Bloodthirsty

by Marshall Karp

  “Long as your arm.”

  “You can add my name to it. He was a hateful little toad.”

  Agins slid a parking pass onto our dashboard. “Make a right, drive down to the Clinton Building. Pita is on the second floor.”

  “Park anywhere, Sarge?” Terry said.

  “Actually, there’s an empty space right in front of the building.” Agins gave us a broad grin and a mock salute. “It says, ‘Reserved for Barry Gerber.’”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  We pulled up to the Clinton Building, which was not named after our colorful forty-second president. It borders on Clinton Street, so the name is strictly functional. The space itself is equally uninspired. Not a nickel was wasted on glitz or glamour for any of the executive suites. Baker-Broome’s office was as exciting as a page out of a Staples catalog.

  “We meet again,” he said.

  He looked better than he did last night. Less rumpled, less harried, and, of course, his boss was no longer missing.

  He skipped the foreplay and machine-gunned us with questions: How did Barry die? Was he already dead last night when we were waiting for him at the premiere? Did you talk to Royal yet? How is she taking it? Do you have any leads? Do you think you’ll catch the guy?

  Our job is to ask questions, not answer them, so we fired back monosyllabic, noncommittal responses. But we do have a certain charm, and he seemed satisfied with our non-answers.

  “Mr. Baker-Broome,” I said, “we know you and Barry worked together a long time. We’re sorry for your loss.”

  “Call me T.B. I may be the only person in the world who actually liked him. And even then, not every day. Sixteen and a half years is a long time to work for a guy who has the reputation for firing everyone around him.”

  “You mean like Damian Hedge,” I said.

  “Damian is the tip of the iceberg. He’s a big star, so the fallout got a lot of press. But Barry would fire writers, actors, directors, carpenters, gaffers, extras…did you ever hear about his famous barnyard massacre?”

  “No,” I said. “But anything with the word ‘massacre’ in it fascinates us.”

  “We were shooting on a farm. The animal trainer brings in a dozen chickens. They’re supposed to flap their wings and scatter when the camera moves through the flock. But they didn’t do it the way Barry was expecting, so after three takes he starts screaming at the trainer that these fat, lazy, union chickens can’t act for shit. They’re fired. The trainer says fuck you.”

  “Missed opportunity,” Terry said. “I would have gone with cluck you.”

  “Well, nobody talks back to Barry on the set, so he goes ballistic. He says any idiot could train poultry better than you. In fact, I’ll prove it. I’ll buy them from you. How much do you want? The trainer blurts out a thousand bucks a bird. Barry yells sold and tells me to write a check on the spot.”

  “Twelve thousand dollars,” I said. “For chickens.”

  “Yes, sir. And the next day those cluckers were back on the set. On platters. Barry fed them to the cast and crew for lunch.”

  “I had heard that story,” Terry said, “but I thought it was an urban myth.”

  “It’s true. There’s still a picture in Barry’s office of him and the two stars chomping on drumsticks. The man was legend. The ultimate control freak.”

  “How did you manage to work for this guy for so long?” I said.

  “I guess I have the personality he needed. Unquestioned loyalty. Blind obedience. Willing to do whatever he asked and take all his secrets to the grave.”

  “This would be a good time for you to part with some of those secrets,” I said. “What are the facts behind the feud with Damian?”

  He shook his head, maybe out of panic. I took it as a no.

  “Hey, we’re not selling it to the tabloids. We’re investigating a murder. Obstruction of justice is a crime, and you’ve probably shot enough prison movies to know what happens to guys who withhold information from the police.”

  He gave it about three seconds before he caved. “It all started last New Year’s Day. I got a call from Barry at six in the morning. He tells me he just fired Damian from the movie we were prepping.”

  “I.C.U.”

  “No, we shot that last year. We were getting ready to go to the U.K. to shoot a Knights of the Round Table movie. Damian was supposed to star. I told Barry that Damian had a play-or-pay contract. You know what that is?”

  “If the movie doesn’t get made, the actor still gets paid,” I said. Terry’s not the only one who knows this crap. “How much are we talking about?”

  “Ten million. Barry didn’t even blink. He just said he’s fired. Pay it.”

  “So he fired Damian at 6 a.m. on January 1,” I said. “I’m guessing they were at the same New Year’s Eve party.”

  He looked impressed that I had figured that out, but it was an easy connection. January 1 is a busy day for homicide cops.

  “The party was at Barry’s house. You know how the media loves to play up the decadent Hollywood lifestyle. Drugs, alcohol, sex. It’s true. Barry woke up, went to Royal’s bedroom, and there was Damian shagging the boss’s wife.”

  “And that pissed him off,” I said. “Even though he has a reputation of being a whoremonger himself.”

  “King Barry,” T.B. said. “The rules that apply to him don’t apply to anyone else. He fired Damian before the guy could get his Calvins on.”

  “And Damian got ten million dollars for not shooting a movie,” I said. “That doesn’t exactly sound like a motive for murder.”

  “Not until Barry started bad-mouthing him to the press. Said he needed an actor to play Sir Lancelot who could actually get his lance up.”

  “So was that his pattern?” Terry said. “Get in someone’s face, can them, and then pay them off?”

  “A lot of the time but not always. Sometimes he would do just the opposite. You’re fired, and you’re not getting a penny.”

  “And who stands out in that category?” I said.

  “Steve Kronowitz. He’s a trauma surgeon. Barry hired him to work on I.C.U. to train Damian and the other actors so they’d look believable. But the doc started bitching that Barry was too demanding, and he asked for more money. Barry said no. They argued on the set, and Barry threw a bedpan at Kronowitz’s head. The guy needed thirty stitches. He’s suing.”

  “We’ll need his address and phone number,” I said.

  “Kronowitz has been at a medical conference in Vienna all week,” T.B. said. “I know because our lawyers were trying to set up a deposition with him.”

  “Let’s talk about some of those perverse habits you mentioned last night,” I said. “Did he have any run-ins with the hookers or the pimps?”

  “No. His car was trashed a few times, but that’s because he would leave it in a bad neighborhood for hours, sometimes for the whole weekend.”

  “What about drugs? Barry’s mother-in-law says he’s an addict.”

  “That woman thinks anyone who smokes weed or does a little blow should be locked up. Recreational drugs are part of our culture. And not just the movie business. Tell me you don’t know any cops or dentists or schoolteachers who light up a joint at the end of a tough day.”

  “And who does Barry buy his drugs from?” Terry asked.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Bullshit,” Terry said. “You know everything. Now answer the question. Who supplied Barry with his recreational weed so he could light up at the end of a tough day?”

  “I don’t know. And if you don’t like my answer, arrest me.”

  Translation: it was Baker-Broome’s job to run the drug pipeline for his boss, but he didn’t want to incriminate himself. Reality: we work homicide, not narcotics. We can’t solve all of LA’s social issues. Terry moved on.

  “Last night you said you spoke to Barry in the morning, but when you called him again at noon, there was no answer.”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “Wh
ere did Barry say he was going when you spoke to him?”

  “He owns a racehorse, Snow Way. He was going to watch him work out. But I called the stable yesterday when I was looking for him, and they said he never showed up.” He smiled.

  “You think of something funny, T.B.?” Terry said.

  “It’s just a cute Barry story. It’s not important.”

  “I didn’t think I’d ever hear you use ‘cute’ and ‘Barry’ in the same sentence,” Terry said. “And it’s not for you to decide what’s important.”

  “When Barry bought Snow Way, I found out that the California Horse Racing Board requires all racehorse owners to be fingerprinted. Barry couldn’t be bothered. I told him he had to physically appear and get printed, or he wouldn’t be able to get a license to race. He said to me, ‘You go. They can remove my prints from your neck.’ That’s the kind of guy he was. He knew his reputation for being the biggest prick in show business, and he loved it.”

  “Somebody didn’t love it,” Terry said.

  We spent another hour talking about the people who hated Barry. Katryn wasn’t far off when she told us to start with the LA phone directory.

  It was hard to believe that yesterday Terry and I were on our way to meet Barry Gerber, and now we were sifting through the shitstorm of his life trying to figure out who was the lucky winner of the I Want to Murder Barry lottery.

  After two hours we thanked Baker-Broome for his help. “By the way,” I said as we started to leave, “where were you yesterday afternoon around four o’clock?”

  “I was at the Pantages Theatre setting up. Before that I was with the caterer finalizing the details on the premiere party.” He gave us a smug look. “I hope you enjoyed it.”

  “Fabbo,” Terry said.

  “Look, I know you have to ask,” Baker-Broome said, “but I didn’t kill him.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” I said. “But I’ll bet you thought about it.”

  He laughed. “Every fucking day for the last sixteen and a half years.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was 6:30 by the time we finished interviewing Tyler Baker-Broome. Damian Hedge would have to wait till tomorrow. We were about to call it a day when my cell rang. It was Halsey.

  “We have to talk,” he said. “Barry’s dead.”

  “We sort of know that,” I said.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said. “You’re investigating his murder.”

  “We’re trying.”

  “Where are you guys?”

  “Raleigh Studios.”

  “That’s fantastic. I’m just across the street. I’m wrapping up a meeting at Paramount. Meet me at Fabiolus Café on Melrose and Van Ness in ten minutes.”

  “Hold on.” I hit the mute button. “It’s Halsey,” I said to Terry. “He wants to talk.”

  “Cop business or show business?”

  “Good question,” I said. “Let’s decide when we get there.”

  Terry and I arrived first. We asked for bread, olive oil, and a large bottle of Pellegrino.

  “So,” Terry said. “Straight or gay?”

  “Who?”

  “T.B.”

  “Does it matter?” I said. “I don’t think he killed his boss. What do you care what he does with his pants off?”

  “I thought I detected a certain something between him and Halsey last night. I’m just curious.”

  Halsey Bates entered the restaurant, spotted us, and headed our way.

  “Here he is,” I said. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  Halsey Bates sat down. “Ask me what?”

  “About you and Tyler,” Terry said.

  “Well, he wasn’t supposed to say anything yet,” Halsey said. “But I guess with Barry gone, it’s not as important to keep it hush-hush. If the deal goes through, it’ll be in the trades next week.”

  “What deal?” Terry said.

  “I’m talking to Paramount about a three-year, multi-picture deal. If it happens, Tyler was planning on leaving Barry and joining my company as head of development. I’m surprised he told you. He’s usually pretty tight-lipped.”

  “Tyler didn’t say anything about a deal or the fact that he was planning on leaving Barry. I was just wondering if he was gay, and if you and he…”

  “Oh, God no,” Halsey said. “First of all, he’s straight, although he doesn’t work very hard at his sex life. Much more interested in work than women. Second of all, even if he were gay, he is so, so, so not my type.”

  I tapped my forehead with two fingers. Cop code. Think twice before you ask the next question, partner. Don’t ask Halsey what is so, so, so his type.

  Terry picked up on the signal. “But you and Tyler are thinking of going into business together,” he said.

  “More than thinking. We’re having lunch on Thursday to iron out the details. Tyler is one of the most under-utilized people in the business. He has great instincts for what will resonate with the movie-going public, but Barry never trusted anybody’s instincts but his own. So Tyler ended up being a very high-paid…what’s the word I’m looking for…? Facilitator. That’s what he was. Barry snapped his fingers, Tyler made it happen.”

  “What do you think will happen to Pita Productions?” I said.

  “Pita has some great films in their archives plus projects in the pipeline with different studios, development people, global partners, and all kinds of production and distribution entities. The lawyers will fight over who gets what, but without Barry, Pita will be history in about three years.”

  “Do you have any thoughts on who killed him?”

  “Am I a suspect?” he said, winking at me. I wondered if I were his type.

  “Should you be?”

  “Quite honestly, no. The man was very good to me. He kick-started my career when I got out of prison and for that I am truly grateful. I asked because this case could turn out to be as hot as the Lamaar murders. If I’m a suspect and I option the story, I could wind up being a character in my own film.”

  “If it makes you happy, feel free to call yourself a suspect,” I said. “Now let me repeat the question. Who do you think might have done it?”

  “How did he die?” Halsey asked.

  “Too soon to tell,” I said. “We won’t know till after the autopsy.”

  “That’s interesting,” he said.

  “What’s interesting about it?”

  “Well, if somebody shot him—bang, bang—you’d say somebody shot him. But if the cause of death has a little mystery to it…a little drama…I’d suspect someone with a sense of theater. And a motive. Damian Hedge comes to mind. He never forgave Barry for those comments about his sexual prowess. Did you know that the day after Barry said he couldn’t get his lance up, the ad agency for Viagra offered Damian a five-million-dollar endorsement deal. Of course, he didn’t take it. He makes a lot more money playing a super stud on-screen.”

  “Damian seems too smart to murder somebody he’s feuding with in the national media,” Terry said.

  “Don’t kid yourself, Detective,” Halsey said. “Lots of people are smart. But if they put enough cocaine up their nose, they can do some very dumb things. How do you think I wound up in prison? I drank myself stupid, then decided that the smart way to get a drunk man home was to drive drunk myself. I spent three months working with Damian. On any given day he is definitely high enough to commit murder.”

  “Can I ask one last self-serving question?” Terry said.

  Halsey smiled. “Ah, yes. Our Familyland film. Barry was just the first person on a long list of possible backers. If I go ahead with this Paramount deal, I’ll pitch it to them. Believe me, we are going to make this movie. Does that answer your question?”

  “Actually, I was going to ask if you mind if I take this last piece of bread. But I’m glad you filled us in on the project. Mike hates when I jabber on about show business.” He tore the piece of bread in two. “Here you go, partner,” he said, giving me half.

  “If you’re hungr
y, let’s order,” Halsey said. “The spaghetti carbonara is excellent.”

  “I’ll skip the pasta,” Terry said. “Ever since we left Tyler’s office I’ve had a real hankering for chicken.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Hollywood station on North Wilcox is only twenty minutes from Diana’s apartment. A lot less if it’s 6:45 in the morning and you drive like a cop. It’s one of the older station houses in LA, an orangey-red brick low-rise that you’d mistake for a school if it weren’t for the LAPD signage and the parking lot full of black and whites. Oh, and the bail bondsman across the street.

  I like walking in the front door. There are big stars on the sidewalk, just like on the Hollywood Walk of Fame around the corner. Only our stars bear the names of cops from our station who died in the line of duty. To Those Who Stood Their Ground When in Harm’s Way.

  A star is the least we could do.

  The other good part about going through the front door is that there’s usually a newbie cop sitting at the front desk, looking all fresh-faced and eager to help. Somebody on high must have decided that grizzly old sergeants don’t make a great first impression, so our front desk tends to be manned by women. Pretty ones. Today was no different. Donna Parisi. Young, blonde, and altogether too damn perky for this hour of the morning.

  “Good morning, Detective,” she sang. “Your case is on page one of the L.A. Times.”

  “Does it say if it’s solved yet?”

  She giggled. A giggling cop. What is this city coming to? I turned left and entered the detectives’ squad room.

  Our station has about 220 uniformed officers and thirty-five detectives. Uniforms work around the clock. Detectives work a single shift, some coming in as early as six if they’re pulling a ten-hour day.

  The first ones to rag on me were three guys Terry and I play poker with, Eliot Ganek and Bob Kanarick from Autos, and Steve Venokur from Burglary. Part of the cop bonding experience is to bust another cop’s balls. Terry is a master at it. These guys aren’t. There’s never a funny cop around when you need one.