“Where does that leave us?” Dan asked.
“Turns out,” Terry said, “I took a trip out to the old barn and found, well, what Eric found. But because it was a second look, I searched deeper.”
Ridge, thinking about how wonderful his wife was, perked up. “And?”
“I scrutinized the dog-cage room. Sure enough, no visible dog hair in the cages, on the nearby cot, or imbedded in the corner chair. Then I lifted the large wooden box which looked like a table near that chair. It hid a trap door.”
“A cave or passageway?” asked Dan.
“Neither. An outhouse. A huge hole in the ground with shit at the bottom. It seems to be where someone threw dog dung over the years, although I’ve got to say—it looked big enough for use by people.”
Just then, Todd Valentine entered the café. A reporter for the L.A. Times, Todd was a distinguished-looking Black man in his 60s with a short beard, penetrating brown eyes, and a medium build. Ridge had known him since the late ’80s when Todd reported aerospace stories from Southern California, including cutting-edge stuff about Hughes Aircraft Company, Rockwell International, McDonnell Douglas, Northrop, and others. Then in the ’90s, when aerospace slowed down, Valentine switched to investigative reporting and never looked back. Today, Todd was the quintessential investigative reporter. In fact, he was everything a reporter should be—a knowledgeable, crackerjack thinker with relentless focus. Ridge’s type of guy.
Ridge waved Todd over. Being less paranoid than the three of them, Todd sat opposite Terry, with his back to the crowd. Ridge introduced him to Dan and Terry, and communicating silently with knowing looks, Ridge asked them if they should bring Todd into their 66 Sixteen Road mystery. Getting agreement, almost imperceptible head nods, Ridge asked Todd if he had time to help out with a little problem.
During the rest of breakfast, Ridge brought Todd up to speed on the Hulk, the license plate, the cabin, the barn, and the attacks on Jayne and Terry. As Ridge knew he would, Todd soaked up the information and immediately agreed to help. As the meeting broke up, Ridge thanked Todd and “officially” welcomed him to the team.
With the Fourth Estate—power of the press—on our side, Ridge thought, you can’t hide much longer Hulk, baby. We’re coming at you. And bringing fire and brimstone with us.
CHAPTER 31
Joshua Censkey sat brooding at his desk. It was late afternoon, and he wished he had a Westside office. Sure, the views from this office were great, but Westside had cleaner air, closer ocean, and the streets didn’t roll up at 6 p.m. like downtown. But the insurance companies, funding banks, and central courts, at the heart of his business, were all here, and so downtown he stayed. At one point, he’d contemplated opening a satellite Westside office, but unknown to everyone, he couldn’t take on extra overhead. Everyone thought he was filthy rich, but no one knew about all his recent losses. Damn Hollywood.
A few years back, flying high with his judge-network business, Joshua had decided to diversify. Being from L.A. that naturally meant the movie business. But Joshua, not being an idiot, knew he needed a special angle. L.A. is full of losers who put their own money into legitimate productions and ended up broke. And Joshua was no loser. So, he invented “ghosting”. The basic idea: Make a low budget movie. A couple of million max, using his hedge fund dollars. Guarantee one million to a fading star—someone with a name everyone recognized from years of stand-out work—but whose phone had stopped ringing because of drug use, alcohol abuse, advanced age, or all three.
Joshua figured the Fading Star would only have to shoot one or two scenes. A still from that best scene would then be used on posters and a DVD cover box, with Fading Star’s name, in big letters, plastered all over them. The movie itself would always be a formula flick, with no-name actors, maybe some vampires or zombies, and of course sex and murder. That way, production costs would always stay below an additional million. Joshua called the process “ghosting” because the Fading Star was on the cover and in a scene or two, but the film itself had no substance. A ghost, so to speak. The genius of the idea was using the Fading Star’s name and image to sucker people into watching the movie, or at least buying or renting the DVD. Then when sales and rentals tapered off, Joshua could pull the movie off the shelves, and repackage it for Europe and Asia. Profit after profit, with few additional expenses.
For his first film, he selected Stan Diller as the Fading Star. Diller had had a promising career. Early reviews likened him to Brando or DeNiro. He won several New York Film Critic Awards. Then, a terrible agent and too many drugs took Diller down. He dropped out for five years, made a come-back in two or three “A” films, and then started settling for second-fiddle roles in “B” grade movies. Even though he had a loyal fan base, who dug his anti-hero persona, Diller’s phone stopped ringing. That was, until one day, when Joshua Censkey called.
Diller’s agent, of course, told Diller to go for it. And sure enough, Diller made a million, minus his agent’s ten percent, for a couple of days of work. The film, released in only eight theaters nationwide, went to DVD almost immediately. But Joshua brought in two million from DVD rentals in America alone. Then two million from sales and rentals in Europe and Asia. And so, the hedge fund got its two million back, plus forty percent, and JFC pocketed most of the rest. Economics at its best.
With success in hand, Joshua did two more ghosting productions with Diller. But then the internet reviews on all three DVDs caught up with the actor. With his career in shambles, Diller ended up shooting himself one night in a dark lonely Hollywood bar. Yes, it was tragic, but Joshua reminded himself Diller had been unstable from the beginning. Anyway, by then, Joshua had located four other Fading Stars, and productions continued. The idea was to double production, double profits, and everyone would be happy.
Then, streaming internet movies started killing DVD sales and rentals. At the same time, the word spread throughout Hollywood, then Europe, then Asia about what they called “less-than-stellar work at JFC Productions.” Soon, the whole scam tanked. Joshua, who then had twenty ghosting films at various stages of production, had no market, and no choice but to cover thirty million in hedge-fund investments already sunk in those films. If not, the hedge-fund masters would have cut off their funding for his day job, the judge network. And no matter what, Joshua couldn’t let that happen.
And so, Joshua’s Hollywood career ended, leaving him light on cash and heavy on brooding. But, worse, he now had Chesterfield all over his ass. If he lost the insurance company account, how would he pay off the judges? And if the network broke down, well, he’d be toast.
Joshua hit the intercom. “Ryan, can you come in for a moment?”
Ryan had barely shut the door before Joshua started in. “I haven’t mentioned it before, but Monday night was a disaster. Chesterfield is mad as hell at us for not keeping the lid on the Silent Conflict case in Santa Ana.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Well, for God’s sake, I didn’t tell him we knew about it. I just assured him we’d fix it. He didn’t say it in so many words—he didn’t have to—but he made it crystal clear he wouldn’t lay out money, especially millions or billions, for independent lawyers anytime his regular insurance-defense lawyers faced a conflict.”
“Conflict?”
“Between what’s best for his insurance companies, and what’s best for their client. No way that was ever going to happen.”
“Did you tell him we already have an operative working the problem?”
“No. Chesterfield wants results. Yesterday. If he thought we knew about the problem and were just dinking around looking for solutions, he would have taken off my head. Maybe quite literally. We need results, now. Or it’s over.”
“I’ll get on it.”
“You better. That damn case by that sonofabitch doctor, Cho, Pao, or whatever the hell his name is. It better get reassigned to one of our network judges. Right away. I don’t care how.”
Then Joshua spun his chair back around toward the window, obviously dismissing Ryan. And he promptly began brooding again.
Joshua ended up staying late at the office. Brooding takes time. But by 8 p.m., he’d had it. He locked up and rode the parking elevator down to his reserved spot on level 2. His mouth, very dry. Then, suddenly, “Bing.” The elevator stopped and the shiny stainless-steel doors slid open. Lights low beyond. Really damn low, thought Joshua. With the price of parking, why can’t the fucking building owners pony up a few more bulbs?
Then, Joshua remembered. The soda machine. Seven feet high. Just left. Outside the elevator. It pulled him, like a magnet. Joshua turned, took a few steps and leaned over, peering into the glass front. Caffeinated drinks. Plastic bottles of filtered tap water. Shit. Not first choices. But damn thirsty is damn thirsty. Joshua looked down at the price in small print near the cash insert. $5 a pop. Outrageous.
Joshua backed up. Stared at the front of the machine. Then—a scuffing sound. Up high. Near the ceiling. Joshua raised his head. What…the hell? A guy. Burlap sack. Top of the machine. The guy pounced. Sacked Joshua’s head. Joshua’s chin slammed his upper chest. Dust filled his nostrils. Couldn’t breathe. Dark as hell. Mouth, throat—sandpaper. Then, a rope. Wrapped his head. Again. And again. Cinched his neck. Joshua tried to call out. No sound. The guy lifted him. Threw him to the ground. Joshua moaned at the impact. A fist slammed into his stomach. Joshua doubled over. Pain. Then, light. Stars popping in the darkness. God, vomit? Joshua conjured up drowning inside the bag. He choked back spew. Like chugging vinegar. Then, more rope. Wrapping his hands. Wrapping his ankles. Tying him off. Fast.
A vehicle screeched up. A door swung open. Big hands clamped down. Grabbed the scruff of Joshua’s neck and smashed into his groin. Lifted him again. Up, up. And flung, as if shot from a cannon. Then he landed. Jaw and knees slamming into something hard. Air flushed from his lungs. He slid forward into a hard stop, a wall or something. He heard a slam and a clang. What the hell? Was that a tailgate? Was he in the bed of a truck?
“Fucker pissed his pants.”
“Disgusting. We’ll teach him manners when we get to the barn.”
And then the truck doors slammed shut and someone stomped their foot on the accelerator, sending the truck careening, tires screeching, straight toward hell.
CHAPTER 32
Friday turned into a crazy, busy day in Redondo Beach. Before he went to the office, Ridge and Jayne picked up Pistol at 7 a.m. and got her home and to bed right away. Mister curled up with her, and soon both fell asleep. During breakfast, Jayne explained the new alarm system. “It’s unobtrusive and works well. We tested it with Redondo P.D. yesterday.”
