by Alan Russell
Michelle closed her eyes for a moment and in a tired voice she said, “Look for Alec, David, Cody, Sam, and Jason. They were his mainstays.”
She leaned back in her chair. Because she was no longer hunched forward, I could now see the rips in her blouse. There were tears in at least half a dozen spots. My scrutinizing didn’t go unnoticed.
“When I was a girl, I watched as my grandmother ripped apart her clothing when she learned her sister had died. I remember how she looked so crazy. Her face was all contorted, and she attacked her clothes in this violent, terrible way. Back then I couldn’t understand why she would do such a thing. Now I do. But I didn’t stop at just ripping my blouse. That wasn’t enough. So I started tearing my hair out. And the only reason I stopped doing it was because the pain began making me feel better, and that was wrong.”
“Can I call someone to be with you?”
“My daughter is flying home. She’ll be here tonight.”
While I filled out my field interview cards with the phone numbers and addresses of Paul’s friends, Michelle Klein stared into space. Every so often a tear made its way down her cheek. When I was finished, I stood up and once more offered my condolences. She said nothing until I began closing the door behind me.
“Get the bastard,” she said.
After I left the Klein house, I called Jason Davis. Judging from his reaction, he didn’t yet know of Paul’s death and couldn’t understand why an LAPD detective was asking to meet with him.
“What’s this concerning?” he asked.
“Paul Klein,” I said and didn’t elaborate further.
Although Jason was eighteen, I offered him the option of either speaking to him at his house in the presence of his parents or meeting him somewhere. Jason decided he didn’t want a cop questioning him in front of his parents and suggested we meet at a coffee house on North Beverly.
“I’ll be easy to spot,” I said. From experience I knew it was better to get the matter of my appearance out of the way early. “Just look for a guy with an ugly scar on his mug.”
When I arrived at the coffee shop, I found all the outside tables deserted, which was as I hoped. Southern Californians aren’t known for braving the elements, and with the thermometer hovering around sixty degrees, they had retreated indoors. I told Sirius to park himself and then went inside. There wasn’t much in the way of food still available, but I found an egg salad sandwich that didn’t look too mushy.
The sandwich went well with the hot coffee, or at least what I ate of it did. Sirius got the lion’s share. While waiting for Jason, I called Gump. He and Martinez were still working the crime scene at the park and would probably be there most of the night. According to Gump, LAPD Media Relations was in the process of releasing a statement to the press detailing the circumstances of Paul Klein’s death.
“The shit’s just about to hit the fan,” Gump said. “The media air force has been trying to get footage all day. They know there’s a body in the tree, and they know there’s something muy hinky about this one.”
As if to emphasize what Gump was saying, I could hear the sounds of a helicopter flying low over the crime scene.
“I guess the kid’s father is some bigwig, right?” Gump asked.
“He’s a producer.”
“That figures. Media Relations tells me he’s got a press conference scheduled right after their announcement. Supposedly, he’s going to offer a million-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of his son’s killer.”
“That’s all we need,” I said, knowing that kind of money would bring every crackpot with supposed information to the party. “We’ll have to pull some uniforms to handle the calls.”
“Yeah, we might as well just open our own psychic hotline.”
A preppy-looking kid, hands in his designer jeans, made a slow approach to where I was sitting. He acted wary, looking from me to Sirius and then back to me again.
“I’ll get back to you,” I told Gump.
I pocketed my phone and motioned for the kid to sit, saying, “The dog’s friendly.”
Before sitting he asked, “Can I see some ID?”
I pulled out my badge wallet and showed him my detective shield. When he finished looking at it, Jason Davis sat down in a chair opposite me.
“Michelle Klein told me you’ve known Paul for a long time.”
“My whole life,” he said.
“If you haven’t heard then, I am afraid Paul is dead.”
Jason’s mouth opened and he stared at me in disbelief.
“He was murdered yesterday,” I said.
I continued to watch him. Jason’s surprise and shock looked real.
“Do you know anyone that might have wanted to harm Paul?”
He shook his head and said, “I can’t believe it.”
“Are you aware of anyone that threatened Paul?”
“No. This is crazy.”
“Paul’s body was purposely put on display. He was nailed to a tree, which suggests to me that this killing was personal. Can you think of anything Paul might have done that might have made anyone want to do that to him?”
Jason shook his head again.
“When was the last time you saw Paul?”
He thought for a moment and said, “Yesterday at school. He was supposed to meet up with us last night but he was a no-show. We called him a few times, but he never picked up.”
“Where was he going to meet you?”
“At the Music Hall.”
Laemmle’s Music Hall 3 is a movie theater on Wilshire Boulevard.
“Who else was there with you?”
“Sam Drexler, David Popkin, and me.”
I already had the other boys’ names; they were part of Paul’s group.
“Were you surprised when Paul didn’t make it?”
“We just figured something came up.”
“So you saw the film without him?”
He nodded.
“Michelle Klein said your group is close and that Paul called you his entourage.”
“That’s what he sometimes called us,” Jason said, “but we usually call our group the Agency.”
“Like the CIA?”
“More like CAA.”
Creative Artists Agency is one of Hollywood’s biggest talent agencies. These kids had grown up in Tinseltown. It made sense that they’d wrap themselves in its glittery fabric.
“So the Agency is sort of a club?”
“That sounds like something with rules. We’re just a group of guys that hang out together.”
“That’s what gangbangers always say.”
“It isn’t like that. We don’t break laws or wear certain colors. We don’t even have a secret handshake. What we are is more like a team. The six of us have been playing lacrosse together all through high school.”
“Was Paul a good player?”
“He’s been one of the best the last few years. That’s why he was picked as captain his junior and senior years.”
“Was he bossy?”
“He liked to be in charge.”
“Did Paul use drugs?”
Jason’s answer was immediate: “No.”
“He didn’t drink?”
“Well, yeah.”
“What about weed?”
“Hardly ever,” Jason said. “Paul was a runner and didn’t want his lungs to get messed up.”
“Can you think of a reason why Paul was carrying a baggie full of OC and Ecstasy?”
A head shake. “Not even one.”
“And you don’t know of anyone that would have wanted to hurt Paul?”
“Not really.”
“Not really?”
“Most people liked Paul.”
“Who didn’t?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s possible some losers were jealous of him.”
“Such as?”
“I really couldn’t say. Paul sometimes acted cocky, though, and there might have been one or two kids that weren’t
from old Beverly Hills that he rubbed the wrong way.”
“What do you mean by old Beverly Hills?”
“People from around here.”
“I’m still not following.”
“There are a lot of kids at our school that go around speaking different languages, like Farsi.”
“And Paul didn’t like that?”
“Lots of people in Beverly Hills don’t like it. A few years back there was this big fight when election ballots came out in Farsi. And the people of Beverly Hills got so sick of houses being torn down and Persian Palaces being put up that the zoning laws were changed.”
“Persian Palaces?”
“Everyone calls them that.”
“So Paul didn’t like these newcomers?”
“What he didn’t like was when they acted like they were still in Tehran. When he heard kids speaking in Farsi, he’d start talking real loud in pig Latin.”
“He targeted Iranian students?”
Jason shook his head. “It was more like a joke.”
“But others might not have found it funny?”
“I don’t know. You wanted to know if anyone could have disliked Paul; that’s all I could think of. But I don’t think his speaking pig Latin is the kind of thing that could have gotten him killed, do you?”
I almost said, “There are some people you’d be advised to not say ‘Uckfay Ouyay’ to,” but instead I just asked him another question.
CHAPTER 7:
TOWER OF BABEL, TOWER OF HOPE
Gump and Martinez were still working the case at two a.m. when I took my leave of them. None of us had turned up any real suspects. Paul’s friends—I had talked to all five members of the Agency—couldn’t think of anyone that would have wanted him dead. The only person that had offered a motive for Paul’s death was his father. Adam Klein said he believed his son’s death and crucifixion were payback from organized crime.
“This is the Mob’s way of getting back at me for making Traffic King,” he told me over the phone.
“I am not familiar with Traffic King,” I said.
“That’s because its release date is two weeks from tomorrow. The story is about human trafficking, about the modern slave trade.”
“Your film is about present-day slavery?”
“That’s right. The Traffic King is a modern-day slave lord. He collects and sells human beings. He ravages lives.”
“What does that have to do with your son’s death?”
“It’s organized crime retaliating for my putting the spotlight on their activities.”
“Is Traffic King based on a true story?”
“I would call it more of a composite story. In sheer numbers, there is more human trafficking going on today than ever before.”
“But your movie is fictional?”
“That doesn’t take away from its inherent truth.”
By that point in our conversation, I had stopped taking notes. Before reaching him by phone, I had heard Klein selling this same revenge theory to the media. It had sounded out there, but at the time I thought grief was coloring his thinking. Now I wasn’t so sure, but I hoped he believed in his theory. If he didn’t, that meant he was using the death of his own son to promote a movie.
“I think it’s a stretch that your son would have been targeted because of this movie.”
“That’s because you don’t know how despicable and violent the modern slave trade is. It would be just like them to exact revenge for my having exposed their methods. When you see the movie, Detective, you’ll understand what I’m talking about. They are afraid of their house of cards toppling. That’s what happens in the film, and as a result their slave trade is severely disrupted.”
“And how does all of that come about?”
“A woman whose girl is abducted by slave traders gets vengeance against the human traffickers. Getting her daughter back isn’t enough; she goes after the Traffic King.”
I held the phone away from me and just looked at it. When I could talk, I thanked Mr. Klein for his time and hung up on him.
During the drive home I thought about the producer’s conspiracy theory. “Hard to believe,” I said to Sirius. My partner didn’t answer. He was already asleep in the backseat.
The good thing about driving so late was that there was little traffic. Casa Gideon is in Sherman Oaks, the so-called gateway to the San Fernando Valley. Being that gateway is a dubious distinction, and I’m not sure whether the title is a compliment or a ding. Jenny and I had chosen to live in Sherman Oaks because of its proximity to our workplaces, and because when we bought our home it was somewhat affordable. Officially, Sherman Oaks isn’t a city but a neighborhood in the city of Los Angeles. When you think of neighborhoods, most don’t have sixty thousand people like mine does. One of Sherman Oaks’ claims to fame is that it is the acknowledged birthplace of Valley Girls. In the 1980s, the Sherman Oaks Galleria, the megamall of its time, was the big meet-up spot for the high school crowds. Frank Zappa had to endure listening to the unique lingo of his daughter and her friends, and decided to immortalize the way they talked in song. After that, movies followed and the whole country became familiar with Valspeak. Unfortunately, the speech patterns continue to this day.
Like, gag me with a spoon.
Jenny had told me that although the TV series The Brady Bunch was filmed on a set, the writers always imagined that the household existed in the suburbs of Sherman Oaks. Our plan had been to have our own nest with children, and we picked a house that a family was supposed to fill, but it never worked out that way. Jenny had even insisted that we put up a white picket fence in the front yard. As I pulled into the driveway, the night couldn’t mask the fact that the fence needed a new coat of paint. The whole house needed TLC that I was no longer inspired to put into it.
Sirius stayed at my side as we walked up the pathway to the front door and then waited for me to enter the house first. When the two of us worked together in K-9, there had been clear divisions of rank, with frequent classes and exercises to reinforce that pecking order. The dogs are taught their handlers are generals and that they are grunts that have to obey no matter how insane the orders are. Sirius always went along with this game so as to not make me look bad, and still does.
I made Sirius what was either a late dinner or an early breakfast. He eats on the patio and was waiting outside for his catered affair to be served. I sat down while he ate. It was cool but not uncomfortably so. Our backyard is full of mature fruit trees, and at different times of the year it’s awash in nectarines, apples, apricots, lemons, plums, figs, avocadoes, oranges, limes, and tangelos. It was a good thing the trees were so well established when their care fell to me; so far I’d managed not to kill them. Jen had been the gardener and the cook. The breeze brought with it the bouquet of citrus, and I remembered her tangy lemon meringue pies.
Sirius made short work of his food. I thought about making myself a late snack but decided sleep sounded better than food. I had a six-thirty appointment with the assistant principal at Beverly Hills High, so I’d be lucky to get three hours sleep. My hope was that I would be too tired to dream, especially with my early meeting. When my head hit the pillow, I dropped off. The next thing I knew I was in hellfire.
Both of us were staggering under the weight and heat. The smoke was pummeling us, hitting us in our throats and lungs. The Strangler collapsed to a knee, and Sirius’s legs slipped through his hands and hit the ground. I held on to my partner’s head and legs, but just barely.
“We’re going to die,” the Strangler said.
His lips were blistered and it was tough making out his words. Soot covered his face. His eyes stared out, red coals among the blackness.
“We have to leave the dog if we’re going to have a chance.”
Sirius was still breathing; blood was no longer pouring out of him, but I was afraid that was because he’d bled so much already. Without answering the Strangler directly, I shifted the direction of my gun. It wasn’t ea
sy holding up my partner, with the gun in my right hand, but I’d managed. In a few moments, I could holster the gun and then carry my friend by myself.
The Strangler read my intentions and all but jumped to his feet. I reluctantly eased the pressure on my trigger finger. In the fire my morality had burned away.
My partner was a dead, unwieldy weight in our arms, but I couldn’t let him go. As he struggled for air and continued to fight for life, his sounds made me press on.
Holding Sirius between us, the Strangler and I resumed our death march.
In the limbo of past and present, the crippling forces of grief and despair made my chest feel as if it was being staved in. That pain hurt even more than the burning fire.
And then I was gasping in the now, the dream behind me, as my partner’s licks awakened me and cooled my burning flesh.
In the calm of the moment after, I found myself focused on the crazed red orbs of Ellis Haines. As we had walked through hell, his eyes had always been on me, but now, in my vision, I watched as he plucked out his right eye and offered it to me.
And then I heard the words—or maybe I thought them—“An eye for an eye.”
I fully awakened then, and I thought of Paul Klein and the gap of his missing orb. I wondered whether the bullet was a statement. If I could believe what my vision was telling me, the shooting had been carried out by someone who believed in an eye for an eye. If that was the case, the killer had acted upon what he or she perceived to be a grievous wrong.
Sirius offered up another lick.
“I am awake,” I said, reaching for his head with both of my hands. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re the best nightmare cure in the world?”
He leaned into the bed, gladly accepting my praise and scratches. The love fest was cut short when my alarm went off.
“We need to hurry,” I told him, “or we’ll be late for school.”
I had driven by Beverly Hills High School many times but never had reason to go on its campus. The school is located in the southern part of Beverly Hills and borders on Century City. Contrary to what television might have you believe, the high school’s zip code is 90212. Pictures taken from the school’s playing fields invariably include the background of high-rise hotels and buildings on Avenue of the Stars and little Santa Monica Boulevard. I turned on Moreno Drive and followed the signs. Along the way I saw media vans lining the street. Signs directed me to student and faculty parking, but a security guard was barring entry and apparently doing his best to keep the media at bay. When I showed him my wallet badge, he waved Sirius and me through.
