Empty Places, page 17
"I'm sorry gentlemen," the station manager said, "but we've been advised not to cooperate with your, ah, investigation. In fact, we've been advised not to have any further contact with you. So good day, and if you would now please leave?"
"We just want to talk to Casey about Robin Anderson," Matt said.
"I'm sorry. As I said, we've been advised—"
"Who advised you?" I asked.
"I'm afraid that's not your business."
"Robin Anderson's our business," Matt growled.
"That's police business," Davis said tartly. "I'm sure they're fully capable of investigating Robin's, ah, death on their own."
"We're fully capable of pushing you aside and getting what we want, you little—"
I took Matt's arm and cut him off. Charlie Davis cowered and stepped back. Sweat popped out in little beads on his fat little face. He was a pathetic fruit-colored man who had used up the last of his courage. I tapped Matt's arm and shook my head. We left without another word.
Matt's car was parked on the street, a couple buildings away from the station. We sat in it with the windows opened, waiting for the air conditioning to push out the wet heat, and trying to decide our next move when Steve Casey made the decision for us. He hurried out of the station lobby, carrying a small black box in his hand. Matt took a pair of folding binoculars from the glove box and peered through them.
"Could you see what he was carrying?" I asked.
Matt grunted and rubbed his chin. "Yep," he said.
"Well?"
"It was a videotape box."
Matt and I looked at each other, the same thought in both our minds.
"Videotape?" I said. "You thinking—"
"I am."
Matt launched the sedan from the curbside, leaving a set of black arches sketched on the asphalt to match the twin tracks Casey left peeling out of the lot. We followed Casey's Datsun Z through half a dozen side streets until it broke out onto Ramon Road and highballed it down to Cat City. Casey pulled into a fenced off parking lot belonging to a squat, brown cinder block building. Written on the glass doors in small, undistinguished letters barely visible from the street was the name Sunburst Productions.
Casey jumped out of the Z-car carrying the tape box and disappeared into the building. He emerged an hour later, tossed a bulging manila envelope into the Datsun, and again laid rubber pulling out of the lot. We followed him south to an apartment complex in Palm Desert, where he parked and disappeared into one of the flats before we pulled in. Matt checked the wall of mailboxes which stood sentinel at the driveway and found Casey's name. The lanky news director answered the second ring of the doorbell. When he saw us, he froze, big eyed, like a doe struck by headlights on a dark backwoods road.
"We'd like to talk to you, Casey," I said.
Casey came out of his catatonia. "I'm not supposed to talk to you guys."
"So, we heard." Matt pushed open the door and we walked in.
It was a well-furnished, two-bedroom apartment equipped with an expensive entertainment system anchored by a big-screen TV. Across from the television were a nicely padded sofa, and a molded coffee table with a glass top. The stuffed envelope Casey carried out of Sunburst sat on the table next to an overturned cardboard box.
"Hey, you guys can't just walk in here like that," Casey protested. "Get out of here before I call the cops." He sniffed and rubbed his nose nervously.
Matt called his bluff. "Perhaps you should," he said gently.
He picked up the box. Beneath it was a cocaine ampule and a single line of coke. A twenty-dollar bill, rolled into a tube, rested next to the line.
"You could advise them about this contraband."
The old bear picked up the envelope and dumped its contents onto the table. Five bundles of neatly wrapped $20 bills tumbled onto the glass. Matt thumbed through one of the bundles. "Must be five grand here."
"Put that down!" Casey grabbed the wad of twenties from Matt's hand. He dropped it back into the envelope, followed by the remaining bundles, and hugged the package to his chest. "I told you I can't talk to you. You have no right harass me like this. What the hell do you bastards want anyway?"
"We were going to talk about something else, Casey," I said. "But let's talk about the tape first."
"Tape? What tape?"
"The videotape you apparently sold to Sunburst Productions," Matt said.
Casey's face slackened and turned white. He suddenly looked much older. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said.
Matt turned his attention to the entertainment system, while I explained it to Casey.
"We saw you go in with the tape and come out with the money," I said. "You know about the beating I took last night?"
"Yeah, I read about it."
"What you didn't read was that they kept demanding I give them ‘the tape.’" I emphasized “the tape” by making quotes marks in the air with my fingers.
Casey's face flinched. He felt it and rubbed his hand across his face to hide it. "What tape?"
"That's what I asked, but they thought I was jerking them around. Just like I think you're jerking me around right now."
"Jesus H. Chr—" Casey and I turned toward Matt. He was crouching in front of the console, looking inside a cabinet. Lined up inside the compartment were several neat rows of video cassettes. Matt held one in his hand.
"Get away from there!" Casey yelled. Matt held his ground and Casey didn't seem eager to try to change the old bear's mind.
"Fast Lust at Union High," Matt read from the tape cover. "They're young and horny and ready to graduate to higher yearning." Matt pulled another tape from the cabinet. "Easy Conquest," he read. "She was queen of all she surveyed, but she wanted the Spanish invader to invade her—" Matt started laughing. "There's got to be dozens of these here. Look, they're even labeled. 'Women on Women.' 'Black on White.' 'Gang Bangs.'"
I looked back at Casey. He shrugged. "There's your answer," he said weakly.
"What answer?"
"About the tape I took into Sunburst."
Matt looked at the labels of the tapes. "These are all produced by Sunburst."
"Sunburst is a porn studio?" I asked.
Casey nodded. "I moonlight for them. I directed and filmed all those." He gestured toward the videotapes. "The tape you saw me going into Sunburst with was my latest film."
"You make porn?"
"We call them adult films," Casey said. He bent over and carefully replaced the box over the cocaine. "Yeah, why not? I have access to the video equipment, and I know how to use it. Sunburst provides the script and the actors. I give them the edited tape, and they mass reproduce it and distribute it. And they pay me in cash." He waved the package of twenties at me, arching his eyebrows. "Tax free cash. And if you try to tell anyone this, I'll deny it all."
"I don't care about your moonlighting, Casey," I said. "Unless you think this had something to do with Robin."
"Of course, it didn't." Casey shook his head, then stopped.
"Except . . . "
"Except?"
Casey hesitated. His eyes shifted from me to Matt and back to me. "Look, you're going to have to understand something. Robin and me, well, we—"
"Had a relationship." Casey nodded. "I know. Go on."
"It was a while back, Brandt. Didn't last long, and it was after you two, you know . . . "
"Go on."
"Anyway, Robin knew I worked for Sunburst," Casey continued. "One night not long ago we went out for drinks after the 11 p.m. newscast, and she started asking a lot of questions about Sunburst."
"What kind of questions?" Matt had dragged his attention away from the porn tapes and was listening to Casey.
"Who owned it, what kind of flicks they made. That kind of stuff. I told her if she was thinking of doing a story on Sunburst, to forget it. I couldn't afford it."
"Who does own it?" I asked.
"Don't have the slightest idea," Casey said. "I understand there's some kind of holding company in L.A. that acts as a blind for the real owners, but that's all. All I know is I pick up the scripts and drop off the films."
"What did she mean by the kind of films? She knew you weren't making documentaries for them, didn't she?"
"Yeah, of course she did," Casey said. "But there's straight stuff, and then there's really bizarre stuff. You know, bondage, sado, kid stuff. I only did straight stuff, guys and girls, girls and girls, some family stuff."
"Family stuff?"
"You know, married couples, boyfriend and girlfriend. Real life people. Amateurs, not actors."
"You're kidding."
"Hell, no," Casey said. "It's the hottest stuff selling now. Look, they sign a contract guaranteeing the flick won't be distributed in the region where they live, or where their mom and pop live, so no one who knows them will see it. Other than that, it's open territory. It's really hot stuff."
"I've heard about it," growled Matt. "Doesn't surprise me one bit. Few years back, a couple gals got busted for hooking in Indio. Turned out they were the wives of some big honcho businessmen in L.A. Once a month they'd come out to the desert and turn tricks for kicks."
I started shaking my head, thinking I'd really lost touch with the United States while I was gone. "Let's get back to Robin. What else did she want to know?"
"That was it, really. I just don't know that much about Sunburst, and she never asked me about it again."
"When was this?" Matt asked.
Casey dug through the back recesses of his mind. "Couple weeks before—" He shook his head again. "You know."
"Why didn't you tell us about this before, Casey?" Matt demanded.
"Be real, Banyon. Would you blurt out in the middle of a crowded newsroom to people you don't know that you moonlight as a pornographer?"
Casey had a point. I moved the discussion on to the original reason I wanted to talk to him. "Back in the studio, you mentioned that Robin was trying to get a job out of the desert. Someone else told me that this afternoon. How badly did she want out of here?"
"Bad," Casey said. "Real bad. Worst case of desert fever I've ever seen. I don't think there was anything she wouldn't do to get the hell out of this sand pit. But . . . "
"But?"
"I was honest with her, Brandt. I told her there was a lot of competition out there, and the little stories the station let her do weren't going to get her a job in L.A. or even San Diego. I told her the best she’d get is another Podunk market like Palm Springs, but that's not what she wanted. She was too ambitious for that. So, I told her she needed a really good, hot story to make her stand out. I said if she could come up with one, I'd make certain it got aired. One way or the other."
"Did she ever mention getting a job in Sacramento?" I asked.
"Yeah," Casey said, nodding. "Yeah, she did. She had a thing going with one of the state legislators—"
"Manchester?"
"You know about him?" I nodded. "I guess he told her he'd take her up to Sacramento to be his press person, but he was just stringing her along. When he dumped her, Robin took it pretty hard. For a while there, I thought she was going to crack up."
"What about your offer?" I asked. "About airing a big story for her? Did she say she was taking you up on it?"
Casey shook his head. "No, she didn't. Never mentioned working on anything."
I nodded my thanks, then motioned to Matt to leave, but Casey stopped us.
"There's one thing more. You mentioned a tape?"
"Yeah," I said. "The guys who did this to my face kept asking for a tape."
"I don't know if it means anything," Casey said. "But the night before. . .before Robin died, I saw her in the studio editing an audio tape. I didn't think anything of it at the time. Just figured she was putting together a radio audition tape. But now that—"
"Did you hear what was on it?" Matt asked.
"No. Not a thing. She was in an editing room and the door was shut. They're soundproofed, you know."
We started to leave again. This time I halted our exit. "One more thing, Casey," I said. "Why the big chill at the TV station? And why are you talking to us now?"
Casey dropped his lean body into the sofa and hugged his money envelope. He gestured toward the videotape cabinet and the cocaine beneath the box. "After you came barging in here, it wasn't like I had much of a choice."
He laid his head on the back of the couch. "Besides, I may be a lot of things, Brandt, but I was really fond of Robin. I hope you do find out who hurt her. Sounds like something I might've done, back in the days before I burned out."
Casey stared at the ceiling for moment, his eyes seeing back through the years. When he came back to the present, his eyes were a little hollower.
"As for Charlie's reception, that came from up above. Charlie had a talk last night with a member of the station's board of directors. Charlie said the guy didn't think we should help you, that you might do something that the station could be held liable for. That's all."
"Last night?" I said. "Casey, I saw Davis at a party last night."
"And that's where he had the discussion, Brandt. With the guy who threw the party. Carlos Tinnerman."
CHAPTER 20
THE SUN WAS ALREADY dipping behind the San Jacinto Mountains when we reached Robin's place. The apartment was cast in a grayish gloom the interior lights failed to conquer. We started our search with the bedroom, emptying out closets, pulling drawers from their cubbyholes in the chest of drawers, checking the hollows of the chest for anything taped to its insides. An hour later, the bedroom and the room Robin used as an office looked as if battles had been fought in them. And we were still searching.
I was eyeing the living room with a tactical eye when Matt decided to call his house and check for messages. He dialed the number, listened, then held a small beeper to the mouthpiece. The beeper played a short tune, then Matt listened again.
"Two messages for you," he said. He made the beeper play its tune into the mouthpiece again, then handed the phone to me.
The first message was from Fred Danbury. His voice was cautious but anxious. He said simply to call him back. The second caller didn't identify himself, but I recognized the voice as Ralph's, the gas station mechanic. Tex wanted to see me immediately. "As soon as you, you know, hear this," he said, leaving an address in North Palm Springs.
We took Indian Avenue north, out past the northern reaches of the city, past the railroad tracks and over the interstate to the dusty little hamlet of North Palm Springs. Despite the name, there was no kinship between The Springs and its northern neighbor. The urban hardtop of The Springs faded, replaced with dunes and desert brush. There were no golf courses, no lawns to hold back the desert. Sidewalks were a luxury. North Palm Springs sprouted straight from the sand. Ramshackle houses, quick marts, and restaurant bars stood naked and scorched in the desert sun, scoured by blowing sand. In the Hollywood heydays of The Springs, before the civil rights movement forced the city's integration, this was where the black domestics lived.
The address Ralph left was on the eastern side of North Palm Springs, in a spot seemingly more desolate than the hamlet itself. The small, single-story cracker box had been sandblasted of its paint, and its wooden walls were dried out and cracked. Its windows were boarded up. Two dismantled cars sat rusting in the rocky sand that served as a yard, their finish stripped away like the paint on the house. The place would have looked abandoned but for the patrol cars parked outside, and the band of reporters and sheriff's deputies milling around.
We parked in the dirt a few yards away and walked to the house. I flashed my press credentials to a deputy. "What's going down?" I asked.
"Some old guy got dusted," he said.
We joined the half dozen reporters and cameramen standing next to a squad car. I didn't recognize a single face among them, but I did recognize the two detectives leaving the house. One was Shorty Hall, the other Bull Dog Jefferson. Bull Dog glanced once at the group of reporters and stopped, holding out a thick arm to stop Shorty. Shorty looked at the reporters, saw Matt and me, and walked over to us, leaving Jefferson standing alone, arms crossed.
"Matt. Brandt," Shorty said, nodding to each of us in turn. His voice was flat, serious. He paused, then did a double take at me. "What the hell happened to your face, Brandt?"
"Got mugged last night."
Shorty studied my face a while longer, then shook his head. "Well, anyway, can we see both of you over here?" He jerked his head toward the house, and we followed him back to Jefferson. The reporters shouted in protest. Their complaints faded to a low grumbled when Jefferson gave them with his best D.I. stare.
"Well, well," Jefferson said as we approached. "Just who we were going to look for. How nice of you to oblige us this way."
"Do you know who lives here?" Shorty asked me.
"Not really certain," I said. "Why?"
"An old geezer got his brains smashed in," Shorty said. "This was in his pocket." He took a plastic bag from his own pocket and held it up. Inside was the business card I had given Ralph.
The group of reporters began shouting again. They surged forward. Uniformed deputies rushed in to hold them back. "Let's take these guys inside," Jefferson said.
We followed the black detective inside. "Isn't this a little outside your jurisdiction, Jefferson?" I asked. "I thought North Palm Springs was county territory."
"Call it mutual aid," Jefferson said over his back.
"PSPD got the call originally," Shorty said. "We asked them to respond because all our units were tied up. The city dicks secured the crime scene until we got here."
"Figured we'd teach the county boys how to solve a murder once in a while." Jefferson muttered the insult. Being closest, only I seemed to hear it. "Don't touch anything, Brandt," he said louder. "Banyon, you know better."
