The Beast

by Faye Kellerman

  Marge said, “Where’d she get the massage table?”

  “Very puzzling.” Oliver inched the frames forward. They still couldn’t get a decent read on her face, but they did get a partial on the plates.

  Marge wrote the numbers down. “I’ll check it out.”

  Additional viewing yielded nothing as interesting. Two hours later, the tape was up to the date and time of the police visit. Oliver ejected the cassette from the machine. He stood up and stretched, then checked his phone. “I called George Paxton at eight this morning. It’s eleven, and he still hasn’t called us back. It’s beginning to piss me off.”

  “It feels like he’s avoiding you,” Decker said. “Call up a judge to see if you can’t get a warrant to enter the apartment above Penny’s unit. And then call back the manager and tell him you’ve requested a warrant. Maybe that’ll light a fire under his butt.”

  Oliver rubbed his eyes. “Any judge in particular that you like?”

  “Aaron Burger or Cassie Deluca.”

  Marge stood up. “Want some coffee before we continue with our movie night?”

  “Sounds good. Let me check my messages and we’ll meet back in a half hour.”

  Forty minutes later, they met back in the video room.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Oliver said. “Paxton finally called back. When I told him what I wanted, he began to hedge, claiming that Penny didn’t rent the apartment above, but then he said that he really didn’t know much about the tenants on the lease. Not that he’d tell me who was on the lease . . . privacy and all that jazz.”

  “He’s right about that,” Decker said.

  “Yeah, unfortunately. When I asked him if he’d open up the apartment for me, just to make sure there are no leftover snakes or rats or anything, he flatly refused. He said if there’s something stinky coming from the apartment, he’d open it up and get his only cleaning crew. I told him if he messed with the apartment and it turned out to be part of a crime scene, he’d be in shit’s creek.”

  “What he’d say?” Marge said.

  “We left it at that. The upshot: he won’t go in, but he won’t let me go in without a warrant. So I called up Judge Deluca. She wasn’t keen on letting us in, either, since Hobart Penny isn’t on the lease. But then I used the wild animal angle—public safety—and she relented. She agreed to let us enter the premises to check it out for beasts or any other public health hazards. If we don’t find health issues, exotic animals, or a crime scene, we’re not allowed to disturb the apartment.”

  “We can work with that.”

  “Yes, indeed we can. Deluca said to come by the courthouse at three and she’d have it ready for us.”

  “Good,” Decker said. “Did you call animal control?”

  “Yep. They’ll meet us down there at four.” He turned to Marge. “You’re coming with me, right?”

  Marge said, “I have to rearrange a couple of things, but I’ll be there.”

  Decker said, “So let’s finish up with the tape. I have a meeting in an hour.”

  “We can do this without you, Pete,” Marge said.

  “I’ve got a little time. Put in the security tape from the computer store. See if we can get a better angle on the duffel bag lady and her car.”

  Oliver said, “Why don’t you give me the time of the lady’s first appearance on the Korean market’s security tape and I’ll key up the same time on the computer store’s tape.” Once Marge gave him the information, Oliver clapped his hands together. “Okay, let’s see what we got.”

  The computer store’s tape showed only the hump of the Prius’s hatchback: no license plate numbers. But they all spotted something else that was very interesting.

  Another light-colored Prius.

  The trio was suddenly perched at attention.

  Decker said, “Which Prius belongs to Duffel Bag blonde in the boots?” It was a rhetorical question because all three were watching it for the first time. Nothing happened for five seconds, and then Duffel Bag came into view. Another ten seconds passed with Duffel Bag on the sidewalk in front of the two Priuses, tapping the toe of her boot. Then Duffel Bag was met by another babe: this one was a brunette. She wore a leather bomber jacket, skinny jeans, and stiletto dark boots. She carried another duffel bag as well as a massage table.

  The two women did not embrace. They did not exchange words. They didn’t even acknowledge each other.

  But they did walk away together.

  “Okay then,” Oliver said. “Now we know where the massage table came from.”

  “Let’s back it up,” Marge said. “Maybe we can get the back license of one car or the front license of the other.”

  Oliver took the tape in reverse, and then advanced it frame by frame by frame. Massage Table Brunette had been the first one on the scene. The back of her car was not visible, which meant the license plate was out of the camera’s range. But when Duffel Bag Blonde parked her car in front of the brunette’s vehicle, the back license of the blonde’s Prius was clearly visible. All three of them jotted down the number.

  Decker said, “Speed it up. I want to see what’s going on right before the cars pull away.”

  Oliver complied. Two hours later, according to the time on the tape, the blonde returned with the massage table and without the duffel bag. They watched the screen as Blonde put the massage table into the hatch. They could see Brunette’s Prius from the front passenger door to the front bumper on the right side, but they couldn’t make out any driver, even when the car left the curb and drove away, because Blonde’s Prius was blocking the view. Blonde left about thirty seconds after Brunette.

  Decker said, “That’s frustrating.”

  “At least we got Blonde’s license plate,” Marge reminded him.

  “Run it through and see what we’re dealing with,” Decker said. “There’s something fishy about those two. Get back to me when you have information. Also, let me know when you have the warrant. I’m going to rearrange a couple of things. I want to be there when you guys open up the apartment.”

  “It’s Friday,” Marge pointed out. “We’re bound to go past sundown.”

  Meaning the work would last into the start of Shabbos. On Fridays, Decker usually delegated evening work unless it was high profile. This was on the border. He said, “Thanks for being considerate. If it turns out to be nothing, I can probably make it home within ten minutes. If it turns out to be something, then you would have called me anyway.” He stood up. “The way I see it: no harm, no foul.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A FEW CLICKS ON the computer gave Marge what she needed. She pushed the print button and then went on to Google and Facebook, putting in the name she had received from the DMV. She printed those out as well. Her eyes swept across the squad room. Oliver was on the phone. She snapped her fingers until he looked up, then gave him the A-OK sign, and pointed to Decker’s office.

  The Loo was also on the phone. She gave him the computer printouts and sat across from his desk. He read the papers while carrying on a conversation. Finally, he hung up. “Casey’s Massage and Escort?”

  “According to the ads, they have professional masseurs and masseuses who work in the privacy of your home. The cars of choice are powder blue Priuses: the eco-friendly outcall service. Don’t know if it’s a legitimate operation or not. I’ll run the name past vice. I’ve also called up Masey Roberts. We’ve arranged a meeting to see if this was the blonde that she saw going into Penny’s apartment.”

  Decker nodded. “That would help. But we’re still going to have to canvass the block and find out if Casey’s gals were servicing anyone else. How many apartment units are in that single block?”

  “A lot. But we’ll do what we need to do,” Marge answered.

  Oliver walked into the office, and Marge brought him up-to-date. “Where is this establishment and why haven’t I heard about it?”

  Marge said, “It’s on Saratoga Street, and I don’t know why you aren’t familiar with it. Seems like
your kind of place. Want to rectify that misstep like right now?”

  “Sure. Call them?”

  “And ruin the element of surprise?” Marge made a mock gasp.

  “Any thoughts on how we get them to divulge the names of their clients?”

  “Tell them the truth,” Decker said. “Say you’re from homicide, not vice. That you have no interest in making their life difficult.”

  Marge said, “When we’re done with Casey and friends, we can pick up the warrant for the apartment and meet Ryan Wilner at four at Penny’s apartment.”

  “The two locations are in the opposite direction,” Decker said. “I’ll pick up the warrant. Let’s all meet at four. Do you have Ryan Wilner’s cell number?”

  “I do.” Marge wrote down the digits and gave the slip of paper to Decker. “We’ll see you then, Rabbi.”

  “Casey’s Massage and Escort.” Oliver rubbed his hands together. “I think I’m gonna like this assignment.”

  “You might get frustrated, Oliver,” Marge told him. “This could just be a case of look but don’t touch.”

  THE ADDRESS PLACED Marge and Oliver in a two-story strip mall where over half the storefronts were vacant. Casey’s Massage and Escort was on the bottom and sat between a chicken takeout on the right and an empty space on the left. No hours and days were posted anywhere. No blue Priuses sat in the parking lot. After the third knock with no response, Oliver jiggled the door handle of the offices of Casey’s Massage and Escort and regarded the lock. “I could probably pop it with a credit card.”

  Marge said, “Could be the folk are out to lunch. Without an exigent cause, that would be breaking and entering.”

  “Looks pretty dark in there.”

  “How can you tell? The windows and door are completely covered.”

  Oliver said, “Are you sure you got the right address?”

  Marge took out her BlackBerry. “Yes. This is the place. I suppose we have no choice but to call the number in the ad and ruin our surprise.”

  “Now that’s a novel idea.”

  “Don’t be smug.” She read him the digits and Oliver punched them into his phone. A moment later, he cut the line. “Disconnected.”

  “It appears that the game is afoot.” Marge ambled over to the chicken takeout next door. It smelled of salt, spice, and grease. The woman behind the counter was older, round, and Asian. With a furrowed brow, she regarded the detectives.

  “Hello, ma’am. I’m Sergeant Dunn of the Los Angeles Police Department.” She presented her badge, and the woman smiled. She stepped aside and pointed to the back room. “No, I’m not from the Health Department. Do you speak English?”

  “Yes, yes. Up to code. Up to code. See.”

  “Do you know the people next door?” A blank look. “Casey’s Massage . . . lots of ladies in boots.”

  “Ah . . . ladies.” The woman nodded. “Eat breasts . . . baked, no fried. You want breast baked no fried? Real good.”

  Marge said, “Did they move out?” No response. “The ladies . . . gone?”

  The woman shrugged.

  Marge smiled. “Thank you very much.”

  “You want chicken?”

  “Not right now, thanks.” Marge smiled. “Maybe next time.”

  Oliver was on his cell. “I got a number of the leasing agent from the signs in the windows of the empty storefronts. Let’s see where that leads.” When the voice message kicked in, he left both their names and phone numbers. “Now what?”

  “Well, we could sit and wait. Or we can pick up the warrant, since we seem to have some time. Save Decker a trip.”

  “I vote sit and wait.”

  “Why am I not surprised.” Her cell rang and she checked the window. “Don’t know the number.” She punched the green button. “Sergeant Dunn.” A pause. “Uh . . . yes . . . yes, we did call just a moment ago. Thank you for calling us back, Mr. Mahadi. We’re currently in front of the building on Saratoga . . . yes, that’s the address. We’re investigating a tenant . . . or maybe a former tenant. Casey’s Massage and Escort—No, sir, we are not from vice. We’re from homicide . . . no, sir, we didn’t find a body on your property. Mr. Mahadi, do you have a phone number for the place . . . yes, I have that one. We tried it and it’s disconnected . . . you didn’t know? We just tried it a few minutes ago . . . no, I have no idea. I was going to ask you if you had any idea.”

  Oliver shrugged a “what’s going on?” gesture. Marge shrugged back.

  “Mr. Mahadi, if you could come down to the address on Saratoga and talk with us, it would be much simpler to explain this in person than over the phone . . . a half hour would be perfect. Do you have the keys to Casey’s—You do? If you could bring them . . . perfect. I’ll see you in a half hour. Thank you. Bye.”

  She turned to Oliver. “He’s coming down in a half hour with the keys.”

  “Want a cup of coffee? There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts across the street.”

  “How about a chicken breast—baked not fried?” She pointed to the takeout store. “I feel bad for the lady. With the Casey clan gone, it seems she lost some business.”

  “You get the chicken, I’ll get some doughnuts and coffee.”

  Oliver returned back fifteen minutes later with two coffees and a box. “They had a special. I got a dozen.”

  “Trade you a cruller for a chicken leg.”

  “Deal.” Oliver bit in. “Not so bad.”

  “No, actually, it’s pretty good. And the place has an A rating.” Marge relieved him of the box and picked out a glazed buttermilk. “Cops and doughnuts; we go together like Mom and apple pie. You know what this means.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll have to hit the gym doubly hard. I have no willpower anymore.”

  She finished off the doughnut and licked her fingers just as a black Mercedes pulled into the lot. The luxury car looked out of place: a yacht among rowboats. The driver was in his sixties, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, red tie, and patent leather oxford shoes. He had a full head of gray hair and sported a gray mustache. His eyebrows were silver and framed dark brown orbs. He was holding a key ring as he bounded toward them. “Anwar Mahadi. No one told me they move.”

  “Thanks for coming down on such short notice.” Marge took out a notepad. “When was the last time they paid a rent check?”

  “They were a month behind. Not too bad in this economy. I call up . . . say if you have a problem, call me and we make arrangements. If you don’t call, I post notice. They tell me the check is coming.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two weeks ago.” He shook his head. “They never say something about moving.”

  “Maybe they didn’t move,” Marge said. “I haven’t been inside the office yet.”

  “You say number is disconnected.”

  “They still could be doing business. Maybe they just got an unlisted number.”

  “One way to find out.” Mahadi’s eyes fell on Oliver. “What’s in the box?”

  “Doughnuts. Would you like one?”

  “I don’t eat lunch so why not I say.” He took a sugar twist and granules dusted his hands. After a few bites, he threw it away and licked his fingers. “Good. Thank you.” He knocked on the glass door, then pulled out the keys and opened the door.

  It was dark inside, so Marge turned on the lights and Oliver opened the curtains.

  The place hadn’t been cleaned, but it was cleaned out. The space consisted of a waiting area and two offices. Not a speck of furniture anywhere, but there were cardboard boxes filled with garbage: lots of crumpled papers, solicitations, mailers, food wrappers, soda cans, and water bottles. The floor had gathered a thin layer of dust. “You say the last time you talked to someone was two weeks ago.”

  “About.” Mahadi looked around. “I need to clean this up.”

  “Who did you talk to when you asked about the check?”

  “Bruce Havert. Tall man in his fifties. Dyes his hair. I used to see him with black hair, then brow
n hair, then brown hair with gray roots. He has a very big chin. Wears sunglasses all the time. He and his wife or girlfriend . . . I never did know which one . . . they do the business with the ladies.”

  Oliver said, “The massage business.”

  “I tell them no funny business here. I’m a family man. They show me licenses . . . all the girls have licenses. Nothing bad. Just pretty ladies that give massage. Not even here they give massages. They go to houses. They pay their rent, no one complains, I’m happy.”

  Marge said, “How long have they been renting?”

  “Almost one year. The lease was up for renewal. I was going to do them a favor and not raise rent. Hah. A lot good that would do.”

  Marge said, “And the lessee is named Bruce Havert?”

  “Yes.”

  Oliver said, “What’s his wife or girlfriend’s name?”

  “Randi with an i. She tells me that all the time. ‘I’m Randi with an i.’”

  “Her last name?”

  “Never knew it. She wasn’t on the lease. They all drive blue Prius. They take up parking spaces three, four, and five.”

  “What did Randi look like?” Oliver asked.

  “Blond. Skinny, skinny. In her thirties. Stupid-looking lips—puffy but not sexy. She is nice girl, though. Always a smile. Maybe it is for my benefit, that I’d give her a break in the rent. I was already giving them bottom dollar.”

  “Did you ever see a brunette working for them?” Oliver asked.

  “Lots of pretty girls. All skinny with lots of makeup.”

  Marge said, “Do you mind if we take a look at the lease?”

  “I don’t have it with me. I can get it for you.”

  “That would be helpful.” She looked around. “Do you mind if we go through the boxes of garbage?”

  “That’s fine by me,” Mahadi said. “You find something good, I want to keep it. All the rest, you throw in the Dumpster outside.”