Hollywood Hills

EIGHTEEN

The midwatch roll call was a bit subdued at first. It was always that way after an officer had been hurt. Although Snuffy Salcedo had not been seriously injured, he had gone through surgery that morning at the hands of a plastic surgeon who came recommended by the specialists at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. Hollywood Nate Weiss, who had not gotten much sleep after the incident at Goth House and the interrogation by Force Investigation Division, talked to Snuffy on the phone before coming to work. Snuffy had taken full responsibility for the “unintentional” baton blow to the face of the colossus as well as all other “unintentional” head strikes. And because baton head strikes generated nearly as much paperwork as officer-involved shootings in the closely monitored LAPD, he was officially removed from the field until FID was satisfied and a shrink from BSS as well as the bureau chief gave the okay for his return. And that was just fine with Snuffy, who needed time off to recuperate. He told Nate that his injuries made him look like a raccoon that got mauled by a grizzly.

It had always been a matter of pride in a warrior culture to quickly return to duty after a battle, but Jetsam had to take a few sick days. He had been stricken with a muscle spasm in his neck that began when he was being questioned by FID and got worse after he went home to his apartment and tumbled into bed. When he woke up at 2 P.M. the next afternoon, he could not turn his head without great pain and had to see a doctor.

The remaining combatants sitting at roll call, Hollywood Nate and Flotsam, had suffered hematomas, contusions, abrasions, with even a couple of lacerations-the whole ball of bash-and their movements were slow and painful, but each cop was serviceable. Oddly enough, the only one with a genuine black eye was Britney Small, who sat next to Della Ravelle at roll call wearing a black eye patch for laughs, but she took it off when all the cops begged to see her shiner and wanted cell phone photos.

Sergeant Murillo had to change the lineup and team Hollywood Nate with Flotsam in 6-X-32, since they were both missing a partner, and before dismissing roll call, he said to them, “If any citizens ask why you both have bumps and bruises, explain that they came from fighting a bad guy. We have enough of a PR problem around here without people thinking we’re lumping up each other nowadays.”

As all the troops touched the photo of the Oracle before leaving the roll call room, Hollywood Nate Weiss wondered if maybe Snuffy Salcedo had failed to touch the picture yesterday. He couldn’t remember seeing him do it.

Twenty-five minutes after roll call ended and the midwatch was on the streets, Jonas Claymore, accompanied by Megan Burke, made a rolling stop on his way to a last pass up into the Hollywood Hills before darkness. So far, it had been another fruitless search for a residence to burgle. Jonas heard the toot of a horn behind him and looked in the mirror to see a black-and-white with lights oscillating.

Georgie Adams was driving, with Viv Daley riding shotgun in 6-X-76, and they had just responded to a call far from their beat. They were up north in 6-A-15’s area and complaining about it when they spotted the VW bug roll through the stop sign. They pulled over the old Volkswagen on Mulholland Drive.

“You’re up,” Georgie said, and Viv grabbed her citation book.

Jonas said to Megan, “Can anything more happen to me this fucking month?”

Megan was trying to massage her knees and said, “Jonas, I’m in pain. We’ve got to at least get some norcos or perks.”

Viv approached on the driver’s side and said, “Your license and registration, sir.”

Jonas took the registration from the glove box and handed it to Viv along with his driver’s license, saying, “Look, Officer, I’m outta work and we’re hurrying to a job opportunity in the Hills. Some rich people need a handyman around the house. See, we got a sick five-month-old baby at home and this job is important. Can’t you give us a break?”

“Is this lady your wife?” Viv asked.

“Yeah, my wife,” Jonas said, but amended it. “Well, we’re not officially married, but now that our baby’s here, we’re gonna take care of that.”

Jonas Claymore could not have known that he had exactly the right officer from Hollywood Station at this time to be telling about an infant in need, and Viv Daley said to Megan, “Who’s taking care of your sick baby?”

Megan Burke’s pain threshold had been reached, and she turned her welling eyes to the cop and said, “My… my mom!” And the tears spilled down her face.

“Okay,” Viv said, handing Jonas Claymore’s license and registration back to him. “Make complete stops. You don’t want your baby growing up an orphan.”

“God bless you, Officer,” Jonas said.

When Viv and Georgie got back in the car, he said, “They looked like tweakers.”

“Gypsy, you’re a cynic,” Viv said.

“Didn’t they look like dopers to you?”

“They certainly did,” she said.

“So why’d you kick them?”

“I thought maybe they were telling the truth about a sick baby at home.”

Georgie Adams didn’t say any more about it. They didn’t talk about infants in need.

After Jonas started driving again, he said, “That was fucking fantastic the way you turned on the water! You even had me believing it.”

“I wasn’t acting, Jonas,” Megan said. “I’m hurting.”

“You gotta man-up,” Jonas said. “We got work to do.”

“I can’t,” Megan said. “I feel like I’m dying.”

He looked at her closely then and pulled to the side of the road. He said, “As soon as we get a stake, you’re going to rehab. Here, get your watsons on.” And he reached in the pocket of his jeans and took out two Vicodins that he’d been keeping for an emergency. She snatched them from his hand, popped them in her mouth, and chewed them up.

Nigel had the poster-board photograph of The Woman by the Water nailed snugly in place, and it fit even more perfectly than he had hoped. He lifted the baroque frame under the floodlight and said, “I am a genius!”

“I’ll try to always remember that,” Raleigh said.

Nigel carefully hung the frame with the poster-board impostor in it, stood back, adjusted it on its hanger, stood back again, and said, “Could you tell the difference between this and the original under normal lighting? That is, if you were someone who seldom studied this piece or any of the other art that you own? Simply put, if you were silly Leona Brueger or her idiot boyfriend?”

“I have to say, you did a great job,” Raleigh said grudgingly.

“Okay, now we do the second one and we’re finished,” Nigel said. “Could you get me another glass of that refreshing Vichy water?”

Nigel carefully covered The Woman by the Water canvas with the mover’s blanket and tore off strips of masking tape to secure the corners of the folds while Raleigh refilled Nigel’s glass with tap water and a few ice cubes.

When Raleigh brought the water back, he didn’t see that Nigel had moved one of the paintings. Flowers on the Hillside was leaning against the opposite wall, and when Raleigh stepped around the light stand, he accidentally kicked it and it fell over.

“Goddamnit!” Nigel screamed. “You clumsy fool!”

“I’m sorry,” Raleigh said. “I didn’t see it. You moved it.”

“Bugger all!” Nigel said, as he ran to the painting and picked it up, examining it under the floodlight.

“It fell on the back of the canvas,” Raleigh said. “I didn’t hurt it.”

Nigel took deep breaths to calm himself and said, “All right.” Then he took the water tumbler from Raleigh and drank.

When he put the tumbler down, he said, “We’re bundling this piece now before you destroy it. Help me.”

Raleigh spread the mover’s blankets on the tile floor, and each painting was wrapped separately in a blanket and secured with duct tape.

When they were finished, Raleigh said, “I’m getting these paintings into your van before something else happens to make you have a fucking stroke like Marty Brueger.”

Nigel saw that Raleigh’s waning diffidence had morphed into mounting anger, and he was about to say, “No, I’ll do it,” but instead he said, “Okay, I’m sorry I blew up. Yes, take them to my van, but be as careful as you have ever been in your life. Lay them down on the floor of the van, near the rear door. I’ll secure them in place when we finish here.”

Raleigh picked up the blanketed bundles and started for the door, when Nigel said, “Wait a minute. You’ll need the keys.” He felt his pocket and said, “I must’ve left them in the van.” Then he began to fit the poster-board photograph of Flowers on the Hillside into the smaller gilded frame, having to make more adjustments before getting it shimmed snugly into place.

When Raleigh got outside, carrying a bundle under each arm, there was not much left of twilight. Darkness was falling fast on the Hollywood Hills. He had to lean both bundles against the front fender of the van in order to open the door. After he got it open, he picked up each bundle separately and crawled into the van twice, placing each painting on the floor, neither bundle touching the other.

When he was finished, he closed the van door and heard the phone ring. He thought, Mrs. Brueger!

Raleigh ran into the house, raced across the foyer to the wall phone, picked it up, and said “Hello?”

A voice said, “Hi. My name is Amber. May I please speak to the lady of the house?”

Raleigh said, “She’s on the floor right now,” and hung up. He looked at his watch and saw that it would be almost dawn in Tuscany. His nerves. His goddamn nerves were shredded.

There wasn’t enough daylight left for Jonas Claymore to see clearly from his vantage point, peeking over the wall between two junipers. Jonas whispered to Megan, “What’s up with that? Did you check out how careful he put that stuff in the van?”

Megan could make out the lettering on the side of the van and whispered, “Wickland Gallery. It’s gotta be art or something.”

Jonas said, “Whatever it is, it’s gonna belong to us in about two minutes.”

“You’re going down there?” she said.

“Yeah, go start the engine. When I come over the wall be ready to move.”

“They looked like pretty big things he was carrying,” she said. “Whatever it was might not fit in the VW.”

“We’ll make it fit,” he said, and in a few seconds he had squeezed between the junipers and pulled himself up and over the wall.

Jonas scrambled down the little hill that was planted with ivy to hold the soil. In a moment he was creeping along the cobbled driveway. When he got to the side of the cargo van, he grabbed the handle, opening the door as quietly as he could. He peered inside, and even in the darkening shadows he could see that Megan was right. The two bundles were too large to fit in the VW. He crawled inside and lifted one and saw that it was not heavy. He guessed that they were paintings. He thought that in a house like this they must be valuable. Maybe worth five grand, maybe even more. But they were too big to transport in the VW bug.

He was feeling frustration overload and crawled out of the van quietly, ready to scurry back to safety. But while standing outside the van, the tall young man saw that just above eye level on the roof of the van was a ring of keys, where Nigel had put them. He closed the van door quietly and grabbed them, easily locating the ignition key.

Inside the Brueger house, Nigel Wickland was so overjoyed, he was actually whistling softly, and he just about had the smaller Impressionist painting shimmed into place inside the gilded frame.

Nigel said, “Raleigh, hand me that small screwdriver from my toolbox. The one under the-”

“Shut up!” Raleigh said. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” Nigel asked.

“It’s a car engine,” Raleigh said. “It’s your van!”

Raleigh bolted for the front door and switched on the driveway lights in time to see the cargo van stopped momentarily at the security gate until the electronic beam caused the gate to swing open wide.

“Hey!” Raleigh screamed. “Hey!” And he began running after the van, which sped through the gate and headed down the hill, followed by an old Volkswagen bug.

“Hey,” Raleigh said weakly as the gate closed with him inside.

Raleigh stood there staring at the left taillight of the VW bug, the right one having burned out. The little car chugged down toward the flatland, growing smaller, its one eye winking at Raleigh Dibble as it descended in the darkness.

Megan Burke had an epiphany as she followed her partner down from the Hollywood Hills after his shocking theft of the van. She thought of how she had told Jonas, “There are some things I won’t do.” But she was doing them. First the old woman’s TV and now this van. And she thought, I am a thief. I have become a common thief. My life is in ruins. Hollywood is killing me.

Nigel Wickland was standing in the foyer, looking forlorn and helpless, when Raleigh jogged back into the house.

Raleigh said to him, “Why did you leave the fucking keys in the van? Goddamn you, why didn’t you put them in your pocket?”

Nigel’s voice was a rasp when he said, “I told you I had left them in the van, you blockhead. Why didn’t you bring them in?”

“The keys were your responsibility, not mine, you fop,” Raleigh said. “Now what do we do? Now what?”

Nigel turned his back on Raleigh and walked back to the unfinished job. He stood under the floodlight, tall and gaunt, his white hair sparkling beneath the glow. Nigel Wickland had a dizzying moment when he felt like a doomed protagonist in a Shakespearean tragedy. And like Lear he screamed.

Raleigh’s shock and terror were pushing him into a kind of somnambulate state, but Nigel Wickland’s primal scream jolted him out of it. Raleigh froze in place, standing in the foyer watching Nigel Wickland collapse into himself and drop onto the floor on his knees. Then the gallery owner started to weep, and he reached for his inhaler and took two puffs, inhaling deeply and holding his breath until he had to exhale and weep some more.

Raleigh tiptoed past him to the butler’s pantry for a fresh tumbler. He threw in some ice cubes and filled it under the tap. When he returned to the foyer, he put it down beside his crime partner and said, “More Vichy water?”

Nigel wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his coveralls and said, “We’re finished, Raleigh. I think I shall shoot myself before going to the penitentiary. I’m too old for prison.”

For the first time the roles were reversed and Raleigh Dibble felt that it was up to him to salvage something from this catastrophe. But what?

He said, “Shouldn’t we call the police? The cops may get lucky and catch them before they get too far away.”

Nigel stopped weeping entirely and let out a scary laugh, shook his head, and said, “You are really the most benighted human being I have ever met.”

“It’s not too late,” Raleigh said. “The cops might get them.”

“It’s too late,” Nigel croaked. “Too fucking late.”

“Nigel!” Raleigh said desperately. “Even if they get the paintings they’ll probably just dump the van down on one of the boulevards and the police might get fingerprints or DNA or something, and locate them. And they might get the paintings back. I’m calling the police.”

Nigel got to his feet then and said, “If you touch that phone, I swear I will kill you.”

“But why not call them, goddamnit?”

“Because, you fucking fool,” Nigel said, “the last thing we want is for the police to arrest the miserable scum who stole my van!”

Raleigh’s mind was racing now as his panic grew. “But they might catch them before they dispose of the pictures and we could get them back and everything could be okay before Mrs. Brueger gets back from Tuscany and-”

Nigel interrupted, saying, “What do you suppose the police would do if they arrested the thieves and recovered the paintings?”

“They’d find out from the crooks where they stole them, and they’d come here and give them back.”

“Think,” Nigel said, “if that’s possible. They would not bring them here. They would impound the paintings as evidence. They would need the owner of the paintings to testify in court that they were taken from her home. And the owner of the stolen van, who happens to be your partner, would also have to testify how and where the vehicle was stolen.” His voice rose when he said, “So you see, Raleigh, it would all unravel like a filthy fucking ball of yarn that a terrier has dragged through a kennel full of dog shit!”

“You can still report the van as stolen,” Raleigh said, his mouth dusty dry, “if you say it was stolen from your gallery or someplace other than here.”

Nigel looked toward the garish floodlight, then at the poster-board counterfeit hanging on the wall, and then closed his eyes and said, “I’ve partnered with a madman. He is insane.” Nigel opened his eyes and said, “For the reason just explained in the Queen’s English, I cannot risk that the police might get lucky and arrest somebody. Because as soon as they make the vile cretin confess, it would all come right here to this house, where Leona Brueger would ask the police how it was that my van was stolen from her driveway on this lovely night. And then the cock-up would be plain even to the stupidest policeman. Even to Leona herself.”

“What will you say if the van turns up somewhere? Maybe it’ll be parked in a red zone and get impounded.”

“Then I shall be notified and will pay the impound fee and pick it up, saying that I lent it to my wayward nephew and look what he did with it. The best thing that could happen now is if the thieves get in a fiery crash and kill themselves and burn the goddamn paintings to ashes.” That made Nigel’s eyes well, and Raleigh thought he might start bawling again.

“And what’s going to happen to us if the thieves take the paintings to an art dealer here in town? Maybe to an auction house and try to sell them?”

“I believe that their provenance would be discovered soon enough,” Nigel said, looking like a man on a gallows. “And the police would be called in without hesitation, and whether or not they caught the thieves, they would end up here at this house, and through Leona Brueger the police would quickly discover the switch. In which case I might decide to test the aging ammunition in my pistol. I’m too old for prison.”

Raleigh sat trancelike while Nigel completed mounting the poster board into the frame belonging to Flowers on the Hillside. After that, he placed the framed poster board on the original hanger and said, “The work is finished and perhaps so are we.”

“I’m getting sick,” Raleigh said, and ran to the powder room off the foyer. When he returned, he was pale and beads of sweat had popped out on his upper lip and forehead. He wiped his mouth with a hand towel bearing the Brueger monogram.

He said, “Nigel, I’m desperate. I have one last idea. Please hear me out.”

Nigel was putting his tools away and folding the light stand and didn’t stop working when he said, “Go ahead. Impress me with your acuity.”

Raleigh said, “What if we take the framed poster-board pictures and get rid of them? Burn them up somewhere or break them into pieces and drop them in a Dumpster. And I drive you home and come back here and call the police and say that home-invading robbers got in through an unlocked side door and put a gun on me and stole the pictures.”

“Oh, that is brilliant!” Nigel said. “I’m sure they would believe a fucking domestic servant who has only been employed here for a matter of weeks. And who happens to have a prison record. Oh, yes, and I wonder what you would say when they asked you to submit to a lie detector? And in the hopefully unlikely event that they catch the thieves, it would make it ever so much easier to figure out what was going on here, especially after they were able to place my van at the crime scene. Oh, there would be such a jolly time at the station house when they brought you in handcuffed. Do you know what the joke would be for weeks to come?”

Raleigh sat down on a carved antique chair with a needlepoint cushion, his chin hanging almost to his chest, and said, “Tell me the joke. I’m dying to laugh.”

Nigel said, “The joke would be, the butler really did it.”

Raleigh’s head was still spinning when he drove Nigel in the Brueger Mercedes to his Beverly Hills gallery, where his car was parked. Neither spoke for the first twenty minutes. Then Raleigh said, “If the paintings never surface, things can proceed as originally planned, right? You’ll help Mrs. Brueger pack and ship all the art to her storage facility just as you said?”

After a moment Nigel said, “Yes. Just as I planned. Except that I’ve spent a few thousand at the photo lab and I’ve lost a van, at least for now. And I believe that I’ve lost several years from my life as a result of this disaster. But if that should happen, I would be so happy that I’d throw a party and invite everyone I know. Except you.”

Raleigh continued his train of thought and said, “So a long time from now, if the switch is discovered when the art is taken from the storage facility, it’ll be blamed on one of the transporters or a storage yard employee, right?”

Nigel sighed and said, “From your lips to God’s ear.”

“A part of me would feel okay if that happened,” Raleigh admitted. “Maybe we dodged a bullet. I could just go back to being what I am and you can go back to being-”

“Bankrupt,” Nigel said.

“Whatever,” Raleigh said. “At least we won’t be in prison if those crooks never get caught.”

“Raleigh,” Nigel said suddenly, and this time his tone had softened. He sounded almost conciliatory. “If anything untoward should happen…”

There it was again, Raleigh thought. Untoward.

“Yes?”

“If something did go wrong sometime down the road… that is, if something came back on you, would you really bring me into it? I mean, haven’t I suffered enough?”

Raleigh turned to gape at Nigel and almost rear-ended the car in front of him at the stoplight. He said, “Haven’t you suffered enough?”

“Raleigh, there’d be nothing to gain by informing on me,” Nigel said. “What could you really profit from saying that you had a crime partner? I could take a second mortgage on my condominium and sell my business if I had to do it. I could put half of everything I realize from the sale into a trust account for you. I’d do it, gladly.”

“You really are a piece of work, Nigel,” Raleigh said. “Please forgive my clichés, but you are a piece of fucking work.”

“So you’d bargain with my freedom just to curry favor with a prosecutor and have maybe a year or two lopped from your sentence, is that it?”

Raleigh said, “I’d trade your ass to have two months cut from my sentence. Or two weeks. I’d do it for no sentence reduction at all, just to see how you handle your inferiors in the prison yard, you pompous flouncing popinjay!”

There was no more said until Raleigh parked behind Nigel’s gallery, where they unloaded the light stand, floodlight, and toolbox.

Nigel Wickland said, “I don’t suppose we shall need to see each other after tonight.”

“Not in this life,” Raleigh Dibble replied, and headed for the Hollywood Hills.

There was just enough room to park the Volkswagen on Jonas and Megan’s street, so Jonas had to double-park the van beside the car of a tenant who seldom went anywhere at night. They were excited when they got the bundles inside and removed the tape and the mover’s blankets.

Jonas picked up the largest canvas and placed it on the back of the sofa, leaning it against the wall, and then he stepped back to appraise it.

“It’s what you call an Expressionist picture,” he finally said to Megan.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, it’s a picture where the expression on the person’s face tells you what the artist had in mind.”

Megan said, “You can hardly see the woman’s expression if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“That’s the way Expressionists paint,” Jonas said. “You have to look through the fuzzy brushwork and guess what she’s thinking.”

“Do you think it’s really worth five thousand?” she asked doubtfully.

“Just look where it came from. The crib up there in the Hollywood Hills is worth gazillions.”

“Where will we sell it?”

“I don’t know. Not at a swap meet, that’s for sure. We gotta do some research.”

“How about the other one?”

“Not as much,” Jonas said. “It’s smaller, and flowers are overdone these days. All the swap meets have lotsa framed pictures of flowers. But we might get a few Franklins for it.”

“Do you think you’d better get rid of the van? The cops probably have a report on it by now.”

“Yeah,” Jonas said. “I’m gonna dump it over on Normandie after I wipe off all my fingerprints. Gimme a dish towel, will ya?”

When they got out to the street, Jonas was barely seated in the van when 6-X-32 pulled up behind him with red and blue lights on and gave a short toot on the horn. Megan, who was about to get into the VW bug, saw them and headed back to the apartment, having to force herself to walk slowly.

Hollywood Nate approached on the driver’s side of the van and Flotsam on the passenger side, shining his streamlight in on Jonas’s hands. Nate said, “License and registration, please.”

“Sure, Officer,” Jonas said, his chin quivering. “What did I do wrong?”

“Do I have to tell you it’s illegal to double-park like this?” Nate said.

Jonas was so relieved, he felt like crying, and said, “I’m sorry, Officer. I had to make a delivery for my boss. I been working all day and this is the last stop. I’m sorry. Please don’t write me a ticket.”

Jonas tried hard to keep his hand from trembling when he offered the driver’s license to Hollywood Nate, hoping that the registration was in the glove box. Nate didn’t even bother to take the license from him. He looked at the side of the van and said, “Wickland Gallery. This doesn’t look like a gallery neighborhood.”

“We sell good art and crappy art, Officer,” Jonas said. “Real affordable stuff. You and the missus should stop by sometime if you’re thinking about-”

“Crappy art,” Nate said. “I’ll keep that in mind if I ever have another missus and need anything crappier than I’ve got now.”

With that, Nate turned and walked back to the radio car. When they were cruising again, Flotsam said, “Why didn’t you write that one? Double-parker, dude. One for the recap.”

Nate said, “This recession’s been tough on working stiffs like that kid. Besides, all my bones hurt. I just wanna sit in our shop tonight and think of ways I can burn the fucking Goth House to the ground.”

“That reminds me,” Flotsam said, taking out his cell phone to check on Jetsam for the second time.

When the black-and-white pulled away, Megan ran to the Volkswagen and headed toward Normandie Avenue. She drove south for a few blocks until she saw the Wickland Gallery van just past Melrose in front of a liquor store. Jonas was already out and walking northbound when she picked him up.

“I was so scared, Jonas!” she said. “I thought they had a report on the van and you were busted.”

“I’m starting to think I can talk my way outta anything,” he said. “He didn’t even look at my license, so I can’t be connected to the van even if they pick it up. Two cops in one day have tried to hack me and I’m still here. This might be, like, kiss-met.”

“What?”

“It means that destiny is calling. Something big is in my future. You’re lucky you hooked your wagon to a star!”

“I only hope I didn’t hook my wagon to a wagon,” Megan said. “A beat-up old Volkswagen that might end up driving us both straight to jail.”