“Deal,” I said, only too glad to have an ally, which reminded me I had to find Mia, and I hoped to God she wasn’t embroiled in all this depravity.
The bouncer took a Trilby hat from a passing guest who went to argue, then when he saw the size of him said, “Take it, it’s yours.”
We used the hat to hide her face, I gave her my leather jacket and she let her hair down and she looked like one of the other guests. At the top of the sweeping staircase, I scanned the party guests looking for Mia.
“He’s . . . a . . . cop,” giggled the girl much to my alarm, and the bouncer clasped his beefy hand over her mouth to stop her giving the game away. We descended the stairs as naturally as we could. I spotted Mia on a swing high above the crowd and signaled for her to join us. She dismounted professionally like a gymnast and we headed down a roped-off, dark passage following the bouncer. “This is the back way out,” he said as we rushed along the darkened corridor. “You’ve got to understand, I didn’t know what was going on. This was my first gig here and I’ll be reporting them to the agency.”
“Duly noted,” I said. “You’ll be free to go, don’t worry.”
Mia shot me a glance, but I made a face to say that it’s okay.
“I only provide the muscle while I’m trying to land a role, I’m really an actor, see?”
Who isn’t? He opened the door for us and pushed me in the back.
We were in a room containing Bruce Matherson and Marcus Eglin, who was holding an Uzi.
CHAPTER 15
It was two of us against three of them. I couldn’t count on the girl and I didn’t think much of Marcus Eglin’s chances, maybe in an even fight and if they weren’t armed, we might have had a chance.
“He’s a cop, boss,” the bouncer told them.
“We both are,” said Mia defiantly. Bruce Matherson looked genuinely surprised. “We’ve had your parties under surveillance for ages. We have the place surrounded,” she said matter-of-factly and almost had me convinced. “You’d better let us go, right now.”
Marcus Eglin said, “I believed you right up to the end. Very good . . . Miss?”
“Demeanor,” Mia told him.
“Misdemeanor, priceless,” Sheldon chuckled.
“You should be an actress,” said Marcus Eglin.
“I was,” said Mia.
The bouncer clicked his fingers. “I thought I recognized you!”
Mia was thrown for a moment, then regained her composure.
“Dressed like that?” asked Bruce Matherson genuinely interested.
“Almost exactly like that,” said the bouncer. “The movie was called. . .” He clicked his fingers repeatedly as he tried to recall its title.
“No matter,” said Marcus Eglin. “The reason I know there’s no police involvement is that one of your highest-ranking officers is here tonight and he’s unlikely to attend knowing there’s going to be a raid. But it was an exceptionally good performance, Miss Demeanor.”
Mia said to the bouncer, “You were very good, too,” playing to his ego. “You convinced me you wanted to help.”
She made a signal with her eyes and I took it to mean to blow smoke up his ass. “Ya had me fooled, too,” I said, then thought, well, he had.
“Thanks,” he said, almost blushing. “I have been taking lessons.”
“Money well spent,” Mia added.
When the bouncer’s false modesty made him bashfully look at the ground again, I snatched the pistol from his grip and before he could react, I clubbed him on the temple. He crumpled like a sack of coal and I quickly pointed it at Marcus Eglin. “Hands up,” I said. He hesitated. “Don’t even think about it, man.”
“Hand it over,” said Matherson, “They don’t have any evidence. It’s all hearsay. I’ll walk –” Eglin shot him a glance. “Uh, I mean we’ll walk. We’ll all walk, no problem.”
Marcus Eglin relented and handed over the Uzi, which I took and gave the machine pistol to Mia. She covered them as we backed towards the door.
“Besides,” continued Bruce Matherson coolly. “They’re here illegally and they may get out of the room but there’s no way they’ll get off the estate alive.”
“Ya wanna bet?” I said confidently.
“Sure,” he smiled broadly. “Soon as you leave, I’ll raise the alarm.”
“Not without a tongue ya won’t,” I said.
His smarmy smile vanished momentarily. He gulped and then it returned. “I’ll simply dial the number.”
“Not without ya hands.” I glared at him and he’d run out of bluster.
Mia swiftly hog-tied him with the drape’s cord, likewise Eglin and the bouncer. We gagged them with their own socks and I went to wrap more cord around their mouths to hold them in when I had a thought. “Why don’t we just kill ’em?” I said to Mia.
“How we going to do that and get away with it?” she asked in a tone that said she wasn’t totally against the idea.
“You heard him. He’ll lawyer up, get off scot-free and start all over again.”
I could see I was getting through to her. As I did to Bruce Matherson who thrashed about on the Persian rug like a fish out of water.
“Hmm. I don’t think it would be right,” she said hesitantly, but I could sense her warming to the idea.
“I’ll strangle them with this cord and make it look like suicide.”
Bruce Matherson spat out his sock. “How the hell can it look like suicide!? I’m hog-tied, for Christ’s sake!”
“He has a point,” said Mia.
“It’ll look like one of their sex games gone wrong, Hollywood’s full of ’em. Mister Showbiz dies in a bizarre sex game.” I glared right in his face. “How would ya like that, huh? How do ya wanna be remembered? You wanna go down in history as the freak pervert that ya are?”
“I’ll give you money, anyth –” I shoved the sock back in his mouth forcefully. I think I loosened a couple of his porcelain caps. Good. “Too late, Matherson. You and ya pervert pals are going down.”
We fled from the room, helping the girl to walk, who seemed to be flagging. We made our way back into the main foyer and were almost to the front door when someone saw the Uzi and screamed. Everyone turned in our direction. The rockstar noticed the girl. “You can’t take her from here,” he said firmly.
“Who is she?” asked a bare-breasted woman I recognized as having played a nun in a long-running TV show.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Donnie Deathstar. “She can’t leave with them, it’ll spoil everything. This will all come tumbling down. None of us are safe. We’ll be ruined – exposed.”
The party guests shuffled forward, making a semicircle around us. I could see the self-preservation of the so-called celebrities: no matter how distasteful the next few minutes might be, they were prepared to look the other way while their problem, us, was dealt with. I’d had enough and fired a volley from the Uzi into the ceiling. The noise, smoke and smell of the gunfire had the desired effect. Mia screamed her best horror scream, setting off some of the other guests and causing mass panic. The crowd made for the front doors, knocking the rockstar aside. We moved with the surge of the crowd and dashed to my Camaro and shoved the girl into the back. I screeched away, leaving rubber behind.
“He’s on a motorcycle!” screamed Mia. I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the rockstar on a chopped-down Harley-Davidson fat-boy that he was often spotted around town on. He opened the throttle and sped after us.
“We need the cops here and fast,” Mia said.
I leaned from the window and fired the Uzi into the night sky. That would have the cops here in moments. I waited for the motorcycle to clear the other guests and aimed roughly at him and fired but missed. He fishtailed across the lawn in an effort to head us off. I saw something in his hand glinting in the moonlight, then saw the muzzle flash and saw the spark of a bullet ricocheting just in front of us. Not a bad shot, considering he was moving and at speed. I slammed my foot to the floor and aimed at the gates, which the
guards were in the process of closing. I fired randomly in their direction. I had switched the Uzi onto semi-automatic so it fired in short bursts, but it was enough to scatter the guards and they fled to the relative safety of their hut. The motorcycle cut across the lawn and I saw him taking aim again.
Maaan, if he hits my car.
I lurched from side to side in an attempt to make a harder target and his shot went wide. “Drive into him!” Elvis begged, “Ditch him, run him over!”
I had a better idea. I just needed to stay alive for a few minutes longer, get out of the grounds at least. I fired at the security hut, to make sure there were no last-minute acts of bravery from the guards and I zigzagged out of the mansion grounds and onto South Mapleton and headed north. I saw in my mirror the chopper banking over left to take the bend and gain some ground. I sped up the drive, passed by the Playboy Mansion, swung right onto Sunset, with the motorcycle not far behind. I saw him raise his arm to take a shot. I saw the muzzle flash but did not see or hear the bullet hit anywhere close.
“You drive like a chick!” said Elvis.
“I don’t.”
“You don’t what?” asked Mia.
Whoops. I’d said that aloud. “Er, nothing.”
Elvis chuckled and then said, “Remember me in Speedway, oh man, I blew them all off the track.”
I told him that it was only a movie and that he wasn’t really Elvis. I tried to concentrate on the matter in hand. As I saw the street straighten up ahead, I pointed to a strap hanging from the roof by the passenger window and said to Mia, “Ya might wanna hold onto the Jesus Christ strap.”
I floored the engine as she asked, “Why’s it called a Jesus Christ strap?” I flicked the switch to the nitrous tank I had secured in the trunk and her head flew back into the seat with the thrust. “Jesus Christ!” she screamed, as her arm flailed around looking for the strap. I suppressed a smirk as we left the motorcycle way behind. Within two minutes I hung a left into Benedict Canyon Drive and started to climb towards the bends. Now we were in my territory, the Camaro could take the corners as if on rails. I hit the first hairpin bend and the tires squeaked in protest. The girl became interested and I thought she might be coming out of her drugged stupor. I noticed Mia hanging on for dear life as we went into the second bend. I suddenly had the urge to laugh, thinking how bizarre it was that the rockstar, Donnie Deathstar, was chasing us through the canyons and shooting at us.
Only in Hollywood.
The car felt as if it was going to tip over with the centrifugal force, but it stayed upright; the rockstar banked the chopper and closed the gap further. Still, I was sure he would need both hands on the handlebars to keep up and have no time for a shot going through the set of bends. We lurched into the next bend, which I misjudged and the wheel went dangerously close to the edge, spewing up dirt as two wheels left the blacktop and almost scraped the crash barrier. Mia screamed and the girl giggled. We were going onto the straight, before the next hairpin bend and the Harley chopper with superior speed caught up with us. In the mirror I saw him raise his arm with the pistol; he drew alongside and steadied his aim, pointing at me. It was a good move actually: take out the driver and that would kill all of us at this speed. I had other plans. I gunned the engine and pulled away, he didn’t take the shot and I realized that he couldn’t have many bullets left, which gave us an edge. I saw the next hairpin bend looming: it was a right-hander with a sheer drop to the left. We’d been doing close to one hundred miles an hour on the straight, I slowed to roughly seventy to let him catch up. I decelerated and was still going at twice the recommended speed to take the bend. As predicted, he drew alongside. It was an awkward shot for him as he was using his right hand to keep the throttle open, leaving his left to aim, which was also across his body as we went into the bend. I swerved the car outwards, ditching him; his spontaneous reaction was to swerve, he didn’t have time to think. It was an automatic response. He dropped the gun to use two hands to miss colliding with me and was too late to see the sharp bend and the enormous drop. He had no time to react and hit the low crash barrier head-on and was catapulted over the handlebars and launched into space. The motorcycle followed moments after, the underside caught on the metal crash barrier in a sea of sparks and must have ruptured the fuel line. The chopped-down Harley-Davidson exploded and hurtled into the darkness of the canyon in a ball of orange flames. My tires squealed in protest as I tried to avoid following him into the chasm and certain death, and wrestled with the steering wheel that was trying to jump from my grip. I was vaguely aware of the girls screaming as I narrowly managed not to follow him and brought the Camaro under control.
I reversed up and carefully collected the pistol and handed it to Mia who used her sleeve to hold it and make sure her prints were not on it. She inspected the firearm: it was a hot Beretta with the number filed off. Mia went to hurl it into the canyon. “Don’t,” I said, “I’ve got a better idea.” I was sure I’d be needing a hot gun sooner rather than later.
Union Station, 800 N Alameda St, Los Angeles, CA 90012 – midnight.
Hours later at Union Station, we dropped off the schoolgirl with a chaperone, a distant aunt who was happy to accompany her on her journey home. We tried to make the girl look respectable enough to travel. I’d bought her a ticket home, and although the drugs were wearing off, she still seemed in a daze and couldn’t quite believe what had happened to her. We’d found a train that was straight through to Seattle and had phoned her parents who were overjoyed to discover that she was alive and well, having done everything in their power to trace her. There’d been a local manhunt in the small town of Wilkeson in Washington. They were shocked to find that she had made her way to Hollywood and could not wait to get their daughter back and would be meeting her at the station. My only regret was that we could not use her to prosecute the sickos at the party, but in her drugged state I doubt if she’d remember anything of any use and maybe, for her at least, that was a good thing. She’d had a very narrow escape. She’d been lured to Tinseltown like so many others before her by the bright lights and the idea of instant fame, and the urge was too great. She’d left on a whim and apparently she’d met someone online, whom she’d thought wanted to be her boyfriend, who had promised her a movie part and somewhere to stay and she’d hopped on the first train out of town. At least her story was going to have a happy ending; she hadn’t fled an abusive home and she had loving parents who wanted her back; recriminations, if any, would follow later.
Mia and I escorted her up to the ticket desk. Our footsteps echoed at that time of night around the cavernous station and saw her onto the train, where our appearance caused a stir with the late-night travelers. Mia had done a fine job in diluting her appearance, but she still looked striking, turning heads as she passed, while there was nothing I could do about my pants with my butt cheeks hanging out, but this was LA and the commuters would have seen far stranger sights.
Melinda hopped on the train and thanked us profusely for our help and I handed her the last of my money for her to buy snacks and things for her journey and we waited until the train chugged out of the station and returned to my car. We’d decided that the last thing she needed was to be hauled along to the precinct for tons of questioning because it was doubtful that she would remember anything of use. Mia had used her interviewing skills to wheedle information, but there wasn’t much of any use. Brad, the person pretending to be her online boyfriend, who instead of being eighteen looked more like thirty, although he still had spots, had met her at the train station. He’d taken her to the mansion, which he claimed was his father’s house, but she never saw him again after he’d dropped her off there, but she could not really describe him other than that he was old. Old! Average-looking, average height, she didn’t know what car it was, blue or black, she guessed, and we had absolutely nothing to go on there. It sounded like an all too familiar story of someone lurking in a teenage chat room, grooming up to ten girls at a time. Pretending to be a teenager,
sympathizing with their woes of the pressures of adolescence then slowly weaving in the story of being in the movie industry and even if only one in ten believed it, there would be a steady stream of willing girls ready to become famous, as if fame would solve everything. Melinda had lied and told her chat room buddies that she was an orphan, maybe to gain more sympathy, but this had made her groomer home in on her, as there would be no one missing her. Melinda had told us she had been a willing guest for the first few days. She could not get over how lucky she had been, landing on her feet and living the life of luxury in the mansion, although she was confined to a far-off suite of rooms and did not meet any other guests, which she thought was weird. Bruce Matherson had been all over her and she was star-struck to meet him. She’d wanted to text her friends to boast about her new life living with a major celebrity, but they had taken her cellphone from her, explaining that Bruce Matherson’s cell had been hacked by the press and it wasn’t safe. She did not mind at first and Bruce had appeared nice, although he was a lot, lot older in real life than he appeared on TV, and shorter. She knew enough from her movie magazines that this was often the case with major stars. She’d queried Brad’s whereabouts and was given plausible answers. Yet her constant questioning was grating and Bruce’s mood suddenly changed. He snapped at her and slapped her across the face and locked her in her room and that was the last she could remember, the rest was in a haze. No doubt they had drugged her food and she couldn’t say with any certainty how many days she had been there.
We decided to send our potential witness home without formal questioning because we knew we hadn’t followed procedure and that the captain would not see it like that: he would yell that we should have gone through the proper channels and done it by the book. We also knew that the high-ranking officer in Bruce Matherson’s pocket would have already started a campaign to discredit us and the witness and who knew how far his influence went. Who else at the station was involved? The pedophiles normally had a network of friends who’d shield them, they were normally powerful people with lots of useful allies and we couldn’t be sure who else was involved as, once again, what does a pedophile look like? If the network was as powerful as we thought, would she have been safe in our custody? All in all, we decided it would be safer to send her home. Bruce Matherson could do nothing to us officially without revealing his hand, and there was a good chance he did not recognize us and was completely unaware of our knowledge of him and our attendance at the party.
On The Edge Page 16
