Monster

Chapter 24

When I left, just after eight P.M., Wilshire was a pretty stream of headlights under a black-pearl sky. My head hurt- stuffed with history and hints. More hatred and intrigue in Treadway than I'd counted on. But still no connection to Claire Argent. Ready to end the workday, I called my service from the pay booth in the parking lot.

An earful: Robin would be delayed till ten, and a particularly obnoxious Encino attorney wanted my help on a festering custody case. He knew I worked only for the court, not as a hired gun, and he hadn't paid his bill for a consultation I'd done last year. Delusions were everywhere.

The fifth message was from Milo: "I'll be at my desk by seven-thirty, get in touch."

The operator said, "He sounded pretty irritated, your detective friend."

I drove to the station, announced myself at the desk, waited as the clerk called up to the Robbery-Homicide room. Uniforms passed in and out. No one paid me any attention as I scanned the Wanted posters. A few minutes later the stairwell door opened and Milo bounded out, brushing hair off his forehead.

"Let's go outside, I need air," he said, not bothering to stop. His suit was the color of curdled oatmeal, the right lapel stained with something green. His tie was tight, his neck was suffering, and he looked like a poster boy for National Hypertension Week.

We reached the sidewalk and started walking up Butler. Dry, acidic heat hung in the air and I wished I'd stopped for a cold drink.

"Nothing on Pelley, yet," he said, "so don't ask. It's the Beatty twins who've been occupying my day. Brother Leroy told people he had an acting gig."

"Which people?"

"His fellow juiceheads. Willis Hooks and I were down at the murder scene this evening. Not far from a liquor store where Leroy used to hang, along with some other grape-suckers. Couple of them said Leroy had bragged about becoming a movie star."

"How long ago was this?" I said.

"Time isn't a strong concept with these guys, but they figure three, four months. Leroy also told his drinking buds he was gonna get his brother involved with the movie-said once the director found out he had a twin, he offered to pay more. The winos thought he was just running his mouth, 'cause Leroy tended to do that when he got sufficiently drunk. They didn't even believe Leroy had a twin. He'd never mentioned Ellroy."

"Did Leroy report back after the filming?"

"No. He returned a week later, cranky, refusing to talk about it. If he'd gotten hold of any cash, no one saw it. His buddies figured he'd gone on a bender, flushed it all down his gullet."

"Or Mr. Griffith D. Wark stiffed someone else," I said. Now my mind was racing. Fragments of history coming together… pieces fitting…

"I thought of that," he said. "None of them saw any tall white guy chatting up Leroy."

"Did Ellroy's drinking pals have anything to say about the movie?"

"Aguilar hasn't found any pals for Ellroy yet. He seems to have been the loner twin, lived by himself near the train tracks. One of the conductors remembers seeing him from time to time, stumbling around. Figured he was crazy because he was always talking to himself."

He scratched the side of his nose. "So here I am, stuck with the movie angle again. Maybe it's a link between Dada and the twins, but still no tie-in with Claire. Except for the fact that she went to the movies. Hell, can't you see me explaining that to her parents? I showed her picture to the bums and they didn't recognize her. No surprise, why would she have gone down to some South Central wino kip? I'm gonna head back tonight to that place in Toluca Lake where Richard used to wait tables-the Oak Barrel. It's a long shot, but maybe Claire dined there. For all we know, Mr. Wark picked up both of 'em there-and incidentally, you were right about Wark being D.W. Griffith's middle name. I looked it up. So this asshole sees himself as a cinema hotshot."

He scratched his head. "This is exactly the kind of flaky bullshit I hate dealing with. Why would Wark-or anyone else-bump offhis cast?"

"Keeping the budget low?" I said. "Better not give the studios any ideas. Seriously, what's going on here? And how-and why-would a robot like Peake be clued in?"

"Maybe Wark's filming murder."

"A snuff thing?"

"That, or a variant-not necessarily a sexual angle. A chronology of unnatural death-a literal blood walk. For the underground market. That would explain why the script's never been registered and why Wark used a fake name to rent his equipment and cut out on the bill. It could also explain the diversity of victims and methods. And the ritualism. We could be dealing with someone who sees himself as a splatter auteur. Playing God by setting up characters-real people- then bumping them off. Psychopaths depersonalize their victims. Wark could be accomplishing the ultimate degradation: reducing his 'cast' to prototypes: The Twins, The Actor, that kind of thing. It's cruel, primitive thinking-exactly the way kids play out their anger. Some angry kids never grow up. As far as Peake is concerned, he could be involved because Wark wants him involved. Because Wark's someone out of Peake's past. Wark's mightily affected by Peake's crimes. Now he's creating his own production, wants to integrate Peake into the process. And I've got a possible candidate for Wark: a fellow named Derrick Crimmins."

I told him everything I'd learned about Treadway. The longtime conflict between the Ardullos and the Crimminses, Scott's affair with Sybil, the Crimmins boys' antisocial behavior, Derrick's involvement with Sybil's abortive theater group.

"He had no special love for his stepmother, Milo, but he stayed involved with her. Because the whole notion of theater-of production-grabbed him personally. He also matches the physical description Vito Bonner gave us of Wark-tall, thin-and his age fits. Derrick would be in his mid-thirties now."

Milo took a long time to think about that. We were walking dark residential streets, shoes slapping the pavement. "So all the Crimminses except this Derrick are dead?"

"Father, stepmother, brother, all by accidental death. Interesting, isn't it?"

"Now he's a family murderer, too?"

"Rigging accidents can also be seen as a form of production-setting up scenes. Derrick was far from a model citizen. Wanda Hatzler described him and his brother as spoiled bullies and possible rapists."

I stopped.

"What?" he said.

"Something else just occurred to me. Sheriff Haas told me that after the murder Peake was found with lots of different drugs in his shack, including some illegal prescription pills, phenobarbital. None was missing from the pharmacy in Treadway and no one in the Ardullo household had obtained a prescription for it. So Haas was certain it had to have been obtained out of town. But no one ever saw Peake leave Treadway. So maybe he had a dope source in town. Wanda saw Derrick and his friends hanging around with Peake, mostly to harass him. Peake offered no resistance, was extremely passive. What if the Crimmins boys were the ones who supplied him with drugs-having fun with the village idiot? The night of the massacre, Peake got massively stoned, his psyche broke down, and he slaughtered the Ardullos. And Derrick and his brother realized they'd played an indirect role in it. Someone else might be horrified by that, but the Crimmins boys had plenty of reason to hate Scott Ardullo. His refusal to sell his land had obstructed their father's big development deal for years. And Scott was sleeping with their stepmother. What if they were pleased with what Peake had done? Took some vicarious credit for it? And, in a sick sense, it was a successful production: the land deal went through, the family became rich again. That kind of high could've been powerful stuff for a kid who'd already shown some serious antisocial tendencies. A few years later, Derrick tries his hand at something more direct: blowing up Daddy and Stepmom's boat. And, once again, he gets away with it."

"Or," he said, "the boat thing really was an accident, someone else gave Peake his dope, Wark's not Derrick, and Derrick's just some playboy drinking pifla coladas in Palm Beach while working on his melanoma."

"All that, too," I said. "But as long as we're being contentious, I'll go you one further: Derrick and Cliff's involvement was more than vicarious. They fed Peake dope and played on his delusions intentionally. Prodded him to kill the Ardullos. They were dominant, aggressive; Peake was passive, impressionable. Maybe they learned that Peake harbored some resentment of his own toward the Ardullos, and they used that. Perhaps they never really expected it to happen-idle teenage dope talk-and when Peake ran amok, they were frightened, initially. Then amazed. Then pleased." He knuckled his eyes. "What happened during your childhood to make you think this way?"

"Too much spare time." Alcoholic father, depressed mother, dark hours alone in the basement fighting to escape the noise upstairs, struggling to create my own world… "My, my, my."

"At the very least," I said, "wouldn't it be good to find out where Derrick lives, what his financial situation is, does he have some sort of police record?"

"Fine," he said. "Fine."

Back in Robbery-Homicide, he played with the computer. No wants or warrants out on Derrick Crimmins, no listings on the sex offender rosters or the FBI's VICAP file, and as far as we could tell, he wasn't occupying space in any California jail.

A call to the Department of Motor Vehicles police info line revealed zero current registrations under that name.

Same for Griffith D. Wark. Find-A-Person yielded several D. Crimminses but no Derricks. No G.D. Wark.

Milo said, "I'll follow up with Social Security tomorrow. I'll even check out the death certificates for the Crimmins family, just to show you I care. Where exactly did the boat thing go down?"

"All I know is, out on the water off the coast of south Florida," I said. "Brother Cliff crashed on a motocross run in Pimm, Nevada."

He scribbled, closed his pad, got up heavily. "Whoever this Wark is, how's he contacting Peake?"

"Maybe with ease," I said. "Maybe he works at Starkweather."

He grimaced. "Meaning I need to get a look at personnel records. My old pal Mr. Swig… If this Blood Walk is a mega-snuff, you think Wark's actually hoping to sell it?"

"Or he just wants to keep it around for his own amusement. If he's Derrick and he inherited a bundle and doesn't need money, it could be one big, sick diversion."

"A game."

"I always thought the murders had a gamelike quality to them."

"If only," he said, "you were a stupid guy and I could kiss off your fantasies… Okay, back to Planet Earth. The Oak Barrel."

"I'll come with, if you want."

He checked his Timex. "What about hearth and home?"

"Too hot to light a fire in the hearth, and the home's empty for a couple more hours."

"Suit yourself," he said. "You drive."

Toluca Lake's a pretty secret sandwiched between North Hollywood and Burbank. The main drag is a curving eastern stretch of Riverside Drive lined with low-profile shops, many with their original forties and fifties facades. The housing ranges from garden apartments to major estates. Bob Hope used to live there. Other stars still do, mostly those leaning toward the GOP. Lots of the great Western flicks were shot nearby, at Burbank Studios and up in the surrounding foothills. The Equestrian Complex is just a short drive away, as is NBC headquarters.

A quick turn on either side of Riverside takes you onto quiet streets emptied at night by permit-only parking and an attentive police force. Toluca Lake restaurants tend to be dim and spacious, leaning toward that unclassifiable fare known as continental cuisine, once an L.A. staple, now nearly extinct west of Laurel Canyon. White hair doesn't elicit sneers from the wait staff, martinis aren't the retro craze of the minute, piano bars endure.

From time to time I testify in a Burbank court and find myself down here, thinking about the perfect suburbia of black-and-white TV shows: moderne furniture, fat sedans, dark lipstick. Jack Webb tippling steely-eyed at a vinyl-padded bumper, winding down after a long day on the set. Nearby might be the guy who played Ward Cleaver, whatever his name was.

I'd been to a few of the Riverside Drive restaurants, but not the Oak Barrel. It turned out to be a modest stack of bricks and stucco squatting on a southeastern corner, half-lit by streetlamps, the cask-and-tankard logo discreetly outlined in green neon above the porte cochere. A parking lot twice the size of the restaurant put the construction date at late forties, early fifties. No valet, just a well-lit asphalt skillet with scores of spaces, a quarter of them occupied. Lincolns, Cadillacs, Buicks, more Lincolns.

The front door was oak inlaid with a panel of bubbled glass. We walked in, confronted a lattice screen, stepped around it into a small reception area backed by the cocktail lounge. Four drinkers flashing elbow. TV news winking above a wall full of bottles. No sound on the set. The air was icy, seasoned with too-delicate piano music, the lighting barely strong enough to let us make out colors. But the maitre d's bright green jacket managed to work its way through the gloom.

He was tall, at least seventy, with slicked white hair, Roman features, and black-rimmed eyeglasses. A reservation book was spread out before him on the oak lectern. Plenty of open slots. The lattice blocked a view of the main dining room to his left, but I could hear silverware clatter, conversational thrum. The pianist was turning "Lady Be Good" into a minuet.

The maitre d' said, "Good evening, gentlemen." Capped smile, clear diction peppered by an Italian accent. As we came closer, he said, "Ah, Detective. Nice to see you again." A small gold rectangle on his jacket was engraved LEW.

"Hey, you remember," said Milo, with joviality that might've been real.

"I still got a memory. And we don't get too many police, not here. So this time you come to eat?"

"To drink," said Milo.

"This way." A green sleeve flourished. "You making any progress on Richard?"

"Wish I could say I was," said Milo. "Speaking of which, has this woman ever been here?" A photo of Claire had snapped into his hand like a magician's dove.

Lew smiled." 'Speaking of which,' huh? You here to drink anything but information?"

"Sure. Beer, if you carry that."

Lew laughed and peered at the picture. "No, sorry, never saw her. Why? She know Richard?"

"That's what I'd like to know," said Milo. "Tell me, is there anything else that came to mind since the last time I was here?"

The maitre d' handed back the photo. "Nah. Richard was a good boy, quiet. Good worker. We don't usually hire the so-calleds, but he was okay."

"The so-calleds," I said.

"So-called actors, so-called directors-mostly they're punks, think they're overqualified for everything, doin' you a big favor to show up. Nine times outta ten they can't handle carrying a bread plate or they end up mouthing off to some regular and I gotta untangle everybody's shorts."

He reached behind his back and tugged upward.

"We prefer old guys," he said. "Classy pros. Like me. But Richard was okay for a kid. Polite-'madam' and 'sir,' not that goddamn 'you guys.' Nice boy, very nice boy, that's why even though he wanted to be an actor I hired him. Also, he begged me. Said he really needed the money. And I was right about him. Good worker, got the orders right, no complaints- c'mon, let's go over, get you gents a nice drink."

The bar was an enormous lacquered walnut parabola rimmed with red leather. Brass bar, red stools with brass legs. The four drinkers were all glassy-eyed middle-aged men wearing sport coats. One necktie, three sport shirts with open collars spread over wide lapels. Plenty of space between them. They stared into tall glasses on paper coasters, dipped thick hands into dishes of nuts, olives, roast peppers, sausage chunks, pink curls of boiled shrimp pierced by red plastic toothpicks. The bartender was pushing sixty, dark-skinned, with luxuriant hair and the face of a carved tiki god. He and a couple of the drinkers looked up as Lew showed us to the end of the bar, but a second later, everyone had settled back into booze hypnosis.

Lew said, "Hernando, bring these gents…"

"Grolsch," said Milo. I asked for the same and Lew said, "Some of that sauterne for me, the reserve stuff, but just a little."

Hernando's hands moved like a chop-sockey hero. After he'd delivered the drinks and returned to the center of the bar, Milo said, "You ever get a customer named Wark?"

"Work?"

"Wark." Milo spelled it. "Mid to late thirties, tall, thin, dark hair, could be curly. Claims to be a film producer."

The maitre d's eyes were merry. "Plenty of claims-to-be's, but no, I don't recall any Wark."

Milo sipped his beer. "What about Crimmins? Derrick Crimmins. He might have come in with a woman, younger, long blond hair."

" 'Might,' 'maybe'-this is still about Richard?"

"Maybe," said Milo.

"Sorry, no Crimmins either, but people come in without reservations, we don't know their names."

"We're talking eight, nine months ago. Would you remember every name-even with an excellent memory?"

Lew looked hurt. "You want me to check the reservation books, I'm happy to do it, but I can tell you right now, weird names like that I'd definitely remember." He closed his eyes. "Tall and skinny, huh? Richard's customer?"

"Could be."

"I am thinking of one guy, never gave me a name, just waltzed in expecting to be seated-but no girl, just him. I remember him clearly because he caused problems. Monopolized Richard's time to the point where the other customers weren't getting their food. They start complaining to the bus-boys, the busboys gripe to me, I have to deal with it. Another reason I remember was it was the only time I had any kind of problem with Richard. Not that he gave me any lip-it wasn't his problem, it was the guy's, just kept gabbing to Richard and Richard didn't know what to do. He'd just been working here for a few weeks. We drum into 'em, The customer's always right, so this musta put Richard in a situation, know what I mean? So I have to deal with it, doing my best to be polite, but the guy is not polite about it. Gives me the look, like who am I to tell him, know what I mean?"

"Did Richard say what the guy was talking to him about?"

"No, but the guy did. Something like, 'Hey, I could be his meal ticket, you think he wants to work here for the rest of his life?' Richard's off at another table, looking at me out of the corner of his eye, letting me know this isn't his idea. I offered the guy some comp wine, but he just said something nasty, threw down money, and left. Barely covered the check, not much left over for Richard. Caesar salad, veal parmigiana, German chocolate cake."

"So tell me," said Milo, "what song was the piano playing?"

Lew grinned. "Probably 'You Talk Too Much.' " He shrugged. "I'm just lucky, always had a memory, never bother with that elderberry stuff, Ginkgo biloba, any a that. Tell the truth, sometimes it's not fun. I got two ex-wives I wouldn't mind forgetting." His laugh was phlegmy. "You got pictures of this Wark guy, I can tell you right away if it's the same one."

"Not yet," said Milo. "Can you describe him?"

"Six-two, maybe -three, skinny, those all-black clothes like they do now, the so-calleds. My day, that was going to a funeral."

"Hair?"

"Long, dark. Not curly, though. Straight down-like a wig. Come to think of it, it probably was a wig. Big nose, little eyes, skinny little mouth. Not a good-looking guy. Hungry like, know what I mean? And tan-like he baked himself under a lamp."

"How many times did he come in here?"

"Just that once. One thing that might help, I saw his car. Corvette. Not a new one-the style with the big swoop in front? Bright yellow. Like a taxicab. I saw it because after he left, I cracked the door, made sure he was really leaving. You're saying he had something to do with Richard getting killed? Sonofabiteh."

"Don't know," said Milo, finishing his drink. "You've been very helpful. I appreciate it. Is there anyone else working tonight who might remember the guy?"

Lew ran his finger around his wineglass. The sauterne was brassy gold. He hadn't touched it. "Maybe Angelo-I'll check. Want a refill?"

"No, thanks. You didn't happen to get a look at the Corvette's license plate? Even a few numbers."

"Ha," said the maitre d'. "You're one a those cockeyed optimists, huh? Like in the song-think I'll go tell Doris to play that."