A man with a heavy Slavic accent soon answered, and Jarsdel did his best to explain who he was and what he was doing there. The manager continually asserted that no one had died on the premises and that if Jarsdel didn’t go away, the police would be called.
“Sir, if you could just come out here and speak with me, you’ll see that I have a warrant to search this man’s residence. If you don’t open the gate, I’ll have to contact more officers to assist me.” Even after years on the job, this was the hardest part—having to assert himself, and not with criminals but with ordinary civilians. It was in moments like this Jarsdel still felt like an impostor, someone playing cop, and they brought to mind all the things his parents had said to him when he enrolled in the academy.
He pushed the thoughts away as the man finally relented and emerged from the building. He was bald and hunched over, wearing a paisley shirt and khaki pants. Jarsdel badged him, then pushed the warrant through the gate for the manager to scrutinize.
“Who apartment?” he asked.
“It’s on the warrant. Grant Wolin.”
“Wolin,” he murmured. “Wolin. He very much behind on rent. Six weeks.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“I don’t see him. Any tenant. They just push rent under door.”
“Well,” said Jarsdel, “unfortunately, he’s going to continue to be behind. He’s deceased.”
“Is dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
The manager handed back the warrant. “When can I clean place out?”
“We won’t know until we take a look around. If part of the crime was committed in the apartment, it’ll take longer. Otherwise, you can expect to have it back in about a week.”
The man made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat and shook his head, but he finally opened the gate. The two then hiked up a dank, ill-lit staircase to the third floor. “By the way,” Jarsdel asked, “do you by any chance have an on-site laundry facility?”
“No. Coin laundry block away.”
They stopped in front of number fifteen. There were several notices taped to the door urging Wolin to contact the management, along with an intimidating legal document notifying the occupant that he was being given his final warning to pay his rent or face eviction. The manager knocked, waited, then knocked more loudly. No one answered. Jarsdel would have been surprised if anyone had. The manager fumbled through his keys until he found the one he wanted, then unlocked both the dead bolt and the knob.
Jarsdel gloved up. “I’ll take it from here, please,” he said, slowly pushing open the door. The first thing that hit them was the smell—high and rancid, like the noisome odor drifting from an open dumpster. It was dark inside, and Jarsdel felt along the wall to his right for the switch. He flipped it, but nothing happened. Once again, he used his Maglite for illumination. In its sharp beam, he saw a ratty-looking couch and a floor lamp arching crookedly to one side. He stepped into the room and hit the lamp’s toggle switch. The cold light of a fluorescent bulb revealed a spare living room with poorly patched walls.
His first thought was that this was indeed a crime scene or at least that the place had been ransacked. A pile of clothing was bunched in a corner, and shreds of newspaper were strewn across the badly stained carpet. A painter’s bucket had been knocked over, and its contents—which appeared to be dirt—were scattered everywhere. But then Jarsdel looked into the kitchen and saw that he’d been wrong. He also now knew that whoever had killed Wolin had inadvertently taken another life.
The cat lay on its side. It looked nearly flat, as if it’d been run over, but that was only because it had decomped pretty well in the stifling apartment and now rested in a dried pool of its own juices. Jarsdel felt no breeze and wondered if flies had managed to get in. Probably. They always found a way in. But now they were gone.
He sensed movement and saw that the manager had stepped across the doorway. “Fui!” the man said, wrinkling his nose.
“Sir, I’m gonna need you to stay outside.”
“Something dead?”
“Now, sir. Outside.”
The man turned and walked out, mumbling something in what sounded like Russian. Jarsdel didn’t suppose it translated to “Have a nice day.” He went back to his search, stepping over the cat and into the kitchen. The smell was much worse in there, and Jarsdel saw the litter box, full to overflowing with shit, in the corner by the refrigerator. Both the cat’s water and food dishes were empty. On the kitchen counter was a small bag of kibble, and it too was empty, torn raggedly open along its side. The cat had tried desperately to live. There was nothing else of interest, and Jarsdel went back out to the living room.
Against the wall by the only window was a small breakfast table and a folding chair. Next to the dining setup, stacked waist-high, were several large cardboard boxes. One of the boxes on top had been opened, and Jarsdel pulled back the flaps to look inside. The box was divided into twelve compartments; most were empty, but a few held half-pint mason jars. Underneath these was a sheet of cardboard, and when he lifted it, he saw a dozen more jars. That made twenty-four per box.
Puzzled, Jarsdel continued to scan the room. On the coffee table in front of the couch, he came across a controller for a PlayStation 4 along with another, smaller box, this one about the size of a ream of paper. It was also open, and he pulled out a receipt from a company called Customize-It, detailing the order of one thousand canning labels. Jarsdel pushed aside the packing material to get a look at what Wolin had ordered. He pulled out a sheet of wax paper, on which were two medium-sized identical labels. Against a background of palm trees and searchlight beams were the words Genuine Hollywood Dirt! Then, in smaller letters, Take a bit of the magic home with you! The word Hollywood was rendered in the same font and eye-catching arrangement as the letters of the Hollywood sign. He replaced the labels and the receipt, curious if the bucket of dirt the cat had knocked over was destined to end up in the jars.
He opened a door to what he thought would be the bedroom but found it was only a closet. The apartment was a studio, and Wolin must have been using the couch as his bed. One corner had been designated as a hamper; threadbare briefs and stained gym socks made a small, dingy mountain.
On either side of the TV stood cheap pressboard bookshelves, bearing mostly action movies and games for the PS4. He scanned the titles, then did a double take when he reached a block of games that were each part of the Call of Duty series. Lined up against the spines of the cases were perhaps twenty shell casings of various calibers. Just eyeballing the find, Jarsdel was able to identify most of them as coming from 9mm rounds. The rest were a motley arrangement, from a .22 Long to a .38 Smith & Wesson all the way to a .45 Colt. They’d need to be collected individually to prevent them from marking each other up, and he’d have to get more evidence envelopes out of his car.
Jarsdel resumed his search of the apartment and was more impressed by what he didn’t find than what he did. Nowhere in the room was there a cell phone, a wallet, or a set of keys. That kind of non-evidence was vital, indicating Wolin had most likely been grabbed elsewhere and his valuables disposed of after his death. But it also closed off yet another avenue of investigation, ensuring that no one in the complex would have been witness to Wolin’s abduction.
The bathroom didn’t look like it had been cleaned in years. A scum of greasy dust and cat hair covered the sink and the rim of the shower stall. The toilet seat was up, and Wolin hadn’t flushed the last few times he’d urinated. The smell was terrible, and Jarsdel used a foot to lower the lid and depress the flush handle. He opened the medicine cabinet and found a large Ziploc of medical marijuana, complete with the sticker that identified the product as legal per the California Health and Safety Code.
Seeing nothing else of interest, he moved again to the living room. On the floor next to the sofa was a pink plastic milk crate Wolin had been using t
o hold his files. Jarsdel flipped through the folders, hoping for a photograph that would have better resolution than the grainy printout of the victim’s driver’s license. In a folder marked MISC, Jarsdel found what he was looking for: an eight-by-ten photo of Wolin posing with a wax dummy of Jackie Chan. The flimsy cardstock souvenir frame indicated that it had been taken at the Hollywood Wax Museum. “Come play with the stars!” it read in the margin. In the picture, the ersatz action hero had one foot raised as if about to deliver a kick, but his expression looked sleepy, even dazed. Wolin stood close by, grinning and pointing one finger at the dummy, as if he really were in the company of the celebrity. Jarsdel was captivated by the image. It was so endearing, so human, and it brought home the reality of Wolin’s murder like nothing had before. Here was a real person, not the grotesque, unrecognizable corpse sitting in cold storage. For the first time, Jarsdel felt a surge of anger against whoever had murdered this man, who’d made him suffer so terribly. And for what? What could he have possibly done?
Jarsdel set the photograph aside. There was one more thing on his list he wanted to find. He opened drawers, fished through the jacket pockets in the closet, even checked beneath the couch cushions. But no matter where he looked, Jarsdel couldn’t find a single red quarter. And the manager had said there was no on-site laundry, so that meant Wolin wouldn’t have gotten hold of a red quarter meant for the washing machines.
Whatever its meaning, it had been known only to the killer.
Chapter 9
The Wax Museum was located in Jarsdel’s least favorite part of the city, just across the street from the outdoor mall at Hollywood and Highland. Day or night, the place swarmed with tourists, sidewalk vendors, star map tours, and street performers dressed to look like movie characters. Souvenir shops sold crude T-shirts, Academy Award replicas, and “Wish You Were Here” postcards featuring rows of bikinied, suntanned asses. The great irony, thought Jarsdel, was how these few blocks were advertised worldwide as epitomizing the Hollywood scene but were in reality the least authentic thing about the city. The movie industry that had once made the zip code its home had long since migrated to other parts of town or, when the tax incentives were great enough, out of California entirely. All that was left was a vague simulacrum of Hollywood, which in itself was a mere idea or even the dream of an idea. The whole scene, from the handprints at the Chinese Theatre to the giant stone elephants towering above the Hollywood & Highland Center, added up to yet another twisted mirror in the carnival fun house that was Los Angeles. Jarsdel found it all deeply depressing and more than a little creepy.
He arrived at the Wax Museum at ten, just as they were about to open for the day. A dozen tourists were already in line in the lobby, but their guide had made advance arrangements, and the crowd moved quickly inside.
Jarsdel was about to step up to the counter when something caught his eye. Nestled among the usual showbiz-themed souvenirs and knickknacks sold in the lobby stood a three-tiered wire display rack. He was familiar with the wares, though he’d never imagined any place would actually carry them. Genuine Hollywood Dirt! read the sign. Only $14.99! Even more surprisingly, it looked as if the rack needed to be restocked. Only five jars of Genuine Hollywood Dirt remained.
“How many, please?” The man behind the counter was in his midtwenties, wore a mustache, and spoke with an Indian accent. His name tag identified him as Ramesh.
Jarsdel showed his badge.
The young man looked fearful. “Is there a problem?”
“No, no problem. I want to know about the man who sold you those.” He indicated the remaining jars.
Ramesh blinked. “Sold? He did not sell—I mean, we do not buy them. We sell them here for him, on consignment. As far as I know, it is well within the law.”
“You’re not in trouble,” said Jarsdel. “I’m with Homicide. Is there a place we can talk?”
“Homicide? Who’s dead?”
“Let’s talk about it somewhere else.”
“I cannot leave the counter. There’s no one else to take over for me.”
A voice spoke up from behind Jarsdel. “Excuse me?” He turned to see an angry-looking woman trailing a brood of four children. “If y’all gonna talk, you mind if we get our tickets?”
Jarsdel didn’t see any other choice but to get out of the way and let her through. If this kept happening, it would be the strangest interview he’d ever conducted.
After the family had gone inside, Jarsdel approached Ramesh again, this time with a photograph of Wolin. It was the one of him with the Jackie Chan dummy, only Jarsdel had scanned and cropped the image so it would just be of Wolin’s face and upper body.
He set the picture on the counter and slid it over to Ramesh. “Do you recognize this man?”
“Of course,” said Ramesh. “His name is Grant. He’s the one with the dirt.”
“You’re identifying this as the man you have a deal with? To sell his…souvenirs?”
“Yes. Is he okay?”
“When’s the last time you saw him? Do you recall?”
“I’m not sure. It’s been maybe two weeks. More, I think. He hasn’t been answering his phone.” Then Ramesh asked again, “Is he okay?”
“I’m sorry to tell you he’s passed away,” said Jarsdel.
Ramesh was silent a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t understand. You say he’s passed away. Why are the police involved? Was he killed?”
“It was a homicide, yes. Did you know him well?”
Before Ramesh could answer, Jarsdel had to step out of the way again to let another group of tourists through. It took about three minutes for Ramesh to pull up the reservation and complete the transaction. While Jarsdel waited, he observed the young man carefully. A change had definitely come over him. He didn’t smile as he had before, and he went about his actions with the kind of robotic sluggishness typical of those in shock.
When the tourists had cleared out, Jarsdel once again approached the other man. “Were you and Grant close?”
“We were friends,” said Ramesh. “It’s hard news.”
“I’m sorry to bring it to you,” said Jarsdel. “But I’m going to need to speak with you further. Is there a time you could come by the station and give your statement?”
“I’ll do anything I can to help.”
Jarsdel pocketed the picture of Wolin and removed one of his business cards. He handed it to Ramesh. “When are you free?”
“I’ll call my uncle. If he’s okay taking my shift, I can come today.”
Jarsdel nodded. “Good. And again, I’m very sorry.”
* * *
Ramesh Ramjoo arrived at Hollywood Station that afternoon. Both Morales and Jarsdel were there to meet him, and the three of them went into one of the interview rooms adjacent to the squad room. After getting the preliminaries out of the way for the benefit of the recording devices, Jarsdel led the questioning.
“Can you tell us how long you’ve known the victim, Grant Wolin?”
Ramesh considered. “About two years.”
“And how long were you in business together?”
“He got the idea for the Hollywood dirt a few months ago. He brought it to me and my uncle, and we agreed to sell them in the lobby.”
“What was your end?” asked Morales.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your cut. Of the profit.”
“Oh. Twenty-five percent.”
“What’s your uncle’s name?” asked Jarsdel.
“Suresh Malhotra.”
“Spell that for us, please?”
Ramesh did so. Jarsdel referenced a legal pad where he’d jotted down his questions for the interview. “Did you spend time with Grant outside of your business arrangement?”
“We’re both gamers. We’d hang out a couple times a week. Mostly at his apartment, since I live with my unc
le.”
“Did you know much about his personal life? Girlfriend or anything?”
“He didn’t really care about girls.”
“He was gay?”
“No.” Ramesh looked uncomfortable. “No, he said—He told me the word once, because that was my worry, that maybe he was gay, and I don’t feel that way, so…”
Jarsdel was flummoxed, but Morales spoke up. “Asexual.”
Ramesh nodded. “Yes. Asexual. No interest.”
Jarsdel gave his partner a curious look, and Morales shrugged. “They march in the LA Pride Parade now.”
“Oh.” Jarsdel gave his attention back to Ramesh. “Did Grant have any enemies? Anyone who’d want to harm him?”
“In real life? No, or if he did, he never said anything about it to me.”
“What do you mean, in real life?”
“He’d talk trash online sometimes, during games. But in real life, he was always cheerful. Everybody liked him.”
Jarsdel wrote down Gaming console—forensics? Chat logs? Long shot. He looked up at Ramesh. “What was his personality like? Other than being cheerful.”
“He always had a lot of ideas. Things like inventions or business ideas. He also had a screenplay he was working on. Always wanted to make some money.”
“Did he ever borrow money from anyone or have trouble with debt?”
“I don’t think so. Once, his brother helped him out with his rent, but that was a long time ago.”
“His brother? Do you know which one?”
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