The Rabbit Factory (3 page)

About sixty seconds later, a totally humiliated Marilyn returns for her Officer Down Twice. And that's how they met.

After that, she visited him every day, first in the hospital, then at home, offering to do whatever she could to make him happy. One night, it seemed that the thing that would make

The Rabbit Factory

Terry the most happy was a roll in the sack. No problem for Marilyn. Rarely does a nice Irish girl get the opportunity to have sex with a man and actually diminish her Catholic guilt.

One thing, as they say, led to another, and despite the fact that Marilyn had seven-year-old twin daughters, and a third, age five, Terry signed on for the whole package. And that's how a guy from The Bronx winds up living in Sherman Oaks with a wife and three teenage Valley girls.

We plugged along the 405. "No sense using lights and sirens," Terry said. "With all this traffic, we'd wind up causing an accident. Besides, the guy we're going to see is already dead, so what's the hurry? You been to Familyland?"

"A bunch of times. You know Joanie," I said. "She was a kid at heart." What I didn't say was how much she wanted kids. We both wanted them. We spent three years and thousands of dollars trying to make one. It was our fertility doc who actually discovered the ovarian cancer. Congratulations, Mrs. Lomax. You're not going to have a baby, and you're going to die.

"I always thought of Lamaar as a rip-off of Disney," Terry said. "But that's sort of like saying Pepsi is a rip-off of Coke. There may be truth in it, but it's still an eight hundred-pound gorilla on its own."

He was right. Lamaar, like Disney, had started out as a small animation house. Rambunctious Rabbit, Slaphappy Puppy, McGreedy the Moose, and a shitload of terminally jolly characters had captured the public's heart and transformed the little cartoon studio into a global entertainment company.

Today Lamaar made movies and TV shows, owned music and toy companies, operated hotels and a cruise line, licensed cartoon characters, and was traded on the New York Stock

Exchange. Familyland was just one small piece of the corporate pie.

Terry recapped the highlights of his last two trips to Familyland with Marilyn and the girls. He made sure to give me some tips on how to get 'backdoored,' which is theme park jargon for entering a ride or attraction without waiting on line. Apparently, his ability to buck the long lines and get the VIP treatment at Familyland had made him even more lovable in the eyes of the four women who already adored him.

We don't like to talk about a case before we get to the scene, so Terry segued into the upcoming college hunt for the twins, who were juniors in high school. He never once mentioned how expensive it would be, which if you know Terry is just like him. He was just a button-popping proud Dad, who wanted the best for his girls. We were discussing the merits of applying for early admission when he pulled onto the off ramp. The arrow on the sign for the main entrance to Familyland pointed right. Terry turned left.

"They said don't go to the front gate," he told me. "We're going to the admin building on Happy Landings Boulevard. They want to keep this investigation low profile, so try not to look like a cop."

That's the nice thing about Terry. Sometimes he lobs out a straight line for me to take. "Okay," I said. "I'll leave the donuts in the car."

Terry gave a little chuckle, which from him is a rave. I, in turn, bowed to thank him for the set-up line. Sometimes homicide can be a lot of fun.

Until Dean Lamaar showed up with his world-famous rabbit and a bottomless checkbook in 1970, the little town of Costa Luna, California was exactly that. A little town. But after he gobbled up most of the town in one gulp, Lamaar wanted to make sure his investment would be protected by a real police force and not some Podunk constabulary.

Everybody agreed that the local cops could handle the small stuff, like Drunk and Disorderlies. But the supremely paranoid Mr. Lamaar was particularly jittery about a race riot breaking out on the carousel. The big stuff, he insisted, required big guns. And that meant LAPD.

Meetings were held. Palms were greased, backs were scratched, and eventually codes were rewritten. I've heard that the legalese goes on for 150 pages. The short version is that Lamaar's Familyland is technically outside of LAPD's jurisdiction. Unless the shit hits the fan. Defining 'the shit' takes up most of the 150 pages.

Over the years we had handled a few rape cases and the occasional "I-was-ahead-of-you-in-line-Mother-Fucker" stabbing.

1

I

This was our first homicide in the Happy Little Kingdom.

We pulled up to the Dexter Duck Administration Building. Catchy name. So radically different from Donald or Daffy Duck. I hoped the murderer was as unoriginal as the guy who created Dexter. There were a bunch of black and whites discreetly parked at odd angles, plus an EMS bus and the Medical Examiner's wagon. Most of the vehicles still had their lights flashing. That ought to keep it low profile. A ruddy-faced local cop with a beer belly that any man could be proud of, sized up the Lexus/Camry from twenty feet away. "Budweiser blimp at eleven o'clock," Biggs informed me.

The blimp was about fifty, wearing a Smokey hat and tan summer-weights that fit well despite his enormous girth. He lifted a finger to indicate he'd seen us, but had something more important to do first. He pulled a wrinkled red bandana out of his back pocket and honked into it hard. Then he moseyed on over. "Morning, Detectives," he said, downright friendlier than I'd expected. I was prepared for an Archie Bunker voice to go with the Bunker-like physique. But he talked in a high-pitched squeak, and 'detectives' came put 'detectifth.' It wasn't the hissy, sibilant S that helps you spot a gay guy across a crowded room. It was more of a good old-fashioned childhood speech impediment that never went away. No wonder he became a cop. In a small redneck town like Costa Luna, a fat guy with a bad lisp needs to carry a gun. I scanned the gold-and-black nameplate on the flap of his left breast pocket. "Good morning, Sheriff Davis," I said.

"It's not Davis; it's Daves," It came out 'Davthe.' "Marlon

Daves. Like more than one Dave." He winked. "Welcome to Familyland, the unluckiest place in the world."

"How so, Sheriff?" Terry asked.

"Fella was wearing two rabbit's feet, and he still got iced." We all had a Big Hearty Cop Laugh over that.

"Lucky that Dean Lamaar is dead," Daves said. "He'd be all tore up if he knew someone kilt his star attraction."

I'm so used to cynical, wiseass L.A. cops that it took me a beat to realize that the statement was heartfelt. Terry and I agreed with Daves that it was excellent fortune for Mr. Lamaar to be dead at this point in his career. Daves went on. "I met with him a couple of times y'know," he said with obvious pride. "We have monthly meetings with their security people. Sometimes the old man would stop by and say hello. He'd ask me how the missus was. Give me free passes for the kids. Things like that." He paused, waiting for our reaction.

Police work is all about respect. It's the key to our psyche. Did you ever get pulled over for speeding and try to talk your way out of a ticket? If you whine, make lame excuses, or tell the cop how important you are, it only pisses him off. If you apologize, show remorse, and promise it won't happen again sir, you have half a chance of getting off with a warning.

Terry and I both gave the Sheriff an appreciative nod to let him know how impressed we were that he had spent quality time with Dean Lamaar.

"Anything going on around here we should know about?" Terry asked. "Problems in the company that might get one of their characters murdered?"

"What makes you think it's about the company?" Daves said, his tinny voice piercing the air. "Could be that the guy in the

bunny suit had an enemy. Maybe he owed somebody money or he had his dick in the wrong place."

"Possible," Terry said, "but I figured you'd know more about the company than the rabbit's dick."

"Sure I know about the company. Bought their stock. It was headed south for a while, till Nakamachi bought them out and brought in Ike Rose to run the place. Sharp guy. Stock's been going up. Dean Lamaar died about three years ago, so the place isn't as homey as it used to be. But hell, it's a business, not a home. My opinion--there's no problems in the company that would cause a murder. If it was my investigation, I'd find out who that rabbit was fucking. Of course, I'm just a country boy. You're the ones who do this every day."

"Marlon," Terry said, crossing over to first-name familiarity, "any more country boys as smart as you, and us city boys would be out of a job."

The fat man smiled and his chest puffed out a little. You could practically hear Aretha Franklin singing R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Terry asked where the DOA was.

"They got these tunnels under the park. They call it The Rabbit Hole. Employees only. Your vie is down there."

"We appreciate your help, Sheriff," Terry said.

"One more thing," Daves said. "There's a woman waiting for you in the Duck Building. Amy, the gal with the big boobs. She just showed up from Lamaar headquarters in Burbank. Told me to stand out here and keep everybody away. This company don't like publicity, and she's in charge of Corporate Miscommunications. She's gonna do her best to get you fellas to keep this investigation under wraps. Just thought you should know up front."

Marlon was no country bumpkin. His theory about the

rabbit's dick was iffy at best, but he was a smart enough cop who apparently paid attention. We thanked him for the heads up and turned toward the Dexter Duck Building and the gal with the big boobth.

Dexter Duck was your basic low-rise, earthquake resistant Southern California office building. No real architectural point of view, which surprised me. Shouldn't it have been covered with feathers, or at least shaped like a duck?

We walked through two sets of glass doors. A receptionist sat dead center about twenty feet in. The first hint that this office building was different from your average insurance company was the fact that the walls were covered with oversized color glossies of cartoon characters.

Before we could even cross to the receptionist's desk, I heard the rapid click-clack of heels on the marble floor, and a woman hurried over to us. She was thirty-fiveish, brunette, white-bread pretty, no wedding ring. The photo ID card on a chain around her neck had come to rest on her left breast, which I sized up to be a 38C or D, which is a popular size among men. The tag simply said 'Amy,' but I stared at it long enough to read the Gettysburg Address.

Biggs and I flashed Amy our Big City Cop credentials, and

I she introduced herself. "I'm Amy Cheever, Corporate Communications."

Terry pulled out his pad. "How do you spell that, ma'am?" he asked.

"Cheever," she said. "Like John Cheever, the writer."

"Thank you, ma'am," Terry said. "And how does he spell it?"

Her brown eyes crackled, but she kept her cool and proceeded to spell Cheever. She took a beat, then added, "And Amy is spelled A-M-Y." This girl didn't take no sass. Not even from the Big City Cops. We had been forewarned by Daves. Amy was the enemy. Our job was to gather as much information as possible. Her job was to keep it from us. Terry had opted to play Nasty Cop. "How long you work here at Familyland?" he said. He already knew the answer. "I don't work here," she said. "I told you I'm with Corporate. I work out of Lamaar Studios in Burbank. Press relations for Familyland is one of my responsibilities. I got here as soon as I heard the news." "Thanks for coming, but we're not press," Terry said.

Amy handed me an official-looking folder. "This is Eddie Elkins's personnel file. He's the man who was killed. He's a new employee, been with us a few months. There's a sister in Baltimore to notify in case of emergency." "I think this qualifies," Nasty Cop said. "Did you call her?"

"Several times. No answer. No machine."

"Just as well," Terry said. "We'll call her."

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I know a little about body language, and her breathing told me that she was about to say something she knew we wouldn't like.

The Rabbit Factory

"It's important that we keep this crime from being blown out of proportion in the press," she said. "It would be good if we could keep it out of the press entirely." Thank you, Sheriff Daves. Underneath those 38s, Amy Cheever's corporate heart was definitely in the right place. Let's all sweep it under the rug. "We can't control the press," I said with a Friendly Cop smile.

"I understand," she said. "That's my job. I went to business school. They taught me how to handle the harsh realities of a bad situation." "Did they teach you how to handle the harsh reality of a homicide?" It was Biggs. He seemed to really enjoy sparring with her. "Listen," she said, without a hint of Cop Respect in her tone. "Half of our business is aimed at children under twelve. If Mr. Elkins had been a third-grade teacher, and he were murdered in a gay bar, I'm sure the police would cooperate in trying to protect the children from the details. All I'm asking is that you treat this case with the same discretion. We really do care about the children." Terry and I both nodded to communicate that we understood, but that was all the commitment we would give her. I "Thank you very much," she said. I wondered how she'd spin this conversation to her boss. Something like, 'I spoke to LAPD, sir. They promised to take a vow of silence.' Terry spoke. "If it's not too much trouble, ma'am, we'd like to see the dead body now."

"Your forensic people are on the scene. I'll take you there."

Our forensic people? On the scene? Everybody loves cop speak.

Amy did an about-face and headed for the elevator. Terry threw me one of those quick Man Looks to let me know that Amy Cheever also had a fabulous ass. I threw him back the Man Look that says, "What am I, Mr. Magoo?" We fell in behind her. I had the distinct sense that she was enjoying the fact that we were enjoying her ass. All in all, I thought we were off to a pretty good start.