by James Ellroy
“It’s Duane Rice. What have you got for me?”
“Brace yourself, Duane.”
“Tell me!”
Rhonda let out a long breath, then said, “I found out that Anne did work Silver Foxes for a while, a few months ago. Now she’s taken up with a man—a video entrepreneur. I’m pretty sure it’s a coke-whore scene. He’s heavy into rock vid, and, well, I . . .”
Rice said, “Real slow now and you’re a K richer. Name, address and phone number. Real slow.”
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“Can you pay me Monday or Tuesday? I’m going to the Springs for the weekend, and my car payment’s due.”
Rice screamed, “Tell me, goddammit, you fucking whore!”
Rhonda screamed back, “Stan Klein, Mount Olympus Estates, Number 14! You’re a bigger whore than I am and I want my money!”
Klein the dope dealer who probably ratted him off on his G.T.A. bust—
Klein the lounge lizard who he always figured had the hots for Vandy and—
The hotel room reeled; adrenaline juiced through Rice like the shot of dope that had cost him three years of his life. The phone dropped to the floor, and through a long red tunnel Rhonda’s voice echoed: “I’m sorry, Duane. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Everything went crazy, then a jolt of ice water made the room sizzle like a live wire.
You can’t kill him.
You can’t kill him because he’s a known associate. You can’t kill him because Vandy’s a known associate, and the cops will sweat her at Sybil Brand and the dykes will eat her up. You can’t kill him because then you and Vandy can’t make the rock scene in the Big Apple and you’ll never have the place in Connecticut, and—
It was enough ice-water fuel. Rice ran for the Trans Am, leaving the .45
under the pillow as added insurance. Rhonda’s pleas were still coming out of the phone: “I’m sorry, goddammit, but I need money! You promised! You promised!”
*
*
*
Mount Olympus was an upscale tract of two-story Mediterranean villas situated off Fairfax in the lower part of the Hollywood Hills. Rice cruised the access road, looking for Stan Klein’s red Porsche with the personalized plate
“Stan Man.” When all he saw were Benzes, Caddys and Audis, mostly colorcoordinated to the houses, he pulled into the empty driveway of Number 14
and got out, grabbing a skinny-head screwdriver from the glove compartment. The windows were too high to reach, but the door looked flimsy. Rice rang the bell, waited twenty seconds, then rang again. Hearing no sounds of movement inside, he inserted the screwdriver into the door runner just above the lock and yanked. The cheap plywood cracked, and the door opened. He stepped inside and closed the door, making a mental note not to leave prints. The entrance foyer was dark, but off to his left he could see a big, high-ceilinged living room.
Rice walked in and gasped. Every inch of floor and wall space was cov-
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ered with stereo and video equipment. V.C.R.s and Betamaxes were stacked along one wall floor to ceiling; home computer terminals, TV sets and giant cardboard boxes piled with Sony Walkmans were lined up on the floor. Three Pac-Man machines were propped by the doorway, and the rest of the room was taken up by mounds of small cardboard boxes. Threading his way into the maze, Rice grabbed a box at random. Rhonda the Fox and a naked man were on the cover, beneath the legend, ‘Help me, Rhonda’—the Beach Boys. Private collector’s item—available only thru Stan Man Enterprises, Box 8316, L.A., Calif. 90036.”
It all went red.
Rice tore through every box in the room; read every cover. Shitloads of naked woman and oldies but goodies, but no Vandy. His frost was returning when he saw a phone and phone machine atop a color TV. He punched the “Play Message” button and got: “Hi, this is Stan Klein on the line for Stan Man Enterprises. Annie and I are on a video shoot, but we’ll be back Monday night. Talk to the beep. Bye!”
Rice pushed “Incoming.” There was a tape hiss, followed by a beep and a male voice. “Stanley baby, it’s Chick. Listen, Annie was great. Unbelievable skull. So listen, if you’re free can we talk ad space like Tuesday? Call me.” Beep. “Stan, this is Ward Carter. I . . . uh . . . want to thank you for the, uh, you know, Eskimo trade-off. Annie was fabulous. About the porn vid, it’s strictly bootleg on the song rights, but I’m sure I can work out a deal with this man I know who’s got a chain of X-rated motels. He’s mob, and you know how those guys are into blondes, so maybe you could set up a party? Talk to you Mondayish.”
The rest of the messages went unheard; a hideous wailing was drowning them out. Rice wondered where the sound was coming from. When his eyes started to burn, he knew he was weeping for the first time since the sixth grade in Hawaiian Garbage.
11
Lloyd was asleep in his Parker Center cubicle when the phone rang. Snapping awake, he pulled his legs off the desk and checked his watch: 2:40. Afternoon doze-offs: another sign of encroaching middle age. He grabbed the receiver and said, “Robbery/Homicide. Hopkins.”
“Peter Kapek. We’ve got another one. I’ve got the manager; he’s agreed to talk with no attorney. West L.A. Federal Building, fourth-floor interview rooms. Forty-five minutes?”
“Thirty and rolling,” Lloyd said, and hung up.
He made the trip in thirty-five, lead-footing it Code Three all the way, then running upstairs to the F.B.I.’s Criminal Division offices. The receptionist looked at his badge and pointed him down a long corridor inset with Plexiglas cubicles on one side and listening rooms on the other. At the far end, he looked through the one-way glass and saw Peter Kapek and a middle-aged man in a tweed suit sitting at a metal table. The man appeared composed, Kapek harried as he jotted notes on a legal pad.
Lloyd stepped across the hall to the booth where a headset-wearing stenographer was transcribing the interrogation. He said, “L.A.P.D.” and the woman nodded and tore off the long roll of paper flowing out of her machine. “It’s complete,” she said. “You didn’t miss that much.”
Lloyd took the paper and pulled it taut, squinting to read the computer type:
14:45 hrs; 12/9/84, W.L.A. Fed. Crim. Div.
Present: SA Peter Kapek, John Brownell Eggers, W.M., D.O.B. 6/28/39, no wants; no warrants; no criminal record.
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Re: Robbery at Security Pacific Bank, 7981 Lankershim Blvd., Van Nuys.
Subject waived attorney.
P.K.: Mr. Eggers, I want you to forget what you already told the L.A.P.D. officers at the station on the ride over. I want a chronological reconstruction of today’s events. Take your time, and be as detailed as you like.
J.E.: Of course. I went to the bank early this morning—about 8:30—
because I had some papers to go over. As I was about to unlock the door—
P.K.: Excuse me, Mr. Eggers. Was there anyone else there at the bank?
J.E.: No, there wasn’t. The staff doesn’t arrive until 9:15. P.K.: Thank you. Please continue.
J.E.: A man approached me as I was about to unlock the doors. He was a white man, about thirty, about six feet, one-seventy or so, medium brown hair, neatly trimmed mustache and beard. He was wearing a cheap tan three-piece suit and carrying a briefcase, and I didn’t see him get in or out of a car. ( Long pause) The man showed me a gun in a shoulder holster and told me that he was the one who had broken into my home two nights before. I had already reported that to the police. He made me unlock the door, then he walked me to my desk. He told me that he wanted vault money, as much as I could carry outside on my person once the time lock went off at opening time. Then . . . ( Pause)
Then the man took out a knife that he had stolen from my kitchen. He told me that two accomplices of his were holding my wife and daughter hostage at our vacation house in Lake Arrowhead, and that if I didn’t cooperate, they would be raped, then dismembered with a second knife of mine, one that he knew had my
fingerprints on it. I said I would cooperate, and begged the man not to let his partners hurt my family.
P.K.: Go on, Mr. Eggers. Slowly, please.
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J.E.: Thinking of my wife and daughter held hostage terrified me. The man told me to sit at my desk, facing the window, with my hands in my lap, and to remain that way until opening time. He said he would be across the street watching and waiting, and at 9:35, I should walk outside with the money, and he would find me. He said that if I called the police or I wasn’t outside at the specified time, my wife and daughter would die—because his partners were going to kill them at exactly 9:40 unless he delivered the “all-clear.” ( Pause) At 9:30, with money distributed to the tellers, I chitted for the contents of one station. I couldn’t think straight, I just mumbled something about a cash draft, stuffed the money in my pockets and walked outside. When I was out of sight of the bank, the robber grabbed me and forced me to hand over the money. Then he led me to my car and made me sit down behind the driver’s seat, and he shot me with this ray gun, and I blacked out. When I woke up, around one o’clock, I had an awful headache. I ran to a pay phone and called my wife in Arrowhead, and she and Cathy were safe! No one had held them captive!
I had been had! The police were at the bank because I had disappeared for hours, and the rest you know.
P.K.: Backtracking, Mr. Eggers, could you describe any distinctive mannerisms that the robber had?
The computer roll ended. Lloyd handed it back to the steno and walked across the hall and stared at the bank manager through the one-way glass, wondering how much of his bullshit Peter Kapek bought. Thinking “Fuck it,” he knocked on the door and stood aside so that Eggers couldn’t see him. Kapek walked into the corridor seconds later, saw Lloyd and smiled. “Is this bimbo slick as shit? You like him?”
Lloyd imitated the smile. “You charging him?”
“With what? Perjury? That’s your scene. What we’ve got so far is a pussy hound trying to protect his reputation. Except for the Lake Arrowhead bullshit and no mention of his sweetie pie, he’s leveling. I’m going to goose him, then plea-bargain him into cooperating by giving him immunity on the girlfriend angle.”
Lloyd shook his head. “Kapek, we can’t do that. This makes two in three days, and the M.O. is getting hairier. We need a media alert on this. Have you hit him with Hawley and Issler?”
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“He doesn’t know them. That I believe absolutely. This whole shtick is beginning to get to me, Hopkins. You get anything from your files? Your informers?”
Lloyd grabbed Kapek’s arm and led him down the hall, out of earshot of the steno booths. “Don’t play this joker straight,” he said. “He’s slick, and he’s got a lot of hardball in him, and he’ll tie us up for days trying to I.D. his girlfriend.”
Kapek yanked his arm free. “He’ll cooperate. As soon as I say ‘Getting any on the side?’ he’ll fold.”
“Bullshit! You want a reconstruction on this? I buy the stolen knives as our guys—Eggers isn’t hip enough to come up with something like that. The robbery went down just like he called it. Our boys got stiffed on the traveler’s checks, and they’re pissed. Only Eggers came off the dust looking to save his ass. He made the call to Arrowhead from a pay phone, probably with a credit card, so there’d be a record, and he got detoxed from the dust before he hit the bank, so he’d be coherent. He should be zorched to the gills, but he’s Mr. Lucidity. You mention adultery, and he’ll shut up tighter than a crab’s asshole.”
“No, he won’t. ”
Lloyd muttered, “Shit. That was gospel about his pad getting burglarized?”
“All the way,” Kapek said. “I read the crime report an hour ago—no witnesses, no prints—nothing.”
“Eyeball witnesses at the bank?”
“Zero.”
“Shit! Let’s lean on Eggers.”
“You’re a black-glove cop, Hopkins. I’m not. Eggers is a big man, so the dust shot didn’t hit him as hard as Hawley. We play it my way.” He shook his head and started to walk away.
Lloyd stepped in front of him and made his voice placating. “Listen, trust me on something. Turn the heat up in the interview room, get him to take off his jacket. You’ll see a spike mark or a Band-Aid at the crook of one of his elbows. My guess is that he hasn’t even gone by the girlfriend’s pad to see if she’s okay. The cocksucker hit the family doctor for an antitoxin, then started covering his ass. You release him like everything’s copacetic, he’ll lead us straight to her.”
Kapek smiled. “I like it. But if there’s no track or Band-Aid, we play it my way.” He walked to the front of the corridor and talked to the receptionist, then returned and winked. “You like it?”
Five minutes later, the corridor started heating up; ten minutes later, it 526
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was outright hot. Lloyd watched through the one-way glass as John Eggers fidgeted in his chair, then took off his jacket. Kapek aped his actions, then rolled up his sleeves. This time Eggers aped the F.B.I. man, and by squinting, Lloyd could see the small circular Band-Aid on the inside of his left elbow. Kapek stood up and stretched, then walked past Eggers and stepped into the corridor. Seeing Lloyd, he closed the door and said, “You’re good. I’m sending Slick home in a cab in five minutes. Tail him, but if he goes to his skirt, don’t approach, call me.” He drew a slow finger across his throat. “I mean that. Also, we should have another confab. Van Nuys Station at six?”
Lloyd said, “Be there or be square,” then wiped a line of sweat from his forehead and walked downstairs. In the parking lot, he stood by the sidestreet entrance and waited for the arrival of the taxi. Shortly, a Yellow Cab pulled in and cruised up to the building’s back entrance. John Eggers, his suit coat slung over one shoulder, walked outside and got in. When the taxi swung out onto Veteran Avenue, Lloyd counted to twenty-five and pursued. He caught the cab at the on-ramp to the 405 northbound, and let a car get between them as they headed toward the Valley. At Ventura, the taxi exited and swung east, staying in the middle lane, the driver cruising so maddeningly slow that Lloyd wanted to ram him with his unmarked unit’s snout and shove them all the way to Eggers’s destination. Just when his frustration felt like it was about to peak, the cab lurched and hung a sharp left turn onto Gage Avenue and went north. Lloyd started to tingle. Too déclassé a neighborhood for a middle-aged bank exec; they were headed for the girlfriend’s pad. When the cab drew to the curb at the corner of Hildebrand, he continued on, looking back through his side mirror. Eggers got out and walked up the steps of a modest ranch-type house and let himself in. Lloyd parked and walked down the street to his target, eyeing the windows for good listening spots. Deciding to prowl the house’s perimeter, he walked down the driveway with his ears perked for sounds of weeping and comforting. He was all the way around the back to the other side when he heard the sounds of pure hard female rage:
“. . . and it’s all on you, you bastard! They were going to leave me alone until the bad one found that sleazy picture book that you’re so fucking in love with!” The voice took on a baby talk tone: “Poor Johnny-poo got held up, and he’s sooo afraid that the banky-poo and his wifey-poo are going to find out about his affair with Chrissy-poo. Awww. The mean old robber-poo shot Johnny-poo with dusty-poo, and he got his Brooksie-poo suit allll wrinkled. Awww.” There was a sharp, flesh-on-flesh noise, then the woman’s voice
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came out soft and dripping with contempt: “That man who robbed you is more of a fucking man than you’ll ever be. Think about it, John. Next time you start talking about all the sacrifices you’ve made to be with me, think about that man beating up one of his partners to keep me from getting raped.”
Eggers’ retort was a beaten-dog grovel. “But you won’t tell the police?
Chrissy, my job— our future depends on keeping this quiet.”
“No,” the woman said, �
�I won’t. I care about you too much to hurt you that way. But take this with you when you see your wife in Arrowhead tomorrow. He was sexy, and somewhere down the line when we’re screwing, I’m going to be thinking of him, of the man who made you look weak and foolish. Now get out of my sight.”
Lloyd leaned against the house and listened to the sound of an impotent, foot-stomping departure. When the door slammed, the woman’s weeping took over, and he waited until the sobs trailed off before walking around to the front door. When he rang the bell, his hands were shaking. He looked at the name taped above the buzzer—Christine Confrey—and wondered what the woman with the volatile voice would look like. The door swung open, and he saw. Chrissy Confrey was a small woman with a face of perfectly mismatched parts: high cheekbones, broad nose and pointed chin. Her hair was straight and long, and her tears had already dried. Lloyd winced at her handsomeness, and realized he didn’t know how to play the interrogation. Holding out his badge, he said, “L.A.P.D. I know all about it, Miss Confrey. Two Mexicans with ski masks, one soft-spoken, one the guy who tried to molest you, the white guy you were tell—”
Christine Confrey tried to push the door shut. Lloyd jammed his foot into the floor runner and wedged himself into the house, shouldering the door, and Christine behind it, aside, putting his hands up in a “no harm” pose. “I know what you’ve been through,” he said. “And I don’t want you to talk about it. All I want you to do is look at some photographs. Will you do that?”
Christine hissed, “Get out”; Lloyd stepped toward her. “You can give your statement to a woman officer, and I’ll try to keep your relationship with Eggers out of it. This is the second one of these assaults, and I want you to look at some photos that the other victims probably didn’t see. It won’t take long.”
Her face a hardening mask of hatred, Christine said, “Have John Eggers look at your pictures. This is his mess, not mine.”
“I’m going to,” Lloyd said, “but I need you, too. Victims tend to block out the looks of their assailants, and quick cross-check I.D.s can be very helpful. I know you got a good look at the man.”
