Guardians of the Night (A Gideon and Sirius Novel)

by Alan Russell

  “What kind of answer is that?”

  “It’s the kind of answer you give when you don’t want to comment.”

  I searched my memory. Something was there. And then I remembered the picture taken on Corde’s yacht. The features of three men could just be made out in the darkness. The light coming off a monitor had illuminated Corde and Novak. I was pretty sure Bass was the third man.

  “You’re in that photo hanging in Corde’s trophy room, aren’t you? You were on his yacht.”

  “What about it?” Bass wasn’t looking very happy.

  “All the other pictures had to do with one hunt or another.”

  “We were fishing,” he mumbled. “What’s the difference?”

  “It looked like a recent shot.”

  “A few weeks ago,” he said. “I can’t tell you much about the outing because I don’t remember much. I drank too much, and I got seasick, and by the end of the night I was puking my guts out.”

  I opened my mouth to ask another question, but before I could speak, Bass started his engine. It was loud; it roared. And the roar made me think of Corde’s trophy room, and the lion, and especially the tiger.

  Bass’s eyes met mine. He was anxious to take his leave of me. When I didn’t tell him to stay put, Bass hit reverse hard and then punched down on the accelerator. As he patched out, he left heavy tire treads behind.

  He wasn’t a good driver. And I doubted he was a good liar. I was confident he’d told me no lies, but also knew he’d only told me part of the story.

  CHAPTER 19:

  HEROIC FAILURE

  Normally I keep my cell phone in silent mode and feel a buzz when there’s a text or phone call. I guess that’s why I still wasn’t used to Munchkins singing my text alerts.

  “Ding dong! The witch is dead.”

  Elle Barrett Browning had finally gotten back to me. Her text was brief: C U Mulholland Scenic Overlook west of the 405 just off Mulholland at 10 p.m. I M driving black Tesla Model S. Let’s meet near fire road at top of trail.

  I texted back: I’ll be there.

  I wondered at Elle’s choice of spots. In some ways it made sense. The Mulholland Overlook offered a way of hiding in plain sight, at least at night. The overlook was convenient to the interstate, and as L.A. goes, it was a secluded spot. I wondered if Elle knew her proposed meeting place had the reputation of being a lover’s lane. Officially, it was closed at nine in the evening, but with both the Mountain Recreation Conservation Authority and LAPD stretched thin, it was rarely patrolled.

  The theme song from Peter Gunn with its wailing brass interrupted my thoughts. I stilled the trumpets by taking the call.

  “This is Gideon.”

  A gravelly voice said, “You called me.”

  Even though the caller didn’t identify himself, I knew who was on the other line. “Thanks for getting back to me, Caine. Is it all right if I call you ‘Caine’?”

  “Is it all right if I call you ‘asshole’?” he asked, his words slightly slurred.

  “Call me whatever you want, Mr. Pullman.”

  “I’m fucking with you. You can call me anything but ‘Mr. Pullman.’ That’s my father’s name—and my brother’s.”

  He took a deep breath and then let out an even deeper sigh. “You’re the cop Kelley said came by with that Lakers shirt, right?”

  “I am.”

  “You’re the fucking Trojan horse.”

  “Did you tell Kelley that’s what I was?”

  Caine sighed again; it was longer than his last sigh, and sadder. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Kelley’s pregnant and ready to pop. She’s also an innocent. I spared her the turd in the punchbowl. She would have worried about le turd.

  “Excuse my French,” he said. “That’s what comes of spending an afternoon of drinking at the Bar Marmont. They got lots of drinks with fancy French names. You ever been there?”

  The Chateau Marmont is on Sunset Boulevard. The hotel is a favorite haunt of the stars. It’s also where John Belushi died of a drug overdose.

  “I’ve been there on police business, but I’ve never dined or eaten there. It’s on my bucket list.”

  “It was on mine too. It was supposed to be the ultimate watering hole, but next time I’ll go to a titty bar instead that doesn’t have names for its drinks.”

  “What were you drinking?”

  “The Jalapeno,” he said. “That doesn’t sound French, does it? It’s a margarita made from jalapeno tequila.”

  “My best friend likes to drink a mescal that comes with worms.”

  “The Bar Marmont probably charges extra for those.”

  “Have you eaten dinner? I’d like to meet with you. It would be my treat.”

  “Those kinds of meals are always the most expensive.”

  “We need a face-to-face. We need to talk.”

  “Do we? Did I mention I got memory issues? It’s a blast injury thing. That’s what happens when you’re in the vicinity of too many IEDs. You get deficit awareness and PTSD.”

  “Are you sure you’re not just suffering from selective memory loss?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’m not your enemy. Meet me for dinner. I’ll prove it.”

  “Fine,” he said. “Let’s have dinner at Kabul Fried Chicken. I’ll be back there in two weeks. Their chicken might not be finger-lickin’ good, but if you leave with all your limbs intact, you got to think it was a good meal.”

  “Why don’t you pick somewhere in L.A., and why don’t we meet tonight?”

  He didn’t answer right away but finally said, “You ever eat at the Musso & Frank Grill?”

  “I’ve been there a few times.”

  “It’s supposed to be a Hollywood landmark.”

  “It is, and the food’s good. How about we meet there in an hour? I’d be glad to pay for your cab and your meal.”

  The silence was even longer this time. When I was just about ready to ask if he was still there, Pullman whispered, “Fine.”

  Before setting out for the restaurant, I pulled over at a neighborhood park and found a spot that gave me a good vantage point. As far as I could determine, there was no vehicle tailing me and no one observing my movements. My watchfulness wasn’t limited to ground activity. I scanned the skies. It was probably wishful looking more than anything else. Military drones could do their spying from as high as ten miles up. It was possible I was being spied on and with my naked eye couldn’t even see the vehicle doing the spying. But that, I was thinking, had been my mistake. I had been so fixated on drones that I had overlooked the obvious.

  Dr. Inferno had told me that UAVs weren’t good at audio surveillance. He had said that picking up conversations was difficult because of the noise produced by the drones. Being “eyes in the skies” was one thing; being ears on the ground was another. Drones were not yet capable of being the fly on the wall.

  I hadn’t processed much of what Dr. Inferno said because his playing with fire had scared the shit out of me. It had taken me until now to remember what he had told me about creating an illusion, or an effect. He had spoken about misdirection and how it could keep you from seeing what was there. There was also expectation, with the magician setting you up into believing you were seeing what wasn’t there. But he’d also warned me to “watch out for the man in the audience.” I had forgotten to look for the plant, the shill.

  Performers have used shills since time immemorial. The man or woman in the audience or crowd is planted there to facilitate the performer and performance, whether by laughing loudly or testifying or bidding up an item or being the apparent random everyman called upon. Sometimes shills cross the line from facilitating to aiding and abetting. Professional gamblers have been known to use plants to team up against the unsuspecting.

  I took Sirius for a short walk and made sure no one was moni
toring us, at least by conventional means. When we got back to the car, I placed Sirius’s water bowl on the ground, and then on hands and knees began my search.

  It took me fewer than five minutes to find the black box taped in the back wheel well. It wasn’t obvious, and I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t been looking for it. You never see the man in the audience either, unless you’re looking for him. And even then, you sometimes don’t see him.

  I was fairly certain the GPS tracker had been planted during my visit to Drew Corde’s house, and I was also fairly certain who had done the planting. There had been that knowing look that passed between Corde and his director of security, the enigmatic Mr. Novak. According to Bass, Novak had arrived late to the Bunker. I suspected he had been occupied that evening. He had put the GPS tracker in my vehicle and used it to follow me to Lisbet’s house. When I had returned to my car after talking with Corde, I hadn’t paid close enough attention to its fogged-up state and Sirius’s agitated condition. My partner’s presence had prevented entry into the vehicle and kept Novak from splicing into the electrical system or hiding the bug inside the console of the car. If that had occurred, the tracker would have been impossible to find. Instead, Novak had been forced to use a passive tracker with its own battery pack. Sirius’s slobber, the timely text to Corde telling him the task was done, and the foggy back windows were all clues I had overlooked. While I had been trying to get a bead on Corde, Novak had been getting the bead on me.

  Sirius and I cruised down Hollywood Boulevard. Over the years L.A. has spent a lot of money trying to revitalize the area so that it doesn’t look like blight. You don’t want the tourists to be iffy about their tourist traps. Through good times and bad, Musso & Frank’s has endured and been an anchor of what’s called “Old Hollywood.”

  I parked in the back, making sure Sirius had everything he needed, and then walked out front. I did a little weaving, but not because I’d been drinking. Hollywood Boulevard is home to lots of stars in the sidewalk, and I avoided stepping on them. Whenever I’m a pedestrian in the area, I remember the rhymes of childhood: Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Step on a line, break your father’s spine. I don’t know if there is a rhyme about stepping on stars, but I try to skirt them anyway. In front of the restaurant, I sidestepped Aaron Spelling, John Barrymore, and Gene Autry. The Marg Helgenberger star was a new one to me. I’d watched her show CSI once or twice, and wished that catching crooks through science was as easy as television made it seem. Most cops wait months to get results back from the police lab. Without any toxicology report yet available on Wrong Pauley, I still couldn’t be sure if I was dealing with a homicide or not.

  I was early, and I remembered that during my recent visit to the Magic Castle, I’d been told about Houdini’s star. I gave some thought to trying to hunt it down but decided not to even try. Locating a particular star isn’t as difficult as finding a needle in a haystack, but without a star guide map it’s not easy. The Hollywood Walk of Fame now has more than two thousand stars. There’s probably not a bigger monument to oversized egos, if you exclude the pyramids. It does give me a bit of satisfaction, though, knowing that a mythical amphibian like Kermit the Frog has his own star. That green reality has to bring some of the A-list egos down to earth.

  Nothing looked different inside Musso & Frank’s, and that was the point. Patrons wanted the good old good old. A few of the waiters working at the restaurant looked as if they had been there when the place opened in 1919. The servers wore old-time red tuxedo jackets that reminded me of the deep red bellhop uniform I’d seen on vintage film clips of Philip Morris Johnny. It had been almost half a century since Johnny’s “call for Philip Morris,” but had his doppelganger appeared in the restaurant, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

  I was seated in a worn leather booth with a view toward the reservation stand. After my conversation with Pullman, I couldn’t be sure he would even show. A Hispanic waiter who looked to be in his mid-sixties came to my table. I told him I was waiting for a friend, and he asked if he could get me a drink while I waited. If you should order a martini anywhere, it’s at Musso & Frank’s, but I violated tradition and went with an iced tea. My waiter took the order without comment. Had I ordered that martini, I’m sure I would have gotten a nod of approval instead of his silence.

  The menu looked much the same as I remembered. Where else in Los Angeles can you get chicken à la king, Welsh rarebit, and grilled lamb kidneys with bacon? If the copy in the menu could be believed, the kidneys were Charlie Chaplin’s favorite. I wondered if Chaplin had ever come from the set for his kidneys with his Little Tramp greasepaint mustache still painted on. Apparently Chaplin had been such a regular that the restaurant had kept the table nearest the street reserved for him. To this day it’s still called the Charlie Chaplin table. If memory served me, Chaplin’s star was a block away, located outside the Hollywood Wax Museum. At least it was near his table.

  Time passed, and I began to fear that Pullman was going to be a no-show. My waiter seemed to perk up a little bit when he revisited the table a second time and I put in an order for a baby iceberg wedge. These days even iceberg lettuce seems to be a thing of the past, replaced by microgreens, arugula, and endive. My wedge arrived before Pullman did, and I started eating. With the generous amounts of bacon, chives, and blue cheese, all I was missing was the potato. It wasn’t what you’d call a healthy salad, but it was tasty.

  I was just finishing up the salad when a face I’d seen in the Pullman wedding photos entered the restaurant. In the years since the wedding, Caine Pullman had noticeably aged. He wasn’t wearing his uniform, but anyone with eyes could tell in a glance he was military. It wasn’t only his haircut; you could see it in his posture and bearing.

  As I started to rise, his head turned my way. He motioned with a hand for me to sit and then marched toward the booth. His handshake was about what I would have expected; it didn’t quite break bones.

  “Michael,” I said.

  “I thought we’d agreed I could call you ‘asshole.’ ”

  He faked a smile while taking a seat in the booth. I was glad he remembered our earlier conversation after drinking so many jalapeno margaritas. Too many drinkers talk and don’t hear. Judging by his clear eyes and quick movements, he had put his afternoon of drinking well behind him.

  “They don’t have your jalapeno margaritas here,” I said, “but they do have world-class martinis. I’m hoping you’re not drinking, though, and not just because it will save me a dozen bucks a pop. I’m working a case, and I could use your help on it. If you agree, I’ll need you to have a clear head.”

  The last thing Pullman was expecting was for me to ask for his help. He had come ready to argue and lie, and maybe even to fight. His surprise showed in his expression and voice.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I need someone watching my back. The people who might be targeting me already know about my partner, but they wouldn’t expect you.”

  Our waiter chose that moment to swoop in. He delivered another menu and asked Pullman, “What can I get you to drink?”

  My Ranger considered his options and said, “How about a coke, but served in one of your martini glasses?”

  The waiter didn’t bat an eye. “Would you like olives or a cocktail onion with your coke?”

  “Olives,” said Pullman.

  The waiter left and Pullman said to me, “At least it will feel like a martini.”

  “Maybe I’ll do the same with my next round of ice tea.”

  Caine took a moment to study my face. “So, are you bullshitting me, or do you really need my help?”

  “It’s legit. I can use another set of eyes. I’m hoping you’ll just be along as insurance, and you won’t have to involve yourself in any other capacity than observing. Normally, I would never consider involving a civilian, but you’re not exactly that, are you?”

&nb
sp; “Sua sponte.”

  “You’ll have to translate.”

  “It’s a Ranger motto, and means ‘of my own accord.’ When you’re a Ranger, you volunteer three times: for the Army, for the Airborne School, and for the Ranger Regiment. We do what needs to be done on our own accord.”

  “Are you willing to volunteer for a fourth time?”

  “What’s the mission?”

  I told him about Wrong Pauley and the angel he claimed to have seen, the sex tape, the GPS tracker on my car, and the fire set on my roof. He heard about my meeting later that night and how drones might be part of the overall equation. I finished my story at the same time his coke arrived in the requested martini glass. Three olives speared by a toothpick sat in his drink.

  Pullman raised his glass, and with a nod once more said, “Sua sponte.”

  I clicked glasses with him, and our waiter asked, “Are you gentlemen ready to order?”

  Pullman took a last satisfied bite of his rib eye in béarnaise sauce. I had gone with the fettuccini alfredo. Supposedly the genesis of my pasta came from a recipe supplied by Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford. Neither was alive to confirm this. And since they were known for their silent movies, maybe they wouldn’t have commented anyway. I was glad the two old stars had supplied their recipe. Some things shouldn’t be tampered with, and chief among them was the fettuccini alfredo.

  With the meal finished it was time to address the elephant at the table. Rather than dance around it any longer, I said, “How is it that your nephew didn’t recognize you?”

  Caine scowled at me. “What if I said I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

  “Then you would be lying.”

  He scowled a little more before finally saying, “Anything I say is just conjecture. Everything I say is off the record. Can we proceed that way?”

  “It works for me.”

  “Matthew has never met me. I’m his mystery uncle who is always fighting in one war or another and is forever in some shithole location.”