We chatted about the darkness and our invisible surroundings, until a server brought us cocktails that glowed in the dark. As we sipped our drinks, I tried to make out my dating partner’s features, but it was impossible.
“So what do you do for a living, Sean?”
“I’m an attorney.”
The dreamy architect vision popped. Just my luck. The only thing I hate more than lawyers is…there is nothing I hate more than lawyers. Attorneys are Satan’s progeny.
“Where do you practice?” I asked.
A hesitation. “South Pasadena. We’re a small but respectable firm.”
After a few more questions, red flags went up. Sean couldn’t tell me where he went to law school, except to say back east, or the kind of cases he represented.
“And what about you?” Sean asked, sounding eager to change the subject. “No, let me guess what you do for a living.”
“Fire away.”
“An interesting choice of words. I’m betting you’re in law enforcement—maybe a police officer.”
“Wow, that’s amazing.” Red flags were waving somewhere in the darkness.
Sean’s voice came back, softer, “Cops sometimes go looking into things they shouldn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some things are better left alone, especially things that happened long ago.”
My heart raced. I cursed the darkness. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“You need to listen carefully, Detective Sexton. Stay out of things that don’t concern you or you will regret it. You won’t get another warning.”
I stood up. “Who are you?”
“Just a friend.”
“Tell me what’s going on,” I demanded, raising my voice. There was no reply. I heard a rustling sound, the movement of a body. “Where are you?” I yelled.
I sensed Sean was moving away from me. I tried to follow him, bumped against a table and fell hard. A woman screamed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m trying to find a man.”
A woman’s angry voice came out of the darkness, “We’re all trying to find a man. Get off me.”
I pushed myself up to my feet, trying to get my bearings, but it was impossible.
“Help,” the woman screamed. “Somebody help me.”
There was lots of jostling around me; people asking what was happening. A couple of voices sounded panicky. The lights finally came up. When my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I realized I’d fallen onto the floor on top of a very unhappy, very overweight woman.
“I’m calling the police!” the woman yelled. Her dress had hiked up. Her legs were flailing around. I looked at her stunned date, deciding he would probably be too traumatized to ever date again.
After scanning the room, I was sure Sean was long gone. I turned back to the heavyset woman who was still thrashing around like a beached whale. She yelled, “Somebody needs to call the police, now!”
I lost it. “Shut up!” The room fell silent. “I am the police. Do us all a favor. Put your legs together, pull down your dress, and get up off the floor.”
I walked away, following the woman’s date who was sprinting for the door. I found Sara in the hallway. I asked about Sean.
“I think he was about six feet, a little on the heavy side, but nice looking. He was wearing a baseball cap so I didn’t get a very good look at him.”
“Did he ask for me by name?”
Alice nodded. “He said something about this being a prearranged surprise—kind of like that TV show,
Punked
. He said that you two had dated before and were getting back together. I thought it was unusual, but I didn’t want to spoil a surprise.”
After I finished questioning her I walked away, deciding that I’d probably never date again and end up like Sara Johnson. Dark dating! What the hell was I thinking?
Then I saw it. There was a tear in the seam of my little black dress. I lost it, groaning, “Why is this happening?”
I walked away, cursing the darkness, cursing my date, and cursing my fate.
Dirty Ray’s Coffee Shop was located near Highland and Beverly in Hollywood. The shop’s deceased original proprietor, Ray, might have been dirty, but he knew how to advertise. Coffee. Cinnamon. Vanilla. Dozens of other scents permeated the air as I walked down the sidewalk with Bernie.
I found Pearl and Natalie on the outdoor deck after getting my Latte and cinnamon roll. It was midmorning, the day after my Dark Dating disaster. The restaurant wasn’t crowded. Most of the early morning patrons probably already had their fix of sugar and caffeine and had gone about their business.
I joined my friends at their table, recapping yesterday’s events, including almost being run down by the Mercedes and my dating event.
Natalie sipped her tea. “Had me a few dates that were bloody awful like that Dark Dating stuff. Finding a good man like Clyde is as rare as rockin’ horse shit.”
I smiled, sipped my drink, thinking maybe I should follow Natalie’s lead and start canvassing the local convalescent homes for a man.
Pearl set his coffee down. The furrows in the leathery skin above his brows deepened. “You seem to have gotten someone’s attention. Any fallout with the department after our evening with Mr. Harper?”
I shook my head. “So far no one seems to know about what happened.”
“Maybe Mr. Harper doesn’t want to draw any more attention to himself,” Pearl speculated.
Natalie nibbled her muffin and then said, “The old arsewipe is lucky Bernie didn’t bob for his kabob—turn him into a Sheila.”
My canine partner looked up when he heard his name, then rested his head back on my shoe.
Pearl removed some papers from a satchel, handed them across the table. Natalie and I studied what I realized were telephone billing statements. I then saw the name at the top of the invoice.
“Conrad Harper.” I looked at Pearl. “I’m not going to ask how you got these.”
“I’d appreciate that.” He nodded at the invoices that I soon realized contained detailed information about the producer’s calling history. “There’s a pattern to what you’ll find there.”
Natalie had scanned ahead. “He keeps calling the same city—Avenal. Isn’t that a town on an island off the coast?”
“Wrong direction,” Pearl said. “Little place in central California. Middle of nowhere.”
I looked up from the invoices. “Don’t tell me our favorite producer has a prison pen pal?”
“He’s been calling Avenal State Prison, usually once a week, sometimes more often,” Pearl said.
“Maybe he’s got a secret lover,” Natalie suggested. “I once saw this television show where a gal was doing the banana roundup in the pen with some baghead she married.”
“I’ll make a few inquiries with the prison,” I said. “They should have a record of who he’s contacting.” I held up the invoices to Pearl. “Anything else of interest in here?
“Harper’s in contact with the major players in the movie industry. Calls all the big directors and stars on a regular basis, but that’s no surprise.”
“What about Roger Diamond?”
Pearl smiled, raised his silver brows. “He was making calls to him a couple of times a week until Diamond’s death. Some of the calls lasted for twenty minutes, a few more than half an hour.”
“So much for Harper’s denials,” I said. The calls to the porn producer triggered a memory about Mo, the prostitute who had put us onto Diamond’s trail. I turned to Natalie. “Any luck in finding Cassie Reynolds’s pimp?”
Natalie set down her tea. “You’re both gonna think I’m a barmcake or somethin’, but I’m startin’ to think Mr. Simpson isn’t a mister.”
I checked my watch, realizing I was late for work as Natalie went on, “I ran down an address one of the girls finally gave up. Simpson had moved out of the apartment, but the landlady told me he thought he was a she—a woman that sometimes dressed like a man.”
I stood up, tugging on Bernie’s leash and said, “A cross-dressing pimp. This
is
Hollywood—anything’s possible.” As I headed for the sidewalk I said, “I’ll call you both tonight, let you know what I find out from Avenal.”
When I got to the station, Charlie and I went over the afternoon’s warrant serves while Bernie settled in a corner. I asked if he’d heard any scuttlebutt on the Harper free-for-all.
“Nothing. Let’s hope your luck holds.”
I frowned. “Yeah, luck seems to be following me around, even in the dark.” I told him about my Dark Dating event and my run-in with the Mercedes. I then changed the subject to his daughter, “How did it go with the birds and bees talk?”
Charlie took a string of Oreos out of his drawer, lined them up on his desk.
“Tooth must be better,” I said.
“Yeah three hours in the chair and four hundred bucks later I oughta have a gold grill.” He popped a cookie. “Irma told me I’m not her mother, to mind my own business.”
“She was probably just being defensive.”
“Angry is more like it. So, I bring out the sex diary, show her a couple of sections I marked. You know, about taking precautions and that abstinence is the best choice to avoid pregnancy.”
I waited as he popped another Oreo.
“Irma says, and I quote, ‘All my friends are having sex. It’s my life and I’ll do what I want.’ So that’s when I start getting a little upset and say, ‘Not while you’re living in my house.’”
“This doesn’t sound good.”
“So she says, ‘Then I won’t live in your house. If you try and tell me what to do, I’ll move in with B-Boy.’” Charlie popped open a can of diet drink. “B-Boy. Shit.” He guzzled. “So I’m sitting there, steam coming outta my ears. I think to myself, should I even ask her what the B stands for?”
“It’s okay, I don’t need to know.”
Charlie went on anyway, “Irma got this big grin on her face and said, ‘The B stands for Big.’” He wolfed more diet drink. “I think she meant B-Boy got his nickname because he’s hung like a stallion.”
Charlie turned bright red, started to shake. I worried about his blood pressure but wasn’t sure how to help.
“We’ve all made bad choices in relationships. Irma’s still a kid. She’ll grow out of it.”
“Not under my roof.”
“Don’t tell me she’s moving out?”
“Up to her. Long as she’s seeing Bobby Big Dick she’s not living with me.”
I decided it was best to drop the subject. I pushed paperwork around the desk until I got a call from Jimmy Chester. He was at police administration and wanted to meet for lunch. Why not, I thought. Lunch in the Tower with a little rat. My life’s a disaster anyway.
***
LAPD’s Police Administration Building was built at a cost of over 400 million bucks. It had ten floors, a public park, a 400-seat auditorium, a rooftop garden, a café, and a fitness center.
The complex also featured a reflection garden and memorial monument honoring the badges of officers killed in the line of duty. My father’s badge wasn’t included in the display. The official explanation: his unsolved homicide occurred off duty. Every time I thought about the omission, my stomach churned.
After parking in the underground garage, Bernie and I were on our way into the café when I saw Marvin Drake with Carl Brasher, a deputy chief, coming out of an elevator. The two men saw me and abruptly turned, heading for a doorway.
Drake and Brasher went together like two schoolyard bullies. Both men had reputations for being cunning and ruthless. I was sure Brasher, who worked directly under the chief of police, had no impartiality about Bautista’s failed arrest. I’d lost my appetite by the time I sat down for lunch with Jimmy the rat Chester.
My union attorney came up from his spaghetti bowl and greeted me. Thin gray moustache. Exuberant front teeth. Aquiline nose. Tiny dark eyes. He came by the nickname honestly.
I got a salad from the deli case and joined him at his table. His moustache twitching, eyes darting, Chester got right to business.
“Don’t be surprised if you get notice of an interrogation, Detective Sexton.”
“Interrogation?” I picked at my salad. Bernie was resting at my feet, but raised his head, probably sensing my anxiety. “Maybe they’ll also try waterboarding, bring out the thumb screws.”
“It’s the legal term for officers under disciplinary investigation. It allows you a bill of rights, so that any questioning follows a formal procedure, giving you the right to representation.”
I took a fork full of salad, thought about my little black dress ripping at the seam, but dipped the lettuce into ranch dressing anyway. “You do know this is all a load of bullshit so that Drake can save face over trying to shoot an unarmed man?”
A moustache twitch followed, like Chester was sniffing for cheese. “They’re going to say Jack Bautista was armed and the captain used reasonable force while you interfered.”
My blood pressure spiked. “Whose side are you on, Mr. Chester? Do I need to remind you that reasonable force does not mean you try to shoot a man carrying a bag of groceries in the back?”
The rat set his fork down, blotted the spaghetti sauce off his moustache. He splayed his arms. “I’m on your side, Detective. I’m just telling you how I think this will play out.”
I took a deep breath, trying to settle my nerves. “The OIS report should clear me of any wrongdoing.”
The rat was heading back to the spaghetti bowl and said, “Haven’t seen it, but I hope so.”
“You haven’t seen it?” I stood and tossed my salad in the nearest receptacle. My gaze met the rodent’s beady eyes as they came back up from the bowl. “Doesn’t the bill of rights allow me to see evidence that might be presented at my so called interrogation?”
Chester stood. “Calm down, Detective. We’ll get access to the report, but they don’t have to provide it until the interrogation. Then we’ll see if they have any kind of case.”
I ran a hand through my damp hair. “See you at the inquisition.” I pivoted away from the rat, pulling Bernie with me as I left the café.
***
Charlie and I spent the afternoon chasing bad guys through an apartment complex not too far from the Pinewood. As Bernie and I were heading home, Wilma Bibby called to let me know she’d found the Carmichael reports. A short drive later, I was standing in the Records Identification Bureau with my mouth open.
“Wilma, what happened?”
The records clerk did a little pirouette, showing off a hairstyle that was something out of the Miley Cyrus punk school of cosmetic catastrophes. Her hair was bright red, spiked, cut within two inches of her scalp. Flaming red lipstick and magenta shadow completed the makeover meltdown.
“I have a friend in beauty school,” Wilma explained. “What do you think?”
I think you lost your mind, Wilma. The hair is a disaster. You look like a chunky radish.
It’s not Halloween
.
“It’s very trendy. You’ll probably get noticed more.” I’m a very polite liar, sometimes.
“It’s easy to get ready in the morning,” Wilma said, handing over the Carmichael reports. “This was misfiled—wrong month and year.”
I was surprised that the file only contained three sheets of paper. The report said John Carmichael was last seen at his place of business on September 16, 1984. It had been filed by a Lydia Grayson, the secretary for the missing filmmaker. Grayson reported that Carmichael had not been seen for two days and calls to his home had gone unanswered. The woman wasn’t aware of anyone who might want to harm him and she didn’t think he was despondent at the time he disappeared.
I looked up at Wilma. She had a compact mirror out and was primping. “Are you sure there aren’t more reports? This is the initial Missing Persons Report. There should be a supplemental report, at the very least, indicating that the investigation was closed.”
“I’m still looking, but so far nothing’s turned up.”
I thanked her and pushed away from the counter. “I hope George likes the new do.”
“There’s a church social this Friday. George should be there. I’ll let you know.”
I hoped George was on medication.
***
I was on Melrose passing Highland Avenue on my way home when my headlights swept over a hitchhiker on the side of the road. As I passed him, the man’s cap rose and a smile parted his lips. Was I imagining things or had I just passed by Jack Bautista?
I pulled to the curb. The hitchhiker was several yards behind me, walking in my direction. Maybe it wasn’t Bautista. Picking up a hitchhiker in Hollywood was like playing Russian Roulette. I locked Olive’s doors, resting my hand on the gun in my purse. I said to Bernie, “Heads up.”
Bernie whined as a hand knocked against the window. The wanted detective bent down and smiled at me. I exhaled, unlocked the door, and told Bernie to settle.
“Just so you know, I don’t usually pick up hitchhikers.”
He smiled, but I saw the fatigue in his face. “Just so you know, I never take rides from strangers.”
I pulled away from the curb as he buckled in, said hi to Bernie. “You look a little beat down, Jack.”