The Detective & the Pipe Girl (10 page)

17

I
drove up to Mulholland, to the house in the Hollywood Hills where Suzanne Neal went right before she went back to her condo and was taken from the planet by gunshot. On the way up I called Linda Robbie, gave her the address, and asked her who lived in the big, and of course gated, Hollywood Hills spread.

Now at the house, sitting outside the gate, across and down the street a bit, my cell buzzed, startling me, even though I knew the call was coming. That ever happened to you? That’s happened to you. A few sexual references and a proposal or two later, I got the name of the person who lived in this big hilltop estate. A man named Richard Neese.

Time to sign off with Linda. Thank you, beautiful. Yes, yes, we’ll take off our clothes together one of these days.

Jeez, who knows, maybe we would.

I waited outside, staring at the big gate for a long time. This being the gate with the absurd ironwork. Lines and bars and some pretentious misguided attempt at some kind of art I guessed. All in the name of a gate. Day turned into night. Night that was eventually dark enough so that I could sneak in.

So I did.

Down a bit from the chaos of metal that was the gate, the impediment to entrance was simply a brick wall, which I easily climbed up and jumped over. On the grounds now. It was big and beautiful and California-y. Very different from the Vonz estate. Less of an artistic eye at work. Less manicured. More pure California mystery and beauty. Big sprawling trees. Exotic flowers. And a big Spanish-style mansion. The grounds, the house, had a moody, trippy feel. There was some furniture inside covered in red velvet—I was sure of it.

I made my way through the dark trees and shadows around to the back of the house. There was a big rectangular pool that had little gargoyle statues standing guard on each corner. Two of the four of them were looking at me. They were.

I stood at the back corner of the house. Glued to the Spanish stucco, I stretched my neck to look into the window nearest me. And I saw something that actually made me think I might be getting somewhere. There was a man sitting on the floor Indian-style, the lotus position. He wore sort of a tunic, had long blond hair and a brown beard. The man Clay Blevins had described to me? No doubt. His eyes were half closed. He was smoking a joint and drinking a glass of wine. Music was playing, some trippy combination of Gregorian chant and seventies-style guitar rock.

I could hear it through the windows. I liked it.

A woman entered. She was topless and wearing a sarong. This is how these people lived. Jesus. What had I done wrong to not be one of these people? My god, she was beautiful. Thin, darkly complexioned, Kate Jackson–style, with big, full, real breasts. She walked smoothly, gracefully, like a model on a runway, and sat behind the bearded dude. She started giving him a massage. I thought two things. One: How does this long-haired blond douchebag fit into my story? And two: How do I get one of those massages?

I pulled my head away from the window. I stood now again stuck to the side of the house, hidden in the shadows, and thought for a second. I looked at the pool, the gargoyles, then thought about the parts of the
inside
of the house I’d been able to see. It was California mystery combined with bad Victorian that was clearly expensive, but lacked real taste, lacked a sophisticated eye, betrayed an attempt at class by way of money and gaudy antique-looking crap. It was an attempt at superiority through mimicking what might have been in the house of Spanish or even English royalty in the 16- or 1700s. But even then that look didn’t work and reeked of desperation. This attempt I had just seen was a failed one. And yes, there was some red velvet.

Moving on. I thought: The two inside aren’t going anywhere. So, I moved sideways into the darkness of the trees, back to the side of the house, back to the shadows.

I got to the wall and got out of there, up and over and into the Cobalt. I went back to my house in Mar Vista. I sat in my living room Indian-style and put on some groovy music. I didn’t have any weed but I wished I did. I waited for a really hot babe in a sarong to come out and massage my back. It didn’t happen.

So I got up, grabbed a Bud Light, and went outside on my back deck. Three beers later, I went in, took a long, hot shower, and went to bed. At 5 a.m., I popped out of bed, before my alarm went off, showered again, dressed, got back in the Cobalt, and drove back to Neese’s.

Outside, ready to follow anyone who left the compound.

The girl left at around 8:30 a.m. Silver Audi A4. They probably went to bed early. Post-sex. All high and shit. Yes, jealous. I followed her down the little mountain, into Beverly Hills, to a high-end condo on Burton Way.

She pulled the A4 into a garage, parked. I parked illegally right in front of her building. She walked out of the garage and headed toward the front entrance to the condo.

I got out of the Cobalt, stood up next to it. “Excuse me,” I said.

She stopped walking, looked over at me with fiery, but not worried, eyes. “Yes?”

She wasn’t afraid of a stranger. Lots of beautiful women have this thing where they won’t make eye contact with any stranger no matter how nice or approachable or normal he may be. And when they do, their expression suggests: Get away from me or I’ll Mace you and I also just hate you in general.

But not this one. She looked right at me.

I walked over to her. “My name is John Darvelle. I’m a private investigator. I’m looking into the murder of a woman named Suzanne Neal. Do you know who that is?”

“No,” she said. And left it at that. No fumbling. No additional words.

“Really? Well how about Richard Neese? Do you know who that is?”

“Yes, I know Richard.”

“Well, Suzanne Neal, the woman I just mentioned, went to Richard’s house the night she was killed. That was three nights ago. Do you know why she might have done that? Why she might have visited Richard?”

“How would I know the answer to that? Richard knows a lot of people in this town. Excuse me, I need to go.”

She headed for her door.

“Why does Richard know so many people in this town?”

She turned back to look at me. Cold but confident eyes. “Why don’t you ask him,” she said. And slipped into her condo.

I thought: Maybe I will.

I moved the Cobalt across the street and down a bit, then stayed put. I could see the woman moving around behind the blinds in the front right bottom condo. After about an hour she left, but I stayed. Until the mail got delivered. About an hour later. The mailman distributed the mail into the eight various boxes of the condo’s mailbox bank. Once he was a couple buildings down, I found the box for the woman’s condo, picked the lock, then opened it up and looked at the name on her mail. Rebecca Heath. Another name I’d need to add to my always evolving case notes.

18

A
ll right. What did I know so far? The night Suzanne was killed she visited the house of Richard Neese, then came home to her condo, then was out on her balcony with a man, then later that night got murdered. Earlier that day she may or may not have been visited by Jimmy Yates, world-famous actor. I was betting yes. And, of course, the world-famous director Arthur Vonz was trying to contact her right at this same time.

She definitely had Arthur’s heart in her hands. Did she have Jimmy Yates’s? The man on her balcony’s? Richard Neese’s?

Hmm.

Also, upon looking into Richard Neese, I discovered that another beautiful woman was a part of his world and thus a part of my story: Rebecca Heath.

Hmm.

And there was something about Richard Neese. The way Clay Blevins described him. The way Rebecca Heath seemed to be serving him. Was he some kind of boss to these lovely ladies? Maybe. Maybe. But why did I
feel
there was something else happening here.

Hmm.

My cell rang. Startling me
again. Does your cell startle you like mine does? Damn. Is there a nonstartle setting? I looked at my phone. Unidentified. Oh well. Got to take a risk or two in life.

“John Darvelle,” I said.

“Darvelle?” said a sort-of-familiar voice.

“Yes.”

“This is Detective Mike Ott, LAPD. You remember me?”

“Nope,” I lied.

“Too bad. I’d like you to come down here anyway. I want to talk to you.”

Normally I’d give him more trouble. Make him all but force me to come down. But I really didn’t want him, or any of them, too much in my business right now. And I was curious about what Ott wanted.

“When?”

“Oh,” Ott said. “Now. Or five minutes ago.”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll head down.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Oh, sir?” I said sarcastically. “What was your name again? Who do I ask for?”

“Ott, Darvelle. You know who I am. We met—”

“Sorry, I really don’t care. I’ll see you soon.”

I hung up on him.

Next thing I knew I was in downtown L.A., at LAPD headquarters. Now, if you last as a P.I. in this town, in any town, for more than five years you
will
interact with the cops of said town. It just happens. You’ll be in the same places. You’ll be looking into the same things. You might even need each other from time to time. It’s very hard to get them to respect you. You have to convince them over time that you’re in it for the right reasons—just like you do with all your connections. You have to show them that you have a clue about what you’re doing. You have to help them out a time or two and not make too big a deal out of it. But, listen. You must not give them too much respect. You start kissing their asses and they’ll flick you away like a fly. They’ll go out of their way to make your life suck.

But even when they do respect you, it’s always a dance. Because ultimately they don’t want to admit a private guy can do a good investigation. That being said, smart cops know that sometimes the private guys can do more than they can because the private guys aren’t nearly as tied up with legal red tape. Jump over Neese’s wall without a shitload of documents proving it made sense to do it? A cop will rarely do that. Too much risk. Too much to lose.

I knew the reason I was down at LAPD was because they wanted to know what I knew. But here’s where it gets tricky. You can’t bend to them too much, you can’t always give them everything you know, just because they’re cops. I’m not saying break the law. I’m saying there are times when
your
investigation comes first. And telling them too much will not just screw you, it’ll screw the investigation. Because a lot of cops don’t know what they’re doing. And even more cops are often so tied up with the aforementioned red tape that they simply can’t get to the bottom of things in as effective a way as you can. Period.

Now, as I’ve mentioned, I’ve been at it a good while in this town, and I’ve interacted, and worked with, a bunch of guys on the force. This guy, Mike Ott, we’d seen each other around. We were actually in the same meeting once—I was giving the cops some information I had on an L.A. lawyer suspected of killing his wife. As for today, I’m sure he’d asked around about me before I got there and had probably gotten a decent report. I’d helped out the dudes down there. A few times. But right now? Ott wasn’t walking the floor trying to find out more about me, or double-checking that I was indeed a good investigator and maybe even a good guy. Nope. He wasn’t doing that. Instead, he was right in my face. I was in a chair in front of his desk and he was sitting, not behind his desk, but
on
his desk right in front of me.

“Darvelle. A couple of the guys down here know you, said you were a good guy.”

“I am a good guy.”

He gave me a long cop look. And didn’t take that line any further.

“Why are you looking into the murder of Suzanne Neal?”

“Who?” I said.

His expression didn’t change. He was literally stone-faced. I never could figure out how these cops did that. I’ve told you already I’ve spotted waves of emotion or guilt or suspicion or
something
move across people’s eyes, people’s faces. None of that with Ott.

“Suzanne Neal,” he said.

“Why do you think that I’m looking into the murder of . . . what was her name again?”

He gave me an I-know-what-you’re-doing smirk. “I’m a cop and I’m looking into the murder and through my looking into it I found out that you’re looking into it.”

I thought: Jimmy Yates got questioned based on my call, then told the cops: “Hey, I wasn’t even there, I don’t know anything, but some P.I. named John Darvelle came up to me on the street.”

I looked at Ott looking at me. He had a creased-up face that you get from smoking way too much. But sort of a handsome guy in an old-school, conservative-looking, tough-guy way. Big head of graying hair. Not losing it at all. At all. Even into his fifties. Yes, I was jealous. Also, very dry skin. His face was made of old, uncared-for leather. The dude needed some moisturizer.

“Well,” I said. “If I were looking into the murder of a girl it’d be because I like to find out who did it when someone gets killed. Don’t you? I think it’s only fair.”

“Who are you working for?”

“Now? Well, I always try to keep a lot of cases going.”

Basically true. Also, I wasn’t working for anyone. I was working for me. But more important, I’d already reported to the cops everything—well, almost everything—I knew at the time of the murder, because I
wanted
them to know anything that might help them. But since then, I’d begun to put a few things in motion so I could find out more. But, as I mentioned a minute ago, I didn’t want Ott or anyone else to screw it up.

He laughed. “See, my thing is, if you’re looking into this on behalf of someone, then that someone might know something that could help me.”

“She doesn’t,” I said.

“She?”

“He.”

“You not providing me information could be getting in the way of the case, which is illegal.”

“I know the law.”

“Really?”

“Sort of.”

“Somebody called the police station the day after the murder and told us a bunch of information relating to the case.”

“Would you mind passing that stuff on to me; it could be helpful.”

“Was it you?”

“Huh?”

“You heard me.”

“No, it wasn’t me. If I knew a bunch about the case then I wouldn’t be looking into it. Even though I’m not necessarily looking into it.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes some sense.”

“Listen, Darvelle. I have a question for you.”

Here it comes. He’s going to ask me about Jimmy Yates. These guys are too predictable.

“Do you know what a Pipe Girl is?”

And . . . I was wrong. Totally. Which happens from time to time.

“A Pipe Girl? No, I don’t. I really don’t.”

“You’ve never heard the term ‘Pipe Girl’?”

I couldn’t even rib him on this one. I could only tell him the truth. “No, I haven’t.”

Ott stared at me. His face was totally still, like a statue of a guy with a creased face and really good hair. He was trying to read me.

He finally said, “I think you’re looking into the Suzanne Neal case. And I think you should tell me something.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you something. You need to moisturize. Your skin is incredibly dry.”

He looked at me. He looked through me. I thought he was going to shoot me.