by Alan Russell
What was known was that the boxing ring was on an elevated platform, and when Mateo tried to exit from the ring, he fell. And while no one saw this fall, everyone heard his head hit the boulder that was right next to where they’d put up the ring. The thud was sickeningly loud.
No one knew what to do. None of the three wannabe directors had ever taken a first aid class. They huddled around Mateo’s still body, hoping someone would take charge. Their first instinct was to call 911, but all of their cell phones had been stowed away and turned off so as to not interfere with the filming.
It was this, Steinberg wrote, that stopped them from immediately calling for help.
Durand checked for a pulse and didn’t find one. With his hand shaking, Cunningham placed a quarter under Mateo’s nose. There was no condensation; he wasn’t breathing through his nose, nor did it appear his chest was rising and falling.
“He’s dead,” Jason whispered.
That wasn’t part of their script.
No one could believe how quickly everything happened. One moment a man was winning a boxing match, and the next moment he was dead. And that was where their dilemma began, and the first of many bad decisions.
Luciana wanted to be there for Mateo’s disinterment. I had tried to talk her out of it, but she was insistent.
We stood and waited about twenty feet from where the others were working. There had been no need to bring in a cadaver dog or any machinery. This was spadework.
All three of the young filmmakers were now fully cooperating. As a group, they had volunteered to take us to where Mateo was buried. After pointing out the spot where he’d been placed in the ground, all three of them had retreated back to the police cars. That’s where they were doing their watching from. I think they were glad of the insulation the vehicles provided. Luciana’s grief was raw, and it made them fearful to be close to it.
The grave was shallow, only about three feet deep. Woodland Hills still has a few woodlands, and they’d found one that suited their purposes. Mateo had been buried in the midst of scrub oak and manzanita and laurel sumac.
LAPD would process the body and get it to the coroner’s office. Even though none of the wannabe directors believed Mateo had been hurt during the fight, the coroner would be making his own determination. Only after that would I assist with the body’s being shipped down to Mexico.
Luciana sobbed as Mateo’s body was lifted from his makeshift grave. I thought of his love poem to Luciana, and how he had written, your eyes are my universe.
His universe wept and wept.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Someday My Prince Will Come
Santa Fe, New Mexico
848 miles from Los Angeles
April 10
When Diana Robinson began dating Stephen Prince, her friends teased her that she was “dating royalty.” As the couple became more serious and marriage was discussed, Diana discovered another name-game wrinkle.
Diana Prince was the alter ego of Wonder Woman. Luckily for Diana, few people seemed to know that. All that changed, of course, when the very successful Wonder Woman franchise of films reintroduced a new generation of filmgoers to the Amazonian’s history, and name.
By that time, though, Diana was long settled into her name. She and Stephen had brought five Princes into the world. Her children were grown now—the youngest was twenty-three—and so far, Diana was the grandmother of three. She and Stephen had retired to Santa Fe, New Mexico, before they were sixty. They had bought Diana’s dream home, a 4000-square-foot pueblo-style house made of adobe, located in the historic district of town.
Diana liked to say she was busier in retirement than she had been when she was a working mother. In a town known for its art, Diana worked as a docent in the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum. Stephen, meanwhile, golfed three days a week and played with a doubles tennis group. Today was one of his golf days. Usually, he also stopped for a drink at the nineteenth hole.
That meant he probably wouldn’t be home for at least two more hours. It was too pretty a day to do housework, Diana thought, but she could at least vacuum. The blue skies of Santa Fe never got old. They were high up at more than seven thousand feet in elevation, giving a special luster to the sky. The climate of Santa Fe was considered high desert. It was cold in the winter—brisk, Diana liked to call it—but rarely below freezing. The city’s altitude kept it from ever getting too hot. It was a locale that Goldilocks would have approved of.
Diana began her vacuuming. Now that they no longer had a dog, it was considerably easier to vacuum the house, especially with its tile floors. Diana finished with the master bedroom and started in on Stephen’s “retreat,” where he liked to watch sports. That’s when she first heard the music.
The tune sounded familiar, but Diana couldn’t quite place it. She wondered where the music was coming from. They had neighbors on both sides, but both were generally quiet, and the houses were spaced well apart. It was unusual to hear noise.
The music, Diana decided, sounded as if it was coming from their guesthouse. That was strange because, at the moment, it had no guests. For much of the year it was occupied. The casita, as they called it, had proved popular with children, friends, and relatives. Everyone always commented on how cozy it was, with its kiva fireplace and enclosed patio. No one ever seemed to stay without threatening to move in.
Maybe a television was playing, or the radio. Of course that still didn’t explain how one of those devices might have gotten turned on. Electronic gremlins weren’t unheard of, though. Her computer always seemed to be doing strange things. Maybe some rogue electronic signal had kicked on the TV.
Diana opened the front door of their house. There was no question but that the music was coming from the casita. And now she recognized the tune: “Someday My Prince Will Come.” It was the Barbra Streisand version, not the version sung by Disney’s Snow White. Streisand’s version had been popular while Diana was dating Stephen. Her friends used to hum it around her as a joke. Everyone always remembered the first line—someday my prince will come—but it was rare anyone remembered beyond that.
Then it struck Diana that Stephen’s golf game must have fallen through, and that he was announcing he was home with “his” song.
Her Prince had come home.
Diana went and opened the patio door to the casita. Its front door was ajar, and the music coming from inside was overloud.
“Stephen?” she called.
Diana made her way through the patio into the casita. Barbara sang, “‘Somewhere waiting for me, there is someone I’m longing to see.’”
A shadow emerged from behind the curtains. It was not someone she was longing to see. The short sledgehammer the figure held came up off the ground, rising like a cobra.
Her caller was sure as hell not her prince.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Circling Around the Rabbit Hole
“We’re pretty sure we’ve got another one,” said Special Agent Ben Corning.
“I assume you’re talking about the Stormy Weather Killer. Or did the card-sharp contingent win and is the murderer now known as the All-In Killer?”
“The winning hand went to the card sharps. Our serial murderer is now referred to as the All-In Killer.”
“Tell me about the latest one.”
“We’re preparing a case packet for you with pictures and details,” he said.
The other shoe dropped an insinuating moment later: “Any way you can hand-deliver a packet to him?”
I didn’t want to tell Corning about how Detective Charles and I were trying to tie Ellis Haines to one or more Las Vegas homicides. Seeing Haines wasn’t anything I enjoyed doing, but I was especially wary about seeing him now. Haines picks up on things in an almost preternatural way. On the face of it, he seems to be incredibly intuitive. That might just be the result of an overactive mind. Like the poker player he is, Haines is always thinking of odds and angles. He is part prescient, part suspicious animal, using his senses t
o monitor everything around him. Because of his paranoia, he is always alert to the wrong body language or the misspoken word.
“I am going to have to decline your invitation,” I said.
“What can we do to change your mind?” asked Corning.
“I’m trying to put the finishing touches on one case,” I said, “while at the same time being in the middle of two other cases.”
“We wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t important. Haines seems to have honed in on the killer’s wavelength. If he can give us a few things, it’s possible he could be a lifesaver. Playing catch-up isn’t a good position for us to be in. Playing catch-up means we’re looking at another body. We need to try and get ahead of the killer.”
“I understand that, and I sympathize, but I’m still going to have to say no.”
“I warned the assistant director that you might not cooperate,” Corning said. “The AD told me if that occurred, he’d be calling your Chief Ehrlich.”
I’m okay with prodding but don’t react well to outright bullying. “Tell your AD that if he doesn’t have Ehrlich’s direct number, he can call me and I’ll give it to him.”
“I value not having my head chewed off, Gideon. How about throwing me a bone? Can’t you give some positive spin for the AD?”
I didn’t envy Corning’s position. At the same time, I wanted to be further along in the Las Vegas investigation before seeing Haines again.
“I know you think it’s important that Haines gets the pictures and report on this latest case,” I said. “I’d like to go on the record, though, and say that I suspect Haines is using you for his own purposes, even if I don’t know what those are. Still, if you go ahead and give Haines this latest material, I will communicate with him by phone later this week.”
“That is great,” said Corning, not even trying to hide the relief in his voice. “When can we arrange the call? Are you good for the day after tomorrow?”
I sighed. “Give me at least three days,” I said. “And I’ll expect those case notes today.”
“Roger that,” said Corning.
I wondered if all Feds enjoyed talking like pilots. “I’ll take a short synopsis in the meantime,” I said.
“Female victim,” said Corning, “aged sixty-two. She was bludgeoned to death.”
“Where did this happen?”
“Santa Fe, New Mexico,” he said. “It appears the woman was ambushed inside the guesthouse of her luxury home.”
“What links her with your All-In Killer?”
“The killer didn’t bother with any meteorological symbols this time. The woman was found with four black croquet mallets in her hands. Red lipstick was used to draw a heart around her lips. And there was a flamingo brooch pinned to her blouse that her husband never remembers seeing before. We believe those clues translate to the queen of hearts and the four of clubs.”
“A queen-four hand,” I said.
“There are poker players that call that hand ‘the prince maker.’”
“Why is that?”
“What’s a queen for?” he said.
“Ruling,” I said, “knighting people, being a figurehead—”
Corning interrupted me. “To make princes,” he said, and then quickly added, “That’s not the FBI’s interpretation. We know it’s sexist. That’s what poker players call it.”
“That seems like a bit of a stretch.”
“It might be until you learn the victim’s name: Diana Prince. She was a mother of five.”
“Shit,” I said.
“There’s more,” he said. “In the book Alice in Wonderland, there’s a character named the Queen of Hearts. Supposedly, she has two passions: she likes to order beheadings and she enjoys playing croquet with a flamingo mallet, like the bird. That explains the flamingo brooch, which further identifies Diana Prince as the queen of hearts.”
This was the kind of measured madness, I thought, that Ellis Haines would love.
“Add to that the four black clubs left behind.”
“I get the picture,” I said.
What I didn’t say was that I wished I hadn’t.
“I’ll get you those case notes,” he said. “How about we talk tomorrow and firm up details for your call?”
I was already regretting having agreed to that. “I suppose,” I said.
Corning clicked off.
Alice in freaking Wonderland, I thought. It was a rabbit hole I would have preferred not going down.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Celebrity Endorsements
Even though from my end the Mateo Ramos case was officially closed, that didn’t mean I was done with it. It wasn’t enough to have confessions, statements, and even a body. The DA’s office had my number on speed dial, and ADAs kept calling me with questions. A few times I referred the callers to my report. There are some lawyers who seem to think reading about the case is optional.
Reporters wanted to interview me, especially as all I had offered them was a brief written statement. They kept calling LAPD media relations, as well as the chief of police’s office, hoping to flush me out into saying more.
To my thinking, it was better that media relations do the talking than me. The brass was also of the opinion that when it came to me making statements in public, less was more.
The word from the DA’s office was that it looked like they were going to reach a plea deal with Marty, Quentin, and Hitch, but not until the coroner weighed in that Mateo had died hours before he was buried. I hoped for their sakes that Mateo had been as dead as they said he was. No one wanted an Edgar Allan Poe story of burying Fortunato while he was still alive. That kind of miscalculation could be the difference between probation and life in prison.
Thinking about the coroner’s office reminded me that they were also on my callback list.
Most of my incoming calls I was letting go directly to voice mail, but when the display showed Bud Bennet was calling, I picked up.
“I need you to block off next Wednesday or Thursday. It looks like we’ll be shooting one of the commercials that day. Maybe you can take Sirius to the doggie beauty parlor on Tuesday. And shine his medal, would you?”
“That’s wardrobe’s job,” I said. “And speaking of wardrobe, tell them that Sirius will need a forty-long jacket, and his pants waist size is thirty-six, with a thirty-four inseam.”
“I suppose you want me to ask, ‘Left or right?’”
“I’ll ask him and get back to you. Are you planning on using the pit bull for the shoot?”
“No final decision has been made. I heard someone in production was worried that the dog might be vicious.”
“The dog is sweet,” I said. “After all she’s been through, she still thinks humans are the good guys. Full disclosure: I adopted her.”
“People are going to start thinking you’re soft-hearted, Gideon.”
“Those who know me know better than that.”
“If you want, I’ll vouch that you’re an SOB.”
“I knew I could count on you.”
“In all seriousness, you did a good thing.”
“Emily deserved another chance. Hell, she deserves a first chance. You should see her just being part of everyday stuff; she seems so grateful.”
“Emily got her forever home.”
“I prefer to say she found her pack.”
“Motley as it is,” he said.
“Or mutt-ley.”
Bennet groaned. “I should hang up,” he said, “but there’s one other thing I called about. The reward flyers are in. They look great.”
With the promise of a Crime Stoppers commercial, not to mention the public service announcements on dog abuse and dogfighting, I had forgotten about the flyers.
“How many do you have?” I asked.
“I think we ordered a hundred.”
“Do you have extras?”
“How many do you need?”
“A dozen would be good.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.�
��
“I’ll stop by your office later this morning and pick them up.”
As it turned out, Bennet left me more than the flyers. There was also a bumper sticker in my packet that read, My Rescue Dog Rescued Me.
With Sirius and Emily riding with me, we took a drive to Boyle Heights and made several stops. I put the dogs on leashes and visited several businesses, talking to employees and owners. Everywhere we went, I asked to hang a flyer. Without exception, every business agreed.
During the visits, I made a special point of introducing Emily, telling them she had been one of the dogs who were dumped. As far as I could tell, everyone was sympathetic to her plight. I pointed out the reward that was being offered and gave out my business card with my cell phone number.
My last stop was Best Scrap. As I pulled into their lot, I saw Tito leaving the trailer office carrying a box. I parked in the customer lot, angling the car so as to watch where Rivera was going. There was a Ford F-350 hitched to a fifth wheel. Rivera opened the trailer’s door and placed the box inside. From what I could see, the trailer looked packed up and ready to go. Farther into the lot, I could see a second truck and trailer that appeared to be full of cargo. A tarp was draped over the bed of the second truck, but it didn’t completely cover the space, and I could see some of what was there. There were benches, what looked to be a generator, and dog crates.
Both dogs had been asleep in the back seat when I parked but were now beginning to stir. It was almost like Emily had awakened from a bad dream to a worse reality. She started whining, and I reached back to reassure her. Sirius joined me in the comforting, but our joint efforts didn’t soothe her. I wondered if she had spent time on this property, or if she had caught the scent of the man who’d tried to kill her.
