by Tony Bulmer
‘He’s not picking up.’
Ramirez looked grim faced. ‘We will catch up with him soon Mr. Costello and if we find out that you are holding out on us, we are going to make you sorry. Count on it.’
I watched the cops get back in the Crown Vic and cruise off down the apron. Firing up the Dodge I headed for Hollywood.
Max was going to have to wait for his dinner.
THE SEX NET 04
The house on Lakeridge was a Tuscan style villa, wedged high into the hills near the reservoir; it hung over the pass, incongruous like a boob job trophy wife. I pulled the Dodge into the winding, tree-shrouded driveway. Coming to a stop, up front of the house, next to a giant black Chevy SUV. No sign of Joe. Just the distant thrum of traffic on the San Diego Freeway. The place was dark and unkempt, it vibed post apocalypse creepy. I walked around the front, past shuttered windows. The door hung open sepulchral. I rapped twice and peered inside.
A sickening scent assailed my nostrils. Something smelled bad. Real bad.
I called out to see who was home. No reply, my voice echoing back.
I stepped haltingly inside, the vast interior drawing me slowly, inexorably forwards. The gloomy interior closed about me, menacing and oppressive. In the lobby, abstract paintings, so horrible they had to be worth millions, lined the walls. Tasteful. The house was quiet, eerily quiet.
Moving through the gloomy twilight interior, the visceral stench grabbed my stomach twisting it violently. I cringed to the sound of my rubber sneakers squeaking and squelching on the cold marble floor. No matter how softly I walked, the appalling noise of my arrival echoed endlessly.
The lobby fed into to a giant wood vaulted room. A full-length picture window opened the house to a billion dollar view: Los Angeles, the City of Angels spreading wide to the distant horizon, like an ozone Hades. A million lights glinting in the twilight sky. Soon it would be dark.
I stopped, scenting the air like a bloodhound. The place was spooky, like a museum in the dark. Creepy blood splatter artwork frowned down from the walls. That’s when I saw her, roped into the chair, head twisting back at a crazy angle, not moving. I walked silently forwards, hardly daring to touch her. I paused, taking in the scene then slowly pressed my fingers against her jugular. The flesh was a pallid, blood drained grey, cold and repellent to the touch. Mimi was dead in her underwear, like someone had jumped her as she listened to her iPod. I called for Corin and Joe, my voice reverberating, greeted only by an all encompassing emptiness and the distant thrum of traffic in the fast approaching night. Outside the twilight throbbed and oozed. I circled the room, keeping close to the wall, my head spinning with the horror of what I had found. A movement from the kitchen made my heart hammer, ‘Corin?’ A cat bounded out. It circled, me with a truculent stare. I grimaced back, ‘OK, so I’m a dog person,’ I said.
The gentle pit-pat of blood, dripping off Mimi’s manicured hand—soaking into the rug beneath the chair, the stain was wide and ugly, looked like she had been there some time. I scoped the sun terrace: clear. ‘Corin? Joe?’ No answer. Mimi’s face: vacant, staring, dead—Welts, lacerations, multiple bruising. Whoever had killed her, had made her suffer first.
I moved quickly through the house, the cat trailing expectantly, its tail twisting in the air. ‘Past your dinner time huh?’ I questioned. ‘Well you’re not the only one with problems right now buddy.’
The sound of a toilet flushing made me freeze.
A dude in the designer golf, clothes stepped out of the doorway, still buckling up his white slacks. Unphased by the interruption, he smoothed down the line of his pants, and gave me a cool look, almost like he’d been expecting company.
‘Where is she?’ I asked
‘Let me guess, you’re the boyfriend am I right?’ He looked like a TV news anchorman, white hair and mahogany tan. He sounded Israeli, with a New Jersey undertow.’ Fully buckled, he wiped his nose with his forearm. Then reached out a shiny chrome-plated automatic from the back of his waistband. It was a big gun, 45 caliber—a real jerk-off fashion accessory.
‘You killed her,’ I said simply.
Leveling the big gun and checking his sleeve for boogers he said, ‘What’s it to you shmendrick. I kill a lot of people. Guess who’s next.’
I inched forwards. My brain racing with split second possibilities ‘Where’s Corin, what have you done with her?’ I asked.
‘Ms Cabrillo has disappeared, and unless you tell me where she is, you’re going to be the next, Mr. whatever your fucking name is.’
‘The name’s Costello, Danny Costello.’ I paused regarding him closely, ‘Are you chewing gum?’
The man circled in front of the windows holding the gun like a pro. ‘Yeah, that nicotine gum. Tastes like shit. Now slide out some ID, nice and smooth, before I blast you another asshole, moron.’
I reached inside my jacket.
‘Hey! Easy does it—that’s right, slide it onto the table. The man reached over and flipped open my wallet one-handed, keeping the automatic leveled. He perused my driver’s license with quick, suspicious eyes. Behind him, the LA sunset burned into the room.
‘Bad time to quit smoking when you are on a murder spree, huh?’ I quipped.
‘Relax Costello I didn’t kill the girl. Of course, you don’t believe me—you don’t have to—But you’re not the one with dead bitch splattered all over your apartment.’
‘Your apartment?’
‘This is a multi-million dollar apartment, Costello. You think those bitches could afford this? Those girls are employees of mine. They work for me. Get the picture bozo?’
Bragging. No other word for it. I stifled a yawn. ‘Nice place, I can’t understand why people think Hollywood is sleazy….’
‘I acquired it from some degenerate musician, who couldn’t pay his bills.’ The gum churned around his mouth as he spoke.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I am surprised you have to ask that question Costello.’ The man offered up a three quarter profile, like he was gooning for a mugshot. ‘Frank Rothstein, some people, those I allow call me Frankie.’
I looked at him blankly.
‘You have heard of me?’ asked Rothstein. The words came out nasty and sarcastic.
‘Let me guess, you’re not a golf-pro and you don’t look like you are in the catering trade, so that must mean you’re some kind of gangster? I asked, creasing my brow thoughtfully. Mr. smart mouth strikes again.
‘Gangster is an ugly word Costello, they use it in the newspapers. The media are pigs. Entrepreneur, institutional-investor, businessman—all terms that would be more appropriate. But if you insist on name calling, you must be prepared to take the consequences.’
‘Hey, cut the bullshit Franco.’
‘Don’t call me Franco, I don’t like that.’
‘Yeah, well quit waving the cowboy gun, you might hurt yourself with it.’
‘Listen wise-ass, you’ve got seconds to live and there’s things I need to know. The nature of your business with Ms Cabrillo for instance.’
‘That’s no business of yours Rothstein.’
Rothstein smiled thinly. ‘So you are lovers, Mr. Costello, how touching, maybe you could embroider her a cushion, or something. Where is she?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said evenly, ‘but I just met a couple of cops who are very keen to talk with her.’
‘Cops?’ Rothstein’s fingers twitched around the gun. ‘I don’t believe you Costello, and that means I am going to have to shoot you.’
I shrugged. Then laid out the story the cops had told me. ‘You’re one of those “local businessmen” the cops were talking about aren’t you? Seems your employees have been running a sideline you didn’t know about.’
Rothstein’s fingers coiled around the gun.
‘They ripped you off didn’t they?’ I asked.
‘Either Ms Cabrillo has taken my merchandise, or you have Mr. Costello—all that matters is I get it back. You understand?’
‘Diamonds. A dozen diamonds.’
‘You should try Discount Dave in the Valley, I hear he has a sale on.’
Rothstein gave me an implacable look, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘These are twenty carat diamonds,’ growled Rothstein, ‘each one is worth $4 million.’
The dude was bragging again, no question. ‘Wow, losing that much ice must be a real kick in the pocketbook, even for a player like you Rothstein.’ I tried hard to sound impressed, figuring it might buy me some time.
‘The merchandise does not belong to me Costello. It belongs to a corporation, a very powerful corporation and when they find out that their merchandise is missing, they will take punitive measures against all concerned.
‘Boy, sounds like you are in the shit—big-time.’
‘Don’t provoke me Costello, I beseech you.’ Rothstein leafed through my wallet. He slid out a photo. ‘So you have children—how enchanting—what are their names?’ He held up the photo, getting a closer look. He switched his gaze, staring hard at me now, the big gun pointing at my face.
‘Bet you could murder a cigarette?’
Rothstein grimaced, ‘Family is very important Mr. Costello, that is why I am surprised that Ms Cabrillo didn’t introduce us. Kind of strange, because I am as close to family as that bitch will ever get.’
‘You have a dirty mouth on you Franco, you should watch that.’
‘Don’t call me that, I don’t like it and I told you once already.’
‘And I don’t like having a 45 caliber automatic pointed at my head.
‘Now listen to me Costello, It is has been a busy day and the last thing I need is another corpse dripping blood all over my Persian carpet. So you will find Ms Cabrillo and my merchandise, and return them both.’
‘You sound very sure of yourself Rothstein.’
‘I am sure Mr. Costello, because if you don’t do as I ask, your lovely family and anyone else you know will be murdered in a very brutal fashion. And then after you get through watching that happen, that’s when I kill you.’
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
About the Author
Tony Bulmer is a writer and journalist, from London England. A graduate of London School of Journalism. He lives and works in Los Angeles California.
He is the Executive Editor of the leading Crime Blog Crimezine.
http://crimezine.wordpress.com/
