The Detective & The Pipe Girl: A Mystery

by Michael Craven

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Michael Craven

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  I was in my office in Culver City, sitting at my desk admiring my new Ping-Pong table, when a man appeared in my doorway. I work out of a warehouse that used to house three Porsches owned by a movie producer. So the entrance to my space is a big, metal sliding door that a car, or even a pretty big truck, can fit through. I do have a couple windows on one side of the building, and a proper door, but I keep the big slider open almost any time I’m in my office. It really opens up the space, lets in the breeze and the sun, and gives me a wide, clear view all the way across the parking lot to a couple other warehouses.

  The man standing there was backlit so I couldn’t see him fully. I could tell, however, that he wasn’t in the greatest shape. He made for a big, pearlike silhouette.

  “Come in,” I said. “Walk all the way in.”

  He walked deeper into my office, moving swiftly and delicately. He barely made a noise as he danced across the slick concrete toward my desk. A quick and agile big man. Light on his feet. A quality I admire, by the way. As he got closer, this shadowy figure began to transform into an actual person. Now that I could see him, I noticed he was odd-looking in ways other than his shape. He was probably six-three, pale and double-chinned, with a baby face and eyebrows that were too arched and lips that were too red. Up top, he had a mop of curly black hair—his hair popping against his clammy white skin. He wore schoolboy khakis and a pressed blue oxford.

  I almost told him to go back and stand where he was before so I couldn’t see him as well. I think I liked that better. This guy—he was a big white blob all ready for Sunday school.

  I pictured him wearing a diaper, shaking a rattle, rolling around in an enormous vat of baby powder, giggling maniacally.

  I have no idea why.

  “What can I do for you?” I said.

  “You are Mr. John Darvelle, I presume?”

  I thought: I presume?

  So this was a pear-shaped, nimble, pretentious man-child.

  I sighed. “Yes. I am.”

  The man went on, “My name is Mountcastle. Paul Mountcastle.”

  He stuck out his hand. As my face stretched into a skeptical frown, I shook it. I let go as quickly as possible. I thought, okay, introductions done, now I’ll hear what my misshapen visitor wants. But I didn’t. Not right away. Instead, he just stood there.

  Awkwardly, I might add.

  I looked at him. His face had an expectant quality to it. You know those people who, mid-conversation, just kind of smile and stare at you? Who don’t give you any indication that they are hearing what you are saying? That they are processing what you are trying to communicate? But rather seem to have some pedestrian observation about something else lingering behind their shifting eyes and creepy smiles? You know those annoying people?

  You know those annoying people.

  Mountcastle was one of them.

  Finally, finally, he said, “Are you familiar with the name Arthur Vonz?”

  This wasn’t like asking me if I’d ever heard of Pablo Picasso. Or the pope. But Arthur Vonz was pretty damn famous. Especially in this town.

  I said, eyes half lidded, “Yes, Mountcastle, I am.”

  With the same expectant smile, and now with a touch of surprise, and more than a touch of condescension, he said, “You know his work?”

  “Yes. I’ve seen a lot of his movies. Who hasn’t?”

  I thought to myself: I might punch this guy.

  Mountcastle then lightly inched closer to my desk, put his hand on the back of one of the chairs that sits in front of it, and said, “Mr. Darvelle, may I sit down?”

  From under my desk I pushed out one of the chairs with my foot. Mountcastle eyed it, sat. He then somewhat dramatically looked around my space. “So,” he said. “Is it just you? Do you have others who help you?”

  “Mountcastle. What do you want? Does Vonz want to talk to me?”

  He smiled at me again and raised his eyebrows, like I’d just made a brilliant observation. Like I’d just exhibited amazing intellectual dexterity.

  “Yes, he does.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock. At the house in Beverly Hills.”

  The house. Not his house. The house. That’s what you say when you’ve got more than one house. Not a problem Vonz and I share.

  He continued. “Does this time suit you? Well, before you answer that. Are you interested in speaking with Mr. Vonz?”

  “Give me the address. And I’ll be there.”

  Out of his shirt pocket he produced an index card. He handed it to me. I took a quick look. There was an address typed neatly on it. I put it on my desk.

  I tested him. “So, he wants to hire me. Do you know what it’s about?”

  He put an index finger up in the air. “I didn’t say he wanted to hire you. I just said he wants to meet with you. And I don’t know what it’s about.”

  Normally putting an index finger up in the air and pointing something out to me would have irritated me. But he was doing right by his boss in this situation. He was still a supremely annoying guy, don’t get me wrong. But he was protecting his boss right then so I was okay with it. As for whether or not he knew the nature of the meeting? Not sure. Most assistants, helpers, man-child baby-faced houseboys, have an idea of what the boss man is up to.

  I thought he was lying.

  He continued, “So. You will be there in the morning? At ten?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you have any more questions?”

  “Just one.”

  Mountcastle looked excited.

  I said, “Do you by any chance own an enormous baby rattle?”

  Mountcastle frowned, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Never mind. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Mountcastle got up, turned, and began to slide lightly out of my office. He was now right next to my new, bright blue Stiga indoor-only Ping-Pong table, which was between my desk and the sliding door, but off to the side. He looked at the table, then looked back over his shoulder at me.

  He said, “Do you play, or is this an ironic homage or something?”

  “I have no idea what that sentence means.”

  He tried again. “Do you play Ping-Pong?”

  “Yes. As much as possible.”

  He gave me the smile again. “I used to play. In my basement as a kid. Nif
ty game.”

  I would have bet my life right then and there that he was terrible.

  “I’m pretty good,” he said.

  Now, normally I would have blown this off, but Mountcastle just bothered me. So I got out a couple of paddles, nothing serious, just middle-of-the road Killerspin bats. Some decent rubber on them, but nothing too advanced. Just for casual play. Then I grabbed a couple Halex three-star balls. You don’t want to use one- or two-star balls. They’re cheaper, and have a thinner shell so when you hit them it doesn’t give you that solid crack that you’re looking for. That satisfying pop. That perfect thwok. One- and two-star balls have a floaty, weak, unsatisfying feeling. Not good, friend. Not good.

  After seeing Mountcastle hit one ball, one ball, I knew that my detective’s intuition had been correct. He blew. Just terrible. Watching him take a swing made me want to throw up. We started and, despite focusing mostly on what Arthur Vonz might want, I beat him 21–4. I know, I know, official soft paddle games are to 11 these days. But 21’s the way to go for casual play. For any kind of play. You just can’t get into a rhythm when you play to 11. Nobody can.

  After the thumping, Mountcastle proceeded to tell me he “didn’t play with paddles like this,” he “couldn’t see because of the sun,” he “wasn’t warmed up.” Standard excuses. So, I let him select a paddle out of my quiver, I lowered the metal slider so there was less glare, I rallied with him until his pale, white face was covered in sweat.

  Then I focused, I focused hard, and beat him 21–0. I know, I know. Skunks at 7–0 and 11–1. But I’ve been down on skunks lately. They’re not really fair. Anyone, even really, really good players, can lose a lot of points in a row and later come back to win.

  That’s not an opinion.

  But back to my 21–0 trouncing of Mountcastle. See, people always think they’re better at Ping-Pong than they actually are. And these same people always insist on telling you this. And then, when they lose, they always hit you with a ton of excuses—even if you beat them badly. And the worst part is, if you don’t play your A-game, and you allow these people to hang in there just for fun, they never, ever realize you are going easy on them. They just say, after a not-so-horrible loss, “See? And I haven’t even played in a while.” So every now and then, when I see a cocky, misguided glimmer in someone’s eye, I make it sting. That’s why, on the last point, I leaned into my forehand so the ball went off the table and hit Mountcastle in his flabby white neck. A little red circle was forming as he looked at me, his eyes holding a shocked and betrayed expression.

  He then gathered himself, nodded, and without a word scooted under the lowered slider, somehow got in his little Honda Civic, and drove off.

  2

  Arthur Vonz was one of the top film directors in the world. Like Spielberg or Scorsese, if he wanted to make a movie, he pretty much got to make it. And if he was involved in any way in any entertainment project, as a producer, consultant, whatever, the project instantly had more credibility. Vonz was a full-on member of the Hollywood community too. You’d see pictures of him, or TV footage of him, at Hollywood parties and industry events hobnobbing with other big shots, working the town, relishing in, and using, his clout. You’d see him at non-Hollywood events too. Art openings, dinners for causes, gatherings where he could socialize with other people who worked in different fields but were esteemed in their own right. The guy was involved, present, a man about town out there mixing it up.

  Thing is, contrary to what often makes you a big deal in the Hollywood culture, he wasn’t known for massive box-office smashes. He wasn’t known for working inside the studio system to create hits, to create franchises that could produce six movies and billions of dollars. Or to be at the helm of an idea the studio offered him because they owned the property and needed a good director. This guy wasn’t toiling away on the big-screen remake of The Facts of Life, or racking his brain somewhere to reimagine Cagney and Lacey for the movies. Arthur Vonz was one of those rare birds who could do basically whatever he wanted. And the studios would give him the money, the time, the freedom. And the big stars would line up to cut their fees, and work on his terms. When he was ready.

  Sometimes his movies hit big, made money. But that was never the intent. Because all of them, even the ones that had some obvious commercial potential, had weird edges. Had artistic ambition. If you went to a Vonz movie, you could expect a bold, intense, challenging, even strange experience. Music that made you a little uncomfortable. Notions that you hadn’t ever contemplated. Or better yet, notions you had contemplated but had never told anyone.

  Bergmanian. Kubrickian. Vonzian.

  Vonz once followed a massive World War II epic with a subtitled film about a suicidal tribe in the Amazon. His World War II film made a bunch of money and won a slew of Academy Awards. His Amazon film bombed spectacularly. But I remember very specifically seeing an interview with him where he said something like, “You know, I think both of the films turned out pretty good. Not sure if I’d say great, but pretty good. But if I had to say, I’d say I like the Amazon picture a little better.” And you didn’t feel like he was being pretentious or trying to cover up a failure. You believed him.

  As you might have guessed, I’m a fan. I respect his work. Some of his movies are among my favorites. All-time favorites. Starlight. It’s in my top ten. About a guy who decides to turn his whole life upside down by sleeping all day and living his life all night. Not some vampire bullshit either. Just a story about changing your perspective literally—with the hopes that it will change your perspective philosophically. Really interesting. Really weird. Really good.

  Vonz, appearance-wise, had sort of an absurd vibe. He had a big shock of white hair and he wore massive, old-school seventies Robert Evans glasses. He wore ascots with no irony. Velvet blazers. I’d seen pictures through the years of the man showing up at industry events sporting a cane.

  And not because he was injured.

  The man absolutely did not have a tweaked ankle. He was feeling fine. He was simply the auteur dandy. But he didn’t seem like a fool. That’s the thing. You know why? You know why? Because when you saw one of his movies you left the theater impressed. Moved. And sometimes a different person from the person who walked in. So sport the cane, Doc, I could give two shits. Just keep doing what you’re doing.

  At nine-thirty the next morning, I left my office. Gave myself thirty minutes to get from Culver City to Beverly Hills. People say everything in L.A. is twenty minutes away. That’s total bullshit. Everything’s at least thirty minutes away and most things are forty-five minutes away. This misperception is one of the reasons people in L.A. are always late. Drives me fucking crazy.

  I am never late. And I do not respect people who are. Actually, you know what? I don’t stop at disrespect. I full-on dislike people who are late.

  I got in my car. 2010 Chevy Cobalt. Epically generic. Gray. That’s the official name of the color. Gray.

  I said to the guy when I was leasing it, “Gray? That’s it? Not Cloud Gray or Deep Gray or something?”

  The guy looked at me for a long time. For a second it got very quiet on the lot. The only sound came from the distant cars driving by on the road that ran next to the dealership. And then the guy said, “I think of it as Mountain Gray.”

  I looked at him. His face held a combination of false confidence and total doubt. I said, after another long pause, “Yeah, let’s go with that.”

  I lease a new American sedan every three years or so. Almost time for a new one. No one, no one, can ever remember what I drive. My rides have names like Cobalt. Lumina. Azure. Azbalt. I made up the last one. But sometimes I tell people that’s what I drive and they don’t question it. Ever.

  They say, “Hmm. An Azbalt. Sounds nice.”

  And I say, “Oh, it is. It’s real nice.”

  I always find it odd that private detectives drive cars that really stand out. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Scratch that, it makes absolutely no sense. Le
t me tell you, as a P.I., you spend a lot of time following people around, and sitting outside their houses or offices, or bars or hotels they’ve wandered into. You’re going to do that in a yellow Ferrari? In a red and white muscle car with part of the engine sticking up out of the hood? I don’t think so.

  I drove toward Beverly Hills, toward the address Mountcastle had given me on that neat little index card. Headed north up La Cienega, swung a left on Sunset, then right on Benedict right next to the Beverly Hills Hotel. I was headed up now into the Beverly Hills. The fanciest section of one of the fanciest neighborhoods in the world. The grass in this part of town seemed greener than the grass in other sections of town. That’s not a metaphorical way of saying I was in the up-market part of the city. The grass actually looked greener. The lawns were a bright, vivid almost lime green. Go check it out for yourself.

  How did they do that, I wondered. How did they make the grass glow?

  I headed up Benedict, up the little mountain toward Mulholland. The houses that lined the streets were big, old-school Beverly Hills with columns and bright flowers and cantaloupe-colored doors. About halfway to Mulholland, I swung a right on Portola Drive. Almost there.

  And now, there. A big white wall and a gate covered in ivy. I pulled the Cobalt right up to the entrance and the gate magically opened. I guessed Mountcastle was probably spying on me using one of the house cameras. Or maybe he was peering at me from a lone window upstairs. Standing there giggling, binoculars in one hand, his enormous baby rattle in the other.

  I drove on in and was presented with a wide, beautifully manicured lawn that a driveway twisted through. I went back and to the left, a fortress revealing itself. Gray-shingled house, two stories, Cape Cod vibe, with white shutters and trim. But this was Cape Cod with an asterisk. Because the house had offshoots and extensions and wings that turned it into a compound. You just sensed a pool back there somewhere, and a tennis court. The big front door was bright red. I parked, got out, looked back toward the main gate, my eyes focusing on a steel sculpture sitting in the yard. It was a massive half sphere standing randomly in the middle of a section of the lawn. It was like a giant smooth silver coin cut in half sitting upright.