The Rabbit Factory (32 page)

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lyland--he had a real dark side, and my father got to see it up close and personal."

I took out my pad and pen. "I'm listening," I said.

"For one thing, he was a racist," Eeg said. "Hated blacks, Jews, Asians. Some people say he secretly gave money to the Ku Klux Klan." "Most of the film industry was racist back then," I said. "But the man who runs the company now is Jewish. The head of security at Familyland is African-American. Even if Lamaar was a racist personally, the company itself has come a long way." "He was sexually repressed," Eeg said.

I yawned. "I'm a cop, not a shrink. Give me something I can use."

"Okay, Dean Lamaar murdered his father. Put that in your pipe and smoke it for a few minutes. I got fresh coffee. You want some?" Falco and I passed. Eeg lifted the dog from his lap, put her on the floor, and headed off to the kitchen. "What the fuck?" Falco said. "What are we... what are you supposed to do with that information? Even if it's true, which I don't believe a fucking word of it, how is that going to help solve this case?" "Beats the shit out of me, Sheriff, but it sure will make for interesting reading in my report." I wrote Dean Lamaar killed his father??? in my pad. Eeg returned with a mug of black coffee in one hand and two books in the other. He sat down, set the books on the floor, and popped the dog back on his lap. "Dean Lamaar was born poor," he said. "His father was a fire-and-brimstone minister in the Midwest. Deanie was an only child, and his mother doted.

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The Rabbit Factory

on him. But Reverend Lamaar was a miserable bastard, probably because he left one of his legs on a battlefield somewhere In Belgium. He was a boozer, too. A real hypocrite, he'd preach to the flock about Demon Rum, then go home and drink him flf cockeyed." ' Eeg took a slow, noisy sip of the steaming coffee. "Now Dean is a creative kid. He likes to draw cartoons. But the father forbids it. That's the way those Fundamentalists think--you'll be rewarded in the next life for abstinence in this one. Anyway, Deanie starts doing cartoons on the sly. One day, when he's twelve, the father finds his pictures. He calls him on the carpet, Ind he burns all the drawings and the art supplies in the fireplace. And get this, he must've really been loaded, because then lie sticks the kid's hands into the fire." I And this is the kid who went on to create Familyland, I ihought.

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"The mother pulls the boy's hands out of the fire, but the father throws him down in the coal cellar to spend the night. It's crawling with mice and bugs. Most kids would curl up and cry themselves to sleep. But Deanie, he's not going to let the old bastard win. He picks up a hunk of coal and he draws this cartoon character on the wall. It's a rabbit. A big fucking rambunctious rabbit that can stand up to anybody. Years later, my lather would turn that rabbit into a money machine, but that night Dean Lamaar created it with a piece of coal on a cellar all, and I think it gave him just what he needed. Balls." Eeg took another noisy sip of coffee for dramatic effect. "A lew weeks later, the preacher climbs a ladder up to the roof to llx some shingles that blew off. Now. remember, he's a drunk .ind a gimp. Bam, he loses his balance, falls off the roof and -- 367 --

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lands on an iron rake. Bleeds to death in a couple of minutes."

"Where's the murder part?" I asked.

"Who do you think loosened the shingles from the roof? Who do you think toppled the ladder? Who do you think positioned the rake on the ground? Who do you think watched the old man bleed to death?" Eeg said, raising his voice with every question. "Dean Fucking Lamaar!" "And how do you know about this murder that allegedly happened some seventy years ago?" I asked.

"Klaus Lebrecht was Lamaar's camera genius and his best friend. Deanie told him one night when they were both shit faced and swapping stories about their scumbag fathers. Lebrecht swore he'd never repeat it, but how long does anyone in Hollywood keep a secret? Klaus told my father. My father kept it to himself, even after Lamaar dumped him. He finally told me the day before he committed suicide." "So it's like hearsay four times over," Falco said.

"Good show business gossip always is."

"Even if this is true," I said, "it's irrelevant. It's not going to help me solve the three murders I'm working on."

"Maybe not," Eeg said. "But maybe you'll stop looking at the Lamaar Company like it's an innocent victim. They hide behind all those happy horseshit cartoons, but they've been a ruthless, heartless, merciless bunch of cutthroats since Day One." He reached down and picked up the two books he had set there. "Read these. They're biographies of the late, great Dean Lamaar. This is the authorized version, available at finer bookstores everywhere." He handed me a book. The title was Deanie, Prince of Joy and Laughter. The jacket had a black-and-white photo of Dean Lamaar that must have

been taken back in the fifties. He was in his prime, handsome, well-groomed. And just in case you missed the word Prince in the title, an artist had inked a cartoon crown on his head. "This was written by one of Lamaar's sycophants," Eeg said. "Deanie himself came up with the title and the artwork. It's the image he wanted to portray to the world. Hollywood's very own Prince Charming. The benevolent storyteller who made the world a better place." "And the other book?" I asked.

"Unauthorized. Difficult to find. It will give you a different perspective on the man and the company that might be helpful in your investigation." He handed it to me. The title was The Rabbit Factory. The jacket had the same photo of Dean Lamaar, but now there was a red tint over the black-and-white image of his face, and Instead of a crown, the artist had drawn devil's horns. It was a very effective transformation. He looked menacing and evil. I looked at the author's name. D. Tinker. "Where would I find this Mr. Tinker?" I said. "I might want to ask him a few questions." "Funny thing about that. The book was written in 1991, but nobody's ever met this Tinker person before or since. It might not even be a man." "True. Funny coincidence that your dog is named Tinker."

He stroked the Yorkie. "Actually, she's named after the main _drag here in town, Tinker Street. She's smart, but I can assure you, she didn't write it." "Whoever did must have helped you in your case against imaar."

"Not as much as one would hope."

"Thanks for all your help," I said, and I meant it. "One last question. Any thoughts on who's behind this?"

He leaned back in the chair so that his long, white hair fell against the rust-colored fabric. He looked intelligent, paternal, trustworthy. I could understand why people voted for him. He tented his hands under his chin. "These new developments, killing a guest at the park and making ransom demands, that puts a whole new spin on things. Remember what I said before? That it looks like someone's got an even bigger grudge against the company than I do. I think someone really hates them. And they're not just holding Lamaar up for money. It's like they're punishing them." Punishing them. The thought had never crossed my mind. I was looking for a murderer, a blackmailer. But Eeg was right.

Whoever was behind these homicides hated Lamaar to the core.

"And of course, I'm sure you're taking a good hard look at the Leone family in Vegas," he said.

/ wasn 't taking a hard look. Ike Rose had specifically told us not to waste our energy thinking about the Vegas connection. "This Lamaar-Camelot venture," I said. "What's your take on it?"

"It makes sense," Eeg said. "Lamaar needs to have a serious presence in the adult market. If Ike Rose pulls off this Vegas deal, not only will Lamaar's profits start heading north, but their stock will become the flavor of the month on Wall Street. Rose's personal holdings alone will be worth half a billion."> "But you still think I should be taking a hard look at Leone."

"Yeah, because no matter how good the Camelot deal looks on paper, people connected to Lamaar have been murdered. The company is being squeezed for money. That all sounds like

Cosa Nostra shit to me. And the Leone family has had Mafia blood coursing through their veins for hundreds of years. As far .is I'm concerned, you can't eliminate the mob factor." "Don't worry," I said. "We haven't eliminated them." Ike Rose may have wanted me to, but once again I was starting to think that what Ike Rose wanted wasn't always the best thing for the investigation.

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orry for fucking up," Falco said, as we drove down the mountain road. "First Eeg spots one of my guys tailing him. Then I make that dumb statement about the life you save could be your own. I guess I'm just a country cop."

"You think city cops don't fuck up? Last month twenty of lA.'s finest raided a house in Compton. They lobbed flash grenades at the door and busted in because the C.I. swore there Were three guys inside dealing drugs. Ex-cons who were armed o the teeth and had a pack of pitbulls guarding the place." "Sounds like fun. What was the fuckup?" "Wrong house. There were two old ladies inside, sisters, Pitching a soap opera and drinking tea."

"Whoa, I bet those old broads shit their britches," Falco said. "One did. The other one had a massive heart attack. She a.s dead before her sister could say, 'Does anyone know a good personal injury lawyer?' So don't apologize for fuckups liniil you know what a real fuckup is."

"Thanks. For some twisted reason that makes me feel Her."

"Good. Then the old girl didn't die in vain."

"I couldn't tell if Eeg was trying to help or just jerk us around," Falco said. "I finally decided it was a little of both. I'll bet he wrote that book."

"Damn straight he wrote it, and he's got such a monumental ego it was probably all he could do not to autograph it."

When we got to Route 28 my cell service kicked in. I called Terry's cell. "I'm back at Familyland," he said. "We got Victim Number Four."

I pounded my fist on the dashboard. Falco looked over at me. "Another homicide," I said. I went back to Terry. "Give me the details."

"An employee, Rose Eichmann, white, female, forty-four years old. She drove a shuttle bus between the main gate and the parking lots, picking up people when they come in, dropping them off at their cars when they leave. She was found about noon, sitting in the driver's seat of an empty bus. Her windpipe was crushed. The weapon was another Lamaar souvenir, a red necktie with a dozen happy characters on it. I'm hoping the killer had it around his own neck till he was ready to wrap it around the victim. We're checking for DNA."

"Did he leave us a flipbook?"

"Yeah. I thought it would be a hand with four fingers, but this fucker has a better imagination than you and me. It's four separate hands, and when you flip the pages each one gives you the finger. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, and just in case, you didn't get it the first three times, fuck you, copper."

"Where are we on the rest of the evidence?" I said. "Did the lab come up with anything on the ransom note that was pinned to Judy Kaiser's chest?"

The Rabbit Factory

"If you were hoping for a big thumb print right in the center, no. The paper, envelope, and the plastic bag were all generic. The letter opener was a Lamaar gift shop item just like the other weapons, but none of the searches we've done from gift shop receipts have turned up anything. Jessica pulled some DNA from the glue on the envelope. It's dog saliva. Just what we needed. A psychopath who thinks he's smarter than the cops."

"How smart is it to kill a bus driver?" I said. "Ike Rose won't cough up $266 million just because they killed off one of the Ittle people."

("It's not only smart. It's fucking brilliant. Did you catch the Vic's name? Rose Eichmann. Rose Ike Man."

It was like a punch in the gut. And if I felt that way, I could unly imagine how Ike must feel. "How'd Ike Rose handle it?" I isked.

"Sorry about the dead woman, but sticking with his 'We lon't negotiate with terrorists' position. Amy, on the other hand, In (>n the warpath. She keeps reminding me that other human brings are going to get killed, just in case I forgot. She thinks if

I lie's in my face twenty-four/seven, I'll solve it quicker. How did H<> with Eeg?" f gave Terry the highlight reel of my visit with Eeg, ending I'll 11 the story about Dean Lamaar killing his father.

"Great. Instead of a confession he gives you another homie. He must love pulling your chain. Bottom line, what's your ike on this guy?"

"Not guilty, with an asterisk. He's got an ax to grind with the 1 (111 pa ny, and he knows more shit about them than your 'eiage not-guilty party."

We'll keep him in our thoughts. Gotta go. I've got a lot to

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do and I'd like to get home for dinner. Marilyn is making lasagna. Speaking of my amazing wife, I told her about that Lamaar security guy, Kenneth Dahl. You called him Ken and he says I prefer Kenneth? I mean who cares if somebody calls you Ken? And she says, 'He doesn't want you to call him Ken, because then he'd be Ken Dahl.'" He laughed. "You get it?"

"No," I said, as Falco swung around the traffic circle and merged into the New York State Thruway tollbooth plaza.

"Ken Doll. Like Barbie Doll's boyfriend. The Ken Doll. You get it now?"

"Yeah," I said. "It's not that funny, but leave it to Marilyn to figure out something like that. Maybe tonight she can tell you who killed Rose Eichmann."

"While I'm at it, I'll ask her if Dean Lamaar really killed his father," he said. "On second thought, I won't. You know why? Because I don't give a shit. This guy Eeg is mind-fucking us. He's pissing in our well. You and I don't care if Dean Lamaar killed his father, his mother, his scoutmaster, and his pet hamster. It's ancient history and not relevant to the case we've got on our plate. Promise me you'll get it out of your fucking brain before you get back home."

"Y'know, the partner I worked with today is much nicer to me than you are, Biggs." I looked over at Falco, who smiled broadly, then tapped out "shave and a haircut" on the car horn.

"Hey, Biggsy," Falco yelled across the miles, "be nice to Lomax. He's had a tough day."/