Hollywood Hills hs-4 Page 10

  Viv Daley crept into the apartment. She stepped gingerly into the cluttered living room and was so instantly relieved that her legs almost buckled. The thirteen-month-old was safe in her playpen, her face tear-streaked but she wasn’t crying now. She wore a white jersey with a pink duck on the front, and a diaper, and she was sitting and staring at a brown teddy bear on the floor of the playpen as though in a daze.

  “Hello, sweetie,” Viv said to the little girl, who turned and looked at her in confusion.

  Then Viv rushed hopefully into the bedroom and found the baby boy. He was wearing only a diaper and was dangling from the upper rail of the crib from a cord to a cell phone charger that had been tied around his neck. His face was purple and his eyes were shut tight.

  “No!” Viv shouted, not even aware that she’d spoken.

  She jerked the cord from the crib and her fingers slipped twice before she untied it from where it was digging into the soft flesh of the infant’s neck, and she said, “I knew it! I knew it!”

  And then she thought, This baby’s dead. What am I doing? This is a crime scene and this baby’s dead!

  Still, she lifted the infant, thinking, He’s so light. He’s so small. She put the baby into the crib, and for no reason she could later fathom, she covered him to his wounded neck with his cotton blanket.

  Viv stared at the dead baby and thought, All evening I imagined this. I knew Dryden could get in from the roof. I knew it. Why didn’t I act on it? Why didn’t I push the boss for a stakeout? What kind of cop am I?

  The baby girl in the next room started crying then and was standing, holding on to the playpen rail. Viv went to her and picked her up, and she looked at Viv in shock and confusion and said, “Mommy.”

  The toddler wrapped her arms around Viv’s neck, and Viv felt the silky blond hair against her cheek, and the child said it again: “Mommy.”

  Viv said, “Hush, baby, hush.” And she began rocking her back and forth and didn’t hear Sergeant Murillo, who appeared behind her along with Snuffy Salcedo and Hollywood Nate, who remained in the hallway, looking in through the open door.

  Viv was a lot calmer now and she said in a monotone to her sergeant, “In there. I found the baby hanging by the neck from the crib rail. I hoped he might still be alive so I took him down. But of course he wasn’t. I put him to bed.”

  Sergeant Murillo looked at her and entered the bedroom for only a moment before he returned.

  He said quietly to Viv, “Don’t touch anything else. A homicide team and SID will be here very soon to process the scene, and FID’s also on the way. They’ll separate you and Adams and it’ll be a very long night of questions, from FID especially, but this is obviously an in-policy shooting, so I don’t want you to stress over it. Just tell them exactly how it went down.”

  “I knew this might happen,” Viv said quietly to Sergeant Murillo. “It’s almost like I could see him coming in from the roof.”

  After hesitating, Sergeant Murillo looked at his officer and said in an even quieter voice, “Adams told me all about that, and yes, the ladder’s still in place on the carport roof where the dead man left it. But you didn’t know this would happen. It was just what-if speculation on your part. The place looked perfectly secure. You don’t have a crystal ball. Nobody could’ve anticipated this, Viv. You can’t blame yourself. The dead guy’s to blame. Nobody else.”

  Viv Daley put the tot in the playpen and she immediately began crying and held her arms out to Viv saying, “Mommy, Mommy.”

  “She thinks you’re her mommy,” Sergeant Murillo said. “Dear lord.”

  Snuffy Salcedo, still in the common hallway with Hollywood Nate, said, “Jesus Christ. This is too awful.”

  Nate said nothing and Snuffy turned and went downstairs.

  “I gotta get outta here,” Viv said to Sergeant Murillo.

  “Viv,” he said. “You and your partner will have to be separated while you wait for FID. We’re gonna see a lot of people around here in a little while. We’ll transport the little girl.”

  When Viv got to the doorway, Hollywood Nate stood aside for her. She turned once to look back at the child in the playpen who held out her arms to Viv and between sobs said more urgently, “Mommy!”

  Viv descended the stairwell to the lobby floor and found four cops from Watch 3 keeping neighbors away from the crime scene tape. Snuffy Salcedo was talking to Flotsam and Jetsam, who were in the street directing traffic and waving the criminalists’ van from SID into a parking space. Several of the uniformed cops whispered to one another, an indication that word had spread quickly about what Viv Daley had found in the third-floor apartment.

  Flotsam said somberly to Jetsam, “Dude, remember how the Oracle always told us that doing good police work was the most fun we’d ever have in our entire lives?”

  Jetsam said, “Yeah, and Viv and Georgie did real good police work when they lit up that fucking maniac.”

  “True,” Flotsam said, “but I don’t think this night’s going on their desktop in the category of fun.”

  Georgie was standing on the sidewalk outside the tape with the watch commander, Lieutenant O’Reilly, who was awaiting the imminent arrival of homicide detectives and the administrative team from Force Investigation Division, as well as the coroner’s body snatchers. But when he saw Viv emerge from the building, he left the lieutenant and approached her.

  She looked at her partner, at the anxiety in his eyes, and Georgie said to her, “I never thought it could happen, sis. Honest to god, I never thought for a second that anything like this could happen.”

  “Please, Gypsy, shut the fuck up,” Viv Daley said.

  NINE

  Raleigh Dibble went to work for the Bruegers two weeks after his employment interview, and Leona Brueger was so pleased with him that she decided to leave with Rudy Ressler for Tuscany the following week. Julius Hampton did not attempt to sabotage the job for his employee despite his disappointment and irritation at losing Raleigh on such short notice. When Leona’s attorney phoned Julius Hampton for a reference, the old man truthfully said that Raleigh had been a splendid butler, cook, driver, and companion. He added that he hated to lose Raleigh but he could not compete with the money that Leona was offering.

  The thing that clinched it with Leona Brueger was Raleigh’s work in the kitchen. He demonstrated what he could do during an impromptu luncheon for Leona and a few friends, including Rudy Ressler. Raleigh prepared a simple coq au vin, minus the diced pork in case anyone had religious dietary issues. Leona Brueger’s Guatemalan housekeeper and cook, Marta Sandoval, was sixty-six years old and planning to retire anyway, since the house was going to be put on the market. She told Leona Brueger that she was not jealous of the new man and was delighted to receive three months’ severance pay. She planned on moving to the home of her eldest daughter in East Los Angeles.

  Raleigh decided during that impromptu luncheon that Julius Hampton had been right about Rudy Ressler. The schmuck actually complained that Raleigh’s quiche appetizer had a “pinch” too much salt in it.

  Pinch this, you phony, Raleigh thought, but replied, “I’m so sorry, sir. Can I get you anything else? A fruit and cheese plate, perhaps? A few sips of delicate Chablis with a hint of strawberry will cleanse any salt from your palate. May I get you a glass?”

  Raleigh went to the butler’s pantry and poured the director a glass of screw-top Chardonnay that he used for cooking and placed it before the director, saying, “It’s an amusing little Chablis, sir. The hint of strawberry is balanced by an essence of mint, I believe.”

  Rudy Ressler passed the glass under his nose, sampled a tiny sip, and said, “Yes, I can taste the strawberry and the mint, but it’s not overpowering.” He sipped again and said, “That’s a fine choice, Raleigh. Thank you.”

  Raleigh Dibble was willing to put up with just about anything in that house, especially after Leona Breuger promised him an unspecified bonus when she returned from Tuscany. She told him that she would then begin prep
aring the house for what she called “the big fall sale of Casa Brueger.” Nigel Wickland told Raleigh that when she felt the urge, Leona Brueger could be “crazily generous” and that the bonus might be substantial.

  Raleigh didn’t even mind Leona Brueger’s eighty-seven-year-old brother-in-law, Marty Brueger, who stayed in the guest cottage almost all of the time, watching the E! network with his dentures in a glass beside his chair grinning at him. The wizened old coot never so much as entered the main house unless he was looking for whiskey, so Raleigh tried to make sure that the liquor cabinet in the cottage was well stocked.

  Marty Brueger was shrunken from age and spinal stenosis, and he spent most of his time in his chair with his legs elevated on a pillow. Marty had a nest of wiry hair with some surprising sprouts of black growing among the dull gray strands. He wore thick glasses that made his brown eyes appear enormous and he looked like an ancient frazzled parrot. Leona Brueger told Raleigh that her brother-in-law had been an energetic skirt chaser until recent years, and his uncontrolled libido had been the cause of expensive paternity lawsuits when he was a young man, and sexual harassment lawsuits when he got old.

  She said to Raleigh, “Just make sure Marty has some T and A videos to look at and good whiskey to drink, and he’ll be no trouble.”

  One of the first things the old man said to Raleigh was “Can you make good chili? Since Chasen’s closed down, nobody in this goddamn town can make a decent bowl of chili. I miss Dave and Maud Chasen like I miss my prostate.”

  “Mr. Brueger,” Raleigh said, “you’re in luck. Back when I was in college, I worked one summer as a busboy at Chasen’s. I kept my eyes open and my palate on high alert. My chili won’t disappoint you.”

  Of course it was a complete lie, but Raleigh had made enough chili in his day that he figured he could please the geezer, and he did.

  Raleigh had everything well under control by the time Leona Brueger and Rudy Ressler actually left for Italy. Marta Sandoval stayed on for only two days after her employer was gone, which was just long enough to tidy up the house and change all the towels and bed linens. With the help of two grandsons, she moved all of her clothes and belongings from the housekeeper’s quarters to a rented van, and she was gone. And then, with Marty Brueger tucked away in the cottage most of the time, Raleigh Dibble had the entire Brueger estate to himself, and it was sweet.

  The security system was sophisticated but Raleigh learned it easily enough. The outside lights and video cameras were elaborate and took a bit of practice. He only had to take Marty Brueger to dinner two times in the first two weeks, once to Musso and Frank, of course, and then to the Formosa Café. The elderly Hollywood rich still loved the few old hangouts remaining. Raleigh was sure that the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel would be on the itinerary as soon as the old boy remembered clearly that he’d once loved their Neil McCarthy salad.

  Marty bored Raleigh with personal anecdotes about all the celebrities in the caricature drawings on the walls of the Formosa Café, but Raleigh figured they were lies. He deduced that Marty Brueger was just the slacker sibling of an older brother who had made sure his kid brother was taken care of in old age. Still, Marty Brueger was even less trouble to care for than Julius Hampton had been, so Raleigh had no complaints, and he indulged the old man as much as possible.

  Raleigh lived contentedly for nearly a month, and then one evening he got a call from Nigel Wickland. Nigel asked if Raleigh could meet him in Beverly Hills at Nic’s on North Canon Drive for some “filet mignon with blueberries.”

  When Raleigh responded, “Puh-leeeze, Nigel, are you serious?” the art dealer said, “All right, never mind the trendy food. We’ll just have a martini or two and a plate of their crispy onions. Meet me there at five thirty.”

  The guy was a mystery, Raleigh thought, and just about impossible to predict. Nigel had gotten him this great gig with the Bruegers, yet he hadn’t wanted any thanks or favors in return. Now there was clearly a sense of urgency in the art dealer’s latest invitation. Before he left for the meeting, Raleigh walked out of the main house to the cottage and made sure that Marty Brueger was contentedly watching his big-screen TV.

  “I’m going grocery shopping,” he said to the old man. “I’ll make you a nice supper when I get back.”

  “Before you go, take the video out and put in the one on the shelf,” Marty Brueger croaked. “I think I like Keeping Up with the Kardashians even more than The Girls Next Door, don’t you? And stop at the liquor store and pick up a bottle of Jameson’s Irish whiskey. Get me the rare stuff that costs two hundred bucks a bottle. Just tell them to bill it to Leona.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Brueger,” Raleigh said. “I won’t be long.”

  Raleigh made sure that every door in the main house was locked and then set the alarm and video cameras. He had permission to drive the Mercedes SL550, which Leona Brueger called her “runaround town” car, so he decided to take it instead of his old Toyota. He liked the way the car hugged the road as he drove down from the Hollywood Hills on his way to Nic’s on North Canon Drive.

  Raleigh found Nigel Wickland waiting in the Martini Lounge and he looked agitated. There was a busy late-afternoon crowd, and Nigel was sitting at a table sipping a vodka martini instead of his usual daiquiri. The art dealer’s bonhomie wasn’t on display this time when he motioned Raleigh to sit.

  “Did you get caught in traffic?” Nigel asked, as though annoyed.

  “No, but I had to lock up and see that Mr. Brueger was okay,” Raleigh said. “I’m only twenty minutes late.”

  “Perfectly all right,” Nigel said quickly.

  For once, he wasn’t sartorially turned out like the Savile Row snobs that Raleigh had despised during his London days. Nigel was wearing a gray seersucker jacket that needed cleaning and a slightly wrinkled white dress shirt open at the throat.

  After Raleigh’s drink arrived Nigel said, “How old are you, Raleigh?”

  Raleigh sipped and said, “What’s this all about?”

  “I’m older than I look,” Nigel Wickland said. “I’m sixty-four years old.”

  No, you look it, Raleigh thought. The art dealer had a faint scar running behind his ear that Raleigh hadn’t noticed before. He’s had work done, but he still looks his age, Raleigh thought. Then he said to Nigel, “I’m fifty-eight.”

  “It’s hell when you know you’re growing old and can’t afford it,” Nigel said. “It’s frightening, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean, ‘can’t afford it’?”

  Nigel said, “You’re making a good wage with the Bruegers, but, Raleigh, it’s going to end in a few months. They’re not taking you with them when they move to their vineyard in Napa. You’ll be out of work again.”

  “No, I didn’t see myself as a grape picker in Napa,” Raleigh said, a bit insulted. “I expect I’ll get by in life without sitting at a stoplight with a sign saying, ‘Will Butler for Food.’ I’ll find another position. I’ll get by.”

  “Aren’t you tired of just getting by?” Nigel Wickland was so intense that Raleigh hesitated.

  Then Raleigh said, “Maybe I’ll find me a Leona Brueger and marry her like that weasel Rudy Ressler is doing. Or maybe I’ll win a big lottery.”

  Nigel Wickland showed Raleigh a patronizing smile, ran his fingers nervously through his mane of white hair, and said, “Be realistic, Raleigh.”

  Raleigh drained his glass and said, “You be realistic, Nigel. Or more to the point, be straightforward. What’re you getting at?”

  Nigel Wickland picked up his cocktail napkin and dabbed at his mouth, at the bead of sweat that had popped out above his upper lip. In fact, Raleigh saw, there was sweat forming on his brow as well. Then he said, “I’m in financial trouble, Raleigh. This fucking recession is killing my business. I may have to let Ruth go and I don’t know how long I can keep the bloody doors open.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Raleigh said as Nigel signaled for a round of fresh drinks.

  “Yo
u and I,” Nigel said, “we could help each other. We could form a… partnership and help each other.”

  “What kind of partnership?”

  “You could make more money than you’ve ever imagined,” Nigel Wickland said.

  “I tried that,” Raleigh said. “And did eight months at Lompoc in a room with lots of guys you wouldn’t care for at all.”

  Then, with a burst of words spoken so fast that it took Raleigh a moment to comprehend, Nigel Wickland said, “I just want you to let me into the house some afternoon for an hour or two. I’ll need you to turn off the video cameras and let me in unseen. And you can help me for a few minutes and then go tend to Marty Brueger in his cottage until I’m ready to go.”

  After digesting the import of the art dealer’s words, Raleigh said, “For this I’m going to make more money than I’ve ever dreamed of? And what do I tell the police when you steal her jewelry or whatever it is that you have in mind, Nigel? Do I tell them that a home invader came in with guns blazing, or what?”

  Nigel Wickland said, “I just want to photograph two of her paintings.”

  “Photograph her paintings?”

  “Yes, I’ve had some experience with photography and I think I can do it. All I’ll have to do is return one more time two weeks later for about another hour, and that’s it.”

  “I think you’ve been drinking too many of those martinis, Nigel,” Raleigh said. “You’re not making sense.”

  “It’s about a painting switch,” Nigel said. “I know of a custom lab owned by a sweet young man with whom I once had an understanding. He has mild Asperger’s syndrome and can hardly manage to shake hands whenever we meet, but he’s a marvel at what he does in a photo laboratory. I can shoot two of the Brueger paintings with a digital camera and get the proportions exactly correct. Then I can take the disc to him, and I guarantee you that he will produce an enlargement on poster board to the precise measurement of the paintings in Leona Brueger’s house. It will cost me three thousand dollars but he’s already promised that if he gets his money up front, he can get the work done in a fortnight, no questions asked.” Then Nigel added, “That’s two weeks.”