A Good-Looking Corpse (22 page)

Feeling secure now, I head around the bloodstained pit, its stink of rot and decay pungent without the fans moving down here. At the far door, I make my way through and stop at the steel entrance to Mikey's skull collection.

Taking a baggie of Don's fingerprint powder from my pocket with a fresh pair of gloves, I dump a sizable clump of the black powder across the top of the keypad's tilted surface. Leaning across the top, I blow the excess away from the surface. I don't need it to be tidy, just to give me an indication. What's left of the powder should stick to the buttons that get pushed regularly. I've already got a theory on what at least two of the four numbers will be. Turning on the black light, the powder glows bright green, illuminating the heavy fingerprints against the trace amounts of the fine dust. As I figured, the one and the nine buttons figure into the code along with the two and the four.
It's a date
. Without knowing two of the numbers, the code could be one of thousands of combinations. Knowing that the code starts with a one and a nine limits it down to two: 1-9-4-2 or 1-9-2-4. I key in 4-2 and the LED blinks red. Nope. I try the second and the LED blinks green followed by a click.
Poor Mikey, so simple
.

I open the door and find the room exactly as I'd last seen it, save for the tank of dermestid beetles—they have no skull to work on at the moment. The other skulls, Mikey's mad collection of celebrities, murderers, and victims, are pristine and seated on their shelves, staring blankly back at me. I find the one I've come for, Mikey's mother, and lift it carefully off the shelf. Turning to leave, something halts my movement. These stolen bones don't deserve this, to be a collection on a wall in a lunatic's jerk-off room. I set Mother Echo's skull down on the table next to the beetles, and then turn back to the collection. Sweeping my arms across the shelves, I violently knock the skeleton remains to the floor, crashing them, breaking them with my foot and splintering them into thousands of interchangeable pieces.
No one should have a collection like this, least of all Mikey Echo.

Walking across the hallway, I look into the other room. A series of bunk beds and metal poles strung with clothes, both male and female. Servants quarters, and just as miserable and privacy-free as prison. At the far end, a single occupancy bathroom. Everything here looks pared down to minimalist designs, bare white walls, a tiny kitchen space, and a basic television mounted to the wall.
No wonder his crew had no loyalty to him.

The next door in the hallway houses the kennel, where Mikey keeps his collection of fighting dogs. An array of cages large and small are built into the wall opposite a steel operation table and fridge. As I step into the room, the large dogs housed in the larger cages go berserk, snapping and biting, frothing at the mouth in their attempts to break loose and attack. I need a bag, something to carry the skull.
I'm already not dressed for the neighborhood, carrying a human skull won't help matters.
Rifling through the cabinets, I only find cutting tools, as mangled and stained as the inside of the fighting pit.
Not so clean down here where no one sees, huh, Mikey?
Next I try the fridge and stop short. Lying across the top shelf, a human arm, vacuum-sealed into plastic, severed at the shoulder, is awaiting its next purpose. I recognize the tattoos on the pallid flesh as belonging to the man Crozier had beaten down in the fighting pit my first night. Behind it though, a thick yellow plastic bag appears to hold an assortment of bagged blood. Whether human or not, I don't care to find out. I dump them to the floor and slide the skull inside. The loosed blood stays in its packs, but its very appearance makes the monsters in the cages more ferocious and they slam against the steel doors, desperate to get at it.

The noise is fierce and unsettling, and I am about to step back out of the room, Mrs. Echo's skull neatly bagged, when I notice the lone puppy. It is not a fighting dog. Mikey's words flash back to me about stealing neighborhood dogs to feed to his pit bulls.
This little thing is food
. I set the skull down once again and brave the snarls of the brutish pit bulls to open the lock on the cage above. The pup, a Pomeranian, is terrified, backing away from my hand, but I reach in and scoop it out, packing it under my arm. Once there, it settles in against me and doesn't struggle.

Having seen all I need to, I pick up the skull and set off down the hallway, seeking an exit. Rounding the curve, I come across the steel doors of an elevator. Beside it, a lone up button awaits. “Where do you go?” I ask, pushing it with the hand holding the bagged skull. I figured the tunnel would dump out somewhere, but I didn't think there was an elevator built into it.
I'm off the property
, I reason,
but how far off can I be?
Does the tunnel surface at another property?

The elevator arrives and its door slides open, revealing a metal cart inside. Stained with old blood, it seems to have been used to ferry bodies, both human and animal. I step in beside the cart, careful not to touch its bloodied sides with my clothes. I don't want any involvement in whatever murders might be solved by testing the stains attached to this rig. I hit the up button and the door slides shut, its pneumatic lift chugging into action, pushing me upward, ferrying me to whatever I will encounter next.

The door opens and I find myself blocked in behind a cheap piece of green plastic roofing. Pushing on it, I find it easily slides to the side, connected to a track above. Ahead of me is a large shed, with the light from inside the elevator illuminating cans of paint, bags of soil and fertilizer, as well as random components of golf carts and golf equipment.
It's a maintenance room
.

I step out carefully, listening for human sounds, but hear nothing. Not wanting to lose my only light, I use my shoe to nudge the metal cart out into the entrance, blocking the door from closing. I decide to leave it that way, the elevator exposed and nonoperational. Whatever arrangement Mikey has with the owner of this shed, the elevator is now their problem.

From the shed, I walk out onto the well-manicured grass of a golf course.
It's the Los Angeles Country Club
, I realize—a members-only enclave for the Hollywood elite. I wonder how many of them know about or have used Mikey's little elevator setup?

Crossing the fairways, I make for an exit, keeping close to the tall bushes obscuring the course from the pathetically non-wealthy tourists. From there, I make my way out and across Sunset Boulevard. Running across the street with a Pomeranian and a yellow bag, I look unusual, sure, but I'm definitely not the weirdest thing this stretch of road has ever seen. Making my way up Whittier, I take the long way back to my car. Down the block, everything at the Echo mansion is silent. Whatever went down has already gone down. No cars exit the property, I hear no gunshots, police sirens, only the normal din of traffic on the outer streets. Is Mikey alive or dead right now? I wonder. Did Coco get to him or did someone else in the gang snuff him out first?
Really, I don't care all that much,
I admit
. I just hope it's over
. I put Mrs. Echo's skull in the trunk, setting it in carefully so it won't tumble and break any further than what Mikey did to it.

The Pomeranian, who had fallen asleep during our trek out of the mansion, yawns as I set it down on the front seat and then lowers its head, now fully acclimated to its new existence, and falls back asleep.

Ivy is there to greet me when I get home, having returned immediately when I called. She goes nuts over the Pomeranian, lifting it up and holding it in her arms, squeezing the tiny dog. “Can we keep it?” she asks when I explain that I'd rescued it from grim death.

“I'm sure it's got an owner that would like it back.” I shrug. “If you can live with the knowledge of that, then go ahead.”

“I can absolutely live with that knowledge,” she promises. She checks to determine he's a boy and announces, “His name will be Lucky.” She then looks at him and changes her mind. “No, Mr. Piggles is better. Huh, Mr. Piggles?”

“I'm fine, by the way,” I say, amused.

“Well, I know you're fine,” Ivy says. “You're right here in one piece. The question is, is it over? Is Mikey dead?”

“I don't know. I can't see how he wouldn't be. I stole his escape route from him.”

“Do you think you should call his phone or something? To check?” she asks.

“I'd rather not. I think I've earned a break from Mikey Echo for one night at least.”

Ivy actually wakes me the next morning by jumping on me, startling me from a deep sleep. “Whaa—what the hell?” I yell, shocked awake.

“It's almost eleven, were you planning on sleeping all day?”

“Eleven?” I ask, confused. “I never sleep that late….” I check her alarm clock, it reads 11:15.

“I keep it twenty minutes fast so I always think I'm late,” she explains. “Of course, since I know it's fast, I just go back to sleep. I'm usually late anyway.”

“That makes sense,” I agree and roll her off me. “The question is, why aren't you at work now?”

“Don gave me the day off. He said I should stay home and fuck you all day because of what you did to Mikey Echo.”

“Ivy, sweetheart, you can't tell people about that. Not yet. We don't know what happened.”

“He's dead,” she promises. “I know it, I feel it in my gut.”

“Is this you being psychic again?” I head to the bathroom to take a good, long piss.

“I'm not psychic,” she says. “I thought I was because I predicted that I was preggers, but I also bought a Lotto ticket last week and it didn't pan out.”

“Aww, bummer, we could have been rich,” I say over the sound of my stream. “Has there been anything on the news? About last night?”

“The only news is that Pogo is the cutest doggie ever!” she yells, bringing the dog into the bathroom. The little guy seems to be right at home in her arms.

“Is that what you're sticking with? Pogo?”

“It's that or Bark Hunsington the third.”

“Pogo's good,” I agree.

“So what happens now?” Ivy asks. “Do we stay in bed having sex all day or what? If we do, Pogo has to watch. I've decided he has separation anxiety.”

“Well, tempting as that sounds, I'm going to go try and pay a visit to George Echo.”

“Can I come?” she asks.

“Don't you need to stay with Pogo? Separation anxiety and all that?”

“Eh, he'll be fine,” she says, plopping the dog on the bed. “All he does is sleep anyway.” Sure enough, the pooch heads straight for my pillow and lies down for a nap.

“Well, if you want to tag along, I guess it won't hurt.”

“Good. We can have breakfast on the way.”

“It's almost lunchtime,” I point out.

“I usually have a couple breakfasts,” she admits. “It's my favorite meal of the day.”

“And that whole eating for two thing, right?”

“Oh yeah, that,” she remembers.

After a quick stop at the Quality Cafe in Hollywood, we head over to purchase a StarMap—a listing of where all the homes of celebrities are in Los Angeles. The maps can be purchased at almost any corner on the Beverly Hills side of town, usually from a lady in a beach chair. I'm convinced the real market isn't in StarMaps, but in selling those people their beach chairs and crudely painted wooden signs.

We find our lady, this one a pleasant Latina, and though George Echo's home isn't listed, she agrees for an extra $5 to circle the home on our map—once we've bought it, of course. As Ivy forks over the cash, I happen to notice a sign posted on the nearby light pole for a missing Pomeranian. Pogo's picture is on it and a $200 reward is promised. His real name is Tyson. For the sake of her conscience, I hope Ivy doesn't see it.

George Echo's house, up in the hills of Hollywood, is located in a community called Mount Olympus. We find his home, a sprawling black mansion with sharp angles and large floor-to-ceiling windows, right where the lady had said it would be. It is partially obscured by a large gate complete with video cameras staring down. I drive up to the intercom box, hit the button, and it is quickly answered by a brusque, older-sounding gentleman.

“Mr. George Echo?” I ask.

“Who is inquiring?” the accent-less voice asks.

“My name is Tom Tanner. I was sent by his son, Mikey, to kill him.”

“One moment, please,” the voice responds, emotionless.
This guy is so deadpan he could work for the call service
, I think.

Ivy's eyes bug out at my statement and she pinches my right arm just above the elbow. “What the hell are you thinking?” she snaps at me, using her angry quiet voice. “He's probably calling the cops.”

“Well, I couldn't just pull up and claim to be a plumber. In what world would that work?”

The intercom crackles as it goes live and the voice returns. “Please pull up to the main house.” And just like that the gates open.

“See?” I say to Ivy, shifting the car to drive. “This is Hollywood—they're always caught off guard by honesty.”

I pull up to the house, enjoying its breathtaking views extending to downtown and out to the waters of the Pacific Ocean. A man with hard features and an olive complexion stands in front of the home, his hair cropped short to his head. He puts out his hand to stop the car when I've pulled up on the driveway and then waves for us to get out.

“Remind me to never go anywhere with you ever again,” Ivy says, nervous.

“Remind me never to take you,” I shoot back.

I take the skull, still in its yellow plastic bag, and we walk up to the fit man. I see his expensive-looking suit has a security cut to allow a gun. “Would you show me inside the bag?” he asks, his eyes hidden behind square black sunglasses. Obeying, I hold the bag open. Mrs. Echo's head is pointed upward, the jaw slightly open as if in a state of shock. He glances inside quickly. “Thank you.”

“Do you need to frisk me?” I offer, extending my arms away from my jeans and polo, which don't have much of anything to hide.

“Is your intent to harm Mr. Echo in any way?” he asks me, staring, watching.

“No,” I answer truthfully.

He looks to Ivy and repeats the question. She pushes her sunglasses up on her head and says, “No” as well.
He doesn't need to frisk us; he can read our facial tics
.

“Follow me, please.” He turns to lead us into the house, apparently satisfied by our body language. As we fall in behind him, two other men, previously unseen, step out from the brush, similarly dressed but carrying small machine guns with straps around their shoulders.
Mr. Echo's bodyguards
.

Leading the way into the expansive triple-floor residence, the guard brings us through the foyer and into a sunken living room with posh black carpeting surrounded by white marble. A modernist design, the house and its furnishings are all in black, white, and steel, with none of the bold or macabre decorations from Mikey's twisted style.

We cross through and into a long span of hallway, ending at a closed door. The guard opens it for us and then stands back to let us enter.

I lead Ivy into George Echo's office, where we are greeted by the man himself, old and white haired but solidly refined and handsome.

“So you're here to kill me, are you?” he asks, and I recognize his voice from the intercom. He gestures for us to sit in the twin high-backed oak chairs seated in front of his expansive desk. Flipping a switch below his desk, the desktop computer dips down mechanically into the wood and is replaced by an empty black-walnut surface.

A small, well-trimmed beard that is mostly white surrounds his lips and his cheeks are drawn in but still tight for his age, showing off his elegant bone structure. I try to picture Mikey in the man's face but cannot quite see it. Ivy has trouble sliding out her heavy chair so I do it for her and then seat myself.

George Echo does not offer his hand and I do not offer mine, instead setting the yellow bag gently on the black carpeting, which extends into and covers the floor of the office. I realize then that I have not answered him.

“No, sir.” I add the “sir” because I feel like I should be officious in the presence of this important-looking man. “Your son attempted to saddle me with that task against my will.”

“And how were you to do it?” he asks, unwavering in his tone. I glance around, noting that the door to the office is open behind us, the guard standing in the hallway, always alert.

“With this,” I say, and produce the bottle of aconite from my pocket, setting it on the desk and then sliding it forward toward him. Ivy is, impressively for her, silent. “I was to slip it into your scotch tonight at the Biltmore.”

He does not reach for the bottle, but lets it sit on the desk between us. “Why did he recruit you for this…murder?”

“He framed me for a different murder and then used it as leverage against me. He thought I would be smart enough to pull it off.”

“I see,” George responds, drawing his fingers to his chin to mull over my words. “You know my son well?” he asks finally.

“We've become acquainted,” I say.

“Why did you come to me with this revelation?”

“Mikey might have had an accident last night. He might have been killed. Then again, he might not have been. I thought that you should be made aware in either case.”

The man takes the news as he has taken everything so far—with silent indifference. “And I saw you had a bag with you. What of that?”

I take the skull carefully from the bag and place it on the desk as well. “I believe this is your wife's skull,” I say. “Mikey had a collection of skulls. I thought you might want this. As proof.” I do not slide the skull forward, nor does he reach for it, but I have positioned it on the desk with the blunt-impact wound facing toward him. “I know your wife disappeared years ago. I think this demonstrates she might have instead been murdered. By Mikey.”

“I see,” George says, staring at it. He slides the bottle of aconite to him now, holding it in his hand, but not looking at it. “I see now why my son chose you for this task. You're very direct.” Using his thumb, he uncaps the aconite, its metal top dropping off below his desk.

Sidelong, I glance at Ivy. She looks as equally concerned as I feel. “Well, I must say,” George says, lifting the bottle to his nose, smelling it. “It's good to see Anjali again.” Sighing, he puts the poison to his lips and drinks it all.