by Fante, Dan
I pointed at the screen. “How ya doin’, Joe? Winning or losing?”
He shook his head. “Don’t ask. I’m down a hundred and twenty-eight bucks for the day. That’s how I’m doing.”
“Bad habit,” I said. “I had to give it up before it kicked my ass.”
Joe made a face. “Man, I hear that.”
I studied the building layout drawing for thirty seconds and saw what I thought I needed. But I had to be sure. “Hey, Joe,” I said, “can you make me a copy of this?”
“Sorree. No can do. Not tonight, Detective. Like I said, the leasing office is closed. The copier’s in there. Adelaide can help you out in the morning. So—is that all?”
Joe slid the diagram back into his desk drawer and returned to his computer screen.
“Okay, one last thing,” I said. “I promise. I need to see the building’s alarm system.”
“That’d be Adelaide too. That’s her job. I’m the doorman, Detective. I don’t rent apartments or do extracurricular stuff. I greet people. I help load luggage into cars. I’m just a grunt wearing a uniform, okay? That’s my job description.”
“Joe, we’re moving on this tomorrow. Just show me where the room is or point me to it. Five minutes. You don’t even need to get up. I just have to check out the system. That’s all I need. Then I’m gone.”
Joe shook his head, minimized his Ultimate Bet Poker screen, then got to his feet. He pointed at a door a few feet down the wide hallway, then reached to the side of his belt and produced a thick key ring that held two dozen keys. “Here,” he said, holding a single key in the air after unclamping it from the ring, “use this.”
I took the key. “Thanks,” I said, and began walking down the hall toward the door.
“Wait,” he called from behind me. “Jesus, I gotta do it! I forgot, I gotta punch in the code. It’s a new procedure. We’re up to our nose hairs in new procedures around this place.”
I followed him down the hall to a door marked ELECTRONICS / MAINTENANCE. Joe entered a combination on the key pad, then was able to key the door.
He flicked the light switch on. “Okay,” he said standing aside for me to go in, “close it after you’re finished. And don’t forget the light, okay?”
Five minutes later I’d done what I needed to do.
“Hey Joe,” I called, standing at the bank of elevators, wanting to appear like I was ready to leave, “everything looks okay. One last thing: I’m going to check out the garage now. That okay with you?”
Joe didn’t look up from his poker screen. “Whatever,” he whispered under his breath. “Jesus. Whatever.”
THE UNDERGROUND GARAGE was large and well lighted. It had three levels. I got off at one, then started checking the white painted numbers in front of the parking spaces. On two I found hyphenated numbers—tandem spaces. I walked to the two spaces that had the numerals 721A—721B. Seven twenty-one was Sydnye’s apartment number.
The yellow Porsche was not there but a sport-top black Jeep Rubicon, set up with a roll bar, a winch, and half a dozen other off-road accessories, was parked in 721-A. It was covered with what looked like weeks of dust and I assumed it hadn’t been driven in a while. A question I had neglected to put to Vikki before she’d exploded her brain was: how many cars does Sydnye own? Now I knew.
I WALKED UP the rounded driveway, two floors, to the exit. There was a side door at the end of the building façade, next to the automatic sliding parking gate. I went out the side door, but left it ajar behind me, and crossed the circular driveway on my way to Mom’s Escalade.
Once out of the garage I was again in cell range, so I removed Vikki’s phone from my pocket and punched in the first of Sydnye’s numbers. Getting into Mom’s Escalade I decided that it was time to stir the waters and coax the bottom feeders up through the swamp bottom—to be speared.
After several rings, the call went to voice mail. The message I left was five seconds of dead air. Then I clicked off.
Now I tried her second number. It too, eventually, went to voice mail. Again, I paused, breathing into the receiver for a few seconds, then clicked off.
I calculated that it would take time until my location, via cell tower, might be isolated by a computer-geek killer who kept track of such things. I knew that Sydnye was on me but I didn’t know how close she might be.
Next, I dialed Swan’s personal cell. When he picked up immediately, I was surprised. I could hear music and conversation in the background. A dinner party? “Yes, may I help you?” the smooth European accent intoned.
“Hello,” I said, “Is that you, Karl?”
“Hello. Yes, this is Karl Swan. Please speak up! How may I help you?”
“Karl, I’m . . . sort of a friend of your daughter Sydnye’s. I just wanted to check in and say hello.”
“Who is this? Please tell me what you want.”
“It’s about the murder of my friend, Woody O’Rourke. Your daughter Sydnye killed my friend. I’m going to kill Sydnye and then I’m going to kill you for sending your man after my mother.”
There was a long pause on the other end, so I kept going.
“Remember those bodies you dumped at the burial grounds out near Point Dume? You and I are going to meet face-to-face so I can deliver a message from them. You’re a sick, murdering, butchering piece of shit, Karl, and your time on the planet is now in countdown mode.”
Another long pause at the other end of the line. Then: “Please forgive my abruptness. I’m with friends at the moment. May I call you back at this number? I would like to continue this conversation—in a more private setting.”
“I’m coming. I’m coming very soon, Karl.”
Then I hung up.
STARTING MOM’S ESCALADE, I drove to a side street, parked, and turned off the engine. My head was throbbing badly after my visit to Sydnye’s apartment building and the conversation with her father. I could feel my body getting close to maxed out. I needed to close my eyes, if only for a few minutes.
The dream that came was odd and prophetic. I was standing on the Coast Highway by the gas station at Coral Canyon in Malibu, talking to a guy who had just pulled up in his car, needing directions. I didn’t recognize the man, though he looked familiar. He had a map spread out on his trunk. He said that he was delivering sandwiches to Trancas Beach—to the home of Spencer Tracy.
Looking at the guy with curiosity, I said, “Spencer Tracy’s been dead for fifty years.”
“That’s okay,” the guy said, “the sandwiches are all cold by now.”
Then a huge boulder, the size of a house, began tumbling down from the steeply graded hills above the gas station. When I saw it coming I stepped back and yelled “Look out!” But the boulder crushed the guy, then kept rolling across the highway into the ocean.
WHEN I WOKE up I looked at my watch. I’d been asleep for thirty minutes. My head wasn’t banging as badly as before.
I drove back to the Sorrento Towers and parked near the circular driveway. Through the glass entrance window I could make out doorman Joe, still battling online poker at his desk. I could be fairly certain that, owing to Joe’s passion for gambling, the video monitors behind him would be neglected while I did what I needed to do.
Down the drive by the garage door entrance I waited in the shadows while a green sports car, using a remote opener, pulled in. After the car passed through the gate and was out of my view, I stepped inside.
Walking down the sloping circular drive to the second floor of the underground lot, I made my way along the cars to the black sports Jeep parked in slot 721-A. Sydnye’s Porsche still hadn’t returned.
Looking through the plastic, zip-down window into the rear passenger area, I saw some things that would come in handy. On the rear floor were a pair of ski boots, an orange stocking cap, and a pair of orange ski goggles.
The Jeep’s door was easy enough to
open after slicing a hole in the plastic window. I reached in and got the goggles and the cap, then went to the glove compartment to make sure I was robbing the right car. The vehicle was registered in the name of Laighne Lazarus.
At the elevator I pressed “7” and went up to Sydnye’s floor. I let the doors slide open, then waited.
Not hearing any sounds, I pulled the stocking cap down over my ears. Then I put on the goggles and turned my bomber jacket inside out and put it back on.
I stepped out into the carpeted hallway. Above me I saw the camera, then the other ones at both ends of the hall.
I knew from the building diagram that 721 was the first door on the right. With the apartment alarm now disabled, it took me less than a minute with my picks and WD-40 to work both locks.
I was about to push the door open when I heard a sound like a faint sniffing noise. A few seconds later there was more sniffing, then what I took to be the scratching of paws against a flat wooden surface. I stepped back immediately. I knew exactly what was behind the door—from experience. An attack dog, silence-trained. Maybe more than one. Animals disciplined not to bark—not to make excessive noise—but to dismember and kill. I’d met one of the fuckers in Hell’s Kitchen one night, face-to-face, years ago. I knew immediately that I would have to come up with an alternate plan.
CLOSING THE DOOR to 721 I left it unlocked and moved back down the hall to the indented elevator doors, taking myself out of view of the hall cameras. Time to come up with plan B.
I took the elevator back down to the garage, removing my cap and goggles before I arrived at the lower level.
Stepping out, a few feet from the elevator bank, I saw a green Dumpster. I stowed my goggles and hat behind it.
NOW, LEAVING THE garage, I made my way across Ocean Avenue, back to where I’d parked the Escalade.
In a shopping bag in the cargo area of Mom’s car, I found what would come in handy. The first item was a can of wasp spray. I’d bought the spray from the surplus store on Venice Boulevard, thinking about the Dobies at Karl Swan’s estate. I needed it now. Wasp spray, unlike mace, is accurate up to twenty feet. Also, unlike mace, there are no legal restrictions for amounts of more than two ounces.
Next to the wasp spray in the shopping bag were the green khakis and a roll of duct tape. After putting the wasp spray in my jacket pocket I grabbed the roll of duct tape.
NOW, OPENING THE rear passenger door of the Escalade, I grabbed one of the mats. I would wrap the mat around my Beretta and use it to silence any gunshots if the wasp spray didn’t work.
On top of the rear seat, left over from the weekend, was an unread copy of the Sunday L.A. Times. It was wrapped with a thick rubber band. I slid the rubber band off the newspaper and put it, too, in my pocket. I’d need the rubber band to hold the floor mat closed around my gun hand.
BACK INSIDE THE garage at the Sorrento Towers I picked up my supplies from behind the Dumpster. On the second level there was still no Porsche convertible next to the Jeep in space 721.
Returning to seven in the elevator, I paused again outside the car, listening for sounds, then slipped on the cap and goggles and reversed my jacket before again stepping into the hallway.
The door to 721 had remained closed but unlocked. I set my can of spray down on the hallway floor and waited and listened. My back was to the hall camera as I wrapped the rear floor mat from Mom’s Escalade around my Beretta, creating a tube on my hand, then fastened it closed with the heavy rubber band.
Opening the door slightly, I picked up the wasp spray can. I immediately heard the faint sniffing inside and, eventually, the scraping of paws.
As I pushed the door open an inch into the darkness with the wasp spray in my hand, the black nose of a dog appeared for an instant, then backed away. I sprayed a thick stream from my can through the crack of the door and then on to the floor.
The reaction I got was immediate. There was whining and convulsive snorting from the dog.
Pushing the door open about twelve inches, I stepped inside. I immediately sensed the presence of another dog. Number two was whining in a low tone only a few feet away in the darkness.
My spray had done its job. Rottie number one was down and out of commission, rubbing his nose against the floor, writhing in pain.
Now I slipped the floor mat and the gun off my other arm and dropped it on the floor.
I knew that Rottie number two was very close, so I gave number one a final blast, then backed away.
In the dimness of a hallway light I was suddenly able to make out the large dark head of the second dog. He was baring his fangs.
Just as he moved toward me I let loose a stream from the can, concentrating in the direction of his eyes. I missed the eyes but did make connect with his mouth and chest. The skin contact alone caused the monster to first hesitate, then stumble back to regain himself.
My second blast hit the mark and got him across the eyes. Immediately disabled, he went down, whining.
NOW, STANDING COMPLETELY still, I found the light switch, turned it on, then set myself, looking for a third dog. A full thirty seconds went by before I lowered my can of spray. There’s been only two dogs. Only two! Jesus!
Back at the front door, I opened it and stuck my head out as far as the frame, then began listening. Apparently I had attracted no attention.
TWENTY-SEVEN
With the dogs subdued, I decided not to take any chances. Removing the two sleeping pills that I had taken from Vikki’s medicine cabinet from my pocket, I peeled the cheek skin back from each dog’s mouth and inserted one of the pills. Nightie-night.
Now I was free to have a look around while I waited to kill Sydnye Swan.
I hadn’t known what to expect inside the apartment. I had assumed the place would be a mess, mirroring the psyche of a crazed, computer-geek murderer. It wasn’t. In fact it was just the opposite.
But before I could begin looking around, I had to take more security measures with the dogs. I stepped over to Rottie number 1 and duct-taped both his front and back legs, then his snout. I did the same with the second dog.
NOW I WENT to the kitchen, where I found the cabinet with the glasses. I removed several, then returned to the front door. I stacked the glasses unevenly against the door at the seam of the opening. If anyone came in, I’d hear the glasses falling on the hard surface and know I wasn’t alone.
Stepping back around the disabled dogs, my eyes took in what looked more like an art gallery exhibit than a home. This room was wide and long, probably twenty by fifty feet. The curtains were open and solid sheets of floor-to-ceiling windows faced the street and overlooked the Pacific beyond.
The walls to my right and left were arrayed with black-and-white photographs, lined up one row above the other, beginning at eye level. All the photographs were in twenty-by thirty-inch black frames. There were, I guessed, forty photographs total.
As my eyes went from one frame to the next I could see that each photograph had something to do with the ocean as its theme. Many of them appeared to be shot from a high, rocky vantage point, in what could have been Carmel or Big Sur. All were professional-photographer quality.
In front of the photographs to my right, or, more accurately, between them, were a dozen pieces of bronze sculpture set on four-foot-high marble pedestals.
I walked to the one nearest to me and looked at the wording inscribed on the brass label. Then I moved to the next sculpture and read that inscription too. They were all the work of the same person: Camille Claudel. Claudel had been the young, obsessed nineteenth-century lover and protégé of the artist and sculptor Auguste Rodin. She had driven herself to insanity over the guy.
I had once seen an exhibit of Rodin’s bronze sculptures at the Met in New York. Camille Claudel’s own pieces were displayed in a side room of that show. She was good—talented. The detail, agony, and boldness in her forms was visually stunn
ing. Was my murderer Sydnye a mutated version of Claudel? Was there a Rodin in her life? Maybe a Rodin-a. All of the sculptures appeared to be originals and worth, I was sure, several million dollars.
IN THE CENTER of the room, on top of a large, expensive-looking sand-colored throw rug, was the living room furniture: two high brown leather couches set at right angles to each other. There was an oversized glass coffee table in front of them. On the table were three black metal bowls of different sizes. All held unwrapped chocolates—expensive-looking chocolates.
The apartment was large. It had apparently once been two dwellings; then the walls were knocked out and the interior completely redone to accommodate the additional square footage.
I crossed the planked and buffed oak floor back to the open kitchen. It was glass and steel and immaculate. The cupboard where I’d removed the glasses was still open.
The countertops were empty except for a gleaming stainless steel coffeemaker. Everything was too perfect. Antiseptic. It occurred to me that no one used this kitchen.
I began opening more cabinet doors. Everything—utensils, glasses, pots and pans and silverware—all of it was gleaming, stacked neatly, and looked brand new.
The last cabinet I opened made me stop. It once had been a broom closet. Now it had shelves and was full, top to bottom, with Happy Meal toys: Batman, Buzz Lightyear, Spiderman, Avatar, Iron Man, Lego cars and Nerf football. Dozen of the damn things, as yet unwrapped.
DOWN THE HALL I came to the bedrooms. The first one was empty save for what looked to be a rough handmade wooden table in the center of the room. It had leather hand, foot, and neck restraints attached to its sides and bottom. Sydnye’s torture room. It was twenty by twenty. All the windows in the room had been covered and sealed over with soundproof padding, the type I’d seen in recording studios around Los Angeles when I was in the business of renting exotic cars to rock stars and their pals.
