Guardians of the Night (A Gideon and Sirius Novel) Page 15

  It seemed a stretch. Even a long-absent parent would likely be recognized by his child.

  “What if he was there scouting out the school for another reason?”

  I tried to come up with any other reason, but couldn’t. It wasn’t like the school was a jewelry store or bank, and the location needed casing.

  “What if he was plotting something illegal, though,” I said, “like child abduction?”

  Now I was really stretching the plausible. The Corner School wasn’t a cult. Its students wouldn’t need to be deprogrammed.

  “He was watching someone,” I said. “And for some reason he had to do it from the shadows. And he didn’t want this someone to be exposed. He acted in order to protect a child from a madman and then disappeared to protect that child from any collateral damage.”

  That felt right to me. I was still a long ways from an explanation, but I found myself nodding. Sirius must have been encouraged as well. He gave my ear a little kiss.

  My smart phone is synched to my car stereo. I have downloaded at least a thousand songs on my phone, and I offered up my choice as a voice command. My tune selection was repeated and moments later Peter Gabriel’s “Games Without Frontiers” started playing. I listened to its opening as the wonderful Kate Bush sang (and mispronounced) “Jeux sans frontieres.” Most listeners think she’s singing the words “She’s so popular.”

  I’d watched children playing games that morning, and now I was traveling to the adult version. Peter Gabriel started whistling, and I joined him. Sirius’s ears popped up. Our noise sounded interesting to him.

  The OZ offices in El Segundo were spread out over several business parks, and we searched out the building we were looking for. The subtitle of the song I was listening to was “War Without Tears,” the very kind of war OZ was pretending we could have.

  It was evident that Orion Zenith’s business had grown so quickly it had outstripped all its original space. The business, it appeared, was busting out at the seams. We drove by the corporate offices, a six-story building that stood like a watchtower among all the OZ edifices. Neal Bass didn’t have an office in that castle, which was probably a good thing for my purposes. Being somewhat removed from their headquarters might make it easier for us to talk. Elle Barrett Browning had identified Bass as being a member in good standing of the Attack Pack.

  I found the address I wanted, a three-story building that was close enough to be able to see the watchtower but far enough away to have its own space. The last words before I turned off the ignition were Gabriel’s: “If looks could kill, they probably will.”

  “That’s next,” I said to Sirius. “We won’t even need UAVs. We’ll just give a nasty look and that will be it.”

  I hoped I wouldn’t live to see that day.

  In the midst of the industrial park were some islands of green. Sirius got to do some sniffing and watering at one of those islands before I returned him to the car. I opened all the windows for him, gave him some water, and said, “Pleasant dreams.”

  As hard as it was to imagine, I was standing in the middle of a war zone. War was being plotted and waged inside of these buildings. In President Eisenhower’s Farewell Address to the Nation in 1961, he’d warned about the growing influence of the military-industrial complex. Ike could say those kinds of things because he was a five-star general and World War II hero. Only the extremists of the John Birch Society could question his patriotism.

  It was almost as if Ike had been looking into a crystal ball. In the years since his address, the military-industrial complex had grown exponentially, and the world certainly didn’t feel safer because of it.

  A middle-aged receptionist with a nametag of “Cheryl” acted as the gatekeeper into the building. I approached Cheryl’s desk and said that I was there to see Neal Bass.

  Unsmiling, she asked, “Do you have an appointment?”

  I placed my badge wallet on the counter and said, “Please tell Mr. Bass that Detective Gideon needs to talk to him.”

  The sight of my shield seemed to improve Cheryl’s mood. I sensed she didn’t think much of Neal Bass.

  She wrote down my shield number and then pointed to a notebook and said, “Please sign in, Detective.”

  When I finished, I was directed to take a seat. While I waited, Cheryl buzzed other employees in, took calls, and texted. I suspected one of those texts involved my presence, because a minute or two into my wait she told me, “Mr. Bass will be down to see you in a few minutes.”

  It was closer to fifteen minutes before Neal Bass appeared. He was probably in his early forties but looked older because he was mostly bald and had a paunch his loose Polo shirt couldn’t quite hide.

  Bass passed through the security door by the reception desk and started talking to me even before we were close enough to shake hands. “I’m not sure what you are here about, Detective, but I’m afraid I really don’t have time to talk to you without an appointment. Besides, if this is about a charitable contribution for the Police Athletic League, you’ll need to talk to Investor Relations, and they’re in another building.”

  I was sure he had been rehearsing that speech for the last five minutes. I was sure he’d looked into a mirror and practiced his “too busy to talk” demeanor. I was sure he was ready to put off my request to talk now by repeating how his schedule was jam-packed.

  As he extended his hand to me, I said, “Do you recognize me with my clothes on?”

  That wasn’t what Bass was expecting to hear. That wasn’t what Cheryl was expecting to hear. But it sure did interest her.

  “Oh, wait,” I said. “Unless you had one of those infrared things doing the recording, there would have only been an audio feed and no video, right?”

  Bass’s hand was still hanging in the air in expectation of our handshake and my dismissal. Now he didn’t seem to know what to do with it, or with me.

  “Are you sure you don’t recognize me?” I asked. “You need some heavy breathing as a reminder?”

  I smiled for Bass. At the reception desk I could hear the buzzing sound of incoming calls, but Cheryl was making no move to pick them up. This was too interesting.

  Bass looked down and seemed surprised to see that his hand was still extended outward. He dropped it to his side.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  Cheryl buzzed us through.

  Bass said nothing as he led me down a hallway. I guess he was once more rehearsing what he was going to say. When we came to a stop at an unoccupied office, he threw the door open and said, “I don’t know what your game is, but I only have a minute to talk.”

  “The law is very specific when it comes to homicides,” I said. “You can be convicted of being a coconspirator to a murder merely by having knowledge of it, or being in the presence of the murderer when it was committed, and not coming forward to report the crime.”

  Bass backtracked several steps and dropped down into a chair. “What are you talking about?”

  “I was acquainting you with the law.”

  “You must have me mistaken for someone else. I don’t know you, and I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You and your Attack Pack cronies gathered at Drew Corde’s house on the night before last.”

  “So what? We’ve been playing video games one night a week for the last dozen years.”

  “You should have stuck to playing video games. But instead of doing that, you were listening to a tape of a couple making love. That’s how you know me. I was half of that couple.”

  “I don’t—”

  I cut him off: “Don’t make it harder on yourself than is necessary. Don’t lie. The last thing you want to do is paint yourself into a corner and not leave any way out. You’re looking at some serious charges.”

  Bass was sweating. He looked uncomfortable in the same way that Elle Browning had, his head
turning one way and then the other as if afraid someone was listening.

  Finally he stammered out, “You got the wrong guy.”

  I shook my head. “I probably don’t need to tell you that voiceprints are like fingerprints. Our guys in the lab are great at matching up these sound waves, or whatever they’re called. It looks like a lot of squiggly lines to me, but they know their stuff. And let’s face it, Neal, I’m betting you’ve got quite the distinctive laugh. You strike me as a nice guy, but that laughter wasn’t nice. It sounded nasty and mocking.”

  I looked at his ringless finger, the hairs sprouting around his ears, and his unkempt appearance. Bass could have used a woman’s touch, something I was betting was absent from his life.

  “When I heard you laughing, Neal, it felt like I was in a high school locker room again. You made what was beautiful feel dirty. I don’t know if we can nail everyone from the Attack Pack with the voiceprints from that recording, but I have no doubt we’ll be able to nail you.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it,” he said. His mouth was open to say more, but he suddenly reconsidered whatever he was going to say.

  I raised my hands, as if to show how helpless I was in this matter. “Remember what I said about being a coconspirator, Neal. Your presence makes you guilty. I’m just hoping you didn’t have any knowledge of or involvement in Wrong Pauley’s death. That could be the difference between a slap on the wrist and life in prison.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Wrong Pauley was a homeless man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I guess his nickname was the story of his life and death: wrong spelled W-r-o-n-g. Anyway, he was the one who witnessed what happened in Venice Beach. I’d like to hear your version of events.”

  Bass looked confused, but it might have been part of his act.

  “Pauley went to the press with his story,” I said. “He told the world he witnessed an angel being murdered. It was only a day later that Pauley was dead. I think he was murdered.”

  “I know nothing about angels or murder,” Bass said. “Not a damn thing!”

  His eyes met mine; he wanted me to see how adamant he was.

  “How long has the Attack Pack been flying UAVs instead of playing video games?”

  Bass didn’t answer. What he had heard made him afraid. I wish I could have taken credit for scaring him, but I had the feeling the thought of someone else frightened him a lot more than I did.

  He asked, “I am under no obligation to answer any of your questions, am I?”

  I tried to calm him down and keep him talking. “If you cooperate, I’ll cooperate. If you come clean with what you know, we’ll work out a deal you like, and I’ll be in your corner.”

  It was a roundabout way of saying “no,” and Bass knew it. Flight mode kicked in. He jumped up from the chair and hurried out of the room.

  CHAPTER 14:

  MATCHMAKER, MATCHMAKER, MAKE ME A MATCH

  On my drive home I once more journeyed into the past with my musical time machine. Earlier I had heard Kate Bush’s voice and decided to dial in her song “Running Up That Hill.” While Kate sang about making a deal with God, I thought about my deal with the devil. In the morning I would be meeting with Ellis Haines.

  Knowing my partner would also be meeting with him, I told Sirius, “I’m glad your rabies shots are up to date.”

  I thought about potential next moves. It was likely Neal Bass would contact Drew Corde. Maybe I was already in the crosshairs of the military industrial complex. Paranoia made me want to know as much as possible about OZ and their UAVs.

  Everyone should have a nerd for a friend, especially if you’re technologically challenged. Peter Burns had been my go-to nerd for twenty years, ever since the two of us were undergrads at Cal State Northridge. It was Peter who helped me pass calculus and physical chemistry. When I bought my first personal computer, Peter was there, holding my hand. I doubt whether I ever would have figured out my large-screen TV and its surround sound without Peter doing the installation. I am not sure what I bring to our friendship; maybe Peter just pities minds like mine that aren’t digitally friendly. To keep him on retainer, I occasionally take him out to lunch or dinner.

  I instructed my hands-free phone (come to think of it, he tutored me on the phone as well) to “Call Peter Burns.”

  He picked up on the second ring. “What’s not working now?”

  “Did it ever occur to you I might just be calling to chat?”

  “That would be a first.”

  “Enough with our chat,” I said. “I need to pick your brain on drones and Orion-Zenith.”

  “Why would I know anything about either?”

  “You’re an engineer.”

  “I am a mechanical engineer who works on the development of medical devices. You’d be better served by talking to an aerospace or aeronautical engineer.”

  “Do you know one?”

  “You think engineers are some kind of Masonic club?”

  “Maybe without the secret handshakes,” I said.

  “If I ever have a meter maid question, I’ll be sure to call you. After all, they’re members of the law force community, aren’t they?”

  “They’re actually the backbone of it, and I’ll tell you whatever I know about them, but I probably know more about lovely Rita, meter maid.”

  Peter sighed. “As it so happens, you are in luck. Dr. Dante Inferno knows just about everything about drones.”

  “Is that a real name?”

  “It’s a real stage name. I know him as Isaac Siegel, but he likes to be called Dr. Inferno now. The two of us actually took bar mitzvah classes together.”

  “And how does Dr. Dante know UAVs?”

  “It’s what he did in San Diego for the last decade until he resigned his day job six months ago. The whole time I’ve known him, Isaac has been a performer, but he finally decided to quit his engineering job to pursue his dream of being a full-time entertainer. We actually caught up together earlier this week after his show.”

  “What kind of show?”

  “I think he calls it blaze wizardry, but he’s a magician. This week he’s headlining at the Magic Castle.”

  Peter called me back ten minutes later. He’d talked to Isaac Siegel—a.k.a. Dr. Dante Inferno—who had agreed to see me within the hour. I was cautioned not to be late because Dr. Inferno would be performing on stage in the Palace of Mystery at eight thirty.

  I knew I was getting close to the Magic Castle when I started seeing the sidewalk stars appear along Hollywood Boulevard’s Walk of Fame. As usual, TCL Chinese Theatre (which everyone still calls Grauman’s Chinese Theatre) was ground zero for a cluster of tourists, street performers, panhandlers, and crazies. Celebrity look-alikes, identifiable more by costumes and props than their supposed resemblance to the stars, were staked out along the block. All were willing to pose with tourists, for a fee. I could see multiple Marilyn Monroe and Elvis look-alikes, a few costumed superheroes, and a Charlie Chaplin. I think there was also a Bogart as well, but I wasn’t looking at him, kid, but making my turn.

  As I drove up the hill, I had a good view of the Victorian mansion now known as the Magic Castle. Like most grand old houses in SoCal, it had gone through several incarnations before its present use, but for the last half century magicians had been casting their spells at the Castle. The edifice might not exactly be Hogwarts, but by L.A. standards the old house is unique, and I’ve always liked the way it’s framed by the backdrop of the Hollywood Hills. Like so many things inside of it, the Magic Castle itself is an illusion. As large as it looks from the outside, it’s three times bigger inside, with much of the building underground.

  The wind was pushing at the palm trees lining Franklin Avenue. It was a hot late afternoon, with the mercury in the low eighties. There was a yellow tint to the air, probably a combination
of smog or soot from a fire. The Magic Castle always looks better after sundown. The same grounds that look faded in daylight beguile in the evening. At night the property is lit up, and its colorful Victorian cupolas seem to offer up an invitation to the past. I wasn’t here for the illusion, though.

  The Magic Castle refers to itself as a club. It is the home of the Academy of Magical Arts, and in order to visit the club, you must be invited by one of its members. My first invitation had come courtesy of Russ Donnelly, a cop who performs there whenever they let him.

  I drove up the steep drive to the valet stand and flashed my shield to a waiting valet. LAPD accounting tends to frown on ten-dollar valet service, so I asked where to park and was directed down the hill.

  There’s much about the Magic Castle that screams tourist trap, but in an innocent way. The building speaks to a time when kitsch was good fun, and part of that fun was the understood wink that came with the kitsch. As I approached the entrance, I could hear the sounds of old-time music drifting out of the building. Visitors to the castle find themselves in a waiting room with no obvious door through which to proceed. Encircling the waiting room is a faux bookcase that doesn’t even pretend to be the real thing.

  A young blond woman standing behind the reception desk said, “Welcome to the Magic Castle.”

  I approached her and said, “I am Detective Gideon, here to see Dr. Inferno.”

  The hostess pointed to an owl perched above the fake books and said, “You can gain entry . . .”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ve been here before.”

  I stepped over to the bookcase and said, “Abracadabra.”

  The owl didn’t stir and the hidden passage didn’t open. I turned to the hostess, frowned, but raised my index finger to my lips to ward off any hints.

  I took in a lungful of air and tried another spell, confidently announcing, “Hocus-pocus.”

  Once again, nothing happened. There wasn’t even a “who” from the owl. I gave a side-glance to the hostess, demonstrated that there was nothing up my sleeves, and signaled the need for one more attempt.