City of Fire, page 22
part #1 of Lena Gamble Series
What next?
Although he didn’t recognize the man’s face, he guessed that he was from the neighborhood. His fuck session with Harriet had been a command performance. And let’s face it, he knew what turned the bitch on. At this time of night, sound carried. The guy probably wandered into the yard, saw him getting a piece of ass, and got all worked up. Maybe if he ignored the idiot, he’d cool his jets and split.
Burell closed the cabinet, reached for his wineglass, and took another peek in the mirror. He was still there. Still fixated on him from behind the stairs.
He glanced at the phone as he considered his options. Calling the cops didn’t seem like the way to go. He hated cops. Particularly the local-yokel variety. If they came to the house and got a look at his basement, they’d start snooping and want to know more about his business just as those detectives had. Only they wouldn’t keep their big mouths shut because they wouldn’t be working a murder case. It might cause a problem in the neighborhood, even damage his reputation and standing. Burell had taken great pains to keep his business secret. Every clodhopper in the neighborhood still thought he practiced law. That he was just lucky with women. Getting laid five or six times a week by different women went with his success like the Rolex he wore and the fleet of Mercedes he drove.
He would be much better off handling the situation on his own, he decided. Chase the rat bastard out and lock the door. He set the glass down, dusting off his courtroom demeanor. When he thought he’d found it, he breezed into the basement, looked straight at the guy, and spawned a healthy dose of this-was-bound-to-happen surprise.
“Show’s over, buddy,” he said. “Take a hike and get the hell out.”
The man was hiding in the shadows. But as he rose to his feet and stepped into the light, Burell took the jolt and fought to regain his cool.
The intruder was completely naked. Built like a shit house and hung like a mean horse. Yet it was his face that shook Burell to the core. His eyes were beyond lifeless, smoldering in their sockets and reaching out to him from across the room. No doubt about it, this one was a bona fide loony tune. Time to bite the bullet and call 911.
“You’re too late,” he said, back-stepping his way toward the office. “She went home. You want a piece, get your own gig. This one’s mine.”
The man didn’t say anything, but just stared at him with those eyes. When he suddenly charged forward, Burell yelped but was too frightened to make a move. The man seized him by the neck and rammed him into the wall. Something snapped and the air rushed out of his lungs. Before he could scream, the bodybuilder picked him up like a man toy and drove his face into the floor.
He blacked out after that. Everything went lazy until he finally came to.
Then he cracked his eyelids open, watching the hairless giant step away. He tried to catch his breath. Tried to think through the fucking haze. His courtroom routine was working about as well as it ever had, and he needed a new plan. He saw blood puddling on the floor, his Rolex beside his foot with the lens smashed. When he noticed that his mouth hurt, he ran a finger over his teeth, felt the pins in his gums, and realized that several caps were missing. Two in the upper front, and three on the bottom. His mind cleared as he calculated what the night had cost him. Twenty grand easy, plus $3.19 for that bottle of wine.
He needed a way out of this. Something that would be agreeable to both parties.
He knew from experience that the trick to any successful negotiation was figuring out what your adversary wanted. He looked the man over. His chiseled body and extrasmooth skin. He was perusing the studio, passing the office and bedroom sets. When he reached the bogus hospital room and stopped, Burell lifted his face off the floor and finally spoke.
“I could make you a star.”
The man turned back and looked at him, remaining silent. Burell’s heart fluttered in his chest, but somehow he dug deep down, found his voice, and kept going.
“I could make you a fucking star. The way you’re built. You’re a stud and I could do it.”
He had the odd-looking man’s attention. He was sure of it. In spite of his broken mouth and slurred speech, he had his attention. If he could just get him to bite. If he could somehow manage to get him out the door.
“I’ve got friends in the business. Lots of friends. All it would take is a phone call. You could get laid any day you want and make real money.”
The man smiled at him like an idiot. Burell sat up, snatched his Rolex off the floor, and slipped it over his wrist. He had him. He was in the game.
“We’ll make an audition tape. You pick the model. I’ll pay for everything because I take care of my friends. Say, you’re not much of a talker, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
“What’s your name? A stud like you needs the right name.”
The man didn’t say anything. Instead, he grabbed a patient’s gown off the hospital bed and threw it at him.
Burell giggled nervously. “Not tonight. Not with me. We’ll pick a girl and shoot the tape tomorrow. Anytime you want. If you’re into kinky, they charge extra, but I can afford it. I can afford anything.”
The man kicked him. “Shut the fuck up and put it on.”
It had been a hard kick. One that would leave a bruise. Even worse, it looked as if the guy wanted to do him. Burell suddenly became aware of his erection and tightened his robe. It hadn’t come from the bodybuilder. It came from the double dose of Viagra he’d dropped an hour before Harriet arrived. His dick was still so hard it actually hurt more than his mouth. It would take another two or three hours to subside. But what worried Burell was what this man might think if he noticed. What really worried him was that the bodybuilder might think he turned him on.
His face heated up and he started sweating. He chewed it over in his head.
He didn’t have those kinds of thoughts and considered himself the original ungay blade. While it was true that he’d sucked his best friend’s dick when he was eleven, it had been the one and only time. Something that had ruined his confidence with girls as a teenager and he’d tried to keep buried ever since. He didn’t want to get screwed by a guy tonight. Not by this creepy guy or any other guy.
The man gave him another kick. So hard he thought his leg might be broken. He moaned, then shook the pain off and climbed to his feet as best he could. His legs were shaky, his body quivering as he removed his robe and nearly died from embarrassment. He could feel the man looking at it, measuring it, not turning the fuck away.
He wondered if what was about to happen qualified as rape. He was certain that it did. If he could do it privately, he would prosecute the rotten son of a bitch to the full extent of the law. But as he pulled on the gown, well aware that the clothing remained open in the back and his ass hung out, a faint glimmer of hope rose to the surface. The man picked up his bottle of Viagra. He was reading the label. Thinking something over that Burell couldn’t quite grasp.
“You want that bottle, take it,” he said. “It’s on me, pal. I’ve got a whole case in the office. I get it cheap over the Internet. Works like an insurance policy but it still takes time. At least one hour, sometimes two.”
At least one hour, sometimes two. More than enough time to figure a way out of this.
The man’s smile changed, almost as if he had come to some kind of decision. And then he pushed Burell over to the hospital set, tossed him on the bed, and started laughing.
Burell panicked, clawing at the sheets and weeping in a frenzy. “We’ll do it tomorrow,” he blurted out. “If you don’t like girls, we’ll find a guy. Another stud just like you. There’s a market for that stuff. You could still make a lot of dough.”
The man didn’t seem to hear him. All he wanted to do was laugh. And it was a high-pitched laugh that lacked control. Giddy and hideous at the same time. The most horrifying sound Burell had ever heard.
And then the man made an unexpected move. Without warning, the bodybuilder shoved a pill down Burell’s throat. He sputtered. When he finally realized through the mental confusion that it was Viagra, he tried to spit it out. He could see his face in the mirror by the bed. The massive hands clutching his throat. His broken teeth and the pins in his gums. His bright red cheeks shuddering. His entire body a bundle of raw nerves.
He’d swallowed it.
When he tried to turn away, he felt another pill being jabbed into his mouth and started gagging on the guy’s finger. He swallowed this one, too.
He squirmed onto his back and looked up at the giant, pleading silently as their eyes met. Too many little blue pills and his heart might blow.
He lowered his eyes, noticing for the first time that the man was wearing a pair of vinyl gloves. It dawned on Burell that the naked giant hadn’t come to the house because he was feeling horny or wanted to become a porno star.
The art of any negotiation was understanding what your opponent really wanted.
He’d miscalculated. He’d blown the deal. Sadness rushed through his body. A deep and spacious wave of gloom.
He needed a new plan, and nothing short of a magic genie would probably work. Something that included three wishes and a beautiful woman to serve him like on that old TV show. Even better, he hoped the man might come to his senses and grant him some degree of clemency.
Instead, the motherfucker drew a third pill from the bottle, jammed it down his throat, and said, “Hope you’re hungry, you piece of shit.”
LENA glanced at the chopper on the pad as she walked from her car to the beige-colored building. Her early-morning drive over to the Records Retention Center at Piper Tech had been filled with apprehension. This was where the case files ended up when the trail went cold. This was where the files were stored when a case slipped through the cracks and no one had the time to care anymore.
This was the place where she would find her brother’s murder book.
She’d never had the courage to look at it before. Never wanted that much detail. Never wanted to remember her brother by the files inside a three-ring binder. But Holt’s death changed everything. That feeling in her gut that wouldn’t go away.
She’d spent most of last night on the phone with Novak. Together they estimated that the list of people who knew Romeo’s MO wasn’t as short as they first thought. Everyone who attended the Teresa Lopez and Nikki Brant crime scenes would have to be included, along with two FBI profilers, anyone and everyone who processed evidence in the labs, the coroner’s office, every detective in RHD, and most of the department’s administrative staff. While the keys to the case had never been made public, they weren’t exactly private either.
She swung the door open, collecting herself as she stepped up to the counter. An old black woman wearing a light blue smock and thick bifocals looked up from her cart halfway down the center aisle. The stacks were long and deep. And it was quiet here. As still as any other morgue.
After placing a manila folder in a box, the old woman turned back to her and flashed an odd smile as if maybe she were a mirage. Lena pulled her badge from her belt and found the case number in her notebook. The woman started forward.
“How can I help you, young lady?”
“I need to pull a case, ma’am.”
“Why didn’t you just call?”
“No time,” Lena said. “And I was in the neighborhood.”
The woman gave her another look, then climbed onto her stool before the computer. In spite of its short distance from Parker Center, not many investigators made the drive over to Piper Tech. Usually the case number was phoned in and the files were delivered by messenger right to your desk on the floor. Something Lena had discussed with Novak and knew she couldn’t afford.
The woman picked up Lena’s badge and examined it carefully, her face dusted with curiosity and suspicion. If she had antennae, they were up.
“You’re a detective.”
“That’s right.”
Lena slid her pad across the counter and watched the woman punch the case number into the computer. After a moment, the old woman turned from the screen as if she finally understood.
“You have the same last name,” she said gently.
Lena thought she’d prepared herself for this moment. When she couldn’t speak, she nodded.
“I know exactly where this is, Detective Gamble. I’ll only be a moment.”
“Thanks.”
She watched the clerk vanish into the stacks, then turned away. She heard the rotors from that chopper squeal, then beat the air as they wound up. Listening to the bird take off seemed a whole lot better than what she’d heard on the radio just ten minutes ago.
The Holt murder-suicide had sprung to life, including the name the department was using to identify the serial killer. But her brother’s murder also made the story. A brief recap, along with the irony that both musicians were dead and David Gamble’s sister was one of four detectives working the case. Unfortunately, the Romeo investigation was already taking needless criticism as well. A professor from the drama department at a local college had stepped forward, attacking them for debasing a character and a play by William Shakespeare. In a shrill voice filled with vibrato the man grabbed his moment at the mike, demanding that the new chief change the name or else.
Or else what?
It had become another circus—the kind only L.A. could stuff inside the tent—and she wondered how the brass would handle damage control.
She turned back to the counter and saw the woman clutching the murder book.
Without hesitating, Lena drew her pen from her pocket and reached for the checkout card. She found the first blank line, then stopped as her eyes drifted upward.
Stan Rhodes had checked out the murder book one week after she’d made the jump from Hollywood to RHD. According to the checkout card, he kept the files for a week before returning them. Her eyes rose up the list to the next name. It was Rhodes again. When she checked the date, she realized that it was only three days after the detectives assigned to the case had finally given up and sent the files off to storage.
His reasoning could have been harmless enough. She had to admit that Rhodes might have a credible explanation for why he wanted to look at her brother’s murder book. His reasons could have been professional, she told herself, or even personal. After all, they once shared something together. If the timing had been better, they might have shared a lot more.
But what troubled her was his signature. It was on the card, which meant that he’d pulled the file on the q.t. just as she was doing. Not once, but twice.
She felt a twinge light up between her shoulder blades. Shaking it off, she signed the card and pushed it across the counter. When the old woman passed over the three-ring binder, she pulled it into her chest and walked out. Before the door slammed shut, she heard the words “God bless you” follow her into the lot and burn up in the sunlight.
LENA ENTERED THE Blackbird, ordered an extralarge cup of the house blend, and looked about the dimly lit café. In spite of the crowd, she spotted an empty table by the far window and cut across the room.
It was quiet here. Somehow comforting. Although the building had once been an auto repair garage, the place now had the look and feel of a community reading room. The corrugated-aluminum ceiling was pitched and remained unfinished, the only architectural detail to survive the renovation. The brick walls were lined with books and art donated by patrons. The only music she ever heard in the café was classical, which seemed to distinguish it from every other commercial space in the city.
She took a sip of coffee and pulled the murder book out of her briefcase, her eyes flicking over her brother’s name on the label. She spent a few minutes staring at the binder, measuring its size and weight in her hands. When she noticed her fingers trembling, she took a deep breath and opened the book.
It had been a takeaway case from the very beginning. Once David was identified as both a musician and the brother of an LAPD officer, the investigation bounced from Hollywood Division to RHD. Two detectives were assigned to the case, Barry Martin and Joe Drabyak. Lena looked at their names listed on the preprinted table of contents. She could remember their faces, the way they treated her during their numerous interviews, the kindness they bestowed. Both retired before her transfer. Both left town once the case went to Piper Tech and hit the black hole.
The murder book was divided into twenty-six sections, offering a complete picture of the investigation in chronological order. Lena found the Death Investigation Report and started reading. A description of her brother was listed, along with the location of the crime on Vista Del Mar and their home address in Hollywood Hills. Lena’s name had been filled in as NEAREST RELATIVE. Above her name three boxes were checked, indicating that she’d discovered the victim, reported the death, and identified the body. Confirmation that she had been notified of her brother’s death as next of kin was checked in a fourth box off to the side.
She shrugged at the bureaucratic redundancy. As she combed through the Chronological Record, it seemed clear that both Martin and Drabyak were approaching the investigation as a robbery gone bad. That David had driven from the club to Vista Del Mar to buy drugs, even though Lena had told them that he no longer used anything but alcohol.
A slug had been cut out of the passenger seat. Gunshot residue was found on the driver’s side mirror, the upper left section of the steering wheel, and the palm of David’s left hand. Based on the bullet’s trajectory and GSR evidence, the shooter had to be standing within one foot of the car. Both Martin and Drabyak seemed to agree that the victim was aware of the threat. Both detectives believed that David was backpedaling his way into the passenger seat when the single shot was fired at point-blank range.
Lena played the scene out in her head. Her brother trapped in the space of a front seat, making a futile attempt to block the shot with his hand. She looked out the window for a moment, wondering if she could really handle this. Pushing her coffee aside, she straightened the book on her lap and dug in.
From the number of entries in the Chronological Record, she could tell that Martin and Drabyak had worked the case hard. Even though their first impressions seemed to be pushing them toward a street killing, they pushed back and managed to keep an open mind. And then two days after the murder, they interviewed Zelda Clemens. Lena noticed that one of the detectives had drawn a circle around her name and underlined it twice. When the results from the autopsy came in, the investigation shifted into another gear.
