For my family
THE GUMSHOE DIARIES
Father Hollyweird
Chapter
Eight
Los
Angeles Times, 202 W. 1st St 11:13pm
Current
events are just that, current. It’s
why a journalist’s job is pretty much 24/7. It’s not too much different
time-wise from a cop’s life. Sure, you work a shift but the reality is you’re on
call 24/7. Whether it’s a badge you wear or a “press card” that you carry, if
either of these are your gig then you’re pretty much always on the job.
My
media contact, a rotund smart-ass newsman named Bradley Tremaine, an old friend,
was standing out in front of the LA Times corporate offices waiting for me. Ignoring
the “No Parking” sign I drove my old Chevy Covair up to the curb beside him.
Leaning over to the passenger side I cranked down the window (like I said, my
car is old) so my chubby buddy could stick his big noggin inside.
“You’re late Whitey, I’ve got a cab
coming to drive me to LAX,” he said in a monotone voice.
“Yeah well I prefer to see it as just in
time. Toss your bag in the back and hop into the copilot seat butterball. I’ll
drive you to the airport, you can fill me in on the way,” I replied nonplussed.
“What about the taxi?”
“Fuck
him, it won’t be the first time he’s been stiffed, won’t be the last
either. Perils of the job mate.”
“Yeah but…”
“But nothing buddy boy! Look you didn‘t
give the cabbie your ID right? So get in and let’s go Polly Anna, geez!”
“Alright, alright, quit your nagging, I
already have a mother thank you!”
Brad
opened the door, folded down the front passenger seat and tossed his duffle bag
in back then climbed in beside me and slammed the door shut. He set a fat
backpack on his lap and settled in looking for the seatbelt. He’d never driven
with me before so he didn’t realize he was wasting his time. Like I said, my
car was old and predated “big brother’s” safety mandate. I sped away from the
curb chirping the tires and headed down 1st Street toward the Hollywood
freeway in route to Los Angeles International Airport.
“What airline are you flying?” I asked.
“American,” replied Brad as he gave up
the search for the nonexistent seatbelt without asking for an explanation. Smart kid.
“My condolences,” I said sarcastically.
“What? Problems in the friendly skies
gumshoe?”
“Nah, just a personal preference. I’m a ‘United’ man myself, the stews are better
looking.”
“Don’t you mean flight attendants?”
“Nope! I mean stewardesses. Flight attendants include the males and they don’t
enhance my travel experience the way the stews do if you get my drift.”
“Yeah, I get ya Whitey, you’re a misogynist
Neanderthal. I thought we’d evolved beyond you dinosaurs?”
“Fat chance butterball, boys will always
be boys. So, what was it you had to show me that you couldn’t just tell me over
the phone? You know you put me in the doghouse with my girl back there.”
“She’ll get over it Whitey, more to the
point she’ll get over you sooner or later.”
“OUCH! Leave the head shrinking to the
pros buddy and enlighten me already.”
Brad
ignored me and reached into his backpack. He pulled out a mangled manila folder
that had seen better days, much like the frazzled and faded sport coat he was
wearing. I glanced over and could see that the folder contained a few official
looking documents as well as several photographs. My spider sense was definitely
tingling.
“What do you have there?” I asked, my
anxious voice betraying my excited curiosity.
“Fruits of my labor my good man, fruits
of my labor,” he answered with a grin as he tapped the folder and closed it
shut. This was gonna cost me.
“You seem pretty proud of yourself Brad
old buddy.”
“I am actually, some of my better work
if I do say so myself.”
“Well? Clue me in chubs, I’m all ears.”
“Business first Whitey, you know the
drill.”
“Riiiight. How much?”
“$500. The usual rate, $100 and hour to
the tune of five fruitful hours.”
“Only if the info is useful.”
“Naturally.”
“Alright, spill it.”
“Little background first. I was pouring over
all of the amateur You-Tube footage and reading broadcast copy when one aspect
kept buzzing around my face like a gnat at a summer BBQ.”
“And what did you see pray tell?”
“It wasn’t what I saw so much as what I
heard Miss Crispy say just before she lit the match.”
“Miss Crispy? Really Chubs? That’s low
even for you.”
“I suppose you’re right, call it unprofessional
sarcasm. What was her name anyways?
“Megan, her name was Megan Malloy.”
“Right, so I got hung up on Miss Malloy’s
last words.”
“I love you father?”
“Exactly, those words.”
“What about them?”
“Well isn’t that your whole case for the
Arch Diocese? The Holy men want you make sure that Megan wasn’t pointing a French
fried finger at the priest she was friendly with, am I right?”
“Something like that,” I replied
glancing over at him.
“Anyway, I did some digging for you and found
a couple of nuggets I think will interest you.”
“We’ll see, go on.”
“SO, the $64,000 question is who was
Megan Malloy referring to in her dying declaration? Care to guess?”
“I give up, who?”
“Actually I don’t know. But it could be
this fella,” Brad said opening the folder and tapping on the contents inside.
He pulled out a photograph of a twentysomething blue eyed blue blood young man.
Not exactly what I was expecting.
I glanced down at the picture in his
lap. “Who is it?”
“Miss Malloy’s baby daddy, I think.”
“Impossible!
I’ve seen the birth certificate, there was no father listed.”
“You saw a birth certificate. Did you
happen to notice the clerk’s stamp?”
I started to answer ‘of course’ when I realized that I had not. “You have the actual
birth certificate?”
“I do.”
“How did you manage that?”
Sources are confidential Whitey, stupid
question.”
“Right, show me the document and picture
again.”
I studied them both while we waited for
the light to change. “This fella doesn’t fit the profile I’d conjured. I was
expecting a junkie or otherwise ne’er do well of some sort. The young man in
this photo is too clean cut and actually appears respectable.”
“Not all louses are dirty and diseased.
The world is lousy with ‘clean cut’ vermin taking advantage of young
impressionable women. Don’t make me dredge up Bill and Monica.”
“Touché,” I replied handing back the
papers as the light changed.
“So what do you know about this Alex
Wembley character?” I asked referring to the name on the birth certificate.
Brad
pulled out a small spiral notebook from his coat pocket. He flipped back a few
pages and read from his copious notes as I merged onto the 105 Freeway toward
LAX. “Alexander Wembley, age 24, graduated from UCLA class of 2007 with a
degree in Economics, minoring in Finance. He recently completed his MBA from
Pepperdine University and is currently employed as an account executive with
the firm Bates, Wembley, and Stein. That’s right, he works for dear old Dad.
And, he comes from old money. A lot of it.”
”Interesting,” I said, rolling my eyes and
making the hmmmm face with a droopy
frown and nodding head.
“There’s more,” Brad added.
“Do tell, what do you mean?”
“Well it turns out that the apple doesn’t
always fall next to the tree. In Alex Wembley’s case it couldn’t have fallen
further.”
“How so?”
“Daddy Wembley is your classic country
club, money grabbing womanizer. Junior on the other hand is 180 degrees from
his father.”
“Spare me the diatribe Chubs and stick
to the facts,” I pleaded.
“Alright, in a nutshell the old man
drove Junior into the family business, and into manhood for that matter. Miss
Malloy was a graduation present who tragically got knocked up during their ‘tryst’ of fate.”
“YIKES!”
“It gets better. Junior and Miss Malloy
were both seeing Father Quinn but for different reasons and unbeknownst to one
another.”
“Really? This is starting to sound like
a Tele-Mundo script.”
“I KNOW IT!”
“Well we know Megan’s reason, what was
Alex’s?”
“Hold onto your Fedora gumshoe, the lad
is secretly attending seminary at St. John’s in Camarillo.”
“But Alex lives and works in LA?”
“It’s the 21st century
Whitey, he attends on line and only goes onto campus once a week for sessions
with his advisor and sponsor.”
“Let me guess, his sponsor is Father
Quinn.”
“The one and only.”
“Does he know about the connection
between them?”
“Unknown Whitey, that’s for you to
figure out, you’re the detective. But if you ask me he had to. He’s a priest, I’m
sure he’s seen it all in his profession and from what I’ve heard about him he doesn’t
strike me as an ignorant man.”
“Well I’ve met him personally and he is definitely
not ignorant, so he must have a good reason for keeping that under his hat. I’m
gonna have to talk to him about that.”
“You mean his ‘biretta’,” Brad said
matter-of-factly.
“His what?” I asked.
“Biretta, it’s a priest hat,” he
answered.
“Whatever Chubs, we’re here,” I replied
pulling up to the curb teaming with travelers in all shapes and sizes headed
for God knows where.
“You better hop out quickly, you don’t want
to miss your flight. Where are you headed anyway, I never asked?”
“Seattle, why, does it matter?”
“Not really, I’ve got your cell number.
Can I keep the folder?”
“Sure, as soon as you fork over the
dough Joe.”
“What was the damage again?”
“$500 Whitey, stop trying to cheat me.”
I
reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. I always carry cash,
never trusted banks or the little plastic bandits they issue to fools willing
to pay fees and risk identity theft by some unscrupulous teller or manager. I
peeled off five crisp hundred dollar bills and slapped them into Brad’s open
palm.
“You should be wearing a mask,” I
quipped.
“Pleasure doing business with you
Whitey,” Brad replied as he got out of the car. He reached in grabbed his
duffle, shook my hand then slammed the door shut and walked away toward the
terminal.
I leaned over cranked the window up sealing out the
night air and traffic noise then pulled away from the curb before the airport cops
got a chance to cite me. As I merged with the throng of comers and goers I
replayed everything Brad had shared on the way here. The Alex angle was interesting
on its own but the Father Quinn secrecy angle was the one I wanted to explore
next. I may have made a bad assumption about the sanctity of the confessional
the other night. I had a whole new set of questions to ask the good Father only
this time it was going to be on my terms on my turf. After that I’d track down Master
Alex Wembley and pick his squeaky clean brain. A good detective is only as good
as his instincts and his instincts are only as good as the information he
gathers. Brad was a good source and he really came through. Memo to self, I owe
my round friend a couple dozen Krispy Kreme’s
when he gets back from Seattle.