Hollywood Heat. Arlette Lees
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in Missing Persons Detail. “I hope you’re not sleeping.”
“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.” Hallinan swung his legs over the edge of the bed and turned on the lamp. He squinted against the glare and tossed a t-shirt over the shade, fumbling for a cigarette and match.
“Captain Stanek has a case for us.”
“Now? I’m not due back on duty until the second.”
“He says it’s important. Ever hear the name Nathan Adler?”
“Dorothy’s mentioned him. Is he missing?”
“His six-year-old daughter vanished during a house party tonight. The Captain wants you as lead on the case. Sergeants Garner and Strongbow are up there now.”
As Tug filled him in, Hallinan was pulling clothes out of the closet, dragging the phone along by the extension cord. “I thought Edwards and Conover were next up?”
“This one is too high profile.” said Tug. “He doesn’t want them leaking their guts to the tabloids.”
“What’s the address?”
“How about I pick you up on the way. Parking’s at a premium up there.”
Hallinan finished the cold coffee in last night’s pot. Fifteen minutes later they were headed into the hills.
* * * * * * *
At 3:15 A.M., Amanda put in a call to Hollywood Station. Sergeant Dunnigan was on the desk. The phones had been ringing off the hook all night, most of the calls concerning bar fights, traffic mishaps, and errant spouses. Amanda got his standard response.
“Believe me, Mrs. Chase, by morning your husband will be home with an empty wallet and a head as big as a cabbage.”
“No disrespect, Sergeant, but it is morning. I know something has gone terribly wrong.”
“If your husband hasn’t returned in forty-eight hours, come to the station, file a Missing Persons Report, and I’ll jump on it like a bird on a June bug.”
* * * * * * *
On the east side of town four teenage boys and a girl topped by a haystack of teased hair saw a car parked by the old gas station. They pulled the stolen pickup alongside and killed the headlights. Fanta ran over to check it out.
“There’s a drunk passed out in here, Benito,” she said, tapping her knuckles sharply on the car roof and getting no response.
She was crazy out-of-her-mind about Benito. He was taller than most Hispanics, with a confident air of command. The sleeves of his leather jacket were pushed up to display a green serpent tattoo on his left forearm.
His partners in crime were hunched down in the bed of the pickup. “Hector, Jesús, Rubén! Move it!” They grabbed their tools and piled out.
Hector slapped the flashlight against his thigh to keep the faltering batteries alive, while the others cranked the jack handle, popped off a hubcap and wrenched off the lug bolts. They unscrewed the license plate and tossed it in the bed of the truck.
The girl rifled through the back of the wagon and found a copy of Peyton Place with a Pickwick Bookstore receipt inside. A bottle of wine or pack of cigarettes would be better, but since the book was banned by the Pope, she’d at least read the juicy parts.
“Stop screwing around,” said Benito. “See if he has any money on him.” She set the book on top of the car and opened the driver’s door. The gringo’s body slumped against her. She gave a startled cry and stumbled backward. She looked at her bloody hand and wiped it on her jeans.
“My god, the poor sucker’s dead!”
Jesús and Rubén grabbed the stolen wheel and piled back in the truck. Fanta grabbed the book but Hector snatched it away, ripping out pages, crumpling them into a ball.
“What the hell are you doing?” she said.
“My prints are all over the fuckin’ place,” said Rubén. “You want me to go to the gas chamber?” He drenched the paper with lighter fluid, set it on fire and tossed it onto a blanket in the back of the car.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” said Benito, thumping his palm on the dash.
As they sped into the night, the station wagon glowed in their rear view mirror like an orange jack-o’-lantern, flames blossoming behind the windows.
In an abandoned house with broken windows and trash on the floor, they got blitzed on beer. When the others passed out, Fanta settled on a torn mattress with Benito on top of her. She could barely breathe beneath his weight. When he started snoring she thumped him on the head and rolled him off on the floor, glaring angrily into the darkness.
* * * * * * *
At 3:30 A.M. after calling L.A.P.D., the Sheriff’s Office, the Highway Patrol, and the hospital emergency rooms, Amanda put on her tennis shoes, tossed a coat over her pajamas and walked down the outside stairs to get her book from the station wagon. When she got to the carport, Gavin’s BMW was in its designated slot and her car was gone. It was a disorienting moment.
“Gavin?” she said, peering into the shadows. She touched the hood of the car. It was cold. All night she’d given the authorities a description of the wrong vehicle. As she stood trying to figure out why he’d taken the station wagon, Dack Traynor’s Dodge pulled into the empty space beside the BMW. He got out and slammed the door. The musky smell of tobacco smoke and bedroom funk hung in his clothes.
“Mrs. Chase, what are you doing out here?”
With no makeup and her hair blowing softly around that innocent angel face, his obsession kicked in with a warm rush.
“I’m worried,” she said. “I expected Gavin home hours ago.”
“What? Oh yes, Gavin. It’s freezing out here. Why don’t you let me walk you up…Amanda.”
The intimate way he said her name reminded her how dark and isolated it was in the carport. She flew up the stairs, a shiver running up her spine. She went inside her apartment and threw the deadbolt.
Dack laughed out load. “Another time then.”
CHAPTER NINE
TROUBLE ON THE HILL
Hallinan and Boatwright parked at the overlook fifty yards beyond the Adler house. The hills were deep black, the moon spilling off the edge of the sky’s inverted bowl. The predawn chill had set in, and miles away at the eastern end of Griffith Park the nightlights from the Observatory cast a ghostly glow.
In 1896 the park was deeded to the city by wealthy capitalist Griffith J. Griffith, making its five square miles the largest municipal park in the nation, with its fifty miles of bridle trails, rugged terrain, and thriving wildlife population.
The park was G. J. Griffith’s most famous legacy, unless you count the two years he spent in San Quentin for shooting and partially blinding his wife while in a self-described state of alcoholic insanity. The park was beautiful and wild. It was also an infamous body dump site.
There were two patrol cars parked at the overlook when they arrived. Down a jagged path that twisted eastward through thick chaparral a trio of flashlights bobbed through the darkness.
“Well, let’s do it,” said Hallinan.
They walked to the pink house, entered through the wrought iron gate, and mounted the steps leading to the front door. Halfway to the entrance a second set of stairs angled off the main path and ran along the right side of the building to the back. Ornamental shrubs and herbs grew in large terracotta urns at the far edges of the steps, and a ficus with a braided trunk grew in a planter box to the left of the front door.
Sergeant Paul Garner met them in the foyer. He was a good-natured officer in his fifties. He’d failed the lieutenant’s exam three times, but was a damn good meat-and-potatoes cop.