Petra said, “I put a call in to Stark’s father, haven’t heard back. Stark Junior does seem to be right about no MP report being filed. So what do we do now, put an ad out about two strippers who haven’t been seen for a decade? Girls in that business can lead transient lives. Maybe they did move out in the middle of the night-escaping debt. Left the Vette behind for the same reason. For all we know, the car was days from the repo man.”
“Maybe they weren’t strippers,” I said. “Became Mary Whitbread’s tenants through a work connection.”
“Porn actresses.”
“It would explain the irregular hours.”
“Daytime shoots,” said Milo, “and nighttime’s the right time for some extra-cash escorting. Being a Hollywood person, you know anyone in the biz, kiddo?”
Petra said, “Hey, that’s Valley stuff.”
“If the two of them made films ten years ago,” I said, “they might be listed on some video Web site.”
“Ah,” said Milo. “The rigors of research.”
Petra said, “I don’t think I should do that on the department computer. Things are so jumpy around here since Fortuno went into protective that even a righteous porn search is going to look sleazy.”
I said, “Speaking of which, Fortuno might remember the girls.”
Petra pulled out S.A. Wanamaker’s card, punched the number. Hung up. “Disconnected. If I have time, I’ll try his superiors and if that doesn’t work, I’ll talk to Stu. But my gut says the Feebies have cooperated as much as they’re going to. You guys mind surfing a few dirty sites?”
“I’d do it,” said Milo, “but my delicate constitution and all that. Also, there’s actual detecto-stuff I’d like to try, like harassing various Vice personnel around town to find out if Brandy and Roxy ever got busted on their turf.”
They both looked at me.
“Sure,” I said.
“Hey,” said Milo, “if you enjoy it, all the better.”
At seven thirty, I took Robin out to a quiet dinner at the Pacific Dining Car in Santa Monica. By nine, we were back.
She said, “Want to play Scrabble or something?”
I said, “Sorry, got to look at filthy pictures.”
Vivacious Videos’ Web site had logged five million viewers during the last three months. Videos and DVDs on sale, special offers if I acted NOW!
User-friendly site, just plug in the names and catch an eyeful.
Brandee Vixen and Rocksi Roll had co-starred in eleven movies, all girl-on-girl, filmed during a one-year period.
Ten years ago.
The films were classified as “old-school classics.” The director and producer were proud enough to list their names.
Darrel Dollar and Benjamin Baranelli, respectively. Maybe Baranelli wasn’t a pseudonym.
His name pulled up twelve hits and three images. Little knob-nosed, white-haired man in his seventies, presenting the award for best oral scene at the Adult Film Convention in Las Vegas to a six-foot blonde in pigtails.
She was topless. Baranelli wore an amethyst velvet dinner jacket, tomato-red turtleneck, chest medallion the size of a dessert plate, and grotesquely wide denture smile.
I switched to various yellow-page sites. No business listing under Baranelli’s name. I tried 818 information on a lark, was stunned to get a residential hit.
Baranelli, Benjamin A., Tarzana, no address.
A wheezy, dry old man’s voice answered, “Yeah?”
I rattled off a fast, ambiguous introduction, threw in Brandee and Rocksi’s names.
Baranelli said, “Finally you idiots do something.”
“Which-”
“You cops. They were gorgeous girls, what, they just walked off the face of the earth? I called, over and over, got nowhere. Because of jobism.”
“Jobism?”
“Discrimination cause by what they did for a living. This was some so-called straight actress who sucked cock and did weekly bukkake to get her sitcom job and then pretended she was born without a pussy, the SWAT team woulda come out in force. You guys are fucking puritan hypocrites.”
“What can you tell me about-”
“I can tell you those girls had a bright career. No way-no fucking way-would they just boogie off and not tell me. We did a film a month, each one doubled the gross of the last, they were making good money. Because of the E-factor. Know what that is?”
“No-”
“Enthusiasm. Every girl who walks in has the hair, the tits, the tongue. Some of them even fake you out at the audition. Then you put ’em in a scene and they generate as much enthusiasm as Hillary doing it with Bill. What I’m telling you is those two didn’t have to fake it. They were into each other. They were in love.”
“Do you know their real names?”
“Now you’re asking?”
“Better late than never.”
“Not when it comes to a money-shot, heh, heh…their real names? Brandee-with the two ee’s, that was my idea, to set her apart from the y’s and the i’s-Brandee was Brenda something. Rocksi was Renée something…don’t recall the last names. They were from Iowa. Or Idaho, something like that. One of those religious nut things.”
“A cult?”
“They told me they had to pray all day and dress up like Amishes or nuns. Which gave me the idea for the fourth picture we made-Nasty Habits.”
“Do you remember the name of the cult?”
“I don’t remember what I never knew. Why would I give a shit?”
“How old were they?”
“Legal. Don’t try to-”
“I’m just trying to get as many details as I can. What else did they tell you about their backgrounds?”
“That’s it,” said Baranelli. “That’s what happen when you exploit kids.”
“What do you mean?”
“Religious nuts, always pressuring. So what do the kids do? They rebel, right? Those two got off the bus from Iowa, a few weeks later they had fake tits and tongue-pierces and were ready to go.”
“Who paid for the surgery?”
“Listen to me carefully: They were of age and it’s no crime helping someone improve their self-esteem. That’s all I’m going to say. Good night, I’m turning off the phone, don’t bother me again.”
CHAPTER 37
Next day: division of labor.
Raul Biro continued to watch Mary Whitbread’s duplex. She shopped in the morning, lunched alone at Il Pastaio in Beverly Hills, seemed to know the waiters quite well. Arriving home at three, she stayed in. No sign of her son or Robert Fisk.
Petra’s fourth application for a subpoena of Mary’s phone records went through and she began the paperwork. Several tips had come in on the alerts for Blaise De Paine and Robert Fisk but each dead-ended. By seven p.m., she was ready for a sit-down with Captain Stu Bishop.
Milo drove to Tarzana and did a face-to-face with Benjamin Baranelli. The retired pornographer was a cranky eighty-year-old with poor hygiene who walked with two canes and refused to cooperate. Milo did a lot of listening and eventually Baranelli turned over a box of photo stills of Brandee Vixen and Rocksi Roll. By six, Milo was at his recalcitrant computer at the West L.A. station logging onto missing person databases and researching religious cults in Iowa and Idaho.
Dave Saunders and Kevin Bouleau’s search for Moses Grant’s kin bore fruit when a trace on Grant’s disability checks led to a Long Beach address. There the Central detectives found a great-aunt of Grant’s who’d been saving her nephew’s money. She collapsed when told of his demise.
I walked Blanche and fed the fish and bothered Robin at her shop a couple of times and thought about Patty Bigelow watching a man die. I phoned Tanya at noon, then at five. She assured me everything was fine and asked if I’d learned anything new.