by Philip Cox
‘We’ve lost him now,’ Quinn said.
‘We’ll see about that.’ Leroy dropped the binoculars, started the engine and pulled out into the traffic, earning a blast on the horn from a van driver who had had to apply his brakes noisily. Quinn leaned out of the passenger window, showing his badge. Leroy turned right onto Victory Boulevard, then left across the traffic into the McDonalds parking lot. He drove round the lot twice, but there was no sign of Mets. As they waited for a gap in traffic to leave the parking lot, Quinn pointed to a bus stop a few yards east along Victory. The orange and grey bus was in the distance.
‘Think he got on there?’
Leroy shrugged. ‘Who knows? We can catch him later. Let’s get up to this pal he said he was visiting over in Burbank.’
‘His command of the English language seemed to have improved,’ Quinn said.
‘It seemed to. I don’t know.’ Leroy looked around. ‘If he doesn’t drive, where could he have gone? I think I’d like to talk to him again, but we’ll need to get Charlie back.’ He paused a beat. ‘If he doesn’t speak English that good, he couldn’t drive.’
‘You mean, he couldn’t get a licence. Unless he’s fluent in Spanish. We said that.’
Leroy paused a moment in thought, brought out of his reverie by the car behind. ‘Come on, Ray; let’s go see his pal.’
Leroy waited while Quinn ran back to his car, then they both headed east along Victory Boulevard for the next five or six miles. Once they reached North Hollywood, they turned south onto Vineland which more or less took them right to Denny Avenue, where Mets’s friend lived.
The street they were headed for comprised a row of large immodest two storey houses, some with small yards out front, some with larger expanses of grass. Some with neat white picket fences, some with generic chain link fences, some with more ornate iron railings.
The house they sought, number 2544, was one of the places with a larger yard, cropped grass, and cactus-type plants on each corner. The yard was bordered by a brick wall around two feet high, topped with iron railings, painted black with gold-painted arrows topping the rails. There was no gate, just a gap in the wall and a gravel path, winding unnecessarily leading to the front porch. On the porch were two chairs, a bench and a table. White metal bars were over the windows, which had white wooden shutters closed, keeping the outside world out of the house.
As Leroy looked around, Quinn knocked hard on the front door. A few moments later, a small, Hispanic woman opened the door.
‘Yes please?’
Leroy held out his badge and introduced himself and Quinn. ‘Is Mr Dudinsky at home? Mr Andrey Dudinsky?’
The little Mexican woman shook her head. ‘No, he not at home.’
Leroy sighed, more than a little frustrated. ‘Is there a Mrs Dudinsky?’
She shook her head. ‘He not married.’
‘You’re the housekeeper, I guess?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘And there’s nobody else in?’
She shook her head again.
‘Is Mr Dudinsky at work?’
‘Yes, he at work.’
Leroy asked, ‘We need to talk to him. Where does he work?’
‘He work at Europa Restaurant, on Reseda Boulevard. He manager there.’
Chapter 11
Back on the sidewalk, Leroy head-butted the roof of his car three or four times.
‘Son of a bitch,’ he said. ‘We’ve come all the way up here and the bastard was at the restaurant all along.’ He looked over at Quinn. ‘Tell me, does Mets really not understand what’s going on, or is he just plain stupid? Or is he cleverer than he’s making out, and jerking us off?’ Leroy tapped the roof of his car, opened the passenger door and took out a notepad and pen.
‘What is it?’ Quinn asked, going over to him.
‘Look,’ Leroy indicated. He was drawing a kind of map on the notepad. It was triangular, an inverted pyramid. Leroy spoke as he drew. ‘Everything seems to be around these three locations. First, Laurel Canyon, and the dumpster. Then Tarzana, where Evald Mets, the guy who apparently found the body here,’ – he tapped the paper – ‘lives and works. Then we have his friend, who is actually his boss, some guy by the name of Andrey Dudinsky, living up here in Burbank. Three quite disparate places, but not too difficult to get to from either of the others. From Reseda and Victory all you have to do is what we did, or you could get down to the Ventura Freeway, make a left somewhere along here, and you’re where we are now. How long did the journey take us - thirty minutes?’
‘Yeah, about that.’
‘It would take about the same taking the 101, I guess. Maybe longer in the rush hour. From here, you’d have to take one of the north/south streets, Vineland maybe, down to - I forget the name of the road - to Mulholland Drive and Laurel Canyon. That’s… again, thirty minutes, maybe a tad less.
‘Then from the mall, you could head up Laurel Canyon Boulevard, through Studio City here,’ - another tap – ‘back onto the 101. Head west and you’re back in Tarzana. Thirty minutes again?’
‘I know that route,’ Quinn said. ‘More like twenty.’
‘Right, so it’s not exactly a huge detour to make a journey from here to there – an hour?’
‘But why?’ asked Quinn. ‘There’d be plenty of places on that route to get rid of a body. Why go all the way down there?’
Leroy leaned back on his car and folded his arms. ‘Right now, I’ve no idea.’
Quinn asked, ‘Isn’t there a park down in Laurel Canyon?’
‘There is,’ Leroy replied. ‘It’s a dog park. You know, where dog owners take their pooches off their leashes so they can run about and hump each other.’
‘Why not dump the body there, then?’
‘Because it’s bound to be found. If you buried a DB there, you can take book a dog would dig it up. No, in a dumpster the chances are it would remain undiscovered for days, maybe longer. Maybe not at all if it was concealed in a large pile of garbage bags. They’d all go to a landfill site, or an incinerator.’
‘So there must be a reason why whoever dumped the body went to that location.’
‘Sure, but Mets and his boss could have nothing to do with the body. On the other hand, there’s still the question of what Mets was actually doing there.’
Leroy tapped his car roof. ‘Come on, Ray; let’s get down to the mall.’
*****
Leroy’s estimate of journey time was quite accurate: his and Quinn’s cars arrived at the shopping centre some twenty-two minutes after they left Burbank.
‘One more look,’ Leroy called out, striding over to the dumpsters. He lifted up the lid and looked inside. Shut the lid and walked around the row of bins. Crouched down and ran his hand over the pavement. He shook his head briefly and stood up, brushing the front of his pants.
‘The SID guys would have gone over things here with a fine toothed comb,’ Quinn said.
Leroy nodded. ‘Yeah. On the way here I rang Caltrans. There are no traffic cameras on the intersection over there, so that’s a dead end. We’ll just have to hope the CCTV here gives us something. I’ve already checked out the cameras in the grocery store. When I was here earlier, everywhere else was shut. They’re all open now. Come on, let’s go to the cleaners.’
The Mount Olympus Cleaners Inc had no security camera at all. Just a burglar alarm. Blank there; although as the manageress pointed out, people don’t normally hold up laundromats. It was the same with the pizza delivery unit.
It was a different story at the bar. Joe, the manager and proprietor of the appropriately named Joe’s Bar, proudly and enthusiastically showed them the five cameras which were installed in the bar. Three were inside, with varying points of view, one was out back, and the other was in front, with a view of the entrance porch.
‘I’m guessing this is all recorded,’ Leroy said to Joe, as the three men stood around the television monitor in the small office behind the bar. It was a quiet time of the day, and there were
only half a dozen customers.
‘It sure is.’ Joe ran his hand along a shelf on which there was a row of neatly stacked discs. ‘One disc for each day, running 24/7.’
‘You have four images on the screen here,’ Quinn said. ‘Is that what would be on the disc?’
Joe replied, ‘Naturally, officer.’
‘We’ll need to borrow the disc for yesterday,’ Leroy said. ‘When’s the cut-off time? When does one disc end and the next begin?’
‘10am, when I get in.’
‘Okay,’ Leroy said. ‘So I’d need discs for yesterday, and the day before. And the day before that, just to be sure. Will that be okay?’
‘Surely.’ Joe took the last three discs off the shelf. ‘Here you are, Detective.’
‘Are the views static?’ Quinn asked. ‘Just as we’re seeing here?’
‘No. Every so often the cameras move: not very much, just an arc of around forty-five degrees.’
‘So,’ Leroy said, pointing out into the bar, ‘the camera you have with a point of view of the door – is it always the door, just a different view?’
‘Kind of,’ Joe replied. ‘It pans from over by this side of the lot, from the street, over to the other side of here.’
‘The other side of the parking lot?’ Leroy asked eagerly.
‘Certainly, yes.’
‘Including that row of dumpsters?’
Joe nodded.
Chapter 12
‘Now for this wise-guy Dudinsky,’ Leroy called out to Quinn as he backed out of his parking space.
‘What about the discs?’ Quinn asked.
‘We’ll see Dudinsky first, also Mets again, then we’ll head back to base and get the cameras checked out. We might also hear something from the ME by then.’
‘See you back in Tarzana, then.’ Quinn climbed into his own car and followed Leroy out of the lot.
Leroy’s journey time estimate was somewhat off-key this time: rather than the thirty minutes he had estimated, the journey took fifty. They both parked outside the Europa restaurant, Leroy by the kerbside as he was the first to arrive, Quinn being forced to double park.
The restaurant was not particularly big, just one unit on the street. It had a white fascia with the name of the business in green, this being matched by the canopy. Three sets of tables for two were positioned on the sidewalk, each with a menu slotted into a wooden base, each empty. It was not possible to see inside owing to the wooden venetian blind, but this may have been to keep out the bright light from the sun, which was shining directly onto that side of the street, getting lower all the time. The restaurant was open, and Leroy and Quinn stepped in.
Inside was larger than the shopfront suggested. There were half a dozen tables for two, five booths on one side, and a variety of other sized tables, some for four, some for six. Two booths and half a dozen tables were occupied. Large sepia photographs of men, women and children dressed in traditional east European costume adorned the walls. Accordion music was playing quietly from a loudspeaker.
On seeing Leroy and Quinn enter, a man dressed in a dinner jacket walked around from behind the small bar and walked over, carrying two large laminated menus. ‘A table for two, gentlemen?’ he asked, with a slight accent.
They each showed their badges and introduced themselves. ‘We need to speak to Andrey Dudinsky. Is he on the premises?’
The smile on the maitre d’s face froze. ‘I’ll just check, sir. Would you wait here, please?’
Leroy nodded, and the maitre d’ stepped through a curtained doorway. After a few moments he returned and went straight over to one of the booths. A much younger man, early thirties and in shirtsleeves, followed him.
‘Would you come this way, please?’ the man asked, also with the trace of an accent. Leroy and Quinn followed him through the curtain and into an office. To get to the office they had to walk down a short corridor, past the restrooms and the kitchen. Emanating from the kitchen was a lot of heat and a strong smell of cabbage being cooked. As they passed by Leroy looked in to see if he could see Evald Mets, but could not.
‘Please sit down,’ the man said once they were inside the office.
‘Are you Andrey Dudinsky?’ Leroy asked as he sat down.
‘Well, yes and no,’ Dudinsky replied. No accent this time.
‘Excuse me?’ said Leroy.
Dudinsky rubbed his forehead and sat down. ‘My name is actually Andrew Dudley. When I opened this place, I felt that using a non-American name would make the place sound more authentic. Andrey Dudinsky seemed the nearest equivalent to Andrew Dudley. It’s Russian.’
‘So you’re American?’
‘Sacramento.’
‘What about the rest of your employees?’ Quinn asked.
‘They’re all genuine. Genuine Europeans, I should say. All legal.’
‘We’re not here for the INS,’ Leroy said. ‘What about Evald Mets? Is he a chef here?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘He’s Latvian?’
‘No, Estonian. From near Tallin, I think.’
Leroy nodded.
‘How long has he worked here?’
‘Couple of years, I guess.’
‘Is he a good chef?’
Dudley shrugged. ‘Average, I guess. I’ve had no complaints. Why?’
Leroy ignored the question. ‘Is he working today? I didn’t see him as we went past the kitchen.’
‘He should be. He was. Turned up late this morning. Started work preparing lunches, then said he felt ill, so the Chef said to go home.’
‘The Chef? I thought Mets was the chef.’
Dudley smiled. ‘Evald’s more of a kitchen assistant here. We have a chef, who runs the kitchen, and another kitchen assistant. And Evald. It’s quite a small kitchen, so we don’t exactly follow the Brigade system.’
‘What’s that?’ Quinn asked.
Leroy looked over to him. ‘It’s a kind of hifalutin level of ranks in the kitchen industry.’ He looked at Dudley. ‘Am I right?’
Dudley pulled a face and nodded. ‘It’s kind of a hierarchy, yes.’
Leroy said, ‘We were down here earlier and saw Mets hurrying up Reseda Boulevard. He said he was running an errand for his boss. Would that be you?’
Dudley shook his head. ‘Not at all. He said he was sick.’
Leroy said, ‘He lives off one of the cross-streets, correct?’
‘Er – I think so.’
‘But we saw him go as far as Victory Boulevard when he… when we lost him. So you’ve no idea where he was going?’
‘No, I’m sorry. Is Evald in some kind of trouble?’
‘Did Evald visit you at home last night?’
‘At my house?’
‘U-huh. At your house.’
‘Not at all.’ Dudley gave a little snigger. ‘I’m the manager here; he’s a kitchen assistant. There’d be no reason for him to go to my house. Did he say that?’
Leroy nodded. ‘Said he had to take you some paperwork, receipts or something.’
Dudley shook his head. ‘No, he didn’t visit.’
Leroy asked, ‘And you were in last night?’
‘Yes. We don’t open Mondays, so I wasn’t here.’
‘Were you alone? We met a housekeeper, Mexican is she?’
Dudley seemed surprised. ‘Carmen, yes. She’s Mexican, here quite legally, also. You went to my house?’
‘Came directly from there. Carmen said you were here.’
Dudley seemed less ebullient now. ‘Yes, I was alone. I was out playing golf in the afternoon, got home around six, watched TV until eleven, when I went to bed. Alone.’
‘Just so I’m clear,’ Leroy said, sitting forward, ‘Mets works here in the kitchen, went sick, and didn’t visit you last night. Do I have everything right?’
‘Pretty much. Why are you looking for Evald?’
‘Just routine. Mr Dudley, here’s my card: when Mets returns here - and I realise it might not be today – I’d like you to call me, y
es?’
‘But don’t tell him,’ Quinn added.
Leroy’s phone bleeped. He paused a beat then said, ‘Thank you very much for your time, sir. I appreciate it.’
‘You’re welcome, Mr… Leroy. And please come by one evening or lunch time. We offer a delicious Ukranian borsch - soup – for only $5.99; one of our newly-introduced entres is a mouth-watering Russian salad: sliced cucumber, onions -’
‘Maybe,’ Leroy said, standing up. ‘Thanks again.’
Dudley led Leroy and Quinn through the restaurant, leaving them on the sidewalk. ‘Jerk,’ Leroy muttered once they were alone. ‘Andrey Dudinsky my ass.’
Quinn laughed as Leroy took out his phone and checked his messages. ‘That might have been the ME. I hope he has some news.’ He read the text message, then put the phone back in his pocket. ‘Come on.’
‘Was that Hobson, then?’
Leroy spoke as they walked back to their cars. ‘No, that was Perez. They just found the missing head.’
Chapter 13
A mile from the scene, along Mount Lee Drive, Leroy encountered the police road block. Mount Lee Drive is not exactly the busiest road in Los Angeles, and the two patrolmen were standing by the edge of the road looking out over the city. One of them was smoking and quickly tossed his cigarette away as Leroy’s car approached. Leroy slowed to a halt, wound down the window and held out his badge.
‘Head right along here, Detective,’ said one patrolman while the other pulled the barrier aside. ‘They’re all by the comms centre.’
‘Sure,’ Leroy replied. ‘My partner’s a mile or so behind.’
As he passed through the barrier, he leaned out and said to the patrolman who had been smoking, ‘You need to be careful about smoking up here. You could cause a brush fire.’
Embarrassed, the officer muttered something and as Leroy pulled away, he could see in his rear view mirror a frantic search for the missing butt.
The last intersection Leroy had seen was with the aptly named Tyrolean Drive: whilst not exactly as mountainous as its Austrian namesake, the roads were comparatively narrow, and Mount Lee Drive took a slow, meandering route, clinging along the side of Mount Lee itself, to its end at the City of Los Angeles Central Communication Facility.
