"Hmph."
"So, if Alex didn't kill Cahill, then who did?"
"No clue. Salter told me Alex was in big trouble, but didn't seem to have anything on him."
"So, the cops have his motorcycle and are leaning on him as a person-of-interest? That doesn't sound like 'nothing to worry about,' Zeke."
"Fair enough. Maybe we should look into it."
"Great. Where do we start?"
"The owner of the house seemed pretty peeved last night. Didn't want the cops there at all."
"Victor Mikulski?"
"Yeah . . . how did you know?"
"Good Day LA had footage of him outside of the house, said he was the owner."
"I guess we should start with Mikulski then. It's Monday, let's figure out where he works. See if he'll tell us what happened at the party. Maybe if he gives us some indication of what the hell happened, we can get this whole thing resolved and get Alex's motorcycle back."
"Whatever you say, boss."
"Cut it out—" Zeke's phone started ringing. He picked it up, "hello?"
"Would you like to accept a collect call from 'Alex Garcia’?"
"Yes," Zeke replied. His stomach dropped. "Hello? Alex?"
"Hey. I'm in jail. The cops arrested me early this morning. Kicked through my parent’s front door. I'm freaking out man."
Shit. "Ok. Don't worry. I'm going to get ahold of the homeowner and figure out what happened last night, hopefully get your motorcycle back—"
"They think I killed her, Zeke. They think I killed Francesca Cahill."
"Don't say anything over the phone, or to anyone. You did the right thing, just sit tight, I'm going to get this straightened out."
"Ok. I guess I'll see you soon then?"
"Yes. Very soon."
"And what about payment? My parents can send you some money, but it won't be much." Alex asked, dejected.
"Yeah, that should be fine for now. We'll work out a payment plan later."
"Ok, thanks for your help. Sit tight, I'll have you out soon," Alex said as he hung up the phone, not really sure why or how he was expressing so much confidence.
"So, I take it Alex is in the pokey," Matty said.
"Yeah. We better get to work."
February 7th, 1:30pm
Zeke and Matty pulled up to the VMK Productions building a few hours later. VMK was known for being a shark in the film industry, according to Matty’s research. If rumors were swirling about a particular script or up-and-coming actor, VMK paid double asking-price and immediately hired a full crew to begin production.
The company planned for its biggest releases to happen on the same day as its competitors, and then financed twice the number of films so it could have a release at least twice a month. The pace and size of its film catalog was bewildering. If VMK hadn't at one time or another employed most of L.A.'s actors, directors, cinematographers, and other production staff, people may have asked where all of its money was coming from. The truth was that VMK was bringing good business to Hollywood, and Hollywood couldn't care less how they were doing it.
The pair pulled up to VMK’s offices in West Hollywood, which were in a squat, concrete cube of a building sandwiched between a high-end shopping mall and mid-rise apartment building.
"Looks . . . inviting," Matty quipped.
"We're just here to talk with Mikulski. Should be quick, get in and get out," Zeke said.
"So you're just expecting this big shot movie executive to take your unscheduled appointment and spill his guts about how a famous actress ended up dead in his pool last night?"
"Er . . . look. I'm just looking for information that would clear Alex's name in this, get him out of jail, and get his motorcycle back. He's an eighteen-year-old kid working a catering gig. It was simply wrong place, wrong time. Wasn't this your idea, anyways?"
"I work at a bar, Zeke, I was hoping the trained lawyer would hatch a plan here. And for Christ’s sake, you're still wearing the Chuck Taylor's?"
"I'm projecting confidence," Zeke said, feeling like he was in way over his head. "Let's head in."
"For the record, this place only has one review on Google Maps, and it says this building is probably the headquarters of the International Torture Enthusiasts Club."
"Sounds promising," Zeke said, as he opened the building's solid wooden door and stepped inside.
The lobby, which had a high, vaulted ceiling, was glowing. Antiquated glass light fixtures illuminated a single, oblong reception desk and a bank of elevators. The lobby was lined entirely with black marble tile.
"Ok, yeah, definitely seeing where that torture vibe came from," Matty said.
"Zip it, Matty," Zeke said, turning towards the receptionist, "Hi, my name is Zeke Blackbird. I'm here to see Victor Mikulski."
"Do you have an appointment sir?"
"No, I do not."
"Mr. Mikulski only sees visitors by appointment."
"This is concerning the . . . incident . . . last night."
"Are you with the police, sir?" she said, looking straight at Matty's man-bun.
"No. I'm an attorney with Blackbird and Associates. We're a full-service law firm in Downtown." Zeke could feel Matty's eyes roll at the words 'full-service.'
"I see, so you represent Mr. Mikulski then?"
"Uh . . . no . . . my client was at the party last night. The police took his motorcycle, I'm just here to ask Mr. Mikulski what happened. See if I can clear things up."
"Uh-huh. Very well, please take a seat," she said, pointing to a dimly lit sofa in the corner.
"I can't believe that worked," Zeke said as they sat down.
"What exactly does everyone have against men with long hair?"
"I think people could look past the hair but coupled with the old-timey suspenders and Harry Potter glasses you look like a poor man’s John Lennon."
"Are we talking Abbey Road Lennon or post-Yoko Lennon."
"Post-Yoko."
"Oh goodness, no."
Zeke tried to listen in as the receptionist picked up her desk phone and placed a call. But her words were drowned out by the local news reporter on the lobby television.
"The investigation into actress Francesca Cahill's death continues today,” a news anchor said. “The LAPD has apparently finished its work at the scene—the home of high-powered film executive Victor Mikulski. A senior official at the LAPD has told Channel Eleven News there is a person-of-interest in custody, but divulged no further details—"
The television cut out. Zeke looked back toward the reception desk. A man of significant stature was standing there, still holding the television's remote control in his hand. His skin looked tough, like leather, and his jawline could cut a diamond.
"Gentlemen, I'm Connor Wainwright. I work for Mr. Mikulski. Please follow me," he said.
Zeke and Matty stood up and followed Wainwright into an elevator. He pressed a button for the seventh floor, stood back, and crossed his arms. "So . . . how long have you worked for Mr. Mikulski," Matty asked.
Silence.
"Ah, I see. Can't even put it into words," Matty said, trying to fill the dead-air. A few quiet, painful seconds later, the doors opened into a large hallway with a secretary's desk on one side and a water fountain on another. "I may have some feng shui tips for you, Connor—"
"Mr. Wainwright will do fine, thank you."
Zeke whispered in Matty's direction, "I'd like to live past this meeting, if that's ok with you."
"Got it boss," Zeke said.
"Gentleman," Wainwright said with annoyance, "Mr. Mikulski sends his apologies, he will not be able to meet with you today. As you could understand, given the circumstances, he is quite busy. I am Mr. Mikulski's head of security. How can I help you today?”
"Ah, that's too bad," Zeke said, nervously adjusting his tie, "I was hoping to ask him about what happened last night."
"Yes, you and every other two-bit journalist from Los Angeles to New York. What exactly is your interest in Ms. Cahill'
s death?"
Matty chimed in, "None, really. I mean . . . I guess I was a fan of her work. It’s really a shame to see such a young talent go to waste." No one responded.
"My firm represents Alejandro Garcia," Zeke continued, "he was at the party last night. He was working for the catering company your boss hired. The cops impounded his motorcycle after the . . . incident . . . happened."
"You seriously came here to ask me about a waiter's motorcycle?"
Zeke shot a glance at Matty. "Well, it's not just that, he was picked up by police this morning. They think he may have had something to do with Cahill's death. But I know he's innocent, so I'm just trying to figure out what happened, so I can clear his name."
"Uh-huh. So you figured you would ask the homeowner and employer of the murder victim. Probably the first person on the cop's list of most likely murder suspects. And you thought that person would help clear your client's name?”
"I mean . . . maybe?"
"Woof. You're out of your league kid," Wainwright said, smirking, "you're not even playing the same sport."
"I don't think he likes you, Zeke," Matty whispered in Zeke's ear.
"Nine times out of ten, you would've been laughed straight out of this office. But you're in luck, kid—"
"Zeke will do fine, thank you," Zeke said, again, to the imaginary applause in his head.
"As I was saying, Zeke, you're in luck. I was working security at the house party last night and have my own theory on how things went down," Wainwright said.
"And what is it?"
"Around midnight, a drug dealer that likes to frequent exclusive Hollywood gatherings showed up at the front door. He wanted into the party. He of course wasn't on the list—Mr. Mikulski's events are squeaky clean—so I told him to buzz off."
"Ah. Alright, so we've got a disgruntled gangster thing going on here?" Matty said.
"Goes by the name Eddie Martinez. Anyways, as he was walking away," Wainwright continued, "he brandished a handgun. Told me that Mr. Mikulski would regret not letting him into the party."
"Seems a bit over the top, no?" Zeke said.
"Maybe, but I could tell that he was getting high off his own product. He looked mad enough to kill when he walked away."
"So, why didn't you call the cops."
"I should've, in hindsight, but I figured it was just for show. Anyways, he probably snuck into the party and took out Cahill."
"But why?"
"Ms. Cahill has brought in a lot of money for VMK Productions. Eddie probably knew she was one of our stars, killed her just to spite Mr. Mikulski.”
"Wow, that's cold," Matty said.
"Indeed," Wainwright replied, "but the police weren't interested in hearing it. Said that they've already found their guy."
"Shit," Zeke said, "we need to explain to them what happened—"
"What we need to do is find Martinez. Shouldn't be too hard. He's well known around L.A."
"What the hell are we going to do when we find a drug dealing murderer, exactly?" Matty asked.
"Nothing. Call me. I'll have my guys conduct a citizen’s arrest on him, and we'll bring him into the cops," Wainwright explained.
"And why can't you do this yourself?" Zeke asked.
"I'd prefer to, honestly, but we don't know where he is, and I don't want Mr. Mikulski wrapped up in this anymore than he already is."
"So, we're just supposed to locate a two-bit drug dealer in a city of 18 million people? Why would we do that?" Zeke questioned.
"Your client is in jail, isn't he? This seems like your only option."
"Yeah, we're not interested," Zeke replied.
"Yeah . . . wait, really?" Matty said.
"If what you say is true, that Eddie was responsible, then the evidence should exculpate my client," Zeke said.
"Okay. I hope your client sees it the same way. Here," Wainwright pulled out some business cards and passed them to Zeke and Matty, "take my information. Just in case."
"Very well. Thanks for your help," Zeke said. Zeke and Matty stood up, shook hands with Wainwright, and walked back to the elevators.
"And one more think, Mr. Blackbird," Wainwright said. "I'd start packing heat, if I were you. Eddie Martinez can be a pretty nasty guy."
“I just told you, we won’t be looking for him,” Zeke said.
“Oh. Don’t worry, he’ll come looking for you, first,” Wainwright replied.
"Er . . . thanks . . . for the advice," Zeke replied. Matty pressed the elevator button for the lobby, and Wainwright disappeared from view.
February 7th, 4:00pm
"That was . . . intense," Matty said, laughing. He and Zeke were in Zeke's Volvo heading back to the office.
"You're telling me. That was straight out of a mob movie . . . right?" Zeke asked.
"I didn't realize that movie production companies were so . . . loyal. Makes me think I need to change jobs."
"I'll pass."
"Fair point, I don't think they do casual Friday there. So we're really not going to pursue this thing with the drug dealer? Eddie Martinez?"
"Is that a serious question? You carry beer kegs for a living, and I barely passed the bar exam but a few months ago. Neither of us is equipped to work up an investigation into Francesca Cahill's murder."
Matty grumbled under his breath, "I would be your assistant for a living if you ever took a paying client."
"Besides, how the hell would we even begin to find a single person in this entire city? The whole idea is insane."
"Well, perhaps the cops will come to their senses and let Alex out."
"Unlikely," Zeke said, "and you heard the news. The cops have already told the press that they've arrested their suspect. That must mean they've found something that was good enough to satisfy the District Attorney."
"They teach you that at your fancy law school?"
"Yes, but also I grew up watching Law & Order marathons. It's standard procedure," Zeke said, not believing he had said that out loud.
"Wonderful. Alex is in great hands."
"Thanks. I'm going to head over to the jail tomorrow. I'll meet with Alex and tell him what Victor said. I'll tell him that I can't continue being his attorney."
"Sigh," Matty said, condescendingly. "Fine. But at some point, Zeke, you're gonna have to shit or get off the pot."
"And what does that mean?" Zeke said, knowingly perfectly well what it meant.
"Are you a lawyer or not? Someone that needs an attorney has reached out to you, an attorney, and you're turning them down because they aren't a millionaire with a contract issue. If you want to catch the big fish in this city, you have to put in the work.”
Zeke grunted, but Matty had a point. I'm not exactly in a position to be turning down clients, Zeke thought to himself. On the other hand, he could take on a misdemeanor offense, maybe, but this case was just too much. "I've made up my mind, Matty, so let’s just put a lid on it."
"Sure thing, boss," Matty said.
February 7th, 8:00pm
It was getting late. Alex hadn't heard anything from Zeke since they spoke at the café early this morning. Then again, this was jail and Alex wasn't really sure if the correctional officers relayed those types of messages.
L.A.'s Twin Towers Correctional Facility, a.k.a. Twin Towers Jail, is the world's largest jail at 1.2 million square feet. It houses about 4,500 inmates and is permanently overcrowded. One tower operates as a medical facility and the other houses the city's most violent offenders. Each floor is divided into several pods, which are further divided into individual cells. Pods are generally separated by level of violent crime and gang affiliation. Cell doors are opened during the day, and the pods act as communal living areas, mostly used by inmates to gamble on backgammon or checkers with cigarettes and snacks.
Alex was placed into an unusual pod, though. Pod 141-B was unique. Special circumstance offenders were quarantined from the rest of the prisoners for heightened observation. Inmates that were involved in highl
y publicized crimes, had committed crimes against children, or had a history of mental health issues were cordoned off for their own protection. Cahill's murder had garnered significant media attention, and several inmates had already talked about offing the guy that cops said they had collared. The guards couldn't guarantee Alex's safety if he was placed into general population. And that was a problem, because every inmate wanted a piece of him.
"You the guy that stabbed Cahill?" Alex's new cellmate said.
"Yeah. I mean, no. I did not kill Cahill. But yes, that's what the cops arrested me for."
"A piece of advice, little man. When someone asks what you're in for, you say 'burglary,' and keep your head down. Ain't no one care about a robber. It don't matter much though, you're a dead man anyways."
"Why do you say that?"
"There was a cop in here earlier today talking about your arrest. Used your name a few times. You've got a target on your back now, son. I'm Alonzo, by the way."
How is this happening to me? "Thanks. It's nice to meet you. I'm Alex."
"I know. This is your first time in the 'Big House,' I take it?"
"Yeah," Alex said, dejected.
The past twelve hours had been a whirlwind. Cops showed up at Alex's parents' small two-bedroom house in Boyle Heights around five o'clock in the morning, guns drawn. Police activity in the neighborhood was not uncommon, but rare for that time of day and almost never requiring more than two or three officers. For Alex, though, twelve LAPD black and whites had pulled up to the house, stopping traffic from either end of Alex's street, and setting up a perimeter around. Alex's mother, always the earlybird, answered the door, frightened. Salter barreled his way into the house and had Alex in handcuffs within seconds. Alex was barely awake and wearing boxers and a tank top when he was thrown in the back of a cop car.
The ride to Twin Towers Jail was agonizing. There wasn't enough room for Alex's knees as they chaffed against the metal barrier keeping him in the back seat. He wasn't belted in and had no control of his hands, so he repeatedly knocked his head against the window. The officers nonchalantly commented on the day's news, proud to have played a small part in avenging Cahill's murder. Alex vacillated between thinking about what jail would be like to how his family must be coping.
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