A Host of Shadows

by Harry Shannon

  His pricey condo was off Melrose, not far from La Brea.

  That night I was waiting in the bushes near his driveway when Kevin, Esq. pulled up, nicely toasted, and used the electronic opener. The gate slid sideways and he drove down the concrete ramp, into the lot below the building. I looked around carefully, rolled down behind his car, sprinted left and eased into the shadows near the elevators. I heard a shrill whoop as he locked the Benz. His footsteps echoed through the empty garage. He was whistling tunelessly.

  I stepped out of the dark, my face covered by a Navy watch cap with eye holes cut into it. Kevin, Esq. almost wet himself. He began digging through his pockets, looking for money and credit cards.

  “Just be quiet,” I said. I gave myself a pretty decent southern drawl. “I don’t want your money.”

  So Kevin, Esq. held up his car keys. His hand was shaking pretty badly.

  “I don’t want your car either. I’m going to ask you a couple of questions, and if you answer me straight, I’ll be gone before you get upstairs.”

  He swallowed slowly. “What kind of questions?”

  “Let’s talk about porn.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me what you’ve seen in the last few months.”

  He shook his head at first, but then his eyes widened. “Christ, you mean that tape? A friend gave it to me after he recognized Daisy. He was trying to do me a favor.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “No. Man, it was really sick stuff. That girl is twisted.”

  “So you don’t have it.”

  “It was a rental, dude. He recognized my girlfriend and thought he should let me know.”

  “What was it called?”

  Car headlights rolled past outside, illuminating things for a few seconds. Kevin Esq. stood trembling, briefcase in hand, awash in white light. “I’m telling you, it was one of those creepy things, man. I think it was called Rowdy Boyz 29; they spelled boys with a z. It was something like that anyway.”

  “You sure it was 29?”

  “I got my law degree on the 29th, so yeah. That kind of stung a little extra. And I was upset because I honestly thought I liked her.”

  I didn’t explain or clarify anything, figured it was none of my business. Besides, it seemed to me Daisy could do a lot better. I held up a miniature tape recorder. Now Kevin Esq. looked completely baffled.

  “Now, let’s get something clear. I haven’t laid a finger on you or threatened you in any way, have I, counselor?”

  “No.”

  I turned the tape recorder off. “I did trespass on private property by sneaking into your parking garage. I apologize. It won’t happen again. I’ll be going now.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it, as long as you forget this ever happened.”

  “Done.”

  “Okay, then. Have a nice evening.”

  Kramer went into the elevator as if still half expecting to be beaten and robbed. I waited until the doors closed then slipped out through the side, past the trash cans, stripped off the mask and vanished into the night. He’d drop it. Hell, there was nothing worth reporting, to the law or anyone else.

  I stopped at an unfamiliar video store on the way home paid twenty dollars cash for their only copy of that Rowdy Boyz DVD. The cover promised “hot action” and 29 was dedicated to fantasy snuff. I fast forwarded through some pretty badly shot and poorly lit scenes until I recognized Daisy. At first I could barely watch. It seemed morally repugnant to feel even the slightest bit of arousal at the sight of her nakedness. And even with the absurd faux gore and splatter, it was pretty hot stuff. However, viewing it soon replaced my animal sexuality with rage. Daisy seemed pretty out of it. Who wouldn’t be? I studied the men and committed their faces to memory. One was almost bald, with a heavily muscled frame and piercing blue eyes. One was a pedestrian blond surfer type, stoned out of his mind, barely able to keep it up. The third was a skinny Hispanic kid with a Go Army tat on his left bicep.

  The three men had been reasonably careful about hiding their faces, but I was able to freeze and copy a few frames to DVD. From there it was a piece of cake to transfer them to my computer, use PhotoShop and clean them up a bit. Within an hour I had three pretty functional photographs. I printed copies of each, smashed the video and took a drive, tossing it into a trash bin behind a liquor store.

  Rowdy Boyz was only one of the dozens of highly successful operations that pepper the San Fernando Valley, where pornography has become a billion dollar business. Two brothers, Eddie and Rob Martin, were CEO and CFO respectively. Corporate headquarters were located in a black office building just off Woodman Avenue, not far north of Moorpark. Then next morning, I left my car down the block a ways and walked in.

  I half expected to find a gum-popping bimbo behind the reception desk, but the woman seated there wore well tailored business clothes and an efficient, no-nonsense attitude. If there was a security camera, it was well hidden.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Eddie.” I flashed my PI license. I was hoping she’d be impressed. She wasn’t.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I have you on the schedule.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Well, you’ll have to call us and set something up in advance.”

  “Can you book something for me now?”

  “I’m sorry, but everyone is at the convention. You’ll have to call on Monday, when he’s back in the office.”

  I leaned over the desk. “Maybe you can help me. I’m representing someone who appears in one of your films.”

  “Representing?”

  “Let’s call it investigating, then.”

  Her cool eyes appraised me. “And the point would be…?”

  “She never gave her permission to be in that video. As a woman, I would imagine you’d understand that she’s pretty upset.”

  The receptionist sighed. “That’s quite impossible. We have signed releases from everyone who appears in our amateur video series.”

  “If I were to ask to see that document, you’d be able to produce it?”

  “Of course we would, sir.” She smiled sweetly. “Why, the very minute we see a court order.”

  Damned if she didn’t stare me down. I sighed. “Thanks for your help, miss.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She turned her back. I left to the sound of her fingernails clacking away at the keyboard like a line of Irish dancers.

  God bless search engines. I just typed in a few euphemisms for pornography, added Los Angeles and found what I was looking for immediately: The Southern California Adult Film Convention.

  The location was packed with vendors, fans and porn stars, the majority of them affluent in appearance and manner. The main showroom had tall exhibit panels advertising various DVDs, appearances by individual performers and sex toy products. I didn’t want anyone thinking I was stalking somebody, so I slapped on a reasonably good fake moustache and cowboy hat, paid fifty dollars for a pass and wandered through the hall like someone out to do business.

  Rowdy Boyz had a booth in the northern corner of the convention hall, below a twenty-foot-high cardboard cutout of two burly men pawing a beautiful peroxide blonde who had a bad nose job and the best jugs money can buy. I strolled by, examined their DVD products half-heartedly, and was about to move on when I got lucky. A metal door opened and a man stepped out of the corridor and into the hall, still wiping his hands from a restroom break. He was wearing sunglasses and a hair piece, but looked at lot like the bald guy from the tape that featured Daisy. I waited until he returned to the booth and removed the glasses, checked out those cold blue eyes.

  He wasn’t as tall as I’d expected, but it was him.

  I strolled closer and eyeballed some of the DVDs for sale. From what I gathered, old blue eyes used the stage name Dick Proud. He’d even starred in a couple of movies. I stared a bit too long because at one point he turned, glared back.

  �
�You got a problem?”

  Dick carried himself with a lot of preening, adolescent macho. If we’d been alone I would have rearranged his face so he’d drown in the rain. I didn’t deck him. I made myself grin like an enraptured fan. I held up a silly DVD called “The Odd Father Part 2.”

  “Hey, Mr. Dick? If I buy this, can I have your autograph?”

  I walked closer. He took it from me, ripped most of the plastic cover off and used a felt tip pen to scrawl something over a photo of his own engorged genitals. He waved for me to take it over to a female clerk in the string bikini and lost interest in my presence. I used the remaining plastic to hold the DVD, paid for it in cash and left the building. Within an hour I had dusted the DVD for prints, blown up a copy of the resulting image. I got Jon Kasper to pull his sheet.

  Mr. Blue Eyes, also known as Dick Proud was really a kid from Oregon named Richard Lee Dover. He was forty years old. Mr. Dover had done a stretch at Humboldt for armed robbery. He’d also been hauled in for grand theft auto, but plea bargained that one down to joyriding. He was currently under investigation for drug trafficking, so Kasper easily scored a list of ‘known associates.’ By the next morning, I had names to go with the other two photographs.

  Richard Lee Dover, age forty.

  Patrick Wade Robbins, age thirty-four.

  Timothy “Wild Man” Harris, age forty-one.

  These were definitely not the kind of boyfriends you bring home to meet Daddy. All three had rap sheets and ongoing LAPD cases pending arrest warrants, which made them flight risks. Kasper made a couple of calls and found some bank accounts recently closed. Finally, a quick search of city records turned up a Limited Liability Corporation called Rowdy Boyz.

  The Majority Partner was one Richard Lee Dover. Mr. Robbins and Mr. Harris were listed as being on the Board of Directors, although I’d bet neither one of them could read anything more complicated than a comic book.

  I wasn’t sure what to do next, especially since they were all likely to beat feet out of town in the near future. My guess was they’d sell the existing film catalogue, forged personal releases and all, and set up shop again somewhere they could start over without having to answer too many questions. Perhaps Nevada. It also seemed likely they’d already suspect that the law was closing in, so I also didn’t have time to plan anything elaborate.

  I called Daisy Kendall AKA Elizabeth from a pay phone. The cell line kicked over to an answering service. I didn’t leave a message. If this one suddenly went south, I didn’t want to leave a trail that could put Daisy in hot water. Right about then something began to percolate in the back of my mind, some kind of a hunch, but I couldn’t quite get a grip on it.

  Later that night, I put on some jogging gear and parked in a shopping mall near an Italian restaurant, just a few blocks away from Mr. Dover’s last known address, a home in the trendy suburb of Calabasas. I looked around to make sure it was safe, then poured some bottled water over my head and ran briskly up the hill, arms pumping, like a man who’d already done a few miles. I passed one old coot out walking two dogs, but other than that the streets were empty.

  Dover’s home was a rather nice blue and white colonial style, but then so was every other house on the block. I ran circles on the sidewalk, looked around again and then hopped the fence into the dark backyard. There I put on some surgical gloves and peered through a couple of windows. The place seemed quiet, although a TV set was flickering in the empty bedroom.

  The punch pad for the alarm showed it wasn’t armed, so I just popped the latch on the back door and let myself in. I’m usually not inclined to commit a felony without thinking things through, but in this case I figured time was of the essence. I just wanted to get a handle on Dover’s racket and maybe a clue where he’d be going if he blew town.

  I pulled the Navy watch cap down over my face and moved slowly through the living room, listening carefully. The television was tuned to a sports channel, and once inside the house the volume seemed way too loud. I peered into the kitchen, saw nothing went on down the hall.

  There was a home office, a rather messy one. I poked around a bit, found an open pack of discs, backed up the entire computer and kept a copy. Then I went into the second bedroom, found a guest bed in messy condition and a few paperback books scattered about. Someone had used the shower recently. The sound of the television drew me into the master bedroom. The announcers were barking out football scores as if racing one another to a finish line. The bedding was a mess; the sheets and blankets were tangled and one pillow was half on the carpeted floor. There was a half-filled suitcase in the corner.

  That’s when I noticed the odor. I edged along the wall and peered over the edge of the bed. My stomach rolled.

  I blinked, looked again. A naked body lay on the carpet; a rather hairy body at that. I moved closer. The corpse had a pillow over its face, and right in the middle was a small hole with blackened edges. I checked more carefully. His throat had also been cut. A lot of dried blood darkened the beige carpeting, but less that you would expect. I lifted the edge of the pillow then replaced it. One shot, right through the forehead, with the pillow used as a silencer. But why cut his throat too?

  “So long, Mr. Dover,” I whispered. “Say hello to hell for me.”

  I backed away carefully, even bent down and used my gloved hands to make sure I didn’t leave any retrievable footprints. I got out of there faster than a corporate fat cat collecting on his golden parachute. Then I called Detective Kasper from a pay phone.

  “You mean that guy Dover?”

  “Yeah, like the white cliffs.”

  “You sure he was dead, bro?”

  “Deader than Custer’s nuts. One shot in the head, and a sliced neck to boot. I don’t know how you want to handle it, but I was never there.”

  Kasper sighed. “Why do you keep dragging me back into this kind of shit?”

  “I wouldn’t want you to get bored. Jon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There are two partners, remember. One is Patrick Wade Robbins, and a guy named Timothy ‘Wild Man’ Harris.”

  “Yeah, I already thought of that. You like one of them for this?”

  “Seems likely, although beats me why he’d have to kill him twice. Besides, look at it this way, if they didn’t do Dover they’re probably next on the list for whoever did.”

  “What’s your next move?”

  “What do you think?”

  Wild Man’s pad was closer, an apartment complex just off Reseda and Victory at the edge of the barrio. A fender bender had Victory looking like a row of crushed tin cans. I sped down side streets and through alleys to make better time. I pulled up in front of the apartment house just in time to see a body under a bloody sheet being loaded onto an ambulance. An emaciated speed freak with stringy hair and coke bottle glasses was holding up a street lamp, watching the rack of drugs in the EMT kit like it was a double cheeseburger. I pulled to the curb and rolled my window down.

  “What happened?”

  “A home invasion robbery or something,” she said. “I know the guy, can you believe it? I used to bump into him all the time at the liquor store. A cop said somebody broke in and sliced him up real bad. Then the motherfucker took a shower like it was nothing and left.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “Not really. He was a prick.”

  “Who was he?” I asked, already anticipating the answer.

  “Called himself Wild Man.”

  My cell phone rang a couple of minutes later, as I was about to get on the 101. It was Kasper. I told him about the second killing. He swore, said: “That guy Robbins? His place was torched. There was a body inside, but the ID will have to wait for dental records. ME says it was a man for sure, though.”

  “Somebody took out all three of them in one night.”

  “It gets worse.”

  “Worse?” I got on the freeway and started shifting to the faster lanes. “Jon, I have to figure out a way to keep my client out of this.�
�

  “No, you have to figure out how to keep yourself out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Snitch dropped the proverbial dime on you. Jack Petersen already knows you were asking around about Dover, and says he has security camera footage of you at the porn convention wearing a moustache and a hat. What the hell were you thinking?”

  Well, so much for my makeup skills. “Hell, I don’t know. Thought I was being clever. Damn, it has to be Petersen catching? He’s really got a hard for me.”

  “That’s what you get for boning his kid sister.”

  I got into the fast lane. “I’m the number one suspect then.”

  “As of now, you are. Nobody knows your client from Britney Spears. Bro, Petersen is determined to get a warrant if you don’t come in for a chat.”

  “I need one last favor first. Track down the whereabouts of a vet name of Jack Wade, 310 or 323 area code, used to be in Army Special Forces.”

  “Wait one.” I heard his fingers tap dancing on a computer keyboard.

  “How long will this take?”

  “Not long for the basic information, but I may as well do a bit of research, too. Hang up. I’ll call you back in a few.”

  A cop car showed up in my rear view mirror and my mouth went dry. I stayed in the second lane, right at the speed limit, and he passed me by. A few minutes later my cell rang, and Kasper gave me an address and phone number, a land line, but said the phone was disconnected.

  “Petersen knows we’re friends, bro. He’s going to be on me soon. How do you want me to play this?”