The Remake

by Stephen Humphrey Bogart

  R.J. glanced at the black plastic frames. They looked like the kind of cheap reading glasses anybody might wear—anybody who was a little broke and not too picky. The odds against this being a real clue, dropped by a killer, were long—but it did happen. Still, R.J.’s money was on the gardener.

  “Hey, Lieutenant, you in there?” R.J. turned to see a heavy-set woman with round glasses peering in the front door.

  Portillo waved her in. “Come on in, Gilbert.” To R.J. he added, “Crime Scene Unit. Let’s get out of here. We’ll just be in the way now.”

  They drove down the canyon and into the valley. R.J. turned it over in his head, trying to make the connections. It made sense that the two murders were connected—except that poisoners usually stayed with poison, slashers got their thrills using their blades. Somebody who did both—

  It didn’t make sense. But it was scary as hell.

  Either the guy was a totally out-of-control maniac, or the kind of cold killer who killed for effect, picking his method like a flavor of the month. Either way, this wasn’t going to be easy. Or fun.

  “Did that note look like the others?” R.J. asked as they came off Coldwater Canyon and onto Ventura.

  “I think so, yes,” said Portillo absentmindedly. “The pasted-on letters look the same. It’s a funny thing.”

  “What is?”

  “In the previous notes, all the letters were cut from movie industry magazines.”

  “You mean the fan magazines?”

  “No, that’s the funny part. They are all from what you might call insider magazines. The ones all the executives have on their coffee tables and in their waiting rooms. Not too many people outside the business even know about them, but they sell a lot of copies here.”

  “So whoever is doing this is an insider.”

  Portillo shrugged. “Or wants us to think so, and is smart enough to know how.”

  R.J. laughed. “Sure. Or they really are an insider, and want us to think they’re an outsider trying to look like an insider. Come on, Uncle Hank. Take the clue or you’ll go nuts.”

  Portillo shook his head and sighed. “I have been on the LAPD for twenty-seven years, hijo. I am no longer able to go nuts. But I tend to think as you do. It’s an insider. Motive is easier that way.”

  “Yeah. Janine Wright makes enemies the way other people make breakfast.”

  “True enough,” Portillo said with a shrug. “Probably three quarters of this town hates her, and the other quarter is afraid of her but would like to hate her if they could.”

  “Uh-huh,” said R.J. “Where do you fit?”

  The older man turned and looked at R.J. with a huge smile. “If I have to arrest her, that would be okay,” he said.

  They arrived back at Uncle Hank’s house and R.J. went back to his room, intending to unpack and think a little. But he had barely got his suitcase open when he heard the phone ring in the living room and, a moment later, a knock came on the door. “R.J.? The telephone is for you.”

  “Coming, Uncle Hank.”

  Nobody knew he was here, except Wanda. So it had to be important. He followed Portillo down the hall to the living room and picked up the receiver. “Hello, Wanda. Give me the good news first.”

  “Okay, boss. A Ms. Gillam from Connecticut Department of Corrections wants a word with you, and she didn’t sound happy.”

  “That’s the good news?”

  “Yeah. I thought you should know that Mary Kelley kid has been calling all day, totally wigged out.”

  “Wigged out good? She found her old man?”

  “Wigged out bad, boss,” Wanda said. “She found where her old man was, but he’s gone.”

  “What?”

  “He took off. Skipped parole. Nobody knows where he is and there’s hell to pay.”

  “Damn.”

  “You got that right.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Wanda didn’t have any more details. She gave R.J. the phone number where Mary Kelley could be reached and he called the kid.

  “R.J. Brooks, Mary,” he said when she picked up the phone.

  “Oh, God,” she said. “I went over there, it’s such a miserable little place, and he’s gone, and nobody knows where he is or why he suddenly just took off, except there’s this woman, R.J., she says she’s Daddy’s parole officer, and she thinks I know where he is and now she’s going to get me in trouble because I won’t tell her where he is, except I don’t know where he is, but she says I do because he was there until you started nosing around and she says she can have your license pulled—”

  “Breathe, damn it!” R.J. growled down the wire.

  “—and that it would be my fault if you—What?”

  “I said breathe. I’m three thousand miles away and I can’t slap you, but I’ll hang up if I have to listen to any more hysterics.”

  “I—but I wasn’t—”

  “Yes, you were. Now take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”

  He could hear her take a breath. It was shaky but it was deep, and when she spoke again her voice was a little steadier. “I went over there, to the, you know. The address you gave me.”

  “Sure, over in Tuffington.”

  “Torrington.”

  “Yeah, all right, Torrington. And your old man was gone.”

  “They said he hadn’t showed up for work for two days and he had missed a meeting with that woman, his parole officer, which I guess is, you know, not a good thing.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “And she thinks he’s skipped parole and it’s our fault, yours and mine, and she says we could be in a lot of trouble.”

  “They always say that,” R.J. said. “You get used to it. It doesn’t mean much.”

  “And then I called your office and they said you were in California.” She made it sound like he had betrayed her when she needed him most.

  “I don’t like it much, either. But that’s where I am,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Oh,” Mary said. She sounded surprised that he would ask her that. “Um. Can you find him? My father, I mean?”

  “I know who you mean. I’ll find him.”

  “Because that woman, the parole officer. She said the police had been looking for him and they couldn’t find him.”

  “I don’t have to take time out to write speeding tickets,” R.J. said. “And I can walk past a doughnut when I need to. I’ll find your old man, Mary.”

  It took another couple of minutes to calm her down, and then he had to let her know that it was okay, he didn’t mind the job, it was what he did. But when he finally hung up she sounded a lot better than when she had called. R.J. wasn’t sure why that should matter to him, but it did. He wanted her to have confidence in him. He liked the kid.

  He dialed a New York number he knew pretty well.

  “Broadway News,” the smooth voice said on the other end.

  “It’s me, Hookshot.”

  “Hey! R.J.! Bubbe, where you been?”

  “California,” R.J. told him.

  “Oh, man. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I need a favor, Hookshot.”

  Hookshot laughed, a rich, loud noise that was like a sound mosaic of his genes. “’Course you need a favor, R.J. Why else you ever call me up?”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t read many of those fancy magazines you carry. Listen, I got an ex-con skipped parole. I need to find him.”

  “Shee-it, R.J. Ask me something hard sometime. Can’t be that many ex-cons hiding out, can there? Not in New Fuckin’ York?”

  “It’s not that bad. He’s a white collar guy. Besides, he’ll probably be over in Connecticut.”

  There was a pause, followed by a snort of disbelief. “Say what? The man is where?”

  “Connecticut, Hookshot. It’s not that far.”

  “The fuck it ain’t. Someplace way the fuck out West, man. Still got Indians and shit out there.”

  “Hookshot, I might be stuck out here for a while. I can
’t do this.”

  Another pause. “Gonna cost you, man.”

  “Sure,” R.J. said. “Why should this be different?”

  R.J. always ended up paying for these favors. Not that Hookshot needed the money. He was rich. They both knew it, though Hookshot never admitted it. But like a lot of rich guys, Hookshot couldn’t make himself spend a dime. And anyway, the money went to the street kids who sniffed out the information. Or if Hookshot did it himself, the money went to the kids, anyway. A new jacket, a pair of jeans, a decent meal.

  R.J. didn’t mind. It was just about his only charity. He gave Hookshot what he knew about Kelley and said he’d call back in a few days.

  “How long you going to be out there, R.J.?”

  “I don’t know. Until I catch some scumbag writing tough letters.”

  “Tough?” Hookshot cackled. “In Los Angeles?! Hee-hee, R.J., that’s meshuggeneh. Don’t get hurt.”

  “I’ll try not to,” he said. “Casey’s out here.”

  Hookshot stopped laughing. “She in on this thing?”

  “Yeah. The letters are all to the people at her new job.”

  Another pause. “You got Portillo with you on this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, then. You let me know you need help, man.”

  “I will, Hookshot. Thanks.”

  “And R.J.! Don’t be a schmuck! You stand in the doorway when you can, hear me?”

  It made no sense. “What are you talking about?”

  “Earthquakes, man. You got to stand in the doorway for an earthquake so the ceiling don’t fall on your goddamn head.”

  R.J. laughed. One of the reasons he liked Hookshot was that the guy could always make him laugh. “I’ll stay in the doorway, Hookshot.”

  “Do that. Don’t do nothing meshugge, you hear me?”

  R.J. hung up the phone feeling a lot better. Mary Kelley’s problem didn’t seem like much compared with what was going on out here, but he had said he would help her, and in his business you had to do what you said you would do. Maybe that’s why he liked what he did. And maybe that’s what he disliked so much about the movie business. It was just the opposite.

  He stood up and followed his nose to the kitchen. Henry Portillo was up to his elbows in making dinner. From past experience R.J. knew it was an important ritual for the older man. So he stood well out of the way and watched, leaning against a counter and sniffing in the smells he remembered: onion, lime, green pepper, chiles. Something else.

  He nodded at one of the pots on the stove. “Whatcha got going, Uncle Hank?”

  “Mole sauce. With some chicken, rice, beans.” He plopped four chicken breasts onto a tray and began sprinkling spices on them. “That was your office on the phone?”

  “Yeah. Somebody skipped parole. Believe it or not, Janine Wright’s ex. I’m finding him for the daughter.”

  Portillo grunted. “How long has he been missing?”

  “Couple of days. Why?”

  “Has New York made you stupid, hijo?”

  R.J. stood up straight, annoyed. “What do you mean, Uncle Hank?”

  Portillo turned to him, his finger pointed like a knife. “I mean, R.J., that tomorrow morning you are going to go with me down to police headquarters to talk to my superiors, and you will have to answer some very tough questions. And it will go a lot easier if we can tell them there is someone out there who is a more likely suspect than you.”

  Portillo opened the oven and shoved in a tray with the chicken breasts.

  “Someone like an ex-con ex-husband, for instance.”

  R.J. blinked. He had been thinking he had two separate problems. Now it looked like he had only one. “You’re right, Uncle Hank,” he admitted. “I’m getting stupid. I should have seen it a long time ago. You think Kelley is out here? In Los Angeles?”

  Portillo grunted and slammed the oven door. “To me this makes more sense than assuming you are guilty, chico. The ex-husband is a logical suspect. Especially if we can establish that he has a good motive for hating Ms. Wright.”

  “He’s got a great motive. He was married to her. That woman could push Gandhi into a fistfight.” Portillo gave him a look. R.J. looked back, then snapped his fingers. “Wait a sec, I just remembered something. No, damn it, two somethings. His daughter said she thinks Janine framed him.”

  “That’s good,” Portillo said, leaning on the counter across from R.J. “What’s the other thing?”

  “The parole officer in Connecticut. She told me Kelley was still saying he was innocent.”

  Portillo frowned and nodded. “I like it. This is a very good-looking suspect, R.J. I think I should phone this in.” He winked. “You may be off the hook, hijo.”

  He left the room and in a moment R.J. could hear him talking on the telephone. R.J. closed his eyes, suddenly tired and feeling bad about what he would have to do. Sure, Mary, I found your old man. And then I put him in jail.

  Aw, hell. This one was out of his hands. He had to find Kelley—not for Mary, but to keep Casey safe, and to keep his own ass out of jail. And just incidentally, to stop a few more murders. He could feel bad about it later.

  He stood up and went to the refrigerator for some soda.

  He was going to talk to the cops in the morning. Get this all straightened out. Things would be simpler then.

  CHAPTER 18

  But things weren’t any better the next morning. If anything, they were worse.

  He’d called Casey late and gotten only her answering machine. The voice on the tape was a new Casey; crisper, impersonal, no warmth in it, nothing he could recognize beyond the mechanical sound of her voice. He wasn’t sure he knew who it was.

  He’d tried again. Same thing. Tried again. And again. Finally fell asleep next to the phone. Got woken up when the damn thing rang. And it wasn’t even her, it was for Portillo. R.J. got up and handed the older man the phone and tottered off to bed.

  He’d been up early, still dead tired. But the jet lag wouldn’t let him sleep beyond 6 A.M. He made coffee and sat drinking it, waiting for Uncle Hank to come out, not daring to cook breakfast. It was an important meal for Portillo, and he demanded the right to make his famous huevos rancheros for R.J. whenever he could.

  R.J. wasn’t hungry anyway, so he could wait. He was still feeling sore about missing Casey. She hadn’t called back and he had spent too much time wondering what that meant. He had just decided for the ninth time that it didn’t mean anything and he was being a jerk when Portillo came into the kitchen for breakfast.

  He didn’t say much, just nodded and got to work cooking. In just a few minutes he handed R.J. a large plate piled with eggs, salsa, and refried beans. He set a basket of warm tortillas in the center of the small kitchen table and the two of them piled into it.

  The salsa was hot—Portillo paid R.J. the compliment of giving him the real stuff instead of his gringo salsa. After two bites the sweat was pouring off R.J. It was damn good, but it was hard work to get it down without shouting. But if nothing else, it cleared the cobwebs from R.J.’s head.

  When they were done eating they got dressed and headed downtown. Getting downtown wasn’t easy this time of day, but they made it, and in a little over an hour they were sitting side by side in front of a big desk at police headquarters.

  Captain Davis was as big as his desk and his face looked a lot harder. He stared at R.J. for a long time. R.J. began to think the guy maybe thought he had X-ray vision or something. But what the hell, if the captain wanted to stare, it was his office. Let him stare.

  Still, staring was something you could do alone. So R.J. took out the crossword puzzle from this morning’s paper and started to work on it. He’d stuck it in his pocket on the theory that you should never go into a building with a waiting room unless you were ready to wait. With Davis still hitting him with both barrels, R J. just flipped the paper open, took a pen from the captain’s desk, and went to work.

  The puzzle wasn’t as good as the one in The New York
Times, of course. They even got a few clues wrong, misspelled a word now and then.

  But R.J. generally figured it out, and it made him feel a little superior. That was something he could use this morning.

  “Did you teach him that, Lieutenant?” he heard the captain asking.

  “No, sir,” Portillo answered in a neutral voice.

  “Well, I don’t like it,” the captain said.

  Portillo had nothing to say to that.

  “Put down that paper, Brooks,” the captain commanded.

  R.J. looked up blandly and raised an eyebrow. “Why? So I can get another staring lesson?”

  “I’m talking to you, that’s why.”

  R.J. shrugged. “I figured if you had something to say, you would have said it. I’m sorry, Captain, I didn’t realize you were so tough. Go ahead, talk. Or if you want, stare some more.”

  Captain Davis turned purple. “You’re in enough trouble already, sport. I might go a little easier on you if you cooperate.”

  R.J. tried his hardest to look surprised. “But Captain, I am cooperating. I’ve flown three thousand miles at my own expense to answer your questions. If you can’t think of any that’s not my problem.” He folded the puzzle and stuck it back into his pocket. “If you want, I’ll think up my own questions, and then answer ’em, too. You can go for coffee. I like it black, two sugars.”

  Captain Davis slammed his hand down on the desk. It sounded like a hand grenade going off. R.J. managed not to shout eek or dive under the furniture. But it was a close call.

  “Portillo!” he bellowed. “Tell this fucking clown this is serious!”

  “I think he heard you, Captain.”

  “I heard you,” R.J. said. “But I might be more inclined to believe it’s serious if you start to treat it that way instead of trying to prove what a hard-ass you are. So why don’t I just admit you are really a hard-ass, this is serious, I’m in trouble, and then cut all the horseshit and do some business?”

  Captain Davis thought of three or four things to say, all at the same time, but none of them came out so you could actually understand them. The first thing that came out that R.J. and Portillo could make out was, “Lieutenant Kates was right about you.”