Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Hills

She bent down to pet the cat again and said, “Cuddles, we just have to survive the next two days somehow. And then we’re going home at last.”

She called the airline that had brought her to Los Angeles from Oregon, and while she was inquiring as to ticket prices, Cuddles leaped onto the kitchen table, putting her face against Megan’s and purring in her ear. Megan thought that Cuddles was trying to tell her that she wasn’t in this thing all alone.

When 6-X-76 brought Jonas Claymore into the station and was putting him in the holding tank, Hollywood Nate passed them on his way to the report room. He glanced at Jonas through the heavy viewing window of the holding tank and stopped.

“Hey, Gypsy,” he said to Georgie Adams, pointing at Jonas, who was sitting on the bench in the little room. “What’d he do?”

“Bunch of pills,” Georgie said. “Ox, perks, that kinda shit. Do you know the dude?”

“He was double-parked in a van the other night and I warned him to move on,” Nate said.

“Yeah? He seems to get a lotta warnings,” Georgie said. “We also gave him one a few days ago.”

“Was he driving a cargo van at the time?”

Georgie shook his head and said, “A VW bug.”

“He works for an art gallery,” Nate said with a grin. “He’ll sell you crappy paintings on the cheap.”

“Not him,” Georgie said. “He’s unemployed.”

“Bullshit,” Hollywood Nate said. “Open the tank for a minute.”

Georgie opened the door, and Nate said, “Hey, man, remember me?”

Jonas gave Nate a glum look and said, “No.”

“You were double-parked in Thai Town delivering crappy art. Remember?” Nate said.

“You got the wrong guy,” Jonas said, alert now and worried.

“Dude,” Nate said. “You were driving a fucking van. It had the name of an art gallery on it. Wicker. Something like that.”

“Not me, Officer,” Jonas said. “I’m outta work. This officer and his partner stopped me last week when I was on my way to a job interview up in the Hollywood Hills.” He turned to Georgie Adams and said, “Ain’t that right, Officer?”

“Wickland,” Nate said. “It was the Wickland Gallery. You were doing a delivery for them.”

Jonas managed his most sincere smile and said, “I look like a bunch of people, Officer. This always happens. People confuse me with somebody else. No, it wasn’t me. I’m unemployed.”

Hollywood Nate looked at Georgie Adams and said, “I even remember his voice. It’s him. What the hell’s going on here?”

Before Nate and Flotsam went back into the field, Nate decided to call the Wickland Gallery, but he got a recorded message giving the gallery’s daytime store hours. Then Nate called the Beverly Hills Police Department and tried to find out if there had been a van reported stolen by the owner of the Wickland Gallery on Wilshire Boulevard. Viv Daley was on the computer, doing what she could without having a license number to work with. All responses were negative.

“Better leave a note for the detectives or call them in the morning,” Viv suggested to Hollywood Nate.

“He was double-parked in front of an apartment building,” Nate said. “I wish I’d seen which apartment he came out of.”

Georgie said, “If that van wasn’t hot, then Jonas Claymore does work for the Wickland Gallery and he was doing something extracurricular over there in Thai Town that night. It could mean anything.”

Flotsam said to Hollywood Nate, “Dude, maybe he lives there and went home to check his voice mail. Or, like, maybe his girlfriend lives there and he went by for a quickie and he don’t want the boss to know about it.”

Georgie said, “The art gallery oughtta clear it up for you one way or the other.”

“Yeah, it’s probably nothing much,” Hollywood Nate agreed. “I’ll call the gallery tomorrow before I send the detectives on a wild goose chase.”

Raleigh Dibble had been trying all evening to reach Nigel Wickland on his cell phone, but all he got was voice mail. He was certain that Nigel was avoiding him. At 7:30 P.M. Raleigh became convinced that fate had provided a gift of unfathomable worth. Rudy Ressler phoned and said that they weren’t coming home yet. They’d decided to stay over in New York to visit old friends of Leona’s because she was exhausted from the long journey.

“I don’t mind telling you I can’t wait to get back to L.A.,” Ressler said to Raleigh. “This doesn’t make me happy. By the way, how’s Marty?”

“Serious but not critical,” Raleigh said. “He’s in and out of consciousness. I call every day.” They had bought him time!

“I’ll call when we’re sure of our flight, but right now it looks like Wednesday,” Rudy Ressler said. “I think we’ll be at the Waldorf for old times’ sake. That’s where Leona and Sammy went on their honeymoon.”

“Enjoy yourself in New York,” Raleigh said. “Why don’t you take in a Broadway show? Stay as long as you like. Everything here is out of control.”

“ ‘Out of control’?” Rudy Resssler said.

“No, I said under control,” Raleigh said quickly.

When Raleigh hung up, he tried again to reach Nigel Wickland, who at last answered.

“Where the hell’ve you been?” Raleigh said.

“I’ve had a very busy day. What’s happened?”

“You tell me. Did they make contact today? What’ve you heard?”

“Nothing,” Nigel said. “There was nothing to report since his first call to me, so I didn’t phone you.”

“Well, I phoned you. Half a dozen times.”

“My mobile went dead. I forgot to charge it. I’m sorry.”

“Next time I’m calling your gallery phone whether you like it or not,” Raleigh said.

“Don’t do that,” Nigel said. “Ruth is already getting suspicious.”

A pause and then, “Suspicious about what? Is something going on?”

“No, I just meant that she’s observing my anxious behavior and asking me if there’s anything wrong. She’s not used to having people wanting to speak to me personally. She’s not stupid, Raleigh.”

“Okay, keep your cell phone charged and in your goddamn pocket. I have some good news to report. Mrs. Brueger won’t be coming home until the day after tomorrow at the earliest. We have time, Nigel!”

“Time?”

“Time to return the paintings to this house and get ourselves out of this nightmare. And if those thieves ever come at you again with demands, you just lie and deny and nobody can prove anything.”

“Yes,” Nigel said, “but restoring you to your former blissful existence depends on the thieves phoning me, doesn’t it? I have the twelve thousand they want, but I can’t do a thing until they make contact, so calm yourself until then.”

“Calm myself?” Raleigh said. “I’m having erratic heartbeats. Any day now I could stroke out and end up in the hospital bed next to Marty Brueger.”

“Raleigh,” Nigel Wickland said. “If our thieves perform as planned, I’ll pay them off and we’ll return the paintings to their vulgar frames in the home of your parvenu mistress. But I should’ve thought it would be better to risk being in a hospital bed next to a Marty Brueger than to spend the rest of your life as a domestic servant, wiping his ass or the ass of someone like him. But I guess you’ve already made your career choice, haven’t you?”

When Raleigh hung up, he thought, What an offensive, elitist, supercilious fucking faggot! He hated Nigel Wickland more than he’d ever hated anyone. His face was aflame and his hands were shaking when he went to the butler’s pantry and poured a stiff shot of Jack Daniel’s. Then he felt his pulse again. It was beating more erratically than ever.

He went into the great room and sat, trying to get some comfort from the wealth surrounding him. Something was nagging and it didn’t come to him until after he’d finished the Jack. Then he realized, the thief surely should have called Nigel today but Nigel didn’t seem at all upset about it. What had Nigel said about his employee? he tried to recall. Something about Ruth being already suspicious enough? Could there be something going on at the Wickland Gallery that would arouse real suspicion from her?