by Philip Cox
‘On your own?’
Pinky laughed. ‘No. I’m here with a girlfriend. Not that sort of girlfriend, by the way. She’s seeing a movie.’
Hightower rubbed the bridge of his nose.
‘You okay, J.T.?’ Pinky asked.
‘Yeah, guess so.’
‘Shall we have another drink?’
‘Surely, why not?’ Hightower got up and bought two bottled waters. As he passed Pinky hers, he said, ‘I guess I’ll have water also; feeling a bit… a bit drunk.’
‘Drunk?’ she laughed, putting her bottle to her mouth. ‘On root beer?’
Hightower laughed. ‘No, probably the sun.’
Pinky put the bottle down. ‘What about we finish these in your room? If you don’t mind, that is.’
‘In my room?’ He was momentarily taken aback. ‘No, I don’t mind.’ He stood up, put on his bathrobe, and picked up his towel. Pinky was ready, and he led her to the elevator.
‘What’s your room number?’ she asked.
‘It’s… it’s 9… 91… 915,’ he finally replied. ‘Gosh, I couldn’t recall for a moment there.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Pinky reassured him, guiding him into the elevator.
It took Hightower two attempts to swipe the key card, but eventually got the door unlocked. ‘Come, in; make yourself at home,’ he said to her. Pinky walked in, and over to the window.
‘Wow, what a view,’ she gasped, looking over the vista of the city. Hightower didn’t think so, but sat down heavily on the bed. Pinky walked over to the bed and climbed onto it. She knelt on the bed behind him and pulled down his robe.
‘You’re just stressed,’ she said, massaging his shoulders. ‘That feel better?’ she asked after a moment.
He twisted his head to and fro. ‘My dear Pinky, that feels great.’
There was a knock on the door – three taps – and Pinky got off the bed and went to open it. Hightower leaned forward to see who it was. It was another girl, around the same age as Pinky, but she was black with frizzy hair. She stepped into the room and Pinky closed and latched the door.
‘J.T., this is the friend I told you about,’ she said, as they both stood in front of Hightower, each with one arm around the other. ‘This is Perky.’
As the girl stood upright Hightower could see why she was called Perky.
‘Perky, this is J.T.,’ Pinky added. ‘He’s stressed, Perky.’
Perky tilted her head at an angle. ‘Aw, poor baby. You sure do look stressed, honey.’
In fact, Hightower was anything but stressed. He said nothing as Perky knelt down in front of the mini-bar saying, ‘Now what do we have here…?’ She took out a bottle of champagne and squealed at the pop as she opened it. She untied the knot of the top she was wearing, revealing a swimsuit, not unlike Pinky’s.
‘Do me the honour, honey?’ she asked Pinky, turning round. Pinky unhooked the top, and turned so Perky could reciprocate. Then Hightower’s eyes bulged as, in turns, the two girls poured the sparkling liquid over their pert, bare breasts. He stood up, struggled to pull off his trunks, and fell over onto the bed.
‘J.T., you take care,’ Perky said, helping him up. ‘Here, honey: you want something from the bar?’
*****
Hightower blinked heavily. His eyes focussed on his watch. It was 7am. He ran his hand through his hair and groaned. He had a bad headache. Suddenly he realised he was hungry. How could he be: he had had steak last night, hadn’t he?
Then the implications of the time dawned on him. His flight left for Atlanta in five hours. He had a brief shower, and called to order room service breakfast, something he could eat while he packed. He needed to be in LAX by ten at the latest. He ordered ham and eggs again, and dressed quickly. He was halfway through packing his suitcase when there was a knock at the door. He had just come out of the bathroom, so reached out to open the door while he continued packing.
‘I’m very impressed, son,’ he said to the young Asian man, smartly dressed in a dark suit and white shirt and tie, who stepped into the room. ‘I only called to order five minutes ago.’
The young man said nothing, just quietly closed the door. Hightower stopped and looked at him quizzically. ‘Breakfast?’
The man smiled. ‘No, Mr Hightower, I haven’t brought your breakfast. I’m not even from the hotel.’
Hightower frowned, puzzled. ‘So who in tarnation are you? What do you want?’
The man smiled. ‘Mr Hightower, I won’t keep you long. I have something to sell you.’
Hightower laughed. ‘To sell me? Son, what are you trying to sell me? The convention was yesterday. You telling me you traced me here to my hotel to sell me… what? A first edition?’
The man smiled again, gently shaking his head. ‘No, Mr Hightower, not a first edition.’ He laid a letter-sized brown envelope on the dressing table. ‘Insurance.’
Chapter 5
Over the years, there have been many studies, in many countries, into sleep patterns, in both children and adults. All coming to more or less the same conclusions.
A study commissioned by Michigan State University found that in the normal adult there are two main stages of sleep, alternating at roughly ninety minute intervals. There is rapid eye movement or REM sleep when the brain is active and the body is paralyzed, except for eye movement, middle ear ossicle movements, and respiration. In non-rapid eye movement sleep, the brain is less active, but the body can move.
When a normal individual first falls asleep, they enter a stage of sleep drowsiness, then gradually move to stages of deep sleep. After a while, they then revert to the drowsy stage and the cycle begins again.
LAPD Detective Sam Leroy was in non-rapid eye movement sleep, in deep sleep, when his phone gave off its high pitched bleeping sound, four times. Even though the little Nokia was by the side of his bed, two feet from his head, his only reaction was a grunt, and some slight movement.
Ten minutes later, it rang. Leroy had always eschewed the more fanciful ring tones favoured by some of his fellow officers: first line of a favourite song, or a movie theme. His was a plain vanilla ring, sounding just like a landline. He began to stir, as by nature the phone’s ring was louder than a notification bleep.
It rang six times before it stopped. Or was it eight? By the time Leroy was conscious enough to reach out, the phone had stopped ringing.
He picked up the phone and checked the display. The little digital clock read 5:37am.
‘You have to be kidding,’ he addressed the phone, rubbing his face with his other hand.
5:37 - now it was 5:38 – meant that he had gotten exactly 4 hours 38 minutes sleep. No, less than that as he arrived back home at one. He figured he was asleep by 1:15, so that was 4 hours 25 minutes sleep.
The reason for his late arrival home was a case he and his partner Detective Ray Quinn had wrapped the night before. A homicide for sure, but a case more complex than the norm. The norm was that the victim was slain either in the course of a robbery, or by a member of their family, or somebody with whom they were or had been in as relationship.
The Kelton case, as it had become known, was more complicated. Particularly as Kelton was neither the name of the victim nor of the perpetrator.
Marv Kelton was a celebrity. Not on the A list, or even the B list, but some kind of celebrity nevertheless. He had had a brief acting career, mainly daytime soaps, but for the past two or three years he had hosted a game show programme on a kids’ TV channel. The sort of thing where two teams of kids, ages 7 to 13 or 14, compete to answer general knowledge or specialty questions, and have to go through some kind of obstacle course to win some crappy prize. Sort of Jeopardy meets Celebrity Squares meets God knows what.
Two seasons into the show, a couple of allegations around Kelton began to surface. First rumours, gossip, nothing specific, then the parents of a ten year old girl made more specific allegations. Something along the lines of Kelton used to invite certain kids into his dressing room after the shows had
been taped for a soda and a cookie. The allegation was that, alone with the girl, he touched her and got her to touch him. Just as a game. Once this allegation began to surface, other parents came forward. No physical evidence, even after the kids concerned were examined. It was just the kids’ word against Kelton’s. The police were called, and the department concerned, the Child Protection Section of the LAPD Juvenile Division, preferred charges; however the District Attorney, after questioning the children concerned, decided there was insufficient evidence to proceed. His main reason was that the children’s stories were not consistent, and it was unlikely that any jury would convict.
So Kelton was not charged. Declared innocent. He gave a couple of press conferences to restate his innocence, and to say he felt no ill-will toward the children concerned. And that he looked forward to the next season. There were the normal media rumblings on the lines of there’s no smoke without fire, and a brief but unsuccessful campaign to have his star removed from its place on Hollywood Boulevard. This campaign began to gain momentum, until a representative of the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce made a statement to the effect that once a star has been added to the Walk, it is considered a part of the fabric of the area. Therefore, never has a star been removed. In any case, Marv Kelton was never charged, and is, therefore, innocent of any wrongdoing.
The network president made a statement that they had always been confident of Kelton’s innocence, and they looked forward to working with him in the next and subsequent seasons.
A couple of months later, the show was quietly cancelled.
Everything went quiet for another few months, and then Kelton began to get threats. Calls from untraceable cell phones, graffiti on the outside of his Beverly Hills house. Then, in the middle of the night, somebody defecated on his star on the Walk of Fame.
Then his bodyguard was shot dead. Not in the line of duty, but by accident. By coincidence, Kelton and his bodyguard, Enrique Valli, were of similar appearance. Same height and build, same hair colour, same heavily tanned face.
Valli, however was not shot defending his employer, but in a bar down in Culver City, which is how Leroy was involved, rather than a detective from the Hollywood Division. It must have been Valli’s day off, and as he was sitting at the bar, a man walked right up to him and shot him through the head. The killer made no attempt to resist arrest, just kept saying, ‘That’s for my boy.’ He was mortified when he was told he got the wrong target.
Leroy and Quinn made the arrest just before five that afternoon. Rather than holding the parent in a cell until the next day and processing him during their normal shift hours, Leroy decided they would get him charged, arraigned, and finish the paperwork before they went home. That way they could start their next shift with a clear desk. Well, as clear as possible: he really felt the Kelton case should have been assigned to a different division, and wanted it done and dusted.
Therefore, he wished Quinn thank you and good night at 12:30 and got indoors at 1am.
And now it was 5:40am and his lieutenant was ringing him already.
Leroy blinked a few times before the phone rang again. This time he answered.
‘Yes, Lieutenant.’
‘Sam, it’s Perez. You awake? Sorry, dumb question. Sorry to wake you, I should have said.’
‘No, it’s okay,’ Leroy replied drowsily. ‘What’s up? It’s before six; are you at your desk?’
‘I’m on my way in, but I need you and Quinn. You two have a DB up off Mulholland. The local guys are already up there, SID also.’
‘Off Mulholland? But why Ray and me?’
‘Because the Captain says so. And he says so because the Deputy Chief says so. He feels there might be a connection with that Kelton case.’
‘Lieutenant, that’s a bit -’
‘I know, Sam. I’m sorry. And I know you and Quinn couldn’t have gotten much sleep. Just go up and take a look, yeah?’
Leroy rubbed his face again. He was beginning to wake up. ‘Sure, Lieutenant. No problem. Do we know anything about the vic?’
‘All I know is there’s a DB in a dumpster off Mulholland, and everybody above my pay grade has asked for you.’
‘Swell. I’ll call Quinn now.’
‘Sam, there is one thing about the body you ought to know.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It wasn’t intact.’
Chapter 6
It was 6:45 when Leroy finally arrived at the Mulholland Shopping Center, a rather grand name, so he thought as he pulled into the parking lot, for such a tiny collection of joints.
He was attending the scene alone: after hanging up on Lieutenant Perez, he dialled his partner, Detective Ray Quinn, whose wife answered.
‘Oh, Sam,’ Holly had said almost in her sleep, ‘surely you don’t need Ray already. He’s only just gotten off to sleep.’
Leroy was about to reply as he heard Quinn’s voice in the background and then Holly replying, her hand over the phone. Then Quinn came on himself.
‘Hey, Sam, what is it?’
‘Sorry to disturb, Ray; we’ve had a call.’
‘But we’ve only just -’
‘Listen, Ray. I’m just calling to tell you I’ve gone to the scene. I can do this part solo. The scene’s apparently full of SID and the local guys.’
‘What’s the call about?’
‘According to Perez, there’s a DB in a dumpster in some mall off Mulholland Drive.’
‘Up there? So why did he call us?’
Leroy took a deep breath. ‘Again, according to Perez, everybody from the Captain thru the Chief of Detectives right up to the First Lady thinks it has to do with the Kelton case. And have said we need to get first dibs.’
‘How can it be connected?’
‘I have no idea, and Perez, who’s half asleep himself, says he’s just following orders. One other thing he told me is that the guy in the dumpster is missing his head. If it is a guy, that is.’
‘Ah.’
‘You got it, but let me tell you something: I’ll go check this one out, but if I smell a terrorist angle here, it’s going over to the Feds before Perez gets his second cup of coffee.’
‘Sure. Man, the head.’
‘So, I’m going up to the scene now, and I’ll meet you back at the Desk later.’
So Leroy had arrived at the scene alone. As soon as he had hung up on Perez earlier, he took a two-minute shower, threw on a black zip fleece jacket over a white tee and black pants, matching shoes. No time to shave, so he was also wearing three days’ stubble. The little parking lot was probably busier than it had been in ages. Three black and white sets of wheels: two Dodge Chargers and one Utility, which the Scientific Investigation Division was probably using, were straddling five spaces. A white Ford Transit which Leroy recognised as belonging to the Coroner’s Office was parked outside the laundromat, its offside wheels parked upon the sidewalk. He could see two figures sitting in the van. One was smoking.
Leroy parked neatly in one of the remaining three spaces. Slamming his car door shut he paused and looked around. There were four premises here: Mount Olympus Cleaners, Joe’s Bar, Pizza the Hills, and All Niter, a 24-hour grocery store. Adjacent to the grocery store was a row of eight dumpsters, presumably two for each store, one for recycling and the other for general trash. The dumpsters, with a ten-foot perimeter, were bordered by a stretch of yellow tape, endorsed in black crime scene - do not cross. Three uniformed officers were standing around the area, and two figures in blue jumpsuits were milling around the dumpster. Leroy opened his trunk, took out, unwrapped, and put on his own jumpsuit, also blue, but with LAPD in white on the back.
Sunrise at that time of year is just before six, and it was light by now. From his car, Leroy could look down the hill in the direction of the city. The cloud was low; a precursor to the June gloom which was common in late spring to early summer. Brought on by the Catalina eddy weather system, it had arrived early this year. May grey would have been more appropriate. In the dis
tance, rising above the smog Leroy could make out the high-rise buildings Downtown: the 73-floor US Bank Tower, once the highest building on the West Coast until it was supplanted in 2016 by the Wilshire Grand Center, also 73 floors, but some 81 feet higher.
Suited up, Leroy turned and walked towards the dumpster. A uniformed officer recognised him and walked over.
‘Detective Leroy?’ the officer asked.
Leroy nodded. ‘Sam Leroy.’
‘Cruz. Peter Cruz.’
‘Is that the dumpster?’ Leroy asked as they walked over to the scene. Cruz held the tape as Leroy ducked under.
‘U-huh,’ Cruz replied leading him over to the only open container. One of the forensic team was taking photographs, inside and outside the bin, as Leroy peered in.
The first thing he noticed was the smell, a mixture of rotting food and piss. The bin was full of black plastic trash bags, several of which had been torn with some of the contents, paper, plastic, and food, spilling out. Lying in with the bags, was the body.
With no head.
It seems to be a man’s. He was wearing a pair of sneakers, jeans and a check shirt.
Leroy looked over to Cruz. ‘When was this called in?’
‘Just after midnight. A guy who was visiting the grocery store for some smokes.’
Leroy looked around. ‘Where is he?’
‘We took a prelim statement and let him go. I have his address. Says he’s a screenwriter.’
‘Do we know what he was doing in the dumpster? Putting the body in there?’
‘I don’t think so, Detective. He didn’t actually find it. He said he called in here for cigarettes when another guy who couldn’t speak English stopped him and took him over here.’
‘Another guy. And he’s gone home, too?’
Cruz nodded.
Leroy looked at Cruz again. ‘Tell me: The screenwriter call this in just after midnight, right?’
Cruz nodded again.
‘Which means you guys arrived around 12:30, yes?’
Another nod.
‘So, why is it that I got my call some five hours later?’
