A Death In Beverly Hills (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

The name 'Carey Ebbe' did not appear anywhere in the index to the police reports. Steve re-read all the interviews with Kaitlen Berdue and found no reference to Ebbe there either. Time for a trip to the horse's mouth. According to the Department, Simon was working the day shift out of Robbery-Homicide.

Steve waved at the Uniform on the front desk. The guy gave him a little nod and let him pass. Whether he knew and approved of Steve's reputation for vigilante justice or just recognized his face from Janson's years in the D.A.'s office, Steve didn't know, or care. This morning the Homicide Squad room looked no different from the last time Steve had been there when Katz and his old partner, Ben Olivera, were the lead detectives on the Headless Killer case. Simon's desk was still on the far left side, near the room's only window, a perk for his years of dedicated service.

For a long moment Steve stood in the doorway. The morning sun glared across Simon's hunched form. Today the seams in his face seemed deeper, his cheeks more hollow than Steve remembered. The crisp light picked out each furrow in Katz's neatly parted salt and pepper hair. Perhaps it was only the color of the beams but Katz's skin seemed faintly yellow like old ivory. Steve began to cross the room and halfway there Katz's head snapped up and locked on Steve's face. There was no warmth in his gaze.

"Simon," Steve said smiling and extending his arm. Katz reluctantly reached out, barely touching Steve's fingertips before pulling his hand away. "May I sit down?" Katz pointed listlessly to a chair behind the empty desk across the aisle. "The old place still looks the same."

"What do you want?"

"Just checking out a couple of things."

"You a PI now?"

"You've got to have a license for that. You think I could get one?"

"So, why are you here?" Simon asked, twisting his chair to face Janson head-on.

Steve noticed a faint stain on Katz's tie and found his mind wandering back to their hurried take-out lunches, what was it, seventeen years ago, when Simon was his training officer, only a couple of months before Katz made detective.

"Like I said, I just need to check out something," Steve said, dragging his thoughts back to the present.

"I'm not the 411 operator."

"I'm reviewing the Travis case files for Greg Markham--"

"So, it happened last night."

"What?"

"Hell froze over. Jeeze, Janson, you need money that bad?"

Steve felt his face stiffen, all expression draining from his eyes and lips.

"I didn't see any reference in your reports to Carey Ebbe," Steve said in a cold, flat voice. "Did you ever interview him?".

"If we had interviewed him, the report would have been in the file, wouldn't it?"

"So that's a 'no'?"

"That's a 'no.' Anything else?"

"Did you ever run him through NCIC?"

"Not as far as I remember. Anything else?"

Steve took an angry breath, then paused. Grimacing, he silently counted to three and started again. "Okay, Simon, you don't like me, fine. That's your privilege. You think Tom Travis is guilty, that's fine too. But I've got my doubts. And I've got my own reasons for investigating this case, reasons that don't have anything to do with money--."

" Let me guess. Greg Markham called in his IOU. I get it."

"No, you don't. You're pissed at me for Alan Lee Fry--"

"Yeah, that must be it! A cop I thought believed in the law turns out to be a cold blooded murderer and you think that pisses me off. I guess you figure I must be getting grumpy in my old age." Katz's eyes glittered. "Let me tell you something, Steve. You're a murderer, plain and simple. As far as I'm concerned you betrayed your badge, your oath, and me. I'd lock you up in a heartbeat if I could and be glad to do it." Katz's lips drew into a thin line and a pale pink flush crept into his cheeks.

"Your big speech about the majesty of the Law and every man deserving his day in court is real fine, Simon," Steve spat back, "if the guy goes to court. But that cuts both ways. The victims are entitled to their day in court too. Where was Lynn's day in court? Tell me that! You look me in the eye and tell me that Alan Fry was ever going to face a judge and a jury and I'll admit that whoever killed him was wrong. But you can't. Alan Fry took the courts and judges and juries out of the equation. He's the one who put himself outside the law and he's got no complaint when he was punished outside the law. And neither do you."

Katz pushed his chair back as if he might leap to his feet and knock Janson on his ass. "That's a pretty cute argument coming from a guy who's done exactly the same thing. How about if Fry's brother hires some guy to kill you because you aren't going to court either? Is that okay? Is that how we're going to run things from now on? Fry kills your wife and you kill him and Fry's brother kills you and your uncle kills Fry's brother? What do you think this is, the damn Hatfields and the McCoys? This is America. We've fought wars over this stuff, a little something we like to call the Bill of Rights. I've spent my life making sure that's not the way things work in this country, just like you were supposed to do, before you pissed on your badge and your sworn oath, and on me." Katz looked pointedly towards the door.

"I still need Carey Ebbe's rap sheet."

"I don't work for Greg Markham."

"If you'd never heard of Carey Ebbe you'd have asked me right off who he was. But you didn't. That means you know damn well who he is and that means you checked him out. You're too good a cop not to have checked him out. So, fine, don't give me the rap sheet. But Greg Markham's going to ask for sanctions against you and Ted Hamilton for holding back the paperwork. You want to get on the stand and perjure yourself about never having heard of Ebbe, be my guest. That puts you in the same box you've got me in. But we both know you won't lie under oath. You're still a guy who believes in the Rules. If Markham puts you on the stand we both know you'll admit you deliberately left Ebbe's paperwork out of the files you turned over to defense counsel, and you can't do that. So give me the fucking rap sheet."

"And I used to think you were a stand-up guy," Katz said, shaking his head.

"I could say the same thing about you, Simon."

"Don't touch anything." Katz slowly got to his feet and headed for the NCIC computer terminal in the next room.

"You're the guy who blew away Alan Fry."

Steve jerked back in surprise. Jack Furley had crept up on his rubber-soled shoes and now stood barely three feet to Janson's right.

"Jack Furley," the detective said, extending his hand. Steve gave him a quick once-over and wondered if there wasn't some cloning factory in Bakersfield that popped out LAPD detectives in any one of four or five basic models. Furley was the Blue-Collar-All-American-Eager-Young-Go-Getter right down to the health-club flat stomach, olive tie over a chocolate brown shirt, short-cut light brown hair, hazel eyes, broad shoulders and a miniature handcuff tie clip.

"Steve Janson." Steve accepted Furley's grip knowing the guy was going for the crusher shake. Each man gave the other a hard squeeze and then called a truce. Furley pulled up a gray metal chair and turned it around, resting his hands on the curved back.

"You gonna take Katz out for an early lunch?" Furley asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"Simon's not real happy with me these days."

"Yeah, I think I heard him say something about that, once or twice. For what it's worth, I told him to lighten up. One more asshole down the well, that's my philosophy."

"You turn him around with that argument?"

Furley laughed and drew his finger across his throat. "Fuck, I thought he was going to take my head off."

"Duty, honor, country," Steve said.

"Yeah, that's Katz."

"You can take the man out of the Marines . . . ."

". . . But you can't take the Marines out of the man." Furley paused and then gave Steve a clever stare not entirely camouflaged by his easy tone. "So, what brings you down here?"

"Greg Markham's got me reviewing all the paperwork on the Travis case. Simon accidently left out the rap sheet on Carey Ebbe."

"Carey Ebbe?"

"See, that's what Simon should have said instead of telling me what a traitor I was for taking Travis's dirty money."

"Sorry," Furley said, still smiling, "the name doesn't ring a bell."

"You'll do real good on this job, Jack. I can tell." Furley just shrugged. "What about the little girl, Sarah? You ever get a lead on her?"

"That depends on who you talk to. The Tip Line got four, five thousand calls. Why? You got some fancy defense planned for Travis based on the kid?"

"That's not it," Steve snapped, the fake good humor gone from his voice.

"Yeah, so what is it?"

"I don't want to start sounding like Simon."

"Meaning?"

"Look," Steve said with sudden heat, "Travis is a jerk. He killed his wife, he didn't kill his wife, whatever. But the kid's a different matter. If she's dead, she's dead. But if she's not, that changes everything."

"You think you'll find her and she'll point the finger at the 'real killer'?" Furley asked with a smirk.

"God damn it! If she's alive somebody's got to find her! Somebody's got to save her!"

Furley gave Steve a long look. "My dad was a part-time preacher, Steve. I know that look. Damn, you're not a cold blooded killer after all. You're a Boy Scout who lost his faith. No wonder Simon's so pissed at you. You knew better and you did it anyway."

"I thought you were glad another asshole went down the well."

"I am. That's not the point. Simon, he'd expect me to do something like that, no surprise there. But a guy like you. Man, you're like the reverend who boinked the babysitter. Simon figured you to know better. He's not so much mad at you as he's disappointed in you, which is a hundred times worse for a guy like him." Furley scanned the room then leaned forward and gave Steve a cagey stare. "You want to waste your time looking for the little girl?"

"How much time? How sure are you that it's a waste?"

"A waste? One hundred percent. Time?" Furley shrugged. "An hour, maybe two."

"You got a snitch doing life who claims he'll tell you where the kid is if you'll just cut him loose?"

Furley laughed. "Worse. Wooooooohhhh," he chanted raising both hands in the air and shaking his fingers.

"Oh, crap. . . ."

Furley scribbled a name and address on scrap of paper and shoved it into Steve's shirt pocket. "She's out in the Valley."

"Where else?"

"But she's very polite. She'll give you a cold drink and if you're very nice, maybe she'll read your palm and chart your tea leaves as a parting gift." Furley giggled and slapped Steve on the shoulder, then quickly backed up and frowned when he saw Katz heading toward the desk.

"We never interviewed him," Simon said, shoving a sheaf of papers into Steve's hand. "Here's his rap sheet."

"Thanks, Simon, I--"

"We're done, right?"

Steve stared at Katz's thin face, the frowning lips, his muddy brown eyes still showing a spark of the fire from his youth and Steve tried to remember the younger man who once wore Simon Katz's body. That man was still in there, Steve decided, still as dedicated and courageous as ever, the weight of the years not withstanding. And Steve saw bitter disappointment flaring in Katz's eyes.

"Yeah, Simon, I guess we're done," Steve said softly then folded the papers into his inside pocket and slipped from the room.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Steve berated himself all the way up the grade on the 405. There was enough unfinished work on this case to keep him busy for a month and here he was wasting time on a psychic. They always said things like: "The victim is buried under a tree near a body of water." Great, try and find someplace without a tree near a body of water. Then, when you eventually found the poor bastard buried in the neighbor's backyard, the psychic pointed to the Johnson's swimming pool a block and a half away. "See," he said, "just like I told you." Steve pounded his palm on the wheel, but kept driving. He turned left past the Van Nuys airport and headed toward Topanga Canyon.

It was a typical Valley house, a one story ranch on a six thousand square foot lot sheltered by a big sycamore in front, orange trees and jacaranda in back. Steve had been building a mental image of the woman, Rebecca Minton -- five feet five, a hundred and seventy pounds, dressed in a floral muumuu with a streak of gray running front to back through a briar patch tangle of auburn hair. A wild glitter in her eyes. Maybe a heavy gold and jade necklace around her throat with a silver pendant in the shape of a pyramid with an emerald eye in the center. Why was he wasting his time? But his imagination had also fashioned a picture of Sarah, terrified, emaciated, pleading for someone, anyone, to save her. Well, the woman had sounded reasonably sane on the phone.

He rang the bell. A young woman, twenty five or so, blond and blue, dressed in a white cotton blouse and jeans appeared at the door. Sister, daughter, nanny?

"Hello, I'm Steve Janson. I'm here to see Ms. Minton."

A thin smile creased the girl's lips and she held out her hand. "I'm Rebecca Minton. Come on in."

Without pausing she lead him through the house and out to a covered patio in back. Red climbing roses just starting to bloom formed a tapestry to Steve's right. To the left an unfolding sea of purple bougainvillea coated a stucco wall. Two small pitchers, one of lemonade and the other of iced tea, sweated in the center of a glass-topped table. Rebecca waved him to the patio chair facing the roses then took the opposite seat for herself.

"I guess I'm not what you expected," she said, pouring a lemonade. "Help yourself." Steve paused a moment then took the iced tea. "Maybe you'd be more impressed if I had a pentagram tattooed on my forehead, a tasteful one, of course."

"I don't know what to say."

"Did you lose a bet?"

"Excuse me?"

"I may be young but I've dealt with the police enough to know how their minds work."

"And how's that?"

"You think I'm either a crackpot who believes all her dreams are visions or I'm some kind of crook out to scam the grieving family for as much as I can get. So, the only possible reason you could have for coming all the way out here is because you lost a bet, I'm guessing to Detective Furley, who by the way, is not nearly as clever as he thinks."

Janson listened to her with a strangely detached air, as if her words were the spill-over from a radio in the house next door. He thought that he should have found her face thin but instead the word 'elfin' came to mind. She was more slender than the women he was normally attracted to but somehow her body seemed larger than its mere physical measurements, as if it extended off into a strange dimension that balanced everything out and made her proportions just right.

"Are you just going to sit there and stare at me?"

Steve blinked and wrenched his eyes from her face. "Sorry, I was just. . .thinking."

"I'm a psychic, not a mind reader."

"Furley's not my friend," he snapped.

"What?"

"Jack Furley and I are not friends. In fact, sending me out here was his way of giving me a hard time. And I didn't lose a bet."

Rebecca stared at him, confused. "Then why are you here?"

"I want to find Sarah."

"You believe that I can help you?"

Steve gave his head a small shake. "No, I don't. I don't believe in psychics. Not at all."

"Then why are you here?"

Steve shrugged. "I guess I'm hoping against hope that you'll prove me wrong."

Now it was Rebecca's turn to stare. It seemed to go on forever. "Would you like a sandwich?" she asked finally.

"What--"

"Roast beef on white with lettuce and tomato or sliced chicken and salami on rye."

"It's only ten thirty."

"You'll take it with you." She stood and led him into the kitchen. "Sit down." Rebecca pointed to a white enameled table on chrome pipe legs then opened an old fashioned bread box and gave Steve a quick, penetrating glance. "Chicken and salami for you, I think. I'll put on some sweet roasted peppers. I inherited this house from my mother," Rebecca continued without looking up as she slathered mayonnaise on a couple of slices of rye bread. Steve snapped his head minutely back and forth as if trying to keep track of her disjointed monologue. "You mind bringing the drinks inside?"

When Steve returned he found her fishing soft red and yellow peppers from a jar. A few moments later the sandwich, encased in a double layer of plastic wrap, occupied the center of the table. Rebecca took the seat opposite Steve and fiddled with her drink.

"I guess I should tell you about Sarah," she said lowering her eyes as if embarrassed.

"That would be good."

"I don't see visions. Hallucinations are generally more a sign of psychosis or schizophrenia than psychic powers." She gave Steve a long look but he didn't speak. "Mostly, it happens when I'm sitting down, relaxed. I get a tingling sensation and I close my eyes and I see a movie in my head, as if I were dreaming even though I'm not asleep. I can't control it. I see what I see and nothing more, nothing less. I can't look around or ask questions or make it go slower or faster. It happens as it happens and it stops when it stops. All I can do is watch and remember. If this helps you, good. If not," Rebecca shrugged, "I'm sorry." For an instant her eyes seemed to plead.

"Sure," Steve said automatically. "I understand. Whatever you can tell me is more than I know now." Steve thought his response a meaningless courtesy but Rebecca seemed relieved.

"All right, here's what I saw," Rebecca began, tilting her head back and closing her eyes.

* * *

She had been covered with her favorite blue blanket, fuzzy and soft and smelling like the ocean wind when mommy took her to the pretty beach far away but over the last few minutes with the bumps and the thumps and her kicking her bound legs, the top of the blanket had pulled down to just below her nose. The car was big, like mommy's car, but it bumped and thumped and rattled in a way hers never did and everything seemed dirty and banged around.

Sarah tried to move her hands but they were taped to her sides. She could raise her feet but only a little bit and only both together because there was some kind of silvery tape around them as well. She was very thirsty, but when she tried to ask for water only a tiny muffled noise escaped the swath of silver tape across her mouth. For a very long time she had lain there in the dark, seeing nothing, smelling the ocean in her blanket and oil and gasoline and a wet doggy smell and sour dirt that made her want to sneeze.

Once the man had stopped and lifted up the blanket and looked at her, his face all confused and upset as if he were having an argument with himself. Then he went around the back and she heard clanks and bangs and a minute later he stood over her with a bent old shovel. When she saw the shovel she thought he was going to put her in a hole someplace and bury her alive and she started to cry. He just stood there, staring. Finally, he glared at her and pulled the blanket over her head again and slammed the door as if she had done something very bad. A moment later she heard the shovel clatter into the back and then the engine started up and they drove away.

Everything stayed black and the smells got worse until she couldn't smell the ocean any more. Once she heard muffled voices and the words "visit" and "good time" then lots of cars and people jabbering in a language that she couldn't understand but sounded like what Delfina talked to the gardener, and then that all gradually slipped away. The road got worse and she bumped around a lot and lost all track of time. Finally the car stopped and the light through the windows dimmed as if they were inside a building. A few minutes later she heard voices, muffled but becoming clearer. Suddenly the door opened and her blanket was pulled away.

"We have a deal?" the man asked.

Another man with shinny black hair and little holes all over his leather-colored skin stared at her as if looking at an animal in the zoo. He reached down and ripped the tape from her face and she began to cry.

"You sure she's not infirma . . . sick?"

"One hundred percent perfect health."

"Because my customers don't want no sick kids. They don't want nobody palming off some kid with AIDS or a bad heart or something on them. A-Number One quality is what they're paying me for."

"Don't worry, Jorge, she's perfect, I guarantee it."

"You better. I don't take no broken merchandise."

Jorge studied her for a moment then closed the door. "Okay, I take her," he said, his voice muffled by the closed door.

"She can't be tied back to me."

"You know what the Policia will do to me if they catch me? I don't know you. You don't know me."

"Right."

There was sudden muffled CLICK
.
"You open your mouth, it's the last time. I have amigos in LA. Cut you into pieces if you open your mouth."

"Put it away. We're both screwed if anyone finds out. Now, you gonna pay me or what?"

There was a pause then another, softer, metallic click. "I get your money." The side of the car boomed as a palm slapped the sheet metal. "You get rid of this, right?"

"Right."

The door opened and a pair of leather-colored hands reached for her and she started to scream.

* * *

Rebecca opened her eyes and unconsciously rubbed her cheek. "That's all I saw."

"No street names or building or signs?"

"Just what I told you."

"How about a sound, like a train or a factory or--"

"I told you everything. I only see what I see, hear what I hear, nothing else."

Steve tapped his fingers on the chipped enamel and gave a little sigh. "But she's alive?"

"She was alive. If that was Mexico and that man was going to sell her, who would he sell her to? A pedophile, a--"

"No. A pervert wouldn't care if she was healthy or not. He'd use her for awhile then kill her so she couldn't identify him. People who want healthy kids are thinking long term."

"He's going to sell her to someone who wants to adopt but can't?"

"Someone who has money. My guess, it's somebody around here, L.A., San Diego, maybe Tucson or Phoenix or Vegas, someplace he can drive to. Airports have too much security." Steve played with his empty glass, lost in thought. "Did you notice any logo or model name in the car?"

"I don't know if it was a car or an SUV or a van. I didn't see anything that could identify it. It felt big, bigger than a normal car. I think it was a van or an SUV but I can't be sure."

"What about the Mexican guy, Jorge? Could you work with a sketch artist to draw a picture of him?"

Rebecca closed her eyes for a long breath then opened them and nodded. "I think so."

"What about the driver?"

"He's kind of a blur."

"But you said he looked at you, stared at you while he was trying to decide what to do. That he looked angry."

"He did but . . . it's like in a dream when you pick up a book or a newspaper or something. You know it's a newspaper but when you try to look at it, you can't read it. You try and you try but somehow the words just go out of focus and slip away. His face is like that. It just . . . slips away."

"So, it could be anybody."

Rebecca's face subtly changed displaying an emotion that Janson could not identify.

"What?"

"Like I said, I can't tell you who the driver was . . . ."

"But?"

"But, I can tell you who it wasn't." She paused for a instant then stared into his eyes. "It wasn't Tom Travis."

"Are you sure?" Rebecca gave him a little nod. "How do you know?"

"I don't know!" Rebecca flapped her hands in frustration. "I just know it wasn't him. This man was younger, his voice was different, his hair was different. He was mean, deep down angry and corrupt."

"How do you know Tom Travis isn't evil and corrupt?"

Rebecca suddenly seemed on the verge of tears. "I don't know! . . . Look, I told you that I just know some things. I don't know how I know them. I can't control it. I just know that this person was younger than Tom Travis, that it wasn't Travis."

"You said his hair and his voice were different. In what way?"

Rebecca started to speak then looked away, took a breath, and closed her eyes. "His hair was thick. There was no gray in it. And his voice was, I don't know, just different. In his movies Travis has that sort of gravelly undertone when he speaks." Rebecca paused then shook her head. "That's it. All the rest's a blur. I'm sorry."