A Good-Looking Corpse (8 page)

Back at my office, I quickly find the dog-eared business card. It has a way of floating up through the stacks of paperwork to linger about at the top of my drawer. It's light enough now to be considered a reasonable hour, so it's just a matter of dialing the number. And yet, I hesitate. I don't know if it's nervousness about interacting with the detective or if it's about what Mikey is up to. Probably it's both.
Mikey wants you to call the cops, don't play into his games
, I tell myself while staring at Stack's phone number on the worn card. There's a whole chess game being played out between us right now—Mikey trying to make me act one way and me trying to anticipate his motivations so I can figure out what my best move really is.

What's the worst that can happen from calling this in?
I finally ask myself. And that gets me to dial.

Two rings and he answers. “Stack.” Same gruff voice, no hint of lessons learned or a general mellowing from age. I wait a beat too long. “Stack,” he says again, more irritated this time.

“It's Tom Tanner,” I finally say, quiet.

“What can I do for you, Tanner?” If he's surprised, he doesn't show it.

“How are your legs?”

“They're better than they were three months ago. I'm still in casts—soft casts now, on both legs. I'm riding a desk beat for now—maybe forever, depending. But you didn't call about my career or my legs, did you?”

“Alan Van's death wasn't an accident.”

“So what was it?” Stack asks right back, still not impacted by what I thought was a fairly profound statement.

“Murder. A guy named Mikey Echo. A movie producer. He confessed to me.”

“Why did he confess to you?” There are small pauses in between his words and I can tell that he is at least writing the information down.

“I'm not sure.”

“Oh, that'll play well. Tell you what, this isn't my case, but I know the guy who is running it. I'll give him a call and mention what you said, see if it doesn't point his nose in a certain direction.”

“Thanks,” I say but he's already hung up. I've often wondered over the past few months if he was bothered by being somewhat of a damsel in distress during the whole Andy situation. He didn't like me from the moment he showed up at my front door, investigating my dead landlord. He really didn't like having his legs broken so he could wind up as a victim who needed saving instead of a hero. He'd had me pegged as a bad guy and I'd had to prove him wrong. I wondered if some time apart would soften his dislike of me: it seems I have my answer.

I go down to the garage to find the can of touch-up paint I used on my door last time. Stack calls me back before I even make it there.

“It's a suicide,” he informs me flatly. “Case closed.”

“No, I just told you the guy confessed to me. It's not a suicide.”

“And the lead detective on this case—Len Chong—the one with all the details, just said, ‘Case closed.' So guess who I believe?”

“How about the guy who saved your life? I was right about Andy, why am I wrong about this?”

“I don't got time for this shit. I don't give a damn what some nancy-boy actor did or didn't do. You want to take it up with Len? Do it. Christ.”

We both sit silent on the phone for a moment.

“You still there, Tanner?” Stack finally asks.

“Yeah.”

He swallows, it's both saliva and pride going down his throat at the moment. “I'm gonna pay you back for what you did, you know?”

“Nah, you don't need to,” I try, awkward with the gruff man's mind-set.

“Yes, yes, I do. Don't tell me what I do or don't need to do. You strike me as someone who gets into trouble a lot. Sometime, when you need something heavy done…give me that call.”

“Okay” seems to be the easiest way to get out of this conversation, so I say it.

And like that, my words with Stack are done. It has to be eating him alive over there, sitting in some wheelchair, stewing over me saving his life. To go from hating my guts and calling me a “kid killer” to suddenly feeling like he owes me a life debt—Jesus, just thinking about the transition on his psyche makes me uncomfortable.

Giving myself a moment to decompress, I use the Internet to get the number for the Westside Division. A deep breath and then I dial it up.

“Is Detective Len Chong in?” I ask, when I hear a voice. “He's in Homicide.”

She puts me on hold and then returns to ask what it's regarding. The edge in her tone implies that she doesn't like playing secretary.

Hmm, what angle can I play that won't result in me getting sent to voicemail?
“Just tell him I have some information he needs.”

“Pertaining to what?” she prompts me, unwilling to play the telephone game longer than she has to.

My phone rings and I send it to voicemail without checking.
Christ, I hope it's not a cleanup. I don't need that shit right now
. “Just tell him that someone he investigated was murdered and I have the name of the murderer.” This gets her attention and she isn't so huffy about going to relay the info this time.

“This is Detective Len Chong with the LAPD Robbery/Homicide Division,” the voice says in a slow, measured tone, enunciating each word clearly. “I can't come to the phone right now, but please leave a message—” I click my phone off, agitated.

I want to hurl my phone against the wall but recognize the frustration of having to buy a new phone will be greater than the momentary pleasure I will derive from doing it. I toss it on my desk instead.

It buzzes, informing me I have a voicemail. Ivy. Her message is short and to the point: “You fucker!”

I don't really want to deal with an actual phone call, so I text back “What?” instead. A moment later, my phone rings anyhow. “What?” I reiterate, in case my text didn't reach her or even if it did.

“You're off trying to solve this case without me! You didn't even wake me.”

“I told you—there's no case. I had to call Detective Stack and his business card is down here at the office. I didn't think I needed to wake you to ask permission to make a phone call.”

“You don't have to get all crazy about it,” she says, reverting to meek baby-speak. “I just wanted to spend time with you, that's all.”

I sigh, buying into it. “I'm gonna run over to the Westside LAPD office. The detective on the Alan Van thing is giving me the runaround. Would you like me to pick you up?”

“I'll go get ready right now,” she squeals and hangs up on me too. It's hang-up day for me apparently.

Ivy is standing at the curb in white short shorts, a tiny blue faux vintage Rams jersey that exposes her midriff, and a pair of braids split down the back of her head. Wayfarers cover her eyes.
Probably my sunglasses.
Living together means everything is communal, I've learned. “If you get in this car looking like that, I'm gonna get popped for prostitution,” I yell through the lowered window.

“Oh, knock it off,” she chides, climbing in. “Prostitutes wish they looked this bangin'. If you want though, I'll give you a handy for thirty bucks.”

“I tell you I'm going to a police station and this is the outfit you choose?”

“You want me to wear a burlap sack? Drive forward, ass.”

I smile, she smiles, and we hit it out of Burbank, down out of the Valley, cruising fast, for once enjoying the warmth of a sunny October day.

“What are we doing for Halloween?” Ivy asks when we're off the freeway and she turns the music down.

“Do we need to do something?”

“Well, it's our first one together. And I love Halloween. I just thought we could do a couples costume.”

“A what?”

“You know.” She swats me lightly on the chest. “Like one of us is a jar of mustard and the other is a jar of ketchup. Or like I dress up as a guy and you dress up as a girl. Something like that? Maybe I could be a sexy lumberjack and you'd be a tree?”

“And do what? Just sit at home in costumes?”

“We'd fucking better be going out. You think I'm gonna stay home and spend a bunch of money on candy to just give away to kids instead of eating it myself?”

“How about—” I begin, but she cuts me off.

“Oh, I know what you're going to propose—
you
want
me
to choose the costumes. You were gonna say ‘Surprise me.' Well, I'll tell you what. I'll do exactly that, only you're gonna regret it. We're gonna be something fucked up and cute and you're gonna get pissy. And then I'll point back to this conversation and you're gonna have no choice but to wear what I pick out.”

“You do know me pretty well,” I admit.

“You aren't exactly a mystery wrapped in a riddle,” she grouses, then: “Frick, all that candy talk made me hungry. Can we run through a drive-thru for a cheeseburger?”

Sitting in the lobby of the Westside Division offices with Ivy by my side, impatiently clicking her heels together, I mentally rehearse all the reasons I can think of why this fucking detective won't consider my lead. The only one I can come up with that seems likely: Mikey paid him off. The thought of a crooked cop makes me sick. There are enough bad guys out there without a bunch of should-be-heroes-and-role-models assholes straddling both worlds. I don't necessarily have a problem with criminals—or cops anymore—they both get me paid. I'm just saying, pick one or the other and stick with it.

After close to an hour, Detective Chong finally comes out to the lobby to retrieve us. We recognize each other simultaneously. He's the dick who took my camera and I'm the meddlesome asshole who was taking pictures at his crime scene. We each register the recognition in one another's eyes, but neither of us speaks to it. Escorting us back through the security doors and into a conference room, Chong's sleeves are pushed up to his elbows and he looks like he's worn down already, though it's still early and a Saturday.

Plopping a sheet of yellow legal paper down, he takes a seat at the conference table before I am in the room. He gestures me to close the door and then take a seat in one fluid, tired motion.

“Mr. Tanner and Ms…?” he looks politely quizzical at Ivy, his eyes never once dropping down to the twin rounded mounds straining the boundaries of her jersey.

“Tanner,” she finishes, squeezing my arm as I too give her a quizzical look. Already we're off to a bad start when we just sat down and we're already lying to the detective.

“Mr. and Mrs. Tanner,” he agrees and doesn't question it, though I'm sure he took in my surprise.

“Mr. Tanner, I do respect what you did for Detective Stack. I consider him a—colleague. And your persistence in the matter is somewhat impressive. It's why I am meeting with you now…briefly. You deserve an honest answer at the least. But quite simply, you are wasting both of our time. The Van case is closed and it will stay closed.”

“But why?” I ask.

“I am not inclined to answer all your questions, Mr. Tanner,” he says, shifting irritatedly. “You wanted to assure me that it was murder and I was good enough to tell you it wasn't…as far as you're concerned. End of discussion.”

“Would your superiors feel the same way?” I ask, letting the implied threat hang out there.

The smirk I get in return is equally cold. “Tanner, I learned a long time ago that the law and legality, while black and white—either something is a crime or it isn't—it doesn't apply equally to everyone. There are bigger politics involved.”

“That's bullshit,” Ivy snaps, leaning forward in her chair, but I stop her.

“If you think this case starts and stops at me—you're incorrect. I'm not on Mikey Echo's payroll nor am I incompetent, if that's what you're thinking. I'm not even allowed to entertain the idea of a murder call in this case,” Len says. “Nor are my
superiors
. Word on this came down from the very top—this was an open-and-shut suicide.”

“But it's not,” Ivy persists. “Mikey told Tom to his face it wasn't.”

“I'm not Serpico, Mrs. Tanner. None of us detectives are. We've all got bigger caseloads than we can handle—L.A. isn't a friendly place, bad stuff happens around the clock. So when the higher-ups say to clear a case right from the get-go, sure our intuition can kick in, sure we can challenge them and take it to the streets, stop the presses and take on City Hall or whatever movie cliché you'd like. This is a movie town after all, but it's also a town that runs on movie politics and movie law. So for us, it's a losing battle. When the president of the United States comes to Los Angeles, he doesn't stay at a hotel, he stays at the mansions of studio heads and producers. He goes to fundraisers put on by actors. Everything in this town either runs on star power or gasoline. So you come to me and tell me that Mikey Echo did it. That's a great lead. It would make a decent book or a great movie. It just doesn't do a damn thing for me when my boss tells me that the gods of law in Los Angeles have decreed that an actor falling to his death out of a window that he would have to spend a good twenty minutes working out of its foundation when there is a perfectly good roof right nearby is a suicide. Because no matter what I think about the motive, it does not matter. George Echo is the closest thing this town has to an actual monarch. And that makes Mikey Echo equally untouchable. I don't ask you to like it, I just ask you to not make me think about it a moment longer than necessary.”

“What about the feds? Could I bring them down on him?”

“You can try.” Len splits his entwined fingers apart, palms up on the table. “But the reality is that they are governed by the same people who are probably George Echo's golf buddies.”

“How come Mel Gibson got busted? He was a major star…” Ivy tries once more, though I've begun to feel bad now for Detective Chong, that we've pestered him so relentlessly.