Cicero's Dead (9 page)

“Yeah, I’ve seen a lot of violent xenophobia in
the name of god and something or other.”

He nodded, and his eyes probed mine as if he was
scouring my brain. “The problem is that once we divert ourselves, or are
diverted into evil, nothing else compares. In effect, we become addicted.
That’s why PTSD vets are so miserable. Nothing compares to the twisted thrill
kill. It lurks there in the reptilian brain and once it‘s unleashed, it’s hard
to turn off. It becomes all-encompassing.”

“I have a good friend who’s a Vietnam vet.”

“And?”

“He’s miserable much of the time. The only time
he’s not is when he has something interesting going on.”

“Which is probably rare. Killing is primordial.
That’s why serial killers can’t control themselves. The rush, they say, is
unbelievable. Nothing else comes close. And then, when blood lust gets all
mixed up with sexuality, you’ve got a real fiend on your hands.”

“Were you in Nam?”

“Yes, I certainly was. I was also in Cambodia.
Bomber pilot. I started out flying for LBJ, and then I flew for Nixon. I was a
patriot, in those days.”

“And now?”

“I’m not so sure. I’m just an old man on a hilltop
trying to make sense of it all. The only reason I’m not crazy is because I
didn’t see my victims. I was too far away and there was too much smoke in the
air. Sometimes I look back on those days and wonder if they ever really
happened. But of course, I know they did.” He paused and his eyes drifted off
to some ancient regret. He pulled himself back and smiled, “Can I get you a refill?”

“Delighted.”

He brought me the lemonade and looked at me,
intrigued. “So, Mr. Crane, here’s what I can tell you.” He spoke slowly,
tapping his right index finger into the palm of his left hand as if to
punctuate his points. “I rented this house through a management company. They
were exceedingly circumspect and gave no hint as to the identity of the actual
owner. All they said was that he had moved to another location. Didn’t say
where. The rent is high, but the lease was for two years. I just re-leased it
last month for another two.”

“Have you gotten to know your neighbors?”

“Does anyone, ever, in Los Angeles?”

I grinned. “I know what you mean.”

“There is one peculiar condition in my lease. Back
in the fifties, the owner of this house had made a fortune manufacturing
shipping containers, but struggled with mental illness. He built an underground
fortress extending from the basement, halfway down the hill. It is apparently
terraced, to match the contours of the hillside. When fear struck, he would
disappear down there for weeks at a time, or at least that’s the way the story
goes. Under the terms of my lease, I have no access to it. The door in my
basement has been walled off with masonry. The leasing company was obligated to
reveal the presence of the underground chamber for safety reasons, particularly
as it could, in theory, undermine the house foundation if there was flooding or
an earthquake. The structure is held up by steel columns and I-beams, and is
thought to be of sound construction.”

“So that explains the stainless steel door in the
rock face.”

“That’s the other entrance, presumably what the
owner would use if he wanted to get in.
 
The structure is roughly in the shape of a large three dimensional “L,”
like the Knight’s move in chess, only the board would be three-dimensional,
descending in steps, like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. I’ve actually got a
copy of the blueprints, if you‘d like to see them. I found them tucked up on a
shelf in the basement when I was arranging my wine cellar.”

“I’d love to. Thanks.”

Reggie rose stiffly. “One moment.” He took the
open stairway to the second floor and returned a minute later, laying the
blueprints out on the table.

“Amazing.”

“Indeed. It’s a bit of an engineering triumph,”
said Reggie. “There’s enough concrete and steel down there to reinforce a
good-sized building.”

“Aren’t you ever curious about what’s there?”

“I was at first, but at my age I’ve learned not to
torture myself with what I cannot change, unless, of course, I’m writing about
it. The basement door is solid steel, six inches thick, apparently secured by
steel crosspieces attached to the wall with huge lag bolts, and that’s behind
the masonry wall. No one’s getting in there.”

It crossed my mind that the other door could be
breached with the right cutting tool, or maybe even a bump key, but I said
nothing. “Does the owner ever enter by the other door?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Interesting.”

“Quite and now I must excuse myself. I’ve got to
get back to work and as you may have noticed, evil waits for no man.”

“Indeed. Thanks for the info and lemonade.”

“You’re very welcome.”

On my way down the front steps, I was distracted
by a set of curious inlaid tiles built into the staircase, apparently inscribed
at the request of the same man who had built the underground shelter. They were
scenes from the ancient world: Assyrians in battle garb, pharaohs lying in
state, and beautiful Mycenaean wall paintings of colorful fish in the blue
Mediterranean, the Levantine sun reflecting on the water.

Nearing the street, I noticed a runner heading
east; whether by premonition or natural caution, I stepped back shielding
myself. The shock of recognition was profound. It was James Halladay wearing
blue shorts and a blue velour sweatshirt, intent on his workout. He passed the
house without a glance, looking occasionally at what appeared to be a stopwatch
in his right hand. I waited for a reasonable period to give him some distance,
and walked back to my car.

Driving toward downtown, I kept one eye on my rear
view mirror.
 
I considered heading
over to Forest Grove to see if William Jameson would corroborate Dr.
Tarkanian’s story, but decided against it. Fishburne/Borders and the ersatz
Officer Koncak were right in the middle of Cicero’s death. That was enough for
now. I wanted to get on Merlin and do a search on Halladay, as my instinct was
screaming that he might be connected to Cicero’s death. I tempered myself with
the thought that him jogging in Arnold’s old neighborhood might be purely
circumstantial; it could mean nothing, but it could also mean he lived nearby
and had known Arnold for some time.

I called Bobby to check in but he didn’t pick up,
so I called Audrey.

“Hi, Boss.”

“I need you to go down to the L.A. County
Recorder’s Office in Norwalk, to check on a grant deed for 3655 Beachwood
Drive.”

“Sure, but why?”

“Arnold Clipper owns it, but I need verification.”

“I’ll call you soon as I’ve got the info.”

“Thanks.”

I called Jade. She didn’t pick up ‘til the fourth
ring and when she did she sounded distraught. “Nick, is that you? Nick!”

“Yeah. What’s wrong?”

“Every time a car drives by, I think it’s them.”

“Relax. There’s virtually no traffic there.”

“I know. That’s why I keep thinking they’re
sneaking up on me. I can’t believe I was taken in by those creeps. They had the
gall to sit in my living room, and lie to me about my father’s death.”

“Do you have the electricity on?”

“The fence? Yes, of course.”

“They’d have a helluva time getting in.”

“What if they shoot up the house? Nobody in this
neighborhood would even notice.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Please hurry.”

“Watch TV and try to calm down. Do you want me to
bring you any take-out?”

“No. Just get here.”

When I got back to the office, I parked two blocks
north on 1st Street, east of Alameda.
 
The neighborhood is gentrifying and condos are going up by the hundred.
Construction guys wearing masks to protect them from the bad air worked
steadily in the gray light. I threaded my way through the back streets and let
myself in the side door. It was stuffy, so I turned on the air and skimmed my
email -- nothing significant. I logged onto Merlin. James Halladay’s current
residence was on Linforth Drive, which intersects Beachwood half-a-mile below
Arnold’s house.

I was now certain that Fishburne and Koncak were
involved in Cicero’s death. The problem was Halladay. If he was, too, I was
obviously compromised since I was now working for him. The motivation was the
Lamont family fortune. Fishburne and Koncak could be employees, working for
Halladay or Arnold or both. Halladay might be unaware of Arnold’s more bizarre
tendencies. His involvement, however, was made less likely by the fact he was
going to a lot of trouble to see that Jade was protected. That, on the other
hand, could be mere subterfuge.

I set the alarm and had barely hit the sidewalk
when two LAPD detectives closed in.

“Nick Crane?”

I knew from their fine sense of dress they were
dicks. “Who wants to know?” They pulled back their jackets revealing shields
and guns. I grinned. “In that case, yes.”

Officer Sanchez, all shaved head and glaring eyes,
didn’t like my sense of humor. He slammed me up against the side of their
cruiser and snapped the cuffs on me. “Lemme know if they’re too tight,” he
snarled.

He turned me around and his partner, Officer
Tomito, yanked my Colt Commander. “Nice artillery.”

“It does the job.”

“You got a backup?”

“Right ankle.”

He pulled up my trouser leg and took my Walther
P22. Fortunately, I wasn’t carrying lock picks or anything else that might be
viewed as compromising. They opened the back door of the cruiser and shoved me
inside.
 
Sanchez sat next to me.
Tomito climbed behind the wheel.

The cop riding shotgun, who was casually dressed
in street clothes, gave me a look that was seven-eighths contempt and
one-eighth sympathy. I seriously doubted that Tarkanian would have had either
the courage or just plain bad sense to lodge a complaint, which meant I had no
idea what this was about.

“I’m Detective Jansen. You’ve already met Officers
Sanchez and Tomito.”

“Let’s get this over with. I’ve got an appointment
in 30.”

Sanchez jabbed me hard in the ribs. “Shut the fuck
up.”

I grimaced, gritted my teeth and locked eyes with
him. “You’re real tough when I’m cuffed.”

Sanchez opened his mouth to reply, but Jansen cut
him off. “Tony Bott speaks highly of you. Says you’re good people. Nonetheless,
we’ve got us a little problem.” He fixed me with a dead eye cop stare. “Murder
One.”

“I’m outta the hit business.”

“Glad to hear that. Try to keep it that way.”

“I will. Trust me.”

“Never trust anyone who says ‘trust me,’” added
Officer Tomito.

This brought a round of laughter.

Detective Jansen looked at my .45, flexed his jaw
muscles and said to Tomito, “Let’s ride.”

We pulled away from the curb, turned left on
Central and right on 5th. When we got to Towne Street, we parked and got out.

Jansen looked at Sanchez. “Uncuff him.”

I rubbed my wrists to get my circulation
back.
 
For years, Towne Street was
the center of the Skid Row open air crack market, but in recent years it’s
moved down to 5th and San Carlos, near the missions. That way a basehead can
get a fix on his way into rehab, and on his way out, without ever leaving the
block.

Towne, between 5th and 6th was completely cordoned
off. The only officials on the scene were the investigator, the coroner’s
investigator and the photographer. A few rubberneckers watched from behind
sawhorses, as we ducked under the tape and headed down the block. The victim
came gradually into focus: flat on its back, feet almost touching the
rust-colored brick wall of what had once been a foundry. The body was nude and
bloated and had been decapitated. The severed head rested on one cheek, facing
north along the sidewalk. Its eyes stared lifelessly and what should have been
hair was blood-smeared skull.

“At least the perp didn’t cut his dick off,” said
Officer Tomito.

The cops wouldn’t have brought me here unless they
somehow connected me to the victim, which meant I must know him. It hit me like
a sledgehammer. Ron Cera. My head started pounding. I turned and started
walking back toward 5th Street. Officer Sanchez followed me and threw up just
before we reached the sawhorses, thick gray bile that splattered across the
already stained sidewalk. Tomito joined Jansen who yanked Sanchez to his feet.
We walked back to the cruiser in silence.

When we got to the stationhouse, Sanchez and
Tomito dispersed. Jansen ushered me into his office, and a homicide detective
named Karsagian joined us. Mid-fifties, barrel-chested with sagging jowls,
latticed with broken capillaries. He had a deep vertical cleft between his
eyebrows and thick salt-and-pepper hair which he combed straight back. This guy
looked like something straight out of an old black and white movie.

As we shook hands, he looked me right in the eye
and chuckled. “Nick Crane. Private dick.” He rolled his chair over until it was
literally touching mine and glared at me, his face only inches from mine. “So
how’d you meet Ron Cera?”

I made a disgusted face. “Your mouthwash ain’t
making it.”

Karsagian frowned but didn’t move away. Jansen
tried not to smirk, lost that battle and instead cleared his throat.

I pushed my chair back a couple of feet. “If I’m a
suspect I want my lawyer.”

Karsagian balled up a fist that looked like a
block of granite. “You got some balls.”

“You think this is my first time around the block?”

“I don’t give a goddamn.”

“That makes two of us.”

His face turned a nasty shade of red. He got to
his feet, anger flashing across his eyes.

Jansen once again refereed. “Relax.” Karsagian
relaxed. “As of right now, you’re a material witness.”