'And you thought my client might be connected to this?' 'fflae story's similar.' 'Yeah,' she admitted. 'It is.'
'So I thought this might be tied in.'
She nodded. 'I understand why you might think that, specially after what happened to Bob, but you have to be careful not to start reading import into everything. Pretty soon you'll be seeing patterns in unrelated events, making connections where there are none. Don't let your father's situation color everything.' this is something similar to the case I'm working on. That's all. It has nothing to do with my dad.'
'Doesn't it?'
He turned away, folded the paper. 'No. And I suggest you keep an eye on this guy. My list is not foolproof. Just because your client is not on the list doesn't mean that he's not a target. Don't automatically discount his fears.'
'I won't,' she said.
They were silent for a moment. 'So what about Bob?' she asked.
'Wasn't that a movie?'
'I'm talking to you seriously.'
Miles took a deep breath. 'What about him?'
'Do you think--?'
'I don't know what to think.'
'What are you going to do?' she asked.
He shrugged. 'What can I do? Wait until his body turns up, I suppose.'
'Do you think it will?'
'It has to sometime.
But he didn't sound convincing even to himself, and he was glad when Claire dropped the subject and put her arm around him and they settled back into the couch to watch the movie.
Finally.
One of the other men on Liam's list lived in the Los Angeles area, and with the help of Hal, who had a good memory as well as a recurring client who ran an adult bookstore, Miles found the work address of one Owen Brodsky.
Brodsky was a porno distributor, one of the third-tier middlemen who sold videos through ads in raunchy magazines and smutty newspapers. His office headquarters was a two-room rental in one of the nearly condemned Hollywood buildings that was sinking thanks to the subway being dug under the street below. Subway construction was the bane of Hollywood's tourist office but a boon to small business owners like Brodsky, who could now afford rent in places that before would have been priced far beyond their means. A Hollywood zip code was all-important, and Miles understood why Brodsky would covet a Hollywood location, particularly in his business.
Downstairs, Brodsky's building housed a movie-themed bookstore, a closed tattoo parlor, and an open- fronted shop carrying gaudy Mexican merchandise. The upper offices were reached by a narrow stairwell located behind a door sandwiched between the bookstore and the tattoo parlor, and Miles climbed up the steps, walking down the hallway at the top until he found the closed door with the cheap plaque reading:
Brodsky Productions. He knocked, heard no answer, then tried the knob.
It was unlocked, and he opened the door, stepping into the office.
The room was crowded and messy and looked more like an abandoned storage locker that had been ransacked than someone's office. A grossly overweight man with a pile of Der Wienerschnitzel wrappers on the cluttered desk in front of him looked up when Miles walked in but did not stop sorting through what looked like a sheaf of order forms in his hands. Miles glanced around, saw stacks of videocassettes and their extremely graphic covers piled on tables, cabinets, and the floor. A doorway leading into another of rice revealed boxes and cartons and even bigger piles of
stacked tapes, as well as a dirty floor littered with magazines and yellowed newspapers. = 'Mr. Brodsky?' Miles said.
The man's eyes narrowed. 'Who are you?'
'I'm a private detective. Are you Mr. Brodsky?'
'Yeah, I'm Mr. Brodsky. What can I do for you?'
Miles held out his hand. 'Hi there. I'm Miles Huerdeen.'
The big man declined to shake, continued sorting through the forms.
'Call me Fred.'
'Fred?' Miles frowned. 'I'm looking for a Mr. Owen
Brodsky.' ::
'You're looking for my dad
Oh. Do you know where I can find him? 'Forest Lawn.'
He had a sinking feeling in his chest. 'You mean he's---'
'He died about a year ago. Heart attack. Why? What'd you need him for?'
Miles sighed. 'I'm investigating a stalking case. My client's father has been threatened numerous times, and his life is possibly in danger.
He drew up a list of names, and quite a few people on that list have died under mysterious circumstances.'
'I told you: my dad had a heart attack.'
'I understand that. But I was hoping to speak to your father, if he was alive, to see if he knew of any connection between the names on the list, if he knew of any reason someone might be going after any of them.'
'You might want to look up Hec Tibbert. He was one of my old man's buds. The two of them went way back. If anybody'd know about that kind of shit, Hec'd know.'
'You have any idea where I might be able to find him?'
Brodsky shrugged. 'Phone book, maybe.'
'You got one here?'
'Yeah.' With considerable effort, the fat man bent down
and opened one of the bottom desk drawers. He took out the White Pages and dropped the thick book onto the desk.
Miles turned to the T's and quickly scanned the row of names. 'Is Hec his real name? There's an L. Tibbert in Torrance and a Peter Tibbert on Fairfax in L.A.'
'Naw. Hec lives in Monterey Park or San Gabriel. Somewhere around there.'
'Did your dad have a personal phone book? Someplace where he kept the names and numbers of friends and family?'
'There might be one back at the house.'
'You think we could go over there and check?' Brodsky gestured at the mess around him. 'I'm kinda
'twenty bucks.' The fat man scowled. 'Look, I don't know you from Adam. I told you what I -know, let you look at my phone book, but that's it. It's time for you to go now.' 'qTwenty-five bucks.'
'I've wasted enough time with you. Get the fuck out of my office. This conversation is over.'
Miles met his eyes. 'Twenty-five bucks, and I won't report the existence of those golden shower videos'--he nodded toward a stack of pink jacketed cassettes--'to my friend Manny Martinez on the vice squad.'
Brodsky stared at him for a moment, as if gauging his seriousness, then shrugged and pushed himself away from the desk, making the Herculean effort to stand. He was almost as wide as he was tall, Miles saw, a physical attribute that gave him the appearance of a cartoon character.
'Do you want me to drive?' Miles asked.
'We'll take our own cars so we can go our separate ways afterward. No offense, but I don't want to spend my entire afternoon on this fucking thing.'
'Your call.' Miles followed him out of the office and
