The other bedroom appeared to be used as a workout location. There was no bed. There was a stair machine and a rowing machine on a grass mat, a small television in front of them. Pierce opened the only closet and found more clothing on hangers. He was about to close it when he realized something. These clothes were different. Almost two feet of hanger space was devoted to small things —negligees and leotards. He saw something familiar and reached in for the hanger. It was the black fishnet negligee she had posed in for the website photo.
This reminded him of something. He put the hanger back in its place and went back into the other bedroom. It was the wrong bed. Not the brass railings of the photo. In that moment he realized what was wrong, what had bothered him about the Venice address.
Her ad copy. Lilly had said she met clients at a clean and safe townhouse on the Westside. This was no townhouse and that was the wrong bed. It meant there was still another address connected to Lilly Quinlan that he still had to find.
Pierce froze when he heard a noise from the front of the house. He realized as an amateur break-in artist he had made a mistake. He should have quickly scanned the whole house to make sure it was empty instead of starting at the back and moving slowly toward the front.
He waited but there was no other sound. It had been a singular banging sound followed by what sounded like something being rolled across the wood floor. He slowly moved toward the door of the bedroom and then looked down the hall. Just the pile of mail on the floor at the front door.
He stepped to the side of the hallway, where he felt the wood was probably less likely to creak, and made his way slowly to the front of the house. The hallway opened to a living room on the left and a dining room on the right. There was no one in either room. He saw nothing that would explain the sound he had heard.
The living room was kept neat. It was filled with Craftsman-style furniture that was in keeping with the house. What wasn't was the double rack of high-end electronics below the plasma television hanging on the wall. Lilly Quinlan had a home entertainment station that had probably run her twenty-five grand —a tweakhead's wet dream. It seemed out of character with everything else he had seen so far.
Pierce stepped over to the door and squatted by the pile of mail. He started looking through it. Most of it was junk mail addressed to "current resident." There were two envelopes from All American Mail —the late notices. There were credit card bills and bank statements. There was a large envelope from the University of Southern California.
He looked specifically for letters —bills —from the phone company and found none. He thought this was odd but quickly assumed her phone bills might have been sent to the box at All American Mail. He put one of the bank statements and a Visa bill into the back pocket of his jeans without a second thought —the first being that he was compounding the crime of breaking and entering with a federal mail theft rap. He decided not to pursue thoughts on this and got up.
In the dining room he found a rolltop desk against the rear wall. He turned a chair from the table to the desk, opened it and sat down. He quickly went through the drawers and determined that this was her bill paying station. There were checkbooks, stamps and pens in the center drawer. The drawers going down either side of the desk were filled with envelopes from credit card companies and utilities and other bills. He found a stack of envelopes from Entrepreneurial Concepts Unlimited, though these had been addressed to the mail drop. On each envelope Lilly had written the date the bill was paid. Again noticeably missing was a stack of old phone bills. Even if she did not receive the bills by mail at this address, it did appear she paid her bills at this desk. But there were no receipts, no envelopes with the date of payment written on them.
Pierce didn't have time to dwell on it or to go through all the bills. He wasn't sure what he would find in them that might help him determine what had happened to Lilly Quinlan anyway. He went back to the center drawer and quickly went through the registers of the checkbooks. There had been no activity in either account since the end of July. Going back quickly through one of the books, he found record of payment to the telephone company ending in June. So she did pay the phone bill with the account he held in his hand and very likely at the desk where he sat. But he could find no other record of the billing in the drawers. He couldn't even find a phone.
Feeling hurried by the situation, he gave up on the contradiction and closed the drawer.
He reached to the handle to pull the rolltop down when he saw a small book pushed far into one of the storage slots at the top of the desk. He reached in for it and found it to be a small personal phone book. He used his thumb to buzz through the pages and saw that it was filled with hand-written entries. Without another thought, he shoved the book into his back pocket along with the mail he had decided to take.
He rolled the top down, stood up and took a last survey of the two front rooms, looking for a phone and not finding one. Almost immediately he saw a shadow move behind the closed blinds of the living room window. Someone was going to the front door.
A blade of sheer panic sliced through Pierce. He didn't know whether to hide or run down the hallway and out the back door. Instead, he couldn't do anything. He stood there, unable to move his feet as he heard a footstep on the tiled stoop outside the front door.
A metallic clack made him jump. Then a small stack of mail was pushed through the slot in the door and fell to the floor on top of the other mail. Pierce closed his eyes.
"Jesus!" he whispered as he let out his breath and tried to relax.
The shadow crossed the living room blinds again, going the other way. And then it was gone.
Pierce stepped over and looked at the latest influx of mail. A few more bills but mostly junk mail. He used his foot to push the envelopes around to make sure and then he saw a small envelope addressed by hand. He bent down to pick it up. In the upper left corner of the envelope it said V. Quinlan but there was no return address to go with it. The postmark was partially smeared and he could only make out the letters pa, Fla. He turned the envelope over and checked the seal. He would have to tear the envelope to open it.
Something about opening this obviously personal piece of mail seemed more intrusive and criminal to him than anything else he had done so far. But his hesitation didn't last long. He used a fingernail to pry open the envelope and pulled out a small piece of folded paper. It was a letter dated four days earlier.
Lilly, I am worried sick about you. If you get this, please just call me to let me know you are okay. Please, honey? Since you have stopped calling me I haven't been able to think right. I am very worried about you and that job of yours. Things around here were never really the best and I know I didn't do everything right. But I don't think that you shouldn't tell me if you are all right. Please call me if and when you get this.
Love, Mom He read it twice and then refolded the page and returned it to the envelope. More than anything else in the apartment, including the rotten fruit, the letter stabbed Pierce with a sense of doom. He didn't think the letter from V. Quinlan would ever be answered by a phone call or otherwise.
He closed the envelope as best as he could and quickly buried it in the pile of mail on the floor. The intrusion of the mail carrier had served to instill in him a sense of the risk he was running by being in the house. He'd had enough. He quickly turned and headed back down the hallway to the kitchen.
He went through the back door and closed it but left it unlocked. As nonchalantly as an amateur criminal can be, he walked around the corner of the house and down the driveway toward the street.
Halfway down the side of the house he heard a loud bang from up on the roof and then a large pinecone rolled off the eave and landed in front of him. As Pierce stepped over it he realized what had made the startling noise while he had been in the house. He nodded as he put it together. At least he had solved one mystery.
9
Lights."
Pierce swung around behind his desk and sat down. From his bac
kpack he pulled out the things he had taken from Lilly Quinlan's house. He had a Visa bill and a bank statement and the phone book.
He started paging through the phone book first. There were several listings for men by first name or first name with a following initial only. These numbers ran the gamut of area codes. Many local but still more from area codes outside of Los Angeles. There were also several listings for local hotels and restaurants, as well as a Lexus dealer in Hollywood. He saw a listing for Robin and another listing for ECU, which he knew was Entrepreneurial Concepts Unlimited.
Under the heading "Dallas" there were several numbers for hotels, restaurants and male first names listed. The same was true of a heading for Las Vegas.
He found a listing for Vivian Quinlan with an 813 area code phone number and an address in Tampa, Florida. That solved the mystery of the smeared postmark on the letter.
Near the end of the book he found an entry for someone listed as Wainwright that included a phone number and an address in Venice that Pierce knew was not far from the home on Altair.
He flipped back to the Q listings and used his desk phone to call the number for Vivian Quinlan. A woman answered the phone in two rings. Her voice sounded like a broom sweeping a sidewalk.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Quinlan?"
"Yes?"
"Uh, hi, I'm calling from Los Angeles. My name's Henry Pierce and —"
"Is this about Lilly?"
Her voice had an immediate, desperate tone to it.
"Yes. I'm trying to locate her and I was wondering if you could help me."
"Oh, thank God! Are you police?"
"Uh, no, ma'am, I'm not."
"I don't care. Someone finally cares."
"Well, I'm just trying to find her, Mrs. Quinlan. Have you heard from her lately?"
"Not in more than seven weeks and that just isn't like her. She always checked in. I'm very worried."
"Have you contacted the police?"
"Yes, I called and talked to the Missing Persons people. They weren't interested because she's an adult and because of what she does for a living."
"What does she do for a living, Mrs. Quinlan?"
There was a hesitation.
"I thought you said you knew her."
"I'm just an acquaintance."
"She works as a gentleman's escort."
"I see."
"No sex or anything. She told me she goes to dinner with men in tuxedos mostly."
Pierce let that go by as a mother's denial of the obvious. It was something he had seen before in his own family.
"What did the police say to you about her?"
"Just that she probably went off with one of these fellows and that I'd probably hear from her soon."
"When was that?"
"A month ago. You see, Lilly calls me every Saturday afternoon. When two weeks went by with no phone calls I called the police. They didn't call me back. After the third week I called again and talked to Missing Persons. They didn't even take a report or anything, just told me to keep waiting. They don't care."
For some reason a vision bled into his mind and distracted him. It was the night he had come home from Stanford. His mother was waiting for him in the kitchen, the lights off.
Just waiting there in the dark to tell him the news about his sister, Isabelle.
When Lilly Quinlan's mother spoke, it was his own mother.
"I called in a private detective but he's been no help. He can't find her neither."
The content of what she was saying finally brought him out of it.
"Mrs. Quinlan, is Lilly's father there? Can I talk to him?"
"No, he's long gone. She never knew him. He hasn't been here in about twelve years — ever since the day I caught him with her."
"Is he in prison?"
"No, he's just gone."
Pierce didn't know what to say.
"When did Lilly come out to L.A.?"
"About three years ago. She first went to a flight attendant school out in Dallas but never did that job. Then she moved to L.A. I wish she'd become a flight attendant. I told her that in the escort business even if you don't have sex with those men, people will still think that you did."
Pierce nodded. He supposed that it was sound motherly advice. He pictured a heavyset woman with big hair and a cigarette in the corner of her mouth. Between that and her father, no wonder Lilly went about as far as she could get from Tampa. He was surprised it was only three years ago that she left.
"Where did you hire a private detective, there in Tampa or out here in L.A.?"
"Out there. Not much use to hire one here."
"How did you hire one out here?"
"The policeman in Missing Persons sent me a list. I picked from there."
"Did you come out here to look for her, Mrs. Quinlan?"
"I'm not in good health. Doctor says I've got emphysema and I've got my oxygen that I'm hooked up to. There wasn't much I could do comin' out there."
Pierce reconstructed his vision of her. The cigarette was gone and the oxygen tube replaced it. The big hair remained. He thought about what else he could ask or what information he might be able to get from the woman.
"Lilly told me she was sending you money."
It was a guess. It seemed to go with the whole mother-daughter relationship.
"Yes, and if you find her, tell her I'm getting real short about now. I'm real low. I had to give a lot of what I had to Mr. Glass."
"Who is Mr. Glass?"
"He's the private detective I hired. But I don't hear from him anymore. Now that I can't pay him anymore."
"Can you give me his full name and a number for him?"
"I have to look it up."
She put down the phone and it was two minutes before she came back and gave him the number and address for the private investigator. His full name was Philip Glass. His office was in Culver City.
"Mrs. Quinlan, are there any other contacts you have for Lilly out here? Any friends or anything like that?"
"No, she never gave me any numbers or told me about any friends. Except she once mentioned this girl Robin who she worked with sometimes. Robin was from New Orleans and they had stuff in common, she told me."
"Did she say what?"
"I think they both had the same kind of trouble with men in their family when they were young. That's what I expect she meant."
"I understand."
Pierce was trying to think like a detective. Vivian Quinlan seemed like an important piece of the puzzle, yet he could not think of anything else to ask her. She was three thousand miles away and was obviously kept literally and figuratively distant from her daughter's world. He looked down at the phone book on the desk in front of him and finally came up with something to ask.
"Does the name Wainwright mean anything to you, Mrs. Quinlan? Did Lilly or Mr. Glass ever mention that name?"
"Um, no. Mr. Glass didn't mention any names. Who is it?"
"I don't know. It's just someone she knew, I guess."
That was it. He had nothing else.
"Okay, Mrs. Quinlan, I'm going to keep trying to find her and I'll tell her to call you when I do."
"I'd appreciate that and make sure you tell her about the money, that I'm getting real low."
"Right. I will."
He hung up and thought for a few moments about what he knew. Probably too much about Lilly. It made him feel depressed and sad. He hoped one of her clients did take her away with a promise of riches and luxury. Maybe she was in Hawaii somewhere or in a rich man's penthouse in Paris.
But he doubted it.
"Guys in tuxedos," he said out loud.
"What?"
He looked up. Charlie Condon was standing in the door. Pierce had left it open.
"Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself. What are you doing here?"
He realized that Lilly Quinlan's phone book and the mail were spread in front of him. He nonchalantly picked up the daily planner he kept on the desk, looked a
t it like he was checking a date and then put it down on top of the envelopes with her name on them.
"I called your new number and got Monica. She said you were supposed to be here while she waited for furniture to be delivered. But nobody answered in the lab or in your office, so I came by."
Chasing the Dime Page 7
