The Detective & the Chinese High-Fin

by Michael Craven

  Harrier and Martinez had interviewed the following people extensively: Fuller’s parents, Jackie and Phil; his brother, Greer—yes, definitely also a pretentious name; his ex-girlfriend Sydney Scott, formerly Sydney Frost, who was now married to a man named Geoff Scott; and a former business partner named Craig Helton. They had also talked to a handful of other people less extensively.

  As Ott had said, all of them had alibis, airtight alibis, and most of their statements were not particularly sensitive. Keaton, according to everyone but his parents, was a shit.

  I looked at a picture of him premurder. Straight, dark hair that he wore kind of long. Blue eyes. And a pretty big guy. The picture was only the top half of him, but I knew from the file that he was just under six feet, so I filled in the rest of him in my mind. He wasn’t fat but just sort of soft all over, fleshy looking. Interesting, I thought, that he’d been headed to the gym when he was shot. Maybe he was one of those guys who go to the gym all the time but never seem to get much done. But that softness—it was especially pronounced in his face. He had a little double chin that sat underneath a smug smile, and there was a smug, contemptuous look in his eye.

  I put down the picture and called the number for Jackie and Phil Fuller.

  “Hello,” a cautiously friendly woman’s voice said.

  “Hi, is this Jackie Fuller?”

  “Yes, who’s calling?”

  “My name is John Darvelle. I’m a private investigator. Detective Mike Ott, with the LAPD, contacted me and told me you were looking for some private help to investigate the murder of your son.”

  Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Would you like to talk? In person?”

  “Yes. Would tomorrow work for you? I realize tomorrow is Saturday, but my husband isn’t home from work right now and I’d like him to be here when we talk.”

  “Tomorrow’s fine.”

  I like working on Saturdays. When you work on Saturday, there’s an energy present that says: Nobody’s working today. In fact, the notion of you’re not supposed to work on Saturday has essentially been hammered into us. So when you do, it’s almost as if everyone around you is frozen. Not literally. People are moving, of course, going to the beach, hitting yoga classes, even working on little personal projects, puttering around the house, maybe screwing in a fresh lightbulb or two. But they’re not working-working. So when you do work on Saturday, it can be quite freeing, even energizing. You’ve got the day to yourself, and because no one else is doing much, the feeling of progress intensifies. Add to that, people aren’t usually calling you, annoying you. You’ve got this uninterrupted pocket. You’ve got hours and hours gifted to you. It’s like you’re stealing time.

  “Thank you,” Jackie Fuller said. “What time works for you?”

  “Any time.”

  We settled on noon. Jackie Fuller told me that she and Phil lived in Hancock Park, then gave me her exact address.

  “See you tomorrow,” I said. And hung up.

  I called my friend Gary Delmore. Gary’s a TV director. A big one. Directs all sorts of shows for all sorts of networks. He’s done really, really well in that world. And he’s made a dump-truckful of money.

  He’s also very openly decided to be a lifelong bachelor and use his Hollywood clout to “date” as many actresses, and other attractive women who just might be impressed with his success, as he possibly can before he dies. He’s forty-six, tan, and has big, sort of eighties hair and too-white teeth. He’s a walking midlife crisis. And he’d be the first to tell you that. And that’s why Gary’s great. He knows who he is. We hang out from time to time. When we do, it usually involves beer and Ping-Pong. He beat me once. That fact annoys me to an astonishing degree. And that fact gives him an astonishing amount of pleasure. The other thing that’s usually involved when it comes to me and Gary is insults. Specifically, insulting each other. We enjoy doing that for some reason.

  “Gary, what’s happening?”

  “The Darv is calling. To what do I owe this distinct pleasure?”

  “Oh, before I get to why I’m calling . . . you’re not in the middle of a spray tan, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Teeth whitening?”

  “No again.”

  “Are you sleeping with a woman who’s only interested in you to advance her career?”

  “Not right now, no. I will later, but I’m not currently doing that.”

  “Great. Then you can talk.”

  “Well, I am in the middle of something. I’m at a toupee store. Looking at a couple of models I think would be good for you.”

  “I don’t need a toupee,” I said with a hint, just a hint, of actual defensiveness. “That’s why I have a barbershop-level head shaver. When I zip it down, it looks good.”

  “As good as it can. But I’m looking at a number here I think would look real nice on you. It’s called the Ferret.”

  “Ha,” I said. Had to give Delmore that one.

  Gary said, “So, what’s up?”

  “Need a favor. Can you give a part to the niece of a cop friend of mine? Just a line or something in a show. I owe him one. His niece is a young actress. Probably mid-, late twenties or so. She needs a break.”

  “Um. Is she talented?” Gary added a salacious spin to the word “talented.”

  “Off-limits. If you sleep with this girl, this guy, her uncle, will shoot me. He literally will. He will sacrifice his badge, his career, his life, and shoot me. He already wants to shoot me. You bang his niece and it will happen.”

  “Then I might do it just for that.”

  “I walked into that.”

  “Yeah, you did. But Darv, truth is, I can’t just promise you that I can give this girl a line. I’m going to have to audition her. She has to have some actual talent. I know you like to tell me how bad some of the shows I direct are, but at the end of the day you have to have talent to get a part in one of them.”

  “Gary. You’re currently directing a show that stars MC Hammer as a preschool teacher.”

  And he was. It was called Grammar Time!!! And yes, there are three exclamation points in the actual title.

  I continued, “I mean, let’s face it, I know some of the shows you do are good. But a lot of them—we’re not exactly talking about Apocalypse Now.”

  “Listen. I’m on set—”

  “I thought you were at a toupee store.”

  “I left and came to set. And while I’d love to listen to you insult me some more, I’ve got to go print some money while you follow around some guy’s wife who’s banging her tennis pro. Text me the girl’s info. I’ll get her in something.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it. And you will not sleep with her. Right?”

  “I will most likely not sleep with her.”

  That would have to do for now.

  I hung up, sat at my desk, looked out onto the lot, head still, eyes not really focusing on anything, almost in a trance. I’d say that about seven minutes later the trance was broken. The gray Mercedes sedan that had been sitting at the exit to my lot the evening prior appeared, pulling right up in front of my office. The big grille was pointing at me once again. The car wasn’t technically in a space; those were around the corner from the entrance—my spot was there, and a couple of guest spots. No, the Mercedes sat rudely right in front of me like it might lurch forward and come at me. It was staring at me, threatening me.

  I didn’t like it.

  The same man I’d seen behind the wheel the night before got out of the driver’s side. The slicked-back hair, the goatee, the big, bronze-tinted glasses. I was able to see now that he was on the short side, maybe five-six. He was in pressed gray pants, Gucci loafers, a crisp white shirt, and a thin, expensive-looking brown leather jacket.

  The guy who got out of the passenger side of the car was definitely not on the short side. He was large, very large. I’d say six-six. And big, muscular. In jeans, black biker boots, and a white V-neck T-s
hirt. He had dirty blond, semicurly, longish hair. Nineties hair.

  The two men shut their doors simultaneously. I heard the car doors lock and the alarm engage as they walked into my office.

  I looked at the older man. Again, no expression. None.

  I looked at the big guy. One of his eyes sat just a bit higher in his head than the other. It gave him an inbred, psychotic look.

  The older man said, “John Darvelle?”

  “Yep.”

  The older man continued to give me his expressionless expression. The big guy didn’t give me much more. A faraway but wild-eyed, almost ravenous, stare.

  These two had confirmed who I was.

  But I wouldn’t say they were glad to see me.

  7

  The two men walked over to my desk and sat down in the two chairs in front of it. The older man to the right. The big guy to the left.

  The older man said, his monotone voice mirroring his expression, “John. I’m Tony Lewis.”

  I didn’t respond.

  The big guy didn’t introduce himself.

  Tony kept talking. “You just did a job for Muriel Dreen. I’ve known Mrs. Dreen a long time. I sometimes help her out with things. Used to help her husband out too. He was in real estate. Inman. Good man.”

  He stopped talking. I could mostly see his eyes behind the bronze. He was thinking, contemplating his next sentence, or his next move.

  I still didn’t respond. Verbally, anyway. The blood in my body, however, began moving around more rapidly.

  The older man eventually said, “John, Mrs. Dreen has lived in this town a long time. Her whole life. That’s more than eighty years. She’s a very respected woman. She has a lot of influence. Don’t fuck with her, John.”

  Tony Lewis stared at me.

  And still—I didn’t respond.

  I could feel my heartbeat thumping a bit in my ears.

  He continued, “Mrs. Dreen thinks you lied to her about where you found her ring. Nobody likes to be lied to, John. Muriel Dreen especially. I think you lied too. So what really happened? With the ring? You went over to the girl’s house and what happened? The girl had it, right? She gave it to you. That’s what happened. You need to tell me that. Because the girl can’t get away with it. It wouldn’t be right. Now, if you tell me the truth, we can tell the proper authorities and move on. But if you don’t tell me the truth . . .” He paused and said, “I’ll make you tell me the truth.”

  The way he kept saying “the girl” gave his flat, emotionless delivery a sinister quality. It was clinical, inhuman. Like he could discard her, or anyone, without giving it much thought. Dump a body in a creek, then brush off his hands, brush off his pants, get in his car, drive off, go have dinner.

  I looked at Tony Lewis and said, “I told Peter Caldwell what happened. That’s what happened.”

  Now it was Tony Lewis not responding. He just looked at me, I at him. I believed he was a tough guy. I could see him scaring somebody who got in Muriel’s way. I could see him, back in the day, making sure Inman got his money after some fucked-up shady real estate deal. Tony was small, but he had confidence, a threatening energy behind the bronze glass.

  I broke the silence and said, “Now get out of my office.”

  He didn’t move.

  But the big guy did.

  He stood up.

  Walked right up to the front edge of my desk, then sat down on it. His black boots were on the floor, but he twisted around to look at me, his left hand flat on my desk and his right hand, and arm, free.

  The big guy looked at me with his uneven eyes, his removed insanity. In a raspy, almost hoarse voice he said, “Why don’t you tell us what really happened.”

  I looked down at the few things I had on top of my desk. My laptop, sitting in front of me. My landline over to my right. A cup that held some black felt-tip pens. A square glass paperweight about two inches tall that I rarely use but like the look of.

  I looked at the big guy and said, “Why don’t you get off my desk.”

  I glanced at Tony Lewis. Nothing.

  “Last chance,” the big guy said.

  My heartbeat was louder in my ears now, making his threat seem like it came from farther away than it actually had.

  I said, flatly and this time not to the big guy and not to Tony Lewis but to the space in between them, “Get off my desk and get out of my office.”

  I didn’t expect them to listen to me. I’d said it to trigger the action, and it did.

  The big guy moved quickly. With his right hand he grabbed my shirt at the chest and pulled me toward him.

  I grabbed the paperweight with my right hand, pulled it up a foot, then smashed it down onto his left hand, which was still sitting flat on my desk.

  Crack. Had to have broken a bone. Maybe two.

  The big guy, loosening his grip on my shirt but managing to hold on, took a deep breath and looked down at his hand. I put the paperweight back on my desk and stood up, still connected to him. He was locked in on his hand, giving me his profile. I hit him with a left, hard, in his right ear. Not hard enough to rupture the eardrum, but close. Real close. Ever been hit in the ear? It’s excruciating.

  The big guy instinctively released my shirt and covered his right ear with his right hand as he went down.

  I looked at Tony Lewis. While I’d been going at the big guy, he hadn’t moved. I think he wanted me to think he was just watching the whole thing, cool as a cucumber, amused even. But I could tell, even though his eyes were hidden a bit, that he wasn’t cool. No, he was frozen, unsure what to do. I moved around my desk and went behind the chair he was sitting in. I grabbed its arms from behind and yanked it backward. Tony Lewis fell to the floor.

  I took hold of his leather jacket at the shoulders and dragged him across the slick concrete toward my open slider.

  I got him outside, right next to the driver’s-side door of his Mercedes. I flipped him over, putting his chest on the concrete. I wrestled the jacket off him and threw it onto the hood of the car. I put my right foot in the center of his back and pressed down, hard. Then I leaned down and grabbed the fat on the back of Tony Lewis’s right upper arm.

  I pinched it as hard as I could. Tony let out a strange, guttural gasp.

  “Leave. Are you going to leave?”

  He nodded.

  The big guy was on his feet now, leaning against the wall next to my desk, his right hand still covering his right ear and his left hand held gingerly out in front of him. He was unsteady and didn’t know what his next move should be, as I now had his boss pinned to the ground.

  I pointed to the big guy but spoke to Tony Lewis.

  “Tell him to get over to the car.”

  Tony Lewis nodded.

  The big guy walked over and stood next to the passenger-side door of the Mercedes, keeping his hands in the same positions.

  I took my foot off Tony Lewis, walked back over to my desk, and sat behind it.

  Tony got up, grabbed his jacket off the hood, unlocked the car. Neither one said a word as they both got in.

  I’d pull a gun if they came back at me. They’d probably pull one as well. They’d tried the brute-force route; it hadn’t worked. And there had to be a gun, or two, in the car. In the glove, under the seat, somewhere.

  It didn’t happen.

  I watched Tony toss his jacket in the backseat, start up the Mercedes, and pull away.

  I reached into my fridge and got out a bottled water. I took a few big sips. Then I took a few big, deep breaths. Then, over the next twenty minutes, taking intermittent sips and breaths, I calmed down a little.

  I opened one of my filing-cabinet drawers, pulled out the Muriel Dreen folder I’d put away, then pulled Peter Caldwell’s card out of the folder. I looked at it: his firm’s name, the address. I closed up my office, got in the Focus, and headed toward Watson, Reese and Lucerne, Century City.

  Century City is a small, semifancy district just west of Beverly Hills. It’s got a couple of n
ice, little suburban neighborhoods, but it’s mostly commerce and offices: high-end law firms, talent agencies, places where people wear suits, even in L.A.

  Was Peter going to be at work? Not sure, but a risk I was willing to take. If he wasn’t there, I’d call him and track him down that way. But if he was there, I wanted to surprise him.

  I found his building. Parked. Before I went in, I asked a professional-looking group standing just outside the entrance what floor Watson, Reece and Lucerne was on. They were kind enough to tell me. With a smile, in fact. Then I walked into the building, walked right by security, and took the elevator to 22.

  I got out, scanned the reception area. Very quiet. And traditional. Lots of dark furniture, a couple of those deep brown leather chairs with the studs all over them. Two pretty receptionists sat behind a big wall of a desk, the firm’s name emblazoned in a classic font on its front.

  I said to one of them, taking in her sharp business suit and strawberry-blond hair tied up tight in a bun, “I’m here to see Peter Caldwell. He said to come on back.” Before she could say anything, I was walking down a long hallway, looking into open office doors.

  Six offices down, there was Peter behind his desk, a bright, crisp view of the bright white buildings of Century City behind him.

  When he saw me, he looked terrified.

  I walked into his office and sat down on a tastefully covered green office chair in front of his desk.

  He started to say something. “I told Mrs. Dreen not to—”

  I cut him off. “Peter. I told you what happened. I told you the story. And then you send those two over to my office to threaten me? Peter. What were you thinking?”

  Stammering and swallowing, he said, “I told Mrs. Dreen not to do that. I told her not to do it. What happened?”

  “Why don’t you call Tony Lewis and ask him what happened.”

  Peter nodded.

  Right then, the strawberry-blond receptionist appeared in the doorway behind me. “Mr. Caldwell—”

  Peter put a hand up and said, “It’s okay, Laura.”

  She quietly vanished.