“Absolutely,” Sergeant Murillo said. “And everybody here is onboard a hundred percent. It’s the best thing that’s happened to the LAPD since Kevlar vests and semiautomatics.”
Lieutenant O’Reilly looked for irony in his sergeant’s expression but nodded and said, “Fine. Let’s go to work.”
The moment 6-X-32 drove out of the parking lot and cleared, Hollywood Nate got a cell call. He didn’t recognize the number but answered, and Leona Brueger said, “Hi, gorgeous.”
“Mrs. Brueger!” Nate said. “Are you home?”
“Leona, remember?” she said. “And no, I’m not. It’s the middle of the night here and I couldn’t sleep and started thinking of you.”
“That’s… that’s flattering,” Nate said.
“I had too much champagne at dinner,” Leona Brueger said. “It always wrecks my sleep. How about talking sexy to me until I get drowsy?”
Nate said, “I’m, uh, just leaving Hollywood Station with my partner beside me, preparing to crush crime and terrify lawbreakers. I don’t see how I can do that.”
“Bad timing,” she said. “The story of my life.”
“Maybe you’ll invite me to a dinner party when you get back,” Nate said. “With some of the industry people?”
“You actors,” she said. “One-track minds. Okay, I’ll let you guardians of law and order do your thing, but how about checking on my house? Rudy told me that our butler sounded a bit stressed the last time he called. Just make sure everything’s okay.”
“Absolutely,” Nate said. “I’ll stop by this evening. See you when you get back.”
“You’ll be seeing me sooner than you think,” she said. “Bye-bye, gorgeous.”
Nate closed his cell and said to Flotsam, “I need to make a quick stop up in the Hills.”
That piqued Flotsam’s interest. “Yeah?” he said with a leer. “You got some smokin’ hot Hills honey up there? Maybe a stupendous starlet from one of your SAG jobs? How about an introduction? My li’l pard and me, we’ll take your leftovers.”
“Not exactly that,” Nate said. “I met a director who’s asked me to check on the house of his girlfriend. They’re off in Italy for a couple of months. I’ve been meaning to stop but I haven’t had time.”
“What’s the girlfriend look like?”
“Old enough to be your mother and mine,” Nate said. “But she’s still pretty hot.”
“The miracles of modern medicine,” Flotsam said. “My partner met a chick a year or so ago that was rebuilt from spare parts. T and A, all of it. She looked great, but he said he was scared to touch her for fear something would fall off.”
“We’ll just take a minute to ring the bell and ask the butler if everything’s okay,” Nate said. “And I’ll leave my card to prove I’ve been there.”
“Is he, like, gonna put you in a movie?”
“That’s the idea,” Nate said. “I’m thirty-eight years old. My time’s running out.”
“I’m thirty-five, dude,” Flotsam said. “That’s the good thing about the surfing life. You can do it till your libido expires and way beyond. There’s no sell-by date as long as your knees keep working.”
As Nate drove up toward Woodrow Wilson Drive, he said, “Magic hour. This is the best time to shoot movies. The light… it’s magic up here.”
“Dude, when you get to be a star and buy a crib up in the Hills, I’d like to be your part-time houseboy. I know you’re gonna have them starstruck Susies all over you, and my partner and me, we could take turns working for table scraps and whatever Bettys you leave still breathing when you’re done with your monkey sex.”
“I’ll try to leave them breathing,” Nate said.
“I hear that the homicide teams ain’t too fond of the people that live up in the Hills,” Flotsam said. “They’re, like, way too busy arranging their toothbrushes according to feng shui to talk to coppers. The detectives are, like, ‘Well, please give us a call after the kid’s yoga, soccer, and lacrosse. It’s only serial murder we’re looking into.’ Me, I prefer the people in east Hollywood, who have their kids the old-fashioned way. The brats up here go around saying, ‘We’re in vitro twins,’ or, ‘I’m a reversal,’ referring to daddy’s vasectomy turnaround. It’s all too weirded for me. But I wouldn’t mind one of them trophy bride Hills-honeys who like to get their religion on.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Flotsam said, “You know, they go, ‘Oh my god, oh my god!’ when they finally get nailed by someone from their own generation after sleeping so long with semi-erect sugar daddies.”
“I’ll try to remember all that,” Nate said. “When I get to be a star.”
Hollywood Nate found the address written on Rudy Ressler’s card, stopped at the drive-in gate, and pushed the call button.
Raleigh Dibble’s voice said, “Yes? Who is it?”
“Police officers,” Hollywood Nate said. “Could you let us in, please?”
Raleigh stood petrified in the billiards room, where he’d been shooting pool to kill time as the hands of the clock on the wall seemed locked in place. And now he was paralyzed by the telephone voice. The voice said again, “Hello? Police officers. We need to come in, please.”
Raleigh pushed the appropriate phone key, put down the pool cue, and walked into the foyer. He vaguely thought about getting something warm to wear because he knew from experience that a jail cell was a chilling experience, even during an arid day like this, when the Santa Anas were baking the Hollywood Hills.
The black-and-white had already parked in front of the entry arch, and the uniformed officers were getting out by the time Raleigh opened the door, hoping that the handcuffs would not be cinched so tightly this time. He remembered how they’d bruised his wrists when he’d been transported from courtroom to jail.
He thought that it would be detectives who brought him in this time, but then he remembered that detectives might not be working on the weekend, and he would no doubt see them on Monday morning. He decided to tell these uniformed cops that he had no wish to speak to them without a lawyer present, but on Monday he would make a deal with the detectives and spill his guts. The first thing he’d talk about would be the mastermind, Nigel Wickland.
The tall, suntanned cop was looking around at the grounds as though he were a potential buyer. The good-looking one was smiling, and he presented a business card to Raleigh, saying, “I’m Officer Nate Weiss from Hollywood Division. Mr. Ressler asked me to stop by and check on the property. And you are?”
He needed to swallow twice before saying, “Raleigh Dibble. I’m the butler and caretaker here. Mrs. Brueger is away.”
“Yes, that’s what I was told by Mr. Ressler,” Nate said. “I just wanted to introduce myself and tell you that we’re keeping an eye on things, and if you need anything from us, call me personally. My cell number is on the back.”
Raleigh said with much emotion, “Thank you! Thank you, Officer!”
“Do you know what date they’ll be returning?” Nate asked.
“Tomorrow,” Raleigh said. “They’re coming back tomorrow, I think.”
“Really?” Nate said, wondering why Leona Brueger had not mentioned that. The woman was full of secrets and surprises.
Raleigh displayed a lopsided toothy smile that seemed inappropriate to Nate, especially when the butler said, “Mrs. Brueger’s brother-in-law had a stroke and they’re coming home to take care of him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Nate said. “Please tell Mrs. Brueger and Mr. Ressler that I stopped by and that we’ve been keeping an eye on the place since they’ve been gone. Will you be sure to tell them that?”
“I’ll be glad to, Officer,” Raleigh said.
When the cops were driving out the gate, Flotsam said, “I was hoping he’d invite us inside. I wanted to take a tour of that crib to see what it’s gonna be like when I’m your houseboy.”
“He’s a peculiar guy,” Nate said. “He looked like he just got bad news from an oncologist when we arrived, but at odd moments his smile got beamier than Oprah’s ass.”