gun to my head, their finger is on the trigger, and the safety is off. I'm paying the money before my family or someone else gets hurt. I'm only sorry I waited. An innocent

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woman died because I was stupid enough to think I could go iij) against these bastards."

"It's your decision," I said.

Mr. Lu appeared in the doorway with a telephone in his li.ind.

Ike waved him off. "Not now, Lu, I don't want to..."

"It's Brian Curry. It's bad news." He held out the phone and Hose wrenched it from his hand.

"Brian, it's Ike."

Rose listened for about twenty seconds. I watched his face mid body slowly contort in anguish. "Oh, God. They didn't have o do that," he said. "I'm gonna pay. I swear I was ready to pay llic fucking money. Oh, Jesus." Rose handed me the phone. "Brian, this is Mike. Terry and I are both here. There was a threat on Hannah's life, but she's ,i I right. What's going on?" "They took down our plane," he said. "It left Burbank early ill is morning on the way to Vancouver. I don't know if it was a mirface-to-air missile or if they planted a bomb on board, but it ll( >esn't matter. The plane was blown out of the sky. Everyone's tic ad. Amy, four of our senior executives, and a crew of three." Amy? Dead? I could hear the sound of my own breathing.