Author: Matt Goldman
Category: Mystery
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/matt-goldman/page,14,556903-dead_west.html
“Again, that doesn’t mean he was without means. What did the police say?”
“They asked if I knew where he might have got that kind of money. I said I had no idea. It makes no sense. None of this makes sense.”
I said, “It doesn’t make sense right now. But chances are it will. You just didn’t know the guy you were seeing as well as you thought you did.”
“Well, duh.” Brit shut her eyes. I said nothing. She kept her eyes closed and fell asleep, sitting straight up in a hardbacked chair. Her head fell forward. She must have been up all night and have eaten Ativan for breakfast.
No one in the coffee shop seemed to notice. Some looked like professionals treating themselves to a coffee break. Others looked like the intentionally unemployed, pursuing their dreams on laptops and in journals, their noggins sandwiched between headphones. Others looked like full-time personified first amendments. A man with turquoise hair, Day-Glo orange beard, and yellow tights under a leather red kilt read Joan Collins—Passion for Life. Sort of. The book was upside down. A woman wearing a heavy and soiled full-length wool coat, her head wrapped in a throw, spoke to the ceiling. A person of no distinct gender sat staring at nothing, a dirty paper coffee cup on the table before them, most likely lifted from the garbage can outside as if it were a discarded ticket to the theater.
This town was world famous for its creative output. It attracted talented people from all over the world. They and those who came before them appeared to have built a sandbox where play isn’t governed by rules. It’s play, which creates more play, which pushes away boundaries. And that has to attract those who feel constrained elsewhere.
I understand this from what’s true in my work. I’m a better investigator outside the rules and operating procedures of a police department. Not because the rules are bad or wrong, but because of who I am. The rules are not one-size-fits-all. They fit Ellegaard. They don’t fit me. Los Angeles seemed to be a town that not only tolerates outliers but celebrates them.
Brit jerked herself awake and said, “Holy fuck. Did I fall asleep?”
“Just for a little bit.”
“How long is a little bit?”
“Fifty-five minutes.”
She felt her coffee cup, which was no doubt cold. “Dammit. Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“You seemed to need the rest.”
“I’m so fucking embarrassed.”
“In this town? Is embarrassment even a thing?”
Ebben Mayer returned. On the drive back to Hancock Park, he told us about his interview with police which seemed less friendly than Brit’s. They kept asking Ebben where he thought the money in Thom’s safe-deposit box could have come from. They knew Ebben had millions. To the police, Thom and Ebben’s business relationship might explain how Thom ended up with a safe-deposit box filled with $15 million.
We pulled into Ebben’s driveway and Brit said, “Where is it?”
Ebben said, “Where is what?”
“My car. My brand-new Audi.”
“Was it on the street?”
“No! I parked it in the driveway. It was there when we left to pick up Nils at the airport. Dammit!”
I said, “Were you behind on payments?”
“No!” said Brit. “Of course I wasn’t behind on my payments!”
“All right. You don’t have to scream. It was just a question.”
We got out of Ebben’s rental and walked up the driveway. It was the kind of driveway you don’t see in Minnesota. Two parallel concrete strips ran from the street to the garage with a strip of green grass between them. Not a snowplow-friendly driveway.
“What is that?” said Ebben, pointing toward the grass between the concrete strips.
“Oh my God,” said Bunion Brit. “Oh my fucking God.”
For a second I thought it was a pair of thong underwear. But then I realized the black piece of fabric was meant to cover something else—a socket where an eye used to be.
“Vasily,” said Ebben. “Why would he leave his eye patch?”
“Gross,” said Brit.
I said, “Don’t touch it. Ebben, did the detectives give you a card?”
“Yes.”
“Call them. They’ll want to see this.”
An hour and fifteen minutes later, two LAPD plainclothes officers knocked on Ebben’s front door. Detective Mariana Montanio was small and dark and wiry with brown eyes and dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wore jeans and a Rams jersey, which I guessed wasn’t her usual on-the-job outfit. She must have been working undercover, which would have explained why it took so long for the detectives to arrive.
Her partner was Detective Dennis Hall, a heavier-than-he-should-be African American who stood about five feet ten and didn’t have a hair on his head. He wore jeans and a leather sport coat over a white T-shirt.
When Detective Montanio saw the three of us she pointed at me and said, “Who’s this?”
“I’m a friend of Ebben’s from Minnesota. My name is Nils Shapiro.”
“Bullshit,” said Detective Hall. “That’s not a real name.”
“I’m a licensed private detective in Minnesota, but I’m here as a family friend. I am not working, nor am I in possession of a firearm or any other kind of weapon.”
Detective Montanio said, “You talk more like a cop than a private detective.”
“I was a cop for a short time.”
“What happened?”
“I got laid off. My whole academy class did.”
Detective Montanio chuckled. “And they didn’t rehire you?”
“They tried, but I’d found other employment.”
“Bet they loved that.”
“We’ve made up.”
There was an awkward silence, then Detective Montanio reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card. She handed it to me and said, “You know the drill.” I nodded and put the card in my pocket. “So Ms. Dawsey’s car got stolen?”
We walked the detectives outside and showed them the spot where Brit’s car had been.
Detective Hall said, “You marked the spot with a stockpot?”
I said, “Not exactly,” and lifted the upside-down pot to reveal the eye patch. “The thief left it as a calling card.”
Detective Montanio said, “This belong to that Vasily character you told us about?”
“That’s our guess,” said Brit.
“Anyone touch it?” said Detective Hall.
I said, “No. It’s exactly where we found it. We just covered it to keep it from blowing away.”
Detective Hall went back to their car and returned with a ziplock bag. He used a pen to pick up and bag the eye patch.
The detectives looked at each other and Detective Montanio said, “Shapiro, can we talk to you in private for a moment?”
28
I led Detectives Hall and Montanio to the patio furniture in the backyard. I selected a chair. The LAPD detectives chose a love seat. Hall put his feet up on the coffee table and said, “This is nice back here. I could get used to this.”
Detective Montanio said, “You just get used to that ninety-minute commute to and from Lancaster because that’s where you can afford to live.”
“Yeah. That’s what grown-ups do. Get a place of their own. We can’t all live with mommy back in the hood.”
Detective Montanio looked at me and said, “My mother has the diabetes. I’m her caregiver. She can’t even put on or take off her own shoes by herself.”
Detective Hall said, “Shoe duty gets her free room and board. Must be nice.”
Montanio looked at me and said, “You believe I got to put up with this shit all day?”
I said, “Interesting technique. Bickering partners. They didn’t teach us that at the Minneapolis Police Academy.”
“Well, you know. Pressures of the job.”
“I do know.”
Detective Montanio said, “So why did you say you’re visiting Los Angeles?”
“I first came o
ut to attend the celebration of Juliana Marquez’s life.”
“Because you’re a family friend of the Mayers?”
“Yes. And the matriarch of the family hired my firm to investigate what Ebben was doing with his trust fund.”
Detective Montanio said, “So it is business?”
“At first, yes. But it took five minutes to learn what Ebben was doing with his trust fund. I can show you text messages with dates and times to back up my story.”
“And after that,” said Detective Hall, “you just decided to be a good friend.”
“More or less.”
Detective Hall said, “Yet we hear you’ve had direct contact with this Vasily character. What’s that about?”
“Wrong place, wrong time.”
“Tell us about that.”
I told them everything that had happened the last few days. Mostly.
The detectives looked at each other the way partners do. They had a conversation without saying a word. I heard a gurgle, then black spikes popped out of the lawn and sprayed water onto the grass. A hiss of white noise. A baby rainbow in the mist. I felt tiny droplets of cool water in the air. The detectives didn’t seem to notice.
Hall said, “Sounds to us like you’re working. Cut it out and head home.”
I said, “I can be here if I’m working for a Minnesotan. Ebben Mayer is a Minnesotan. He’s just renting a house here temporarily for business.”
“All the same,” said Montanio, “get lost.”
“I’ve violated no laws. I’ve violated no ethical standards. I’m not in your way. What’s the problem?”
Hall said, “The problem is this town is full of private dicks. They fuck us up every day. Now we got a homicide, a stolen vehicle, and an APB out on Vasily Zaytzev. Your direct involvement in all three of these is a serious problem for us. So go back home to the ice and snow and your shit sports teams. Understood?”
“I know you have to say what you’re saying. That’s your job.” I handed Detective Montanio my business card. “But we all know we can help each other. You can do what I can’t do. I can do what you shouldn’t do. That said, with your permission, I’ll take Ebben Mayer back to Minnesota and never come back.”
The sprinklers stopped hissing and disappeared back into the lawn, then taller sprinkler heads spread their love to flowers in planting beds. Flowers in January. It was unnatural.
Detective Montanio said, “Sorry, Nils Shapiro. Ebben Mayer needs to stay in town for a while. You’ll be okay flying alone. The pilot might even invite you into the cockpit and give you some plastic wings.”
* * *
LAPD found Brit’s car less than six blocks away from the house. Brit said she never wanted to drive her Audi again because Vasily had contaminated it. Sounded kind of second grade to me but I went to get it, then the three of us met Sebastiano and Debra for dinner.
The conversation pendulated between comparing police interviews and shared excitement over Sebastiano’s new talent agency. Debra’s demeanor had changed. Her desperate less-than-ness seemed to have vanished now that she had the credibility of working in the top tier of Sebastiano’s new agency, which he’d named Enchant. She wouldn’t have to hustle twenty-four/seven. Her phone, apparently, hadn’t stopped ringing since Sebastiano announced Debra’s position at Enchant.
Even Brit had lightened up. The strange thing was that, despite their fears, For the People was moving forward. Sebastiano sat down with Kate Lennon and her representatives. Same with the esteemed director Ava St. Clair and her reps. The great salesman and dealmaker tied the fifteen million in Thom Burke’s safe-deposit box to Vasily’s threats and Thom’s murder. He implied there was a separate story between Thom and Vasily that had nothing to do with For the People. They bought it. One rep even said if they were lucky, Vasily’s trial would coincide with the release of the movie. The dynamics that Ebben worried might kill The Creative Collective’s first project morphed into dynamics that might make it a hit.
The food and wine were excellent. I saw a couple of movie stars at the next table. And I enjoyed watching Ebben celebrate the elusive and rare win in show business. This is what they all struggled for, apparently, these brief moments when all was good.
The moment didn’t last long, at least for me. My phone buzzed with a text.
Buddy! How you do, buddy? It was from the same number Vasily had called from a few days ago.
I responded. Doing okay, Vasily. Having a nice dinner. How are you?
You be funny, buddy. Always funny. Why police look for me? You know?
I do know. They told me. They will tell you too when you talk to them.
Ha ha ha ha. I not talk to police. Tell me what you know, buddy.
They want to talk to you. That’s what I know.
Why they do?
Thom Burke is dead. Someone killed him in his driveway.
No response. No dots on my phone to indicate Vasily was typing. Nothing. A couple minutes passed. Ebben, Sebastiano, Debra, and Brit talked about all the trouble between the big agencies and the Writers Guild. I understood none of it. Then:
I no kill Thom. Police think I did?
You followed people, Vasily. You threatened people. You punched Thom.
What they know about Thom? Did they look in house like they look in my house? They make big mess, buddy. Who will clean?
I’d told Vasily all I could tell him. I couldn’t risk giving him new information that might help him evade apprehension. My hope was that he’d keep asking questions and maybe reveal something he hadn’t intended.
I’ll clean your house, Vasily. Is that all right with you?
You are not maid, buddy. You private detective. I know about you. I do not want detective in my house.
Why did you ask if the police searched Thom’s house? Is there something you think they might find?
You make me bummed, buddy. You tell nothing.
Vasily, do you want to meet and talk?
“You setting up a hot date, Shapiro?” I looked up from my phone. Debra swirled her glass of wine and had cranked her face up to full smirk. “Find some local action? Invite her over. We’d love to meet her.”
“Excuse me. I need to make a call.” I left the table and stepped outside and onto a far less famous strip of Sunset Boulevard. I saw pedestrians going in and out of bars, restaurants, a convenience store with barred windows. I dug the business card out of my front pocket and placed the call.
29
I took Brit’s Audi and half an hour later I sat in the Hollywood Police Station, Robbery-Homicide division, in a small conference room with Detective Dennis Hall and Detective Mariana Montanio. They both seemed torn between the good fortune of me giving them a break in the case and the bad fortune of having to work late.
The room had a glass wall. The blinds were open, and the police station was busier than any I’d seen, like what you’d see in a TV show set in New York City. A parade of homeless people, sex workers, young people who looked like central casting shoo-ins for runaways or gang members, though I have no idea if they were either. Everyone in the police station, cops and robbers and lawyers and complaint filers—they all acted as if the activity was ho-hum business as usual.
I said, “You got a lot of customers tonight.”
Detective Montanio said, “This is nothing. You should come here on a Saturday night. Or on Halloween.”
“No,” said Detective Hall, “come on New Year’s Eve. Perps got to take a number.” He laughed at his joke. Montanio and I did not.
Montanio said, “So who else knows about these texts you got?”
“Just you two. I didn’t tell my fellow diners. Didn’t want to ruin their evening.”
“We appreciate that. And who again were your dining companions?”
“You trying to trip me up with hard questions?”
“Maybe,” said Detective Hall. “Who were they?”
“Sebastiano. Debra. Brit. Ebben.”
“Correct,” said
Detective Montanio. “Now for the bonus question. Have—”
A uniform walked in, handed Detective Montanio a piece of paper, and left. Montanio read it then handed it to Detective Hall.
Hall said, “Interesting.”
Montanio said, “Sure is.”
I said, “What was the bonus question? I’m really hoping to walk out of here with a new dinette set.”
“We’re going to share a piece of information with you. See what the great private detective, Nils Shapiro, thinks.”
“Uh huh…”
Hall said, “We Googled your ass. You solved those murders in Duluth. And the dust one in Ed-eena.”
“Eee-DIE-nah.”
“Big fucking difference. The newspapers love you. Producers are always eating up shit like that. Surprised we haven’t seen a TV show based on your adventures.”
“You just might. Hollywood’s all over me. Hey, who do you think should play me?”
I wasn’t expecting an answer, but they each gave it a good think, then Detective Mariana Montanio said, “Harry Potter.”
“Yeah,” said Detective Hall. “Harry Potter would be perfect.”
I said, “You mean the kid who plays Harry Potter? Daniel Radcliffe?”
“That’s him,” said Montanio. “But he’s not a kid anymore. He’s growed up.”
I said, “Really? I was thinking more like Joseph Gordon-Levitt.”
“What?” said Detective Hall. “Joseph Gordon-Levitt doesn’t do TV. He’s movies only. Everyone knows that.”
“And you ain’t no Joseph Gordon-Levitt,” said Montanio. “Think much of yourself, Shapiro?”
The detectives laughed.
I said, “You’re welcome.”
“Welcome for what?” said Montanio.
“I’ve cured your incessant bickering.”
“Fuck you. Do you know what this is?” She held up the scrap of paper the uniform had just walked into the room.
“The LAPD Code of Conduct?”
Detective Hall said, “No, smart ass. Same time you got those texts from Vasily Zaytzev, his phone pinged a tower in Las Vegas. He ain’t even in town.”