Silent Partner

by Jonathan Kellerman

  He shifted his glance to me. “I'm not without feeling for females, Dr. Psychology. Probably appreciate the species a lot more than most hetero studs.”

  “What else?” said Milo.

  “Nothing else. They had a couple of drinks, coochy-cooed, then left—no doubt for some motel. No big deal. Then, about a year later, the dish's face is all over the papers. And the more I learn about it the more curious I get.”

  He coughed again, scratched his midriff. “There was this dope bust, lots of shooting. She got killed, along with some guy who turned out to be her brother. The papers made both of them out to be big-time pushers. She was a contract player with Belding's studio—never made a single film and supposedly that was strong evidence it was just a cover. No matter that most of the players never worked, and she'd been a party girl—not a word of that in print. The brother worked at the studio, too, as a grip. Both of them small potatoes. Yet they managed to pay the rent on this very ritzy pad on Fountain—ten rooms—owned a fancy car, were living frigging high. Papers made a big deal about that, going into detail about her furs and jewelry, about how the two of them had come a long way for a couple of Texas crackers—'cause that's what they were. Her real name was Eulalee Johnson. The brother was a nasty little punk named Cable, used to strong-arm small-time bookies, lean on streetwalkers, but never got too far—small-time all the way. Not exactly your big-time pushers, huh, Lump? But the department fed it to the papers, and the papers ate it like candy. Three hundred grand worth of H found on the premises—hell of a lot in those days. John Q. Public bought it.”

  “You didn't.”

  “Hell, no. No one pushing that much smack south of Fresno was doing it without mob connections—Cohen or Dragna. Certainly not a couple of Texas crackers who'd come out of nowhere. I checked the brother's sheet—drunk and disorderly, lewd conduct, larceny, the strong-arm stuff. Penny ante. No connections with anyone—no one on the street had ever seen him with a reefer in his pocket. The whole thing smelled bad. And the fact that Hummel and DeGranzfeld did the shooting made it stink to high heaven.”

  “Why were you checking, Ellston?”

  Crotty smiled. “Always searching for leverage, Lump, but this was too scary. I didn't want to touch it. Still, it stuck in my craw. Now here you are stirring it up again—ain't that sweet.”

  “How'd it go down?” asked Milo.

  “Supposedly someone phone-tipped Metro Narc to a huge stash in the Fountain pad. Hummel and DeGranzfeld took the call, brought a couple of black-and-whites along for backup, but had the uniforms wait outside while they checked out the premises. All's quiet on the western front, then bang bang bang. The uniforms rush in. Both Johnsons are shot to pieces on the living room floor; Hummel and De Granzfeld are tallying up this giant dope stash. Department's version is they knocked on the door, were met with unfriendly fire, smashed the door down and jumped in, guns ablazin. Cute, eh? A party girl and a small-time drifter taking on Narco bulls.”

  “Any board of inquiry into the shooting?” said Milo.

  “Very funny, Lump.”

  “Even with a woman getting shot? John Q.'s usually squeamish about that.”

  “This was '53, McCarthy fever, height of the dope panic. John Q. was paranoid about pushers in every schoolyard. And the department made Lanier out to be a big-time bad girl, Satan's frigging bride. Not only weren't Hummel and Sticky Vicky investigated, they were instant heroes—the mayor pinned ribbons on them.”

  This was '53. Just before Leland Belding had turned into a playboy.

  The year of Sharon and Shirlee's birth.

  “Did Linda Lanier leave any children?” I asked.

  “No,” said Crotty. “I'd remember that. That kind of thing would have made it into the papers—human interest and all that. Why? You got family members out for revenge?”

  “Revenge against who?” asked Milo.

  “Belding. That phony bust had his name written all over it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Hummel and DeGranzfeld were his boys; Lanier was his party girl—supporting that place on Fountain woulda been like you and me springing for lunch. In the process of asking around, I learned Lanier might have been more than just a party girl—she'd been known to enter Belding's private office on the studio lot, stay in for a couple of hours, leave happy. This is stuff office boys knew, but it never got a line of print. I figure they had something or other going, she offended Belding in some serious way, and he had to get rid of her.”

  “Offended how?” said Milo.

  “Who knows? Maybe she got pushy about something. Maybe her stupid brother put the arm on the wrong guy.”

  “The doctor—Neurath—could have been her sugar daddy,” said Milo.

  Crotty shook his head. “Neurath had money problems. His wife was a compulsive gambler; he was into the sharks on and off—it's why he started moonlighting in the first place. And one more thing: Lanier's building on Fountain was owned by Belding.”

  Milo and I looked at each other.

  Crotty said, “Bastard owned half of L.A. at one time.”

  “Neurath was an obstetrician,” I said. “Maybe Linda Lanier was seeing him professionally.”

  “Pregnant?” said Crotty. “Putting the paternal squeeze on Belding? Sure, why not?”

  Milo said, “How soon after the shooting did Hummel and DeWhatsisname quit?”

  “Not long after, maybe a couple of months. And this with both of them commended and promoted. Now tell me more about the film Lanier and Neurath were on.”

  “Doctor and nurse skit,” I said. “The doctor didn't know he was on camera.”

  “More strong-arm,” said Milo. “The brother?”

  “Could be,” said Crotty.

  “What would they be strong-arming Neurath about?”

  “Who knows? Maybe the Scraper Club, maybe the wife's gambling problem. Either could have screwed up his reputation—he had a society practice, nice plump Hancock Park matrons waiting for stirrup time.”

  “Is he still around?”

  “Who knows?”

  “What about Hummel and DeGranzfeld?”

  “DeGranzfeld died a couple of years after moving to Nevada. Affair with a married woman, husband had a temper. Far as I know, Hummel's still in Vegas. One thing for sure, he's still got pull in the department, or at least he did a couple of years ago.”

  “How so?” said Milo.

  “He had this nephew, real fascist fuckup, liked the booze, almost flunked out of the academy, the bullying son of a bitch—frigging chip off the old block. He was involved in that Hollywood Division robbery scandal a few years back, eminently qualified for a Board of Rights or worse. But nothing, except a transfer to Ramparts. Then all of a sudden, guy's a born-again Christian, promoted to captain, West L.A.—” He stopped, stared at Milo, grinned like a kid on Christmas morning.

  “So that's what this is about.”

  “What?” said Milo, innocently.

  “Lump, you crafty badger. Gonna get that scum, aren't you? Finally do a good deed, after all.”

  Chapter

  24

  After that, Crotty got solicitous, offering us coffee and cake, but we thanked him and declined, left him standing in the doorway, under the cowbell, surrounded by his animals.

  “Feisty old guy,” I said when we were back in the car.

  “Bluster,” said Milo. “He's been pouring it on since he tested positive.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Those pills weren't vitamins—they're some kind of immune strengthening regimen he got through his network. He beat hepatitis a few years back, thinks if he's mean enough he'll beat this too.” Pause. “That's why I humored him.”

  It took a while to turn the Seville around in the alley. When we'd gone a couple of miles on Sunset, Milo said, “Trapp. Paying off old debts to his uncle.” A moment later: “Got to find out what he's fixing.”

  “Maybe a murder made to look like suicide?”

  �
�You keep coming back to that and wouldn't it be nice. But where's the evidence?”

  “Belding and Magna were old hands at camouflaging murder.”

  “Belding's dead.”

  “Magna lives on.”

  “What? Some corporate conspiracy? The old chrome-and-glass bogeyman.”

  “No,” I said, “it's always people. It always comes down to people.”

  Several blocks later he said, “The Kruse killings weren't made to look like anything but murder.”

  “Hard to do that with three bodies, so Trapp's using the sex murder thing instead. And maybe killing Kruse wasn't part of the plan—if Rasmussen did it, the way we theorized.”

  Milo's face got hard. We passed Vine. Hollywood was finally getting out of bed. The Cinerama Dome was showing a Spielberg movie and the lines stretched around the block. A few blocks farther it was all by-the-hour motels and jumpy-looking streetwalkers banking on loneliness and clean blood.

  Milo stared at them, turned away, leaned back against the seat and said, “I could use a drink.”

  “Early for me.”

  “I didn't say I wanted one. I said I could use one. Descriptive statement.”

  “Oh.”

  When we stopped for a red light at La Cienega, he said, “What do you think of Crotty's theory? Lanier and her brother squeezing Belding and Neurath?”

  “The loop sure seemed to be setting Neurath up.”

  “The loop,” he said. “Where'd those porn freaks say they got it?”

  “They didn't. Just said it was expensive.”

  “I'll bet,” he said. Then: “Let's take a side trip, see if we can get them to be a little more forthcoming.”

  I drove to Beverly Hills and turned left at Crescent. The streets were empty; people who tear down $2 million houses in order to build $5 million houses tend to stay inside to play with their toys.

  We pulled up in front of the Fontaines' green monstrosity and got out of the car.

  The windows were shuttered. Empty driveway. No answer to Milo's ring. He tried again, waited several minutes before heading back toward the car.

  I said, “Last time there were four cars here. They're not just out to brunch.”

  Before he could answer, a rattling noise from the neighboring house drew our attention. A heavyset dark-haired boy of around eleven was riding his skateboard up and down the driveway, dodging between a trio of Mercedes.

  Milo waved at him. The boy stopped, turned off his Walkman, and stared at us.

  Milo flashed his gold badge and the kid gave his board a kick and skated our way. He turned a handle on the front gate, rolled through, and sped over.

  “Hi,” said Milo. The boy peered at the badge.

  “Beverly Hills cop?” he said, with a thick accent. “Yo, dude.”

  He had a black spiky hairdo and a buttery round face. His teeth were banded with plastic braces. A bit of black down clouded his cheeks. He wore a red nylon tank top emblazoned with the legend SURF OR DIE and red-flowered shorts that reached below his knees. His board was black graphite and plastered with decals. He spun its wheels and kept smiling at us.

  Milo put away the badge, said, “What's your name, son?”

  “Parvizkhad, Bijan. Six grade.”

  “Good to meet you, Bijan. We're trying to find the people next door. See them lately?”

  “Mr. Gordon. Sure.”

  “That's right. And his wife.”

  “They gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Trip.”

  “A trip where?”

  The boy shrugged. “They take suitcase—Vuitton.”

  “When was this?”

  “Sat-day.”

  “Saturday—yesterday?”

  “Sure. They go away, have cars take away. On big truck. Two Rolls-Royce, gangster whitewalls Lincoln, and radical T-Bird.”

  “They put all the cars on a big truck?”

  Nod.

  “Was there a name on the truck?”

  Uncomprehending look.

  “Letters,” said Milo. “On the side of the truck. The name of the tow company?”

  “Ah. Sure. Red letters.”

  “Do you remember what the letters said?”

  Shake of the head. “What's their case? Coke burn? Hit man?”

  Milo stifled a smile, bent, and put his face close to the boy's. “Sorry, son, I can't tell you that. It's classified.”

  More puzzlement.

  “Classified information, Bijan. Secret.”

  The boy's eyes lit up. “Ah. Secret Service. Walther PPK. Bond. Chames Bond.”

  Milo looked at him gravely.

  The boy took a closer look at me. I bit my lip to keep a straight face.

  “Tell me, Bijan,” said Milo. “What time Saturday were the cars taken away?”

  The boy gestured with his hand, seemed to be struggling for phrasing. “Zero seven zero zero hour.”

  “Seven in the morning?”

  “Morning, sure. Father go to office, I bring him Mark Cross.”

  “Mark Cross?”

  “His briefcase,” I suggested.

  “Sure,” said the kid. “Napa leather. Executive styling.”

  “You brought your father his briefcase at seven in the morning and saw Mr. Gordon's cars being taken away on a truck. So your father saw it too.”

  “Sure.”

  “Is your father home now?”

  “No. Office.”

  “Where's his office?”

  “Century City.”

  “What's the name of his business?”

  “Par-Cal Developers,” said the boy, volunteering a phone number, which Milo wrote down.

  “What about your mother?”

  “No, she don't see. Sleeping. Still sleeping.”

  “Did anyone but you and your father see?”

  “No.”

  “Bijan, when the cars were taken away, were Mr. Gordon and his wife there?”

  “Just Mr. Gordon. Very angry about cars.”

  “Angry?”

  “Always, about cars. One time I throw Spalding, hit Rolls-Royce, he get angry, scream. Always angry. About cars.”

  “Did someone damage one of his cars while they were taking it away?”

  “No, sure not. Mr. Gordon jump around, scream to red men, say careful, careful, idiot, don't scratch. Angry always about cars.”

  “Red men,” said Milo. “The men who took the cars away were wearing red clothing?”

  “Sure. Like pit crew. Indy Five Hundred.”

  “Coveralls,” muttered Milo as he scrawled.

  “Two men. Big truck.”

  “Okay, good. You're doing great, Bijan. Now, after the cars were taken away on the truck, what happened?”

  “Mr. Gordon go in house. Come out with Missus and Rosie.”

  “Who's Rosie?”

  “The maid,” I said.

  “Sure,” said the boy. “Rosie carry the Vuittons.”

  “The vweet—the suitcases.”

  “Sure. And one long bag for airplane. Not Vuitton—maybe Gucci.”

  “Okay. Then what happened?”

  “Taxi come.”

  “Do you remember the color of the taxi?”

  “Sure. Blue.”

  “Beverly Hills Cab Company,” said Milo, writing.

  “All get in taxi,” said the boy.

  “All three of them?”

  “Sure. And Vuittons and one maybe-Gucci in trunk. I go out and wave, but they don't wave back.”

  Milo autographed one of the boy's Nikes, gave him a business card and a sheet of paper from his L.A.P.D. note pad. We returned his wave and left him skating up and down the empty block.

  I got back into traffic on the east side of Sunset Park. The park was filled with tourists, milling around the arcing fountains, shading themselves under the floss trees. I said, “Saturday. They split the day after the Kruse murders were discovered. They knew enough to be scared, Milo.”

  He nodded. “I'm gonna
call the taxi company, try to find who moved the cars—see if I can trace them that way. Check the post office in the event they left a forwarding—unlikely, but you never know. Call the kid's father, too, though I doubt he noticed as much as old Bijan. Kid was sharp, wouldn't you say?”

  “You bet your Ralph Laurens,” I said. And for the first time in a long time, we laughed.

  But it faded quickly and by the time we reached home, both of us were morose.

  “Fucking case,” said Milo. “Too many dead people, too long ago.”

  “Vidal's still alive,” I said. “Looking damned robust, in fact.”

  “Vidal,” said Milo, grunting. “What did Crotty call him—Billy the Pimp? From that to chairman of the board. Steep climb.”

  “Sharp spikes would lend traction,” I said. “Along with a few heads to step on.”

  Chapter

  25

  My plan, Monday morning, was to return to the library and search for more on Billy Vidal and the Linda Lanier dope bust. But the Fed-Ex man came to the door at 8:20 bearing a single parcel. Inside was a dictionary-size book bound in dark-green leather. A note rubber-banded to the cover said: “Here. I kept my side of it. Hope you do ditto. M.B.”

  I took the book into the library, read the title page:

  THE SILENT PARTNER: IDENTITY CRISIS AND EGO DYSFUNCTION IN A CASE OF MULTIPLE PERSONALITY MASQUERADING AS PSEUDO-TWINSHIP. CLINICAL AND RESEARCH RAMIFICATIONS.

  by

  Sharon Jean Ransom

  A Dissertation Presented to the

  FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL

  In Partial Fulfillment of the

  Requirements for the Degree

  DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

  (Psychology)

  June 1981

  I turned to the dedication page.

  To Shirlee and Jasper, who have meant more to me than they could ever imagine, and to Paul, who has guided me, adroitly, from darkness to light.

  Jasper?

  Friend? Lover? Another victim?

  In the Acknowledgments section, Sharon reiterated her thanks to Kruse, following it with cursory appreciation for the other members of her committee: Professors Sandra J. Romansky and Milton F. Frazier.