Blood Money

by Doug Richardson

  Interstate 118—aka the Ronald Reagan Freeway. By the time the vet had made the eastbound turn, his clarity of purpose was returning. He would need to stash the eighteen wheeler and cargo for some sixteen hours. And as sweet as that black-on-black eighteen wheeler looked at first sight, it was surely easy to spot from the air. And the LAPD had helicopters in the sky twenty-four seven. So as Beemer kept snug to the right lane of the freeway, he imagined how large a structure he would need to hide the air-conditioned behemoth. His eyes were flicking to the corners of his windshield, looking for police or news choppers. That’s when it caught his eye. A thick-bellied aircraft amusingly painted to appear like Sea World’s famed killer whale, Shamu. Clever damn advertising, thought Beemer, who recognized the jet as a Boeing 737 on approach to the nearby Bob Hope/Burbank Airport.

  Ka-ching.

  Because nobody cared to live right next to a noisy airport, most surrounding properties were usually dedicated to warehousing and manufacturing. And in this summer of the never-ending recession Beemer reasoned there had to be mucho empty space where he could set the brakes to the rig, power down the diesel engine, and get himself some much needed R.E.M. sleep.

  But not before some Mexican food and a margarita.

  He could all but taste the salted rim of the glass just thinking about the chilled tequila concoction. The concept of reward came to mind. A brief, but deserving, recreational dash before bedding himself down. For Beemer, whether bunked in the cramped space of the semi’s sleeper or lying in a high desert saddle, M-16 A4 rifle for a companion under a blanket of stars, a few hours of sleep would always bring him greater clarity and purpose.

  In the eighty-five minutes of driving in counterclockwise revolutions around the industrial streets outlying the Burbank airport, Beemer surveyed a number of potential properties for his overnight stay. Warehouses mostly with tall cyclone fences topped with rusty razor wire, with empty parking lots and untended weeds growing wild through cracks in the asphalt. The building owners may as well have hung out neon signs reading nobody’s home.

  Around the corner from a sex toy shop and at the end of a side street that appeared nearly as derelict as the buildings that occupied it, stood a compound that dated back to the nineteen thirties when the San Fernando Valley was nothing but farms and fruit orchards. There were three warehouses of varying size, but similar shape—each with a long arching roof and concrete ramps leading to inviting loading areas. Beemer recognized it as a former fruit packing plant, not unlike those he’d grown up around in Northern California, where a high-schooler looking for spending money could easily get hired for six summer weeks to sort plums from peaches.

  The lock was easily beaten with a pair of heavy duty bolt cutters. The gate rolled open and shut with minimum hassle. As for security of the buildings themselves, Beemer was pleased to find the largest of the trio wasn’t defended by so much as a chain. The single yawning door was counterweighted and slid aside with far less effort than expected. Moments later, the big rig was parked inside and gently idling in order to continue powering the refrigeration unit. All Beemer needed now was food, about ten gallons of diesel, and rest.

  He dressed himself to better resemble a homeless man, including mismatched shoes and a woolen cap made to look extra dingy by rubbing it in dirt and spent motor oil. With that, he limped from the old compound and sought out a car to steal. Preferably an older model Honda. That would be the easiest. When he was just fifteen, he had gotten so expert at beating Civics’ entry and starter systems that he used to take bets that if he didn’t boost the car in under sixty seconds he would buy the beer.

  And the Beemer, as his pals called him, never bought the beer.

  Less than an hour later, he was seated atop a barstool inside a local Mexican eatery called Don Diego’s. He’d already ordered the classic number 2 on the menu—two chicken enchiladas topped with sour cream, beans and rice on the side. While he waited for his meal to arrive, he sipped on a frozen margarita while his right hand dipped into the basket of warmed, crispy tortilla chips.

  A television in dire need of replacement was hanging in a high corner behind the bar. It was the older, tube-styled set with a rotary channel changer tuned to cable channel 3. The color was skewed and the picture slightly distorted with video noise. But the sound was bright and easily cut through the clatter of voices, canned Tejano music, and a bartender-in-training washing glasses. It was the local news hour. And the lead story was the horrific murder of young TV star, Pepper Ellis.

  Pepper Ellis? Who the hell is Pepper Ellis?

  Beemer’s interest was instantly piqued. He leaned closer. Sure, the broadcast mentioned Kern County and the dead sheriff’s deputy. But the gist of the story was about the underage actress, her older male companion, and their Lake Tahoe exploits prior to her early morning demise. The Local 7 news broadcast had waxy reporters in Tahoe, Bakersfield, and Beverly Hills, each propped up in front of a camera cabled to a nearby microwave truck. Beemer pegged the blonde reporting from Kern County as a pixie with a nose job. A certifiable spinner in his estimation. She was probably standing atop a milk crate just to make her look taller on TV. How important she appeared—and probably felt to her toes—as every word uttered from her lipsticked mouth was broadcast live to the news gobbling masses. As far as the investigation went, the Kern County Sheriff’s Department was giving up little other than very general descriptions of the suspect and the big black rig he was allegedly driving.

  They got nothing. I’m way ahead of the curve.

  Whatever small comfort Beemer received from the TV cutie with the nose job, cracked when the anchor, an even blonder news babe from behind a prop desk, imparted some breaking news that the almighty FBI had inserted itself into the investigation. Of course, the Bureau had no comment on their interest in the murders. But Beemer knew. The FBI was on to the robbery in Reno. That, coupled with the crime in Kern County, made for an interstate crime. The Feds were now involved. Police agencies across the state were certain to be on alert. Manpower increased.

  Beemer’s face felt flush and red with heat. If he could have gotten away with it, he would have poured his entire margarita over his head to cool off. His eyes swirled around the old restaurant as if searching for an answer. Somehow he keyed on the tinsel and garland hanging everywhere. It was as if the restaurant owner had half an idea to make every day feel like Christmas, then gave up once they had run out of materials.

  Damn, and I need to sleep.

  Sleep, though, would have to wait. Lists were forming inside Beemer’s head. More boxes to check off before the next day’s final push to ship his cargo.

  13

  “Comin’ to you in three,” said the news director’s voice over Saji Shahin’s IFB.

  “Copy that,” said Saji, checking her hair in the tiny four-inch monitor she used as a mirror. She readjusted her foot mark six inches to her left, hoping her ink black hair would better pick up the kick light behind her. Officially, it was supposed to be a daylight news shot. But the Bel-Air driveway next to which she stood was blocked by huge stands of shrubbery and trees, all manicured to match the symmetry of the Gothic gate that protected the mansion beyond.

  “Better,” said Saji, nodding to her cameraman that she had found her spot.

  “Okay,” the news director said in Saji’s ear. “Cameron’s gonna throw it to you as soon as we come back from commercial. How long’s the package?”

  “Forty-six seconds,” Saji answered.

  “’Kay. Give you fifteen for the setup and another twenty for the wraparound.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Comin’ in sixty,” said Adam, Saji’s cameraman-slash-soundman-slash-boy-Friday. His blazing white teeth were in sharp contrast to the darkness of his skin and matching dreadlocks.

  Saji, a stop-and-stare news beauty, flipped her notebook open. Read and reread her bullet points while forming her mouth and tongue into a quick set of vocal gymnastics. She didn’t want to get stuck on her Rs li
ke she had nary an hour ago when the five o’clock news team cut to her live shot.

  “Right Ricky Roberts Rode a Rocking Racehorse,” repeated Saji to herself, working over her Rs until they sounded closer to neutral than mid-Atlantic, where the Persian-American girl was born and raised. “Right Ricky Roberts Rode a Rocking Racehorse.”

  “Anything new since we did this an hour ago?” asked the news director through Saji’s earpiece.

  “Nope. Still no sign of her pops,” said Saji.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll show during the live shot,” added Adam.

  “Better not lock it off then,” winked Saji, commenting on Adam’s habit of locking off the video camera fixed to the tripod’s swiveling head to save the strain on his lower back. This also allowed Adam to attend to both the broadcast’s sound quality and tweak the lighting to best flatter his on-camera crush.

  “Thirty seconds,” said Adam.

  Saji had a habit in the ticking seconds before the camera’s red light switched on. She would look away from the lens and focus her eyes on a distant object. For the naturally farsighted woman, it provided a restful, nerve-easing respite before she was broadcast live to half a million TVs. Any facial tic, flub, or tongue-tangle would not only be exposed live to the viewing public, but would remain forever a searchable fail blog on the Internet.

  As Saji counted down to zero in her head, she set her eyes past the row of news trucks, each with a custom paint job to reflect its respective broadcast station, microwave mast at full attention. Beyond the hubbub came a deep blue Mercedes S Class crawling up the sweeping drive. Not that a luxury car was anything out of the ordinary. This was Bel-Air, California. Zip code to old movie stars and hedge fund billionaires. It was as if a collective alarm had gone off inside every reporter’s and photographer’s brain. This was the car. And inside the car was the man they all wanted to talk to.

  The electric motors hummed as the mansion’s huge gate began to fold inward. Four suited security guards, all of them beefed up like offensive linemen stuffed in Armani jogged through the crack.

  “Adam!” barked Saji, jumping off her mark, hoping to set herself in a live shot as the Mercedes rolled through the gate. Cameramen and reporters converged. But Saji had both position and the live audience. She counted down to zero and, “Cameron? At this very moment, Conrad Ellis is returning to his Bel-Air home after, presumably, helicoptering to and from Kern County to see the remains of his only daughter, Pepper Ellis. As you can see, a lot of the media have gathered, hoping to get some sort of word with the car-dealer-turned-entertainment-mogul.”

  The chauffeur-driven car eased into the driveway, careful not to so much as nudge a single of the swarming photographers.

  Saji bent a little at the waist and rapped on the tinted rear window.

  “Mr. Ellis,” asked Saji, playing entirely to the camera. “Would you like to make a statement? Mr. Ellis, please?”

  A security guard blocked Saji’s path. He was using his size to peel away the crowding throng before the luxury car slipped through and the gates closed. But that was all right by Saji. She hadn’t expected an interview or even a statement. It was nothing more than great live news television. And she had been damn lucky that her news director had thrown the shot to her at the actual moment her subject arrived.

  “Shit!” cried Adam.

  “So we still await some kind of official statement,” continued Saji, “from Conrad Ellis or, for that matter, any spokesman from the Ellis fam—”

  “We’re out,” said Adam.

  Saji touched her IFB. There was no sound whatsoever coming through her earpiece.

  “Whaddayou mean, we’re out?”

  “They cut back to the studio before I got the head unlocked.”

  “You didn’t get it?” asked Saji, incredulous. “You were still locked off?”

  Adam shrugged, those dreadlocks bouncing on his shoulders.

  “Got some audio,” said Adam.

  “Godammit!” barked Saji.

  “Hey!” shouted a fellow newsie. “Think you’re the only live shot?”

  “Sorry, sorry,” said Adam, raising a hand and apologizing for Saji.

  “Oh. You apologize to them but not me?”

  “Saj. Really sorry. We’ll get him next time.”

  “You made me look like an idiot,” said Saji, tossing Adam the mic, then trudging off to the microwave truck where she could review the embarrassing footage.

  * * * *

  Safely inside the gates of his property, Conrad Ellis—or Connie to his friends—stepped directly from his car and through the front door of his mansion. A butler was waiting to take his jacket and offer his sincerest condolences. Conrad barely acknowledged the servant with a nod while keeping his eyes straight ahead as if in search of his next business acquisition. He turned left when he felt the first antique rug underfoot, then quickly recollected that his library room was in the opposite direction. The confusion wasn’t just that of a grieving father attempting to navigate while in a state of shock. The house was brand new to Conrad. He had purchased the nouveau goth property and all its unconventional furnishings in a foreclosure auction only weeks earlier and had barely moved in. The previous owner, an eccentric movie actor, had spent years and millions of dollars renovating the historic house into a permanent Halloween haunt, only to find that his business manager had robbed him silly and left him bankrupt.

  “Connie,” said Garvin, rising from his seat and making both hands available in case Conrad needed a hug. He didn’t. Conrad, a certified germaphobe, kept his hands to his sides as he made his way over to the desk, sat briskly and searched the top drawer for a bottle of Purell. None was found.

  Garvin Van Der Berk, the famed Hollywood security guru, was plenty used to dealing with odd personalities. His job wasn’t to judge the client. His was to provide defense against potential threats…and a discreet offense against supposed enemies.

  “What can I do for you?” asked Garvin.

  “Like the security,” said Conrad. “That was good. Helpful. Appreciated.”

  “They’re yours until you say otherwise.”

  “My little girl,” said Conrad in an abbreviated, staccato style that fit his short, sharp, but powerful look, “she’s dead. No mistake. It was her in the car. Boyfriend dead, too. Didn’t like him so…”

  “What about her mother? Is there anything—”

  “On some safari thing. We’ve sent word. She can arrange her own security.”

  “Of course.”

  “What do you know?” asked Conrad. “About the thing.”

  “The accident?”

  “Not an accident at all.”

  “You’re right. Triple murder. Poor choice of words, sir.”

  “All I got was what was on the radio,” said Conrad. “Shit kickers up in bumfuck? Didn’t tell me anything. More worried about their dead deputy. Deputy? I wanted to say. What about my precious? Did you even know who she is? She’s got two million Twitter followers. How many that dead deputy got?”

  “Exactly,” answered Garvin.

  “So?”

  Garvin quietly swallowed. He hadn’t yet been engaged to investigate anything. His initial task had only been to create a security buffer between the businessman and the rattlesnake press.

  “It’s early yet,” danced Garvin. “But the initial report is that the FBI is involved. That tells us there’s most likely an interstate connection.”

  “Pepper was in Tahoe.”

  “Which could mean they have evidence that she was followed across state lines.”

  “Stalker thing.”

  “A possibility. Now, sir. Before I continue my investigation,” said Garvin. “You need to tell me just what kind of result you’re looking for.”

  “Result?”

  “Or outcome.”

  The client slumped back in his oversized leather desk chair. His balding skull sank into the cushion. His stubby fingers gripped the armrests until his knu
ckles turned white with balled up tension. Garvin observed a man used to being in complete control. A man who solved his own problems with the snap of his fingers. Rapier quick. Decisive to a fault. Self-made and self-loving and his own best friend. Garvin concluded that Conrad Ellis was a man who only acknowledged outcomes in his own favor.

  “My daughter is dead,” said Conrad. “How do I square that?”

  “You can’t, sir.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Sir?”

  “Whoever this is,” said Conrad. “He hurt me. So I get to hurt him. It’s only right.”

  “So you’d like the assailant hurt—”

  “No. I want to hurt him. I pay. I get to hurt him. Me. I want to peel his skin.”

  “Sir—”

  “You asked what I wanted. So there it is.”

  “Yes, sir. There it is.”

  “That means we need to get to him. Before the cops. Before the FBI, yeah?”

  “Theoretically.”

  “And you can do this?”

  Garvin nodded, not caring to answer or confirm verbally. It was one thing arranging to have somebody investigated, wire tapped, blackmailed, injured. Even killed. There were plenty of competent players in L.A. The right amount of cash delivered to a certain party could often obtain a positive result. Garvin’s specialty was smashing the kneecaps of men who stalked female celebrities. But this wasn’t close to that kind of gig. Conrad Ellis, in his moment of shock and/or grief, wanted some unholy retribution. He wanted to bring the pain up close and personal.

  Garvin knew only one answer for his clients.

  “As you wish, sir,” he said, knowing that even the richest and most powerful, despite their grandiose talk, usually balk well short of getting their hands dirty. That put the odds on Garvin. He would make investigative headway, see how close he could appear to getting a result, but in the end, would most likely be forced to punt whatever he uncovered to the authorities. That would keep both himself and his client out of jail.