“DeGranzfeld died a couple of years after moving to Nevada. Affair with a married woman, husband had a temper. Far as I know, Hummel’s still in Vegas. One thing for sure, he’s still got pull in the department, or at least he did a couple of years ago.”
“How so?” said Milo.
“He had this nephew, real fascist fuckup, liked the booze, almost flunked out of the academy, the bullying son of a bitch- frigging chip off the old block. He was involved in that Hollywood Division robbery scandal a few years back, eminently qualified for a Board of Rights or worse. But nothing, except a transfer to Ramparts. Then all of a sudden, guy’s a born-again Christian, promoted to captain, West L.A.-” He stopped, stared at Milo, grinned like a kid on Christmas morning.
“So that’s what this is about.”
“What?” said Milo, innocently.
“Lump, you crafty badger. Gonna get that scum, aren’t you? Finally do a good deed, after all.”
24
After that, Crotty got solicitous, offering us coffee and cake, but we thanked him and declined, left him standing in the doorway, under the cowbell, surrounded by his animals.
“Feisty old guy,” I said when we were back in the car.
“Bluster,” said Milo. “He’s been pouring it on since he tested positive.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Those pills weren’t vitamins- they’re some kind of immune strengthening regimen he got through his network. He beat hepatitis a few years back, thinks if he’s mean enough he’ll beat this too.” Pause. “That’s why I humored him.”
It took a while to turn the Seville around in the alley. When we’d gone a couple of miles on Sunset, Milo said, “Trapp. Paying off old debts to his uncle.” A moment later: “Got to find out what he’s fixing.”
“Maybe a murder made to look like suicide?”
“You keep coming back to that and wouldn’t it be nice. But where’s the evidence?”
“Belding and Magna were old hands at camouflaging murder.”
“Belding’s dead.”
“Magna lives on.”
“What? Some corporate conspiracy? The old chrome-and-glass bogeyman.”
“No,” I said, “it’s always people. It always comes down to people.”
Several blocks later he said, “The Kruse killings weren’t made to look like anything but murder.”
“Hard to do that with three bodies, so Trapp’s using the sex murder thing instead. And maybe killing Kruse wasn’t part of the plan- if Rasmussen did it, the way we theorized.”
Milo’s face got hard. We passed Vine. Hollywood was finally getting out of bed. The Cinerama Dome was showing a Spielberg movie and the lines stretched around the block. A few blocks farther it was all by-the-hour motels and jumpy-looking streetwalkers banking on loneliness and clean blood.
Milo stared at them, turned away, leaned back against the seat and said, “I could use a drink.”
“Early for me.”
“I didn’t say I wanted one. I said I could use one. Descriptive statement.”
“Oh.”
When we stopped for a red light at La Cienega, he said, “What do you think of Crotty’s theory? Lanier and her brother squeezing Belding and Neurath?”
“The loop sure seemed to be setting Neurath up.”
“The loop,” he said. “Where’d those porn freaks say they got it?”
“They didn’t. Just said it was expensive.”
“I’ll bet,” he said. Then: “Let’s take a side trip, see if we can get them to be a little more forthcoming.”
I drove to Beverly Hills and turned left at Crescent. The streets were empty; people who tear down $2 million houses in order to build $5 million houses tend to stay inside to play with their toys.
We pulled up in front of the Fontaines’ green monstrosity and got out of the car.
The windows were shuttered. Empty driveway. No answer to Milo’s ring. He tried again, waited several minutes before heading back toward the car.
I said, “Last time there were four cars here. They’re not just out to brunch.”
Before he could answer, a rattling noise from the neighboring house drew our attention. A heavyset dark-haired boy of around eleven was riding his skateboard up and down the driveway, dodging between a trio of Mercedes.
Milo waved at him. The boy stopped, turned off his Walkman, and stared at us.
Milo flashed his gold badge and the kid gave his board a kick and skated our way. He turned a handle on the front gate, rolled through, and sped over.
“Hi,” said Milo. The boy peered at the badge.
“Beverly Hills cop?” he said, with a thick accent. “Yo, dude.”
He had a black spiky hairdo and a buttery round face. His teeth were banded with plastic braces. A bit of black down clouded his cheeks. He wore a red nylon tank top emblazoned with the legend SURF OR DIE and red-flowered shorts that reached below his knees. His board was black graphite and plastered with decals. He spun its wheels and kept smiling at us.
Milo put away the badge, said, “What’s your name, son?”
“Parvizkhad, Bijan. Six grade.”
“Good to meet you, Bijan. We’re trying to find the people next door. See them lately?”
“Mr. Gordon. Sure.”
“That’s right. And his wife.”
“They gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Trip.”
“A trip where?”
The boy shrugged. “They take suitcase- Vuitton.”
“When was this?”
“Sat-day.”
“Saturday- yesterday?”
“Sure. They go away, have cars take away. On big truck. Two Rolls-Royce, gangster whitewalls Lincoln, and radical T-Bird.”
“They put all the cars on a big truck?”
Nod.
“Was there a name on the truck?”
Uncomprehending look.
“Letters,” said Milo. “On the side of the truck. The name of the tow company?”
“Ah. Sure. Red letters.”
“Do you remember what the letters said?”
Shake of the head. “What’s their case? Coke burn? Hit man?”
Milo stifled a smile, bent, and put his face close to the boy’s. “Sorry, son, I can’t tell you that. It’s classified.”
More puzzlement.
“Classified information, Bijan. Secret.”
The boy’s eyes lit up. “Ah. Secret Service. Walther PPK. Bond. Chames Bond.”
Milo looked at him gravely.
The boy took a closer look at me. I bit my lip to keep a straight face.
“Tell me, Bijan,” said Milo. “What time Saturday were the cars taken away?”
The boy gestured with his hand, seemed to be struggling for phrasing. “Zero seven zero zero hour.”
“Seven in the morning?”
“Morning, sure. Father go to office, I bring him Mark Cross.”
“Mark Cross?”
“His briefcase,” I suggested.
“Sure,” said the kid. “Napa leather. Executive styling.”
“You brought your father his briefcase at seven in the morning and saw Mr. Gordon’s cars being taken away on a truck. So your father saw it too.”
“Sure.”
“Is your father home now?”
“No. Office.”
“Where’s his office?”
“Century City.”
“What’s the name of his business?”
“Par-Cal Developers,” said the boy, volunteering a phone number, which Milo wrote down.
“What about your mother?”
“No, she don’t see. Sleeping. Still sleeping.”
“Did anyone but you and your father see?”
“No.”
“Bijan, when the cars were taken away, were Mr. Gordon and his wife there?”
“Just Mr. Gordon. Very angry about cars.”
“Angry?”
“Always, about cars. One time I throw Spalding, hit Rolls-Royce, he get angry, scream. Always angry. About cars.”
“Did someone damage one of his cars while they were taking it away?”
“No, sure not. Mr. Gordon jump around, scream to red men, say careful, careful, idiot, don’t scratch. Angry always about cars.”
“Red men,” said Milo. “The men who took the cars away were wearing red clothing?”
“Sure. Like pit crew. Indy Five Hundred.”
“Coveralls,” muttered Milo as he scrawled.
“Two men. Big truck.”
“Okay, good. You’re doing great, Bijan. Now, after the cars were taken away on the truck, what happened?”