Loren D. Estleman - Valentino 02 - Alone Page 7

  He cleared a pile of musty movie magazines off his chair and dropped into it, leaning back and propping the damp cloth in place. It was the Monday of Mondays in a week that promised nothing but.

  At least the throbbing kept him from dozing off. He’d gotten a little more sleep Sunday night, but not enough to catch up with what he’d lost Saturday. He’d awakened at 4:40 to see a blade of light under his door and gone out to find Broadhead asleep in his armchair with a Japanese quiz show playing on TV with the sound off. Broadhead, the world’s foremost authority on the history and theory of film, showed little interest in the subject in private, preferring reality television to the timeless gems of world cinema. Valentino suspected that connecting with nonfictitious characters in credible situations helped the professor put in perspective the time he’d spent in a foreign prison charged with espionage. Broadhead maintained he’d been innocently engaged on a search for the 1912 version of Quo Vadis?; but his reluctance to discuss details caused his friend some doubt.

  Valentino had made the mistake of turning off the set. This had stirred Broadhead, who had insisted upon making espresso for them both. He’d drunk three cups to his guest’s one, regaling him with off-color anecdotes of the personal lives of the great European directors, told to him in confidence by the directors themselves. His guest had been too enthralled to interrupt him; when he’d finally packed it in, shortly after six, the caffeine in his system had stood all his cells on edge. The beeping of his alarm clock had come as a relief.

  Broadhead, of course, had left the house by then. Valentino had made a note to ask him if he ever got to work early enough to catch Ruth combing her native Transylvanian soil out of her hair.

  His intercom razzed. His instincts told him it had been going on for some time. He took away the handkerchief, which was dry as parchment, and looked at the toggle, working up the courage to press it. Padilla had undoubtedly returned to grill him further about Rankin, and he’d be more difficult to put off than the media.

  He pressed the toggle. “Yes, Ruth.”

  “I was about to come banging on your door. What do you do in there all alone?”

  “Movie stuff. You wouldn’t understand.” He was just frazzled enough not to care if she was offended. Whatever she lacked in motion picture scholarship she more than made up for in industry gossip. She’d known Rock Hudson’s secret before Rock Hudson had, and possessed all the dope on Mel Gibson’s DUIL bust before the sheriff in Malibu read the report.

  She didn’t rise to the bait, shaming him with her uncharacteristic restraint. “Someone to see you.”

  “Lieutenant Padilla?”

  “A salesman.”

  He frowned. “Send him away. Don’t you screen visitors anymore?”

  “He has an administration pass.”

  That stalled him. Before he could respond, his door was opening.

  “Mr. Valentino? Red Ollinger, Midnite Magic Theater Systems.” The visitor stuck out his card.

  Valentino glanced at the silhouette of an old-time crank-action movie camera on the pasteboard and put it down to shake the man’s insistent hand. Ollinger was built like a former fullback going to seed, with a spare tire spoiling the lines of his electric blue blazer and flecks of gray in his curly red hair. He was carrying a fine leather briefcase with gold latches and his initials stamped on the flap in the same precious metal.

  “How’d you get past the guard in the lobby?” Valentino asked.

  “Our parent firm does a lot of business with your department. I went to the administration building and they gave me a pass. I know you’re a busy man, so I won’t take more than a few minutes of your time. Have you made any decisions on the equipment you want installed in the Oracle?” He unlatched his case as he spoke.

  “I’m not at that stage of—”

  “Yes, I took the liberty of dropping by this morning. It’s a war zone now, but you’ll want to think about a power source and wiring before the walls go back up. Video and audio technology were still in the Stone Age the last time a first-run feature played there.” He spread open a brochure on the desk. “I can put you behind this baby for forty-five thousand dollars.”

  Valentino stared at a full-color photo of a digital motion picture projector. It resembled the cockpit of an airliner: dials, stabilizers, touch-screen panels, and rows of chrome-plated and color-coded portals for plugging jacks into. It seemed naked and indecent without the oversize mouse-ear film magazines that had identified projectors since before the dawn of Hollywood.

  He looked up. “What can you put me behind for forty-five hundred?”

  Ollinger seemed unfazed. “For that, I can set you up with a sixty-inch plasma screen, a DVR, and a pretty good surround-sound system for a basement in the suburbs. You don’t want that.”

  “I don’t?”

  “You do not. I can let you have this projector and state-of-the-art audio that plays and records for sixty thousand flat. You can monitor the audience reaction while the feature’s playing and eliminate the need for preview cards. I’m talking audial and visual; the system works on the wire-cam principle, with multiple units, exclusive to the manufacturer. No one else has it.”

  “The Oracle isn’t a first-run theater, Mr. Ollinger. The—”

  “Red.”

  “Red. The audience reaction is pretty much history.”

  “This feature also discourages pirates from smuggling camcorders in by photographing them during the commission of the crime.”

  “Taking pictures of people taking pictures of pictures.” Valentino thought of the girl on the Morton’s salt box, carrying a Morton’s salt box with a picture of a girl on it carrying a Morton’s salt box, ad infinitum. “Again, that’s not a concern for a revival house. Everything on the bill is already available on tape and disc and on the Internet.”

  Ollinger’s glad-hand expression slipped. “That’s nuts. Why would they pay to see the same picture they can watch in the comfort of their own homes?”

  “I’m banking they will, to help offset expenses on what started out as a glorified screening room to aid in my work. The Oracle will offer its patrons the experience of viewing time-honored classics remastered to provide the same effect they had when they premiered, in the shared environment in which they were intended to be seen. UCLA will do the remastering. Can your technology do the rest?”

  “Why bother? Any old theater can do that.”

  “That’s the idea.” Valentino folded the business card inside the brochure and put it in a drawer. “I’m very busy today. I’ll look this over first chance I get. If I’m interested I’ll call you.”

  The salesman wound himself back up. “I wouldn’t wait too long. The manufacturer’s introducing a new model next month, with three-D imaging. That’s why I can offer you this price. It’s going to fly out of the warehouse.”

  “So what you’re flogging is the state of this month’s art. What’s the difference between it and the expiration date on bananas?” As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn’t; challenging a huckster’s pitch was not the way to get rid of him.

  Ollinger’s face became earnest. “Every item in our catalogue is backed by a lifetime warranty. Replacement components will always be available. Now, when can I arrange a demonstration?”

  Ruth called on the intercom then. Valentino was never so happy to learn the police were at the door.

  9

  PADILLA WAS WEARING the same orange sport coat (at least, Valentino hoped there were no others) atop a windowpane-plaid shirt of similar man-made material, but in deference to his chief of detectives had closed the collar with a bolo made of braided horsehair with a turquoise slide. He passed Red Ollinger on his way out, glanced around at the movie-related clutter, and shifted his unlit cigarette to the other side of his mouth.

  “Looks like Ted Turner threw up in here.”

  “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “For starters you can tell me why you left Matthew Rankin’s little faintin
g spell out of our interview Saturday.”

  “I forgot about it.”

  “None of the people I interviewed who were at the party forgot.”

  “His doctor was present. He examined Rankin and said it was nothing serious, so I didn’t think it was significant. You asked me about the shooting the next morning.”

  “I also asked you if you’d noticed anything unusual about Rankin’s behavior recently. Falling on your face in the middle of a ballroom full of people qualifies in my book.”

  “Well, it slipped my mind. I just don’t see what the incident had to do with what happened afterwards.”

  “Why’d he faint?”

  Valentino felt a pang of embarrassment. “When I tell you, I’m sure you’ll agree it was insignificant. He’d planned the party to observe the hundredth anniversary of Greta Garbo’s birth. As you know, Garbo and the late Mrs. Rankin were close friends.”

  “They don’t get much closer. I read the letter.”

  “I know, but—” He stopped himself; rallying his thoughts to defend the star’s reputation, he’d been about to point out the flaw that cast doubt on the letter, then realized he might get Harriet into trouble for sharing details of a criminal investigation with a civilian. “All the women at the party came in costume as Garbo in her various movie roles. The lady I was escorting happened to bear a closer resemblance to her than any of the others. When Rankin saw her, it jarred him. It must have been almost as much of a shock as if his wife had returned from the grave.”

  “Harriet Johansen.” Padilla had his notebook out. “She took first place in the look-alike contest. She’s a forensics tech with LAPD. Next time you feel like withholding information, bear in mind I’m a cop who does his homework.”

  “I wasn’t withholding anything.”

  “You and Johansen discuss the case?”

  Here it came. “Only casually. We’re friends.”

  “She told you the blackmail letter shapes up to be a fake. You call that casual?”

  “You talked to her, didn’t you?”

  “You’re damn right I did, and I put in a complaint with her team captain. If it was up to me she’d be on suspension. You’re a suspect in an official homicide investigation. Or you were.” He snapped shut the notebook and jammed it into his hip pocket.

  “Why past tense?”

  “Rankin was arraigned this morning. The judge released him on his own recognizance. We pulled Roger Akers’ bank statements and matched regular deposits of between five and ten thousand dollars going back six months; they matched withdrawals from Rankin’s accounts according to statements provided by Rankin’s lawyer. That supports his claim his assistant was extorting money from him. Even the fact the letter’s probably a fake works out in his favor. The more effort Akers put into it, the more likely he was to lose his temper when Rankin put the brakes on the gravy train and try to brain him with bric-a-brac. My chief of detectives is considering recommending the prosecutor drop charges. Meanwhile I’ve been reassigned.”

  Valentino’s relief shaded into curiosity. “If you’re off the case, what are you doing here?”

  Padilla dropped his mangled cigarette into an ashtray that hadn’t held one since it left Schwab’s Drug Store and stuck a fresh one between his lips. It bobbed up and down as he spoke. “Don’t blame me, blame Robert Blake and O.J. I have a hard time working up the enthusiasm to tank a nineteen-year-old gangbanger for life for shanking another gangbanger when people who have all the advantages walk away for the same crime. This guy Rankin has a mansion in Beverly Hills, a penthouse in Manhattan, a villa in France, and a private jet. I’ve seen his passport; during the six months Akers was bleeding him, he’d been to London, Amsterdam, Tokyo, Stockholm, Tuscany, and the Galapagos, which I don’t even know what that is. He spent more in the souvenir shops than he was paying Akers to keep that letter under lock and key, and he still wanted to bribe you to get him off his back. It’s that sense of entitlement that grinds my gut. I got two weeks’ personal time coming. I’m making this one my hobby.”

  “So this isn’t an official visit.”

  “It’s official as hell. No police officer is ever off duty. If I turn something that can be used in evidence, the department will be right behind me. Individual initiative’s hot since the Terminator went to Sacramento.” His teeth ground on his filter tip when he referred to Arnold Schwarzenegger; the man seemed to harbor a pathological hatred for movies and movie stars.

  “How does your department feel about personal vendettas?”

  “Nothing of the kind. I was ready to wrap this one up as justifiable homicide, then I found out what happened at the party. Rankin’s a heavyweight, an alpha male in a dog-eat-dog business. No history of illness according to his doctor, who’s been seeing him for twenty years. He did a tour in Korea, got a medal of valor. He didn’t faint when the bullets were buzzing around his ears, didn’t faint when the medal was being pinned to his chest, didn’t faint when his wife became terminal or when department stores went down the toilet or when he got all those shots to hop all over the globe. Suddenly a pretty girl rigged out like a dead actress shows up at his blowout and he drops like a bucket of mush. Twelve hours later his assistant is dead by his hand. That’s why I asked about any change in Rankin’s behavior. There’s always a connection, always.”

  “Coincidences bother me, too,” Valentino said, “in films. Screenplays are supposed to make sense. That’s one of the many places where movies differ from life.”

  “You know a lot more about that than I do. I haven’t been to one since Clint Eastwood started playing with monkeys.”

  “You haven’t gone to the movies in twenty-five years?”

  “Why? They changed?”

  The archivist waved his hands, dismissing a subject that would take twenty minutes to explain. “So do you get a lot of gangbangers in Beverly Hills?”

  “They got cars now.” He laid a second mutilated cigarette next to the first. “You know what Rankin wore to his arraignment? No? It was on TV.”

  “The only thing I’ve seen recently on TV is a Japanese quiz show.”

  “A thousand-dollar suit. I guess his best one was at the cleaner’s. He was in lockup over the weekend and they let his lawyer bring him a complete change of clothes every day. Everyone else goes to court in the county jumpsuit. I guess you think I’m hammering on the rich.”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “Well, I’m not. I hope to be rich someday myself. This is America; you never know when that four-oh-one-K I got will climb out of the grave and up to the top of the Hollywood Bowl. I’m not mad at Rankin. I got a bone to pick with the system for treating him like a weekend guest instead of a possible offender who might be around for a while. Who needs a defense lawyer when the prosecutor’s in on the joke?”

  “If you’re hounding an innocent eighty-year-old man, your department will turn on you faster than you can say ‘vascular stroke.’ ”

  “If shooting a man down at point-blank range didn’t bust a vessel, he’s as indestructible as they come. As for the brass back at headquarters, I’m already hanging on by one little toe. I’d’ve been a precinct captain by now if I spent as much on a necktie as I do on my suits. They could find a hundred reasons to can me if I didn’t have the best arrest record in Homicide. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I’m not. I’m worried about Matthew Rankin. If he’s getting special privileges, he’s earned them.”

  “I expected you to feel that way. He’s the moneybags keeps your racket afloat. I saw his bank statements, remember.”

  “Do you have any other questions, Lieutenant?”

  “Just one. Who pasted you in the eye?”

  “Did you see the press party downstairs?”

  “Ah. Got up close and personal with the equipment. So how’s it feel getting star treatment?”

  “I vant to be alone.”

  Padilla grinned and let himself out.

  Ruth came on the intercom as Valenti
no was dumping the lieutenant’s masticated Kools into his wastebasket. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so popular. Usually the office was just a place to put up his feet between making inquiries about something rare and unobtainable and waiting for someone to call back to confirm it.

  “Who is it now, the FBI?” he asked.

  “A lawyer.” The curious fact about her voice coming through an outmoded speaker that made everyone else sound as if he were speaking through a comb and tissue paper was that it was the same in person. “He says he represents Matthew Rankin.”

  “What does he want?”

  Silence ticked. After thirty seconds she came back on. “Turns out he wants to discuss Rankin’s case. I guessed that, but it took a while to wade through the Latin.”

  The man she was talking about had to have heard her. He wondered if she’d simply been born lacking the gene for discretion, the way some people were born without legs or with the heart on the wrong side. “Send him in.”

  The door opened almost immediately. “Mr. Valentino? Clifford Adams: Klein, Benito, Lohengrin, Adams, and Adams. I’m the first Adams. No relation to the second. He traces his ancestry to Greenland.”

  Valentino rose to shake his visitor’s hand. Adams was tall and trim, encased in gray Armani with a thin violet stripe, with a tie to match, and as black as unexposed silver nitrate; his skin glistened with the same liquid sheen. His well-shaped shaven head threw back light in flat sheets. Valentino suspected he ran waxed paper over it twice daily. His extravagantly orthodonted smile made Valentino’s pupils shrink.

  He carried no briefcase. Both hands were empty. The archivist thought that a nice touch. He always sat straighter in his seat whenever an actor went the extra mile to explode the stereotype.

  “Lohengrin,” Valentino said.

  Adams uncased his teeth again, throwing the room into dazzling negative. It was like a desert shot coming hard on a nighttime campfire scene in a western. “A fictional member of the cast, as it were. The late Messrs. Klein and Benito were very aware of the cultural nature of Los Angeles, and felt their names alone sounded too much like a burlesque act. Wagner’s epic happened to be playing at the Music Center the week they hung out their shingle—quite literally, I might add. L.A. was an oil boomtown then and sign painters were doing land-office business.” He shut off the grin, leaving behind little chain haloes of light. “Unfortunately, the laws of corporation make it difficult to correct the caprices of a more innocent time. I can’t tell you how many billable hours we lose explaining the derivation of that one name.”