Four Classic Alex Delaware Thrillers 4-Book Bundle

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Not after the thousandth time.”

  “You bad-mouthing me?” Crotty had come out of the kitchen, was glaring at us, a glass of water in one hand, the other balled up in a fist.

  “No,” said Milo. “Just admiring the decor.”

  “Hah!” The old man opened his free hand, revealing a palmful of pills.

  “Vitamins,” he said and swallowed some of them. He washed them down, grimaced, swallowed some more, and rubbed his abdomen. “I’m getting tired. Get the hell out of here and let me get some rest.”

  “Tab’s not run yet,” said Milo.

  “Make it snappy.”

  “Got a couple more names for you. Actress named Linda Lanier, rumored to be one of Belding’s bimboes. And some doctor she screwed on a stag film—give him the physical description, Alex.”

  As I did, Crotty lost color and put the glass down on a crate. Wiped his forehead, seemed to lose balance, and rested his hands on the back of a moth-eaten settee. He puffed out his cheeks.

  Milo said, “Let’s have it, Ellston.”

  “Why’re you poking around in the dead-letter pile, Lump?”

  Milo shook his head. “You know the rules.”

  “Sure, sure. Come here and squeeze me, then throw me a few crumbs.”

  “A hundred buys a lot of squeeze,” said Milo, but he pulled out his wallet and gave the old man more money.

  Crotty looked surprised. He stared at the bills.

  “Linda Lanier,” said Milo. “And the doctor in the film.”

  “In reference to Belding?” asked Crotty.

  “In reference to anything. Spit it out, Ellston. Then we’ll leave you to dream of your Swede.”

  “You should know such dreams,” said Crotty. He looked at the floor, rubbed his mustache, crossed his legs. “Linda Lanier. Well, well, well. Everything comes around in a circle, doesn’t it? Like my little blond banker and everything else in this frigging world.”

  He straightened, stood, made his way to the gray piano, sat down and picked off a couple of notes. The instrument was badly out of tune. He extracted a dissonant boogie-woogie with his left hand, random high notes with his right.

  Then, as abruptly as he’d begun, he stopped and said, “This is terribly weird, Lump. If I didn’t know better, I’d start using words like destiny—not that I’d want you in my destiny.” He played several bars of slow blues, let his hands fall to his sides. “Lanier and the doctor—you say they did it on film?”

  Milo nodded and pointed to me. “He saw it.”

  “She was beautiful, wasn’t she?”

  I said, “Yes, she was.”

  “C’mon,” said Milo, “spit it out.”

  Crotty gave a weak smile. “I fibbed, Lump. When you asked me about Belding being a killer. I fudged with that political shit because I didn’t know what alley cat you were chasing. Actually I meant it literally, but I didn’t want to get into it—nothing I could ever prove.”

  “You don’t have to prove a goddam thing,” said Milo. “Just tell me what you know.” He peeled off more bills. Crotty snatched them.

  “Your doctor,” he said, “sounds exactly like a guy named Neurath. Donald Neurath, M.D. You described him to a T, Curly, and I know he and Linda Lanier had a thing going.”

  “How do you know that?” said Milo.

  Crotty looked ill-at-ease.

  “C’mon, Ellston.”

  “Okay, okay. One of my assignments, when I wasn’t snaring faggots, was working the Scraper Club detail—illegal abortions. Back in those days there were three ways for a girl in trouble to go: coat hanger in the alley, some butcher in a white coat, or a bona fide medico moonlighting for big bucks. Neurath was one of the bona fides—plenty of doctors did it. But it was still a Class A felony, meaning excellent payoff potential for the department.

  “There was an approved group of abortionists—we used to call it the Scraper Club—maybe twenty or so doctors, spread all over the city, respectable guys with established practices. They kicked back a percentage of their fees in return for protection by Vice and a guarantee that anyone not in the club would get busted hard and fast. And it worked. There was this one guy, osteopath out in the Valley, tried to muscle in on one of the approved guys’ business by charging half as much for a scrape. A week after he started, they busted him—using a female cop who just happened to be pregnant. Bail denied, stuck in a county cell with hardcases. While he was in lockup, his office got torched and someone scared his daughter while she was walking home from school.”

  “Pretty,” said Milo.

  “That’s the way it was back then, Lump. Are you sure it’s that much better now?”

  “You’re positive this Neurath was a member of the club.”

  “I know it for a fact because I picked up moolah from his office. Big fancy suite on Wilshire near Western.” He stopped, stared at Milo. “That’s right, I played bagman too. Not my favorite frigging assignment, but I had enough on my mind without worrying about some penny-ante payoff for something that was gonna happen anyway. Hell, today a kid can walk into a clinic and leave scraped, half-hour later. So what’s the big deal, right?”

  Milo said, “Keep talking.”

  Crotty gave him a sour look. “We conducted our business after hours, no one around. I’d ride the elevator up to his office, make sure I was alone, give a coded knock on the door. Once I was in, neither of us would talk—pretending it wasn’t happening. He’d hand me a manila envelope; I’d do a superficial count and be off.”

  “What kind of doctor was he?”

  “Obstetrician. Nice little irony there, eh? Neurath giveth, Neurath taketh away.”

  “What about him and Lanier?”

  “One evening, after I picked up the loot, I went down the block to this Chinese place to have a little moo-goo and rice wine before heading back. I was sitting in a back booth when in walks Neurath with this platinum-blond dish. It was dark; they didn’t notice me. She had her arm in his—they were looking pretty cozy. They took a table across the room, sat close together, talking pretty intense. The old piece-on-the-side routine, except this dish was really elegant-looking, no tramp. Few minutes later she got up to go to the ladies’ room and I got a good look at her face. It was then that I recognized her—from Belding’s party. She’d been wearing a black dress—no back, very little front, lots of mink trim. Because of the mink, I’d figured her for a rich brat. She’d stuck in my mind because she was gorgeous, really gorgeous. Perfect face, delicious body. But elegant. Classy.”

  He shifted his glance to me. “I’m not without feeling for females, Dr. Psychology. Probably appreciate the species a lot more than most hetero studs.”

  “What else?” said Milo.

  “Nothing else. They had a couple of drinks, coochy-cooed, then left—no doubt for some motel. No big deal. Then, about a year later, the dish’s face is all over the papers. And the more I learn about it the more curious I get.”

  He coughed again, scratched his midriff. “There was this dope bust, lots of shooting. She got killed, along with some guy who turned out to be her brother. The papers made both of them out to be big-time pushers. She was a contract player with Belding’s studio—never made a single film and supposedly that was strong evidence it was just a cover. No matter that most of the players never worked, and she’d been a party girl—not a word of that in print. The brother worked at the studio, too, as a grip. Both of them small potatoes. Yet they managed to pay the rent on this very ritzy pad on Fountain—ten rooms—owned a fancy car, were living frigging high. Papers made a big deal about that, going into detail about her furs and jewelry, about how the two of them had come a long way for a couple of Texas crackers—’cause that’s what they were. Her real name was Eulalee Johnson. The brother was a nasty little punk named Cable, used to strong-arm small-time bookies, lean on streetwalkers, but never got too far—small-time all the way. Not exactly your big-time pushers, huh, Lump? But the department fed it to the papers, and the papers at
e it like candy. Three hundred grand worth of H found on the premises—hell of a lot in those days. John Q. Public bought it.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Hell, no. No one pushing that much smack south of Fresno was doing it without mob connections—Cohen or Dragna. Certainly not a couple of Texas crackers who’d come out of nowhere. I checked the brother’s sheet—drunk and disorderly, lewd conduct, larceny, the strong-arm stuff. Penny ante. No connections with anyone—no one on the street had ever seen him with a reefer in his pocket. The whole thing smelled bad. And the fact that Hummel and DeGranzfeld did the shooting made it stink to high heaven.”

  “Why were you checking, Ellston?”

  Crotty smiled. “Always searching for leverage, Lump, but this was too scary. I didn’t want to touch it. Still, it stuck in my craw. Now here you are stirring it up again—ain’t that sweet.”

  “How’d it go down?” asked Milo.

  “Supposedly someone phone-tipped Metro Narc to a huge stash in the Fountain pad. Hummel and DeGranzfeld took the call, brought a couple of black-and-whites along for backup, but had the uniforms wait outside while they checked out the premises. All’s quiet on the western front, then bang bang bang. The uniforms rush in. Both Johnsons are shot to pieces on the living room floor; Hummel and De Granzfeld are tallying up this giant dope stash. Department’s version is they knocked on the door, were met with unfriendly fire, smashed the door down and jumped in, guns ablazin. Cute, eh? A party girl and a small-time drifter taking on Narco bulls.”

  “Any board of inquiry into the shooting?” said Milo.

  “Very funny, Lump.”

  “Even with a woman getting shot? John Q.’s usually squeamish about that.”

  “This was ’53, McCarthy fever, height of the dope panic. John Q. was paranoid about pushers in every schoolyard. And the department made Lanier out to be a big-time bad girl, Satan’s frigging bride. Not only weren’t Hummel and Sticky Vicky investigated, they were instant heroes—the mayor pinned ribbons on them.”

  This was ’53. Just before Leland Belding had turned into a playboy.

  The year of Sharon and Shirlee’s birth.

  “Did Linda Lanier leave any children?” I asked.

  “No,” said Crotty. “I’d remember that. That kind of thing would have made it into the papers—human interest and all that. Why? You got family members out for revenge?”

  “Revenge against who?” asked Milo.

  “Belding. That phony bust had his name written all over it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Hummel and DeGranzfeld were his boys; Lanier was his party girl—supporting that place on Fountain woulda been like you and me springing for lunch. In the process of asking around, I learned Lanier might have been more than just a party girl—she’d been known to enter Belding’s private office on the studio lot, stay in for a couple of hours, leave happy. This is stuff office boys knew, but it never got a line of print. I figure they had something or other going, she offended Belding in some serious way, and he had to get rid of her.”

  “Offended how?” said Milo.

  “Who knows? Maybe she got pushy about something. Maybe her stupid brother put the arm on the wrong guy.”

  “The doctor—Neurath—could have been her sugar daddy,” said Milo.

  Crotty shook his head. “Neurath had money problems. His wife was a compulsive gambler; he was into the sharks on and off—it’s why he started moonlighting in the first place. And one more thing: Lanier’s building on Fountain was owned by Belding.”

  Milo and I looked at each other.

  Crotty said, “Bastard owned half of L.A. at one time.”

  “Neurath was an obstetrician,” I said. “Maybe Linda Lanier was seeing him professionally.”

  “Pregnant?” said Crotty. “Putting the paternal squeeze on Belding? Sure, why not?”

  Milo said, “How soon after the shooting did Hummel and DeWhatsisname quit?”

  “Not long after, maybe a couple of months. And this with both of them commended and promoted. Now tell me more about the film Lanier and Neurath were on.”

  “Doctor and nurse skit,” I said. “The doctor didn’t know he was on camera.”

  “More strong-arm,” said Milo. “The brother?”

  “Could be,” said Crotty.

  “What would they be strong-arming Neurath about?”

  “Who knows? Maybe the Scraper Club, maybe the wife’s gambling problem. Either could have screwed up his reputation—he had a society practice, nice plump Hancock Park matrons waiting for stirrup time.”

  “Is he still around?”

  “Who knows?”

  “What about Hummel and DeGranzfeld?”

  “DeGranzfeld died a couple of years after moving to Nevada. Affair with a married woman, husband had a temper. Far as I know, Hummel’s still in Vegas. One thing for sure, he’s still got pull in the department, or at least he did a couple of years ago.”

  “How so?” said Milo.

  “He had this nephew, real fascist fuckup, liked the booze, almost flunked out of the academy, the bullying son of a bitch—frigging chip off the old block. He was involved in that Hollywood Division robbery scandal a few years back, eminently qualified for a Board of Rights or worse. But nothing, except a transfer to Ramparts. Then all of a sudden, guy’s a born-again Christian, promoted to captain, West L.A.—” He stopped, stared at Milo, grinned like a kid on Christmas morning.

  “So that’s what this is about.”

  “What?” said Milo, innocently.

  “Lump, you crafty badger. Gonna get that scum, aren’t you? Finally do a good deed, after all.”

  Chapter

  24

  After that, Crotty got solicitous, offering us coffee and cake, but we thanked him and declined, left him standing in the doorway, under the cowbell, surrounded by his animals.

  “Feisty old guy,” I said when we were back in the car.

  “Bluster,” said Milo. “He’s been pouring it on since he tested positive.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Those pills weren’t vitamins—they’re some kind of immune strengthening regimen he got through his network. He beat hepatitis a few years back, thinks if he’s mean enough he’ll beat this too.” Pause. “That’s why I humored him.”

  It took a while to turn the Seville around in the alley. When we’d gone a couple of miles on Sunset, Milo said, “Trapp. Paying off old debts to his uncle.” A moment later: “Got to find out what he’s fixing.”

  “Maybe a murder made to look like suicide?”

  “You keep coming back to that and wouldn’t it be nice. But where’s the evidence?”

  “Belding and Magna were old hands at camouflaging murder.”

  “Belding’s dead.”

  “Magna lives on.”

  “What? Some corporate conspiracy? The old chrome-and-glass bogeyman.”

  “No,” I said, “it’s always people. It always comes down to people.”

  Several blocks later he said, “The Kruse killings weren’t made to look like anything but murder.”

  “Hard to do that with three bodies, so Trapp’s using the sex murder thing instead. And maybe killing Kruse wasn’t part of the plan—if Rasmussen did it, the way we theorized.”

  Milo’s face got hard. We passed Vine. Hollywood was finally getting out of bed. The Cinerama Dome was showing a Spielberg movie and the lines stretched around the block. A few blocks farther it was all by-the-hour motels and jumpy-looking streetwalkers banking on loneliness and clean blood.

  Milo stared at them, turned away, leaned back against the seat and said, “I could use a drink.”

  “Early for me.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted one. I said I could use one. Descriptive statement.”

  “Oh.”

  When we stopped for a red light at La Cienega, he said, “What do you think of Crotty’s theory? Lanier and her brother squeezing Belding and Neurath?”

  “The loop s
ure seemed to be setting Neurath up.”

  “The loop,” he said. “Where’d those porn freaks say they got it?”

  “They didn’t. Just said it was expensive.”

  “I’ll bet,” he said. Then: “Let’s take a side trip, see if we can get them to be a little more forthcoming.”

  I drove to Beverly Hills and turned left at Crescent. The streets were empty; people who tear down $2 million houses in order to build $5 million houses tend to stay inside to play with their toys.

  We pulled up in front of the Fontaines’ green monstrosity and got out of the car.

  The windows were shuttered. Empty driveway. No answer to Milo’s ring. He tried again, waited several minutes before heading back toward the car.

  I said, “Last time there were four cars here. They’re not just out to brunch.”

  Before he could answer, a rattling noise from the neighboring house drew our attention. A heavyset dark-haired boy of around eleven was riding his skateboard up and down the driveway, dodging between a trio of Mercedes.

  Milo waved at him. The boy stopped, turned off his Walkman, and stared at us.

  Milo flashed his gold badge and the kid gave his board a kick and skated our way. He turned a handle on the front gate, rolled through, and sped over.

  “Hi,” said Milo. The boy peered at the badge.

  “Beverly Hills cop?” he said, with a thick accent. “Yo, dude.”

  He had a black spiky hairdo and a buttery round face. His teeth were banded with plastic braces. A bit of black down clouded his cheeks. He wore a red nylon tank top emblazoned with the legend SURF OR DIE and red-flowered shorts that reached below his knees. His board was black graphite and plastered with decals. He spun its wheels and kept smiling at us.

  Milo put away the badge, said, “What’s your name, son?”

  “Parvizkhad, Bijan. Six grade.”

  “Good to meet you, Bijan. We’re trying to find the people next door. See them lately?”

  “Mr. Gordon. Sure.”

  “That’s right. And his wife.”

  “They gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Trip.”

  “A trip where?”

  The boy shrugged. “They take suitcase—Vuitton.”