Authors: Stephen Blackmoore
City of the Lost (13 page)
We’re smoking out back near the loading dock, a couple of morgue wagons sitting ready to go out at a moment’s notice.
“So, he dies, but he doesn’t really die. And then he finds another body and pulls shit out of it?” Frank says.
“Well, he’s always looked the same, right?”
“Yeah. Jesus. I thought . . .” He lets the sentence fade to nothing.
He thought that this was all really a nightmare, I’m thinking.
I looked at Frank. “You haven’t slept much, have you?”
“That obvious?”
“Just a little. Nightmares?”
“Yeah. Man, you saw what he did to those people. You know what he did to you. Of course, I’m having fucking nightmares. Aren’t you?”
“I don’t sleep anymore.”
He shakes his head, the look on his face disgust or exasperation. I’m not sure which. “There,” he says. “That right there. That’s what I’m talking about. You don’t sleep anymore. You don’t breathe. The fuck are you?”
“You think I don’t ask myself that same question every five minutes?”
“Yeah, but you’re so goddamn accepting of all this. Why you and not Julio? Why not those others Giavetti tried to change? You just seem to roll with it.”
I grind the butt of my cigarette under my heel, pull a fresh one from a pack.
“Maybe that’s it,” I say. “Maybe I’m, I dunno, more resilient?”
“More stupid, maybe.”
That was going to be my next choice. But I think I’m onto something there. Julio was a good guy, but he just couldn’t handle change. Me, hell, I’m an L.A. boy. Change is our chief export. You want to reinvent yourself, come to this town.
I think that’s it. Yeah, stuff gets to me, but mostly none of it fucking matters. It is what it is, you know? Lose an eye, big fucking deal. You’ve got another one. Shit happens.
We redefine normal like nobody’s business out here. You accept it and move on.
Of course, I have to admit, being dead sort of stretches that one a bit.
I change the subject. “So, Giavetti’s out. What now?”
“I’ll put a BOLO out on him. He’s bound to pop up somewhere. I might be able to get some tapes of the area. ATMs, security cameras, that kind of thing. I gotta wonder where he’d have headed.”
I remember the piece of blue plastic card I found earlier. I pull it from my pocket. Looking at the damn thing for the last couple hours, I should have made the connection earlier. My mind fills in the gaps of the letters on the back. Put them all together and they spell out LA DEPARTMENT OF CORONER.
“What’s that?” Frank asks.
“Part of a toe tag,” I say. I know exactly where Giavetti headed when he left the morgue. I do the math. He would have had plenty of time to get to my place, ransack the shit out of it, and walk off with the stone.
And he left the tag as a souvenir. But where’d he go after that?
“I don’t even want to know why you have that,” he says. He stubs out his cigarette, rubs a hand over his haggard face. “Jesus. You should be in there wearing that thing and stuffed in a body bag, not out here walking and talking.”
“Well, I am,” I say, “so get used to it.”
“No. That I won’t do. I don’t know what the fuck you are, but I am not going to getting used to you.” He starts toward his car, shows me a hand when I follow him. “Find your own ride home. I’m fucking done here.”
“Gee, thanks, detective. And I thought we were getting to be friends.”
He gives me the finger, slides behind the wheel of his Crown Vic. Bastard.
To be honest, I can’t blame him. I’m not sure I’ll get used to me, either.
Chapter 13I pull out my phone
to call a cab and see the little flashing light of a missed call. Samantha’s number. It must have rung while I was in the morgue, but the heavy brick and metal drawers swallowed the signal.
to call a cab and see the little flashing light of a missed call. Samantha’s number. It must have rung while I was in the morgue, but the heavy brick and metal drawers swallowed the signal.
I dial her back. It rings four times before it goes to voice mail—Samantha’s voice on the other end telling me to leave a message.
“Hey,” I say when the machine beeps. “This is Joe. Thought you might want to know Giavetti’s out of the morgue.” She picks up with a speed that says panic, and a voice that says anything but. I’m not sure which one to believe.
“Joe,” she says. “So nice to hear from you. How are you doing?”
“Not bad. All things considered.”
“You say Sandro’s up and about?”
“Yeah, last night. You sound surprised.”
“A little. He’s usually much quicker about that sort of thing. Especially if he’s in a morgue. How was your meeting with Doctor Neumann? I assume that’s where Archie and his friend took you?”
Much quicker about that sort of thing?
I’m sure he is. He’s probably had a lot of practice.
I’m sure he is. He’s probably had a lot of practice.
“Well enough,” I say. “I’d like to see you some time. I think we have a lot to talk about.”
“I’m sure we do,” she says. “Any idea where Sandro is now?”
“Funny, I thought you might be able to tell me.”
She laughs. “Hardly. If he confides in anyone anymore, it’s not likely to be me.”
“Sounds like you two had a falling out.”
“It was a long time ago. Now, did you just call to tell me Sandro was running around again, or did you have something else in mind?”
“Well, you know, that was just an excuse.”
“An ulterior motive, Mr. Sunday? I’m shocked. Whatever happened to ‘I was just in your neighborhood’?”
“That only works if I know where your neighborhood is.” I pull the card she gave me from my pocket. No address. But a bit of the conversation from last night sticks in my memory. “Santa Monica’s a big place, after all.”
“Oh, please,” she says. “It’s not that big. A resourceful man such as yourself, I’m surprised you haven’t shown up on my doorstep yet.”
“I’m a little surprised you haven’t shown up on
my
doorstep,” I say.
my
doorstep,” I say.
“That would be showing a little too much interest, don’t you think? Besides, I don’t stalk a man’s house until at least the third date. And only if he’s married.”
“Guess I’ll never come home to find you sitting on my couch, then?”
“Do you have a couch?” she says. “You don’t strike me as the type.”
“I’m funny that way. I even wear matching socks and clean underwear. You should see it sometime.”
“The couch?”
“The underwear.”
“I may have to take you up on that. In the meantime, why don’t I help you out a little? I’m near Wilshire and Ocean. I’m sure you can figure out the rest. Come on over when you have time.”
“Is this your idea of hard to get?”
“If I were hard to get I’d be in Paris by now. No, I just like a man who’s not afraid to show his intelligence. I’ll see you later? Tonight, maybe?”
“Maybe.”
“Until then.” She hangs up with a click.
So she and Giavetti had a falling out. Don’t get along. So, why’s she so eager to find out where he is? Is she afraid of him?
Women. They can never fucking make it easy.
Knowing that Giavetti’s up and about doesn’t change much. I still don’t have anything to go on to find him. The Bel Air address is the only lead I’ve got, and that’s iffy at best.
Bel Air’s not my usual stomping ground. These aren’t mansions, they’re residential complexes. A-Listers, big time producers, moguls. If you take a deep breath you can smell the cash.
Which means nobody in their right mind is going to talk to me.
When Giavetti broke into my safe he wasn’t exactly subtle. The outside hinges are scratched all to hell, and the dial was ripped out the front. He had a crowbar, a lot of patience, and even more motivation. My poor safe didn’t stand a chance.
I pull off the duct tape I’ve secured it with and rummage through the back until I find a black plastic case with a couple of fake LAPD badges in it. I grab one and clip it onto my belt.
It won’t stand up to too much scrutiny, and I don’t need to use it often. Sometimes, though, a badge can help get me into places I might not normally be able to.
I take the canyon roads above UCLA past the Bel Air Country Club into the winding streets north of Sunset. My car’s not the greatest, but it’s not as if anything I could afford would ever fit in this neighborhood.
The house is a sprawling mansion complex with a Sotheby’s Real Estate sign out front. The man’s been dead what, a week? Guess money buys speed.
I pull up outside the gates behind a Mexican dragging a lawnmower out of the back of a beat-up Chevy truck.
“Hey,” I say, “You work on this house here?”
He looks at me, confused. Maybe doesn’t speak English.
I flash him the badge, say “¿Usted trabajan aquí?” in broken Spanish.
He laughs. “Man, you really need to work on that accent. I heard you the first time. Yeah, I’m working here. What do ya need?”
“You work the house for long?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. The realtor brought me in to clean up the grounds. I got three other guys already inside.”
“So you never been here before?”
“Yesterday was our first time. Hey, I hear the guy lived here got killed. That true?”
“Yeah. Burglary.”
He gives a low whistle. “Damn. That was stupid.”
“How do you mean?”
“I heard the guy had security cameras, dogs. Alarms comin’ out his ass. I’ve got like, ten codes I gotta put in just to get into one of the backyards.”
And three bozos waltzed in and snagged the stone?
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re still looking into it. They showing the house yet?”
“No. Got cleaners inside, though. Driveway’s overloaded.” He kicks his tires. “That’s why I got this piece of shit parked out here.”
“Thanks.”
I head inside, leaving him to struggle with his equipment. I walk through the open gates onto a sea of cars parked in front of a place that looks more like Versailles than Los Angeles.
Did he live alone? Wife? Girlfriend? At the least there should be a maid or two. I head up the enormous staircase, looking for anyone who looks like they might be more than temporary help.
A thick man in a Tommy Bahama shirt, silk pants, and a tan the color of old wood steps out of the door as I’m coming up the front stairs. He smiles with teeth so white I’m glad I’m wearing sunglasses.
“Peter Lippscomb, Sotheby’s Realty. Sorry, but the house isn’t ready to be seen yet.”
“That’s okay, Peter.” I flash him the badge. “I’m not here to buy.” His face falls as he leans in to see it. I pull it back before he can get a good look at it.
“Oh. Uh, what can I do for you, officer—?”
“Detective,” I say.
He blinks at me, waiting for a name. I don’t give him one. “Oh,” he says. “This is about Mr. Henderson isn’t it?”
“I’m just following up on some things. Getting some paperwork closed out. Did you know him?”
“No. I never met him. Never heard of him before Sotheby’s brought me in, in fact. I think some of the cleaning crew worked here before—well, before.”
“If I could talk to one or two of them, that’d really help me out. Paperwork, you know.” He nods knowingly, like he cares.
He leads me inside through a pair of wrought iron and glass front doors. One side has a board where the glass should be.
“We’re getting that fixed,” Peter says. “I guess it got shot out or something ? I’m really not sure.”
There’s a guy waxing the marble floor in the foyer, someone else dusting the banister of the enormous staircase. The walls have been stripped bare, but there are patches where pictures were taken down. Considering the general gaudiness of the place, they could have been dogs playing poker as easily as
Blue Boy
.
Blue Boy
.
“Was the owner married? Have any kids?”
“I know he wasn’t married, but I don’t know about kids. I think he pretty much had this whole place to himself.”
“Lot of space for one guy.”
“Yeah. Thank god for the rich. Guys like him keep me employed.”
“Does a place usually move so quickly? Figured it would still be in probate.”
He nods. “It would be. If he’d owned it.”
“He rented?”
“Not quite. I’m not really sure what the arrangement was. It’s owned by Imperial Enterprises. Again, I’m not sure what they do. Importing? Maybe high tech?” He shrugs.
He takes me on a tour through the bottom floor. The bathrooms are bigger than some apartments I’ve had. We find a woman cleaning windowsills in a guest bedroom.
“Angie,” he says. “Were you working here when Mr. Henderson was living here?”
She nods. A small woman, purple hair with brown roots and a ring through her nose. Nineteen? Twenty? Her eyes look as if they’ve seen a lot more.
“Yeah. Me and a few others. Why?”
“Hi, Angie,” I say. “I’m with the LAPD. I was wondering if I could talk to you about something.” I pull out my little cop notebook and a pen, try to look official.
“I didn’t steal anything.” She’s got the look of the accused. Like she’s been hammered for ripping off people that she never touched, never thought about touching.
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