Immaculate Reception (17 page)

“We were on a timer,” Del Wipp said, as soon as Wes and I entered the room.

“The thing's electric. It was screwed up when the power shut down,” Marcy Kaplan added, joining us as we surveyed the damage.

“But couldn't you just…” Wes was frustrated, but what could anyone have done? Spread out on every surface were muffin tins filled with blackened blueberry muffinettes.

“The place was totally black, man,” Del Wipp said. “It was cool.”

“We couldn't try to open the ovens in the dark,” Marcy said. “It was pitch black. I couldn't see my hand in front of my face.”

“We got scared the smoke alarms were about to blow!” a blonde girl said. I checked her name badge, Deborah Besset. A crowd was gathering around us as we got the gist of the scene down here.

“I got mine out,” Rolando Cruz said. He stood at his worktable, beaming, and the crowd parted to see his trays of eight dozen perfectly cooked muffinettes. “What's a matter you guys, eh?” he asked, laughing.

“He's real smart,” Deborah complained to Marcy. “Imagine sticking your arms into a four-hundred-degree oven, blind.”

“Nothin' to it, chica,” Rolando said, loudly.

“Dump the burnt muffins,” Wes said, reminding everyone to concentrate on the solutions and stop all the complaining.

A security officer entered the kitchen and headed over to Wes, who was busy giving instructions for fixing the muffin mess.

“I'm Madeline Bean,” I stepped into the officer's path. “Wesley is my partner and he's going to be busy for awhile. Can you tell me what happened here?”

“I'll wait for Mr. Westcott,” he said, annoyed and not trying very hard to hide it.

At not quite five foot five, I was just some girl in red clogs and a baseball cap to him. I usually have to yell or something to get men like these to listen to me. It was a fight I'd rather not get into, but I was more than prepared.

Wes was supervising as 960 black miniature muffins hit the trash and dozens of muffin pans were scrubbed and regreased.

“Look,” I said, injecting that edge of annoying menace in my voice that got men's attention, that tone that felt like a poke in the chest. “Tell me what happened or get me your supervisor. Now.”

“Calm down, lady.”

Just then, an LAPD captain entered the kitchen and called out, “Who's in charge here?”

Newly prepared batter was being paddled in gigantic mixers and Wes was passing out flashlights to each chef's assistant as everyone in the room kind of stopped what they were doing for a moment and said, “She is.”

“You got problems?” the captain asked me. “I'm Todd, Douglas Todd. I hear you had a power outage.”

“Right,” I said. “This cop you've assigned to me abandoned the kitchen during the blackout.”

“I thought I should go for help or something.”

The captain looked me up and down, no doubt taking in the clogs and cap.

“Sorry about that Ms. Bean.” He either read the embroidery or the badge, but at least he was polite. “This guy's not one of ours. He's private.”

Great. I wasted all my heat on a rent-a-cop.

The man looked contrite. I looked satisfied. Captain Todd looked unhappy. He spoke into his radio, calling for backup.

“Don't leave here until your replacement arrives,” Captain Todd instructed the man. “I'm sending you out to guard the shuttle parking lot.”

The room grew quieter as the cooks concentrated on get
ting the new batches of blueberry muffins into the ovens.

“What happened here?” I asked Todd. “Was it just a circuit overload?”

“Not exactly. The guard outside the power plant was off in the john when the lights went out. The system is programmed to switch to the backup generator in that event.”

“So we're on generator?”

“Right. But in a few minutes the facility engineer will restart the juice and we'll be back on full power.”

“So what happened?”

“We don't know yet. It could have been a computer malfunction. Or someone may have sabotaged the current. We'll investigate and see what we come up with.”

“So we're not worried, right?” I asked the captain, hoping to lighten his mood.

“You bet your ass we are,” he said, laughing.

In the background I was aware of the buzzing of the timer, which meant our new batches of mini-muffins were ready. The next second, all the lights blinked out once again. Amidst cries of “Oh no!” and “Not again!” the room was plunged into blackest night. But almost at once, ten, then twenty-five, then forty flashlights blazed.

“Help out here, people,” Wes said, fully in command, as our chefs, now experienced in the art of baking in bunker conditions, saved every last tray of blueberry muffinettes in the flickering illumination of about four dozen crisscrossing beams of battery-powered light.

D
owntown L.A. is a deserted canyon of high-rises at 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning. Except when the pope's in town. Crowd control here, perfected for such events as the Oscars, was as professional as it comes. Two giant bleachers were filled with pope admirers. There would have been more, I figured, but nearly sixty thousand faithful were putting on their Sunday best and heading for Dodger Stadium about now, in preparation for the papal mass that would begin at ten.

The giant square that comprised the auditorium complex was surrounded by satellite uplink trucks and portable video control booths. The television news buzzards had circled this event, signaling they'd found their prey. On north Grand Avenue near the main entrance to the Otis Mayfield, valet parkers were attending to the vehicles of invited guests. After relinquishing their cars, the elite moved across a long red carpet through white tents where security had been set up to check invitations and distribute badges. I was told many of these security officers had been involved with the 1984 Olympics.

Wes looked at the scene and said, “I know we usually have bouncers for our parties, but we may have gone a little overboard this time.”

“I'm afraid if Arnold Schwarzenegger is watching the ‘
Today
' show, he's going to insist we bring the FBI to his next party, too,” I said. Actually, I wasn't joking.

Guests proudly wore their laminated badges, plastic cards hanging from metal neckchains, over their Pradas and Armanis, and walked past the Otis Mayfield fountain and up the steps to the main doors. Wes and I watched as they greeted one another, friends of the city or the mayor or the archdiocese of Los Angeles.

A long dark car pulled up and L.A.'s Cardinal O'Grady stepped out. I could see that Brother Xavier Jones was there to greet him. The press corps came alive and surged forward. The crowd in the stands screamed.

“You'd think Tom Hanks had just arrived,” I said to Wes, noticing the frenzy of microphones that were being waved by the crush of reporters.

“That is Tom Hanks,” Wes acknowledged.

I looked closer. It was true. Cardinal O'Grady and his distinguished party were ushered by Xavier into the foyer of the Otis Mayfield with a minimum of fanfare as Mr. Hanks and his wife were mobbed by the television media. I had wondered why
Entertainment Tonight
had sent a truck.

Inside the foyer, our waiters were dipping through the gathering crowd, offering an assortment of pastel-colored fruit smoothies in crystal shot glasses from their trays. They were dressed, male and female alike, in black slacks and crisp white shirts, with security name badges as required.

There had been some discussion about the pope's feelings regarding women wearing pants. It was not allowed, we'd been informed, in the Vatican. Xavier succinctly reminded the overly nervous pope handlers that this was L.A., the city was the host of this event, and he advised the conservative Romans they might follow the sage down-home advice, “When in Rome…” I'd always admired Xavier's chutzpah and sly wit.

I felt a sense of relief wash over me. It dawned on me, as it always does at the start of a great party, that somehow we all finally made it here in one piece. I was proud of the job we'd done.

Allen, a big beefcake of a guy and one of our most trustworthy employees, was carrying a tray.

“What do you have here?” I asked him.

“Banana-strawberry, kiwi-lime-pineapple, and tangerine fizz,” Allen said. “Everyone likes the shot glass idea,” he commented, “especially the men. They take a quick shot of fruit juice and then get rid of the glass. It's a big hit.”

“That was Mad's idea,” Wes said. I blushed.

“But we've got some real weirdos in the crowd,” Allen said.

“Trouble?” I asked. Like everyone else, I was on edge about the frightening potential of this morning's event. We had stepped upon the world stage and I was aware that it was just such a platform that could draw the extremely disturbed to make a sometimes explosive debut.

“That lady in the purple,” Allen said, aiming his chin to his right.

I noticed a tall woman wearing an eggplant-colored raw silk suit and holding a large black patent leather shoulder bag.

“She looks okay to me,” Wes said. “Except who would wear eggplant?”

“It's in the purse,” Allen said.

“What? A gun?” I asked.

“A Pekinese,” Allen said.

Just then, a female server moved toward eggplant woman and started to dip her tray down to offer a tiny smoothie or miniature pastry. What looked like a messy brown wig bounced up out of the tote bag and scarfed several muffins. The waitress was so startled, she fell back and just barely got control of her tray.

“Allen, please go straight to the juice bar and put out the alert.”

Wesley and I walked through the crowd and felt the power in that room. Our guests were very excited to be here, and I knew that it had more to do with the guest of honor than our catering. Still, until the pontiff arrived, our décor and food would have to hold their attention.

Holly arrived at our sides. I stared at her. She was six feet of extremely thin woman dressed in a long flowing black gown with a severe white collar.

“Holly!” Wes said, speechless.

“You look like…” I couldn't get the words out.

“What?” she asked, happy with our reaction. “A nun? That's what I was going for.”

“You got there,” Wes said, with awe in his voice.

“Do you think the hat's too much?” she asked.

“Definitely,” I said, eyeing the thing. It looked like a big black bat.

She whipped it off and fluffed her stick-straight platinum-blonde hair. “Hey, you guys seen my Donald?”

“Not yours nor any other,” Wes replied, and Holly drifted off, checking out the crowd as she went.

At all our events, Holly is the emergency utility sub. If any of the staff cancels at the last minute, whether it be a waiter or a chef, Holly is superwoman. But none of our people were about to miss playing their part in history. So, without any no shows, we thought she and Donald might enjoy the honor of being guests at an event that was the hardest ticket to get on the planet.

I looked at Wesley, always perfectly groomed and attired. This morning he'd changed into a charcoal suit of meticulous cut, a white shirt, and gray and white tie. A good suit on such a tall man is a classic look. But I had little time to think about clothes, and was quickly back to other more crucial concerns.

“So the electricity hasn't been a further problem, after all,” I commented to Wesley.

“Not after that second time, no.” The second blackout was due to the facility engineer for the Otis Mayfield Pavilion switching off the auxiliary generator and switching us back to full main power. It might have been nice if we'd received some warning, but we'd managed remarkably well by flashlight for five minutes.

“I'm worried about those guys who attacked you the
other day,” Wes said, not for the first time. “What if they were serious. Maybe they have some connection to the power cutoff.”

“I know, Wes. That's what I told that Captain Todd this morning. You were there,” I said. “The cops were checking on the names of any disgruntled contractors, but they'd been over this whole thing before. You remember, I told Honnett about the guys who'd grabbed me a couple of days ago.”

“I'm glad you did,” Wes said, still fussing over me.

“But I have another thing that's been worrying me even more.”

All morning, something wasn't right. I had an uneasy feeling that wouldn't go away. Something was going bzzzz in the back of my head. And unless I paid attention and got the damn message, pretty soon we'd all be smelling smoke.

I told Wes about my odd encounter with old Victor Zoda in Encino and with his great-granddaughter, Wicked B, at Spaceland.

Wes listened to my story without interrupting and then asked, “So the fact is, this old guy was a war hero?”

“Something like that. He saved the lives of hundreds of Jews, helping them to escape from the Nazis and then secretly smuggling them out of Europe as part of an underground organization, a charity group known as
Stille Hilfe
.”

Wesley spun and looked at me. “
Stille Hilfe
?” he said, suddenly deadly serious.

“I think that's what B said, yes. Why?”

“Madeline,
Stille Hilfe
is German.” Wes, the encyclopedia.

“I know that.”

“It means ‘Quiet Aid' and it was definitely not about helping save the Jews.” Wes sounded very upset.

“You're scaring me,” I said, suddenly chilled. “What is it, then?”

“Madeline, the so-called charity called
Stille Hilfe
still exists. In Germany and some say in other countries as well. Its members are what remain of the family and friends of high-ranking Nazi officers and to this day, they continue to help these fugitive criminals. Even now, when some old Nazi concentration camp guard is caught and prosecuted for war crimes, it's
Stille Hilfe
that provides all the money to defend him.”

“Oh my God.”

“The group is run by the daughter of Heinrich Himmler.”

“Adolf Hitler's leading henchman,” I said, shocked. My head ached and I began to feel dizzy.

“Right. Himmler's daughter, a woman named Gudrun Burwitz, has helped support some of the Third Reich's most stunning piece-of-shit officers, like Klaus Barbie. The only thing I ever heard about the group helping people escape from Europe was the rumor that
Stille Hilfe
may have secretly helped dozens of top Nazi assholes escape at the end of the war.”

“Wesley…” I said, stunned. “What does this all have to do with Victor Zoda? He's not German…”

My cell phone rang and I answered it, moving slightly so I'd hear better. The arriving guests had gathered into a huge group by now.

“Honnett here,” Detective Chuck Honnett said in my ear.

“Honnett. We need to talk.” I said.

“That's why I called. I've got something I want to show you. Can you find the KTLA news truck? It's parked at the curb on Grand.”

KTLA is the local station, which broadcasts on Channel 5 in Los Angeles. I watch their morning show and I'm familiar with their on-air news talent. They, along with everyone else in the world, were covering every move the pope makes on his brief visit to L.A. Since this was their home turf, KTLA got an exceptionally good location from which to broadcast.

Stepping outside, I crossed the plaza past the fountain, and jumped up the two steps to the portable control booth truck. Before I knocked on the aluminum door, I smoothed my new skirt.

Arlo bought me the designer suit, the color of molten bronze, for my birthday because he knew I had a problem spending big money on clothes. He said the color was perfect with my hair. The rich, tight metallic skirt fell at a circumspect length, a few inches above the knee, while the short, fitted black and bronze check jacket skimmed my body. I was wearing all the real gold jewelry I owned and I'd taken time with my makeup. Somehow the enormity of getting to be in the presence of His Holiness had knocked most of the irreverence right out of me.

Since no one answered, I pulled the door open and walked into the truck. A bank of miniature screens flickered from the console across the darkened room. The director of the morning news sat in a roller chair at the panel, wearing headphones and calling shots. Staring at the wall filled with moving images, he was flanked by technical engineers and assistants. Masking tape beneath each of the small monitors had been marked in black marker “Cam 1 ED,” “Cam 2 BOB,” etc. I noticed they had ten camera positions, and this was just the local news. A lot of freelance camera crews were making overtime this morning.

Chuck Honnett was sitting in the second room, talking on a phone. When he saw me he motioned for me to join him. There were several KTLA production assistants and writers in that room, working on their next spots. I sat down as Honnett got off the phone.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, looking me over. And then he couldn't resist a dig, “Real dressed up today, aren't you?”

“The pope is not a jeans-type guy,” I said, shrugging. “But, wait. I need to tell you something.”

I proceeded to fill him in about elderly Victor Zoda, about his visit to Monsignor Picca on the afternoon the old priest died, and Zoda's possible secret connection to the
Nazi relocation charity known as
Stille Hilfe
.

Honnett swore as he dialed up the security post at the main entrance. Before he got through he warned me, “None of this is evidence of a crime, Madeline.” But I knew I'd gotten through to him.

“Well, that's lucky,” he told me when he got off. “Zoda hasn't arrived yet. If and when he does, they've got instructions to hold him. Under no circumstances will he be allowed to enter the pavilion until we have a chance to question him. Satisfied?”

“Well, actually, yes.”

It was not at all like Honnett to take my ideas so seriously. I liked it. “And another thing…” I started.

Honnett interrupted, “In a minute, okay. First I need to tell you, you might have been right…”

“…no, this is really important, I…” and then I stopped. “What did you say?”

Not to belabor the point, but when a man who hasn't listened to me time and time again finally says those magic words—not “I love you,” but “You were right”—I'm afraid he goes straight to the top of the list.

“Our suspect in the del Valle homicide,” Honnett explained. “Anthony Ramona was let go this morning.”

“No shit!” I was sure I'd been right, of course. But there was the little matter that I had absolutely no proof. “I know you respect me, Honnett, but you didn't let Ramona go just 'cause I had a hunch, right?”