The Rabbit Factory (13 page)

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W'e were back in Muller's van trying to decide whether to pull into Mel's Diner or go a few miles out of our way to The Farmer's Market. My cell phone beeped to let me know I had missed a call. There was no message, but Caller ID said it came from Valley General Hospital. I called the main number and asked for Jan Trachtenberg. I got her voicemail. "Mrs. Trachtenberg, this is Detective Lomax. Sorry I missed your call. If you're looking for an update on your husband's case, we've got some additional manpower working on it. I'll get back to you in a few days. Thanks." "I just checked my voicemail," Terry said. "There's a message from Kilcullen."

"You say that calmly, but there's 'uh-oh' in your eyes. Is he homicidal or just psychotic?"

"Worse. All he said was, Let's get together at your earliest convenience."

"I guess Farmer's Market is out of the question," Muller said.

"Unless you want to see our balls hanging from the precinct

flagpole, I think all forms of nourishment are out of the question," Terry said.

We made it back to the office by 10:45. Terry grabbed Elkins's folder, and we double-timed it to Kilcullen's door.

"Top o' the morning to ya, lads." Kilcullen was laying on the Irish brogue, which was a signal that he was going to be playful before he got down to business. 'Playful' is Police Academy code for Bust Our Balls.

"I was at the firing range this morning, don't ya know," he said, tapping his fingers on a Nike shoebox on his desk. He lifted the lid. It was filled with pieces of crushed black granite. Some of the chunks were lethal, big as a fist. Some were pebble-sized. The rest was powdery granules. He handed me the box. It weighed about fifteen pounds. I passed it to Terry.

"What is it, Loo?" Terry asked.

"That," he said, looking at the rock pile with contempt, "was my former bowling ball. It committed an egregious crime last night. A trial was held this morning in the shower, and the execution was completed at 8 a.m. You know that nice Sergeant Paris who runs the gun range? He's a bowler too, and I know you're supposed to shoot at paper targets, but he was very cooperative."

The fucker had shot his bowling ball.

He put his palms flat down on his desk and leaned forward. "So," he said, staring at us with the same crazy Jack Nicholson eyes I could see in the picture on the wall behind him. "I've successfully brought my criminal to justice this morning. What have you boys accomplished today?"

"We saw an old lady jaywalking," Terry said. "Gave her a warning. Not worth shooting her. Didn't seem as serious as a

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bowling ball gone bad."

"Shut the fucking door," Kilcullen said, dropping the brogue, "and tell me where in Christ's name you are on the Lamaar case." I filled him in on everything that happened since last night, including Big Jim's observation about the flipbook clue. But I didn't credit Jim. When I finished, he said, "I agree. You gotta follow both tracks. First, let's nail down this whole pedophile revenge angle. Sutula and Langer can help you track down friends and relatives of vies who might be pissed off enough to kill him. You boys go back to Familyland and talk to the Head of Security. If we do have a serial killer looking to snuff cartoon characters, Lamaar could be headed for a real shit storm. LAPD needs to go on record with a warning. Plus it couldn't hurt for you to look around again." "Good idea, boss," Terry said.

"Don't patronize me," Kilcullen said. "You guys already had that idea."

"It did cross our mind, sir," Terry said.

"You haven't said word one about the mob connection. Did that cross your mind? Because it crossed the Governor's mind and he's not even being paid to do police work." He had us. We had missed something big and he was going to beat us over the head with it. "You don't know shit about a mob connection, do you?" "No," Terry said. "I guess the Governor's more in touch with the mob than we are."

"I guess he reads the papers more than you do. Lamaar is building a big entertainment complex with the Camelot Hotel in

Vegas. You know the Camelot. It was opened by Enrico Leone back in the day when the mob moved to Nevada. It's still run by the family. The granddaughter is in charge now."

"Arabella Leone," I said.

"Oh, so you did hear of them. Well, there's hope."

"Look, Loo," Terry said, "we've been on this case all of one day. The DOA is a convicted pedophile, so we're chasing that angle. There may be a vendetta against the company, so we're chasing that angle. Nobody we talked to even gave a hint of a mob connection, and there's nothing about this that makes it look like a mob hit. But if you think Sacramento can solve this faster than we can, here." He threw Elkins's file on the desk. "They can shove it up their..."

"Hey, hey, Bronx boy. Don't be so fucking sensitive. The politicians bust my ass; I bust yours. It's called the Hierarchy of Pain." He pushed the file back at Terry. "How long have you boys been under my command?"

"Three and a half wonderful years," Terry answered, taking the file.

"And have I ever leaned on you to solve a case?"

Terry gave him the raspberry.

"Hey, I may nudge you, but only because you're my Go-To Guys. Now, with this dead pervert in a rabbit suit, now I'm leaning on you. You understand what I'm saying? I've been easy on you in the past, but this time, I really have to push hard. The Governor is calling back at five for a progress report. A progress report!" His ruddy Irish face was a now deeper shade of rudd. "Do you know what he means when he says progress report?"

Rhetorical question. Don't answer it, Terry, I said, using mental telepathy. He didn't.

"He wants a fucking arrest," Kilcullen said. "Those shit-for brains in Sacramento think you can solve a homicide like on the TV shows. Murder at ten. Case closed at five to eleven. Stay tuned for scenes from next week's episode." He reached into the shoebox and picked up a fistful of the late Mr. Brunswick. "This is a high-profile case, boys. Elkins is just another scumbag, but he got himself killed in a high-profile rabbit suit in a high-profile theme park in a fucking election year. Don't fail me, boys. I don't do well with failure." He slowly let the remains of the bowling ball sift through his fingers and back into its cardboard coffin. "Call me with anything I can use to keep the Governor from crawling any further up my rectum. Get to work." We headed for the door. "One question," Terry said, before we made it out of the room. "This Hierarchy of Pain thing. The politicians take it out on you; you take it out on me. Who do I get to take it out on?" "You got a dog?" Kilcullen said.

"No."

"Buy a bowling ball."

I called Brian Curry to tell him we wanted to talk to him and Amy. "Amy's office is in Burbank," he said. "I can meet you there in an hour." "Sorry, but Amy's going to have to meet us in Costa Luna," I said. "We want to take another look around the park. If she's too busy to..." "Detective, Amy could be having a heart transplant and she'd hop off the operating table and drive down here. Ten bucks says she gets here before you." "I've got lights and sirens." "Twenty bucks." "You realize that LAPD frowns on cops wagering on their arrival time."

"I'm just trying to make a point," Brian said. "She's a terrier. Nothing gets in her way."

"Well then it's too bad she's not the lead detective. I'll see I you soon."

Then Terry and I briefed Detectives Sutula and Langer.

They're known around the squad room as Penn and Teller. Sutula does all the talking. Langer is a man of few words. "Lots of people would have loved to murder this fuck," Terry said. "See if you can narrow it down for us."

Sutula asked questions, made comments, then let us know they were on the case. Langer just nodded.

Next we asked Muller to do some research on the LamaarLas Vegas possible mob connection.

"Why would the Camelot Casino want to get in bed with Lamaar?" Muller said. "The bottom fell out of that whole bringthe-family-to-Vegas crap. I was there a few months ago. They're ripping down the roller coasters and putting in more stripper poles. The real money is in nightclubs, high-end restaurants, and Texas Hold'em. Why would they do a deal with cartoon characters?"

"Hey, geek boy," Terry said. "You're not being paid to figure out if it's a smart business deal. Your job is to find out if the mob is in any way connected to this murder investigation. You got that?"

Muller laughed. "I guess you just got your ass chewed out by the boss, and now it's my turn in the barrel."

"Exactly," Terry said. "It's called the Hierarchy of Pain. If you want to pass it along, go home and kick your dogs."

"No problem. By the time I get there, I'm sure Annetta will have two or three new ones for me to kick."

Terry and I were twenty miles from Familyland when my cell rang. It was Big Jim. "This is a real bad connection," he said, clear as a bell. "Call me from a land line."

"Either you're super paranoid," I said, "or our boy did something so stupid that you can't even tell me on a cell phone."

The Rabbit Factory

"All of the above. You gonna call me back or what?"

"Can it wait? I'm on my way to a homicide investigation."

"What would you rather do," he said, "solve a murder or prevent one?"

"Give me a few minutes to find a pay phone." I hung up.

"What's going on?" Terry said.

"Family shit," I said. "I need to call my father from a secure phone."

Terry gunned the Lexus, pulled into the left lane and smoked past traffic with the dashboard gumball strobing red. Three minutes later, we barreled up an off-ramp and came screeching to a stop at a sleepy little Mobil station like it was the final pit stop at the Indy 500. "I love that I can get away with doing that," Terry said. "There's a phone. I'll go piss." I dialed Big Jim. "Thank you for using Golden State Communications," the automated voice said, after I had punched in my AT&T Calling Card number.

Fuck. It was one of those anonymous long-distance carriers that charge you whatever-the-hell-they-can-get-away-with per minute. I knew I could bypass it, but I didn't have the patience to dial thirty-two more digits, so I bit the bullet. Another reason to be pissed at my kid brother.Ś;ŚŚ. Jim picked up on the first ring. "Thanks for calling back." "Talk fast, because I'm calling from 1-800-RIPOFF."

"As you know, your brother has been trying to get his gambling problem under control. He went to some of those twelve step meetings, and he hasn't been to the track or bet on sports for six months." "That's old news. Drop the other shoe."

"He's taken up investing in the stock market," Jim said.

"Yeah, I noticed he switched from the Racing Form to the Wall Street Journal. It's an expensive habit, but at least it's legal." "It is, unless you're using OPM."

More initials. But this one everybody knows. Other People's Money. "Correct me if I'm wrong," I said. "But isn't one supposed to be licensed to use OPM when you buy and sell stocks?" "Theoretically," Jim said.

There was knock on the phone booth door. It was Terry with two cans of Pepsi. He popped the top on one, passed it inside, and walked off. I took a swig. It was cold and sweet and felt good. "Let me get this straight," I said. "Frankie is investing other people's money without a license." "I'm not at liberty to corroborate that," he said.

"Don't bother, I'm a detective. And I assume if he were making money hand over fist for his clients, he would look and smell prosperous, which is not how he looked or smelled last night." "I'm not at liberty to corroborate that, either," he said.

"And knowing him, if he were losing OPM, he would want to make it all back in one night. So he fell down the entire flight of twelve steps, drove to Vegas, and came home in deeper shit than when he left. And please don't say corroborate again. Talk like a truck driver." "Okay, I'd say he smelled like deep shit last night."

"That stupid fuck," I said.

"That I can corroborate," Jim said.

"Listen, I hate doing this on a pay phone," I said, taking

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three long swallows of the Pepsi, "but as pissed off as I am personally, I need to ask a professional question. Did someone really put out a contract on him?" "The boy has a tendency to be overly dramatic," Jim said. "But yeah, this time I think he's not kidding." "Who?"

"He won't say."

"Why not? Because maybe you and I could help? How about if I come over and beat it out of him," I said, draining the last of the Pepsi. "For now, I don't want you doing anything," Jim said. "If you replay this conversation in your mind, you'll note that I told you nothing of substance except that our friend plays the market and is indeed a stupid fuck. Everything else is conjecture on your part." "So that if I had to testify about what I know for sure, I could do it without perjuring myself." "That's every father's dream for his son," he said.

"Dad, I gotta go. Terry and I are up to our nuts in dead rabbit. By the way, thanks again for last night. You were very helpful." "You're welcome. Speaking of which, is there a reward for the kind of insight and detailed information I provided you with?" "Not for blood relatives of a cop on the case. Why do you ask? Last night, the information was free." "I suddenly find myself faced with some unexpected expenses."

"How much do you suddenly find yourself needing?" I asked.

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Marshall Karp

"More than I got. More than I spent to save his ass a year ago, and ten times as much as I spent two years before that. Your brother's getting to be an expensive habit." "I don't have time to talk about it now. I'll swing by the house tonight." "Don't come," he said. V "Why the hell not?" I asked. "Because I'm still basking in the glow of your presence from last night." "Bullshit."

"I don't want you here. You're busy trying to solve a homicide."

"Dad, that is not a factor. I'm coming."

"James Michael Lomax, Jr.," he said, calling me by my real name, the one I never used. Most kids are proud to share their father's name. Growing up, a lot of my friends were Juniors. But when your Dad is called Big Jim, they don't call you Jim, Jr. They call you Little Jim. That I couldn't handle. So on my eighth birthday, I announced that I had given up my given name, and from that day forward I would only respond to my middle name. Big Jim was furious. He didn't show up for my birthday party, and he didn't talk to me for what seemed like months. Finally, he blinked. One day at breakfast he simply said, "Morning, Mike." I've been Mike Lomax ever since. The only person who ever used my real name was my mother. She would save it for those rare occasions when she was really pissed at me. This was the first time Big Jim had used it on me. I answered him. "Yes, Mother," I said. "I'm telling you, don't come. Because if you see what I do to your fucking kid brother, you'll be forced to arrest me for