The Rabbit Factory (49 page)

"Marilyn's not home. It's just me and my parish priest."

The Rabbit Factory

I laughed; he thanked me for laughing; then I called Church. "Did the Bureau know about this Dean Lamaar tape?" he asked.

"I don't know. It's been gathering dust in a vault at the Lamaar Studios," I said. "Talking to Eeg kind of helped lead me to it."

"We interviewed Eeg, too, but you got more out of him than we did. Do you think Eeg knows Lamaar is alive?"

"No. I think Eeg believes Lamaar is an evil man who murdered his own father and then drove Eeg's father to suicide."

"If Lamaar is alive and behind this, evil man doesn't even begin to put a label on it," Church said. "And if he is alive, where has he been hiding?"

"The most logical place is Lebrecht's house in Ojai."

"State is still working on those passport photos, but we're arresting these fuckers now. I don't want anyone else murdered on my watch."

You never know what's going to make the difference in solving a crime. When David Berkowitz, the Son of Sam, went off to kill his sixth victim, he couldn't find a place to park. So he left his car next to a fire hydrant, and a seemingly insignificant parking ticket led to his arrest.

I had a seemingly insignificant videotape, a brother who Leeded to be bailed out of trouble, a nosy father who just had to see what was on the tape, and a girlfriend who could remember the date of an earthquake. An incredible confluence of events. And I'd get credit for being a smart cop.

I dropped Diana at her apartment, ran the rest of the lights on Wilshire, and made it to the FBI office in three minutes. Terry showed up from the Valley only five minutes behind me. We screened the source tape with Church, Collins, and a dozen other agents. "I'm sure your boy Muller is right," Church said, "but I'm going to ask Hogle to give us a second opinion." Don Hogle was the guy Muller called the Alpha Geek. He wasn't the tall, square-jawed, blond, buzz cut, stereotypical agent you see in the Hollywood version of the FBI. He was

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short, compact, bookish, with salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of love handles, which I suspect were handled mostly by lovers of the same sex. "How much time do I have?" he said.

"It's 1:00. Take all the time you need," Church said. "As long as you're back here by 2:00."

He was back at 1:45. "I cross checked six ways to Sunday," Hogle said. "The earthquake on the tape had to have happened on May 23, 2002. There are no other possibilities. I also did a voice analysis on Dean Lamaar. That's him on the tape. Reports of his death on May 21 were greatly exaggerated."

At 2:20 Agent Kinya Chandler came back from the Hillcrest Country Club, where she had gone to track down a federal judge. "Any problems?" Church said.

Chandler was an attractive young African-American woman, who obviously had a comfortable relationship with her boss. "Thanks for sending me to an all-white country club, Garet," she said. "I had to take drink orders for three people before I could find Judge Aronson. But when I told her what we had on these guys, not only did she sign the search and arrest warrants, she said if I came back with a warrant to cut their balls off, she'd sign that, too."

"Good job," Church said. "But if you made any tips takintf those drink orders, you're going to have to turn them into Accounting."

It had been a relatively quiet Sunday at the Bureau, but now a steady stream of agents came in from their day off, and Church dispatched two teams of ten to back up the unil.s already watching Kennedy and Barber

"Twenty more Quantico-trained, razor-sharp, anti-terrori.sl operatives to stake out two old farts," Terry whispered to me,

"And you wonder why the federal deficit is a hundred zillion dollars."

The teams tailing the old farts reported in every fifteen minutes. Kennedy and his wife were shopping. Barber was visiting his grandchildren in Culver City. Lebrecht was at home with Freddy the houseman.

"I want to get Freddy alone and ask him a few questions before we move in," Church said. "If he has any information worth buying, I'll cut him a deal."

"I know how to pry him out of the house," Terry said. I "Lay it on me," Church said.

™ Terry grinned. "First, we'll need that delivery van from Irwin's Market."

At 2:45 a caravan of no fewer than thirty of us headed toward Ojai. An hour and fifteen minutes later Church and I rang Irwin Pearlman's doorbell. Irwin was in his late sixties and more high-energy than a box full of puppies. Ś When we informed him that a grateful nation needed his help and his delivery van, he practically hugged us. "I can wear a wire," he said. "I was in Vietnam. I'm a marksman. Just tell me what you need. I'm your man."

Church explained that we wanted to question Freddy Schlecht about an FBI matter, and if Irwin could come up with a reason why his van might make an unscheduled stop at the Lebrecht residence, we would take it from there.

"That's easy. Every few weeks my wife bakes up a bunch of chocolate babkas that are to die for. It's Mr. Lebrecht's favorite. I have a standing order to let Freddy know whenever she makes a fresh batch. I could just call and ask him if he wants me to send any over."

"You think you can pull it off?" Church said.

"Are you kidding? I'm in a local theatre group. I just did Streetcar."

Irwin turned out to be a convincing actor, and at 4:20, Agenl Hector Nava, a Hispanic agent, drove the delivery van up to Lebrecht's house and rang the bell at the service entrance.

Freddy opened the door. "Buenos dias, Senor" Nava said. "Delivery."(

"Well, bring it in," Freddy said.

Nava put his head down. "Sorry, Senor, but I can't read so good. Just please tell me which is your box, and I carry."

"Where the fuck is the regular driver?" Freddy said.

"Is Sunday. He's drunk, maybe," Nava said. "I'm just fillin' in. They say there's good tippers in this neighborhood."

"Well, fuck tipping, you little illiterate wetback," Freddy said, storming down the back stairs and toward the van. "If I have to come out and show you which box is which, then you get shit."

, He opened the rear door of the van and the long arm of the law grabbed him. Actually it was eight long arms, four of which belonged to Terry and me.

Nava kicked Freddy in the ass as he got yanked into the van. "Illiterate wetback?" Nava said. "I was magna cum laude from Georgetown, you fat Nazi fuck." He slammed the back door, jumped in the cab, and we drove off.

Freddy crumbled like a sack of tacos in a food fight. He started whining as soon as he hit the floor of the van. "I'm only Lebrecht's butler. If that old coot is up to no good, I got nothing to do with it."

We drove to a high school parking lot about a mile away. It was empty except for two joggers and a young couple playing Frisbee with a dog. At the far end of the lot were a Winnebago and six SUVs. Nava opened the back door of the van, dragged Freddy out, and shoved him into the motor home. Church, his partner Henry Collins, Terry, and I all followed and closed the door behind us.

Freddy was sitting on a folding chair. Church smiled at him. "I'm Special Agent in Charge Garet Church," he said. Then he turned to Collins. "Iron Man, why don't you see if you can get some straight answers from Mr. Schlecht."

With that, he stepped aside and made way for this blond block of granite. Collins's nickname came from the fact that, just for the heck of it, he competed in two or three triathlons a year. He had a boyish smile that had transformed into a menacing

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snarl as soon as he crossed the threshold of the Winnebago.

Collins loosened his tie and removed his suit jacket. He was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt that hugged his body. Even I was intimidated by the massive chest, thick neck, and chiseled arms. He looked down at Freddy. "How many people are in thr house, shitbag?"

"Three," Freddy said, sweat beading up on his bald dome. "Mr. Lebrecht is there and Dean Lamaar. He's alive. I know you're looking for him."

"That's two. Who else is in there?"

"Jesus is with Mr. Lamaar," Freddy said.

Collins grabbed him by the shirt, digging his nails deep enough to rip at skin and chest hair. Freddy let out a shriek that was more fear than physical pain. Collins screamed back. "Jesus? Don't fuck with me, you fat piece of shit."

"No, his name is Jesus. He's Mexican. He pronounces it Hay-soose," Freddy said, "but Mr. Lamaar makes us call him Jesus. He's Lamaar's nurse."

"What does Lamaar need a nurse for?"

"He's got bad kidneys. They have a whole dialysis setup in the house. Lamaar gets five hours of dialysis every other day," Freddy said.

"Is Jesus armed?" Collins asked.

"No, no way. He's just a nurse. I think he's gay."

"Are these guys behind the terrorist activity that's targeting the Lamaar Company?" Collins asked.,

"I don't know," Freddy said. "I just work for.. .

Iron Man lunged at Freddy and shoved him backwards. The chair went down and Freddy hit the floor hard. His right ankle got caught under the metal rung of the folding chair and Collins

stepped down on it. "Quiet everyone!" Collins yelled. "The next sound you hear will either be that of Mr. Schlecht telling the truth or the first of many bones snapping."

"Alright, alright, don't break my ankle. I'll tell you everything."

"Do it," Collins said. "We already know most of the details, so if you try to con us or if you leave out one fucking word, it will cost you an arm and a leg."

Hi Freddy sat back in the chair. "Mr. Lebrecht interviewed me about six years ago. It was a good job, big money just for taking care of one rich old guy. He told me he knew about the trouble I had in Austria, but he'd overlook it." H "You had a record?" Collins said.

ťv "I was working in a hotel in Salzburg. I was young, I had a passkey, you know how it happens. I pulled three and a half for robbery. It was way before I came to the U.S. I don't know how the hell he knew, but he did. He said he trusted me. All he wanted in return was loyalty."

, "All he wanted was a loyal ex-con," Collins said. "No strings attached."

"It was a real cushy job. Health benefits, bonuses, paid vacations. In the beginning it was all on the up and up. Then one day he tells me Mr. Lamaar was going to go into hiding. He would live in our house. All I had to do was swear secrecy and not ask any questions." I "And you agreed."

"Hey man, I didn't give a shit. I didn't do anything illegal. I thought maybe it was an insurance scam, but these guys were too rich to fake being dead for money. So I figured they're just a bunch of crazy old codgers, the two of them and their bud

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dies, Barber and Kennedy. After a while, it was totally natural, I'm serving breakfast to a guy everyone thinks is dead."

"Who did die?" Church said. "They cremated someone."

"No they didn't," he said. "Lebrecht bought off the cremato rium, he paid for the phony death certificate. Money talks. Thai part was easy."

"Why did Lamaar make that video two days after his so called death?" Collins said.

Freddy looked confused. "What video? I don't know what you're talking about. If this is a trick so you can break my leg, I swear to God..."

"Shut up, you whining little pussy," Collins said. He banged his fist on a tabletop and Freddy squeezed his eyes shut.

Church leaned over and whispered something to Collins. Collins touched his two palms together then threw back his arms like a rodeo cowboy who just roped and tied a calf. Then he stepped back. Church stepped in and put his good hand on Freddy's shoulder. The man shuddered, then opened his eyes.

"My friend is angry because innocent people have died, like those folks at the Burger King in Texas, and because he himself was injured in an explosion that your employer sponsored. Now, I can keep him calm, but you're going to have to tell us what you know about those murders and what they have planned next. Now, I believe you when you say you had nothing to do with it, but you're the butler. Butlers hear things. Tell us what you heard, and I'll help you when the time comes to sort out the 'guilty' from the 'only-guilty-by-association'."

"You can get me off?"

"I said I can help," Church said. "The more I get, the more

I can help."

Freddy nodded. "They've been planning a long time. At first I thought it was a movie. They were talking about the script and pre-production and casting the right people. Then one day, it dawns on me that it's a caper." m. "It just dawned on you, Freddy?"

"Hey, I got curious," Freddy said. "The three of them, Lebrecht, Kennedy, and Barber, took a bunch of trips a few years ago. I stayed home and babysat Mr. Lamaar. One day he says something like, 'I miss the guys. I can't wait for them to come back from their casting trip.' So after they get back, I thought I'd poke around Mr. Lebrecht's room to see what's going on."

"And lucky you, you don't even need a passkey to break into his room," Collins said.

Freddy flared for a split second. His mouth started to form the F sound, but he caught himself. He wasn't about to say fuck you to Iron Man. "I'm in his room, and I'm looking at a diary that's just sitting on the dresser. He's got notes on different people. Names, where they live, prices, and specialties."

"Give us a for instance of a specialty," Church said.

"Explosives, garrote, karate, marksman. Then I check out his passport, but it's..." Freddy thought about holding back, but as soon as he hesitated Collins started moving toward him. "His passport... it's phony. It has his picture, but a fake name, Schmidt, Kurt Schmidt. And he's been to Cyprus, Israel, Russia, all dicey places. So I figure he's not casting a movie; he's looking for guys who do wet work."

"And so, good citizen that you are, you called the cops,"

Church said.

"No. Mr. Lebrecht has always taken care of me. I'm loyal."

"Plus now you got some good shit on him that maybe you can use to blackmail him some day," Church said.

Freddy looked offended. "I would never do that to Mr. Lebrecht."

Church put his face up against Freddy's. "It's so hard to get good help nowadays, Freddy. You're a real find," he said, exhaling hard so that Freddy could feel, smell, and taste the same disgust he had already seen and heard.