by Matt Goldman
“So what? How far away is Vegas?”
“Four-hour drive. Forty-five-minute flight. And yes, we’re checking passenger lists at McCarren, LAX, Burbank, John Wayne, Long Beach, Ontario, and San Diego. And that brings us back to the bonus question.”
“Oh, good. I’d forgotten about that.”
Detective Montanio said, “The bonus question is this: You make any plans to take Ebben Mayer out of town?”
“Not yet. Awaiting permission, Detectives.”
Hall said, “Permission denied. Is that clear?”
“Yeah, I understand what a two-word sentence means. But just like Harry Potter, Ebben is all growed up. If you want him to stay, you’ll have to tell him yourself.”
“We will. In fact, we called him after you left him at dinner. Said we wanted to see him tonight.”
“You got to be fucking kidding me.”
Detective Montanio said, “Oh, look. We’ve insulted his hometown pride.”
“You’re seriously looking at Ebben Mayer for the murder of Thom Burke?”
“That 15 mil in Thom’s safe-deposit box had to come from somewhere. Ebben Mayer is a man of means. Kind of logical, don’t you think?”
“Look at Ebben’s financials. Every dime of income and expenditure. You think you’re going to find $15 million that isn’t accounted for?”
“We considered that,” said Detective Hall. “And we think his financials will be spotless. Hell, all them fancy schools he went to and big financial firms he worked for. He knows how to hide money.”
“Not to mention,” said Detective Montanio, “all those trips he took overseas to raise funds for The Creative Collective. Who’s to say he didn’t find a cash investor? Everything under the table. Always good to have a little cash on hand.”
“Wow. This town really is full of creative imaginations.”
“Why are you protecting Ebben Mayer?” said Detective Hall. “What makes you think he’s not involved? If you know something, now’s the time to tell us.”
I knew nothing. I liked Ebben, but that didn’t mean he was innocent. I doubted he squished Thom Burke. If he had, why would he call me in Minnesota to tell me Thom was dead? But I had to admit Ebben may have had something going on under the table with Thom Burke.
I felt protective of Ebben. But he might have been in a jam. And even the best people can stray from the good path when they’re in a jam. Maybe they’re even more likely to stray from the good path because they’re not used to being in a jam—their lack of experience can lead to panic. But I wasn’t going to share that with Detectives Hall and Montanio. I said, “I don’t think Ebben’s involved. I don’t have proof, but you ever have a gut feeling?”
“Yeah,” said Hall. “I had a gut feeling once. It led to an expensive engagement ring and an even more expensive divorce. Haven’t trusted my gut since.”
“Well, you’re going to do what you’re going to do. If Ebben had anything to do with Thom’s murder, I hope you nail him.” I stood.
“Sit down, Shapiro. We got two more questions for you.”
I sat down.
Detective Montanio said, “What’s your gut tell you about the death of Juliana Marquez?”
The same uniform poked her head into the conference room and said, “Ebben Mayer is here.”
“Give us a minute,” said Hall.
The uniform nodded, pulled her head out of the room, and shut the door. I saw Ebben through the glass. The horror on his face gave away his fine breeding and top-tier education and fat net worth as it sat in juxtaposition to the chaos of the police station. The jonesing addicts and half-out-of-their-clothes sex workers and spillover of mental illness.
Hall said, “So, Shapiro? What do you think?”
“About what?”
“About Juliana Marquez’s caffeine overdose. How does that sit with you?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because,” said Detective Montanio, “like you said, we can help each other out.”
I thought the chances of LAPD helping me were slim, but it was worth a swing. I said, “Doesn’t make sense to me that Juliana Marquez would accidentally consume a lethal dose of caffeine.”
“You know about her heart defect?”
“Yeah, I know about it. Still. From what I heard, she was intentional about what she did and didn’t put in her body. She’d take diet pills, but not on a regular basis. Only during periods when she didn’t have time to exercise.”
Hall said, “And you don’t think Ebben would have slipped caffeine powder into her drink or food.”
“You want my real gut?”
“That’s why we’re asking you.”
“I think someone was trying to kill Ebben. He buys energy drinks by the case. Ebben accidentally overdosing on caffeine makes sense. Whatever Juliana ingested was intended for Ebben.”
Montanio said, “Why would someone want to kill Ebben Mayer?”
“I have no idea. Maybe you can ask him since you’ve brought him in for a second round of questioning in twelve hours.” I picked up my phone and started texting …
“You think that’s excessive?”
“My opinion doesn’t really matter. But you can ask Ebben’s lawyers. They should be here soon.”
Hall said, “Your texting Ebben’s lawyers?”
“Oh, way worse than that. I’m texting his agent.”
Hall and Montanio shared a look then Hall said, “One last question. Ever hear of a movie called Veins of Gold?”
“I don’t get to the theater much.”
“It never was in theaters,” said Montanio, “because it hasn’t been made yet.”
“Then how would I have heard of it?”
“Thought maybe some of your new friends might be involved.”
“Not that I know of. But if they mention Veins of Gold, I’ll suggest they create parts for a man-woman cop team who overcome their insatiable physical attraction to solve the impossible-to-solve cases.”
Hall said, “Get the fuck out of here, Shapiro.”
30
I picked up Bunion Brit at Ebben’s then we swung by her place to get more clothes and toiletries. Her house above the Sunset Strip looked tiny from the street but it was huge inside. Built on the wall of a canyon, it dropped three stories and included a living room with a twenty-foot ceiling, a kitchen with a ten-stool island, and four bedrooms. The view out the back showed rows of houses built around the canyon like terraced rice paddies. The view looked far different than what most people picture when they hear the word city.
I said, “Nice place. Do all writers do this well?”
“Not even close, but if you work on network shows for fifteen years, the money adds up. Most of your friends don’t watch the shows you write for. Filling your résumé with network procedurals won’t get you a gig on anything critically acclaimed, but it more than pays the bills. There are some great shows on the broadcast networks, but a lot are like paint by numbers for storytellers. Millions of people watch them. And writers buy nice houses. But no one’s making art.”
“That’s why you wrote For the People?”
“That’s exactly why I wrote For the People. Some writers see themselves as manufacturers who make whatever the customer orders. They’re not in it for the art. They’re not even in it for the craft. Just the money. I’m not judging. I’m really not. There’s nothing wrong with delivering what the customer ordered. There’s nothing wrong with making money and taking care of your family and having security while wearing a T-shirt all day.”
“But…”
“But some of us are cursed with a need to make something we’re proud of. Something our peers would watch. Something The New Yorker might rave about.”
Brit asked me to check each room, convinced Vasily may have transformed her house into his secret lair. I did, then she disappeared downstairs and made three trips back upstairs, each with a filled bag of Tumi luggage that matched the one before it.
I grabbed two of Brit’s three b
ags and carried them out to her car. I returned for the third. She said, “Thank you. I can’t wait until I get this stupid boot off my foot. It’s really bothering me. Do you mind driving?”
* * *
We returned to Ebben’s house in Hancock Park. One thing I’d begun to appreciate about Southern California: your house was your house but your outdoor space was just as livable. You could put nice furniture out there and use it year-round. I went outside and kicked back in a comfy chair, pushed a button and blue flames licked up in a firepit of crushed lava. I’d have to check the house for marshmallows right after I got off the phone with Ellegaard.
I told him about For the People’s resilience to controversy, my text exchange with Vasily and subsequent conversation with LAPD, and Detectives Hall and Montanio bringing Ebben Mayer in for a second round of questioning.
Ellegaard said, “Do you think the texts were actually from Vasily or possibly just from someone using his phone?”
“I don’t know, but it sure looked like Vasily. He referred to me as ‘buddy’ about every other word.”
“Someone who knows Vasily could imitate him in texts.”
“That is true.”
“And the Russians probably know how to mask or falsify a cell tower ping.”
“That could be.”
“So be careful, Nils. And—”
My call waiting beeped in. “Shit.”
“What?”
“Beverly Mayer is calling. I’d better take it.”
“Call me back.”
I answered Beverly Mayer’s call. She said, “What on God’s green earth is going on in Los Angeles, Mr. Shapiro? Why are the police holding Ebben in custody overnight? And why are you still there?”
I said, “I hadn’t heard the police are holding Ebben overnight. I doubt it’s true. Who told you that?”
“I’m surprised you don’t know since you’re sticking your nose everywhere it doesn’t belong.”
“I’m doing my job, Mrs. Mayer. Just like I did for you and Arthur.”
“But you’re not working for us anymore. That is quite clear. So who are you working for, Mr. Shapiro?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Mrs. Mayer. I value my client’s privacy just as I valued yours.”
“Oh, do not give me that nonsense. Did Ebben hire you? Did his attorneys? The parents of that dead girl? I insist that you tell me.”
“Who told you Ebben’s at the police station?”
“You answer my question, Mr. Shapiro, and perhaps I shall answer yours.”
“Not tonight, but thanks for the call.” I hung up, called back Ellegaard, and gave him the news.
“Sheesh,” said Ellegaard. “I’ll call her in the morning. See if I can smooth things over. In the meantime, I’m concerned about those texts. Maybe you should stay somewhere else tonight.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Uh huh.”
I hung up and went inside to look for marshmallows. Brit was in the kitchen pouring herself a glass of wine. She said, “You like wine? Ebben’s got a shitload in the wine fridge.”
“Not tonight, thanks.” I walked into the pantry. It was stocked for a doomsday scenario. “Holy shit. Dude’s got marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate. I’m making s’mores out back if you want to join me.”
“Mmm, too cold for me.”
“It’s sixty degrees. And I got a fire going. I used my survival skills and pushed a button.”
“I should probably soak my foot.” She filled her tumbler with red wine. “You want to join me in the tub?”
I opened a drawer in search of barbecue tools. Nothing. “No thank you.” I went to the next drawer. Nothing.
She sipped from her tumbler of red then set it down. “It’s just you and me here tonight. No one would know. I mean, you’re cute and you seem like a good guy. You’re not overly obsessed with yourself. You’re smart and funny and I haven’t noticed your eyes landing on twenty-five-year-olds. Guys like that are rare in this town.”
I went to a third drawer and pulled out a long metal skewer. “You’re very kind. I’m just—”
“Married.” She took another sip of red.
“Engaged.” I pulled out another long skewer. “Sure you don’t want to join me?”
“I prefer a different kind of dessert.”
“You’re a writer. You can come up with a better line than that. And I’m glad to see you’re over Thom.”
“Shut up. He was a guy I was seeing. He was nothing more. A guy I was fucking. Does that make you happy?” She smiled. “Engaged is not married. Engaged is … engaged. Vows not yet spoken. Don’t you want one last fling?” She laughed. “Come on, I’m not good with rejection.”
“I’m madly in love with Gabriella. I have no interest in anyone else. Zero. Don’t take it personally.”
“Ugh.”
I returned the second skewer to the drawer, then placed the graham crackers, marshmallows, and an oven mitt on a plate. “I don’t want one last fling. With anyone.”
“All right, but now I might have to drown myself in the tub.” She smiled a sad smile.
I said, “Wait until you get the boot cast off. See what life is like when you’re bunion free. Plus, For the People is getting made. You’ll have men throwing themselves at you. Like your buddy who snuck us out the back of the bar the other night.”
Brit’s easy, flirty way disappeared. “Why’d you bring him up?”
“I don’t know. You two just seemed to have a little spark.”
“He’s an actor. I cast him in a three-episode arc of CSI: New York. Now he kisses my ass hoping I’ll cast him again. That’s all it is.”
“All right. I believe you. Hey, want me to slip a s’more under the bathroom door?”
“I’m good with wine. Thanks.”
Brit hobbled out of the kitchen. I headed out the back door to the patio, took my seat, and skewered two marshmallows and held them above the fire. The blue flames burned hotter than a campfire, so my decades of marshmallow roasting experience had to be recalibrated. I was not the type of man who let my marshmallows catch on fire. Where’s the skill in that? I kept the oven mitt on my lap in case the metal skewer got too hot.
He emerged from the driveway and walked straight at me, pistol pointed at my chest. Black jeans and a black turtleneck under a black leather jacket. The stringed patio lights, landscape lighting, and ambient city light rendered his stealthy outfit useless. My phone was in my front jeans pocket. If I reached for it I might look like I was reaching for something else. Not a risk I could take with a pistol pointed at me. His one eye locked on my two eyes.
I said, “Hello, Vasily.”
31
Vasily Zaytzev said nothing and pulled up a chair on the other side of the firepit.
I said, “I heard you were in Las Vegas.”
He stuck a finger under his eye patch and scratched. “I was, buddy. Then fly back to Los Angeles.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Why you say that?”
“Just thinking out loud.”
“Thinking out loud? That American saying?”
“Is it a saying? The words kind of stand on their own. Either way, it’s something we say in America. Did you come to talk about American sayings?”
“No ha ha, buddy. Not tonight. Do you know my house has the yellow police tape around it? With big yellow X over door? And man sits in car. Not police car. Plain car. The man in plain car watches my house.”
“If you go around threatening people and punching one and then that one turns up dead, the police are going to wonder if you killed him.”
“I not kill Thom. I would never kill Thom. It be stupid thing to do.”
“But you did punch him, right? You made him bleed on his front step.”
Vasily thought for a moment then said, “You know this gun, buddy?”
“Not personally but it looks like a .22.”
“Yes, buddy. Yes. .22. It not make big
hole. It not take off head. It make little hole and bullet bounces—bing, bing, bing—bounces inside body and make what you call, like in Fryman Canyon…”
“A path?”
“Buddy! That good! A path. In stomach and lungs and heart. Blood comes out on inside. From little hole. And little noise. When bullet comes out. Only pop. Helicopter flies or siren make woo-woo or car make vroom-vroom then little pop, no one hears. No gun noise, and bullet go bing, bing, bing.” Vasily used the index finger on his left hand to draw the path of a ricocheting bullet. “You go to house with me, buddy. To talk to man in car and I go in back of house. You say no, and I make hole in body. They find you tomorrow. But they don’t find me. They never find me.”
I rotated the marshmallows brown side up. The air smelled of toasted sugar and vanilla. I raised the marshmallows higher to slow the process. I tried not to think of Evelyn and Gabriella but they were the only thoughts I had. The only images my mind could conjure. I’d been in a handful of life-threatening situations. Not more than that. I was a private detective in Minneapolis, Minnesota, not James Bond. And in each of those life-threatening situations I felt the outcome, in a way, could only be good. I didn’t have a death wish but if I died in pursuit of my disproportionate sense of justice, well then, that wouldn’t be a terrible way to go.
But that had changed. How could I have put myself in this situation? Gabriella and Evelyn helped me love my life the way life should be loved.
I said, “Go to the police, Vasily. Tell them you didn’t kill Thom. This is America. They have to prove it. If you didn’t do it, they can’t prove it.”
“Ha ha, buddy. That is not truth.”
“Are you afraid of the police?”
“I want to stay in America. Now, get up. We go to my house.”
A helicopter approached in the distance, getting louder by the second.
I said, “Do you have a green card, Vasily? Are you here legally?”
“On feet, buddy.” He glanced up at the sky. “I not wait for the next loud noise.”
“This helicopter might be looking for you, Vasily.”
He raised the pistol and pointed it at my head.
