The Beast (14 page)

Decker nodded. “That would help. But we’re still going to have
to canvass the block and find out if Casey’s gals were servicing anyone else. How many apartment units are in that single block?”

“A lot. But we’ll do what we need to do,” Marge answered.

Oliver walked into the office, and Marge brought him up-to-date. “Where is this establishment and why haven’t I heard about it?”

Marge said, “It’s on Saratoga Street, and I don’t know why you aren’t familiar with it. Seems like your kind of place. Want to rectify that misstep like right now?”

“Sure. Call them?”

“And ruin the element of surprise?” Marge made a mock gasp.

“Any thoughts on how we get them to divulge the names of their clients?”

“Tell them the truth,” Decker said. “Say you’re from homicide, not vice. That you have no interest in making their life difficult.”

Marge said, “When we’re done with Casey and friends, we can pick up the warrant for the apartment and meet Ryan Wilner at four at Penny’s apartment.”

“The two locations are in the opposite direction,” Decker said. “I’ll pick up the warrant. Let’s all meet at four. Do you have Ryan Wilner’s cell number?”

“I do.” Marge wrote down the digits and gave the slip of paper to Decker. “We’ll see you then, Rabbi.”

“Casey’s Massage and Escort.” Oliver rubbed his hands together. “I think I’m gonna like this assignment.”

“You might get frustrated, Oliver,” Marge told him. “This could just be a case of look but don’t touch.”

THE ADDRESS PLACED
Marge and Oliver in a two-story strip mall where over half the storefronts were vacant. Casey’s Massage and Escort was on the bottom and sat between a chicken takeout on the right and an empty space on the left. No hours and days were posted anywhere. No blue Priuses sat in the parking lot. After the third knock with no response, Oliver jiggled the door handle of the offices
of Casey’s Massage and Escort and regarded the lock. “I could probably pop it with a credit card.”

Marge said, “Could be the folk are out to lunch. Without an exigent cause, that would be breaking and entering.”

“Looks pretty dark in there.”

“How can you tell? The windows and door are completely covered.”

Oliver said, “Are you sure you got the right address?”

Marge took out her BlackBerry. “Yes. This is the place. I suppose we have no choice but to call the number in the ad and ruin our surprise.”

“Now that’s a novel idea.”

“Don’t be smug.” She read him the digits and Oliver punched them into his phone. A moment later, he cut the line. “Disconnected.”

“It appears that the game is afoot.” Marge ambled over to the chicken takeout next door. It smelled of salt, spice, and grease. The woman behind the counter was older, round, and Asian. With a furrowed brow, she regarded the detectives.

“Hello, ma’am. I’m Sergeant Dunn of the Los Angeles Police Department.” She presented her badge, and the woman smiled. She stepped aside and pointed to the back room. “No, I’m not from the Health Department. Do you speak English?”

“Yes, yes. Up to code. Up to code. See.”

“Do you know the people next door?” A blank look. “Casey’s Massage . . . lots of ladies in boots.”

“Ah . . . ladies.” The woman nodded. “Eat breasts . . . baked, no fried. You want breast baked no fried? Real good.”

Marge said, “Did they move out?” No response. “The ladies . . . gone?”

The woman shrugged.

Marge smiled. “Thank you very much.”

“You want chicken?”

“Not right now, thanks.” Marge smiled. “Maybe next time.”

Oliver was on his cell. “I got a number of the leasing agent from
the signs in the windows of the empty storefronts. Let’s see where that leads.” When the voice message kicked in, he left both their names and phone numbers. “Now what?”

“Well, we could sit and wait. Or we can pick up the warrant, since we seem to have some time. Save Decker a trip.”

“I vote sit and wait.”

“Why am I not surprised.” Her cell rang and she checked the window. “Don’t know the number.” She punched the green button. “Sergeant Dunn.” A pause. “Uh . . . yes . . . yes, we did call just a moment ago. Thank you for calling us back, Mr. Mahadi. We’re currently in front of the building on Saratoga . . . yes, that’s the address. We’re investigating a tenant . . . or maybe a former tenant. Casey’s Massage and Escort—No, sir, we are not from vice. We’re from homicide . . . no, sir, we didn’t find a body on your property. Mr. Mahadi, do you have a phone number for the place . . . yes, I have that one. We tried it and it’s disconnected . . . you didn’t know? We just tried it a few minutes ago . . . no, I have no idea. I was going to ask you if you had any idea.”

Oliver shrugged a “what’s going on?” gesture. Marge shrugged back.

“Mr. Mahadi, if you could come down to the address on Saratoga and talk with us, it would be much simpler to explain this in person than over the phone . . . a half hour would be perfect. Do you have the keys to Casey’s—You do? If you could bring them . . . perfect. I’ll see you in a half hour. Thank you. Bye.”

She turned to Oliver. “He’s coming down in a half hour with the keys.”

“Want a cup of coffee? There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts across the street.”

“How about a chicken breast—baked not fried?” She pointed to the takeout store. “I feel bad for the lady. With the Casey clan gone, it seems she lost some business.”

“You get the chicken, I’ll get some doughnuts and coffee.”

Oliver returned back fifteen minutes later with two coffees and a box. “They had a special. I got a dozen.”

“Trade you a cruller for a chicken leg.”

“Deal.” Oliver bit in. “Not so bad.”

“No, actually, it’s pretty good. And the place has an A rating.” Marge relieved him of the box and picked out a glazed buttermilk. “Cops and doughnuts; we go together like Mom and apple pie. You know what this means.”

“What?”

“I’ll have to hit the gym doubly hard. I have no willpower anymore.”

She finished off the doughnut and licked her fingers just as a black Mercedes pulled into the lot. The luxury car looked out of place: a yacht among rowboats. The driver was in his sixties, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, red tie, and patent leather oxford shoes. He had a full head of gray hair and sported a gray mustache. His eyebrows were silver and framed dark brown orbs. He was holding a key ring as he bounded toward them. “Anwar Mahadi. No one told me they move.”

“Thanks for coming down on such short notice.” Marge took out a notepad. “When was the last time they paid a rent check?”

“They were a month behind. Not too bad in this economy. I call up . . . say if you have a problem, call me and we make arrangements. If you don’t call, I post notice. They tell me the check is coming.”

“When was that?”

“Two weeks ago.” He shook his head. “They never say something about moving.”

“Maybe they didn’t move,” Marge said. “I haven’t been inside the office yet.”

“You say number is disconnected.”

“They still could be doing business. Maybe they just got an unlisted number.”

“One way to find out.” Mahadi’s eyes fell on Oliver. “What’s in the box?”

“Doughnuts. Would you like one?”

“I don’t eat lunch so why not I say.” He took a sugar twist and granules dusted his hands. After a few bites, he threw it away and
licked his fingers. “Good. Thank you.” He knocked on the glass door, then pulled out the keys and opened the door.

It was dark inside, so Marge turned on the lights and Oliver opened the curtains.

The place hadn’t been cleaned, but it was cleaned out. The space consisted of a waiting area and two offices. Not a speck of furniture anywhere, but there were cardboard boxes filled with garbage: lots of crumpled papers, solicitations, mailers, food wrappers, soda cans, and water bottles. The floor had gathered a thin layer of dust. “You say the last time you talked to someone was two weeks ago.”

“About.” Mahadi looked around. “I need to clean this up.”

“Who did you talk to when you asked about the check?”

“Bruce Havert. Tall man in his fifties. Dyes his hair. I used to see him with black hair, then brown hair, then brown hair with gray roots. He has a very big chin. Wears sunglasses all the time. He and his wife or girlfriend . . . I never did know which one . . . they do the business with the ladies.”

Oliver said, “The massage business.”

“I tell them no funny business here. I’m a family man. They show me licenses . . . all the girls have licenses. Nothing bad. Just pretty ladies that give massage. Not even here they give massages. They go to houses. They pay their rent, no one complains, I’m happy.”

Marge said, “How long have they been renting?”

“Almost one year. The lease was up for renewal. I was going to do them a favor and not raise rent. Hah. A lot good that would do.”

Marge said, “And the lessee is named Bruce Havert?”

“Yes.”

Oliver said, “What’s his wife or girlfriend’s name?”

“Randi with an
i.
She tells me that all the time. ‘I’m Randi with an
i
.’”

“Her last name?”

“Never knew it. She wasn’t on the lease. They all drive blue Prius. They take up parking spaces three, four, and five.”

“What did Randi look like?” Oliver asked.

“Blond. Skinny, skinny. In her thirties. Stupid-looking lips—puffy but not sexy. She is nice girl, though. Always a smile. Maybe it is for my benefit, that I’d give her a break in the rent. I was already giving them bottom dollar.”

“Did you ever see a brunette working for them?” Oliver asked.

“Lots of pretty girls. All skinny with lots of makeup.”

Marge said, “Do you mind if we take a look at the lease?”

“I don’t have it with me. I can get it for you.”

“That would be helpful.” She looked around. “Do you mind if we go through the boxes of garbage?”

“That’s fine by me,” Mahadi said. “You find something good, I want to keep it. All the rest, you throw in the Dumpster outside.”

The man left, grumbling about having another space to rent.

Both of the detectives gloved up.

After going through the boxes of trash, the sum total of worthwhile paper was two very crumpled Visa receipts and one crumpled MasterCard receipt. Oliver was driving while Marge was looking up Bruce Havert on her BlackBerry.

“There are a ton of Bruce Haver without the
t
and an equal number of Bruce Havers with an
s
. I also pulled up Bruce Haverty. Nothing with Bruce Havert, although there is a surname Havert, just not one with Bruce in front of it.”

“We’ll run it through our computers. How about the names on the Visa and MasterCard receipts?”

Marge squinted as she tried to read the names handwritten in on the blank credit card slips. These transactions were obviously done over the phone. If Casey’s Massage and Escort once had an electronic credit card machine, someone took it with them. “It’s hard to read. This one looks like Jas . . . Jason. Rohls. It could be Jasper Rohls. I’m deciphering a lot of loops. The number is pretty clear, but I don’t think the odds are high that Visa is going to give me the name without a warrant.”

“Does it say where Jason/Jasper lives?”

“Nope.”

“How about the others?”

“An address? No such luck. I think the names are Leon Bellard . . . Ballard. Leon Ballard. The MasterCard slip is written in another handwriting altogether. I can’t read it at all.” She put the receipts into an evidence bag, though she didn’t have any idea if this was evidence or not. “I don’t know if this massage parlor has anything to do with Hobart Penny’s murder, but I am curious why it went under at the same time the guy was killed. Like Decker said, we need to interview all of the units around the area to find out which apartment the ladies serviced. Want to canvass with me after I show Masey Roberts the blonde on the security tape?”

“If Masey identifies the blonde on the security tape, why do we have to canvass the area?”

“One step at a time, Oliver. First, let’s get something concrete to connect the dots.”

“Fine. You connect away. In the meantime, I’ve got a weekend reservation in Santa Barbara.”

“Do you now?”

“You’re not the only one who enjoys paradise.”

“Ms. Montenegro?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, it’s Carmen. And wipe the smirk off your face.”

“You’ve been dating her for a while.”

“Off and on . . . more on than off. Want to meet us for dinner on Saturday night?”

“That is so social of you. It must be her idea.”

“Yes or no?”

“Will’s coming to L.A. this weekend. If you wanted to be alone, you’re safe.”

Oliver smiled at her. “It’s not that I don’t love your company . . .”

“I’m not offended, Scott. We both need downtime without each other.” Marge looked at her watch. It was almost four. “I should call Decker, make sure he got the warrant.” A pause. “He’d probably call me if he didn’t get it, right?”

“Right. You seem restless, Dunn. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” She was restless. The future made her restless.
“After the tiger extraction, things have been pretty quiet. Now it’s all legwork, and so far, it’s been another day of nothing.”

Oliver said, “Wasn’t a total loss, Margie. You made friends with the chicken lady, and I got a dozen doughnuts at half-price. The thing is that you don’t need pastries to make friends. I, on the other hand, need all the help I can get.”

M
ARGE AND OLIVER
arrived at Penny’s apartment just as the sun sank: oranges and golds glittered in the west while rain clouds gathered in the east. Decker was at the curb, slapping papers in the palm of his hand. Marge parked nearby, and they all met up. A hundred feet away, a small, bald man with a goatee paced. He gave the trio a look and continued to tread the sidewalk.

“Who’s the gnome?” Oliver asked.

“My first thought was a leprechaun.” Decker turned up the collar on his coat. “It’s probably the green sweater. That’s George Paxton, the building manager. He’s acting pissed, so I’m sure he’s hiding something. When I asked him about the apartment above Penny’s place, he was evasive when there’s no reason to be evasive. The guy is tweaking my antenna.”