Joe felt a tiny bit of pride, not much but a shitload more than had been going round, said, “Not only an I.D. but I immediately got on the horn with the airlines and result, the alleged perp is not only the one and only Max Fisher but he’s on his merry way to L.A.”
“Whoa, slow down,” the C.O. said. “Max Fisher?”
Joe told him about the book he’d found and said, “I think Max Fisher is the Red Devil, I think he killed that woman in Harlem and those dealers in Brooklyn, and he’s responsible for the PIMP epidemic that’s sweeping the country.”
“Maybe he blew up that Malaysian airplane too.”
“I’m serious,” Joe said. “I don’t have all the evidence yet, but if I go to L.A.—”
“You’re not going to fucking L.A.,” the C.O. said. “You’re gonna stay here and get me a break, a real break, in the Sister Alison case, or you can kiss your pension goodbye.”
Joe had his own doubts, thought Fisher might be deliberately driving him insane, but when you’re obsessed you’re fucked and by late afternoon he was sitting in the middle of a three-seat row on a crowded flight to LAX out of Newark. Crammed in by a fat guy reading a lurid paperback called The Pack and a quietly sobbing woman to his right. The AC was on the blink and Joe felt he was drinking the fat guy’s sweat. The woman meanwhile had increased her sobbing. Joe, sipping the Fifth he’d brought in a Starbucks container, asked, “You all right, ma’am?”
She stopped instantly, whirled round to glare at Joe.
She asked, “You what, the feelings police? A person can’t have a moment of dignified grief without some cocksucker mocking her?”
Joe looked to the fat guy for help, but the guy was engrossed in the novel and making little oh-fuck-me purrs of delight. Joe took a healthy swig of the bourbon, said, “Sorry for caring.”
Oops.
Her voice was up, she shrilled, “You care? You know me? Why do you care, you looking for a pity grope, that it, you pervert?”
The flight attendant arrived, all perfume and impatience, demanded, “Everything all right here?”
With a sigh, Joe flashed his gold and everything quieted down. After take-off the woman leaned into Joe, asked, “Wanna join the mile high club?”
To avoid having to field any more such offers, Joe got talking to the guy on his other side. Tongue loosened by the bourbon, he mentioned the nun’s murder, the fact that it was the first such slaying in a decade. The guy reluctantly put aside The Pack, said, “That is just shocking.”
Joe nodded, and in an almost literate mood, said, “Agreed — a nun’s death diminishes us all.”
The guy gave him a look of utter scorn, said, “You gotta be kidding, Columbo, I meant they weren’t killing half enough of the bitches.”
It was only later, when Joe, halfway sober again, was unpacking in his two-bit motel near LAX, that he realized he’d nicked the guy’s novel.
Joe was enough of a cop to know that in a foreign land, even if that foreign land is L.A., you call in the locals. Not only do they know the ground but you save them burning your ass later.
Joe used a contact back in NYC to hook him up with a detective from the Hollywood Division, a woman named Gaylin. Being a cop in Hollywood, she looked more like a movie star than a flatfoot. Light-skinned black and she was built. Her rack had Joe slightly stupefied.
He went to her, “You’re like for real a serious cop?”
Nothing like getting off on the wrong foot. She stared at him for a long minute, a guy in a bad suit, tie askew, a shirt from Primark, and his face reflecting a long line of cheap cigars, rotten coffee, too many jelly doughnuts.
She went, “You get it that for us to deal with the movie crowd, we have to blend.”
Joe attempted a hint of humor, said, “I’d say you managed that.”
She got right in his face, snarled, “Don’t fucking patronize me, dickwad. It’s my playpen, you get to ride along. Your job is to stop staring at my tits, it’s embarrassing.”
Joe, a tiny bit turned on by the reprimand, went, “I’m all yours.”
Got, “I try to avoid infections.”
Their first call was on Becker, one of the producers of Bust. He seemed on edge, far from happy to have cops all over the TV show he was about to film. He said, “Those pictures were Photoshopped, I wasn’t at those pool parties.”
Joe looked at Gaylin then back at Becker and went, “Pool parties?”
“Oh,” Becker said. “That’s not why... Never mind. What’s this about?”
“Max Fisher,” Joe said. “You know him?”
“I know of him.”
“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“He’s the subject of my new TV show.”
“Have you met him recently?”
Becker smiled. Did this guy putt from the rough? Joe was pretty sure he did.
“What’s the smile for?” Joe asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“Well, I assume Fisher’s dead, isn’t he?” Becker asked.
“We have reason to believe he may not be dead.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“We think he’s been living in New York City,” Joe said, “dealing a new drug called PIMP, you may have heard of it.”
“It’s been in the news,” Becker said.
“He altered his appearance,” Joe said, “may have had plastic surgery. He’s still not exactly going to win any beauty contests. He has red hair, they’re calling him the Red Devil on the streets. People say he looks like Philip Seymour Hoffman now — post autopsy.”
“Are you fucking shitting me?” Becker seemed excited. “I’m gonna have to work this into the show.”
“Fuck your show,” Joe said. “Have you met a man named Sean Mullen?”
“Sean who?”
“That may be Fisher’s new identity.”
“Look, I’m just trying to make a TV show here,” Larry said. “At least get a pilot shot. I mean it’s been one thing after another on this thing. You should’ve seen the people involved in this project, stuffed into my office like a fucking Marx Brothers movie. I thought somebody would open the door and we’d all tumble into the hallway. We haven’t even started rolling yet and there hasn’t been a production with this much drama since LiLo did The Canyons.”
Joe sighed, then said, “Be a damn shame to shut down the whole operation cause of one douchebag.”
Becker got all antsy, moaned, “Look I told you I have no idea where Fisher is and I doubt my producing partner knows either.”
“Who’s your producing partner?” Joe asked.
“Her name’s Brandi Love,” Becker said, “but she’s gone for the day, personal business.”
Joe wrote the name in a pad, muttering, “Sounds like a porno name.” Then, “Any more names for us?”
“Bill Moss,” Becker said.
“Who’s Bill Moss?” Joe asked.
“He’s writing the pilot,” Darren said. “He’s been researching Fisher. He’d know more than me.”
“Where do we find this gentleman?” Gaylin asked.
Becker gave her the once over, said, “She speaks. I thought you were here to take notes.”
Gaylin smiled and it transformed her, made her looked like Halle Berry, and how great is that?
She asked in a demure tone, “You’re an industry guy, ever hear of the Hollywood hop?”
Becker was into it now, going with the mellow vibe, asked, “That a book I should option?”
She let her weight shift to her right then stomped ferociously on Becker’s instep. He roared and hobbled over to his desk.
She said, “Get Moss’s address and then hop back here with it.”
Back in their car, Gaylin pulled out into traffic, a small smile playing on her lips, said, “Like the kids go, let’s bounce.”