Eats to Die For! (12 page)

What it really meant was that I was relieved to discover the deductive reasoning portion of my brain was still functioning after the blow to the head.

“Whatever. You want to hear about the Temple or not?” he asked.

I did.

“Okay. I don't want my staff to hear this, but I won't touch the Temple of Theotologics. I won't go anywhere near them.”

“Why not?”

“Because their belief system doesn't include freedom of the press, that's why not. You try to investigate them and you find yourself shut down.”

“How can they do that?” I asked.

“They own an entire law firm here in town. They even own a few judges who are all too willing to sign off on a warrant so that all your computers and files can be confiscated.”

“You know this for a fact?”

“A couple years ago I wanted to run a story on an enterprising little theatre here in town that somehow attracted big name actors and directors despite its size and location, and got citywide attention, the kind usually reserved for the Mark Taper. It wasn't even a controversial story. It was supposed to be a nice little puffy feature about a playhouse with a real can-do attitude, with quotes from actors, directors, stagehands, management, all about the little stage that could. I assigned our second-string theatre critic to do the piece and he started researching it. He did too damn good a job.”

“What do you mean?”

“Jonathan was part of the L.A. theatre scene so he knew how things were supposed to work,” Zarian went on. “Back then acting unions had agreements and rules that governed these little places based on the number of seats, and everyone is supposed to be making a little bit of money. These days the union's got even greater control over them, but in those days you were supposed to get something, even if it wasn't much. Yet this place was paying nothing to anyone, not the actors, not the crew, not anybody. They were working with the absolute best, but nobody got anything. Well, Jonathan smelled a rat somewhere and he started digging around, and before we knew it the piece had changed. It became an exposé about a place where something really fishy was going on.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like the fact that some people who worked in the theatre were never seen again.”

“Maybe they took the bus back to wherever they came from.”

“Not everybody moves back to Springfield, Beauchamp. Then there was an instance involving an actor who was killed when a light fell on him. Our guy started digging and found out it took three tries before it was successful?”

“Murder? Why didn't you run a story on it?”

“Because, and here's the point I'm making, Jonathan found out the theatre was owned and operated under the table by the Temple of Theotologics.”

“Oh. Well, maybe I should talk to Jonathan, then.”

“You'll have to wait for visiting day.”

“What?”

“He's up in Chino serving fifteen to twenty-five.”

“What did he do?”

“Discovered the truth. The Temple made sure that story never saw the light of day by implanting kiddie porn on his computer and making sure he got caught, tried, convicted and imprisoned.”

“You've got to be joking.”

“Think? Want to drive up to Chino and tell that to him? When you go tell him I said hi.”

“You know for a fact that the child porn was planted?”

“I know it for a fact, because the day he was sentenced I got a phone call from some guy telling me that if I tried to resurrect the story, or think about doing any other story that involved the workings of the Temple, I'd find myself in the cell next to him. So the only time you're ever going to see the word Theotologics in the
Independent Journal
is in one of their paid ads.”

I felt chilled. Could this sort of thing really be going on outside of a movie or thriller novel?

Then something struck me. “What was the name of that theatre your guy was writing about?”

“They call it the Star Stage Center Theatre.”

Right. The same theatre that Regina Fontaine had done so much work for.

“I have to tell you, Beauchamp,” Zarian went on, “if you're dragging the Temple into this, I'm going to have to cut you off.”

“But you do want to find Louie.”

“Of course I want to find Louie, and I still want her notes. I just don't want to hear the word Theotologics mentioned again. Now get off my phone, I'm busy.”

“I'll be in touch,” I said.

“Yep.” He hung up.

At least the call had given me a positive connection between Regina Fontaine and the Temple of Theotologics, but that was cold comfort from any direction. I doubted I'd get very far going down to the theatre and saying, ‘Hi, folks, anyone here know anything about a dead dancer?'

Though if Mendoza had anything on the ball, he would have already done that.

Mendoza
.

Oh, the idea that just came into my head was a diabolical one, and it was my own creation, not one from the Hollywood Victory Caravan, and it might even alleviate my other, bigger, immediate problem, the one involving my cell phone.

Maybe the bonk on the head back there at Avery's apartment had sharpened my wits!

Opening my desk drawer, I pulled out the stack of business cards I keep rubber banded together and flipped through them until I saw the one for Detective Dane Colfax at LAPD's Northwestern station. I knew from Hector Mendoza that Colfax was no longer there, but I hoped the phone number still worked.

I dialed it and on the second ring a voice answered, “Yee.”

“Yee what?” I said.

“This is Detective Dylan Yee, who is this?”

“Oh, I was looking for Detective Willford,” I said. “I'm sorry if I got the wrong number.”

“No, he's here, hold on.”

A few seconds later, Bruce Willford identified himself.

“Hi, detective, this is Dave Beauchamp. We met a day or so back.”

“Right, hi. What can I do for you?”

“Well, this may make you laugh, too, because it's so ridiculous, but someone stole my cell phone.”

“Someone stole your cell phone?”

“Yeah, I was standing on a corner waiting for the light to turn so I could cross, and someone bumped into me,” I lied. “I felt something in my pocket, like a hand, and then my phone was gone.”

“But not your wallet?”

“Um, no, because see, I keep my cell phone in my back pocket, where most guys carry their wallets. He probably thought that's what he was getting.”

“Where did this happen?”

“On the West Side, around Palms.”

“That's not our jurisdiction, Mr. Beauchamp,” he said.

“Yeah, I know, but, I thought maybe you could tell me what to do.”

Then I heard a voice in the background shout, “Did you say
Beauchamp
? Gimme that!”

A few seconds later, my old friend Detective Mendoza came on the line. “Beauchamp, what the hell do you want?”

“Oh, hi, Hector. Well, my cell phone got stolen, and I thought I'd call in and report it.”

“Your cell phone? Your goddamned
cell phone
? Do you know how many cases we have open right now? Your CELL PHONE?”

After screaming out a suggestion that would have made Lenny Bruce blush, Mendoza slammed down the receiver at the police station, breaking the call, and likely the phone.

Even though the sound did nothing to help my still-aching head, I had to smile. Now, thanks in large part to Detective Mendoza's tirade, which could have been heard in Santa Barbara, an alternative explanation for my cell phone turning up in Avery Klemmer's apartment, other than my having been there, had been established.

It might not get me off the hook entirely, since I was known to have been inside Avery's building, but it should raise enough reasonable doubt to knock me down a few places on the suspect list.

Not bad, kid
, Bogie said in my head,
you're learning
.

Now if I could only figure out who had murdered Avery Klemmer.

It didn't take Philip Marlowe to figure out that it had been the killer who hit me over the head before fleeing. Nor was it much of a leap of logic to assume that on the way out the killer had made an anonymous call to the police to report the murder, which is why they arrived so quickly. Conclusion number three was that Regina Fontaine was not just the link between Louie and Burger Heaven, but she also connected Burger Heaven and the Temple of Theotologics.

It was then that I remembered something else, a passing reference made by the inebriated manager of Louie's apartment building. When I mentioned Burger Heaven, he'd drawled,
Goddamn Church owns 'em
.

At the time I assumed he was confused by the pseudo-Biblical terminology and iconography used by the chain, but now I wondered.

If the Star Stage Center Theatre was owned by the Temple of Theotologics, couldn't Burger Heaven be as well?

Opening up my laptop, I powered it up to see what, if anything, I could find online that might confirm that supposition.

At the same moment, I heard through the window the telltale sound of the mail truck pulling up outside. It's the mailman putting on the parking break for each stop that makes it so identifiable.

While my computer went through its prolonged booting process I went downstairs to get the mail in person.

It was a typical mail day: two bills, an offer from an internet provider, some grocery store fliers, and another missive from Front Row Video, a movie rental chain that had was supposed to have gone out of business, but was somehow still sending me threatening letters over a dispute that had been cleared up years ago.

But stuck within the fliers was something unexpected: a small padded envelope addressed to me but with no return address. Ripping it open as I walked back to my office, I saw it contained a flash drive.

“Louie, I love you!” I said excitedly.

Dashing back inside, I took the flash drive and plugged it into a port in my laptop, and waited. I did not have to wait long.

It only took a few seconds for all my desktop icons to disappear, followed by my screen saver, which had been a shot of the Hollywood Sign. Everything went black.

“Oh, no, no no no no no…” I droned, trying to find the curser to shut off the program, but failing because my keyboard no longer worked.

For all intents and purposes, my laptop was dead.

Even though it was probably too late, I yanked the flash drive out and threw it across the room. But even without it, words began to appear, scrolling up the screen from the bottom, like the back-story crawl at the beginning of a
Star Wars
movie:

Congratulations
! it read,
You've pissed us off
!
Here's your reward: we have disabled your computer and erased your hard drive. The only files that remain are the ones we have put on. Care to see what they are…
?

A photo then slowly faded up, eventually filling the screen. It showed an adult man, whose face was carefully hidden, with a girl of about eight, whose face was not. Both of them were naked.

Suddenly I felt sick. I could only pray for humanity's sake that it was PhotoShopped, not that the authorities would much care if any of them found it on my machine.

The words
Have a nice day!
then appeared, after which they burst into a bouquet of flowers, which animated away, leaving only the picture.

Clearly, the laptop was gone for good, but given the fact that the keyboard had been disabled, I couldn't even turn it off. I would have to wait until the battery ran out, or maybe I could simply take a hammer and smash it to bits.

That seemed like the better idea, but I would first have to get hold of a hammer, since I didn't keep one at the office.

My head hurt like the devil. I closed my eyes.

“Guys?” I said to the empty office, “Bogie? Even you, Mitch? Anyone? Can someone tell me what to do?”

It was Dana Andrews who drew the short straw.
Sorry, we're out of our league here
, he intoned.
In our day, all we had to worry about was getting beat up and shot at.

I couldn't take the hideous picture any more. I started to close the laptop when I heard a knocking sound at the door, which, because I had run in so quickly with the mail, was standing open.

Looking up, I actually moaned and closed my eyes.

“What's the matter, Dave,” the man standing in my doorway said. “You don't look happy to see me.”

Happy? At this particular moment in time the sight of Detective Dane Colfax in my office was causing my life to pass before my eyes.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“You look like you just swallowed a rock,” Colfax said. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I croaked. “How are you, Detective?”

“Can't kick.”

“I hear you're with Robbery and Homicide now.”

“Where'd you hear that?”

“I ran into Mendoza a day or so back.”

“How is he? Still limping?”

“Physically, no. Emotionally, I think he needs a crutch.”

“Oh, Hector's all right. Maybe a little uptight.”

Saying Mendoza was maybe a little uptight was like saying Marilyn Monroe was maybe a little sexy.

“Why are you here, Detective?”

“Know anyone named Avery Klemmer?” he asked.

Play it cool, kid
, Bogie told me.

“Avery Klemmer…I've met him. Why?”

“How did you meet him?”

“A client of mine lived in his apartment building.”

“Really? Hmm. That might explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“Why your cell phone was found in Avery Klemmer's apartment.”

“My cell phone? Really?”

You're over…acting
, Gary Cooper cautioned.

“But my cell phone was stolen a day or so back, at least I thought it was. I wonder if it fell out of my pocket inside the building? I already reported it as stolen.”