Hollywood Assassin (6 page)
The next day I took a late morning break and stopped by the Records and Identification Bureau. My mouth gaped open when Wilma Bibby came to the counter.
“What happened to your hair, Wilma?” Behind her there was a bureaucratic buzz, phones rang and files were being sifted and sorted.
The middle-aged records clerk said, “I finally got the nerve to ask George over for dinner.” Her hair was a mess. No contacts. Glasses again framed dull gray eyes. “He turned me down.” She moved a stack of files on her desk from one place to another with no apparent purpose.
I reached across the counter, touching Wilma’s shoulder. Her flower print dress was cut all wrong for her, did nothing to hide her gently rounded figure.
Three weeks earlier, a makeover, a Channel black jacket dress, and an afternoon at Sinclair’s Salon had given Wilma a confidence that was now shattered. I wanted to bust George’s balls.
“He’s just one man, Wilma. Maybe he’s already got a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend.”
Wilma shook her head. Her eyes lowered, then her voice. “I heard through the grapevine that he’s single and looking—just not for me.”
I did an eye roll and pushed up the sleeves of my fitted pink cardigan sweater. “Maybe the grapevine is wrong. Maybe he
is
gay.” My voice lowered, just above Wilma’s earlier whisper. “Maybe Georgie boy just missed out on terrific food, wonderful conversation, and great sex.”
Wilma giggled, cut her eyes to the clerks working beside her. She put a finger to her lips. “I don’t even remember what sex is.”
I scratched my head, trying to dredge up a memory. “I’ve heard it involves two or more people getting naked. They sometimes end up in bed, although it can happen in other locations.” My voice dropped another notch. “I’ve even been told there can be something called foreplay involved, although I’ve never personally encountered it.”
“Stop it.” Wilma chuckled, gesturing to the other clerks again.
“Then there’s the act itself. If it’s done right, I’ve heard it can be like being pushed over Niagara Falls in a barrel with someone you try to imagine is Brad Pitt.”
“Kate!”
“Okay, I’ll stop. But I’m going to make you another hair appointment.” I leaned forward. “Wilma, you just lost round one. Time to come out swinging.”
I pointed to the endless rows of filing cabinets and boxes behind her. “Don’t suppose you had any luck with the Carmichael records I called about.”
She shook her head. “The file would be in pre-imaging so it takes a hand search, especially for something that old.” She must have seen my blank expression. “The department is digitally storing the archived records. It should eventually save us a lot of space. Everything from the mid-nineties forward has been converted to the computerized storage system. All the records prior to that time are still in a hard copy format.”
The computer project probably meant job security for Wilma, but it wasn’t helping me out. “Aren’t the files organized by year? The file I’m looking for would include an initial Missing Persons Report from September 1984 and follow-up reports.”
“I’m still searching. The older records are a mess. Sometimes the files from different investigations and different years have been merged. So far, the records from 1984 haven’t turned up anything on your case, but I haven’t given up. I’ve got a couple of other clerks also checking.”
There was no way I could let Baker and Kennedy, or for that matter IAD, get wind of my inquiry.
“I’d prefer that you do the search on your own. This is on the down low.” She nodded. “And call me right away if anything turns up.” Pushing away from the counter, I added, “I’ll call you later about that hair appointment.”
***
It was early afternoon as I drove back to Hollywood Station. Olive’s wipers, a metronome on the windshield, announced that October’s heat had faded into the fog of fall. I encountered drizzle and wet pavement as I parked.
Bernie and I found Charlie in the squad room eating a burrito while finishing up reports on the morning arrests. He motioned to the burrito plate he’d ordered for me as I settled in. A familiar voice killed my appetite.
A hello growled in the corridor. I turned and saw Marvin Drake with Jessica Barlow. She followed behind, making small talk with the captain. They left the station, walking through the parking lot together. What was the captain of Wilshire Division doing in my territory?
“If Drake suddenly stops, Jessica would have to be surgically removed from the captain’s anus,” I said to Charlie.
“Not a pretty picture.”
“Might explain her shit-eating grin.”
“Woman’s a piranha in a push-up bra.”
“Didn’t think you noticed.”
“Guy can’t help seeing what’s in front of him.”
Charlie tossed his paper plate in the trash can. The radio was playing, the station slightly off dial. Frank Sinatra did a fuzzy version of “Stardust.” Maybe my partner had never heard of iPods? Then I remembered he did have an iPhone.
“Drake was meeting with Jankowitz,” Charlie said, sucking a tooth. “Probably letting him know one of his officers is under investigation.”
I ran a fork through the rice on my burrito plate. My working relationship with Captain Jankowitz was probably history. Jank was a good guy, one of the few. He’d been supervising the unit while we waited for a promotion. A couple of more bites and I pushed the plate over to Charlie.
“Pearl Kramer agreed to help out,” I said quietly.
His mouth-loader, a fork full of cheese and beans, stopped in midair. Daddy death said, “Don’t suppose I can talk you out of this?”
“No, and by the way, thanks for talking to Bautista. He called Kramer.”
“Didn’t think it would do any harm to let him know what’s happening.”
The mouth-loader dumped. Charlie ran a hand across his day-old stubble. It looked like he was wearing the same shirt he’d changed into after the Harry Wiener shuffle a couple of days ago.
“You need to think this through again, Kate. You know as well as I do the kind of shit you’re gonna be in if IAD finds out.”
“There’s only one kind of shit, Charlie. The kind that stinks until you wash it off.” I blotted my lips with a paper napkin. “I can’t stand by and let an innocent cop be set up.”
More burrito and a head shake, then a pink message slip came across the desk. “Kramer called for you an hour ago. He wants you to meet him at the Marquee Manor at nine tonight.” He set his fork down, looked me in the eyes and said, “Do me a favor and be careful.”
I put the message in my purse. “Save your worrying for your teenage daughter, Charlie. I’m all grown up, remember?”
***
It was just after nine when Natalie and I pulled to the curb a block up from the Marquee Manor. Mom gave me a Hollywood history book for Christmas once, so I knew that the hotel was built in the former strawberry fields of West Hollywood in the late twenties. It housed east coast stars who worked under contract on the first talkies of the era.
The stars and talent agents were long gone. Another kind of contract was now being negotiated at the Manor.
Pearl got out of his Forerunner and greeted us, commenting on Natalie’s attire.
“Thought I should try to fit in,” Natalie offered. “Wouldn’t wanna look like a radish in a meat market.”
I’d done a pre-Manor lecture with Natalie, ending in, “We’re only going to the hotel to ask a few questions.”
It fell on deaf ears. My youthful snoop sister was wearing an ultra-tight semi-transparent blouse tied at the midriff, a chartreuse micro-mini skirt, and a pair of knee-high Pajar boots. Her clothes and makeup screamed,
Fuck Me.
No chance this girl would be mistaken for a vegetable.
As I was trying to make sure Bernie was comfortable in Olive, he bolted. Fur and lust ran down the street and hopped over a fence. I gave chase and found my hairy partner in a backyard doing a Jessica Barlow-Marvin Drake nose bob with a border collie. Like a parent with an out of control teenager, I marched him back to the car. After a proper scolding, I put him in the backseat and locked the door.
“He’s hornier than a dog with two dicks,” Natalie said.
“Must come with the territory,” I said, referencing the parade of johns and working girls.
Pearl lifted his gaze up the street to the dimly lit gray-and-brown Spanish colonial hotel. “Worked this area with vice back in the nineties. The place hasn’t changed much from what I understand. Some of the rooms still rent by the hour.”
“Do you think the killer’s here?” Natalie asked. “Maybe I shoulda brought Clyde’s pistol. I shot it once by accident, almost parted Clyde’s hair. Blew out a window.”
Pearl shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll find any killers tonight.” He smiled at me. All I could do was shrug.
“According to what Bautista told you,” Pearl said to me, “we know Cassie Reynolds was working for a pimp named Maurice Simpson. From what I’ve learned, Simpson and his girls spend time here as business warrants. If his girls are working out of the Manor, we can ask them about Cassie.”
We walked up the street, stopping about thirty yards from the hotel. The walkway leading to the manor was bordered by palms and dead grass. Several ducks floated in a pond near the entrance.
Pearl removed his overcoat and said, “A couple of Simpson’s girls are meeting us in room 213. Give me ten minutes, then come on up.”
We tried to keep our distance as the skin parade circled the hotel. I’d tossed on a pair of old jeans and a sweater before leaving home, a concession to the cool, foggy evening. Natalie, on the other hand, stuck out like a red flag at a bullfight.
In no time, a matador rolled up; his window came down. He asked for something other than a bull. Natalie, mustered all her tact and said, “Take your limp pecker over to the pond and hump a duck.”
Another customer followed. I held Natalie back and walked up to his open window with my badge. “Drive yourself over to the Hollywood Station and turn yourself in to the desk sergeant for soliciting prostitution from an undercover cop.”
Our john was in his early thirties, well-dressed. His voice cracked, “What is this, some kind of setup?”
“You’re on the LAPD sex cam.” I pointed to a white van parked up the street. “The camera is in the van over at the curb. They’ve got everything on video, including your license number. An undercover officer will follow you to the station.”
He pulled away from the curb and made a U-turn, slowing down as he passed the white van.
“Maybe we could do one of those reality TV shows,” Natalie suggested as we walked into the hotel lobby. “Call it, Peek-a-boo-Pecker.”
Figuring enough time had gone by, we moved up a stairway that encircled the mezzanine, and had two more offers before we got to room 213.
The room Pearl rented was small and furnished with the latest in Goodwill castoffs. A single table, laminated dark mahogany, held a lamp that cast a dull glow across the room. The shades were drawn beneath dirty blue tie-back curtains. The bed was a Spartan affair with a dark-brown cover. No headboard. If it had one there would have been a two-word advertising slogan:
Jiffy Fuck
.
Pearl was in a chair across from two women who were in pre-attack mode. He offered money for information. As it turned out, information was harder to come by than sex. The older of the two women, heavyset, black, and in gold spandex, came off the bed.
“Mo,” Pearl said by way of introduction just before the prostitute turned on the retired detective.
“I knew this was some kinda bullshit setup the minute I laid eyes on you.” Mo waved a hand toward Natalie and me. “Looks like they can keep you busy without our help.”
The other girl, named Hoover, took up where Mo left off. “They’re fucking cops.” She stood, walked around the room, simultaneously throwing her arms and obscenities into the air. The prostitute was dressed in a plaid schoolgirl outfit, but I doubted this girl had ever made the honor role.
“Just so you know,” Hoover went on, “I don’t fuck no senior citizens, I don’t fuck no cops, but…” She stopped, walked over to Natalie, hands on her hips. “…if you want the lesbo virgin to fuck me I might consider doing a freebie.”
Natalie smiled in her disarming way, politely saying, “I don’t mean to lace into ya or anythin’, but just so you know, I’m not a virgin. Dropped me cherry in a schoolyard—not the best experience, by the way.” Pearl and I covered smiles as she added, “And while I don’t wanna go bustin' a payday and I don’t got nuthin’ against it, just for your information, I don’t lick the lettuce.”
I gave Natalie a head shake. She clamped her lips shut as Pearl said, “We just want to ask you both a few questions. Only take a couple of minutes.”
Mo sat back on the bed, but Hoover wasn’t having any part of it. She tried to push past me to the door. “Outta my way, I gotta make rent.”
I blocked the exit, my irritation rising. My hands came up and I pushed her back, just above two very large breasts; silicone desperately seeking air.
“I know a place where the rent is free,” I said. “It’s over on Wilcox Street. Maybe you’ve seen it. There’s a bunch of black-and-white cars in the parking lot.”