“This is the Mob’s way of getting back at me for making Traffic King,” he told me over the phone.
“I am not familiar with Traffic King,” I said.
“That’s because its release date is two weeks from tomorrow. The story is about human trafficking, about the modern slave trade.”
“Your film is about present-day slavery?”
“That’s right. The Traffic King is a modern-day slave lord. He collects and sells human beings. He ravages lives.”
“What does that have to do with your son’s death?”
“It’s organized crime retaliating for my putting the spotlight on their activities.”
“Is Traffic King based on a true story?”
“I would call it more of a composite story. In sheer numbers, there is more human trafficking going on today than ever before.”
“But your movie is fictional?”
“That doesn’t take away from its inherent truth.”
By that point in our conversation, I had stopped taking notes. Before reaching him by phone, I had heard Klein selling this same revenge theory to the media. It had sounded out there, but at the time I thought grief was coloring his thinking. Now I wasn’t so sure, but I hoped he believed in his theory. If he didn’t, that meant he was using the death of his own son to promote a movie.
“I think it’s a stretch that your son would have been targeted because of this movie.”
“That’s because you don’t know how despicable and violent the modern slave trade is. It would be just like them to exact revenge for my having exposed their methods. When you see the movie, Detective, you’ll understand what I’m talking about. They are afraid of their house of cards toppling. That’s what happens in the film, and as a result their slave trade is severely disrupted.”
“And how does all of that come about?”
“A woman whose girl is abducted by slave traders gets vengeance against the human traffickers. Getting her daughter back isn’t enough; she goes after the Traffic King.”
I held the phone away from me and just looked at it. When I could talk, I thanked Mr. Klein for his time and hung up on him.
During the drive home I thought about the producer’s conspiracy theory. “Hard to believe,” I said to Sirius. My partner didn’t answer. He was already asleep in the backseat.
The good thing about driving so late was that there was little traffic. Casa Gideon is in Sherman Oaks, the so-called gateway to the San Fernando Valley. Being that gateway is a dubious distinction, and I’m not sure whether the title is a compliment or a ding. Jenny and I had chosen to live in Sherman Oaks because of its proximity to our workplaces, and because when we bought our home it was somewhat affordable. Officially, Sherman Oaks isn’t a city but a neighborhood in the city of Los Angeles. When you think of neighborhoods, most don’t have sixty thousand people like mine does. One of Sherman Oaks’ claims to fame is that it is the acknowledged birthplace of Valley Girls. In the 1980s, the Sherman Oaks Galleria, the megamall of its time, was the big meet-up spot for the high school crowds. Frank Zappa had to endure listening to the unique lingo of his daughter and her friends, and decided to immortalize the way they talked in song. After that, movies followed and the whole country became familiar with Valspeak. Unfortunately, the speech patterns continue to this day.
Like, gag me with a spoon.
Jenny had told me that although the TV series The Brady Bunch was filmed on a set, the writers always imagined that the household existed in the suburbs of Sherman Oaks. Our plan had been to have our own nest with children, and we picked a house that a family was supposed to fill, but it never worked out that way. Jenny had even insisted that we put up a white picket fence in the front yard. As I pulled into the driveway, the night couldn’t mask the fact that the fence needed a new coat of paint. The whole house needed TLC that I was no longer inspired to put into it.
Sirius stayed at my side as we walked up the pathway to the front door and then waited for me to enter the house first. When the two of us worked together in K-9, there had been clear divisions of rank, with frequent classes and exercises to reinforce that pecking order. The dogs are taught their handlers are generals and that they are grunts that have to obey no matter how insane the orders are. Sirius always went along with this game so as to not make me look bad, and still does.
I made Sirius what was either a late dinner or an early breakfast. He eats on the patio and was waiting outside for his catered affair to be served. I sat down while he ate. It was cool but not uncomfortably so. Our backyard is full of mature fruit trees, and at different times of the year it’s awash in nectarines, apples, apricots, lemons, plums, figs, avocadoes, oranges, limes, and tangelos. It was a good thing the trees were so well established when their care fell to me; so far I’d managed not to kill them. Jen had been the gardener and the cook. The breeze brought with it the bouquet of citrus, and I remembered her tangy lemon meringue pies.
Sirius made short work of his food. I thought about making myself a late snack but decided sleep sounded better than food. I had a six-thirty appointment with the assistant principal at Beverly Hills High, so I’d be lucky to get three hours sleep. My hope was that I would be too tired to dream, especially with my early meeting. When my head hit the pillow, I dropped off. The next thing I knew I was in hellfire.
Both of us were staggering under the weight and heat. The smoke was pummeling us, hitting us in our throats and lungs. The Strangler collapsed to a knee, and Sirius’s legs slipped through his hands and hit the ground. I held on to my partner’s head and legs, but just barely.
“We’re going to die,” the Strangler said.
His lips were blistered and it was tough making out his words. Soot covered his face. His eyes stared out, red coals among the blackness.
“We have to leave the dog if we’re going to have a chance.”
Sirius was still breathing; blood was no longer pouring out of him, but I was afraid that was because he’d bled so much already. Without answering the Strangler directly, I shifted the direction of my gun. It wasn’t easy holding up my partner, with the gun in my right hand, but I’d managed. In a few moments, I could holster the gun and then carry my friend by myself.
The Strangler read my intentions and all but jumped to his feet. I reluctantly eased the pressure on my trigger finger. In the fire my morality had burned away.
My partner was a dead, unwieldy weight in our arms, but I couldn’t let him go. As he struggled for air and continued to fight for life, his sounds made me press on.
Holding Sirius between us, the Strangler and I resumed our death march.
In the limbo of past and present, the crippling forces of grief and despair made my chest feel as if it was being staved in. That pain hurt even more than the burning fire.
And then I was gasping in the now, the dream behind me, as my partner’s licks awakened me and cooled my burning flesh.
In the calm of the moment after, I found myself focused on the crazed red orbs of Ellis Haines. As we had walked through hell, his eyes had always been on me, but now, in my vision, I watched as he plucked out his right eye and offered it to me.
And then I heard the words-or maybe I thought them-“An eye for an eye.”
I fully awakened then, and I thought of Paul Klein and the gap of his missing orb. I wondered whether the bullet was a statement. If I could believe what my vision was telling me, the shooting had been carried out by someone who believed in an eye for an eye. If that was the case, the killer had acted upon what he or she perceived to be a grievous wrong.