Blue Screen

by Robert B. Parker

  “Then could you do me a favor. It’s part of the Misty Tyler case out at SeaChase. Could you call Chief Stone and ask him to call me at this number?”

  There was a pause.

  “Who did you say this was?”

  “Sunny Randall,” I said. “Chief Stone knows me.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I know who you are. I could try calling him, ma’am.”

  I gave him my number and thanked him and hung up and sipped my wine.

  Life had obviously not been carefree for Erin and Misty. But why did they keep their past a secret? Why was the sisterhood a secret? She had dressed well before she became famous, and lived in a good house and drove a good car. She had some money. Where did she get it? It was pretty certain she didn’t inherit it from Rosalie Boverini. Gerard? There was a lot I didn’t know, and the more I found out, the more there was for me not to know. But one thing was clear. Erin Flint, superstar, was a big, fat liar.

  I finished my wine and was pouring another when the phone rang. Oh good, it was Jesse Stone.

  “I hope I didn’t get you out of bed,” I said.

  “I’m wide awake,” he said.

  “Me too,” I said. “I’m in LA. Here’s what I’ve found out.”

  He didn’t say anything while I told him what I had learned.

  When I got through he said, “Be nice if you could run down Gerard.”

  “My thought exactly,” I said. “Do you still have any influence out here?”

  “I didn’t have any when I was there,” he said. “But there’s a captain named Cronjager. Robbery Homicide commander. He fired me for drinking on duty, but he’s a good man and a good cop. I’ll call him and tell him you’re coming in.”

  Jesse had just confided in me. Fired for drinking.

  “Downtown?” I said. “Parker Center?”

  “Yes,” Jesse said. “Third floor.”

  “You think he might be in the system?”

  “Their vital stats don’t tell me they were hanging out with polo players.”

  “Worth a try,” I said.

  “Even if he’s not in the system. Cronjager has resources.”

  “Okay, I’ll go see him tomorrow morning.”

  “If there’s a hitch,” Jesse said, “I’ll call you. Otherwise, go ahead. He’ll be expecting you.”

  I gave him my cell-phone number. He gave me his. It was like deciding to go steady.

  “Remember one other thing,” Jesse said. “The police chief out there is a Boston guy.”

  “My God, that’s right,” I said. “It was while my father was on the job. My father always said what a wonderful cop he was.”

  “That’s what they tell me,” Jesse said.

  “So if Cronjager doesn’t work out…” I said.

  “Cronjager’s okay,” Jesse said. “I’ll call him.”

  I wanted to talk some more. I liked hearing his voice. But I couldn’t think of anything else to say. And Jesse seemed to have no interest in chatting. So I said good-bye.

  After I hung up I sipped my second drink and thought about how much I liked Jesse on such brief acquaintance. Then I picked up the room-service menu and began to concentrate on what to eat. The menu told me all I needed to know. The clarity was gratifying.

  19

  CRONJAGER HAD a nice office, big, with a window. He stood when I came in and walked around the desk to shake hands with me. He was a tall man, sort of rangy, with an assertive nose and snow-white hair. His skin was tanned and he looked healthy. His handshake was hard but not showy.

  “Jesse Stone said you’d be in. Fine officer, Jesse.”

  “He told me you fired him for drunkenness.”

  Cronjager smiled a little and went back around his desk. He indicated a chair for me and sat down. I sat across from him.

  “So much for professional discretion,” he said. “I understand he’s got it under control.”

  “Seems to be in remission, at least.”

  “Good,” Cronjager said. “Waste of a very good cop.”

  “Did he tell you why I’m here?”

  “No. Just said you were smart and good-looking and I’d enjoy you.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “So far he’s right,” Cronjager said. “What do you need?”

  “Jesse and I are working on the same case,” I said, and told him about it.

  “Erin Flint,” he said when I was through. “Can’t act, but something to see.”

  “She was married once, under what appears to be her birth name, Ethel Boverini, to a man named Gerard Basgall.”

  “And you’d like me to help you find Gerard,” Cronjager said.

  There was something about him that was like my father. They didn’t look alike, but they had a quality of courtliness. Older tough guys who had seen everything, men for whom time and experience had somehow smoothed the hard edges and made them graceful.

  “My father was a captain,” I said.

  “Boston?” Cronjager said.

  “Yes. Like you, homicide commander.”

  “Retired?”

  “Yes.”

  Cronjager smiled.

  “I should be,” he said.

  He picked up a phone and said something into it and put it down. In a moment a Hispanic woman came briskly into the room. Her clothes were good. Her gray/white hair was stylish. Cronjager stood when she entered.

  “Elaine Estallela,” Cronjager said. “Sunny Randall.”

  We each said, “How do you do.”

  Cronjager said, “Sunny’s looking for somebody named Gerard Basgall, Elaine. Think he might be in the system?”

  Elaine smiled.

  “That means,” she said to me, “‘Elaine, would you look him up because I’m afraid of the computer.’”

  Cronjager and I both smiled. Elaine walked to a side table and tapped the keys of a computer keyboard. The screen lit up.

  “Any cross-references?” Elaine said.

  “He’s been married….” Cronjager looked at me.

  “He married Ethel Boverini,” I said. “In 1988.”

  Standing in front of the screen, Elaine tapped the keyboard some more. She was an attractive woman, and graceful. I wondered if she might be younger than her gray hair suggested.

  After a time she said, “Mr. Basgall is in the system.”

  “Whaddya got,” Cronjager said.

  Elaine began to read off the screen.

  “1986, living off the earnings. 1988, living off the earnings. 1988, assault. 1991, possession with intent. 1994, extortion.”

  “Gerard Basgall,” Cronjager said, “the early years.”

  “Anything on Mrs. Basgall?” I said.

  “Not so far,” Elaine said. “Assault. Extortion. Oh, look. Gerard was twice arrested on suspicion of murder—1997, 1998. Insufficient evidence.”

  “Working his way up,” Cronjager said.

  “Maybe he made it,” Elaine said. “After 1998 there’s no arrests.”

  “Gee,” I said. “Maybe he went straight.”

  “That’s probably it,” Cronjager said.

  Elaine continued to look at the computer screen.

  “Sheriff’s Department Career Criminals unit has been interested in him,” she said. “Since at least 2000.”

  “Or maybe he didn’t,” I said.

  “Who’s running that?” Cronjager said.

  “Career Criminals?” Elaine said. “Doreen Billups.”

  “Get her for me, would you, Elaine?”

  She smiled. “When I reach her,” Elaine said, “will you be able to hold the phone all right by yourself?”

  “Long as you tell me which end to talk in,” Cronjager said.

  Elaine made the call from a phone on the computer table. When it went through, she said, “Captain Billups? Captain Cronjager is calling,” and pointed at the phone on his desk.

  Cronjager picked it up.

  “Doreen?” he said. “Yeah…yeah…How’s Harvey?…good, and the kid?…UCLA?…for crissake, D
oreen, I thought he was still in junior-high…yeah, I know…she’s fine, thanks…listen, I see on this here computer I’m so good with that your people are interested in a fella named Gerard Basgall…yeah, right there on the screen…well sure Elaine helped a little…uh-huh…uh-huh…sonovabitch, excuse me, Doreen…uh-huh…okay, well Gerard’s done all right, hasn’t he?…Yeah. Got a detective here from Boston, good-looking woman named Sunny Randall. She needs anything, can she call you? Yes. Elaine’ll give her the number…sure, anything you got. Send it to me, I can get it to Sunny…and thank you, Doreen. Yeah, you too.”

  Cronjager put the phone back.

  “That where it goes?” he said.

  Elaine smiled and nodded. He leaned back in his chair.

  “Okay,” he said to me. “Gerard is a big success. He’s head pimp in the Valley.”

  “Meaning?” I said.

  “He runs all the call-girl operations north of Sunset,” Cronjager said, “between, oh, say, Thousand Oaks and maybe Pasadena.”

  “Any mention of Ethel Boverini?” I said.

  “No.”

  “Have an address for Gerard?”

  “I do,” Cronjager said and wrote it out on a piece of notepaper.

  “Bel Air,” I said. “I think I’ll go see him.”

  “I’ll have somebody take you,” Cronjager said.

  “I know how to get to Bel Air,” I said.

  “I have somebody take you, there’s no parking issues,” Cronjager said. “No hassle.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “And you’ll have an official presence,” Cronjager said. “Be easier to get in.”

  “And out,” Elaine said.

  “See if you can get Sol up here,” Cronjager said.

  “You think Gerard is dangerous?” I said.

  “I’m just a civilian employee,” Elaine said. “But pimps don’t generally respect women.”

  “And keeper of the captain,” Cronjager said.

  Elaine nodded that this was so, and picked up the phone.

  Cronjager smiled at her, then looked at me and said, “If you’re investigating a murder, Ms. Randall, somebody you talk with might be a murderer.”

  “I’ll wait for Sol,” I said.

  20

  WE WENT OUT Sunset from downtown, west toward Bel Air. My driver, Sol Hernandez, looked like Lieutenant Castillo in Miami Vice, which was on television when I was in college. The girls I knew in college thought Lieutenant Castillo was hot. Me too.

  “Sol?” I said. “Hernandez?”

  “Short for Solario,” he said.

  We passed Chavez Ravine, where the Dodgers played, drove through Silver Lake and on through Hollywood under a high, hot sun. Even in the least savory neighborhoods there were flowers and trees and the smell of vegetation. The out-of-town weather section of the L.A. Times this morning showed Boston with snow, accumulating to three inches.

  Sigh.

  We went along the Strip in West Hollywood. Sol was blessedly quiet. He did not point out landmarks. In Beverly Hills the greenery intensified, and when we turned into the Bel Air gate past Beverly Glen it felt like I was in Tahiti. We wound uphill until we pulled into the big driveway of a vast, white stucco house with a red tile roof.

  “Gerard appears to have done well for himself,” I said.

  “Head pimp,” Sol said.

  We got out and walked to the front door. Sol had his shield folder tucked into the breast pocket of his cream-colored linen jacket so that the shield showed. I rang the bell. Time passed, and I could sense more than I could hear somebody studying us through the peephole. Then the door opened a few inches on a security bar. A man’s face appeared in the narrow gap. It was tanned. The man appeared bald.

  “Sergeant Hernandez, LAPD,” Sol said. “We need to talk with Gerard.”

  “You got some kind of paper?” the face said.

  “Just a chat,” Sol said.

  “So you don’t have no paper says I got to let you in,” the face said.

  “We can go get one,” Sol said, “and come back in large numbers and yank all your fucking asses out of here and drive you downtown in a wagon.”

  The face grunted in what might have been amusement.

  “Jeez,” it said, “I think I wet myself.”

  “Tell Mr. Basgall we want to talk about Erin Flint,” I said.

  “Who the fuck are you,” the face said.

  “Margaret Thatcher,” I said. “Just tell Gerard what I said.”

  The tanned face stared at me for a moment. Then the door closed.

  “Margaret Thatcher?” Sol said.

  “I figured it had more clout than Sunny Randall,” I said.

  “I suppose it can’t have less,” Sol said.

  In a few minutes the door opened and the guy with the tan stood in it. He was bald and kind of fat, but what my father used to call “hard fat.” He had on a loose-fitting blue sport shirt with big, red flowers on it. It was not tucked in. I could see that he had a gun under the shirt.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  The house as we walked through it was huge and full of artifacts, and had the lived-in warmth of a shopping mall in West Covina.

  “How charming,” I said to Sol. “Tasteful yet inviting.”

  He smiled without speaking.

  Gerard was waiting for us in the atrium. In the cool, glassed-in space we could look west and see the ocean, and south and east, nearly all of the Los Angeles basin. There was no visible smog today, and the vista was in fact breathtaking.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Cool, huh?” Gerard said. “Paid a lot for this view.”

  “Lotta whores fucked their brains out for it,” Sol said.

  Gerard grinned.

  “And were happy to do so,” Gerard said. He looked at Sol.

  “You’re Hernandez, the local cop,” Gerard said. He looked at me. “But I’m guessing you ain’t really Margaret Thatcher.”

  I smiled.

  “Just a ploy to get in,” I said. “My name is Sunny Randall. I’m a detective that Erin hired.”

  He was a tall man, tall enough not to look out of place with Erin Flint. And he was well set up, athletic-looking. Tanned, clean-shaven, with dark hair cut very short in a military buzz cut. Two large pictures sat on easels, one in each corner of the atrium. One was of Gerard in some sort of martial-arts outfit, executing some sort of martial-arts move. In the other corner was Erin Flint in her Woman Warrior incarnation, hurdling a lion, wearing few clothes, carrying a short spear, and showing a lot of fabulous skin.

  “So what’s up with Erin?” Gerard said. “She okay?”

  “A friend of hers was killed, Misty Tyler.”

  Gerard nodded.

  “Did you know Misty?”

  “No.”

  It didn’t seem likely he could have been married to Erin and not know sister Misty. But that didn’t have to mean much. Guys like Gerard routinely lied to the cops unless there was some good reason not to. At the moment, I was the cops, and there wouldn’t have seemed to Gerard to be any good reason not to.

  “You were married to Erin,” I said.

  “Still am,” Gerard said.

  “But you’re not together.”

  He shook his head.

  “Broads,” he said. “Present company excluded, Sunny.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Why did you, ah, part?”

  “She dumped me. I set her up, gave her money for clothes, for cars, bought her a house in Santa Monica…she saw the chance to fuck some movie producer and off she went.”

  I widened my big, blue eyes innocently.

  “She’d leave this house?” I said.

  “I didn’t have this house when she left.”

  “When would that have been?”

  “Five, six years ago. I don’t know. Time don’t mean much to me.”

  “Who was the producer?” I said.

  “Buddy Bollen. Guy made her into Woman Warrior.”

  “And you
didn’t object?”

  “Sure, I objected,” Gerard said. “But hell, Sunny, there’s thousands of women, and just one me. I decided to stick with me.”

  “Did you love her?”

  “Hell yes, still do.”

  “But?”

  “But I’m a practical man. Time to move on. I can get my ashes hauled whenever I want to,” Gerard said.

  “She work for you?” Sol said.

  Gerard looked at Sol blankly for a moment.

  Then he said, “’Course she did. I look like a guy runs a shelter for homeless pussy? She worked for me, and so did her sister.”

  “Her sister is Misty Tyler,” I said.

  “Edith? Yeah. I guess I didn’t know her new name. I give them the best outcalls. Clean guys. Movie guys. No whack jobs, nothing kinky. It mighta been how she met Buddy Bollen. I don’t remember.”

  “You should,” Sol said. “You were probably more hands-on then. Than now.”

  “I’m outta that business now, Sergeant. You should know that. I run an event-management service.”

  “You’re a pimp,” Sol said. “You used to be a small-time pimp, and now you are a big-time pimp. But a pimp is a pimp.”

  “Don’t be bitter, Sergeant,” Gerard said. “How about you, Sunny? I could make you rich.”

  “In event management?”

  “Four, maybe five events a week, a few hours, evening work,” Gerard said. “No heavy lifting.”

  I shook my head.

  “Enticing offer,” I said. “But I’ll pass. Talk more about Erin and Misty.”

  “Love those names,” Gerard said and laughed. “They wasn’t so much when I met them. They were kids. I think Erin was maybe eighteen, dragging her kid sister around. Didn’t know how to look, or talk. Didn’t know anything.”

  “How’d you meet?”

  “They hustled me at a club in West Hollywood,” Gerard said.

  “Tried to pick you up?”

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “Had I ever done two girls at once? Had I ever done sisters?”

  “And?” I said.

  “Well, truth is I never had done sisters before. But I seen something in them, especially Erin. I mean, she wasn’t much yet, but she already had that bitchin’ body, and I seen potential. One thing I know,” Gerard said. “I know women.”

  Sol was standing at the window, watching the bald man with the tan who was standing in the doorway watching Sol. Gerard looked at me as if he could see through my clothes.