“Working it through,” he said. “So she gets herself tied up again? Manipulated, bruised.”
“Restaging it,” I said. “But this time, she's calling the shots.”
“With their games, the three of them coulda gone on the talk-show circuit,” he said.
“You are starting to sound,” I said, “less like a West Hollywood legend than a bourgeois policeman with a dutiful wife and an 818 lifestyle.”
He laughed harder than I'd heard him in a long time.
“Those guns you found in Locking's house,” I said. “Heavy artillery for a grad student.”
“Three pistols, one rifle,” he said. “All loaded but stashed up in the closet. Too cocky for his own good.”
“And all that porn he had,” I said. “Locking was from San Francisco. Big Micky's city, Big Micky's business. Who owns the house?”
“Don't know yet, but a neighbor said it was a rental. Before Locking there'd been lots of other tenants.”
“Be interesting if it's the same landlord who owns Cruvic's place on Mulholland.”
“Cruvic pays rent to a corporation based here in L.A.- Triad or Triton, something like that, but we haven't traced it to any individual, yet. In terms of Big Micky, what I've learned so far is that he used to be a sizable sex-biz honcho- theaters, peep shows, massage parlors, escort services- but retired because of serious health problems. Heart, liver, kidneys, everything's on the fritz. Had a couple kidney transplants that failed awhile back and ended up pretty screwed-up.”
“The old guy Ted Barnaby saw in Vegas with Cruvic was yellow,” I said. “Meaning jaundiced, meaning liver problems. Any word on whether Mandy Wright had ever worked in San Francisco?”
“Not yet. But there's another NorCal connection: Hope's mother died up there. Stanford Medical Center, breast cancer. All bills paid by a third party, we're trying to find out who.”
“It reeks of history,” I said.
“Ph.D.'s with gangster connections.” He scratched his jaw. “I hate this case. Too many goddamn smart people.”
He walked me out of the station. As we hit the sidewalk on Purdue, someone called out, “Detective Sturgis?”
A big blue Mercedes sedan was parked in a red zone across the street. Two cell-phone antennas on the rear deck. One of those after-market custom packages that doubles the price: wire wheels, all the chrome removed, front apron, rear spoiler. Smoke puffed out the exhaust pipes, almost daintily.
The man at the wheel was in his early sixties with a shaven head and a deep tan that was probably part sun, part bottle. Black wraparound shades, white shirt, yellow tie. Gold glint of wristwatch as he turned off the engine, got out, and jogged across the street. Six feet tall, trim and nimble, probably a few face tucks, but time had tugged at the stitches and his chin flesh shook.
“Robert Barone,” he said in a breathy voice. A tan hand shot forward. “I know you've been trying to reach me but I've been out of town.”
“San Francisco?” said Milo as he shook the lawyer's hand.
Barone's smile was as sudden as bad news, as warm as sherbet.
“As a matter of fact, Hawaii. Little downtime between cases.” The sunglasses angled at me. “And you are Detective…?”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Barone?” said Milo.
“I was going to ask you the same thing, Detective.”
“You made a trip here in person to offer your services to the poor benighted LAPD?”
“The way things have been going,” said Barone, “you guys can use all the help you can get- seriously, there is a matter I'd like to discuss. If I didn't find you I was going to talk to your lieutenant.”
Still looking at me, he said, “I didn't catch your name.”
“Holmes,” said Milo. “Detective Holmes.”
“As in Sherlock?”
“No,” said Milo, “as in Sigmund. So what does Dr. Cruvic want? Police protection now that Darrell Ballitser put his name out on the airwaves, or is he ready to confess to something?”
Barone turned serious. His bald head was liver-spotted. “Why don't we go inside?”
“You're in a no-parking zone, counselor.”
Barone laughed. “I'll take my chances.”
“Guess that's what you get paid to do,” said Milo, “but don't blame me.” To me: “Catch you later, Sig. Any research you want to do on the aforementioned topic is fine.”
He headed for the station's front door, leaving Barone to catch up.
Research. On the Kruvinski/Cruvic clan.
The family lawyer arriving in person because someone was worried.
Little Micky still the only one with a confirmed link to Hope and Mandy.
I drove to the library and looked up his father, found fifteen citations on Milan V. Kruvinski going back twenty years, all from San Francisco papers. A couple of photos showing a bull-necked, flat-featured man with slanted eyes that cemented his paternity. But cruder than his son, a less-finished sculpture.
Not a single story from any Bakersfield paper. Quieter town, quieter time? Or payoffs?
Most of the San Francisco pieces had to do with obscenity busts. The “sex impresario and reputed crime figure” had been arrested dozens of times during the seventies and early eighties. Too much flesh in the shows, too much customer-dancer contact, liquor served to underage patrons.
I thought of something Cruvic had told us at his Beverly Hills office.
The rise in infertility problems due to all the messing around people did in the seventies.
Firsthand knowledge.
The articles described lots of arrests but no convictions. Lots of dismissals prior to trial.
Prosecutors had even made a stab at the old crime-busting standby: a tax-evasion charge that Kruvinski beat by proving the bulk of his income came from agricultural holdings in the Central Valley, some of which had earned him federal subsidies. His theaters on O'Farrell and Polk streets had finally closed down but not, apparently, due to legal problems.
Almost no quotes, either; when Kruvinski communicated with the press, he did it through Robert Barone. But I did find one ten-year-old interview, a fawning piece by a self-consciously Runyonesque columnist who prided himself on having San Francisco's pulse in his pocket.
He'd spoken to Kruvinski at home and the piece helped explain the porn broker's business shift out of live entertainment.
“We moved into video,” said the once-robust entrepreneur from his multilevel redwood/glass Sausalito-lair-with-a-bay-view. “Guys don't want to go to a theater anymore, put up with all the harassment.”
Then with typical Micky K. generosity and a Slavic smile as wide as the Embarcadero, he offered me a scotch-21 y.o. Chivas in the true-blue bottle, of course- even though he couldn't partake, himself. Liver problems. Heart. Kidneys. Last year's transplant, his second, was a beacon in the fog, but it didn't take.
I refused the booze but Micky wouldn't hear about abstinence in the name of empathy. An affectionate “Honey,” brought Mrs. Micky, the beauteous, tanned, and aerobi-toned former actress-and-model Brooke Hastings out from her state-of-the-culinary-art galley, smiling and reflecting Sausalito sunlight as she wiped Micky's brow and murmured soothing, wifey words.
“His favorite thing is watching the sea lions,” she confided in me, while pouring a generous dollop of the divine Chiv. Bros. blended brew. “Has fresh fish brought down to them every morning. He loves animals. Anything organic and alive. That's what attracted me to him.”
Then she kissed the big guy's pate in a way that went way beyond spousal duty and he smiled and looked out a picture window as big as the stage of the Love Palace Theater. Almost dreamily, and maybe he was dreaming- who's this scrivener to testify otherwise. The former Miss H. put her arm around him and he kept looking. Looking and dreaming. Like at a movie. Different from the movies he produces, but just as sensual in its own way. T.F. Miss H. crossed shapely gams and yours truly sipped Chivas, feeling the warm fire flow down ye olde deadline slave's gullet like Scottish lava. All in all, not a bad day in Xanadu. We can only hope Micky has lots more.