SERGEANT CARLOS RIVERA entered the partitioned-off area of the squad room that contained the desks of the five officers of the car theft unit, hung up his suit jacket, and eased into his office chair, being careful of his back.
“Where you been?” Rossi, the old guy in the group (he was fifty-one) asked.
“Hollywood.”
“We don’t work Hollywood,” Rossi said.
“Not the neighborhood, the world of Hollywood.”
“Where?”
“Standard Studios, out in the Valley.”
“Did Hollywood report a car stolen?”
“You might say that. A character named Dax Baxter did—a Porsche 969, yet.”
“Is that like a Porsche 911?”
“It’s set apart from the 911 by a figure of about six hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
Rossi ran the numbers in his head, his lips moving. “Are we talking about an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar car? There is no such thing.”
“There is such a thing,” Rivera said. “Google it.”
Rossi did so on his desktop. “Holy shit,” he muttered. “What makes it cost eight hundred grand?”
“I don’t know, exactly, probably the fact that there are people out there who will buy it, just because it costs eight hundred grand.”
“I mean, it only has four wheels and two doors,” Rossi pointed out.
“Are we going to argue about this? That’s what they get for the thing—it’s not my fault.”
“Who paid that much?”
“I told you, a guy named Dax Baxter.”
“The movie producer? Dead Man’s Tale and the whole Dead Man series? I seen them all.”
“Then you helped pay for an eight-hundred-grand car,” Rivera said.
“Now it’s my fault?”
“You and all the schmucks who bought tickets to that trash.”
“So this eight-hundred-grand Porsche is in a chop shop somewhere? Or on a ship to Hong Kong?”
“No, it was returned to its owner.”
“Returned? I been working car theft for eight years, and I never heard of one being returned.”
“It was returned. I saw it in the parking lot outside Baxter’s office.” He produced his iPhone, pressed some buttons, and handed it to Rossi. “I took pictures.”
Rossi regarded the car with reverence. “So that’s what eight hundred grand looks like?”
“That’s it. The thief washed and waxed it, too. It was clean as a hound’s tooth.”
Rossi laughed. “Now I’ve heard it all. A car is stolen, and the thief returns it cleaner than it was?”
“It wasn’t stolen,” Rivera said.
“Run me through that.”
“It went like this, as best as I can figure it out. Baxter drives the car out of Centurion Studios, where he had just had lunch, and he’s running with the pedal to the metal. The gate guard at Centurion calls nine-one-one and reports a dangerous driver with a tag that reads ‘DAX.’ Baxter drives around town at a hundred miles an hour for a few minutes, then, when he realizes patrol cars are going to be looking for the car, he turns into a car wash, leaves it there, and takes a cab back to his office, while somebody collects the car for him. By the time I get to the studio, the car is in the parking lot.”
“Did Baxter admit to any of that?”
“Of course not. He said he left the keys in the car and didn’t see the thief.”
“I believe that’s what they used to call at the Academy an ‘improbable explanation.’”
“Fucking outrageous,” Rivera said, “and I had to drive out to the Valley to listen to it. Pisses me off.”
“Well, what are ya going to do?” Rossi sighed.
“Something,” Rivera said. “I don’t know what, yet.”
“I’ll tell you what you should do,” Rossi said. “You should take a look at the newly reported thefts, pick one, and run it down. Then do another one.”
“That’s your prescription, is it?”
“What are you going to do, break his taillight, then arrest him and beat him up? If that guy can pay eight hundred grand for a fucking car, he could spare a little more to hire a lawyer and make your life hell. People like that guy know people—you know?”
“What you say makes perfect sense, Joe,” Rivera said, “but life doesn’t always make sense. I mean, an Alka-Seltzer ain’t going to make the feeling in my gut go away. This guy does this outrageous thing, then lies about it and wastes my time while he’s lying. Just because he thinks he can get away with it.”
“He can get away with it, Carlos,” Rossi replied, “and he will, and you’ll be left holding a bag with your stripes in it, if not your badge and gun. Forget about it and go find cars stolen in Beverly Hills. That’s what you get paid for.”
“Yeah, I know,” Rivera said. But he knew he was going to do something about it; he just wasn’t sure what.
28
TEDDY AND SALLY drove to work together on her first day, and as soon as they left the house something yellow appeared in his rearview mirror and stayed there. Not too close, but always within sight. It appeared to be an older model muscle car, but he never got a good enough look to nail the type.
The yellow disappeared as Teddy turned into the main gate at Centurion and got a salute from the captain in charge. He paused to say good morning to the man.
“How you doing, Billy?” the captain asked.
“Not bad, Jerry.”
“You hear about our bit of bother on Friday?”
“Nope.”
“Somebody in a souped-up Porsche was drag racing with himself on the lot, and nearly blew my gate away. I called the cops, but I hear the guy got away with it.”
“They didn’t catch him?”
“They caught the car, but the guy had reported it stolen. It had a license plate that said DAX. That ring a bell?”
“Dax Baxter?”
“That’s what I hear. I know a cop named Rivera who runs the stolen vehicle unit at the Beverly Hills PD.”
“That’s very interesting, Jerry,” Teddy said. “Gotta go to work.” Teddy drove to the Barrington bungalow, parked his car, and escorted Sally into the building. “Right that way, sweetheart,” he said, giving her a little push on the tush. “Knock ’em dead.”
Sally pushed her way through the glass doors and disappeared into executive-office land.
? ? ?
CARLOS RIVERA SPOKE to his buddy Jerry at the gate, was given a pass, and found his way to the executive office building, where the studio’s top brass worked.
Ben Bacchetti didn’t keep him waiting long. He shook his guest’s hand and motioned him to a chair across his desk. “What can I do for the Beverly Hills Police Department this morning, Sergeant?”
“I appreciate your taking the time to see me, Mr. Bacchetti. I just have a few questions. I understand that you had lunch on your lot last Friday with a Mr. Dax Baxter.”
“That is correct,” Ben replied. “It was a pretty brief lunch. Turned out that Mr. Baxter and I really didn’t have anything to say to each other.”
“Do you remember what sort of mood Mr. Baxter was in when he left your lunch?”
“Actually, it was I who left the lunch, but I guess I would say that Baxter was in a foul mood.”
“What did he say to indicate that?”
“He didn’t say anything. I showed him where to exit, then I left the room. A minute later I heard a car door outside slam shut, just about as hard as anybody could slam a car door, then there was a roaring noise and some rubber burned.”
“Did you actually see the car depart?”
“No, I just heard it. I expect just about everybody on the lot heard it.”
“But you think it was Baxter?”
“I can’t think of anybody who works here who would leave the lot in that manner.”
“How well do you know Mr. Baxter, Mr. Bacchetti?”
“I had never met him before Friday, but his reputation preceded him.”
“And what is his reputation?”
“You want rumors? I learned by watching Dragnet reruns as a kid that the cops want only the facts.”
“Let’s call it background information.”
“All right. I hear the guy is a gold-plated asshole who doesn’t give a damn for anybody but himself, and I’m told he has a stable of ex-wives who can confirm that.”
“Do you know the names of any of his ex-wives?”
“Nobody on our lot. Google him.”
Rivera stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Bacchetti,” he said. “I’m grateful for your time.”