Private Eye 2 - Blue Movie Read online

  "Eva Miles," Villanova said in his deep, husky voice. "Twenty-three going on forty."

  "Hell, Hank, try twenty-three going on dead."

  Villanova snatched the photos from Cleary's hand. "Civilians ain't supposed to fondle the evidence."

  Cleary laughed. "You wouldn't know evidence if it bit you, Hank."

  "At least I'm still a cop."

  "Which doesn't say much for the LAPD."

  Villanova started to respond, but a young, chattering man bustled into the room. "I'm here. The party can start."

  "What took you so long?" Villanova growled.

  "Just cleared the scene of a double killing over in Boyle Heights. Two chinks or something went at each other with barbecue forks. They both bled to death before the ambulance bothered to make an appearance. I'm gonna mention how long it took for the friggin' ambulance to get there."

  Villanova made a face. "And here I thought you were shacked up in some hotel with a two-bit hooker."

  "Who, me? Oh, by the way, Hank, your wife said to pick up a loaf of bread on your way home."

  Donny Breedlove, a local reporter, feigned fear when Villanova reached for him. He danced out of the cop's clumsy reach. "Just kidding, Hank. Hi, there, Cleary. I hear you phoned in the report. What's up?"

  Cleary looked at Villanova. "Since when did the department start waiting on ghouls like this?"

  Breedlove pretended offense. "Listen to this. Insulted by an ex-cop turned private dick. Where's the body, Villanova?"

  As a rule, Breedlove covered the glittery stories coming out of Hollywood, but he wanted to be a novelist. As a result, he often volunteered to cover homicides—"to absorb the color," he liked to say. Cleary couldn't tolerate the brash young man. That the dislike was mutual didn't bother Cleary in the least.

  The cop made a face. "Spread between the bathroom and the bedroom. You'll find her head in the tub—what's left of it. The rest of her is in the bedroom."

  Breedlove hiked his eyebrows. "Sounds like a juicy one."

  He headed into the bedroom.

  "Watch this," Villanova whispered to Cleary. Seconds later, the reporter backed out of the room, his face ashen. "Jesus, it looks like she got hit by a threshing machine."

  "If you're gonna puke, do it here in the sink," the cop said, punching Cleary with his elbow.

  Charlie Fontana followed the shaken reporter out of the room. "Just stay outta my way, Breedlove."

  The young reporter was breathing deeply, trying to hold down his lunch. "Give me a statement, Lieutenant, and I'll be glad to blow this scene."

  Fontana brushed right by him as he approached Cleary.

  Breedlove grabbed his arm as he passed. "Dammit, Charlie, I'm gonna need something from you."

  Fontana whipped his arm away from Breedlove. "You ever touch me again, and what you'll need is new teeth."

  "Sorry, Charlie."

  "The name's Fontana—Lieutenant Fontana." Donny Breedlove nodded his understanding as he pulled a notebook from his pocket. "Can you tell me anything?"

  Fontana glanced at Cleary, his former partner, a weary look on his face. "The victim was a female Caucasian, approximately five feet four, about a hundred and ten pounds. She died of what appears to be massive blunt-instrument trauma by an assailant or assailants unknown."

  Breedlove looked up from his pad. "Blunt-instru-ment trauma? It looks to me like some psycho case cut off her head, arms, and legs."

  "We suspect that the dismemberment was postmortem—that means it occurred after the assault."

  "Christ, Fontana. I know what postmortem means. So, who was she?"

  "According to the manager of the place, this unit was rented to an Eva Miles. The personal effects in here belong to an Eva Miles. We're making a preliminary identification that the body we have is Eva Miles."

  Breedlove finished writing. "Does that mean you're not sure?"

  "You saw her face—what was left of it, I mean. What do you think, wise guy?" Fontana snapped. He then looked to the other detective. "Get this asshole outta here, Hank."

  Villanova put an arm around Breedlove's shoulder.

  "Come on hotshot. I'll show you the rest of her. You ain't seen nothin' yet."

  As soon as the reporter was out of sight, Fontana put a hand on Cleary's shoulder. "You pegged it, Jack. The killer punched out the bedroom lock and came in through the window. I'd say he surprised her as she was coming out of the bathroom—maybe after a shower."

  "Looks to me like she put up quite a struggle. I'd say she didn't have any idea who the assailant was."

  "Sounds reasonable."

  The cop was sorting through the collection of personal effects. "What are you working on, Jack?"

  Cleary sighed. "I knew you were going to ask."

  "Hell, Jack, it's my job. You oughta—"

  "I know... I know," Cleary said, cutting off his friend. "It was a missing person—just that."

  "So, who's your client?"

  Cleary turned away. "I can't tell you that, not just yet. I'd like a little time to break the news to my client."

  "Damn it to hell, Jack. I've got a dismembered corpse here. We've got an axe murderer walking the streets. Whoever did this might be some nut—another Jack the Ripper—maybe looking for somebody else to butcher. I don't wanna hear about your ethics!"

  "I know that, Charlie. Look, the guy hired me to find his daughter. It looks like I did—too damned late. I'd just like to tell him before he hears it somewhere else. I owe him that."

  Fontana eyed Cleary with obvious suspicion.

  "Since when did you become compassionate?"

  "The guy's a friend."

  Charlie threw up his hands. "Okay, I'll keep it quiet, but I want the name. You got my word I won't mention it until you have time to break the news to him."

  "Congressman McNeil."

  "Huh?"

  "My client's Tom McNeil."

  Fontana was frowning. "McNeil's got no daughters."

  "Not now he doesn't." Cleary picked up the photo of Eva Miles with Lou Kaplan. "She was illegitimate. I guess she wasn't the kind of daughter a politician can afford to show off or take on campaign trips."

  Fontana whistled.

  And Cleary shut up as Donny Breedlove walked out of the bathroom with Villanova. The reporter was still pale, but he was already back to his obnoxious self. "I can see the headlines now," he announced. "Porn Queen Chopped To Bits."

  Fontana did nothing to conceal his distaste. "You're an asshole, Breedlove."

  Cleary, though, was staring hard at Villanova. "If I was a betting man, Charlie, I'd say your big cop here's getting a little payola from Breedlove. From what I gathered, he musta tipped him. Five'll get you ten he told the scum that she was making blue movies."

  "He's a pal of mine," Villanova protested.

  Breedlove was loading film in his camera. "While you guys are chewing the fat, I'm gonna get a couple of shots for the late edition."

  The reporter stepped back to the bathroom door and clicked off a shot. He was advancing a film when the camera was ripped out of his hands.

  "What the-—"

  Cleary had the camera. "Like I said, Breedlove, you're a ghoul."

  He drew back the hand holding the camera.

  "For God's sake, Cleary—"

  The camera struck the kitchen wall with such force it exploded. Exposed film poured out onto the floor. Cleary could hear Breedlove shouting as he walked away from Apartment 104.

  The Honorable Tom McNeil stood before a bank of microphones. Camera flashes assaulted his eyes, but he had learned long ago how to talk blind.

  "As you know," he was saying, "the health of the movie industry is a vital factor in the economic stability of southern California and the district I represent. It's crucial that we maintain an appropriate economic environment for the industry. I've always felt a great sympathy with organized labor, and in this case I think this bill is a benefit to the average industry employee. With the move toward television
, we could see a lot of movie people out of work."

  Andy Milchik didn't wait for the congressman to take questions. "Come on, Tom, you know this legislation just about castrates the labor movement in the film industry. It's pure right-to-work and nothing else."

  McNeil smiled tolerantly at the columnist. "I have Michael Cornell with me. As most of you know, he's president of the Screen Actors Guild. Mr. Cornell is perfectly happy with the legislation."

  Milchik eyed the actor who had become known as the "Errol Flynn of the Bs." In recent years, he starred in a string of cheap sci-fi and horror flicks that, by some quirk of fate, had gained popular appeal, probably because of everyone's fear of the A-bomb. More recently, he had landed the lead in a new TV series that looked promising.

  "How about that, Michael? Do the members of SAG really support this kind of legislation?"

  Cleary had eased into the press conference. He smiled as he watched Cornell deftly ease McNeil away from the microphone. "The sentiment among SAG favors this legislation, Andy. As usual, you're a liberal voice in the pinko wilderness. The idea of labor unions are fine, but people have a right to choose whether they want to join. This is America, remember? Besides that, a closed-shop attitude could put a lot of our people out of work. That's all Congressman McNeil's saying."

  "Aaron Tomac hasn't even been buried yet," Milchik shouted.

  McNeil, a long-time political veteran, wasn't too bashful to reclaim the microphone. "That's a cheap shot, Andy. Tomac was a man of vision and principle. This bill does nothing to tarnish his memory. To those of you with open minds, be assured that I have studied this issue in great depth. This bill will assure that southern California remains the center of the motion picture industry."

  Most of the crowd started to applaud. Cleary joined in. He knew nothing of the issue, but McNeil handled both Milchik and Michael Cornell rather well, he thought.

  "Now, I've got to get back to earning my salary," McNeil announced. It was then that the congressman noticed Cleary in the rear of the room. His brow knitted as he stepped down from the podium.

  Milchik was shaking his head. "Tom, you should have been an actor."

  McNeil ignored the comment and hurried to meet Cleary. "This is lousy timing, Jack."

  "There's no good timing for some things. Is there someplace private we can talk?"

  Milchik had followed the congressman. "Well, if it isn't the local hero. Saved any more mob hooligans, Cleary?"

  Cleary wasn't in public office. He didn't have to be nice to the columnist. "Drop dead, Milchik. I've had enough of your kind today."

  Cleary hustled the congressman toward the door. "Let's get out of here."

  "I have an important meeting in a few minutes, Jack. Why don't you come by my office later?" McNeil was smiling and nodding to well-wishers, sometimes trying to shake hands, as Cleary guided him out into a hallway and down to a men's room. "Jack. Slow down. I need to press some flesh."

  Out of the corner of his eye, Cleary caught sight of a man who appeared to be following them. One of McNeil's aides, he assumed, concerned about Cleary, who was whisking his boss into a bathroom.

  "What is this, Jack?"

  Once inside the men's room, Cleary leaned against the door to insure their privacy. Someone pushed against it almost immediately, but Cleary refused to budge. "I found your daughter, Tom."

  "Already?"

  "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but she's dead."

  McNeil's facial muscles went slack. The anger that had been mounting on his face drained away. "Dead? Eva?"

  "She was murdered, Tom. There's no easy way to say it."

  The congressman slumped down on a sink. He covered his face with his hands. "This isn't happening."

  Cleary wanted to go to the man, to comfort him, but someone continued to push on the door, shouting to get in.

  "Do they know who did it?"

  Cleary shook his head. "Not yet."

  The pounding on the door intensified. "Just a minute!" Cleary shouted.

  "What about her belongings?"

  It wasn't a question Cleary had anticipated. "What?"

  "Her personal effects. What about them?"

  "She was staying at the Franklin Arms, Tom. It's a third-class dump on Cahuenga. She hadn't been there long. Most of her stuff—what little there is—appears to be there, but it's a secured homicide scene now. I guess they'll release the stuff to her next of kin after the investigation. I looked through some of it. There were photos of her mother and her—well, of a man who appeared to be her father."

  McNeil glanced up. "She didn't know about me, not until the last couple of months."

  "I'm not prying, Tom." Cleary pulled a thick, white envelope from his pocket. "Here's the five thousand you wanted me to deliver to Eva"

  McNeil accepted it. "Well, I guess that wraps it up. Just send your bill—"

  Cleary held up his hand. "This one's on me, Tom. I'm sorry it worked out this way."

  "One thing, Jack. Did she suffer?"

  Cleary hesitated before he opened the men's room door. "Does it matter now?"

  The men on the other side of the door started chastising Cleary as soon as he opened the door. Then, they saw McNeil. Their rage faded. Cleary brushed by them, clearing a path for the congressman. McNeil didn't notice the short, stocky blonde with the flattop. Cleary did. He saw the man with the crew cut studying the politician. It was the same person who had followed them out of the news conference. As they walked down the hall, the stranger fell in behind them.

  "Don't turn around, but do you know you got someone on your tail, Tom?"

  "Following me? It's probably one of those reporters."

  "Just keep walking. Did you bring anyone with you? An aide?"

  "No, I came alone."

  "Want me to find out who the wise guy is?" Cleary asked.

  "Hell, no. I appreciate it, Jack, but, when you're in my business, you learn to expect—and suffer—most anything."

  SIX

  "You're cute, and I really love leather." Rita Marlo's long, red fingernails traced a path down the zipper of Johnny's shiny black jacket.

  They were in her bedroom, sitting on the huge round bed. Her aroma filled the room, and Johnny felt himself responding. She wore a black nightgown that was cut deeply between her ample breasts. As she leaned toward him, he couldn't help but stare down inside—

  "Come on, baby. Let's go upstairs and run a hot bath. We can relax—"

  "But we're already upstairs," Johnny said.

  That's when he opened his eyes. Rita Marlo's voice—her real voice—had roused Johnny Betts from his dream about her. He lifted his head from the car seat. It was dusk, and the soft, familiar voice was coming in clearly and sensually over one of the bugs in the house.

  "Relax?" Nick D'Rosa snapped.

  The gangster's voice shattered the dreamy state of excitement Johnny was enjoying.

  "How can I relax?" D'Rosa was saying. "Some jerk broke into our house. Knocked me out, I think. I'm not sure what he did. Makes me mad as hell. It's gotta be some punk kid. Everybody else would know better."

  There were several moments of silence, during which Johnny shook away the spider webs and came to grips with his dismal reality. He had been parked down the street from the house since he and Cleary's friend had finished at the beach house. Other than the sounds of D'Rosa moving around in the house, there had been nothing for hours. The actress must have just come home. Either that, or Johnny had been dozing too long.

  "Aw, Nicky... nothing's gone. Let's forget it. Come on upstairs."

  "I'll take a rain check, babe. I'm too uptight—"

  "What are you, nuts?" Johnny shouted to the interior of his Mercury. "Man, I wish Rita Marlo would make me that offer. Come on, Nicky, go for it."

  Johnny tried to decipher the sounds coming from the bug. Whatever they were, Nicky The Rose hadn't been able to resist. The next thing Johnny heard was D'Rosa's concession. "You convinced me, hon. Go on up and run th
e water. I'll be there in a minute."

  Johnny clapped his hands. "Way to go, Rita."

  Across town, in an alley cluttered with junked cars, Cleary stood with Charlie Fontana beside a yellow taxi. Fontana was talking. "We found it less than an hour ago. It was heisted from a gypsy operator on Sunset. The steering wheel's been wiped clean of prints, but the lab boys will check the rest of it. That clinches your suspicion, Jack. It wasn't any accident."

  "I told you so." Cleary fingered the damaged front fender. "Looks to me like you have some bloodstains, too."

  "We're ahead of you on that."

  "I know it hit that old man. So did the two hundred or so other witnesses."

  Fontana nodded, "Yeah, but I'd bet next month's pay that it was a sideshow... a diversion—better yet, an excuse just in case the guy does get caught. I mean a hit-and-run—even a negligent homicide—beats the mortal hell out of a murder rap, especially if you got connections in the joint. A hit man could serve that kinda time standing on his head."

  "Show biz, Charlie. Isn't that what this town's all about?"

  "Yeah, Jack, and if my hunch is right, this particular performance was produced and maybe even directed by your new pal, Nicky The Rose. For enough payola, the mob could easily find some joker to take the risk for that kinda small-time fall."

  Cleary was shaking his head. "Not D'Rosa. No friggin' way, pal. If I'd been a step slower, some of D'Rosa's blood would be smeared on that hood. He'd be down at the county morgue with Tomac sporting a toe tag."

  Fontana shrugged off his former partner's argument. "You got your opinion. I got mine. Seriously, buddy, don't let his greasy charm screw up your thinking. D'Rosa's got a list of priors that goes back to the sixth grade. This guy made his bones when the rest of us were trying to scare up our first date. You gonna tell me what you were doing at the theater?"

  Cleary had told Fontana all he intended to. "I met McNeil there."

  The light was virtually gone. Fontana squinted at the face he had known so long. "You're conning me, Jack."

  "The hell I am. Anything yet on Eva Miles?"