She took another drag and looked around, noticing there wasn't an ashtray.
"Tell me about Buddy's business,” I said.
She shook her head, dumped her ash on the glass of the table, and looked directly in my eyes. “What do I know from computers? When Buddy decided to set up the business, he asked Barry for a good entertainment lawyer. Barry suggested this Armenian, Haig Yarjanian. I don't like him. Too Hollywood. You should start with him."
"Entertainment lawyer—whatever for?"
She shrugged and smashed her cigarette butt out on the surface of the table. “Like I should know?"
* * * *
Los Angeles has one of the most diverse ethnic populations of any city on earth, and you can take it from me, because I'm from New York. L.A. has the third-largest global concentration of Jews, and the largest populations of Koreans and Iranians in the world outside their countries of origin. The immense size of the black and Latino communities is well known. Little Tokyo downtown and the Sawtelle neighborhood on the Westside have been Japanese for almost a century. East Hollywood and Glendale are Armenian enclaves. And then there are the Chinese, Vietnamese, Russians, Ethiopians, Indians—you name it.
Because of this, Cal Ops has a policy of trying to have as many “ethnic” employees as possible. Malone's idea, and a good one, because you never know which neighborhood you might need to send an op to, and a P.I. needs to blend to be effective. So you'd think that we'd have an Armenian on the payroll.
Unfortunately, we didn't. Not counting Malone and me, we only employ four ops. Besides Stowicz and Jessica Zavala we have Nora Moon (Korean-American) and John Jett (black). Consequently, Malone decided he would tackle Yarjanian all on his lonesome.
There are uniforms that aren't really uniforms—like the lawyer in a camel cashmere sport jacket, red power tie, navy dress slacks, and black tasseled loafers. For a Texas Ranger, the uniform consists of a spotless white shirt with two Western-style button-down breast pockets, a conservative tie with a perfect Windsor knot, a dark three-button whipcord suit with a single vent, a broad white Stetson sporting a classic stovepipe block, and, of course, boots. Not forgetting the hip-mounted Colt Gold Cup.
The Senator mostly gave up the Stetson, it being a little out of place in L.A. except at the Rose Parade, but otherwise retained his dress habits. He likewise retained the habit of recording his interviews, then immediately transcribing them. You can use contemporaneous notes when giving evidence in court, and Malone is nothing if not methodical. Rule Number One at Cal Ops is, Document everything.
When he got back, I listened to the tape.
* * * *
MALONE: Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Yarjanian.
Malone had found a publicity photo of the lawyer. I studied it as I listened. In it, Yarjanian stood in his office next to a famous basketball player, smiling broadly, his eyes nonetheless exuding a vulpine coldness. He wore his wavy hair long, almost to his shoulders, and in spite of being dwarfed by the hoop artist, you could tell he was tall. He looked about thirty-eight, forty.
YARJANIAN: Anything to help the family, Mr. Malone. Barry Pincus is a dear friend.A lovely man.
MALONE: I know you can't divulge anything that might compromise attorney-client privilege, but Mrs. Pincus thought you might be able to help us find her son.
YARJANIAN: Well, I only did a little work for Buddy, all of it a matter of public record. It was important work, sure. But Pleiades has its own house counsel now, so I wouldn't know about that.
MALONE: Pleiades?
YARJANIAN: The company Buddy put together with Darryl Tarkauskas.
MALONE: Sorry, but this is the first I've heard about it. What kind of company?
YARJANIAN: Computer entertainment industry. The future, baby. Within ten years, TV and film will be toast. Listen to me. If you're smart, you'll catch the wave. I can set you up with some excellent opportunities—
MALONE: That's the sort of thing I have to let the investors in the agency handle. I'll mention it to them. But getting back to Buddy—
Of course, Malone didn't mention that he and I were the only so-called “investors” in Cal Ops.
YARJANIAN: Right. Anyway, Buddy came to me because he thought he could make a lot of money with an invention of his. He already had the patent, but he needed investors and a connection for content.
MALONE: What kind of invention?
YARJANIAN: Video data compression. You've heard of MP3? It's a way to reduce the size of digital audio files. That's audio data compression. Instead of having to replace a tape or a CD in your Walkman, you get an iPod the size of a credit card and listen to hours and hours of music in MP3 format. There's also video data compression, but Buddy invented a new process that was vastly better than any other standard. His idea was to market entire libraries of movies on a little gizmo you could fit in the palm of your hand. He didn't want the kind of trouble that went with the whole Napster file-sharing debacle, and so he came to me. But I told him without the product—his so-called “vPod"—there wasn't much I could do. You ever make a pitch to Hollywood?
MALONE: Can't say as I have.
YARJANIAN: Well, you got to have something to make a buzz with. A fat kid—sorry—with just an idea and no demonstration model isn't likely to win over too many of the hotshot MBAs who decide where to put the money. He has to have something to show them first. That means he needed a partner in the manufacturing segment. I tell you, I thought about investing myself. Glad I didn't, now.
MALONE: Why didn't you?
YARJANIAN: I'm very good at what I do, Custer—can I call you Custer?—but manufacturing, that's a whole different gig. Finding a factory, suppliers for parts, labor, distribution. Major probs. Buddy needed a venture capitalist. I'm a lawyer. I told him I could help with getting the content, you know, licenses for movies, maybe, but otherwise it was out of my league. But I did say I would make a few calls. That's how he got together with Darryl. I'm glad Buddy found somebody interested, but I was a little pissed off when they decided to get house counsel, especially after I'd put them together. But I guess I see their point.And Pleiades is a real mess.
MALONE: So who is this Darryl—what did you say his last name was?
YARJANIAN: Tarkauskas. Like I said, he's a venture capitalist. Used to be big into junk bonds. Now he produces schlock teenage slasher pics for the direct-to-video market.
MALONE: Tell me about Pleiades.
YARJANIAN: You know they didn't even let me handle the incorporation? That's gratitude for you. But it's probably just as well, given their problems.
Pleiades Computer Corporation was in trouble from the beginning. Buddy might have been a genius, but he was a moody kid completely unequipped to enter the cutthroat world of high-tech business. The company began to hemorrhage as deals fell through one after another, including the costly manufacturing plant they had tried to set up in Baja. Yarjanian seemed to relish giving Malone every embarrassing detail.
At the end of the interview, Yarjanian gave Pleiades Computer's business address on Sunset Boulevard to Malone. And then the parting shot.
YARJANIAN: I wouldn't worry too much. I've heard that Buddy has a habit of disappearing for a few days with one of his nerd compadres when the stress gets too much. Las Vegas, Hawaii, the Grand Canyon, that kind of thing. I bet he turns up.
MALONE: What would it mean for Pleiades if he doesn't?
YARJANIAN: That's a good question. Buddy owns the patent outright. He's only licensing it to Pleiades.
* * * *
The next day, Buddy did turn up.
Dead.
Two-thirds down the South Rim of the Grand Canyon along a rough trail several miles off the literal beaten path. He was found by a couple of experienced hikers. Cell phone coverage is iffy out there, but they had walkie-talkies and conveyed the news of their grisly discovery to a friend back up on the Rim. She in turn called the authorities.
The body was partially decomposed thanks to the heat and the fact that
he'd been there for ten days, but there was no doubt he had died of natural causes. Heat stroke. The second most common cause of death, after falling, in one of the deadliest and most beautiful places on earth. I remembered the posters in his bedroom. It made me sad.
Malone was able to get them to fax us a map showing where the body had been found.
Buddy's death was ruled an accident.
* * * *
Since we hadn't found out anything useful and Barry Pincus was a regular client, Malone and I decided we should waive our fees for the little work we had put into it. If Cus had just sent the Pincuses a letter explaining what we were going to do, and if Pincus weren't a probate lawyer, that would have been the end of it. But being the sentimental cowboy white-hat that he is, Malone had to call and express his condolences personally. And being the professional courthouse mouthpiece that he is, Pincus asked a few questions on cross.
It started with Malone on his desk phone saying, “If there's anything I can do..."
He frowned and motioned me to sit down.
"Mr. Pincus, I'm going to put you on speaker.” He pressed the button and put the handset down.
"Mr. Ferrari is with me now, Mr. Pincus."
"Hello,” Pincus said brusquely.
"This is Carmine Ferrari,” I said. Not knowing what else to say, I continued, “I'm so sorry about Buddy."
"He was a good boy. Helene is shattered. Nothing will bring him back, but I want to know if you found the money."
Malone's eyebrows went up. He looked at me, a quizzical smile on his lips. “I'm sorry, Mr. Pincus, but Mr. Ferrari and I don't know what money you're talking about."
"Buddy died intestate. I don't know how a son of mine could be so stupid, especially after coming into some money, but there it is. He wasn't married, no kids, and so Helene and I are his heirs. Now, according to the shyster nafkeleh at Pleiades, Buddy was flat broke. Everything belongs to the company except the house. What, I just fell off the turnip truck? I tell you, Malone, Buddy was worth millions. I want to know where that money went."
Malone looked at me with a grave expression. “Excuse me a minute, Mr. Pincus.” He pressed the mute button on the phone.
"Well? What do you think, Red?"
"Maybe one of us better have a chat with Darryl Tarkauskas,” I said.
"I agree. And there's something else been bothering me, too."
"What's that?"
"Didn't Buddy always go off on these mini-vacations with some old amigo? What was he doing all alone like that when he slipped out of the saddle?"
"I don't know. But if we're going to continue, I think we'd better think twice about giving Barry Pincus a free ride."
"Right.” He pushed the speaker button. “Mr. Pincus, we think that's a very good question. Let us look into it for you."
"You bet your sweet ass,” Pincus said, and that ended the consultation.
The next day I went to go see Tarkauskas.
* * * *
I should have figured that the Senator only used me to get a rise out of Tarkauskas. Figuratively speaking, I was the bird dog flushing out the game, while Jessica Zavala sat in the blind with the shotgun.
In this case, the “shotgun” was a radio receiver mounted in Jessica's silver Honda Accord (actually her company car). Private investigators are not allowed to apply for wiretaps, and California law prohibits recording telephone conversations without a court-issued warrant or the consent of all parties. But if you have a conversation over a publicly assigned radio frequency, you have no reasonable expectation of privacy, and anybody can legally listen in. Difficult with cell phones, but easy with wireless handsets on landlines, such as Tarkauskas had in his office.
Malone had no sooner shared his wisdom about playing poker when Zavala reported in. Malone put her on speaker.
"He just made a call to a fitness center in the Valley and asked for some girl named Amber, like she's a personal trainer or something,” she said. “He's too smart to say much over the phone, but he did tell her Mr. Ferrari had been here, and that they needed to talk. She sounds like a total bimbo."
"Did they schedule a rendezvous?” Malone asked.
"She went, like, pick her up after work?” Zavala said, sarcastically affecting a Valley Girl accent, “—And they'd, like, talk in the car?"
"No good. Keep on him when he leaves, and let me think about how I can get them to have their powwow somewhere we can overhear them."
"Right, boss.” She hung up.
"Johnny did a righteous job on Tarkauskas's background,” Malone observed. John Jett had been a detective with the L.A. Sheriff's Department before joining us, and his local connections were golden. “Did you know the boy's got property in Palm Springs? Now I think that's mighty interesting."
He looked me in the eye. “How's about you look into Buddy's friends, the ones he didn't take with him to the Grand Canyon? I only ask you because you get on so well with Helene, and I reckon that's where we should start."
"Grazie, paesan," I said, deadpan. “But this time I'm taking a gun."
* * * *
Theodore Morganstern had known Buddy since fourth grade, and the two had remained best friends all through high school. When Buddy left for Stanford, Ted had gone to SC and gotten a degree in film. He now worked as a computer animator for a local independent production company. He was as gangly as Buddy had been plump. He affected a sandy moustacheless goatee, loose jeans, and a Von Dutch T-shirt. The only thing missing was a skateboard.
"You know he offered me a job at Pleiades,” he told me, trying to keep his fried eggplant focaccia sandwich from falling apart. We were at a chichi bistro on Washington Boulevard in Culver City, the kind of place where the young turks of The Business show up to prove they're beyond cool. “I turned him down, man. I didn't want any job to get in the way of our friendship, know what I'm sayin'?"
"Very noble of you,” I said. “Still, I'll bet you let him pay for the trips you guys took together."
"It's like this bond we had,” Ted replied. “Whichever one of us got rich first, he'd, like, help out the other. Dude didn't pay for everything, you know, just the ride and the hotel. I like my work and they pay me pretty well.” He took a bite from his sandwich and eggplant snot dripped wholesale onto the Formica tabletop.
"Did he use a travel agent?” That's where I'd find records of his trips.
Ted shrugged. “Usually he booked the hotel on-line, but we didn't bother with airline tickets because of the Hawker."
"The Hawker?"
"Company jet, man. A Raytheon Hawker 1000. Sweet."
"Ah. Why didn't you go with him to the Grand Canyon?"
He shook his head, all the while chewing like a goat, and swallowed. “Never asked me."
"Wasn't that unusual?"
He laughed. “Man, how stupid are you?"
I kept my temper. “Not very."
"Why do you think he didn't ask me? Because he met a chick. A very hot chick, like, Buffy in a bikini or whatever, you know, definitely not the kind you'd take home to meet Mom. Hell, I wouldn't have asked me, either."
"Are you sure she went with him?"
"Like he's going to tell me, Hi, Ted, hey, I'm going to take a few days off and go to Arizona to get lucky. No, I can't be sure. But it stands to reason.” He snagged another huge bite.
"This girl have a name?"
He smiled again, nodded, swallowed. “Too bad he didn't tell me what it was, though. Our bond wasn't that close, capisce?"
"How about ‘Amber'?"
"Doesn't ring a bell."
"Thanks, anyway,” I said, getting up. “Oh, and—ciao."
My caustic farewell was lost on him. He just smiled and cheerily said, “Later, dude!"
* * * *
When I got back to the office, Stan Stowicz was minding the store. “Where you been?"
"Interviewing a possible wit on the Pincus case,” I said. “Where is everybody?"
Stowicz pursed his lips and shook his head
. “Don't know. Malone took a call from Jessica and took off."
"Why didn't you call me?"
"Was I supposed to?"
"Tarkauskas must be on the move.” I reached for my cell and speed-dialed Zavala.
She picked up on the first ring. “Hello."
"Ferrari. What's the situation?"
"Subject left early, and I trailed him to Victory Fitness in Van Nuys, where he met this Amber. Cute little blonde, but dresses like some puta. So I called Malone, and he met me there, then we split up after subject took the girl home, and he followed subject. We didn't get to hear what they talked about. Anyway, now I'm on surveillance outside the girl's apartment in Sherman Oaks. By the way, her last name, at least according to the apartment directory, is Gerhardt."
"Good. Keep me informed, okay?"
"You got it, boss."
Next I dialed Malone. No answer. I called Malone's wife Brenda at her TV studio. She's a producer for a cable reality show on forensic science. She hadn't heard from Cus but promised she would have him call me as soon as she did.
There was nothing to do at that point but wait. Stowicz cleared his throat.
"What is it, Stan?"
"The Pincus matter. Malone had me look into this patent business."
"What did you find out?"
"Somebody's lying."
"Quick. Call the Action News hotline."
"Very funny. Seriously, I talked some more with that Armenian lawyer, and also with house counsel at Pleiades Computer. The Armenian said that young Pincus owned the patent and licensed it to the company against future profits. House counsel—"
"The shyster nafkeleh."
Stowicz did a double-take. “What?"
"Nothing. Go on."
"Well, house counsel said the company owned the patent, that they purchased it from the Pincus boy outright, but for an undisclosed amount. Still, it must have been a pretty big sum. So where's the money?"
"Well, that's the sixty-four-dollar question, isn't it? If Yarjanian is right, that explains why there was no cash. But if house counsel is telling the truth, which seems unlikely—what did you say his name was?"
EQMM, June 2007 Page 4
