To Die in Beverly Hills

by Gerald Petievich

  "People say things like that all the time," the woman said. As she spoke Carr noticed snuff between her lower lip and gum. She examined the impound receipt.

  "May I see your copy of the impound receipt?" Carr said.

  "It'll be the same as this copy except for the arresting officer's signature." The woman slung her feet off the table and got up, moving over to a cardboard box in the corner of the shack. Squatting down, she flipped through folders full of receipts. A short time later she stood up holding a blue copy of an impound receipt, handed it to Carr and returned to her chair.

  Carr held the paper to the light of the grease-covered window. The signature line on the bottom of the printed form read:

  D. Piper Serial # 1439

  Beverly Hills P.D.

  Carr handed the receipt back to the woman. "Thanks," he said.

  "Sure." The woman turned a page of the newspaper. "Everyone in this town claims to have valuables stolen from their car. Usually it's cameras ... five- and six-hundred-dollar cameras." She looked up. "Can you imagine people that can afford to drive thirty- and forty-thousand-dollar cars chiseling an insurance company for five hundred bucks?"

  "Yes."

  The woman shook her head, turned another page.

  Carr returned to his sedan and wrote the name D. Piper in his notebook. He put a question mark after the name and drove off.

  It took him less than half an hour to drive to Jack Kelly's tract-style home in Orange County. As usual, he made a wrong turn or two on identical cul-de-sacs before he found it ... even the curbside mailboxes in front of the newly built stucco row houses were the same. He parked and, because it was still early, headed straight for the garage, hoisting its heavy door. The lawn mower was in the corner where he'd left it a week earlier. He rolled it along the driveway and onto the lawn, first mowing a strip of grass along the sidewalk.

  Rose Kelly waved at him from the front window, then hurried out the front door. She wore a blue housecoat. "There's no need to do that," she said. "Jack's coming home from the hospital today. He gave me strict orders not to let you mow the lawn. He said he was perfectly well enough to do it himself. You know how he is."

  Carr nodded and mowed another strip of turf.

  "Breakfast will be ready when you're done," she said before returning to the house.

  "No thanks, Rose," Carr called after her, though he was starving. "I'm in a hurry."

  About an hour later Carr washed his hands at the kitchen sink before he sat down at the kitchen table in front of a platter of four eggs and what must have been half a pound of bacon. "I won't be able to eat all this."

  "I'm so used to cooking for Jack..." she said as she washed out a frying pan. "I'm so excited about Jack coming home ... and the boys... I'm glad they had a soccer game this morning. They'd be tearing the house apart in anticipation."

  Carr smiled. He made it through half of the eggs and a sizable portion of the bacon.

  Rose Kelly bustled around the kitchen, turning things on and off on the stove. She washed out another pan at the sink. "Jack told me that he's going to retire," she said. "Did he tell you?"

  "He mentioned something about it."

  Rose Kelly refilled his coffee cup. She returned the coffee pot to the stove and stood facing it. "He's doing it for us."

  "What do you think of the idea?"

  She turned towards him. "I think it's a great idea ... if it's what Jack really wants. I'd love to have him home at a decent hour every night. But I know Jack. He's not suited very well for other kinds of work. He's too ... I don't know what the word is ... aggressive. He won't be happy doing anything else. I know that."

  Carr sipped coffee. "Will you tell him that?"

  "God spared Jack's life. The doctor said that he was lucky to have survived. I don't think the Lord saved him to spend the rest of his life just taking it easy. I don't think that." She stirred something on the stove for a while. "But on the other hand, I'm not going to encourage him to stay in law enforcement if he doesn't want to."

  "I think he wants to stay."

  Rose came to the table with the coffee pot again. "I'll stand by Jack no matter what he wants to do." She tried to fill Carr's cup, but he held his hand over it. "I'm so glad he's coming home," she said, returning the pot to the stove.

  "Gotta run." Carr carried his plate and coffee cup to the sink. "Thanks a million for the breakfast."

  "I just want to have my husband." Her voice was almost pleading, but not with Carr. "And my boys need their father. I don't care about anything else. Perhaps that's selfish of me, but I just don't care about crime and crooks and the things I hear you and Jack talk about when you play cards. It all ends up for naught. My husband has been in the hospital for three weeks and nothing has changed. The crooks are still there. The lawyers are still getting rich. I'm still alone nights and weekends." She paused, looking down at her hands. "I guess I shouldn't be so negative."

  "Tell Jack I'll be giving him a call," Carr said with a nod. He opened the door and went out.

  Rose Kelly followed him to the door and thanked him profusely for mowing the lawn, then waved as he trotted down the driveway.

  Though the Chez Doucette was the latest West Side "in" spot, there were few customers as Travis Bailey and Delsey Piper sat having lunch.

  The walls of the French restaurant were floor-to-ceiling murals of people (both men and women diners had similar faces) sitting at tables in a French restaurant. As Bailey listened to Delsey drone on about her Playboy photo deal, he wondered why Bones Chagra had left a message for him at the office. He glanced at his watch again.

  "The layout is called Officers of the Raw," Delsey said. "The photographer wants to do a shot of me standing in front of a police car with nothing on but my Sam Browne and my hat. The other one is with my tits hanging out of the driver's window as I point my gun at the camera. The photographer is a real pro. He has every shot planned out. The photos will have a caption about me being the daughter of Rex Piper the movie star. The whole thing sounds great... really super. And if the Department tries to fire me just think of the free publicity I'll get! I talked to daddy about it and he thinks it's a fantastic idea. Like he says, to break into show business, ya gotta use what ya has. One of the kids I went to high school with got a movie contract by starring in a fag porno flick. He was dressed up like a sailor. Now he plays the part of the guy who lives next door in 'The Riley Family.' His name used to be Barry Chernowitz but he changed it to Barry McDonald. The casting director for the program was named McDonald and he thought that he would get more attention if he-"

  "Gotta make a phone call," Bailey said abruptly. He left the table, found a pay telephone in the rest room and dialed Bones Chagra's home number. Bones answered. "Been trying to call all day," Bailey said. "What's up?"

  "L.A.P.D. leaned on DeMille real heavy like. He-"

  "I don't want to talk on the phone," Bailey said. "Meet me at Chez Doucette."

  "I'm on my way to work."

  "So be late for fucking work." He hung up the phone and returned to the table. A hair sprayed young waiter with a New York accent was serving Chateaubriand. He opened a bottle of wine and poured, then rushed off.

  Bailey sipped the wine as he sat staring at his plate.

  "You've been so preoccupied for the last few days," Delsey said.

  "Is your father in town?" he said, ignoring her remark.

  "He gets back today from the desert. He had a part in a remake of Beau Geste. They're doing it as sort of a black comedy ... a low-budget thing, but he says it's very creative. They filmed on the sand dunes on the way to Las Vegas. He's costarring with the guy who's the host of that game show where the little birds pop out of the box with the answers. I can never remember his name." She broke a French roll in half and pulled a piece from its soft center. She popped it into her mouth and chewed daintily.

  "I want you to go see your father," Bailey said. "Have him phone the mayor and tell him about the opening for a commander in Tr
affic Services Division. Mention Cleaver's name."

  "Why should you care about doing a favor for that donothing, Cleaver?"

  "Think about it for a minute."

  "Oh," she said. "I see what you're getting at. You'd be in line for Cleaver's job. You'd be in charge of the Detective Bureau."

  "And you'd be my number-one detective. I'd be able to soft-soap any heat that would come down when your photos come out in the magazine."

  "The rest of the detectives are going to really hate me."

  "So what else is new?"

  "I really hate all of the macho bullshit that goes along with police work. It's a real turnoff ... a super turnoff." She slipped an oversized chunk of beef into her mouth, chewed and washed it down with a swig of Beaujolais.

  As they finished eating, Bailey saw Bones Chagra at the entrance to the restaurant. Without saying anything he left the table and joined him. At Bailey's suggestion, they went outside.

  "Who was it?" Bailey said.

  "Higgins from L.A.P.D. homicide and a Fed named Carr."

  "What did they ask him about?"

  "They squeezed him for who hired him to post the bond," Chagra said. "He said they weren't just fishing around. It was like they knew something."

  "Where did they book him?"

  "They didn't book him. They talked to him at his office."

  "What did he say he told them?"

  "He said he didn't tell 'em shit."

  "He told them something or he would have been booked." Suspiciously, he surveyed the busy street.

  "DeMille's got too much to lose by handing me up. He does a grand a week with us."

  "I don't like the way you handled this. You should have used someone else to go to the bondsman. You would have kept yourself one-removed."

  "You're the cop," Bones said. "You're the Sherlock Holmes. If that's what you wanted me to do you should have said so."

  Bailey looked Chagra in the eye. "From now on you and I don't meet," he said. "Don't call me unless you call from a pay phone. I'll do the same."

  "So they find out I had the broad bailed out. It's not against the law to bail someone out."

  Bailey grabbed Chagra's collar with both hands. "You think too much," he hissed. "Like your pal Lee."

  Bailey slammed Chagra backward into the synthetic-brick wall of the restaurant. As Chagra rubbed the back of his head, Bailey turned and stared at the traffic on La Cienega. A sedan driven by a black man wearing a snap-brim hat drove slowly by. Bailey stared at the car. It continued north toward Sunset Boulevard and turned right.

  "I'm sorry, Travis. I wasn't trying to be wise. I really wasn't."

  "Call me tomorrow," Bailey said as he started toward Sunset.

  Chagra hurried away.

  Bailey returned to the table and sat down. "We're leaving," he said as Delsey took a bite.

  "Right now?"

  Bailey motioned for the waiter, paid the bill in cash and then slipped him a twenty-dollar bill.

  "Oh, thank you, Mr. Bailey," the waiter said. "You're very kind."

  "Is there a back way out of here?"

  "Is everything all right?"

  "My friend is involved in a divorce," he explained. "A private eye is following her."

  The waiter led them through the kitchen and out the back door. Bailey surveyed the parking lot. Seeing nothing suspicious, he walked to his car with Delsey tagging behind. They quickly got in, and Bailey drove out over a low curb onto a side street rather than use the normal exit. He made three U-turns to see if he was being followed, then headed west on Sunset Boulevard toward his apartment.

  "Would you please tell me what's going on?" Delsey asked for the third time.

  "The Tony Dio mob might be following me," he said. "Bones just told me he heard a rumble. They want to get back at me because I killed Sheboygan."

  Delsey looked puzzled. "That doesn't make sense."

  "Nothing makes any sense in police work."

  "What are you going to do?" She poked him gently. "Really," she said when he didn't answer, "what are you going to do?"

  "Let them make their move," he said without taking his eyes off the road. "I'm going to let them make the next move."

  The Sheriff's Department Records Bureau had the musty smell of a library. As if on a track, female clerks and Sheriff's cadets moved about between tall shelves containing manila files. There was the muffled sound of rock music coming from a radio on a windowsill.

  Carr watched the computer screen as Della Trane tapped keys. She had greeted him with friendly talk and made no mention of their last date. Her hair was pulled back into a handsome chignon and her khaki uniform was starched and neatly pressed. She wore an even layer of makeup and her lipstick was generously and meticulously applied. Carr thought she looked more attractive than he'd seen her in years.

  "One more time," she said without taking her eyes off the computer screen. "You want all burglary reports with silver listed as stolen property for the last ninety days?" She turned and gave him a quizzical glance.

  "With victims whose addresses are listed in Beverly Hills," Carr said.

  She tapped the keys for a moment. BevH printed out on the screen in green electronic letters.

  "Anything else?"

  Carr shook his head.

  Delia Trane punched a key. The teleprinter raced. She stood up and stretched, arching her back. Her profile was striking. Carr offered her a cigarette, which she accepted. He gave her a light and lit one himself.

  "I hope things worked out with your girl friend," she said.

  Before he could answer, she turned to the teleprinter and adjusted the paper and handed it to him. "The funny part is, that wasn't the first ... not even the second time that has happened to me. And I don't even go out that much. That's the funny part. I don't have that many dates. It's like if a piece of plaster was to fall from the ceiling at any given moment in time, it would probably fall directly on my head." They both chuckled.

  Carr examined the computer printout. There were at least twenty-five names and addresses on the list. He folded it and stuffed it in his coat pocket.

  "I have forty-five minutes for lunch," Della said, glancing at her wristwatch.

  "Olvera Street okay?"

  Nodding in agreement, she slipped her arm in his as they strolled out of the building and down Spring Street to a Mexican restaurant sandwiched between some Olvera Street tourist gift shops. A young waiter wearing a serape showed them to a table on the patio.

  During a quick lunch of tacos and chile rellenos, Della drank three margaritas.

  Afterward, Carr walked her back to the Hall of Justice and headed to the Field Office. To avoid No Waves, he entered through the back door.

  At his desk, he circled six names on he list that started with W, dug a telephone book out of a filing cabinet and thumbed through for the names. As he expected, the names, like the names of most affluent people, were not listed. Having lit a cigarette, he dialed the number of the Pacific Telephone Company Security Office. The woman who answered asked for his agency code number. He read a seven-digit number that was scribbled on his desk's ink blotter.

  "Lemme have the name," the woman said as if she were half asleep.

  "I have six of them," Carr said.

  "I can only take two names at a time. Rules."

  Since he knew there was no use arguing, he gave her two of the names. She flipped pages and read off two phone numbers. The phone clicked. After two more calls (she made him repeat his agency code number each time), he had compiled a list of six unlisted phone numbers.

  He dialed one of the numbers. A man answered.

  "Is this Mr. Waterford?" Carr said.

  "Speaking."

  "I'm Special Agent Carr, U.S. Treasury Department. I'm calling about the burglary."

  "Which one?"

  "The one that occurred within the last three months."

  "Treasury Department?" Waterford said. "Does this have something to do with my income tax?"


  "No, sir. I just need to know if your silver that was stolen in the burglary had a W engraved on each plate."

  "No," the man said. "There was nothing engraved on it. What's this all about?"

  "Just a routine crime survey."

  "Another way to waste the taxpayer's money."

  "Thank you for your time-"

  The phone clicked, Carr set the receiver down. He drew a line through Waterford's name and address, then dialed the next number on the list.

  ****

  FIFTEEN

  CARR SAT on a sofa. He wanted to smoke but he couldn't decide whether the crystal upturned hand on the coffee table in front of him was an ashtray. Gertrude Wallace sat across from him in a thronelike chair. She examined the silver plate.

  "Yes," she said. "It's ours. It's definitely ours. Our jeweler engraved them. I must call my husband and tell him ... Where are the other pieces? Will we get them back?"

  "Yes," Carr said, "but it may take some time."

  "I hope it's by the end of the month. We have an important dinner planned. My husband and I have invited the Danish and the Swedish consuls and a whole group of studio people. You see, my husband's last movie was filmed on location in Denmark and Sweden-"

  "Do you suspect anyone of having committed the burglary?" He gave the glass hand another inquisitive glance.

  "It's an ashtray if you'd like to smoke,"

  "Thanks." Carr lit a cigarette and dropped the match in his hand.

  "I used to smoke but I quit. I've never felt better in my whole life."

  Carr acknowledged her remark with a smile.

  "We thought the maid had stolen our things," she went on, "and Detective Bailey pointed out to us that domestics are often involved in burglaries. We fired her the day after it happened. She made a big fuss."

  "Was there anything she did that caused you to suspect her?"

  "She was in need of money to get her mother across the border. She'd been working next door at the Redfords on her days off in order to save money. I guess the temptation finally became too much for her."