Elvis Cole #11
Simon & Schuster
July 2008
On Sale: July 1, 2008
Featuring: Elvis Cole
288 pages ISBN: 0743281640 EAN: 9780743281645 Hardcover Add to Wish List
Beakman and Trenchard could smell the fire--it was still a
mile away, but a sick desert wind carried the promise of
Hell. Fire crews from around the city were converging on
Laurel Canyon like red angels, as were black and white Adam
cars, Emergency Services vehicles, and water-dropping
helicopters out of Van Nuys and Burbank. The helicopters
pounded by so low overhead that Beakman and Trenchard could
not hear their supervisor. Beakman shook his head, cupping
his ear to indicate he had not heard.
“What did you say?”
Their supervisor, a patrol sergeant named Karen Philips
leaned into their car and shouted again.
“Start at the top of Lookout Mountain. Emergency
Services is already up, but you gotta make sure those people
leave. Don’t take any shit. You got it?”
Trenchard, who was senior and also driving, shouted back.
“We’re on it.”
They jumped into line with the fire engines racing up
Laurel Canyon, climbing Lookout Mountain Avenue up the steep
hill. Once home to rock ‘n roll royalty from Mama Cass
Elliot to Frank Zappa to Jim Morrison, Laurel Canyon had
been the birthplace of country rock in the sixties. Crosby,
Stills, and Nash had all lived there. So had Eric Burdon,
Keith Richards, and, more recently, Marilyn Manson and at
least one of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Beakman, who banged
away at a Fender Telecaster in a cop band called Nightstix,
thought the place was musical magic.
Beakman pointed at a small house.
“I think Joni Mitchell used to live there.”
“Who gives a shit? You see that sky? Man, look at that.
The frakkin’ air is on fire!”
A charcoal bruise smudged the sky as smoke pushed
toward Sunset Boulevard. Beginning as a house fire at the
crest of the Hollywood Hills, the flames had jumped to the
brush in Laurel Canyon Park, then spread with the wind.
Three houses had already been lost, and more were
threatened. Beakman would have plenty of stories for his
kids when he returned to his day job on Monday.
Jonathan Beakman was a Level II Reserve Officer with
the Los Angeles Police Department, which meant he was armed,
fully sworn, and did everything a full-time uniformed
officer did, except he did it only two days per month. In
his regular life, Beakman taught high school algebra. His
kids weren’t particularly interested in the Pythagorean
Theorem, but they bombed him with questions after his
weekend ride in the car.
Trenchard, who had twenty-three years on the job and
didn’t like music, said, “Here’s how it goes down--we get to
the top, we’ll leave the car and work down five or six
houses on foot, me on one side, you on the other, then go
back for the car and do it again. Should go pretty quick
like that.”
The Fire Department had been through the area,
broadcasting the order to evacuate over their public address
system. A few residents already had their cars piled high
with clothes, golf clubs, pillows, and dogs. Others stood in
their front doors, watching their neighbors pack. A few were
on their roofs, soaking their homes with garden hoses.
Beakman worried the hosers might be a problem.
“What if somebody won’t leave?”
“We’re not here to arrest people. We have too much
ground to cover.”
“What if someone can’t leave, like an invalid?”
“First pass, we want to make sure everyone gets the
word. If someone needs more help, we’ll radio down or come
back after we reach the bottom.”
Trenchard, ever wise for a man who didn’t like music,
glanced over.
“You okay?”
“A little nervous, maybe. One of these houses, you
watch. Some old lady’s gonna have fifteen pugs waddling
around. What are we going to do with fifteen pugs?”
Trenchard laughed, and Beakman found himself smiling,
though his smile quickly faded. They passed a little girl
following her mother to an SUV, the girl dragging a cat
carrier so heavy she couldn’t lift it. Her mother was crying.
Beakman thought, this is awful.
When they reached the top of Lookout Mountain, they
started the door-to-door. If the inhabitants weren’t already
in the act of evacuating, Beakman knocked and rang the bell,
then pounded on the jamb with his Maglite. Once, he hammered
at a door so long that Trenchard shouted from across the street.
“You’re gonna knock down the goddamned door! If they
don’t answer, nobody’s home.”
When they reached the first cross street, Trenchard
joined him. The cross street cut up a twisting break in the
ridge, and was lined with clapboard cabins and crumbling
stone bungalows that had probably been built in the
thirties. The lots were so narrow that most of the houses
sat on top their own garages.
Trenchard said, “Can’t be more than eight or ten houses
in here. C’mon.”
They split sides again, and went to work, though most
of the residents were already leaving. Beakman cleared the
first three houses easily enough, then climbed the steps to
a rundown stucco bungalow. Knock, bell, Maglite.
“Police officer. Anyone home?”
He decided no one was home, and was half way down the
steps when a woman called from across the street. Her Mini
Cooper was packed and ready to go.
“I think he’s home. He doesn’t go out.”
Beakman glanced up at the door he had just left. He had
banged on the jam so hard the door had rattled.
“He’s an invalid?”
“Mr. Jones. He has a bad foot, but I don’t know. I
haven’t seen him in a few days. Maybe he’s gone, but I don’t
know. He doesn’t move so well, that’s why I’m saying.”
Now she had the irritated expression of someone who
wished she hadn’t gotten involved.
Beakman climbed back to the door.
“What’s his name?”
“Jones. That’s all I know, Mr. Jones. He doesn’t move
so well.”
Beakman unleashed the Maglite again. Hard.
“Mr. Jones? Police officer, is anyone home?”
Trenchard, finished with his side of the street, came
up the stairs behind him.
“We got a hold out?”
“Lady says the man here doesn’t move so well. She
thinks he might be home.”
Trenchard used his own Maglite on the door.
“Police officers. This is an emergency. Please open the
door.”
Both of them leaned close to listen, and that’s when
Beakman caught the sour smell. Trenchard smelled it, too,
and called down to the woman.
“He old, sick, what?”
“Not so old. He has the bad foot.”
Down on the street, she couldn’t smell it.
Beakman lowered his voice.
“You smell it, right?”
“Yeah. Let’s see what’s what.”
Trenchard holstered his Maglite. Beakman stepped back,
figuring Trenchard was going to kick down the door, but
Trenchard just tried the knob and opened the door. A swarm
of black flies rode out on the smell, engulfed them, then
flew back into the house. Beakman swatted at the flies. He
didn’t want them to touch him. Not after where they had been.
The woman shouted up, “What is it?”
They saw a man seated in a ragged club chair, wearing
baggy plaid shorts and a thin blue tee-shirt. He was
barefoot, allowing Beakman to see that half the left foot
was missing. The scarring suggested the injury to his foot
occurred a long time ago, but he had a more recent injury.
Beakman followed Trenchard into the house for a closer
look. The remains of his head lolled backwards, where blood
and brain matter had drained onto the club chair and his
shoulders. His right hand rested on his lap, limply cupping
a black pistol. A single black hole had been punched beneath
his chin. Dried blood the color of black cherries was
crusted over his face and neck and the chair.
Trenchard said, “That’s a damned bad foot.”
“Suicide?”
“Duh. I’ll call. We can’t leave this guy until they get
someone here to secure the scene.”
“What about the fire?”
“Fuck the fire. They gotta get someone up here to wait
for the CI. I don’t want us to get stuck with this stink.”
Trenchard swatted futilely at the flies and ducked like
a boxer slipping a punch as he moved for the door. Beakman,
fascinated, circled the dead man.
Trenchard said, “Don’t touch anything. We gotta treat
it like a crime scene.”
“I’m just looking.”
A photo album lay open between the dead man’s feet as
if it had fallen from his lap. Careful not to step in the
dried blood, Beakman moved closer to see. A single picture
was centered on the open page, one of those Polaroid
pictures that develop themselves. The plastic over the
picture was speckled with blood.
The flies suddenly seemed louder to Beakman, as loud
now as the helicopters fighting the flames.
“Trench, come here—“
Trenchard came over, then stooped for a closer look.
“Holy Mother.”
The Polaroid showed a female Caucasian with what
appeared to be an extension cord wrapped around her neck.
The picture had been taken at night, with the woman sprawled
on her back at the base of a trash bin. Her tongue protruded
thickly from her mouth, and her eyes bulged, but they were
unfocused and sightless.
Beakman heard himself whispering.
“You think it’s real? A real woman, really dead?”
“Dunno.”
“Maybe it’s from a movie. You know, staged?”
Trenchard opened his knife, then used the point to turn
the page. Beakman grew scared. He might have been only a
reserve officer, but he knew better than to disturb the scene.
“We’re not supposed to touch anything.”
“We’re not. Shut up.”
Trenchard turned to the next page, then the next.
Beakman felt numb, but excited, knowing he was seeing a
darkness so terrible that few people would ever imagine it,
let alone face it. These pictures were portraits of evil.
The mind that had conceived of these things and taken these
pictures and hidden them in this album had entered a
nightmare world. It had left humanity behind. Beakman would
have stories for his kids when he returned to school, but
this story would not be among them.
“They’re real, aren’t they? These women were murdered.”
“I dunno.”
“They look real. He fucking killed them.”
“Stop it.”
Trenchard lifted the album with his knife so they could
see the cover. It showed a beautiful sunset beach with
gentle waves and a couple leaving footprints on the sand.
Embossed in flowing script was a legend: My Happy Memories.
Trenchard lowered the cover.
“Let’s get away from these flies.”
They left the album as they had found it, and sought
solace in the smoky air.
Part One
Lookout Mountain
1.
Our office was a good place to be that morning. There
was only the tocking of the Pinocchio clock, the scratch of
my pen, and the hiss of the air conditioner fighting a
terrible heat. Fire season had arrived, when fires erupted
across the Southland like pimples on adolescent skin.
Joe Pike was waiting for me to finish the paperwork. He
stood at the French doors that open onto my balcony, staring
across the city toward the ocean. He had not spoken nor
moved in more than twenty minutes, which was nothing for
Pike. He often went soundless for days. We were going to
work out at Ray Depente’s gym in South-Central Los Angeles
when I finished the grind.
The first call came at nine forty-two that morning.
A male voice said, “Are you Elvis Cole?”
“That’s right. How can I help you?”
“You’re a dead man.”
I killed the call and went back to work. When you do
what I do, you get calls from schizophrenics, escapees from
Area 51, and people claiming to know who killed the Black
Dahlia and Princess Diana.
Pike said, “Who was it?”
“Some guy told me I was a dead man.”
Pike grunted, then said, “Smoke.”
I glanced up from the work.
“Where?”
“Malibu, looks like. Maybe Topanga.”
Then Pike turned toward the door, and everything that
had been normal about that ordinary morning changed.
“Listen--”
A stocky man with a short haircut and wilted tan sport
coat shoved through the door like he lived in Fallujah. He
flashed a badge as if he expected me to dive under my desk.
“Welcome to hell, shitbird.”
A woman in a blue business suit with a shoulder bag
slung on her arm came in behind him. The heat had played
hell with her hair, but that didn’t stop her from showing a
silver and gold detective shield.
“Connie Bastilla, LAPD. This is Charlie Crimmens. Are
you Elvis Cole?”
I studied Pike.
“Did he really call me a shitbird?”
Crimmens tipped his badge toward me, then Pike, but
talked to the woman.
“This one’s Cole. This one’s gotta be his bun boy, Pike.”
Pike faced Charlie. Pike was six-one, a bit over two,
and was suited up in a sleeveless gray sweatshirt and
government-issued sunglasses. When he crossed his arms, the
bright red arrows inked into his deltoids rippled.
I spoke slowly.
“Did you make an appointment?”
Crimmens said, “Answer her, shitbird.”
I am a professional investigator. I am licensed by the
state of California, and run a professional business. Police
officers did not barge into my office. They also did not
call me a shitbird. I stood, and gave Crimmens my best
professional smile.
“Say it again I’ll shove that badge up your ass.”
Bastilla took a seat in one of the two director’s
chairs facing my desk.
“Take it easy. We have some questions about a case you
once worked.”
I stared at Crimmens.
“You want to arrest me, get to it. You want to talk to
me, knock on my door and ask for permission. You think I’m
kidding about the badge, try it out.”
Pike said, “Go ahead, Crimmens. Give it a try.”
Crimmens smirked as he draped himself over the file
cabinet. He studied Pike for a moment, then smirked some more.
Bastilla said, “Do you recall a man named Lionel Byrd?”
“I didn’t offer you a seat.”
“C’mon, you know Lionel Byrd or not?”
Charlie said, “He knows him. Jesus.”
Something about Crimmens was familiar, though I
couldn’t place him. Most of the Hollywood bureau detectives
were friends of mine, but these two were blanks.
“You aren’t out of Hollywood.”
Bastilla put her card on my desk.
“Homicide Special. Charlie’s attached out of Rampart.
We’re part of a task force investigating a series of
homicides. Now, c’mon. Lionel Byrd.”
I had to think.
“We’re talking about a criminal case?”
“Three years ago, Byrd was bound over for the murder of
a twenty-seven year old prostitute named Yvonne Bennett, a
crime he confessed to. You produced a witness and security
tape that supposedly cleared him of the crime. His attorney
was J. Alan Levy, of Barshop, Barshop, and Alter. We getting
warmer here?”
The facts of the case returned with the slowness of
surfacing fish. Lionel Byrd had been an unemployed mechanic
with alcohol problems and a love/hate relationship with
prostitutes. He wasn’t a guy you would want to know
socially, but he wasn’t a murderer.
“Yeah, I remember. Not all the details, but some. It
was a bogus confession. He recanted.”
Crimmens shifted.
“Wasn’t bogus.”
I took my seat and hooked a foot on the edge of the desk.
“Whatever. The video showed he was here in Hollywood
when Bennett was murdered. She was killed in Silver Lake.”
Behind them, Pike touched his watch. We were going to
be late.
I lowered my foot and leaned forward.
“You guys should have called. Joe and I have an
appointment.”
Bastilla took out a note pad to show me they had no
intention of leaving.
“Have you seen much of Mr. Byrd since you got him off?”
“I never met the man.”
Crimmens said, “Bullshit. He was your client. You don’t
meet your clients?”
“Levy was my client. Barshop Barshop paid the tab.
That’s what lawyers do.”
Bastilla said, “So it was Levy who hired you?”
“Yes. Most of my clients are lawyers.”
Lawyers can’t and don’t rely on the word of their
clients. Often, their clients don’t know the whole and
impartial truth, and sometimes their clients lie. Since
lawyers are busy lawyering, they employ investigators to
uncover the facts.
Bastilla twisted around to see Pike.
“What about you? Did you work on Byrd’s behalf?”
“Not my kind of job.”
She twisted farther to get a better look.
“How about you take off the shades while we talk?”
“No.”
Crimmens said, “You hiding something back there, Pike?
How ‘bout we get a look?”
Pike’s head swiveled toward Crimmens. Nothing else moved;
just his head.
“If I showed you, I’d have to kill you.”
I stepped in before it got out of hand.
“Joe didn’t help on this one. This thing was Detective
Work 101. I must pull thirty cases like this a year.”
Crimmens said, “That’s sweet. You must take pride in
that, helping shitbirds get away with murder.”
Crimmens was pissing me off again.
“What are we talking about this for, Bastilla? This
thing was settled three years ago.”
Bastilla opened her pad and studied the page.
“So you are telling us you have never met Lionel Byrd?”
“I have never met him.”
“Are you acquainted with a man named Lonnie Jones?”
“No. Is he your new suspect?”
“During your investigation into the matter of Yvonne
Bennett, did you discover evidence linking Mr. Byrd to any
other crimes or criminal activities?”
“What kind of question is that? Have you re-arrested him?”
Bastilla scribbled a note. When she looked up, her eyes
were ringed with purple cutting down to her mouth. She
looked as tired as a person can look without being dead.
“No, Mr. Cole, we can’t arrest him. Eight days ago, he
was found during the evacuation up in Laurel Canyon. Head
shot up through the bottom of his chin. He had been dead
about five days.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
Crimmens laughed.
“Wouldn’t that be funny, Con? Wouldn’t that be too
perfect? Man, I would love that.”
Bastilla smiled, but not because she thought it was funny.
“He committed suicide. He was living under the name
Lonnie Jones. Know why he was using an alias?”
“Maybe he didn’t like being accused of murders he
didn’t commit.”
Bastilla leaned toward me and crossed her arms on a knee.
“The man’s dead now, Cole. Reason we’re here, we’d like
to examine the reports and work product you have from the
Bennett case. Your notes. The people you questioned.
Everything in your file.”
She waited without blinking, studying me as if she knew
what I would say, but was hoping I might not say it. I shook
my head.
“I was working on behalf of defense counsel. That
material belongs to Alan Levy.”
“Levy is being contacted.”
Crimmens said, “The fucker’s dead, Cole. You got him
off. What’s it matter now?”
“If Levy says fine, then fine, but I worked for him,
Crimmens, not you. There’s that little thing about
‘expectation of confidentiality.’”
I looked back at Bastilla.
“If the man’s dead and you don’t think I killed him,
why do you care what’s in my files about Yvonne Bennett?”
Bastilla sighed, then straightened.
“Because this isn’t only about Bennett. Lionel Byrd
murdered seven women. We believe he murdered one woman every
year for the past seven years. Yvonne Bennett was his fifth
victim.”
She said it as matter-of-fact as a bank teller cashing
a check, but with a softness in her voice that spread seeds
of ice in my belly.
“He didn’t kill Yvonne Bennett. I proved it.”
Bastilla put away her pad. She got up, then slung her
bag on her shoulder, finally ready to go.
“Material linking him to the murder was found in his
home. He murdered a sixth woman the summer after his
release. His most recent victim was murdered thirty-six days
ago, and now he’s murdered himself.”
Crimmens licked his lips as if he wanted to eat me alive.
“How do you feel now, Mr. Thirty-a-Year?”
I shook my head at Bastilla.
“What does that mean, you found material?”
“Something in your files might help us figure out how
he got away with it, Cole. Talk to Levy. If we have to
subpoena, we will, but it’ll be faster if you guys come across.”
I stood with her.
“Waitaminute—what does that mean, you found something?
What did you find?”
“A press conference is scheduled for this evening. In
the meantime, talk to Levy. The sooner the better.”
Bastilla left without waiting, but Crimmens made no
move to follow. He stayed on the file cabinet, watching me.
I said, “What?”
“Escondido and Repko.”
“Why are you still here, Crimmens?”
“You don’t recognize me, do you?”
“Should I?”
“Think about it. You must’ve read my reports.”
Then I realized why he was familiar.
“You were the arresting officer.”
Crimmens finally pushed off the cabinet.
“That’s right. I’m the guy who arrested Byrd. I’m the
guy who tried to stop a killer. You’re the shitbird who set
him free.”
Crimmens glanced at Pike, then went to the door.
“Lupe Escondido and Debra Repko are the women he killed
after you got him off. You should send the families a card.”
Crimmens closed the door when he left.