Murder With Sarcastic Intent (3 page)

Now, she turned her attention to the boyfriend. Elyse had said Nina was seeing someone involved in the pornography industry.

Always bad news for a parent. Mary pictured how that might go. “Hi, Mom and Dad, meet Jack Rammer. He stars in short films that don’t have much dialogue other than ‘oh yeah! That’s it, baby!’”

Of course, Nina’s boyfriend’s name wasn’t Jack Rammer. It was Archer DeLoof. Jesus, he sounded like a Harvard graduate assistant, not a skin-flick aficionado.

Archer DeLoof.

Mary launched Google and checked out the young man. There were only a few hits, and she quickly narrowed it down to the only one with any association to Los Angeles. There were no images, other than a tiny, low-resolution head shot, maybe from a yearbook.

As always when dealing with anyone involved in porn, Mary had to consider that the name Archer DeLoof was a fake. Although, it didn’t seem like a fake.

She spent another twenty minutes trying, unsuccessfully, to find out more about Archer DeLoof via the Internet. She was able to locate a production company in Santa Monica that seemed to have some type of association with an Archer DeLoof. She printed off the address then checked her watch. She was going to be late for drinks with her contact from LAPD’s Vice Squad.

Although, since she was buying, she could keep him waiting.

He would just start a tab and probably down as many as possible before she got there, so there was no hurry since she’d save the receipt as a write-off. Except that she was ready for a drink too.

In that case, time was of the essence.

Six

It was early enough for Mary to avoid the worst of LA’s never-ending freeway hell.

It took her ten minutes to remember where the bar was—downtown just off of Third Street. It was a cop special called the Tap Room, a dark and gloomy one-room deal that stunk like old beer, smoke, and the residue of decade’s worth of cop stories.

Mary found Oscar Freedham at the bar. He was short but muscular with a shaved head. He had on typical Vice Squad clothes: jeans, work boots, T-shirt, black vest.

“Hey, pretty young thing,” Mary said as she slid onto the bar stool next to him.

“Cooper,” he said with not a lot of enthusiasm.

“Can I buy you a drink then have my way with you?”

Freedham turned to Mary. “After just one drink? I’m not that cheap. A few more beers, a couple shooters, and my ass is yours.”

“God, you such a hopeless romantic, Freedham,” Mary said. She motioned to the bartender, a pale woman with short, dark hair and tattoo sleeves on both arms.

The woman got Freedham another beer. Mary asked for a bottle of Rolling Rock and got it.

She turned to look at Freedham. She guessed he was in his early fifties, a bowling ball of a man with thick forearms and the face of a Catholic priest.

“So, break up any Viagra rings lately?” she said. “And then confiscate the goods for your own use?”

“I wish,” he said. “We’re all about meth. I thought the crack epidemic years back was bad. This shit is twice as nasty.”

“Speaking of the dregs of society,” Mary said, “where the hell is Jake Cornell?”

Freedham laughed.

“Oh, don’t play the tough girl with me,” he said. “I ain’t fuckin’ buyin’ it. I know all about you two. Hell, I think the entire LAPD knows about you and Cornell being lovebirds.”

“Lovebirds?” Mary said. “I thought you were a tough cop, but now you’re sounding like someone’s androgynous grandmother.”

“I told you, I’m not buying your act,” he said. He took a long drink from his beer.

Mary rolled her eyes. “Well, if you know so much, then you certainly know where the Cornell deadbeat is.”

Freedham tossed off his shooter and drained the rest of his beer.

“All this talking is making me thirsty,” he said.

Mary signaled the tattooed bodybuilder cum bartender, who set Freedham up again with his beverages.

“He’s undercover,” Freedham said to Mary, after taking a long pull from his fresh beer.

“Oh Christ,” Mary said. Jake wasn’t all that great at being deceitful. The guy was an overgrown Hardy boy. Undercover for Vice? She shuddered inwardly at the thought.

“Whose bright idea was that? He’s probably floating in the harbor by now,” she said.

Freedham shrugged his oversized shoulders and said, “Hey, the new guy always gets shafted with the worst assignments. What’d he do to Davies anyway that pissed her off so much?”

Mary wanted to punch the old man. He knew damn well what Jake had done. He’d had a brief fling with his boss, the infamous Lt. Arianna Davies, also known as “The Shark.” The woman was evil incarnate, wrapped up in a pale skeleton of a body. And she had a long memory. Jake had pissed her off. And Davies hated Mary. The feeling was mutual.

“I heard he was at a crime scene, and when someone asked to see the corpse, Jake pointed to Davies,” Mary said.

“I believe it,” Freedham said. “The woman is frightening. But she gets things done. That’s why LAPD brass loves her.”

“I guess even the most loathsome creatures have their fans,” Mary said. “Speaking of loathsome, let’s get back to Jake.”

“I told you, he’s undercover,” Freedham said.

“So undercover he can’t even use his cell phone?”

Freedham shook his head. “I’m sure he checks in occasionally. It depends. If he’s working twenty-four seven, it can be difficult. I heard that in this case, he was going to have to go deep.”

“Well, first time for everything,” Mary said.

“Ouch.”

“So he does check in once in a while?” she said.

“Sure,” Freedham said. “But only when he has something to report; otherwise it’s pointless to take any risks.”

“Well, is there any actual danger in this assignment?” she said. “You know, Jake going undercover is like sending a nun into an Anthrax concert.”

Freedham shrugged again. “I’m not exactly his direct superior, so I only know what I hear. But you never really know until the shit hits the fan. My guess is that this one’s kind of a long shot.”

“Well, at least tell me what the general area he’s investigating,” Mary said. “Drugs, prostitution—”

“It’s porn,” Freedham said.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mary said. The porn industry was a subculture in Los Angeles, but it was much more ingrained into the town than most people knew. Still, she and Jake both working on porn cases? How romantic.

Freedham threw down his shooter, then drained the last of his beer. “The nasty kind.” He stood, and Mary knew she had gotten all she was going to get from Freedham, at least this time.

“Well, I hope he’s not trying to pose as a porn star,” Mary said.

She drained the last of her Rolling Rock.

“He’ll
never
be able to pull that one off.”

Seven

The sign read ExtReam Productions. Mary shook her head and wondered if they had brainstorming sessions in the porn world, trying to figure out all of the different ways they could work words like
ram, bang, pound,
and
ream
into titles.

Mary had left the Tap Room and driven back to Santa Monica to a section just off the interstate where a lot of production companies set up shop.

ExtReam’s building was a single-story, brick structure in a funky block that included an adult book shop, a drug store, and a carpet-cleaning service. Mary thought that made sense. Buy some porno mags at the bookstore, grab a tube of Vaseline at the drug store, and when you jizz all over the carpet, take it in for a cleaning.

She got out of her car, thumbed the alarm, and went to the front door. It was unlocked, and she stepped inside.

Most companies affiliated with the film industry had offices in older buildings. The ones Mary had visited had almost all, without question, been gutted and given the “Hollywood routine.” It was Mary’s own term for the ubiquitous concrete floors, sandblasted rafters with open ceilings and skylights, and brightly colored drywall adorned with movie posters.

The receptionist area consisted of an ornately carved bar, complete with a brass rail.

The only thing missing was a receptionist.

Mary waited for a few moments before a woman appeared at the end of the hallway that divided the space in two. Somewhere, there was an alert of some kind when the door opened. This was still LA, after all.

“Good afternoon, can I help you?” the woman said, with a voice echoing long nights smoking cigarettes and downing whiskey. Mary looked at her. She had big, blubbery lips, long brown hair, enormous knockers, and skinny jeans. Her feet were stuffed into leopard-skin stilettos. If Mary had to guess, the woman was probably in her mid-forties.

Time had not been kind to her.

“Yes, I’m looking for Archer DeLoof,” Mary said.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but I’ve got this.” Mary whipped out her private investigator’s license, which she’d put neatly into a leather flip case.

“You’re a cop?” the woman said. Now that she was closer, Mary saw the age in the woman’s face that apparently dozens of plastic surgeries hadn’t been able to erase. She upped her age estimate to mid-fifties.

“What the badge says,” Mary replied. Technically, not a lie. Her “badge” said private investigator.

“I’ll see if he’s around, but I think he’s on a shoot,” the woman said. “What’s your name?”

“Mary Cooper.”

“Okay, I’ll be right back.”

The woman sauntered halfway down the hallway. Mary thought she looked like a carnival worker heading back to her shift at the cotton-candy stand. The woman turned right and disappeared down another hallway.

Mary walked away from the reception area and went to the first poster at the beginning of the hallway.

It showed a woman with her hands cuffed behind her and the title
Hard Time
.

Probably a Martin Scorsese film, Mary thought. Maybe written by Penny Marshall. Starring Tom Hanks.

Off to the right, there was a small office with giant, white, dry-erase boards upon which someone had charted out production calendars. There was also a stack of production books. Mary ducked inside the room, grabbed a production book, and slipped it into her purse.

Just as she got back in front of the movie poster, Fat Lips appeared with a man in tow. He had on jeans, a black T-shirt, and black Doc Martens. His hair was long and swept back, black shot with gray streaks.

Mary pegged him at late thirties, early forties. He had a goatee and hoops in each ear.

“Let’s talk in my office,” the man said.

Mary followed him as Plastic Queen took her seat behind the bar.

His office consisted of a glass desk and two modern chairs made of white plastic. The desk was stacked high with DVDs, thumb drives, and cables. The cables led to a giant Mac computer. An oversized couch was on the other side of the office, and Mary had a sick certainty that many young girls had tried to use it as a launching pad for their careers.

It nauseated her to think about it.

“So what can I do for you,” the man said.

“Are you Archer DeLoof?”

The man ignored her.

“Let’s start with your name,” he said. Mary groaned inwardly. He was going to be one of
those
guys.

“Mary Cooper,” she said. “Who are you?”

“Vince Buslipp,” he said. “I own the place.”

“Oh,” Mary said. “I had asked to see Archer DeLoof.”

“Yes, Gia mentioned it, but Archer is out on a shoot right now for Blast Zone,” he said. He looked at his computer. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m investigating the disappearance of a young woman named Nina Ramirez,” Mary said. If Buslipp had a reaction, he hid it well. Or did he seem just a little
too
interested in what was on his computer screen?

Mary pressed forward. “I’ve been led to believe that she and Archer DeLoof were close.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Buslipp said. He seemed disinterested and bored. Mary noted his pale skin and the red around his eyes. Buslipp looked like a guy who rarely missed a party.

Buslipp said, “Whatever pussy he’s getting on the side is none of my business.”

“And who says the porn industry has no compassion for young women?” Mary said.

Buslipp ignored her comment, tapping away on his computer.

“So do you have any way I can get in touch with Mr. DeLoof?” Mary said. “Maybe his cell phone? Or an address for where he’s filming? Anything?”

“Nope, and even if I did, why would I help someone to go interrupt one of my employees while they’re working?” he said. “Kinda bad for business, don’t you think?”

“So, do you know Nina Ramirez? Ever met her?” Mary asked, ignoring Buslipp. Instead of ExtReam Productions, he should call it ExtReamly Rude.