by Matt Goldman
Jameson had a point. A year ago, I wouldn’t have let Los Angeles and the lack of a PI license dissuade me from following my gut on a suspected murder. A year ago, if a rich old lady in St. Paul had handed me a fat check to fly to warm weather just to find out if her grandson was investing in show business, I would have yawned and walked away. But yesterday, I viewed the job as easy and safe and lucrative. What made yesterday different than a year ago? The answer is simple: Gabriella Nuñez and Evelyn Stahl-Shapiro.
I don’t talk tough or get in fights. I rarely carry my gun. Two stiff drinks and I need a nap. But I’ve been a justice freak driven by an intrinsic need to find the truth. I don’t know why. I don’t have an origin story that explains my motivation. I was just born that way. My drive has taken its toll on my finances, quality of life, safety, and personal relationships. But it gave me an identity. Something to hold on to while the rest of life passed me by.
Then the rest of life stopped passing me by. I fell in love with Gabriella Nuñez, and she reciprocated. And Evelyn was born and evoked something in me beyond love. Beyond purpose. Something akin to the meaning of life. Gabriella and Evelyn became my identity. Truth and justice yielded with quiet dignity.
“Well?” said Jameson. “You got an answer for me, Shap? What the hell are you now?”
Jameson White and I had never had a spat. We’d had disagreements about the Minnesota Twins’ starting rotation, the value of jam bands, and the accuracy of weather predictions, but those were laugh-filled disputes and ended in one of us buying the other a beer. But on that drive up Coldwater Canyon, Jameson White tried to pick a fight with me. A real fight. I didn’t engage. If I had, I’d have to tell him the reason I’d lost my investigative drive because I had something worth living for, putting my life in sharp contrast to his. I’d also have to tell him there was no difference in me abandoning justice and him abandoning his emergency room patients. No way I was going to take that shot at my friend.
I said, “What the hell am I now? That’s a good question, Jameson. I’ll have to think about it and get back to you.”
“You do that. But I will not hold my breath.” The car grew quiet for a few minutes as we each continued the conversation in our minds. Then Jameson said, “Mulholland Drive. Best place in town to murder someone, other than Griffith Park. Griffith Park’s got more bodies in it than the Mall of America on Black Friday.”
The valley was to our left. The Los Angeles basin to our right. At night, you could see both sections of the city were an almost perfect grid, its streets running north/south and east/west. The glowing matrix looked like a giant computer motherboard with information traveling from one part of the system to another. Only it wasn’t information. It was steady strings of cars, white lines of headlights moving in one direction, red lines of taillights moving in the opposite direction.
We found Ebben’s Lexus LX pulled over near Outpost Drive. At least I assumed it was his because it had Minnesota plates and was crunched into a boulder, the front passenger side wheel broken at the axle. But I didn’t see Ebben Mayer.
“Where is he?” said Jameson.
We got out of the car. Two Porsche 911s sped by, motors revving, a red one on the tail of a yellow one. They roared around the curve and disappeared, their upshifting engines fading into the night awash in city light.
August said, “I think it’s time to call the police.”
“No. Please.”
I got down on my hands and knees and shined my phone’s flashlight under the SUV. Ebben Mayer lay on his stomach. “It’s safe to come out. I brought muscle.”
Ebben crawled out from under his car. He was covered in a beige dust that Los Angeles seemed to be made of. He looked up at Jameson and August but said nothing.
I said, “If you’re scared enough to hide under your car, Ebben, you should call the police.”
“No.”
“You sure? There might be tire marks on the road. They could help us find out who did this.”
He shook his head as the tow truck driver pulled up next to us. Ebben had the car towed to Lexus of Beverly Hills, and August drove the four of us down Outpost Drive, then we ended up on Hollywood Boulevard, where double-decker buses ferried tourists past famous movie theaters and discount shoe warehouses. Grown men and women dressed as superheroes and posed for pictures with people who thought that kind of thing was fun. We continued down the hill toward Hancock Park, and Jameson pointed out iconic restaurants and movie studios like Sunset Gower and Paramount and Raleigh.
He showed me where famous movie scenes had been filmed, and I wondered why Ebben felt so strongly against getting the police involved. The reason could be what he’d told me, that he didn’t want the publicity. Or the reason could have been more complicated than that. Maybe he had something to hide. Maybe he’d slipped Juliana the caffeine overdose. Or maybe he had something completely different to hide, like what was in his bloodstream when he may or may not have been run off the road.
I said, “What’s that store?”
Ebben said, “House of Spies?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a store for James Bond wannabes. They sell tracking devices and equipment to bug rooms and spy on people. Cuff links that are cameras. Kind of creepy but it’s been there for a long time.”
“I wouldn’t mind a bow tie that’s a camera.”
“That’s the place to shop for one.”
We arrived at Ebben’s. The big boys were hungry again, so we ordered pizza and another delivery service brought a six-pack of Shock Top, Jameson’s beer of choice. Ebben went upstairs to change out of his dusty clothes, and I said, “Turn on your bullshit detectors, gentlemen. I like Ebben Mayer. I’m worried that will skew my judgment.”
Over pizza and beer, Ebben explained that he and Juliana used to pick up late-night In-N-Out Burger, drive up to Mulholland, and eat while overlooking the city. He said his stomach wasn’t up for a burger, but he felt the need to go up and look over the city to feel connected to her. “After being around all those people at the celebration this evening,” he said, “it felt like a way to be alone with Juliana. I hadn’t planned on it. I was just driving around when I got the idea and took Laurel Canyon up to Mulholland. A couple minutes later I noticed an SUV behind me.”
I said, “Bigger than your Lexus?”
“About the same, I think. I saw mostly headlights, and it was right on my ass. It did look kind of square, like a Jeep. Didn’t matter if I tapped my brakes or sped up. The son of a bitch stayed on my tail. I wanted to pull over, but all the turnouts were taken. Then it bumped me. Bumped me hard. I tried to outrun him, but he stayed on me. All the way to Outpost. I knew there was a big spot to pull over there because that’s where we’d hike Runyon Canyon. So I jerked off the road and into the parking area, but I couldn’t stop before hitting the boulder. I thought whoever was in the SUV would come back for me so I crawled under the car and hoped, if they did come, they would think I ran into the canyon.”
Jameson said, “But no one came?”
“No.” Ebben sipped his beer. I looked at his hand to see if it shook. Steady, steady, steady. “Nils, can you protect me?” He said it calmly, as if he’d asked me to paint his house.
Jameson stifled a laugh.
Ebben said, “What?”
“Shap can’t protect you. He can’t protect anyone. Look at him. He’s all puny and weak.”
I said, “Hey. That’s a matter of perspective.”
“Then how ’bout this perspective? You can still buy your shirts in the boys’ department.”
“For your information, Jameson, I stopped buying my shirts in the boys’ department when I was twenty-five.”
August Willingham the Third laughed hard.
Jameson said, “I can protect you, Ebben. But I don’t work cheap.”
Ebben looked at me, and I looked at August. He nodded without making eye contact, and I passed it on to Ebben. Ebben said, “So you’d move in here? Go to business meetings
and things with me?”
“If that’s the job, no problem. I got you covered.”
10
August drove me back to the hotel to get Jameson’s stuff. Ten-thirty on a weeknight and Wilshire Boulevard was packed with cars. Where in the hell was everyone going? August said other than rush hour, L.A. traffic made no sense. It could slow to a crawl any time day or night, then it would free up for no apparent reason. Then jam up again for no reason. There were just too many cars and not enough lanes, which seemed impossible because, as far as I could see, Los Angeles was mostly made out of streets. It’s what impressed (or unimpressed) me most. The lack of green space. Even in tree-lined Hancock Park, the streets were wide and the lawns were tiny. And if there was a park in Hancock Park, I hadn’t seen it.
August said, “I like the idea of Jameson keeping an eye on Ebben. It’ll give him a sense of purpose. Much more than hanging out with me at practice. He knows that’s a charity move. Busy work. But protecting Ebben is a real responsibility. My question is: Is it dangerous?”
“I don’t know if it’s dangerous. I do know if someone really wanted to hurt Ebben tonight they could have. Seemed pretty remote up on Mulholland. All they would have had to do was stop, walk back and they could have accomplished their goal. Either someone’s trying to scare him or he made it up.”
“Why would someone try to scare him?”
“Well, he can’t owe anyone money. He has plenty of that. Maybe someone blames him for Juliana’s death. Maybe someone just wants him to leave Los Angeles because they don’t like his Creative Collective.”
“Why would he make up a story about being run off Mulholland?”
“I have no idea. He doesn’t seem like the type who is desperate for attention.”
“And that thing with the white gardener. And the eye patch guy. And Juliana’s caffeine overdose. Those aren’t made-up.”
“No,” I said. “Those are real.”
We arrived at The Line Hotel. I’d agreed to move into Ebben’s along with Jameson. I had no idea what we were signing up for or if we’d want to get out of it, so I didn’t check out of the hotel. August Willingham the Third went up to Jameson’s room to get his bag. I went to my room to get mine. I opened my room door and saw a sheet of paper lying on the floor. A handwritten note.
I’m in the hotel bar. Please come see me when you get this. –Brit
Bunion Brit. I’d said I’d meet her for coffee tomorrow. Showing up at my hotel felt pushy and forward. It was late. And how did she know what room I was in? Some high-end hotel this was. I grabbed my bag, went back downstairs, scanned the hotel bar, and saw her sitting at a table for two.
I found August in the lobby, explained the situation, handed him my bag, and told him I’d get a ride back to Ebben’s within the hour.
Bunion Brit’s painted red lips drank red wine. When she saw me, she set down her glass and stood. “Nils.”
“How’d you know what room I was in?”
“I can’t tell you that. Someone would get in trouble.”
“You’re going to have to tell me or this conversation is over.”
She gave me a that’s not fair look but my expression didn’t budge. She sighed and rapid fired, “For fuck’s sake. A friend of mine works here. He or she is an actor who owes me a fucking favor. He or she put the note under the door to repay that fucking favor. I don’t actually know what room you’re in because he or she wouldn’t tell me. They just delivered the message. Satisfied?”
“Yes. So what was wrong with meeting ten hours from now like we’re supposed to?”
“Oh, we’re still meeting then. But the guy I’m seeing insists on joining us so this is a pre-meeting.”
“Is the guy you’re seeing named Ebben Mayer?”
Bunion Brit gave me a dead cold stare. It felt uncomfortable so I looked around the bar. There was an abundance of attractive people, as if I’d been popped into a modeling agency or a beer commercial.
Bunion Brit said, “Are you implying the only way Ebben would produce my movie is if I slept with him? That a woman writer isn’t good enough to have her work produced on the merits of the work as opposed to the merits of her body?”
“No,” I said, “I’m implying something doesn’t feel right to me about Ebben Mayer and about how Juliana died and I’m wondering if he was cheating on his fiancée. I was just taking a shot in the dark. It rarely works but you never know.” She didn’t want to get off her high horse and that was all right with me. She could ride away any time she pleased. “So why are you here now? What did you call it?”
“A pre-meeting.”
“I’ve never heard of a pre-meeting.”
“It’s a meeting to prepare for a meeting.”
“And why do we need it?”
“Because the guy I’m seeing insists on coming to our meeting and I want to discuss some things with him not around.”
“So if you hadn’t told him about our meeting, we wouldn’t need this pre-meeting.”
“Exactly.”
“Hmm…”
“Hmm, what?”
“Is that why there’s so much traffic in this town? Everyone’s going to meetings and pre-meetings?”
“You’re kind of being an asshole right now.”
“It’s late. I get cranky when I’m tired. And I can’t sleep in tomorrow because I have to meet some writer for coffee.”
“Now you’re totally being an asshole.”
“Although I’m getting a sense I should cancel that meeting.”
“You will not. The guy I’m seeing—”
“You mean your boyfriend?”
Brit twisted up her mouth and swung her eyes to the far right to think. She swung them back toward me and said, “No. We date, but I don’t consider him my boyfriend. Anyway. It’s Thom.” She lifted her eyebrows as if to say, You know, Thom.
I said, “Thom?”
“You met him tonight.”
“Oh, right. The guy with the light-sucking hair.”
“He dyes it.”
“You sure it’s not press-on?”
“Yes. It’s his hair. Just dyed.”
“Isn’t Thom a little old for you?”
“He’s twenty years older than me. He’s sweet, and I like mature men. I always have. I’m an old soul. Even when I was in my twenties, I dated—”
“Stop.”
Bunion Brit’s forehead wrinkled. “Excuse me?”
I lowered my voice. “Not now, but when I tell you, look behind you. A bald man with an eye patch just entered the lobby.”
“So?”
“I saw him at Juliana’s celebration tonight. Ebben has no idea who he is. But the dude doesn’t look friendly.”
Bunion Brit nodded. “Can I look?”
“Please.”
Bunion Brit turned and looked. The barrel-chested eye patch spoke to the clerk at the front desk. In about thirty seconds he’d search the bar. I said, “We need a way out of here.”
Brit turned back to me and said, “Follow me.” She set a twenty on the table and walked toward the back of the bar. She opened a door labeled BREAK ROOM 86 and we stepped into a bar that looked like 1986. Vintage stereo speakers. Old boom boxes atop the wall of liquor. Vinyl hung on the wall. The place was full of hipsters sipping cocktails and microbrews. Brit limped toward the bartender, a young man with a Brad Pitt head on a print model physique. “Dustin, is there a back way out of here?”
Dustin said, “Yeah, but I can’t take you out that way. I could get fired.”
“I’m not fucking around, Dustin. This is serious.”
“Oh shit, Brit. Jesus. It never ends with you. But now you owe me one.”
“Fine.”
He made a subtle motion with his head. We followed him behind the bar, through a swinging door and into a room full of liquor. Beer kegs sat in glass-doored refrigerators, connected by a mass of tubes like Intensive Care patients. Dustin pointed, “That door leads to outside. Get out of here. Hurry up.
”
I pushed the door open and we stepped into an alley behind the Line Hotel. Bunion Brit kept hobbling so I followed. We walked a block west on Wilshire Boulevard then entered BCD Tofu House, a Korean restaurant that looked like a humongous Denny’s, only the pancakes and the clientele were thinner.
Bunion Brit said, “You really have no idea who that eye patch guy is?”
“None.”
“He looks Russian.”
“I bet he’s from somewhere in that neighborhood. He’s been keeping that eye on Ebben. Like the gardener.”
“What gardener? What are you talking about?”
“And I’m guessing he followed August and me here.”
“Shit. What do we do?”
What do we do? What do I do? I was free to walk away. And if my only choice was to chase down a rabbit hole to find out who murdered Juliana Marquez or go home, I would have gone home. But the shaved-head was different. He was a threat. I couldn’t walk away from a threat.
I said, “What we do is find out who he is.”
“And how are we supposed to do that, ask him?”
“You really do know nothing about private investigators.”
“Fuck you, Shapiro.” She said it with a smile.
We walked back to the Line Hotel. Bunion Brit played lookout in the lobby while I questioned the valets and dispensed hundred-dollar bills. The valets told me the eye patch spoke in a heavy Russian-sounding accent and drove a Mercedes G550. I spent another hundred to have them bring Brit’s Audi Q5 two cars behind the Mercedes SUV when the eye patch requested his car. It was an easy transaction—the valets didn’t blink.
I was in a town where almost everything and everyone was for sale. Good to know.
