Five Stories

"How many did you get?" I ask.

"The sting got fourteen of them. Goddamn people are stupid," Jo says, and I hear a zipper from her suitcase. "Police were hoping they could get three at best. Exceeded their expectations. The sheriff was saying he might keep us on retainer."

"Good. Get on your flight. We need to split this interview list," I say, and end the call. I tucked my phone into my pocket and lean against the railing of her balcony. Remembering I'm on the fifth floor, I look straight down at the street below. The height makes me dizzy and I look up again. "Five stories."

--

Saturday - September 19, 2020

I requested that Justin Fontaine give me access to his daughter's home. She died without a will, so Justin and his ex-wife became the executor of her estate by default. She hadn't been seen since the funeral, leaving it all to Justin to arrange on his own.

Meghan Fontaine lived in a Beverly Hills condo north of Wilshire. The entire third floor of the building was her home. Three rooms, four full bathrooms, with an open floor plan consisting of floor to ceiling windows with a breathtaking view of the building across the street. Hardwood floors with a plush white rug in the living room. The kitchen has a modern aesthetic with sleek appliances and deep farmhouse sink. Justin had put the condo up for sale, and the listing was nearly 3.5 Million.

Justin floats by the door as I start my assessment of the place. Plenty of pictures of Meg with her mother, but Justin is noticeably absent. I say nothing regarding that and continue to examine everything. More photos of her with celebrities I recognize, and I do notice a consistent trend. Besides her mother, all her pictures are with men, and older men at that. She's with high profile directors, producers, and actors.

Her first extra bedroom is a guestroom complete with a queen-sized bed. She wasn't storing anything in the room, leaving the space for her guest to fully unpack. The second extra room was a small office. Meg had set up a green screen behind her computer chair. Her desk had a vanity light and a small hi-definition camera. She would often take her interviews from here. Behind the green screen is a shelf with several of the awards she had won throughout her relatively short career.

Meg's bedroom is last. Her queen-sized bed is arranged against the center of the wall. Her bedside table has two small containers next to it, so I open those and start to sift through the contents. The first contains over the counter medication to include cold and flu medicine, Tylenol, and ibuprofen. The second container is her box of fun. It contains a roll of condoms, flavored lubrication, a white flesh colored dildo, a vibrator, Plan B, and an open box of pregnancy tests. It came with four, and two have already been used. I don't remember her being pregnant in the autopsy report I received, but that's what the Plan B was for.

"Was Meg seeing someone?" I ask Justin who has found his way to her bedroom door. I put the lid back on the box, so he doesn't have to see his daughter in that light.

"Not that I knew of," he replies. Seeing how his daughter doesn't have a single picture of him in her home, I doubt she would have told him much at all.

On her night nightstand I also see the end of a charge cord for two different kinds of devices. One is for an iPhone, but the other I don't know just by looking at it. It looks like the same kind I charge my tablet with. Two different devices.

I return to her office and sit in her computer chair. I wiggle the mouse but the computer doesn't come to life, so I press the power button on her Macbook and wait for it boot up. The computer is password protected and I look over at Justin who shakes his head to say he doesn't know it. I lift up her keyboard, but there isn't a sticky note with the password on it. Her screen saver is a picture of her taking a cutesy selfie with a man whose face is partly obscured. They're laying on her bed and she's taking the picture by extending her arm above them. The two are facing each other and kissing. The man's Rolex tells me he has some money. His wedding ring tells me he has a lot of money to lose.

"Do you know who this is?" I ask Justin who walks into her office and looks at the picture.

"Hard to tell who it is even if I knew him," Justin says.

The totality of the condo is telling me if Meg was in fact murdered, it came from someone close to home. She seemed to have had a thing for older men. Powerful men at that. The man in the screen saver seems to have been merely the last in a long line of hook ups. Meg had a sexual appetite and seemed to have aimed that at men with a lot to lose but provided her with much to gain. I don't express to Justin that I believe she could have been sleeping with these men to further her career.

"Thanks for letting me look," I say and then stand up from her chair. "I must interview the stunt coordinator in an hour. I'll let you know what I find out soon."

Justin escorts me out of the condo, and closes the door once I leave. I pause for moment, and press my ear to the door because I think I heard something. I hear sobs, and know Justin is standing in her apartment, crying to himself.

--

Kenneth Taslim was an Indonesian Judo champion before moving to Hollywood. He had worked as both an actor and a stuntman on several Indonesian film projects, attracting the attention of American studios in the process. Occasionally, he still acts in Hollywood movies, now type casted as the martial artist henchman. Primarily, he's a stunt coordinator.

Culver City is only a ten-minute drive according to my phone. Thirty with traffic. As I drive across city lines, I immediately notice the LA homeless tent city below the overpass stops. Culver City enforces laws against homeless encampments, but LA doesn't. It's a stark contrast.

Kenneth lives in a two-bedroom bungalow with a small patch of grass and a driveway. In LA, that translates to likely a million-dollar home. I pull in behind his vehicle, double checking the address before I step out of the Jeep. He leaves his front door before I'm halfway up his driveway.

Kenneth is short and stocky, his chest protruding out of his tight shirt, his sleeves appearing to cut off circulation to his biceps. He is dark and Asian with a cleanly shaven face. Military styled dark hair.

"Mr. Taslim?" I ask.

"Mr. Kramner?" he replies, and I nod. He leaves his door open for me to enter, and gestures toward his couch after closing the door. "Justin really wants someone to tell him something different."

"Maybe I'll be the one to make him accept it," I say. Kenneth has already placed a French Press on the table with two decorative glasses.

As I make my way to his couch, I look at the pictures in his home. They show the progression of his life, starting with the Army. The first is him in the Indonesian Military, wearing a jungle style uniform with his face painted and wearing a red beret. Under the picture is small plaque written in Indonesian. The unit insignia is an octagon with two layers, beneath wings and a sword pointed upward. The hilt of the sword curves upwards, with both sides ending with two arrows pointing up. Other pictures show him in commando type uniform with rifles. Another of him fast roping from a helicopter. The last shows him receiving a commendation with several other men from the President of Indonesia.

"That's from my time in the Kopassus. Indonesian Special Forces," he explains as I linger. I see him training side by side with the American Army as well. They don't have rank or insignia on the uniform, so I assume U.S. Special Forces.

The next series shows his career after the Army. Him posing in Judo robes, holding up medals to the camera. Grabbling with an opponent, the picture snapped mid throw. A movie poster of his first credited film. There are pictures of him posing with several A-list actors with them wearing the same wardrobe.

"Coffee?" he asks.

"Please," I reply. He pours us both a cup and extends one out to me. "Thank you."

"How do you want to start. You're the fourth investigator I've talk to about this," he says. His accent is present, but his English is without flaw. I ask if he minds if I record the conversation, and he doesn't object. I begin by saying who I am, who I'm interviewing, location, time and date.

"Let's start with how you became attached to the project," I say, and he nods.

"I transferred my Indonesian career to Hollywood about ten years ago," he begins.

"Are you a citizen?" I ask, and he shakes his head.

"No. I love it here, don't get me wrong, but when I retire I'm going back to Indonesia. I just renew my visa when needed."

"What's your Hollywood career been like?" I ask.

"I've worked with most major studios on every scale. Low budget with practical effects and fight choreography. Big budget superhero. I have three projects lined up this year alone. Not to brag, but I'm highly sought after. I normally wouldn't do a show like this, but I was locked into a three-project contract with the studio. Terry said if I worked on one season, that would complete my contract."

"Terry Opal?" I ask, and he nods. "The show is not something you normally do?"

"Television isn't something I normally do," he says. "I just wanted to finish up the contract so I can accept a few offers down the pipe."

"How long have you known Terry Opal for?" I ask.

"Five years, give or take."

"What about Meg Fontaine?"

"First time I met her was at the start of production. I've always admired actors who can do their own stunts. Meg was fearless," he says, sipping his coffee, and placing the cup back down. He sighs deeply, shaking his head, then looking at his feet. "I miss her."

"We're you two close?"

"We became friends," he says, looking up at me with a weak smile. "She practiced several forms of martial arts. We bonded over Judo. Even spared a few times."

"Explain the stunt that resulted in her accident," I say.

"Simple stunt. Garden variety fixed line rappel. We strap the performer into the harness, roll camera and execute. We weren't even doing anything fancy like an Aussie rappel."

"What is an Aussie rappel?"

"When you rappel facing toward the ground. You essentially run down the wall. On the third take, she braked really hard after the initial kick, and the harness couldn't handle her weight," he says, now shaking at the memory of her fall. "The mat was misaligned."

"Third take. First two went well?" I ask, and he nods. "Why a third take then?"

"Meg. She was a perfectionist. She watched the raw of the first two, didn't like it, and volunteered to do a third. I thought it looked fine, but that's just me. Either way, a stunt like that, which doesn't use squibs, or explosions, producers are typically okay with doing those again because it doesn't take long to reset. Meaning it doesn't cost much. Extra takes, means extra money."

"How did the mat get misaligned?" I ask.

"I have an idea. First two she finished the rappel dead center on it. The director called for the next scene after the second take. Moving straight into the ground escape. He's a quirky director, he films scripts in chronological order, most don't. The crew started to move the mat, but then had to scramble when Meg wouldn't move forward without another take. They were likely annoyed, and half assed it."

"Your crew?" I ask, and he nods. "The names I got for the ground crew were Charlie Goshen, Paul Crenshaw, and Kris Jessup. That right?"

"Yeah. I was on top with her. I rigged her up."

"You didn't inspect it?"

"I...no," he says, looking at his feet, and holding his head in anger at himself. "It was the third take, and she hadn't taken it off. She was flustered it wasn't looking the way she wanted it to. She wanted to reach the bottom in only two kicks. First two she landed with ten feet left before the bottom. I did a cursory look, didn't see tears or frays, and let her go." He starts trembling, and gasp trying to catch his breathe. "I killed her."

"It sounds like an accident."

"In my line of work, accidents kill people," he says, and covers his face in his palms. He inhales through his nose to control snot. I end the recording.

--

Justin came through and managed to get me Terry Opal's schedule before noon. At one in the afternoon, he has reservations at the Polo Lounge in Beverly Hills. Justin even went as far as making me a reservation that overlaps with Terry's. It likely booted someone else off the list. I feel a mild satisfaction that I took some self-important asshole's spot.

I arrive ten minutes before he's expected, and glance at the reservations when the hostess isn't looking. I know which table to watch, so order once seated. Since Justin has my bill, I get a Wagyu burger for myself, and one for Jenn. My coffee arrives the same time that someone sits at Terry's table. I call the number I was told is his phone and watch the man who sat down check his ringing phone, turn off the ringer, and put it back into his coat pocket.

Once I confirm it's the right man, I leave my chair and walk to his table.

Terry is grossly overweight and looks genuinely winded from the walk from his car. An older man with a balding head and thin sweaty hair that sticks to his forehead. His nose is so flat, it resembles a snout. I nearly herniate in laughter when he orders the herbed pasta with truffle butter. He's dressed in a black Tom Ford suit with polished silver cufflinks. His wardrobe is easily ten grand. A grand of which was likely the extra material required.

He hands his menu back to the server, and I immediately sit down across from him. His head shoots up, and he looks to his left and right, then behind him.

"Who the fuck are you?" he asks.

"The guy whose calls you keep ignoring," I reply. His face adjusts into the realization.

"Justin's latest investigator I presume. It was an accident," he says. "Get away from my table before I have you thrown out."

"I got my own table. The staff can feel free to throw out a police veteran who lost his leg in the line of duty," I say. I unclip my leg and place it standing straight up on the table. "I'm sure that's the press they want."

"This is California. You can firebomb a police station and the DA will pat you on the head and say you're just a misunderstood youth expressing his anger to generational inequity and police brutality. Then charge the cop for arresting you." I don't even disagree with him. I reattach my leg while he watches in bemusement. My shoe left a footprint on the tablecloth.

"I need to see the set. Props, equipment, whole shebang," I say, moving on from his retort without a related comment.

"I don't care what you think you need," Terry says, and ignores me by playing with his phone.

"Wouldn't you rather just get this over with?"

"That's what the last three said," he says without looking away from his phone. "The two private dicks and the police came to the same conclusion. Do you honestly think you'll find something they didn't?"

"No," I say, and he looks up at me. "I really don't. But I've been hired to do a job, and I'm going to do it."

Terry thinks for a moment, even placing his phone on the table to show he's truly considering something.

"Ten a.m. tomorrow," he says.

"While I got you," I say, and he groans. "Mind if I record?"

"Yes, I fucking mind." Two-party consent state, so I must oblige.

"Fine. When did you first meet Meg Fontaine?"

"Look kid, I already gave you access to the studio. Don't push your luck."

"I'm thirty-five, don't call me a kid."

"I'm sixty-seven, everyone is a kid to me. I'm not answering any of your questions. If you need those details, talk to Detective Roland from RHD."

He hands me her card, and I know he's done talking to me. I return to my table and request my order for take-out.

--

~Holly Roland~

Saturday - September 19, 2020

A woman was found unresponsive by her roommate in their house in the Northern Elysian Heights neighborhood of Echo Park. The call came in at ten in the morning, and the EMTs arrived ten minutes later., but she was declared dead shortly afterwards. My partner Detective II Max Rivera and I arrived about two hours later because RHD took the case from the local precinct. The presence of emergency services has brought the neighborhood onto their curbs to watch. People are standing by their mailboxes, whispering to each other in their pajamas and bathrobes. Uniformed officers are maintaining a perimeter and we sign the scene log and slide under the tape.

The house is small for the neighborhood, but still likely over a million. I count two cars in the driveway, and two more on the curb. The grass isn't maintained well, and the bushes are overgrown compared to the rest of the neighborhood. Renters. We climb the concrete stairs to the front door and past the officer keeping guard.

Immediately when you walk in the woman is laying prone on the couch with her cheek against the cushion. Grey-yellow vomit slimed over her chin and had trailed down the couch to the floor. She is wearing nothing but socks and panties. On the coffee table is a burned spoon, lighter, cotton balls, and other assortment of drug paraphernalia.

Two local precinct detectives are already present and look transparently pissed off by our mere existence. RHD, the show stealers. You do all the work; we take your work and inflate our own close rates.

"Overdose?" Max asks, crouching next to the couch near her face. He's careful about the pool of vomit, more so about ruining his shoes than contaminating evidence.

"The mighty deduction of RHD. Tell us something we couldn't figure out just by looking at her," a local detective says. His partner I recognize, but this guy is new.

"We got an ID?" I ask.

"Denise Horne. Age 20 with a Kansas driver's license," his partner says. Detective II Grayson and I knew each other from a task force a few years back. He's more levelheaded and cooperative, but only just. I think because it's me, he's holding some words back.

"Deesohorny," Max says.

"What?" I ask.

"Porn star. Deesohorny, one word."

"Remind me not to look at your browser history," I say and look at each man in the room. Each one evades eye contact with the only female officer. "I hate all of you."

"Why are we even here?" Max asks.

"Bullshit politics. Upper class neighborhood, dead white girl. Enough said," Grayson eloquently explains. Grayson is black with a shaved head more polished than a bowling bowl. We weren't told the race of the victim, but the neighborhood was likely a contributing factor to our involvement.

"We'll call it an OD for now. We'll know more after a tox screen," I say. I look around the apartment to get a sense of who lives here. It's messy and disorganized with clothing, dishes, and leftover takeout everywhere. Pictures show several girls enjoying a party fueled lifestyle. Pictures of selfie styled photos in clubs or beaches. Kissing a variety of different men they were likely gangbanged by later.

"Where's the person who found her?" I ask.

"Back patio," Grayson says, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.

Max stays in the room while I move toward the back of the house. More dishes and disarray. A bunch of kids who moved out to LA before they learned how to be adults. Likely having big dreams of making it in Hollywood but found themselves on the California pipeline from preschool to porn. See it all the time. Lot of hopeful starlets who either had too much dignity for the casting couch, or too little.

"Detective Roland, LAPD Robbery-Homicide Division," I say to the woman sitting at a cheap glass patio table with plastic chairs. She's smoking a cigarette and flicking the ashes into an empty beer can. She appears Hispanic, and I hope I don't need to call someone in to translate. I've lived in LA all my life, but never picked up the language. She looks up at me for a moment, then blows the cloud into the passing breezing. "You're the one who found her?"