Bloodthirsty

by Marshall Karp

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  By 9 a.m. the black limo with the yellow tape around it sitting on Wyton Drive had become the most popular tourist attraction in Southern California. Everyone who is anyone in LAPD made an appearance. Our Captain, the Commander, the Deputy Chief, right on up to the Top Cop himself.

  “We got more brass than the Ohio State Marching Band,” Terry said. “The good news is, they’re keeping Kilcullen busy.”

  And, of course, the media was not to be denied. Put out the words “abduction,” “Damian,” and “Hedge” on a police scanner, and they will come. There were so many camera trucks two of them wound up in a fender-bender.

  “Call the Guinness Book of Records,” Terry said. “Your father’s Lincoln is about to become the most photographed car since O.J.’s Bronco.”

  Damian’s house was extremely modest for a man for whom modesty was not an option. We found out why by talking, or at least trying to talk, to Valeska, his housekeeper, a large Polish woman for whom English was not quite yet a second language.

  “This house is for renting,” she explained. “Mr. Damian buys big house with big gate on Mapleton. He’s fixing up nice, so we live here a year, maybe later.”

  Valeska had preset the coffee pot to start brewing at 5 a.m. and hadn’t heard Damian leave the house. She had no idea where he had been the night before, except she was pretty sure he hadn’t brought anyone home with him. At least I was pretty sure she was pretty sure.

  We searched, but the inside of the house was a dead end. Outside was a nightmare. Trying to avoid the reporters was like trying to avoid the horseflies when you’re the horse shit.

  We were working our way through the pack, ignoring the chorus of reporters yelling, “Detective, Detective, Detective,” when a sweet voice called out “Mike.”

  It was Julie Burton, young, beautiful, talented, and lucky to be alive.

  “Go ahead,” I said to Terry. “I’ll catch up.”

  I met Julie three years ago. She and my wife Joanie shared a common bond. They went through chemo together. Julie was just better at it. She survived.

  Her camera was rolling, so there was no time for a hug and a quick recap of what we’d both been up to since we last saw each other. She kept it totally professional, shoving a microphone in my face.

  “Julie Burton, KLAJ. Detective Lomax, can you tell me about the situation here? Word has it that Damian Hedge has been abducted.”

  “It’s still under investigation,” I said.

  “But can you confirm that Mr. Hedge is missing?”

  “Like I said, Julie, there’s not much I can confirm right now.”

  “As you can see, the police have their hands full with this investigation,” she said to the camera, “but KLAJ will stay on the scene until more information becomes available. This is Julie Burton, outside the home of actor Damian Hedge. Back to the studio.”

  “We’re out,” the cameraman yelled.

  Julie handed the microphone to the soundman. “Mike,” she said, giving me a hug. “It’s so good to see you. How are you doing?”

  “Moving on with my life. How about you?”

  “I’m so healthy I’m baffling the medical experts.” She held up her left hand and flashed a diamond ring at me. “And I’m engaged.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “If I’d have known, I’d have tried to give you a better sound bite.”

  “It was pretty toothless,” she said, “but it gave me screen time with a good-looking cop.”

  “I wish I could help you out,” I said, “but we really can’t even call it an abduction until we know more.”

  “You think it’s a publicity stunt?”

  “We haven’t ruled it out.”

  “What did you find inside Damian’s house?”

  “Rented furniture, sex toys, and a shitload of pictures of the alleged victim. Not exactly breaking news. Do me a favor,” I said. “You see Lt. Kilcullen over there? Why don’t you go annoy him for a while, so I can get back to—”

  “Hold on.” She covered her left ear and pressed her right earpiece tight so she could hear better. “We do?” she said. “Holy shit. Just a minute, I’ll tell him. Mike, we have exclusive footage of the kidnapping.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “One of the paparazzi who follows Hedge caught it all on video. He brought it to the station and we bought it. We’re about to go live with it.”

  “It’s evidence of a crime,” I said. “You can’t do that.”

  “Apparently our lawyers think we can. They’re taking the same stance you just took. It may just be a stunt. I’m going over to the truck to watch it. You’re invited.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I grabbed Terry and Kilcullen and told them what was going on.

  “They can’t run that,” Kilcullen said. “They’re going to show it to the public before they show it to us?”

  “I hope the public takes notes,” Terry said. “We’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Julie was in front of the KLAJ truck getting her hair and makeup touched up. The live feed on the television monitor showed an anchorwoman in the studio, with a picture

  of Damian in the upper left-hand corner of the screen.

  “Fifteen seconds,” her producer said.

  “Guys, thank you,” Julie said. “I can’t tell you what a coup it is to screen what could be a crime in progress for the detectives at the scene.”

  “Normally I’d wait for the DVD release,” Terry said. “But this was too good to pass up.”

  “In five,” the producer said and counted down.

  “This is Julie Burton outside the home of movie star Damian Hedge, who was allegedly dragged from his limo earlier this morning by unknown assailants. KLAJ has obtained exclusive footage of this shocking abduction, which we are about to air for the first time to our audience and to the LAPD detectives investigating the fate of Mr. Hedge. Some of the images you are about to see are disturbing, so viewer discretion is advised.”

  We watched the monitor. It had been dark out when the video was shot, so we were looking at it in night-vision green. For the first few seconds all you could see was a grainy shot of Big Jim’s car parked on the street. Then he got out of the driver’s side and walked around the back.

  The camera picked up Damian, carrying a coffee mug and talking on his cell. Jim held the door open, and Damian slid into the back seat. As Jim came around and re-opened the driver’s door, a pickup truck came into frame. The next part was hard to make out, because the truck blocked most of the action. But I could see a man jump out of the truck. Then Jim fell.

  The camera panned to the rear of the car. Damian was out the door and running. But the guy caught up and held something to Damian’s nose. He struggled briefly, then went down.

  “Chloroform,” Kilcullen said.

  The guy dragged Damian to the back of the pickup. The driver jumped out, dropped the tailgate, and the two of them hoisted Damian onto the bed of the truck. The driver gestured to the guy with the chloroform, who ran back to Jim. I couldn’t see what happened to him, but this was probably when he got the second zap from the stun gun.

  The driver got back in the cab. There were too many shadows to tell if it was a man or a woman. Stun gun man jumped in the rear with Damian, and the pickup peeled out.

  The camera followed it till it disappeared, then panned back to the limo. Jim was lying motionless, his torso on the front seat, his legs hanging outside the door. It was all too real to have been staged.

  The next picture was a live shot of me, Terry, and Julie. “Our viewers may remember Mike Lomax and Terry Biggs as the celebrated LAPD detectives who solved the infamous Lamaar Familyland murders last year,” she said. “Detective Lomax, what are your thoughts on this disturbing, exclusive KLAJ footage?”

  Once again, she shoved her microphone in my face. If it had been any other reporter, I would have said, what the
hell do you think I think? Some money-hungry asshole videotaped a kidnapping, then instead of calling the cops, he sold it to your ratings-hungry TV station, who showed it to the world before they called the cops.

  “Julie,” I said, “it’s too soon to tell.”

  She moved her microphone over to Terry. “Detective Biggs, what’s your reaction?”

  Before Terry could answer, we heard a string orchestra playing “Ave Maria.” It was the cell phone Damian had dropped when he tried to escape. Terry reached into his jacket pocket and held it up, still sealed in plastic.

  “Excuse me, Julie,” Terry said. “My evidence bag is ringing.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  One of the things they teach you in cop school is how to make split-second decisions. You never know when you’re going to have to decide to fire your weapon, use force, or in this case, answer a movie star’s cell phone and pretend you’re the star.

  Terry didn’t think twice. He walked out of camera range, pulled Damian’s phone out of the plastic bag, and flipped it open.

  “Yo,” he said. Then he hit the speaker button. Kilcullen and I huddled around him so we could hear.

  “Damian, it’s Robyn. I know I’m late, but it’s not my fault. I got to McDonald’s at eight, but Carlos wasn’t there. I was waiting and waiting, so I ordered one of those sausage McMuffin things, which was a big mistake because the food there is so gross.”

  Terry gave her a supportive grunt. Robyn went on.

  “Carlos finally showed up over an hour late. I was racing back to give you the script revisions when a cop stopped me for speeding. I told him this would be my third ticket this year, and if I lose my license I’ll lose my job, but he doesn’t give a shit, and now he’s in his car writing me a ticket. Damian, I’m really, really sorry.”

  “Hold,” Terry said. He muted the phone and turned to me. “I don’t know a lot about show business, but I don’t think you pick up script revisions from a guy named Carlos at Mickey D’s at eight in the morning.”

  “Drug deal,” I said.

  “Bingo. I don’t know why I didn’t pick up on it yesterday when he was asking her where the second draft was,” Terry said. “Damian strikes me as the kind of actor who’s more interested in a coke fix than a script fix.”

  “Get the cop on the phone and have him hold her,” Kilcullen said. “You’re not gonna get away with that lame Damian Hedge impression much longer.”

  “Too bad they didn’t kidnap John Travolta,” Terry said. “Him I got down pat.” He unmuted the phone. “Hello, Robyn. Damian asked me to talk to you.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Detective Terry Biggs, Damian’s friend. We met yesterday in his trailer. Remember? He said if you’re ever in a jam…Well it’s lucky I just happened to be here hanging with him. I can help. When the police officer comes back, tell him I want to talk to him.”

  “I’ll get him.”

  “No, no, don’t. Cops don’t like it if you get out of the car when they’re writing a ticket. Just wait quietly till he comes to you.”

  We waited two minutes. Finally, we could hear her talk to the cop. “I work for Damian Hedge. A friend of his wants to talk to you.”

  “No, Robyn, no,” Terry said. “He won’t talk to me if you tell him I’m a friend of your famous actor boss. Tell him my name is Detective Terry Biggs from the Hollywood station, and the color of the day is turquoise.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s cop code, honey. Please just tell him what I said.”

  It worked. The cop took the call.

  “Officer, listen carefully,” Terry said. “The girl you just stopped is a person of interest in a kidnapping. She also may be in possession of drugs. Don’t search her car, and don’t let her go.”

  “I hear you,” the cop said, “and you knew the color of the day, but I need a little more. What’s your boss’s name and rank?”

  “He’s right here. He can tell you himself.”

  “This is Lt. Brendan Kilcullen. Who is this?”

  “Officer Jason Wood.”

  “Aw, Jeez, Woody’s boy? I worked with your dad back when we were both in the bag. How’s he doing? And how’s your Mom…Constance, right?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re both well, sir.”

  Terry took over. “You better be convinced, or he’ll go through your whole family tree.”

  “I’m on board, sir. What can I do?”

  Terry turned off the speaker and put the phone to his ear. “First where are you? Okay, we’ll be there in fifteen. Tell her you can undo the speeding ticket, but Detective Biggs has to come and sign for it. Yeah, I know it’s stupid. If you can make up something smarter, be my guest. Don’t let her use the phone or listen to the radio, especially the news. And get a female officer on the scene.”

  He hung up. “Damn, we’re good,” he said.

  “Where are we going?” Kilcullen said.

  Terry looked at him. “We?”

  “I thought I’d ride along with you. It’s Woody’s boy. I want to say hello in person.”

  “Oh sure, as long as it’s not part of our motivational training.”

  “A murder, a kidnapping, and now a drug bust,” Kilcullen said. “I’d say you’re sufficiently motivated.”

  “Hell yeah,” Terry said. “If we can catch an armed robbery before lunch, we got ourselves a Steven Seagal movie.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The problem with being first on the scene is that your car gets boxed in by vehicles number two, three, ten, twenty, or in this case, even higher than that. While Terry was digging our car out, I ran back to talk to Julie.

  “I want the name of the photographer who shot that video,” I said, “and a copy of everything he shot, not just what you aired. And I want it now.”

  “Why ask me?” she said. “You might want to start out by calling—”

  “Julie, I don’t have time to call anybody, or get dicked around by your legal department, or get wrapped up in corporate red tape. Your station ran the video before they contacted LAPD, and I posed with you on camera while you got your scoop. Now I need payback. Tell the powers that be that if they don’t name the photographer and hand over all the video he shot, they’re withholding evidence, obstructing justice, and pissing off a cop who will make sure KLAJ doesn’t get anymore news connected to this case unless they happen to see it on another channel.”

  “Mike, have you ever met my boss?” Julie said.

  “No.”

  “Angela’s a total bitch.” Julie smiled. “Best boss I ever worked for. Threatening her with a news blackout is like shoving your chips to the middle of the table and saying all in. She won’t cooperate. She won’t even blink.”

  “I bet I know a few judges who could get her to blink.”

  “Do you want your evidence tied up in a court case?” she said. “Or would you like me to help you get everything you want in one short phone call?”

  “B,” I said.

  “Good. I’ll call her and tell her I cut a deal. We give you what we’ve got. You give us what you’ve got. Exclusive updates on the Damian Hedge case an hour before you release it to any other media.”

  “That’s blackmail.”

  “That’s business. I told you, Angela is one tough cookie.”

  “Alright. I’ll give you the updates ten minutes ahead of everyone else.”

  “Make it thirty.”

  “Twenty,” I said. “Deal or no deal.”

  “You drive a hard bargain. Deal.” She took out her cell phone. “I’ll call you with the photographer’s name. Where do you want the tapes delivered?”

  I gave her an address and took off.

  To his credit, Kilcullen was sitting in the back of the car. “You sure you don’t want to ride shotgun?” I said.

  “Nope, this is your case. I’m just going along for the ride. Think of me as Lt. Low Profile.”

  “I spoke to Julie about getting that videotape to our cri
me lab,” I said.

  “It’s all taken care of,” Kilcullen said.

  “Meaning what?”

  “I called the station,” Lt. Low Profile said. “You know my motto. All for one and one for all.”

  “That’s us,” Terry said. “The three musketeers: Athos, Porthos, and Annette Funicello.”

  “Who did you talk to at the station?” I said.

  “The station manager, Josh Kane. He’s a good guy. Said his lawyers told him he could put it on the air, but he’d be glad to run copies over to the crime lab in an hour. He gave me the photographers’ names too. Scott and Julian Beeby. They’re brothers. Work as a team.”

  “Wait a minute, “ I said. “I thought the boss was some woman named Angela.”

  “You mean Angela Martin?” Kilcullen said. “They fired her months ago. Total bitch. Got the station sued a couple of times. Started teaching the young kids who work there too many dirty tricks. She’s history.”

  But her legacy lived on. I had just been outfoxed by Angela’s star pupil.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Robyn’s red Toyota was sandwiched between two squad cars on Venice Boulevard near Sycamore. The female officers from the second unit were doing their best to discourage rubberneckers from slowing down for the flashing lights.

  Officer Wood had one hand resting on Robyn’s open window, the other gesturing as they made conversation. His uniform said protector of the peace. His body language said looking for a piece.

  Terry, Kilcullen, and I got out of the car, and Wood straightened up and walked over with Robyn’s license.

  “Robyn Tate,” he said. “Upper Saddle River, New Jersey. Issued by the Jersey DMV two years ago. She never traded up to a California license, but her lead foot has earned her a few speeding tickets on our freeways. Otherwise, she’s clean.”

  “Let’s see about that,” Terry said, and the four of us approached her car.

  “Detective Biggs,” Robyn said. “Thank you for coming. It looks like you brought the whole cavalry.”