The Remake

by Stephen Humphrey Bogart

Hell, maybe that’s what Casey wanted. Maybe she’d gone native. Got to like driving around with the top down. Got used to the feeling of power. Developed a taste for avocados and sprouts in her salad.

  R.J. had some time to think about Casey, and he did. Tried to think his way right into her head and figure out what was going on in there. Couldn’t.

  But he also thought about how his fingerprints got on that damn envelope. Davis wanted R.J. in jail more than he wanted to breathe, and he might bend a few rules to make it happen. But would he manufacture evidence? Coldly frame R.J. by planting his fingerprints on material evidence of first-degree murder?

  R.J. didn’t think so. For two reasons: First, it was hard to buy that any cop would do that. Maybe if he knew a suspect was really guilty and couldn’t get him any other way—maybe. But not like this.

  The second reason was that Henry Portillo worked with Davis. Portillo didn’t like Davis, didn’t approve of the way he worked, but he worked with him. He wouldn’t if Davis was that dirty. Wouldn’t come close to him. Henry was very funny about honor and that sort of stuff, very old-fashioned.

  So Davis didn’t plant it. It got there by itself. Also assuming the lab didn’t screw up, and it really was his fingerprints on the envelope. That left only two answers.

  Number one: R.J. was guilty. He was pretty sure he wasn’t.

  Number two: Somebody else was framing him.

  That second one was a lot more interesting. It also started a whole string of other questions, like who and why?

  There were no answers, nothing he could prove from inside jail, but after a day and a night in jail R.J. had narrowed it down a little. Because in the last week the only envelopes he had touched were in his office, going through his mail. Maybe somebody had gone through his trash, taken and reused an envelope he had handled?

  It didn’t seem likely, but there was no other possibility. He hadn’t handled any other—

  Hold on a second, R.J. thought.

  A picture came to him, a memory of William Kelley’s funeral. Pauly Aponti had handed him an envelope with evidence against Janine Wright. He had taken the stuff out and—

  And what? What had he done with that envelope?

  He had tossed it. He was sure. Hadn’t even crumpled it. He had just dropped it into a standing ashtray by the door. Could he get the police lab to check it for traces of cigarette ash? Maybe. That kind of evidence would help a little, if he ended up in court.

  But more important—who had taken it from the ashtray and used it to mail a death threat? Because envelopes were cheap, and the only reason to reuse that one was to put R.J. in jail. Who wanted that enough to frame him?

  The quick answer was Pauly. He was an ex-con, which made him suspect. But why? What ax did Pauly have to grind? He had known Kelley, known him well enough that the dead man had trusted him with his last hope to get back at Janine.

  They had been cellmates—had the relationship been even closer than that? Funny things happened in prison. Was Pauly getting a lover’s revenge for the death of Kelley? Killing off the people close to Janine, and eventually Janine herself, to get revenge for Kelley’s imprisonment and death?

  But then why drag in R.J.? Why not just kill her and get it over with? It didn’t make sense. Besides, he had seen Pauly, and the man didn’t look strong enough to pull on his own jacket, let alone overpower Levy and snip his head off with scissors. And the killer was free to move around the country. Pauly was still on parole.

  No. It had to be somebody else. But maybe with Pauly’s help…? That was a little easier to swallow. So Pauly, on instructions from someone else, sets him up with the envelope—

  No, wait a second. There was no way he could be sure R.J. would toss the envelope. He might have just shoved it into his pocket—almost had, in fact. But when R.J. did toss it, Pauly noticed, decided to take advantage of it, snagged it for his Unknown Associate.

  R.J. nodded. He was beginning to see some light at the end of this particular tunnel. Okay; Pauly was somebody’s helper.

  Whose?

  R.J. began to arrange what he knew, and what he could guess, about the Unknown Associate.

  Strong, clever, show-biz ties, R.J. already knew. But now he could add, with ties to Pauly. Which probably meant from Somers Penitentiary. Because before that, Pauly had no known ties to Janine Wright, or Hollywood. As far as R.J. knew. He could check that, but for now it was a good bet.

  So figure also it was somebody inside Somers with Pauly. Not a guard or a social worker. Cons were funny about that stuff. They would pal around a little with a guard, but they’d never trust him. So it was another inmate. Someone Pauly liked and trusted, who was smart, strong, funny, and had showbiz ties.

  William Kelley.

  Which was impossible.

  The guy was dead.

  Wasn’t he?

  R J. snorted. Drop it right there, buddy-boy, he told himself. That was a stupid idea. Just because Kelley fit all the clues that wasn’t going to bring him back to life. He was as dead as you can get—R.J. had been to his funeral. Seen the casket.

  A closed casket.

  No way to tell who was inside.

  No; this was just plain nuts. He’d been in jail just over twenty-four hours and he was already going stir-crazy. The cops had found and identified the body. They were satisfied it was Kelley’s body. They were usually pretty good at that kind of thing, because they hated like hell to be wrong and look stupid.

  So drop this dumbbell idea and bend the gray cells back into line, R.J. William Kelley was dead. So the killer was—

  Hell, I don’t know. Somebody else. Somebody who’s as much like William Kelley as he can be without being William Kelley.

  And there was an idea: If he had been really close to a brother, it might make sense for the brother to flip out over William’s death and want revenge.

  Except why hadn’t this hypothetical ultra-close brother been at the funeral? Wouldn’t it be natural for him to show up? And anyway no, damn it, that made no sense. Because the lawyer had been killed before Kelley’s death.

  When his own lawyer finally came to get him out, R J. had ground the top layer of enamel off his teeth trying to think his way out of this mess, and he had gotten nowhere.

  R.J.’s lawyer was a tall, silver-haired guy in a gray suit so soft you wanted to take a nap on it. “Mr. Brooks?” he said in a deep, smooth tone of voice.

  “That’s me,” R.J. admitted.

  He held out a hand. “The Flesh Man sent me. I’m Feldman. From Weiner, Belton, Nye and Feldman.” He grinned at R.J. “You’re sprung, gumshoe.”

  He must have seen R.J.’s look, because he immediately dropped the grin. “Sorry it took so long, Mr. Brooks,” he said. “They didn’t want to let you go at all, but we hit them with some fancy tap dancing, got the right judge to listen, and that was all she wrote.”

  “I appreciate it,” R.J. said. “What was the gumshoe business?”

  Feldman looked embarrassed. “Ah. Well. Um, actually, as you know, our firm represented your mother, and your father.” He flashed a small smile. “Before my time, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, anyway, I was always a fan of your father’s movies. And, ah—”

  “Okay, I get it. It seemed like a natural.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Counselor,” R.J. said, “get me out of this place, and you can even quote Rod McKuen.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Henry Portillo was waiting outside the jail. He stood beside his big blue car, wearing a face that said nothing, while R.J. wrapped things up with Feldman.

  “It is good to see you, R.J.,” he said when R.J. finally walked over to him. But he said it so quietly, R.J. barely heard him.

  “What’s up, Uncle Hank?” R.J. asked him as they lunged into traffic.

  Portillo would not meet his eye. “I am sorry, R.J.,” he said. “I did what I could, but—” He shrugged. “That tur
ned out to be nothing.”

  “You mean a couple of days in jail? Forget it. I’ve done worse time than that.”

  “I do not mean jail. There is something else.”

  R.J. looked hard at Portillo. The quietness now seemed to be apology, even shame.

  Portillo finally looked over to R.J.—a quick look, since they were in traffic, but he connected.

  “What?”

  “Captain Davis found out that I had men assigned to watch Casey. He said that since you were guilty we could save the overtime by just watching you.”

  “He pulled the guys watching her? To save money?”

  Portillo nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  R.J. shivered. Casey was alone, unguarded, and the killer was ready to strike again. “That son-of-a-bitch.”

  “He was a good cop once,” Portillo said, and shrugged. “He got bit by a political bug. Now all he thinks about is making chief.”

  “If anything happens to Casey—”

  “Don’t say it, R.J.,” Portillo said, cutting him off. “Making threats is what got you into this trouble to begin with.”

  R.J. took a deep breath and shut up. Portillo was right. Besides, the important thing was to find a way to keep Casey safe. It wouldn’t be easy, since she was probably still mad at him.

  But he had to do it. Somehow, he had to keep her safe.

  He thought about throwing himself on her mercy, but he couldn’t be sure she had any right now. And he played with the idea, too, that if he just hung around her, and the cops hung around him, she’d be as safe as she could be. But he was pretty sure she wouldn’t go for that, either.

  Whatever he did, he had to talk to her first. Try to patch things up a little. If he could do that, he could persuade her to be careful, to accept a little protection.

  And if he could do that—then catching the killer ought to be relatively easy.

  Still, he had to try.

  “Uncle Hank—” he started.

  “No,” Portillo said.

  R.J. blinked. “No, what?”

  “No, we are not going to go to the studio.”

  “How did you know I was going to ask that?”

  Portillo gave him a pitying look. “R.J., not only did I know that, Captain Davis knew it, Janine Wright knew it—everybody remotely connected to the case knew that you would want to go right to the studio. And we are not going there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because whatever I might think, Janine Wright has made up her mind about you and she does not want you on the lot. And Captain Davis happens to agree with her.”

  R.J. tried every argument he could think of. Nothing worked. Not only was Portillo’s mind made up, but he had orders—in writing—that he was not to allow R.J. on the Andromeda Studio lot.

  Portillo would not look the other way. He would not take R.J. to get a rental car and leave him to try it on his own. He would not leave R.J. alone, knowing he’d find a way to get on the lot and see Casey.

  “In fact,” he said, with just a touch of his old amusement, “I plan to have you watched around the clock, R.J.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” R.J. growled, knowing Portillo was having a joke at his expense, but without a clue as to what was so funny.

  “You will see,” Portillo said. And that was all he would say.

  R.J. swore and fumed and threatened, but that was it.

  After another ten minutes of weaving through the heavy traffic, Portillo pulled his car into the parking lot of a small Thai restaurant deep in the Valley.

  R.J. looked at him. “I’m not hungry,” he said, still sulking.

  Portillo flashed a row of white teeth at him. “You will be, R.J.”

  They went inside. R.J. wondered why all these places seemed to be dim, with lots of wood. Thai people must have good eyesight. Must be from eating all the hot peppers, R.J. thought.

  The waitress was dressed in one of those incredibly tight dresses that turned her walk into a cross between a sway and a tiptoe. She was expecting them and led them toward the back of the restaurant.

  Almost at the end of the hall there was one of those private eating areas Thai restaurants sometimes have—a carved wooden screen wrapped around a table that was raised up a couple of steps. A pair of elegant and expensive wingtip shoes sat on the top step. R.J. could see the outline of a man’s head inside the booth. Somebody waiting for them, obviously. Probably to watch R.J., as Portillo had said.

  Great, R.J. thought. More cops.

  And sure enough, when he kicked off his own shoes and climbed up, Angelo Bertelli was there, munching on an egg roll.

  “Hey, goombah,” he called out to R.J. He was dressed in a beautiful gray pinstripe suit with wide lapels, a soft pink shirt with gray stripes, and a loud silk tie with dinosaurs on it. His black hair was slicked back a la Pat Riley, and he looked like—Well, hell, R.J. thought. He looks like an Italian cop from New York. And from the way the waitress simpered at him, his charm worked out here just as well as at home.

  “Angelo!”

  “Geez, where youse been? I’m practically on the entree.”

  “This L.A. traffic is a bitch,” R J. said, sliding into the seat opposite Bertelli. “Am I allowed to ask what the hell you’re doing here? Or is that part of the surprise?”

  “You may ask,” said Portillo as he took his seat.

  “Sure, go ahead,” said Angelo, dipping the butt end of his egg roll into a pot of hot sauce.

  “Okay. What the hell are you doing here, Angelo?”

  “Mmmpf,” said Bertelli, mouth filled with egg roll. He swallowed and tried again. “The NYPD has decided to cooperate with the LAPD in a rare fit of good sense—which may have more to do with the fact that Lieutenant Kates and Captain Davis have fallen in love over the long-distance lines at the thought of sticking you away for twenty to life. And so, hey, goombah, here I am. To lee-aze.”

  “To what?”

  “To lee-aze, R.J. I am a lee-aze-on officer.”

  “Kates and Davis, huh?”

  Bertelli held up two fingers, crossed. “Like this. A real love feast. Soul mates. Charter members of the Let’s Screw R.J. Club.”

  R.J. grinned. “And they picked you for the job, huh? That was smart.”

  “Yeah, well, far as I know, neither one of them boys is ever gonna join Mensa.”

  “Seriously, Angelo, how did you end up with this job?”

  Angelo smirked. “You know the old story about the briar patch? ‘Please, please, don’t make me go to L.A. Lawsa mussy, I hates it out there.’ And Kates thinks I’m too close to you anyhow, so he sends me as a punishment, because he figures I’m gonna help nail you.”

  “Are you?”

  “Don’t talk stronzo, R.J.” Bertelli winked at Portillo. “That means mierda, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, Detective.”

  Bertelli turned back to R.J. “Buddy, I got my own list of suspects to check, and you’re not on it.”

  “That’s a first,” R.J. snorted.

  “Tell me about it.” He held up a manilla folder with a stripe and the letters NYPD on the front. “And this stuff does not show up on the overtime reports, on account of it would be my ass if Kates found out I was working on something other than nailing you.” He winked. “Which means, by the way, that you are definitely buying lunch.”

  R.J. laughed. “No problem. Have seconds. Order dessert. Hell, the only thing better than getting off the hook would be pissing off Kates and Davis by doing it. So Kates still wants me for it, huh?”

  Now Bertelli laughed, which almost made him choke on another bite of egg roll. “Kates has got your picture on the front of the case file. With a little noose around it. He wants you so bad he’d trade in his pension to get you. But hey. You’re paying for a lot of braces and a few years at college.”

  “Say what?”

  “Yeah. So many of the guys have put in overtime trying to nail you, it’s practically doubled the budget for the year.”


  R.J. laughed. “My tax dollars at work, huh? Well, it’s damned good to see you, Angelo.”

  The food started coming at that point. There was a spicy soup first. Angelo ate three bowls of it, sweating and swearing. Portillo ate his without any fuss at all. He liked Thai food, but to him, raised on a diet of Mexican peppers, there was nothing unusual about hot food.

  So while Bertelli made a Broadway number out of eating, Portillo quietly finished and began to go through Angelo’s folder, his crescent-shaped reading glasses stuck on the end of his nose.

  And by the time coffee came and R.J. and Angelo had caught up a little bit, he was nodding and making notes on a small pad he pulled from his pocket.

  “Got a hot one, Uncle Hank?” R.J. asked him.

  Portillo looked up. “I believe so, yes. There are several interesting possibles here.” He looked at Angelo, and his eyes were as hard and bright as the turquoise in his belt buckle. “Have Lieutenant Kates and Captain Davis seen any of these?”

  Bertelli shrugged. “Kates knows about some of ’em. Like that Minch guy. He told me to drop it. I don’t know if he told Davis.”

  Portillo shook his head. “This is unforgivable. To have these and not even check—this is simply bad police work. If I had seen this before, hijo—”

  “All right, for God’s sake,” R.J. burst out. “I can’t take any more of this. Just tell me, already.”

  “As Detective Bertelli says, there are several very strong leads,” Portillo said. “Particularly this Ed Minch.”

  “Who the hell is Ed Minch?” R.J. asked, growing more irritated. They were both batting this thing around like a volleyball and he didn’t have a clue.

  Bertelli butted in. “Minch is editor of a small movie fan magazine. SCREEN SCREAM. They do nostalgia and hard-to-find old movies.” Angelo winked at R.J. “Guess what’s his favorite movie in the whole wide history of the world?”

  “It wouldn’t be As Time Goes By, would it?”

  “Oh, but it would be, R.J. It definitely would. And if you think you wanted to shit a Buick when you heard about the remake, you should read what Minch has had to say about it.” Angelo waved a large hand at about half the room. “Threatens everybody. Wishes pain, suffering, and gooey death on anybody remotely connected to the thing.” He pointed at R.J. “Including you, you traitorous, pig-nosed, dollar-sucking, fame-hungry whore.”