by Philip Cox
‘No,’ said Leroy, still focussing on Mrs Wheat. ‘So it was early the next morning when you noticed he hadn’t returned home?’
‘Yes, I can tell you the exact time when I noticed. Two forty-four. I remember that distinctly as I woke - it was either because I must have noticed in my sleep that Marty hadn’t come to bed, or because I needed to pee, or both - I looked at the alarm clock. Two forty-four. I called his cell, but he didn’t pick up. We have one of those apps where we can see where the other one is, you know the kind?’
Leroy and Quinn knew the kind.
‘It was Marty’s idea. That showed the spot on Mulholland where he’d gone. But it said last known position or something like that.’
‘Which would suggest the phone was switched off,’ said Duvall.
‘When we found your husband,’ Leroy said, ‘we couldn’t find his cell. There’d been no calls from it since that night – we checked.’
‘Did you have a warrant to search those records?’ Duvall began.
Mrs Wheat held up her hand to stop him.
‘It’s okay, Howard. They need to do that. It was something I would’ve gotten round to doing myself. And of course, without the phone, you don’t know if he received any calls. Apart from mine.’
Leroy paused then asked, ‘Moving to your husband’s production company.’
‘Mrs Wheat has no connection with that company in either a business or personal capacity,’ announced Duvall.
‘Is that right?’ Leroy asked her. ‘No connection whatsoever?’
‘Howard’s right. Of course, I did have a connection once, as you know. When I worked for the company, but not any longer. I know some of the actors and crew - the older ones - but after Marty and I married, that was it. He insisted, and that was fine by me.’
‘And the business was solely in Mr Wheat’s name,’ added Duvall. ‘Always was, always is.’
‘What would happen to the company now?’ Quinn asked. ‘If your husband was the sole owner?’
Duvall opened his mouth to answer, but Mrs Wheat got there first.
‘I guess I’ll just have to sell the company. Although we’re not talking much. He leased the equipment, rented that office. The crew and cast members – I’m sure they’ll easily find work elsewhere.’
‘So there’s not much to buy?’
‘Mr Leroy,’ she said, ‘it’s hardly Paramount.’
‘There are very few tangible assets,’ Duvall explained. ‘The only items which the company actually owned would be what items Mr Wheat had in his office. Scripts mainly.’
‘When we were in the office, we found a number of DVDs,’ Leroy said. ‘Would there be any more stored somewhere?’
‘I don’t know, but unlikely. Most of the movies Marty produced were for streaming. He only had a small number of discs. Mainly for the customers who didn’t understand the internet.’
‘Would there have been any master tapes, or discs?’ Leroy asked.
She shook her head.
‘I don’t think so. Marty kept everything virtually.’
‘Stored in cyberspace,’ Duvall said.
‘What value are we talking about?’ Leroy asked.
‘Squirrel shit,’ Duvall replied. ‘Martin and I had not long discussed the value of the company. In my capacity as friend and lawyer. The nature of the type of movies he made meant that there is very little sale value in his portfolio. Do you know how many of Martin’s type of movie are shot here in Los Angeles every year?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Leroy.
‘Around five thousand. Isn’t that right, Adrienne?’ She nodded to confirm. ‘So what Martin produced was one of thousands. Hence little resale value. And forget about copyright or intellectual property rights.’
‘Debts?’ Leroy asked. ‘Did the company have many debts?’
‘He did have some; but as I’ve reassured Mrs Wheat here, Martin didn’t take to mortgaging the house to raise money.’
‘The house is mortgage free,’ she explained. ‘Martin had had it so long.’
‘There are creditors,’ said Duvall. ‘Backers.’
‘What sums of money are we talking about?’
‘I don’t have that information with me; but I wouldn’t have said the sums involved would make somebody resort to murder. In any case, on Martin’s death, the company is wound up, production stops, and nobody gets any money. So for a creditor to murder Martin, that just doesn’t make any sense.’ He paused as Leroy and Quinn both looked up at him. ‘In my view,’ he added.
Leroy turned back to Mrs Wheat.
‘Where are the books for your husband’s company?’
‘As far as I know, Marty kept everything at the office. Nothing here. There is a safe in the office, at the foot of the closet by the door. It’s on a combination, which is the same for the door.’ She looked over at Duvall. ‘Marty wasn’t very security conscious.’
‘The office is secured,’ Leroy said. ‘We’ll return there and take a look in the safe, check through the financial status of the company.’
‘Detective,’ said Duvall, pushing himself off the wall, ‘surely you need a warrant for that.’
‘That is correct,’ Leroy smiled up at Duvall. ‘But Mrs Wheat has already given her consent to us examining the office and contents. Isn’t that correct, ma’am?’
She looked up at Duvall and confirmed.
Duvall said, ‘Detectives, is this going to take much longer? I appreciate you have your jobs to do, but Mrs Wheat and I are due at a reception downtown soon.’
‘Only a few more questions, and we’ll be as quick as we can,’ said Leroy. ‘Mrs Wheat: have you ever met, or do you know anything about Alicia – your husband’s first wife?’
‘I don’t see what that has…’ puffed Duvall.
‘Mrs Wheat?’
‘I met her a few times. While I was working for the company, and while Marty and I had begun seeing each other. But I tended to avoid her, for obvious reasons.’
‘I get that, ma’am. So the last time you saw her was, when?’
‘I’ve no idea. I really can’t recall.’
‘Before you were married?’
‘Oh, definitely. Never since we married. I know that Marty shared this house with her, but by the time I moved my stuff in, she had long since moved hers out. She had nothing to do with Marty’s line of work, either.’ She paused, and looked up at Duvall. ‘No,’ she continued, ‘I’ve not seen her in ages. Why? Do you think she had something to do with all of this?’
‘I’m asking the question just to help with your husband’s background.’
She nodded.
‘I kind of guessed she’d gone back east. She was from Boston, I think.’
‘No,’ said Leroy. ‘She’s still living out here.’
‘Really? You surprise me.’ As she spoke, Mrs Wheat glanced up at Duvall.
‘Finally,’ said Leroy. ‘Chase Underwood.’
She frowned.
‘I never heard the name. Who is it?’
‘You’ve never heard the name? You don’t know who he is?’ asked Leroy. ‘Either of you?’ he added, looking up at Duvall.
‘No, I’ve never heard the name. Have you, Howard?’
‘No, never. Why would I?’ Duvall replied.
‘Is he a suspect?’ Mrs Wheat asked.
‘Definitely not,’ said Leroy as he and Quinn got up. ‘He was a friend of your husband, from before he married his first wife.’
‘Oh, Marty never mentioned anybody by that name.’
‘He was murdered as well,’ Leroy told her. He omitted to say where Underwood was killed.
‘Oh my God, I had no idea. Do you think that that Marty’s death is connected to this man? Oh my God.’ She put her hand to her mouth and looked at Duvall, who remained impassive.
‘Early days yet, Mrs Wheat. There may be a connection; probably not as Underwood was killed some years ago.’ He paused. ‘Thank you so much for your time, ma’am.’ He and Quinn turned to
go; then Leroy turned and asked, ‘What about the name Chuck Wu?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘No. Is he a suspect?’
‘Just a name that cropped up,’ said Leroy. ‘May be nothing to do with the case. Thank you again for your time. Enjoy your evening.’
Duvall put down his now empty glass.
‘We need to be leaving soon, Adrienne. Why don’t you powder your nose? I’ll let the officers out.’
They all left the room. Mrs Wheat bade them goodbye and went upstairs; Duvall took them to the door.
‘I trust you have all you need from Mrs Wheat,’ he said, opening the door. ‘She’s had a terrible shock.’
‘I appreciate that, sir. We have all we need at this time. Hopefully, we won’t need to bother her again.’
‘Going anywhere nice?’ Quinn asked as they left.
‘Just a reception downtown. The Bradbury Building, to be precise. I’m taking Mrs Wheat to keep her mind off things.’
‘Very thoughtful of you, sir,’ said Leroy. ‘Enjoy your evening.’
Duvall watched as the two detectives got into the Taurus and backed onto the street then he closed the door.
Upstairs, Adrienne Wheat finished powdering her nose, and topped up her lipstick. She picked up her little clutch bag with the gold chain, and went downstairs. She walked into the living room where Duvall was waiting. Duvall finished the call he was on, slipped his phone into his coat pocket and smiled at her.
‘Shall we go?’ he asked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Chuck Wu winced. His leg was hurting. It had been for a couple of days. Melody, one of the hookers he had befriended, although not using her services, said he should take it in to St Vincent’s. She didn’t appreciate the irony of what she had said. One of her regulars was a doctor there, and would apparently do something for him if she gave him a freebie. He might do if it got any worse. But he didn’t want it reported; Melody said it was crazy to think that: it was hardly a bullet wound.
In any case, he had something else to do tonight. The leg could wait. He hurried along West Third Street, the limp oddly not as noticeable as he walked quickly. Or to be more exact, half-walked, half shambled.
The streets were quiet, the occasional car or bus or truck. Nothing like how they would be at nine forty in the morning. The roads were quiet, the sidewalks were deserted.
As he turned the corner at the junction with Third and Broadway, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. A flicker of movement. It looked very much as if a figure had darted out of sight. He stopped for a second to look back. He had just passed the Bradbury Building. Assuming that his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him, assuming that the stuff he bought yesterday wasn’t making him hallucinate, it seemed like whoever it was had slipped into the Building entrance. Nothing strange in that, he thought. There were offices in there; maybe somebody was working late. This late? A cleaner perhaps. He needed to get a grip. But he had a feeling he was being followed, ever since he left San Pedro Street.
That’s bullshit, he thought: a side-effect of that stuff he bought yesterday. Perhaps Jorge had put milk sugar in it, the son of a bitch. Nevertheless, he thought he’d take a detour through the market. If anybody was following him, he could easily lose them in there.
‘Fuck,’ he muttered as he approached Grand Central Market. The place was closed. Maybe it shut at nine, nine thirty. Most of the shutters were lowered, and some traders were using the one open door to move stuff to their trucks.
He allowed himself a glance behind, but could see little behind the loading and unloading. He quickened his pace slightly, turning round once more as he turned the corner into Fourth. Maybe he saw someone, maybe he didn’t.
Now Chuck was on Hill. He just had to carry on along Fourth for a couple of blocks, and he was there. He waited at the corner for the traffic to clear, shuffling from one leg to the other. Looking round he saw a figure - he was sure it was the same as outside the Bradbury Building - hesitate and disappear into a doorway.
Chuck wondered about hurrying down to the MTA station and getting lost in the tunnels. Then he had a better idea. There was a gap in the Hill Street traffic. He stumbled across the four empty lanes at a forty-five degree angle towards the Angels Flight funicular railroad. The lights were on in the ticket office up on Bunker Hill, and he could see the lights from the two cars which were still moving, so it must be still open. It was: the sign at the foot of the tracks said it closed at ten. Just in time.
A car was waiting. Chuck jumped in and sat down on of the polished wooden seats. He was not the only passenger: a man with a suit, coat, and attaché case sat at the other end of the car, feverishly messaging on his phone. Chuck perched on the edge of his seat, looking around Hill Street. Very little traffic and the only other activity was a pair of market traders hosing down the sidewalk the other side of the street.
Chuck took a deep breath and leaned on the seat back. The little alarm buzzed, the doors closed, and the car began its thirty second, three hundred fifteen feet journey.
Halfway up the hill, the cars passed. In the descending car, Chuck could see three youths standing laughing. One was holding a can of something which he raised to Chuck as a toast. Chuck half nodded back, it then occurring to him at that moment that if they could see him sitting in his car, then anybody else could. He shot to his feet and peered through the car windows into the darkness. The lights from Hill Street receded into the blackness, and every few seconds, other lights illuminated the steps which ran parallel to the tracks. Chuck peered into the night: did he catch a glimpse of somebody running up the steps? The man in the suit looked up for a second, then returned to his phone.
They arrived at the top. The suited man stood up and exited; Chuck followed, still looking around. The fare for the one-way trip was a dollar, and as the other passenger slipped his bill under the window to the woman sitting in the ticket kiosk, Wu used his stolen tap card on the reader. To his relief, there was still enough credit left. Once through the turnstile, the man in the suit headed to the right, across the plaza. Chuck was headed in the other direction. He needed to get back to Fourth Street, and had just two more blocks to go. Not wanting to go back down Angels Flight, he decided he would scramble down the embankment to Olive Street, down to the tunnel entrance, and get back onto Fourth that way.
He had to go down a few steps then climb through some railings to get to the embankment. If anybody was following him, he had to have lost them by now. There was no sign of anybody here on the plaza, and it looked like the funicular was closing. The embankment would be pitch black, nobody could see him as he climbed down to the street.
Chuck limped down the steps then started as he heard a voice behind him.
‘Hello, Chuck.’
He looked up the steps. Even though it was very dark here, he recognised the face.
‘Oh, it’s you.’ He laughed, patting his hand to his chest. ‘You scared me. What are you doing here? I thought you said -’
In the light from the last car travelling down the track, Chuck saw a flash of steel and felt pain across his throat. He put both hands up, and felt his fingers being drenched by the warm, gushing blood.
Still clutching his throat, and with an expression of disbelief on his face, Chuck Wu collapsed, first onto his knees, then face down, a dark pool extending out across the steps.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Leroy put the paper bag down on the Watch Commander’s desk.
‘Here you go, Double-R.’
Lieutenant Ronny Rosenberg looked up.
‘I don’t recall it being my birthday.’ He picked up the brown paper bag and pulled out the breakfast burrito.
‘For your help yesterday,’ Leroy said. ‘In getting those two uniforms to get in touch.’
‘Much appreciated, Sam. And you’re welcome.’ Rosenberg took a bite and nodded. ‘It’s good. Might have to warm it up a tad. No bacon?’
‘No bacon, no sausage. I picked it up on the way
in. Go for it.’
‘Did they find the guy for you?’
‘They did.’
‘But?’
Leaning on the doorframe, Leroy shrugged.
‘I’m not sure it helped us any. The vic in the case Ray and I are on, way back in the day he lived with this guy, a younger guy. Before he married his first wife.’
‘Lived with, as in lived with?’
‘That’s the inference. He was a few years younger than our vic, and wouldn’t have looked out of place on Baywatch.’
Rosenberg laughed.
‘You’re showing your age now, Sam. You think there’s some connection?’
‘Probably not, but it was worth looking into.’
‘One mother of a coincidence, though. MO the same?’
‘Nah. David Hasselhoff was bludgeoned to death with a replica Oscar.’
‘A what?’
‘Don’t ask. Our vic, though, died of gunshot wounds. So, I think, yeah, you got it, one mother of a coincidence. The guy we were looking for was charged with the murder.’
‘Only charged?’
‘The DA wouldn’t proceed. Insufficient evidence.’
‘Is that right? Who was on it?’
‘Two guys called Gomez and Thorne. From Hollywood Station.’
Rosenberg frowned.
‘Gomez and Thorne. The names don’t mean anything to me.’
‘Both ex-badge now. Gomez moved out to Florida, and Thorne works as a security consultant or something over at the tar pits. Ray and I spoke to him as well, but he couldn’t help. Neither could Wu.’
‘Wu?’
‘Chuck Wu. The guy they figure did it. He had pled to a similar break-in; Gomez and Thorne figured that meant he did it, and booked him.’
Rosenberg picked up his cold burrito.
‘I need to heat this now. I’d make sure you and Quinn are out of the office today,’ he added quietly, standing in the doorway with Leroy. ‘There are two guys from IA on the premises.’
‘IA? Why?’
‘Not sure, but rumour has it that one of the detectives has cried sexual harassment.’
