by Matt Goldman
I said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” then went into the closet and closed the door, removed the red cellophane from my flashlight, sat on the floor, and used my phone to scan the pages one by one. I got about ten pages in when Jameson opened the door and said, “Kill the light.” I did and the door shut me inside the closet with Jameson and August. Two three-hundred-pound men. Jameson whispered. “Cops in the house.”
A moment later, I heard voices, but no urgency. Two men spoke in a lackadaisical tone. A going-through-the-motions conversation.
“Nah, Beth’s busting my ass about the job. Said Jacob is home for dinner every night, is at home Saturday and Sunday, and takes Jen on two vacations a year.”
“Who the hell is Jacob?”
A flashlight beam swept under the closet door. The voices grew more clear. They were in the office.
“Jacob is my son of a bitch brother-in-law. Beth and Jen talk eight times a day, and Beth’s always comparing herself to her sister, who lives in a bigger house in a nicer neighborhood and has a lawyer husband and, worst of all, the fuck talks about his feelings and wants to listen to her talk about hers.”
“That’s bullshit.”
The voices grew more muffled, then: “Wait a minute.”
Footsteps walked back into the room. The flashlight beam returned. It held on the closet, its beam bouncing off the hardwood floor, illuminating inside the closet enough for me to look up and see Jameson and August looking down at me.
A cop said, “What is it?”
“Was that open or closed last time we were here?”
“Can’t remember.”
The footsteps grew closer. I stared at the doorknob. I looked up at my closet-mates and held my hands up and implored them to do the same. They did.
“I think it was open.”
“Then open it.”
“All right. Don’t bust my balls.”
The floorboards creaked with another step, then I heard the sound of a metal filing cabinet drawer being pulled open.
“Come on. Let’s hit that taco truck on Vine and Melrose.”
They walked out of the office and out of the house. A car started and drove off. I waited five minutes then finished photographing the budget of Veins of Gold.
We went out the way we’d come in. When we got in the car I said, “That was fun. You boys up for one more?”
* * *
We twisted our way up Nichols Canyon, Jameson complaining about how the tight curves banged around his freshly stitched-up thigh. We turned, and August said we were on Mulholland. A road called Laurel Canyon dropped us into the San Fernando Valley, and fifteen minutes later, we drove by Vasily Zaytzev’s house in Sherman Oaks.
The warm glow of a cigarette gave away the stakeout in front of Vasily’s house. But it wasn’t a police stakeout. At least I doubted any cop would drive a Fiat 500 on the job. If a bicycle ran a red light he couldn’t catch it. That meant the car belonged to a private detective. Or worse. Far worse. That would explain Vasily’s desperation.
The house next door had been leveled and half rebuilt. The framing for the first floor had been completed, and the second story looked half done. Lumber sat stacked inside a chain-link fence, waiting to be hammered into its rightful place. A big dumpster sat on the curb.
I pulled up Google Maps on my phone for an aerial view of our location and asked Jameson to drive around and drop me on the opposite side of the block. The properties were large and flat. They didn’t look like much from the front, but they had resort-style features in back.
Most had a tennis court and swimming pool and at least one outbuilding. I climbed a chain-link fence to enter the construction site and felt my forty-one years on the way up and the way down. Ambient light lit the way, but I stayed close to the fence to minimize the chance of banging my shin on a rusty piece of rebar or stepping on a nail. I climbed and dropped one more time to get into Vasily’s backyard.
The police must have used a battering ram on Vasily’s back door. It was boarded up and crisscrossed with police tape. The first-story windows were locked. A pergola shaded the patio adjacent to the house. I pulled over a chest of pool equipment, climbed onto it, and pulled myself on top of the pergola. One second-floor window was open six inches. I pushed it up, crawled inside and turned on my red-cellophane-covered flashlight.
Someone had beaten me there. I found dresser drawers pulled open, their contents dumped on the floor. Furniture cushions ripped open. HVAC vent covers removed and tossed aside. Tables overturned. Mattresses lifted off their platforms and pushed against the wall. The refrigerator door open. Every room in the house had been turned inside out.
The mess gave me a pretty good idea how Vasily was tied to Thom Burke. It also explained Vasily’s fear. But the big picture had pieces missing. Chunks, really.
I knew of one person who might be able to enlighten me. I texted Jameson. He said he and August would get in position. Then I went out the way I’d come in, climbed into the construction site, crossed the lot, and wedged open the gate enough to push out two four-by-four posts, each about eight feet long. I climbed the fence again and dropped into what would one day be the house’s front yard. I walked all the way around the big block so I could approach the Fiat 500 from the rear. I tapped on the driver’s window, and it rolled down a few inches.
“Excuse me,” I said, “I’m with neighborhood watch. Some of us are concerned you’re parked out here. I called the police, and they suggested I go out and talk to you, so here I am.”
A man with a stubbly head and face lowered his cigarette to the ashtray. He spoke in a heavy Eastern European accent. “I am friend of man who live in house. I wait for him to come home.”
“Vasily?”
“Yes. He is my friend.”
“I have his phone number. Can I call him for you?”
“I made call and send text. He not answer. So I wait.”
“All right. I’ll tell the police what you said. They may come out and talk to you. Sorry about that. We’ve had some trouble lately with break-ins and car thefts around here and we’re all a bit jumpy.”
He took another drag off his cigarette and said in a smoky exhale, “Do not call police. I not cause trouble. Just wait for friend.”
“Well, it’s a free country. I can’t make you leave. But I’ll have to photograph your license plate and send it to the police. No hard feelings.”
“Do not call police. It will not be good for you.”
“No kidding? Are you threatening me?”
He rolled his window down all the way. The streetlight showed a fifty-year-old face, scarred around cold dead eyes. He said, “I not harm you. But must wait for friend. You will understand and go away.”
“I don’t understand. But I will go away and call the police.”
The man cracked open his door. I heard grunts, the creaking of metal, and the Fiat tipped toward me. The man in the car screamed something in his native language. I jumped back, and the car rolled onto its driver’s side.
Jameson and August stood, still holding the four-by-four posts they’d used to lever the car onto its side. They dwarfed the tipped-over Fiat. Jameson popped the handle on the passenger side door and held it open. August bent over the car, reached in, grabbed the man by the collar, and lifted him out of the car. He threw the man down hard. Jameson held his four-by-four post over the man. Just dropping it would cause serious injury.
“Stop, stop, stop!” said the man. “No drop!”
I said, “What do you want with Vasily?”
The man thought through his options then said, “He owe money. Much money.”
“To you?”
“To people not to fuck with.”
“What people?”
The man said, “Drop wood. I not tell you. Drop wood now.”
34
The man wouldn’t tell us who “people not to fuck with” were, and we’d pushed our luck tipping over a car in a public street, so we left the man with his broke
n English and upended car but not his keys.
Jameson, August, and I drove to Jerry’s Famous Deli on Ventura Boulevard. It’s a large restaurant with a deli case full of whitefish, a full bar, and an attached bowling alley. We cut through it to get to the restaurant. They had a massive air hockey table in case you were in the mood to visit 1974.
I worked my way through a big bowl of matzo ball soup that was served with enough bagel chips to shingle a roof. Jameson and August couldn’t stop laughing about how easy it was to lever over the Fiat, even though Jameson lifted with only one leg.
When they settled down, August said, “So just because Vasily’s house is torn apart, you’re sure the $15 million in Thom’s safe-deposit box was from him?”
“Pretty sure,” I said. “Vasily either borrowed the 15 million or acted as a front for someone else to invest it. That someone else wanted it back and searched his house for it.”
“That means the investor gave Vasily 15 million in cash?”
“I think so. Whoever used Vasily to invest the money wanted to cloak the transaction.”
Jameson said, “And then Thom stole the money so Vasily killed him?”
“Thom was working on another movie in addition to Ebben’s. It’s called Veins of Gold. LAPD asked me about Veins of Gold and they asked Ebben about it, too. The Veins of Gold budget is what I scanned into my phone in the closet back at Vasily’s. It must have been a duplicate, otherwise the police would have bagged it. I haven’t had a chance to look at it and probably wouldn’t understand it if I did, but one thing I do understand is the total budget is $15 million.”
“I’m confused,” said August.
“Get used to it,” said Jameson. “That’s what happens when you’re in the company of Nils Shapiro.”
“Why wouldn’t Vasily kill Thom for stealing the 15 million?”
I said, “Because Thom didn’t steal it. He was going to use it to make Veins of Gold. But something must have gone wrong. The investor wanted their money back. If Vasily killed Thom he’d kill his chance of getting back the money. Vasily just wanted to scare Thom. He assaulted Thom, but he didn’t want to kill him.”
Jameson said, “Maybe he killed Thom by accident. Pressed him up against that garage door with his car and things got out of control.”
“Yeah, that’s a possibility. That’s definitely a possibility.”
August said, “So why did Vasily give the money to Thom and not to the producer?”
“You can be confused about that because I am, too.”
Jameson said, “So who ran the 15 mil through Vasily?”
My matzo ball was so big I couldn’t tell if it was a floater or a sinker. My mother made floaters. My paternal grandmother made sinkers. I was partial to floaters. I spooned off a section to see what it was. Floater. First good news of the night.
I said, “I can think of three possible people who ran the 15 million through Vasily: Arthur and/or Beverly Mayer. They have well over $15 million. Ebben. He does, too. The police are looking into that. And then Sebastiano. I don’t know if he has 15 million but he could raise it. Of course, the money could be from Eastern Europe and the source used a go-between to stay anonymous. Maybe the individual has been sanctioned or maybe the individual doesn’t want the Russian government to get their share of the profit.”
Jameson said, “Maybe you should stop talking and we should order some dessert.”
35
We headed out of the Jerry’s Famous Deli parking lot and took some other canyon through the hills toward Westwood. I saw the backs of homes propped up on stilts, the structures jutting out and over the abyss. It looked like perilous construction in the land of earthquakes and mudslides. We exited the canyon and moments later dropped August at his high-rise on Wilshire. Then Jameson and I drove back toward Hancock Park.
I said, “I’ll drop you at Dr. Li’s and bring the car back to you in the morning.”
“’Bout time you started chauffeuring me around.” Jameson turned on the radio. “Wonder if KROQ still exists. 106.7.” He messed with the controls.
I said, “This thing with Nikki. Is it serious?”
“Might be.”
“Spoke to her a bit while you were getting sewn back together. Sounds like she’s ready to make an honest man out of you.”
“Could be the direction we’re headed.”
“How do you feel about moving back here?”
Jameson said, “You want to get in the right lane to turn on Beverly.”
I slid into the right lane. “Maybe we can meet up at the Final Four every year.”
Jameson changed the radio to an AM station. “KNX still exists. Wonder if they still do traffic reports even with everyone using map apps.”
“All right. You don’t want to talk about Dr. Nikki Li.”
“You are a brilliant detective.”
“Something I did?”
“Yeah, man. Something you did.”
“You know, I don’t have this issue with Gabriella. She has a problem with me, she tells me. None of this pouting and silent treatment and making me guess what’s bothering her. Guess I’ll get my quota of that bullshit from you.”
Jameson looked out the passenger-side window at high-end furniture stores, the kind that sell $25,000 couches and $10,000 doorknobs. He said, “Keep being a pint-sized asshole, Shap. You’ll make this easy for me.”
I thought I knew what he meant but didn’t want to push it. I said, “The police want me to stay in Los Angeles, but I got to get home. I’m going to talk to a few more people, see if it helps Ebben, then I’m gone. Hear there’s a polar vortex coming. Thirty degrees below zero without windchill. If I miss it I won’t be able to complain about it and I’ll feel left out.”
Jameson said, “Thirty below without windchill?”
“Sixty below with windchill.”
“That’s going to be a tough night in the ER. Hey, take a right two blocks up on Arden.”
I signaled for a right turn. “There’s only one fixed variable in the equation. And somewhere in that big body of yours, you’ve known it since you were eighteen years old.”
Jameson White didn’t respond. I turned onto Arden.
He said, “Fourth house on the left. The one with the garbage and recycling still out front. Damn kid. Why doesn’t he take those in?”
I stopped in front of Dr. Li’s house, a stucco-sided Mediterranean with a huge window looking into the living room and kitchen. Dr. Li’s son did his homework at the kitchen island. Dr. Li sat in the living room reading. I said, “Good kid?”
Jameson’s voice got small and weak. “Great kid.”
“Talk tomorrow?”
“I suppose.”
“How’s that leg feeling?”
“When you got shot by that arrow, I remember you refused the OxyContin and took a dose of Irish whiskey instead. That numb the pain?”
“No, but it helped me not mind it so much.”
I got out of the car, walked around, and opened the door for Jameson.
He said, “What the hell you doing? I ain’t your date.” He swung his legs out and stood. The big man winced and put his right hand on my shoulder. I walked him to the front door and handed him over to Dr. Li.
* * *
I mapped Ebben’s house. It was less than a mile away. I followed the nav’s directions across Larchmont Boulevard. My phone rang. The caller ID said Ebben Mayer. I hadn’t hooked it up to the car’s Bluetooth so I answered it on speaker.
“Nils!” I heard a scuffle followed by a more distant, “Help me!” Then the call dropped. I called back Ebben. Straight to voicemail. I tried again. Same thing.
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, three police cars, lights flashing, parked out front of the house in Hancock Park. Brit sat on the couch in her robe talking to four uniformed officers and two detectives: Hall and Montanio. I entered the room, and Brit looked at me as if a puppy had just died.
Detective Montanio said, “We’d
like a moment of your time, Mr. Shapiro.” I stepped into the back den with Detectives Montanio and Hall.
Detective Hall flipped a page on his notebook and said, “Want to tell us where you’ve been tonight?”
“Ebben Mayer’s been kidnapped and you want to talk about where I’ve been?”
Montanio said, “That’s right. Where were you between eight and nine o’clock this evening, Mr. Shapiro?”
“I was with two men: Jameson White and August Willingham the Third.”
Hall said, “The football player?”
“They’re both football players. Or were.”
Montanio said, “Where did you three go?”
“A few places. Some private. Some public. I can show you a time and date stamped receipt from Jerry’s Famous Deli in Studio City. I’m sure our server will remember us.”
“And the private places?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Well,” said Hall, “that’s a problem for us. See, Ebben was at home and got a call from his agent, Sebastiano. Apparently, Sebastiano’s having a party up at his place, and he called to invite Ebben. We know this because Ebben told Ms. Dawsey and invited her, but she wanted to stay in for the night. Ebben left. Twenty minutes later a man walking his dog called police after finding Ebben’s vehicle abandoned in a residential neighborhood in West Hollywood, the car running and the door open.”
“Yeah, that’s what happens when people are kidnapped.”
“We’re inclined to agree. The car was running with the keys in the cup holder. We found drops of blood on the passenger seat and on the street.”
“Maybe he hit his head on the steering wheel or—”
