“And the Oscar for best performance by an actor,” she said, using the dryer as a microphone, “goes to…Damian Hedge!”
Damian let out a loud whoop. June grabbed a Ladies’ Bowling League trophy from the shelf and handed it to him.
“This is a dream come true,” he said, holding his Oscar up and watching himself in the mirror. “I’d like to thank the members of the Academy, and I want to thank my aunt for making me become an actor.”
“Say my name, and don’t say I made you. I encouraged you.”
“Take two,” Damian said. “I’d like to thank the members of the Academy, and I want to thank my Auntie June for encouraging me to be an actor.”
“And maybe you should plug my shop,” she said.
Damian gave her a vacant stare. “What do you mean, plug?”
“If you say the name of my beauty parlor on TV, then it’s like free advertising, and people will come here.”
Damian shook his head. “But you won’t be here.”
“I won’t? Where else would I be?”
“Hollywood,” Damian said. “If I’m an actor, and I’m living there, then you’ll be there.”
She laughed. “Sweetie, by the time you’re old enough to go off to Hollywood, you won’t want your old Auntie June following you out there.”
“Yes I will.” Damian was upset. He leaned forward and put the bowling trophy on the counter. Auntie June was mixing up some stinky chemicals. She was gonna do a color job or a perm on someone. Damian tried to back away from the smell. “You can open up a bigger shop in Hollywood.”
She smiled and kissed the top of his head. “June Garrison,” she said, “hairdresser to the stars.”
“Cool,” Damian said. “Then we could—” The ammonia fumes attacked his nose and lungs and he went into a coughing jag. His body jerked forward but he was held back by the strap across his chest.
“You passed out on me, Mr. Hedge,” Aggie said. “But we ain’t done here.” She pulled the ammonium carbonate ampule away from his nose and he gasped for air.
“That’s better,” Roger said. “I get insulted when people fall asleep during my movie.”
“I watched it,” Damian said. “Twice.” His voice was a raspy whisper. The begging, the bargaining, the screaming had left his vocal cords useless.
Aggie bent down to check the level in the blood bag. Nearly four pints. Most people would be dead by now. But this boy was tough. You hang on. The longer you hang on, the slower you die.
Damian’s eyes were closed again, but his lips, tinged with blue, were moving. Aggie put her ear close to his face.
“What’s he saying?” Roger asked.
“Beats me,” she said. “Some crazy talk about thanking somebody named Annie June.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
It was like a scene from a bad movie. Angel slumped on top of my father’s lifeless body. Diana, sobbing, her face buried in her hands. Doctor Johnson silently looking at his shoes. Frankie standing against a wall, slowly beating it with his right hand.
I closed the door to the room. I walked toward the doctor. “This is on you, Johnson,” I said. “This is all your fault.”
He backed away. “Mr. Lomax, believe me, I did everything I could.”
“He died from a loose blood clot?” I said. “Any first-year medical student can tell you that the patient has to be pumped with Coumadin to thin out his blood before you defibrillate and risk dislodging a clot.”
“I did give him a blood thinner.”
“Not enough,” I said. “And you’ve been drinking. You reek of beer. I’d sue you for malpractice, but all that would do is cost your insurance company money. No, you drunken quack, you’re gonna pay for murdering my father the old-fashioned way. Street justice.”
I pulled out my gun and pointed it at his head. I could hear Frankie call my name and Angel yell no, but Dr. Johnson drowned them all out. “Jim, Jim, your fucking kid is out of his mind. Call him off. Call him off.”
My dead father sat up in bed. “Alright, game’s over,” he said. “Pretty good, Mike. How did you figure it out?”
“Police academy,” I said, holstering my gun.
“I need a toilet,” the phony doc said racing into Jim’s bathroom.
Diana lifted her head up and clapped her hands together. “I am in love with one brilliant detective.”
“Inspector Clouseau could have figured it out,” I said. “First of all, your fake doctor is wearing a lab coat with the same fake hospital name they used in the I.C.U. movie.”
“I didn’t want to tell you,” Frankie said, “but my girlfriend Leah is a stylist. She actually worked on that production. She got us the doctor outfit.”
“So the lab coat gave it away?” Diana said. “We blew the whole scam because of a wardrobe malfunction?”
“That was just the tip of the iceberg,” I said. “Frankie called him Dr. Johnson, but his name tag says Jensen.”
“Damn,” Frankie said. “Did I say Johnson?”
“Also, I can tell the difference between Diana crying and Diana laughing; the little tic in Frankie’s left eye started twitching when he called from the lobby and said I’m with my brother now; and last but not least, even with Angel lying on top of him, it’s not hard to figure out someone is still breathing when his belly is jiggling like a 300-pound Jell-O mold.”
“Two hundred and eighty-seven,” Jim said. “Don’t you listen?”
Dr. Johnson-Jensen came out of the bathroom.
“This is my friend Zach Stevens,” Jim said.
“I don’t want to get too close,” I said. “I think Zach might have crapped in his pants.”
“Not funny,” Zach said.
“They got diapers if you need one,” Jim said.
“I don’t know if he needs a diaper, but Zach definitely had his five o’clock bottle. The beer breath was a dead giveaway.”
“I waited till five-fifteen,” Zach said. “You were late, and I was thirsty.”
I walked over to my father, who was fully clothed and sitting on the side of the bed. I leaned over and hugged him. “I’m glad you’re alive,” I said.
“So you can kill me, right?”
“And no jury would convict me,” I said. “So now that you’re back from the dead, am I supposed to be so overjoyed that I don’t yell at you for that stunt you pulled this morning?”
Angel stood up, determined to stand by her man. “He only wanted to help,” she said. “He knew you were talking to Damian, so he figured he would—”
“He figured he would do what he does best,” I said. “Meddle.”
“Hey,” Jim said. “Is it a crime for a father to look out for his son?”
“I don’t know.” I said. “Is stupidity a crime?”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
A real doctor showed up and discharged Big Jim. For all I know he could have been another phony recruited by the nursing staff, who were thrilled to see the Lomax family vacate the premises.
I called Terry from the car.
“Muller’s here, and we’re making headway,” he said. “We’re just about to order dinner. What are you in the mood for?”
“Steak Florentine, roasted potatoes, a bottle of red wine, just me and Diana, somewhere in Tuscany where they haven’t yet heard of Alexander Graham Bell.”
“You want brown or white rice with that?”
“Surprise me. And do me a favor. Don’t ask Muller who he wants to play him in a major motion picture about the Familyland case.”
“Too late,” Terry said. “The good news is he doesn’t care. He’s just happy to give some geeky-looking white boy a chance at stardom.”
“I’ll have the brown rice,” I said. “And no MSG. See you in twenty.”
Having Muller on the case was a big plus. He didn’t take much credit for solving the Familyland murders, but Terry and I knew we owed him a lot. He’s only in his early thirties, but he has the insights and wisdom of a seasoned cop. He’s the best comput
er tech in the department, and if anyone could pull some usable data out of the murky Beeby brothers’ abduction video, it was Muller.
I got back to the office by 8:25, and headed for the roll call room. Halfway up the stairs I was hit with the smell of Chinese food.
“Hey, dude,” Muller said. “Pull up a pair of chopsticks. It’s still hot.”
“And hopefully, hot is your only criteria,” Terry said. “I decided to call this new takeout place.” He pushed a container in my direction. “Try the General Tso’s Sweatsock.”
I opted for the beef with broccoli and some rice. “So, did you dissect the kidnap video?” I said to Muller.
“Most of it is you, Terry, and a bunch of other cops bumping into each other,” he said, “but the first few minutes have the potential to be a top-rated clip on YouTube.”
“Did you get anything on the pickup?” I asked.
“It’s a late-model Chevy, registered in Texas.”
“Texas? It could be a stolen license plate.”
“I couldn’t see the plates, but there’s a couple of frames where the camera pans past the front windshield. I froze it and blew up the inspection sticker. I paid enough attention in Miss Dorling’s geography class to recognize the great state of Texas. But that’s all I got so far. It was shot in night vision. I’m trying to scrub the image to see if I can pick up any more details.”
“Good work,” I said. “Do we have anything on the Chinese girl who got killed making a drug run for Barry Gerber?”
“I called Central, and tracked down one of the lead detectives at home,” Terry said. “The girl’s name is Joy Lee. She was nineteen, lived in West Covina. She worked on I.C.U. with Gerber and our boy Damian Hedge. She scored some coke, and before she could deliver, someone slit her throat. She bled to death.”
“Did they catch the killer?”
“They’re pretty sure they know who did it, but there’s zero evidence. Unless you take the word of some rival gang member, which is worth less than zero.”
“Well, let’s bring in the guy they think did it,” I said. “Even if we don’t nail him for the murder of the girl, he’s gonna know something.”
“Good thinking Detective Lomax,” Terry said. “His name is Diego Garza. He was all of fifteen.”
“Was?”
“Unfortunately, Señor Garza has relocated to gangbanger heaven and is no longer available for comment.”
“Shit.”
“But it’s interesting shit,” Terry said. “Garza was murdered Friday night, about thirty-six hours before Barry disappeared. They found his body under a freeway overpass. His throat was slit. He bled out like pig in a sausage factory.”
“Jesus,” I said. “We got three bleeders. A Mexican kid who killed the Chinese girl, who was a drug mule for the Jewish producer. I’m on information overload.”
“Well, get a bigger hard drive,” Muller said, “because there’s more. I just finished talking to someone at the morgue. Guess where they shipped Joy Lee’s body after the autopsy?”
I waggled my chopsticks in his direction. “China?”
“Texas.”
“I got a headache,” I said. “Are you sure you said no MSG?”
“Oh, dude,” Muller said. “We thought you said extra.”
“Who did the body go to in Texas?” I said.
“It’s not easy getting anything out of Records at this hour, so I don’t have the details,” Muller said. “But I do know that last November, Joy Lee was flown from LAX to IAH: George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston.”
I didn’t say anything for about thirty seconds. Nobody did. Finally I picked up a fortune cookie and snapped it in half. I took out the strip of paper and read it to them. “Confucius say dead Chinese girl go to Texas. Someone from Texas drive to LA in pickup truck and chop-chop gangbanger who murder girl. Then torture and kill bad producer who make Chinese girl buy drugs. Then kidnap big time Hollywood movie star. Confucius also say Muller is Caucasian geek genius.”
“That’s a pretty well-developed fortune cookie,” Terry said. “What does it say about your lucky lottery numbers?”
“Meanwhile, we still haven’t found the latest victim,” I said. “I know it feels like we uncovered a lot of shit, but we could really connect the dots if we had a long talk with Damian.”
The phone rang. The officer at the front desk knew we were up in the roll call room. Terry picked it up. “Detective Biggs, Homicide.”
He scribbled an address down on a Post-it. “We’re on our way.” He hung up the phone and started cleaning up the leftover food.
I stood up. “We’re on our way where?”
“The Los Angeles County Museum of Art.”
“And what’s on exhibit at this hour of the night?”
“The late Damian Hedge.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
We were in Terry’s car with the lights flashing and the siren howling.
“The Los Angeles County Museum of Art?” I said. “Exactly where did they leave the body? The permanent collection or new acquisitions?”
“A rent-a-cop found him in a Port-O-Potty on the phase one construction site,” Terry said.
LACMA is in the first stage of a massive overhaul that will probably take a decade to complete and cost at least half a billion.
“First they leave Barry Gerber in a garbage can. Then they dump Damian in the toilet,” I said. “Pretty subtle.”
“There’s a metaphor in there somewhere,” Terry said, “but I can’t quite figure it out.”
“Y’know, I haven’t told you what happened when I visited Big Jim in the hospital. When I got to his room he was covered with a sheet, like he was dead. The idea was to get me to appreciate him more.”
“Sounds like a fun family event. I’ll have to try it out on my girls.”
“I saw right through it, so I decided to have a little fun myself.” I told him how I pulled my gun on the bogus doctor.
“And Kilcullen says you don’t have a sense of humor. That’s a riot. The only thing that could have made it funnier would have been if the fake doc pulled a gun, and you two guys had a shootout right there in the cardiac ward.”
“Let me get to my point,” I said. “When I drew my piece, I told the guy I was taking the law into my own hands because the only way I could get satisfaction was street justice. Doesn’t that feel like what we’ve got here? A girl from Texas gets killed, and some vigilante from Texas shows up in LA and starts executing anyone connected to her death. Street justice.”
“I think it’s actually legal down there. Texas justice. You get on the express line in the supermarket with more than ten items, and they hang you.”
The siren was driving me nuts. I flipped it off and shifted my body so I could look at Terry while he was driving. “Joy Lee was a teenager. Who’s most likely to avenge the murder of a teenage girl?” I asked the man who had three teenage daughters.
“Hey, Mike, my head already went there,” Terry said. “It’s the first thing I thought of when I put the phrases dead innocent girl and buying drugs for cokehead boss together. If it was one of my kids, I know who would be killing the people responsible for her death. But I figured most fathers aren’t as crazy as me. O.J. murdered two people. Did Nicole Simpson’s father blow his brains out? Did Ronald Goldman’s father slit his throat? No, they took him to court, they won a judgment he’ll never pay, and now the bastard is on a golf course somewhere looking for the real killer. If someone ever hurt one of my kids, I wouldn’t be looking for a lawyer. I’d beat the guy to death with my bare hands.”
“So maybe Joy Lee’s father is as crazy as you,” I said.
“Nobody is as crazy as me, but thanks,” he said. “I knew you’d come to the same obvious conclusion, but I needed you to get there on your own. So first thing tomorrow, let’s see what we can do about getting a handle on Joy Lee’s father.”
“And mother,” I said. “There were two people in that pickup and the driver might ha
ve been a woman.”
Terry nodded his head and flipped the siren back on. Then he opened the window. The possibility that we were looking for two parents who were avenging the murder of their daughter was not a subject he was ready to deal with.
For now, the conversation was over.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
We didn’t need directions to find the crime scene. You could see the flashing red, white, and blue cop-car lights from a mile away.
“Oh, look,” Terry said. “The circus is in town. Let’s join up.”
The moment had passed. Terry was ready to put the fun back in crime fighting.
The museum is on Wilshire, just east of Fairfax. The area under construction was fenced in, but the fence had been cut, and the activity was centered around a cluster of five portable toilets. The door to the last one was open, and Jessica Keating stepped out.
“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a shit hole like this?” Terry said.
“Holding my breath. Take a quick look before I send in my camera crew.”
Damian was naked. His body had been propped up in a sitting position on the floor of the Port-O-Potty. His back was toward the door, and his head was positioned inside the open toilet.
“And you thought stuffing a guy in a garbage can was demeaning,” Jessica said.
Work lights had been set up. Damian’s skin was a ghostly shade of white.
“He seems to have lost his rosy red glow,” Terry said.
“Same MO?” I said to Jessica.
“No blood, no sign of a wound,” she said. “Let me get some pictures, then we’ll move him, and I can give you a more educated guess.”
We stepped aside so one of the investigators could photograph the body. “Mr. Hedge is ready for his close-up now,” Terry said.
“Who found the body?” I said.
“A rent-a-cop,” Jessica said. “Talk to Officer Young. She was the first responder.”
If Ed Sauer was the most uncooperative cop you could have at a crime scene, Gail Young was just the opposite. She had set up a perimeter and was ready with a detailed overview of everything we needed to know.
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