Valentino: Film Detective by Loren D. Estleman

Author:Loren D. Estleman [Estleman, Loren D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781932009965
Publisher: Crippen & Landru Publishers
Published: 2011-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Padilla looked at the archivist. “What day is today?”

Orson’s Grill, in a defunct Burger Chef on Cahuenga, featured posters and memorabilia—the latter locked inside shatterproof glass cases—relating to the life and career of Orson Welles, with a menu engineered to replicate the late actor/director’s expansive waistline in its clientele. The maître d’ pointed Padilla and Valentino toward a private room in back. The lieutenant drew his sidearm, towing a chain of gasps through the crowded common room.

“Has-beens, also-rans, and wannabes,” he said. “Those are his targets. Life would be simpler if these twisted jerks would just kill their mothers and be done with it.”

Valentino said nothing. He was tense and his throat was hoarse from arguing in favor of his civilian presence at the showdown. He’d finally compromised, agreeing to hang behind in order to avoid being trapped in the crossfire between Padilla and the backup he’d ordered for the rear entrance.

A burly waiter stood before the door to the back room. “Sorry, fellows. Private party. Not even staff ’s allowed inside till after the movie.”

“Whose orders?” Padilla showed him his gun and shield. The waiter blanched.

“Why, the young man’s, sir. He said he was the projectionist.”

“You see a projector?”

“He was carrying a big black case like one comes in.”

“How long ago?”

The waiter shrugged. “Twenty minutes.”

Padilla told him to stand clear.

The door was locked from the other side. The lieutenant clasped his automatic in both hands, raised a foot, and threw his heel at the latch. The door was more cooperative for him than Beata’s had been for Valentino. It swung open and banged against the wall inside the room.

“Police! Drop it!”

Valentino craned his neck to see inside. Four middle-aged people in formal dress sat around a linen-covered table, eyes wide above gags tied around their mouths. One was a woman in her middle fifties with a chrysanthemum head of improbably butter-colored hair. Their hands were out of sight; tied, Valentino supposed, to their chairs.

A reedy young man in cords and a tweed sportcoat stood this side of the table with his back to Padilla, looking over his shoulder at the source of the interruption. Annoyance was plain on his narrow features, which were a younger version of Mother Augustine’s. He’d stopped in the midst of drawing a collapsible steel baton—the kind police used in place of nightsticks—from a black case standing open on the table. The case was filled with long-bladed knives and coils of nylon rope.

Just then a door on the other side of the room burst open and two policemen in uniform sprang through, one standing, his partner dropping into a crouch. Their sidearms were trained on the young man holding the baton.

His head spun that way. Then his shoulders sagged and he let his weapon fall back into the case.

Padilla barked another command. Arthur Augustine turned to face him and folded his hands on top of his head.

“Pigs,” he said.

Holiday O’Shea whimpered through her gag.

The “Curse Killer” stained front pages and breaking newscasts for two weeks, complete with its familiar back story of parental neglect and adolescent jealousy.

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