by Tony Bulmer
The Cuban Grill on Washington? Asked Ramirez. ‘I love that place. They do great chicken and black beans and the best plantains this side of Havana.’
Cullen threw a sideways glance, and pulled a face.
‘So like I said,’ I continued. ‘We have dinner, a couple of drinks then splitsville.’ I sat back in my chair, picked at my nails, trying to make sense of the last twenty-four hours.
‘You get loaded Costello?’ asked Cullen.
‘I had a couple of tomato juices, always do when I’m driving—besides I had to fly out to Camarillo this morning for a business meet, I like to keep on top of things.’
‘What these girls call themselves?’ asked Ramirez.
‘Corin and Mimi. Said they were airhostesses. Hot looking girls. They seemed pleasant, plausible, made good conversation. Hell, it was a first date. What do you talk about on a first date? I’ve been out of the game so long it was nice just to talk.’
‘So what’s your wife think about you dating?’ sneered Cullen, leaning forward on the desk.
‘My marriage had been dead for a long time, I just never realized it, then a couple of years back I find she’s met some heir-head at the Beverly Hills Country Club. What do you do? I guess I was too wrapped up in the business to see where things were going wrong at home.’
‘That’s a real sad story Costello, but it explains a lot,’ said Cullen. ‘You hate women, because they remind you of your wife. You ain’t got the balls to go out and meet chicks in the real world, so you sleaze some action together for yourself on the Internet, then murder said chicks when you get turned down—am I right? Where’s the other girl Costello, you and your buddy dump her in Griffith Park or something?’
‘I didn’t kill anyone.’
‘Where were you tonight Costello?’ asked Cullen.
‘I had a couple of drinks with my partner and one of our employees.’
‘You are some kind of cold-blooded fucker, let me tell you Costello—you murder two chicks then head out for a beer, are you kidding me?’
‘I didn’t kill anyone.’
‘So why you phone 911 crying murder? You calling in your guilty conscience, so we could come and get you?’
I told them about the house on Lakeridge Drive. I told them how I walked in and found Mimi slumped dead in the chair. The cops listened, stony faced.
I paused.
In the gasping silence, Rothstein’s name edged on to the tip of my tongue—I savored its taste—and stayed silent.
‘You expect us to believe this shit?’ sneered Cullen, thumping his fist on the table. We had a team round there all fucking evening, rushed over on your say so, you lying piece of shit—and they come up with nada—zip—zero. Worse than that, the house you called in is registered to some fucking nose flute executive, who works for Sony fucking music. You wouldn’t believe the stink this douche-bag is creating over this.’
Ramirez mopped down his forehead with a crumpled handkerchief. ‘Detective Cullen is right you had motive and opportunity. I had a hunch you were holding out on us this afternoon, when we met at the airport—now I might be wrong on that—but you could’ve listened to what we had to tell you about those girls being out to fleece you…’
‘And gone around their place and wasted them,’ finished Cullen. ‘And guess what we got right there tough guy—a motive for double homicide—what do you say to that?’
‘The girl was dead when I got there, stone cold dead, no color in her face, looked like she had been dead a while.’ I said. ‘It was horrible—there was blood all over the carpet— she looked like she had been tortured. I can’t believe you didn’t find anything. Did your people go to the right house?’ Max sniffed, staring up mournfully from his place at my feet.
‘Things couldn’t look much worse for you Mr. Costello,’ said Ramirez, exchanging a sideways glance with Cullen—certain things that you have told us could only have been known by the murderer.’
Cullen gave a nasty grin. ‘Looks like you are going to jail Costello,’ he said.
THE SEX NET 09
‘You are dirty Costello—a lying piece of shit and you know it.’ Cullen’s spittle flecked across the table. He loomed forwards, rage popping beads of sweat on his forehead. His hard eyes stared wildly, the hatred of his gaze burning into me.
‘I’m telling you like it is,’ I said smoothly. ‘What’s the matter with you anyway—you’re acting like you got your period or something, you trying to pull one of those good-cop, bad-cop scenarios, like they do in the movies? Because I have to tell you, the Academy Award is going to someone else this year.’
‘Fuck you Costello, you got a smart mouth, that’s going to cost you.
‘So send me the check and join the queue,’ I snapped. ‘Maybe you can cop the change my ex-wife leaves me and buy yourself a new personality.’
A knock on the door.
All eyes turned.
A cop with detective ID swinging out his shirt pocket cracked open the door and peered into the room. ‘I got the report. The boss said, you guys better take a look at this.’ The cop looked double-shift antsy with a side order of gastric reflux. He shot me an acid glance, letting the door hang open.
Cullen got to his feet slowly, He indicated the brown plastic office chair next to the desk, ‘Park it there Costello, I’m not finished with you.’
I stood where I was, gave him the famous Costello smile.
He didn’t like it, not one bit. His face bulged apoplectic.
‘Can I get you a cup of coffee or something Mr. Costello?’ asked Ramirez.
‘How about a lawyer?’ laughed Cullen, the laugh was pit-bull ugly.
I said, ‘How about some water for my dog’ Max licked his lips. Ramirez told me he would see what he could do.
I thanked him, watched him head out the door, Cullen dragging behind, his face still purple with rage.
A brief silence punctuated with distant office noises: the sound of a photocopier working double time. Then, I heard muted conversation in the corridor. I strained to hear what was being said, but the faint jumble of words dissipated, moving further and further away. More silence.
‘So what you think Max?’ I asked. Max stretched out languidly on the floor and let out loose a rasping fart. I scrunched my face against the putrid aroma. ‘Thanks buddy, you keep that up and the nice policemen are going to be all upset, and we don’t want that now do we?’ Max laid his head on his paws and looked up at me with big yellow eyes. I smiled, ruffled Max’s head indulgently then sat back in my chair as the silent room closed in around me. The budget deficit décor throbbed, to the beat of migraine magnolia.
A giant crack crawled down the back wall.
Earthquake damage.
Home and Garden hold the front page.
The minutes flipped by like hours. I thought of The Cuban Grill—of Mimi and Corin puzzling over events, until I forced my self to switch focus. I pictured myself running down the beach at Venice, roiling breakers washing in from the Pacific. I thought of Hapkido workouts on the beach, with my martial arts teacher Jong Soo Yin. I thought of the Dodgers, knocking home runs, & Joe knocking back beers over the pool table at Fat Tony’s. I thought of Mrs. Grisham and of my folks, cruising the Caribbean.
The door opened suddenly.
Ramirez in his shirt sleeves now, the easy-care nylon clinging sweat-pool grey. He clutched a fat sheaf of papers and a candy striped cereal bowl that slopped water. He flopped heavily in to the tiny plastic stacko-chair at the other side of the interview desk and cleared his throat.
‘We got a problem here Mr. Costello,’ he said, loosening his tie. He ran a chunky forearm across his forehead, smearing sweat.
‘Anything I can help you with Detective?
Ramirez sagged forward, peering out from under heavy brows, ‘You have already been very helpful Mr. Costello.’ His voice was nuanced with ambiguity. He shuffled through the papers, his face heavy lined, with career cop resignation.
‘Nice of y
ou to say so, but your partner doesn’t seem share your point of view,’ I replied.
‘We are under a lot of pressure here at the department, Mr. Costello.’ Ramirez gave me a knowing glance, allowing the implications of the statement to coalesce. ‘I got a wagonload of brass hats been riding my case about these girls you and your buddy hooked up with. These women are bad news Costello. They have been working an ugly confidence scam going back years. We were about ready pull a bust, to tie this off, all neat and clean and now you have put the kibosh on everything.’ Ramirez thrummed his fingers against the desk. ‘A lot of important people are going to be pissed about that Mr. Costello.’
‘You got to be kidding me. Hollywood is lousy with high–class hustlers, what makes these girls so different?’
Ramirez reached out a soiled Kleenex from his shirt pocket and mopped his brow. ‘This case is big—bigger than I can divulge at this moment in time.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ I quipped.
Ramirez frowned, drew back in his chair. ‘What I can tell you, is that significant new evidence has come to our attention, evidence that seems to corroborate your story thus far.’
‘And the nature of this evidence would be what exactly?’
‘Forensics have made a report that confirms that the girl was moved from the place she was murdered.’
‘No shit.’
‘What is more, marks on the girls body confirm your statement that she was tied to a chair at the time of death or shortly before.’
‘Like I told you, she was tied up and tortured by the freak who lives up on Lakeridge.’
‘I am afraid not.’ Ramirez drummed the desk with sausage fingers. ‘The owner of the house has a cast iron alibi. He was in a business meeting in New York City at the time of the murder, with a boardroom full of witnesses to back him up. Time of death analysis confirms that he could not be the killer.’ Ramirez looked uncomfortable.
I could see what was coming next. ‘What time was she killed?’ I asked.
‘Around 11.30 am,’ said Ramirez.’
‘You know where I was at 11.30am.’
‘Camarillo,’ said Ramirez.
‘With Larry Miller CEO of Bell Textron,’ I finished. ‘That is two hundred plus miles from the crime scene.’
‘Like I said, you are in the clear Costello, for the moment at least.’ Ramirez shifted his bulk in the tiny chair. ‘It appears the murderer dumped the body outside your apartment, in a clumsy attempt to implicate you in the girls death,’ Ramirez paused, gave me a hard look, like he knew I was holding out. ‘Question is why—I don’t suppose you can help us with that can you Mr. Costello?’
‘Who do you think killed her,’ I asked, ignoring the question.
‘We are still making enquires at this time.’
‘Well thanks for the apology, it is nice to be exonerated,’ I said.
‘I am afraid you are not exonerated Mr. Costello, this is an active case and we are still investigating every possibility.’
But I was two hundred miles away when the girl was killed, you know that—surely that puts me in the clear?’
‘As I mentioned we are investigating this case from every possible angle. It is a complex case. There may be a criminal conspiracy at work here and it is only a matter of time before we uncover the full truth of these girls’ lives in the hours after you and your partner Mr. Russell met up with them.’
‘Criminal conspiracy?’
Ramirez gave me a hard look. ‘Where is Mr. Russell? We would like to speak with him, but he’s a hard man to reach—almost like he’s trying to avoid us?’
‘You swing by his boat in the Marina?’
Ramirez fitted his sausage fingers together and tapped his thumbs impatiently. ‘We dropped by there. We called at your office, even waited out at Burbank for most the afternoon, hoping he might fly in from where ever the hell it is he’s been hiding out, you got any idea how hot it gets out there by the airport?’
‘Hundred and twenty in the shade?’ I guessed.
‘Hotter side of hell,’ snapped back Ramirez.‘ You got any more insights on where the elusive Mr. Russell might be holed up? Because we have a whole bunch of pressing matters to discuss with that partner of yours.’
‘Joe has nothing to do with this.’
‘That has to be established.’
‘I leveled with you Ramirez, I told you the truth, the girl was up in Lakeridge. I found her there.’
‘So you say Costello, I say there’s more to it than that. I say you know more than you are letting on. I got a nose for these things.’
‘Joe didn’t kill her,’ I hesitated, realizing the reply came too quick. It sounded bad, even to me—I paused, over compensating for the gushing denial and said, ‘I’ve known the guy thirty-years we’ve been through a lot of shit. Joe would never do something like this—kill that girl, no way!’
‘You don’t know that though, do you Mr. Costello? Like you said, you were in Camarillo, shooting the breeze with your business buddies, when the girl got murdered.’ Ramirez leaned back in his chair and folded his fingers together over his ample stomach.’
‘I will level with you Ramirez. My company Provides close protection services for the executive and VIP market. My partner is currently overseeing the protection of a Helen Positano a member of the US Senate. If he needs an alibi I am sure the Federal Government will provide it.’
‘You think we didn’t look into that secret-squirrel shit already?’ said Ramirez evenly, his dark eyes flickering with the vaguest hint of satisfaction. ‘We already talked to that mouthpiece Senator that that Mr. Russell and your little posse of goons are supposed to be babysitting. Your partner didn’t turn up for work today. So you better pray that he has a plausible and corroborated explanation of his movements during the last twenty-four hours, or his ugly ass is in trouble.’
I played it poker faced. Made like the revelation hadn’t unseated my confidence in my partners reputation. The insinuation rankled. It raised questions. My mind raced as I considered the possibilities, but the answer came out the same.
‘Joe had nothing to do with this,’ I said.
‘I hear what you are saying Mr. Costello, but we will decide that. So tell your buddy about our conversation. Tell him we will be meeting up with him real soon. Ramirez got to his feet. That concludes or business for the moment. If any more details regarding this matter spring to mind give me a call.’ He tossed a business card onto the interview desk. Max looked up expectantly.
‘Thanks,’ I breezed and scooped it off the table. I paid it close scrutiny ‘Nice typography.’ I said.
‘Get the hell out of here Costello, and take that dopey looking mutt with you.’
THE SEX NET 10
I caught the cab outside the Biltmore on Pershing Square. The sun was rising in the east, spilling over the Hollywood Hills, flooding the city with gold. The driver headed west on the Santa Monica Freeway. I felt kid-club wired in the morning sun, as the cab cruised Pacific Avenue and dropped me off out front of my building. I speed dialed Joe for the umpteenth time. No reply. I headed inside, greeted by the bouquet scents of apartment block living, today’s top notes included: vegetable soup, stale tobacco, and a soupçon of Floorex anti-septic. I breathed deep: the home-sweet-home aroma of the terminal singleton.
I took the elevator up to the third floor and walked down the corridor. Palms breathed in from the atrium, across the Spanish-style railings. Max lollopped ahead, like a gawkish teenager, his paws skating down the grey slate floor. A power slide finish had him at the apartment door, a full furlong ahead of me. Then he started barking. ‘Keep the noise down big mouth.’ I whispered double-timing it to the door, my keys in hand. ‘You wanna wake the whole residents association?’ Max harrumphed and looked mournful. I admonished him with a wagging finger and my naughty-naughty raised eyebrow expression that always has a miraculously calming effect on all members of the canine species. Max lolled his tongue out, total incomprehension writ lar
ge across his face. I held my breath and listened for sounds authority approaching. Nothing. A run in with Ms Wong, the sexy but irascible building super was the last thing I needed at 6am on a sun splashed summer morning.
I opened the door.
Max bounded inside.
I pulled up. The crunch of broken glass under foot.
The place had been flipped. A real mess. Too messy for cops—even cops like Ramirez and his jerk-off side kick Cullen.
I moved forward, with halting steps, adrenaline pulsing through me. Max pounded through the wreckage like it was just another day at Costello mansions. He disappeared from view, a brief pause, then a doggie commotion in the kitchen.
‘I hope you haven’t got your snout in the trash,’ I called accusingly.
An affirmative snuffle from the kitchen.
‘I thought so,’ I said, moving through the wreckage. Each room the same, the whole place had been turned over, not one of my meager possessions remained untouched.
I followed the trail of destruction—each room another shock. The mess was spiteful—vindictive, like the freaks who had burglarized the place were getting personal. I pushed open my office door with an exploratory finger. Papers everywhere, the kind of mess that would take weeks to put right—if it ever could be.
They hadn’t taken the computer.
Or my laptop.
That was something. I stood in the wrecked office, absorbing the scene.
What kind of burglar left computer equipment?
Strange.
I walked over to my desk, the sound of broken glass crunching underfoot. Bending down to pick up my chair, I saw the smashed pictures on the floor, pictures of my brother Ryan and Joe, standing on a carrier flight deck in front of an Apache helicopter, shoulder to shoulder with their Marine Corps buddies, a ferocious crew of frontline fighters. There were the pictures of mom and dad, frames broken, glass smashed. I tried to imagine the level of alienation, the sheer unbridled desperation that would cause someone, another human, to do such things.
I sat on the edge of my desk, looking at the picture of my dad. The picture showed pops outside the Lockheed Martin building up in Burbank. The picture filled me with pride. Pops had worked in advanced development, black-op projects for the US government. He’d worked there forty years on the U2 Spy plane and the early stealth bomber program, before Lockheed moved out to Nevada. Pops smiled up at me in black and white, a fifties kind of smile innocent and genuine a reminder of simpler times. I wondered what he would make of this mess.
