The Midnight Show Murders (2) (13 page)

“I bet it is,” she said.

“I think you should join me.”

“I want to.”

Then she rolled away and got up from the bed. “But not tonight.”

“Why not?”

She paused at the door. “It’s just our first date,” she said. Then she added, “Sleep well,” and was gone.

I lay in priapic misery, thinking,
I never saw that coming
. But the whole night had been like that, chock-full of things I never saw coming.

Chapter
TWENTY-FOUR

“There were hundreds of prints at that multimillion-dollar joint where you’re staying,” Detective Brueghel informed me on our drive to Malibu the next day. “But none of them Charbonnet’s. Still, we’re checking ’em all. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a perp he hired to plant the rat.”

“Roger was at Malibu Sands that afternoon.”

“I know. The security guards showed us the log. They didn’t note or remember anybody entering with him. But he drives a Rolls. Lots of room for a guy to hide behind the front seats, and a vehicle that expensive intimidates even real cops. I’m sure those bozos didn’t bother to give it a second’s glance.”

For the next few minutes, we drove in silence. I watched sun-dappled gulls swooping low to the choppy, bottle-green Pacific. With just a flick of their wings, they soared up into a cloudless blue. The birds reminded me of discarded wrappers picked up from a grimy Manhattan sidewalk and sent skyward by a sudden blast of subway-stirred air. The sad thing was that I missed even the litter of New York.

Nostalgia? Or depression? Maybe both.

Another glum mood. Another day.

I had woken just before nine, feeling a little let down to discover I was all alone in the hillside house. Alone but not forgotten. Before heading to work, Vida had left enough Starbucks French Roast heating in the carafe for two cups, along with Pop-Tarts resting beside the toaster. The latter were filled with grape goo and had sprinkles, neither of which I fancied. But the thought was kind.

Vida had also left a hastily scribbled note: “Want to chance a second date? Call me.” She added a P.S.: “The front door locks itself.”

“P.P.S.: You have a cute snore.”

My phone call caught her on her way to Yorba Linda, a coastal city some forty miles southeast of L.A. It was famous for being the birthplace of Richard Nixon and, more recently, the discovery of what the media had labeled “Satan Prep,” a private school that was, per the
L.A. Times
, “rumored to be staffed by demon worshippers who forced their young students to commit acts of depravity.”

Vida told me she’d covered the story for
Hotline
when it broke. She and a cameraman were headed back because after more than a month in prison, the supposedly satanic teachers were finally getting their day in court. Vida was hoping to interview them and their families, their accusers, and folks on the street who, she said a bit gleefully, “must be bummed at what the whole thing is doing to the city’s rep as one of the safest (and wealthiest) in the U.S.”

I told her that sounded like she’d be there for a while.

“Why? What’s on your mind?”

“Dinner tonight.”

“Tonight probably won’t work,” she said. “What about Saturday night?”

“What about Thursday night? Or Friday?” I asked.

“Saturday’s our best bet,” she said. “Besides, you won’t be doing a show. We could have a nice dinner at my place at a normal hour.”

“I’ll miss you, but Saturday it is.”

“I’ll make it worth the wait,” she said.

We ended on that pleasant note. Then I made the mistake many gamblers do. Instead of quitting while I was ahead, I decided to answer some of the calls that had come in last night.

Wally Wing, once he’d breezed through a perfunctory inquiry about my post-bombing physical condition, began to chastise me for not letting him renegotiate the details of my updated
O’Day at Night
contract. “I’m sitting here getting sick to my stomach looking at this … 
thing
Business Affairs calls a contract,” he said, and went on from there. I hung up, freeing Wally to do his thing with the Business Affairs pirates at WBC.

Next I called Kiki, expecting the worst—a showdown about my imaginary objection to her imaginary romance with Stew Gentry. Instead, it was a different complaint. She’d watched the show and had stayed up all night worrying about me. Why the fuck hadn’t I called?

I apologized humbly, then said, “About you and Stew …”

“Cassandra told you, huh?”

“She mentioned you think I—”

“I’m going to stop you right there, Billy. I’m mortified that I said those things. I was feeling very vulnerable at the time. And maybe a little tipsy. I know you better than to think you’d interfere with my happiness just to keep me working for you.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said.

“Then you forgive me?”

“Of course. And you can do me a big favor, Kiki. Please spread the news of my good health to all my friends on the morning show. And my non-friends.”

“Will do. But I’m going to call Stew first,” she said. “He’s very concerned.”

“You talked to him today?”

“Yes,” she said brightly. “We’ve been … talking. In fact, he invited me to spend the first week in September with him in Spain. Just before he starts a new movie.”

“Ah,” I said. “Glad that worked out for you.”

“No fear. I’ll use my vacation days.”

My next call was to Cassandra, who surprised me with an initial display of compassion. “Oh, God, Billy. I’m so happy you’re okay. I actually stopped off at Old Saint Pat’s this morning and lit a candle.” I thanked her for doing that. Then I mentioned that I was going to be staying in L.A. a little longer than anticipated.

“Of course you will,” she’d replied. “And let’s see: What would be keeping you there? The bombings? The earthquakes? The dry winds that suck all the moisture out of your body? Or could it be brain-dead bimbos doing all the sucking?” And she was back in form.

Brain-dead bimbos, especially the sucking variety, were odd subjects to be on the mind of someone who’d visited Old Saint Pat’s that very morning. But I didn’t bring that to her attention. Instead, I tried to repeat all the reasons Gretchen had given me last night for staying. I even passed along Gretch’s compliment about how splendidly she, Cassandra, was running the Bistro.

“About that, Billy. I was not hired to run this place by myself. If you’re going to be continuing your … dalliances in movieland, I want an assistant.”

Oooooh. Good one
. A new employee meant paperwork, insurance, at least a minimum salary. “I’ll be here only a few more weeks,” I said.

“And then you’ll be off somewhere else. I could put an ad in the paper today.”

“Why don’t I just give you a raise instead?”

“How much?” she asked.

We settled on a figure that was less than half of what an assistant’s assistant would cost.

I was putting my razor and toothbrush back into my overnight bag when Brueghel called to say that no incendiary device had been found in the Lexus. “Where are you right now?”

“At a friend’s.”

“Why don’t I swing by and pick you up? We can drive out to get your things, and then I’ll drop you at your car.”

Which was why I was in his Ford Crown Victoria, heading for Malibu Sands, on a cloudless, sunny day, thinking wistfully of dirty old New York.

“Charbonnet doesn’t have such a good alibi this go-round,” Brueghel said with a rare grin. “Claims that at the approximate time Des O’Day went misty, he was at his place, waiting for a lady to show.”

“What’s her name?” I asked, wondering if it might be Stew’s daughter, Dani.

“Zeena Zataran or Cataran or Trashcan, one of those cable reality-show hotties. She was at his place in Brentwood when I dropped by at around one last night. In his hot tub. Naked, of course. Looked like she had cantaloupes floating in front of her. Shameless little female. Asked me if she could stay in the tub while we talked. I had no problem with that.

“Didn’t have much to say, though. Just that she got a call from him around nine-thirty. He wanted to know where she was. She told him she was at a party at the Chateau Marmont, helping to launch a new brand of vodka. He reminded her that she’d agreed to have dinner with him at his place.

“She told him she didn’t remember making the date. In any case, her agent had booked her for the vodka gig. But the party was winding down. If he was still in the mood for a booty call, she could make it to his place a little later. She just had to spend a few more minutes with the dudes who were paying her ten grand to show up at their lame party.”

“What time did she get there?” I asked.

“She thinks it was somewhere between ten-thirty and eleven. Charbonnet was waiting with a shaker full of sour orange daiquiris, her current favorite.”

“So it would have been tight, making it to Brentwood from the theater by ten-thirty. But doable.”

“That’s my take,” the detective said. “The girl said she thought he was at his place when they spoke at nine-thirty, that there was geezer jazz music he likes playing in the background. My guess is he was sitting in his car outside the theater, playing the radio, when he called.”

“ ‘Geezer jazz music,’ ” I said. “She sounds like she’s easily bored, self-absorbed, and spoiled by celebrity. The perfect match for Roger. Was he naked in the hot tub, too?”

Brueghel didn’t think the question was frivolous. “He answered the door dry as a bone and fully dressed,” he said. “Which I found interesting, because it suggests he might have been expecting somebody like me to drop by.

“Of course, he pretended to be surprised. And he did this other thing, a little too clever by half. He pretended he thought I was there for another go-round on the Arden case. He asked if I was ‘digging through those old bones again.’ ”

“Nice choice of words to describe the woman he swears he loved.”

“Exactly. I explained I was digging through new bones that had belonged to Desmond O’Day. He said he knew who O’Day was and he thought he’d met the comedian once, in Vegas. But he hadn’t heard about the murder. Or the bombing. And he didn’t know why I was bothering him about it at one in the morning. He had absolutely no reason for wanting the comic dead.

“That’s when I told him about O’Day changing places with you at the last minute.”

“And his reaction to that?”

Another rare smile. “He said he now understood why I was there. And the interview was over. If I wanted to talk with him further, his lawyer would have to be present.”

“And that was that?” I asked.

“Well, I—” He paused to pull his cellular phone from his pocket. It must have been on vibrate, because there’d been no ringtone. “Brueghel,” he said.

He said “Yeah” a few times, interspersed with a “You’re sure?” He ended with an “Abso-fucking-lutely we go for it. But wait for me.”

He slipped the phone back into his pocket; said, “Hold on”; and, without hesitation, made a U-turn on the Pacific Coast Highway that was no doubt as surprising and frightening to other motorists as it was to me.

“What’s happening?” I managed to get out, once my heart had started beating again.

“No need for you to pack and move out now,” he said, his eyes shiny with excitement.

“Why not? And where are we headed?”

“To something a chef like you will appreciate, one of those increasingly rare events where justice will be served with all the trimmings.”

Chapter
TWENTY-FIVE

Our destination was a house on Carmelina Avenue in Brentwood. Actually, calling it a house was a little like calling Moby Dick a fish. It was a big, sprawling affair, set far back on the lot and separated from the street by a stone fence and foliage and palm trees and, from what I could see of it standing beside Brueghel’s Crown Vic, a lush garden.

It was just a few blocks away from O. J. Simpson’s old place, a connection brought to mind by the scene before me. That would be Roger Charbonnet, hands cuffed behind his back, being perp-walked from his home by Detective Mizzy Campbell and two uniformed cops. They hurried him past the arriving media mob and his grim-faced neighbors to one of several parked police vehicles.

Brueghel stood off to one side, obviously enjoying the moment. Then he strolled back to where he’d insisted I remain, beside his car. “Better twenty-three years late than never,” he said.

The detective was speaking in a normal tone, and, with the press shouting questions and the general hubbub, I doubted Roger could have heard him. But he turned his head suddenly in our direction and saw me.

He glared, did that flaring-nostril thing, and stood otherwise frozen until one of the cops used a head push to coax him into the patrol car. He sat in an awkward position, with his manacled hands behind him, as the cop slammed the door. He continued to stare at me through the side window until the vehicle drove away.

“Time to roll, Blessing,” Brueghel said, as the gentlemen and ladies of the press, having lost their main attraction, began to fan out in search of someone of lesser interest to harass.

He backed the Crown Vic away from the approaching horde, made another of his famous U-turns, and took off down the avenue.

“Media got here pretty fast,” I said.

“Sometimes they fill a need,” he said. “Especially when there are certain scenes you want captured. So you can cherish them forever.”

He made a few turns until we were headed back in the direction of Hollywood.

“Were you expecting an arrest today?” I asked.

“No. But sometimes you get lucky. Or maybe God provides the luck.”

“What exactly did He provide?”

“In this case, I’d say it was a combination of arrogance and overconfidence. Maybe Charbonnet didn’t think we could get a search warrant so quickly. Or maybe he assumed we were so stupid we’d ignore all the crap he had in his garden shed out back.”

“What did they find?”

Brueghel gave me a sharp look. “You’re an okay guy, Blessing. But you are a member of the tribe.”

I blinked, not certain I’d heard him correctly. “Say what?”

“The tribe,” he repeated. “The media.”

“Oh.”

“If the chief wants you guys to know the details of Charbonnet’s arrest, he’ll hold a press conference.”

“ ‘You guys’? Do I look like Brian Williams to you? Maybe Woodward or Bernstein? I’m asking you not as a member of the
tribe
. I’m the guy Charbonnet tried to light up, remember?”

He nodded. “Hell, I don’t suppose it’s gonna be any big secret, anyway. They found the materials used to make the bomb in Charbonnet’s shed.”

“Dynamite?”

“Nothing so hard-core. An empty container that smelled of bleach, distilled water, imitation salt, and camp-stove gasoline.”

“How do you make a bomb out of that?”

“Well, you need a container, a scale, a battery hydrometer, all of which were in the shed,” Brueghel said.

“Okay. You get all that stuff, then what?”

“Then you punch up any one of a couple dozen websites that tell you how to make the bomb.”

“How difficult is it?”

“I’d say if you can cook a soufflé, making a plastic explosive from bleach should be a breeze.”

“And these materials were still on his property?” I asked. “After your visit last night?”

“Like I said, arrogance. Probably figured we’d think they were just household items. In any case, he screwed the pooch and left them there long enough for us to find ’em. And the DA told Mizzy to bring him in.”

Roger was arrogant, yes, but stupid? Or careless? For that matter, was he enough of a nutburger to mix up a bomb, put on a ninja suit, and sneak into a theater with it, just to get rid of yours truly? Well, maybe. In any case, the idea of him being behind bars certainly appealed to me. And when the detective deposited me at the parking lot next to the renamed but now boarded-up Di Voss Theater on Fountain, I was feeling almost upbeat about extending my L.A. stay.

“You’re sticking around awhile, right, Blessing?” Brueghel asked from the car. Reading my mind, apparently.

“A couple of weeks,” I said. “Why?”

“The DA assigned the case may want a sit-down with you,” Brueghel said. “You’ll have to come back for the trial, too, of course. But that could be as long as a year from now.”

Brueghel’s eyes seemed to lose focus, and he mumbled, mainly to himself, “Charbonnet’s going to have a lot of time to think about his sins. To sit in his tiny cell, where he’ll be visited by Tiffany and Des O’Day and who knows how many of the departed he’s wronged over the years.”

The detective was creeping me out a little. “I’ll be at the trial,” I told him, backing away. “Thanks for the lift.”

“Justice demands you be there, Blessing,” he said, focused on me again. “You understand what I’m saying?”

“Sure,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t question me on it.

“In addition to what you can tell the jury about your run-in with Charbonnet a few weeks ago, I expect the prosecutor will use your testimony to try and introduce information about the Tiffany Arden murder. Specifically, that Charbonnet’s alibi was bogus.”

“His lawyer won’t object?”

“Once the truth is said, he can object all he wants. The jury will have heard.”

“Good point,” I said, backing away farther.

“Tiffany Arden will be in that courtroom, you know, just as she has been with me for twenty-three years.” He was drifting away again. “She and all the other victims whose killers have never been made to pay for their crimes. In my dreams they circle around me like a whirlpool, dragging me down …”

He shook his head suddenly. If the motion had been an attempt to clear his mind, it didn’t quite work. “Remember, Blessing, Tiffany is still here with us. With me. And, I think, with Charbonnet. And none of us will be free until he joins the six-four-eight.”

“I don’t know what that means, the six-four-eight,” I said.

“The six hundred and forty-eight prisoners on death row in the state,” Brueghel said.

He put the Crown Vic in drive and roared away, leaving a three-foot-long trail of rubber on the asphalt.

An interesting guy, the detective. An honorable cop. A dedicated and dogged cop. But when the Good Lord was serving the entrées for a sane and happy life, Brueghel must have wandered off the buffet line to search for clues.