That last bit was very important, considering his current investigation.
There were other benefits that weren’t in the contract. Having everyone he encountered filmed could prove useful, especially if Grant managed to guide the circumstances of those encounters. There were strict regulations governing the use of covert surveillance by the police. Back in the West Yorkshire Police, he would have had to fill out numerous application forms detailing the exact reasons why it was necessary and any collateral intrusion into the subject’s private life. Then he’d have to get them approved by a magistrate. TV just went ahead and filmed everything, then worried about it later.
There was another benefit of working with a Hollywood insider. You were suddenly on the inside.
Patton agreed to look into the locations that had been registered for The Hunt for Pink October and when it had been filmed. He would also check the financial records to see who paid for, and benefited from, the distribution of the movie.
The trio in L. Q. Patton’s office was on their second round of orange juices by the time everything was concluded. The receptionist was as adept at gliding in with refreshments as she was at communicating telepathically. The laptop continued to play the news. There was a live news feed at a day shelter for the homeless. Grant’s eyes caught it out of the corner of his eye, then quickly focused on the computer screen. Senator Richards was doing something official at the day shelter. Right now. That meant he wasn’t at home.
Grant finished his juice and stood up. “There’s somebody I’ve got to go see. Before you start filming.”
Patton stood up too. “Don’t worry. Now that it’s a go project, we’ll start tomorrow.”
They shook hands again. The strong, dry handshake that James Bond used as a litmus test when meeting somebody new—in Ian Fleming’s books, not the films. Villains always had a glint of red in their eyes. Friends always had a strong, dry handshake. L. Q. Patton had a strong, dry handshake, and he always grinned like James Coburn.
“Porn movies aren’t the only ones with financial backers. I’d like you to meet our moneymen. Give them a chance to meet the star they’re bankrolling.”
“I’m not a star.”
“You will be.”
“Should I wear a poncho and chew a cigar?”
Patton looked nonplussed. Citrin stood and smiled at him. “An in-joke. Ponchos instead of ponytails.”
Patton nodded as if he understood and waved the distraction aside.
“They’re throwing a party tonight—up in the hills. Why don’t I have Robin bring you along?”
“I don’t have any party clothes.”
“Informal party. Come as you are. Beautiful views of the city.”
“I’ve been in the canyons today. Might as well do the Hollywood hills as well.”
Patton shook his head.
“Same view, different angle. Across town at Montecito Heights.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Citrin dropped Grant at the gates of Senator Richards’ house in Beverly Hills. Grant was getting used to being ferried around but still preferred public transport. The exception was being run around by Robin Citrin. He could definitely get used to that. She’d left the cameraman behind and did the driving herself. Grant sat in the front passenger seat. He was impressed. She drove like a cop. Even when she was talking, her eyes never stopped moving, covering the road, assessing obstructions, anticipating traffic movements. She was confident but careful, even when she was talking.
“This is where we picked you up the first day, isn’t it?”
“You picked me up, did you? How shameless, Miss Scarlet.”
“I do feel shame. Just not if the circumstances are right.”
“Are the circumstances right?”
She slowed to allow time for congestion up ahead to clear instead of rushing up to it and breaking. A tangle of cars trying to turn left melted away, and Citrin picked up speed.
“Not this very minute. But, overall, I’d say yes.”
“You did say yes.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Me neither. Some things just happen when the time is right.”
“Is the time right for you to tell me what you’re doing at Senator Richards’ house?”
“That would be something that doesn’t make the final cut.”
“Just asking.”
“Thanks for the lift.”
The car pulled up at the sidewalk, and Grant opened his door. He glanced across at Citrin and smiled but didn’t get out. He looked into her eyes, and she nodded. This was one of those circumstances- are-right moments. He leaned across and kissed her on the cheek, then patted her knee. “See you tonight.”
“I’ll pick you up at Pearl Harbor.”
“You noticed that, huh?”
“More Japanese than a sushi bar.”
“Meet you in the lobby. Bye.”
He got out and closed the door. She threw him a wave as she pulled away from the curb, then Citrin only had eyes for the road. Grant walked to the gate and pressed the buzzer.
Jeeves showed Grant into the study, then left. That surprised Grant. He’d expected to be taken to Mrs. Richards’ day room and wondered if he’d got the timing wrong. Maybe Double Dick had got home already. That would be a pity. It wasn’t the senator he’d come to see. Sunshine and birdsong came in through the open window. Scent from the flower border filled the room. The grandfather clock ticked in the corner.
Grant went to the window and looked at the lush foliage and carefully shaped trees surrounding the manicured lawn. Garden sprinklers stuttered an intermittent spray across the well-trimmed grass. The lawnmower was silent, but the alternating stripes of cut grass reminded Grant of Wimbledon’s center court. Roger Federer would feel at home out here. Everything was green: the lawn, the bushes, the trees. It was a stark contrast to the parched hills above Coldwater Canyon Drive and the dried lawns of the rest of Los Angeles. If in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king, then in the city of angels the rich get all the water—celebrity homes and golf courses. He thought about Jake Gittes and the water scandal in Chinatown. Sometimes fiction highlighted reality. Maybe that’s where reality TV was going wrong, trying to do it the other way around.
“Make you feel at home, does it?”
Maura Richards closed the door behind her. She went to the other window and looked outside. A wave of the hand indicated the expanse of lawn.
“Green trees and verdant lawns. The striped grass of Wimbledon.”
Grant turned to face her. “Wimbledon’s two hundred miles south of home. I’ve never been.”
“But you have grass and trees in Yorkshire?”
“And lots of rain to water them. Yes.”
“It hasn’t rained here for months. Summer gets like that.”
“Doesn’t look like water’s a problem for you.”
“No, it doesn’t, does it?”
“We expecting Jeeves with the lemonade?”
“You remembered. Yes. We have routines at chateau Richards.”
“Then we’d better wait until he’s gone.”
Mrs. Richards didn’t ask why. She simply nodded and waved Grant toward the Chesterfield. He sat in the uncomfortable leather settee, and she took the chair opposite. There was a knock on the door, and Jeeves came in without waiting for a reply. He put a silver tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses on the coffee table and left without speaking.
Grant watched the pantomime, then glanced at Mrs. Richards. He was getting the impression that she wasn’t so much the lady of the manor as a bird in a gilded cage. He wondered how much it would take for her to fly away—how much she wanted to leave this life behind her. Judging by her demeanor, not enough. A gilded cage was still a pretty good place to live if you didn’t mind the restrictions.
“Your husband
kept you up to date about your daughter?”
“About her doing another vanishing act? Yes.”
“I’m not sure it’s that simple.”
“What makes you think that?”
Grant leaned forward and poured two glasses of lemonade. He handed one to Mrs. Richards, then sat back with his own. He didn’t drink it.
“The broken window. Blood on the carpet. Some stuff had been searched.”
He didn’t mention the DVD he thought might have been taken. When fishing for information it was always best to hold something back. He still wasn’t convinced that Senator Richards was sharing everything with his wife.
“It doesn’t add up to a burglary. Not quite right for that. But it’s a bit elaborate for faking your own disappearance. When she’s gone missing before, did she ever set things up like this?”
Mrs. Richards took a drink of lemonade. It gave her time before replying.
“No. She just vanished for a few days. Stayed with friends. Two weeks, once; that was the longest.”
“Which friends?”
“She never said.”
“She just came home, and you didn’t ask where she’d been?”
“We asked. She never said.”
“What friends do you know about?”
Mrs. Richards put the glass on the table and took a deep breath. She closed her eyes and appeared to be plucking up courage before answering.
“We don’t know anything about our daughter. She had few friends as a child. Has even fewer as a teenager. She walks her own path. Like her mother.”
“That’s why you blame yourself.”
It wasn’t a question. He lowered his voice.
“Don’t. We all inherit stuff from our parents—not all of it welcome. It’s no more your fault than her sharing your blood type or hair color.”
She smiled her thanks but didn’t look like she believed him. Another drink of lemonade delayed her having to respond. Grant took a swig himself. It was cold and wet, blessed relief on a day like today. Ice clinked in his glass. He leaned back against the stiff leather. It was time to get down to basics.
“Have there been any ransom demands?”
Mrs. Richards appeared shocked at the reality of the possibility.
“No.”
“Any threats?”
“No.”
“Would you know? If they came to your husband?”
“I would know.”
“Then it doesn’t make sense, taking her. Kidnappings are for a reason. Either money or influence. Senator Richards carries plenty of influence. He knows a lot of powerful people.”
He indicated the photos dotted around the study. Richards with sports stars. The senator with Arnold Schwarzenegger, the actor- turned-governor of California. A candid shot of Richards with the chief of police beneath a decorative arch that framed downtown Los Angeles. Lots of people Grant didn’t recognize but who exuded power and influence. Any number of targets for coercion if the kidnapping aimed to use Richards in that regard.
“Have you tried calling her mobile?”
“Her cell is turned off.”
“Give me the number, just in case.”
He wrote the number beneath the Coldwater Canyon address in his notebook. It was something he should have asked for before, but this hadn’t been a kidnapping back then. He wasn’t convinced it was a kidnapping now. If he had been, no matter how much Double Dick protested, Grant would have brought in the police. This felt like something else, and he wasn’t sure what it was yet.
He put the notebook away and took a final drink of lemonade. Mrs. Richards looked like a beaten woman. Her eyes were downcast and her shoulders stooped. He wanted to reassure her, but there was nothing he could say or do that would release the guilt she felt at having failed her daughter.
He stood up.
She stood up too. “Thank you for coming.”
“It was on my way.”
A little white lie. She shook her head.
“No. In the first place. Thank you for coming from Boston.”
“You’re welcome.”
He said it and he meant it. Helping Senator Richards had been his remit. The real reason was to protect the chief of police from any fallout of the scandal. But this, right here, was the most important reason of all: helping a trapped woman recover her self-esteem and save her daughter from bad men. Bad men were his specialty.
“I’ll get her back for you.”
Another little white lie, but one he believed he could achieve. They didn’t shake hands and there was none of that phony double-dip kiss on the cheeks. She didn’t press the buzzer for Jeeves, showing him to the front door herself instead. Grant was halfway down the drive before the oppressive atmosphere of the study left him. He was glad to be back in the fresh air and sunshine.
TWENTY-SIX
Dusk had slid toward full dark by the time they arrived at the house in Montecito Heights. The view across Los Angeles was spectacular as they came around the bend where Montecito Drive doubled back on itself. Dodger Stadium was lit up like an alien invasion; the LA Dodgers were playing a home game against a team Grant had never heard of. Beyond that the downtown towers stood out against the skyline, red lights blinking on the rooftops to warn low-flying aircraft, which included the ever-present news helicopters. The lights of Willowbrook and West Athens sparkled in the distance, a vast plain of twinkling jewels.
The gate to 1042 Montecito Drive was plain and functional. It was set between white walls and a row of cypress trees on the right and some kind of flowering bush on the left. Bright pink flowers shone in the headlights as Citrin pulled up to the small black intercom in the wall. She identified herself. The gate slid open on rollers with an electronic hum.
The driveway wasn’t a driveway. In keeping with everything Grant had learned about America, it was the mother of all driveways. Nothing succeeds like excess. The drive was actually a road that skirted the wooded hilltop and almost came around full circle before reaching a promontory jutting out from the hillside. The view was the same as from the bend in Montecito Drive but appeared even more spectacular with the canyon foreground below.
What was truly spectacular, though, was the house. If Dodger Stadium was lit up like an alien invasion, then the house at Montecito Heights had already been taken over. Grant braced himself for the onslaught of his first Hollywood party.
Robin Citrin locked the car in the turnaround that had become a temporary parking lot. This wasn’t the dusty turning circle out front of Angelina Richards’ frontier cabin; this was an expanse of tarmac that could have landed a private jet. Or at least a helicopter. The double beep of the power locks was almost lost amid the music coming from the house. Even from here, the sound of laughter and talk mingled with the cicadas from the canyon and music from the hidden speakers.
Citrin held her hands out to indicate the mass of people up the hill. “Welcome to party time.”
Grant felt uncomfortable already. He wasn’t a party animal. He preferred intimate gatherings with only two people. One female and one male. Tonight, that would have been him and Citrin.
“I’m gonna get eaten alive.”
Citrin arched an eyebrow.
“Not while you’re with me.”
She led the way up the stairs to the house. People were milling about all over the place. Some on the stairs from the parking lot. Some around the outside of the house. Quite a lot in the hallways and living rooms of the split-level home. A couple came out of a bathroom holding hands and giggling. Further along there were couples chatting in the open-plan kitchen. Citrin looped her arm around his, and they drifted through the melee like ghosts. Nobody noticed them. Nobody spoke. By the time they’d wandered through two of the three levels, he’d had enough.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
Citrin pa
tted his arm. “It’s not my scene either. Haven’t spotted L. Q. yet.”
“You sure he’s coming?”
“He’ll be around somewhere. He wants to show you off to the money.”
“I’m not spiking my hair and dying it blue.”
“That was the disc jockey.”
“Can’t we get out of the crowd?”
Citrin looked around and noticed a row of doors farther along the corridor.
“Let’s try up there.”
She led him by the arm, and he went willingly. She knocked on the first door and pushed it open. It was a large room with a king-size bed and a smattering of furniture—a chaise longue, a single chair, and a coffee table. The built-in wardrobes were tan wood and mirrors. The bedclothes were smooth and tidy. There were no personal items on display. A guest room, Grant reckoned. He closed the door behind him, and the noise level dropped to a murmur. He let out a sigh of relief.
“That’s better. Now what shall we do?”
Citrin sat in the chair and slipped her shoes off.
“We relax until you’ve built up your immunity.”
“To that lot out there? I think I need vaccinating.”
He turned the lock on the handle and walked to the middle of the room. Subdued lighting painted the beige carpet and cream furniture with soft tones. Smoked-glass mirrors and a built-in dressing table complemented the tan wood of the wardrobe doors. Grant’s reflection was darker than he actually was. His orange windcheater shaded down toward ochre. He draped himself across the chaise longue—a settee with one end missing, as far as he was concerned. He glanced at the bed but didn’t want to appear pushy. This was Citrin’s party. Sort of.
Grant held a hand up to his face, the forefinger and thumb forming a circle. He looked at her through the circle like a spyglass.
“Want to play I-Spy?”
“The sixties TV show?”
“The party game. I spy with my little eye something beginning with…”
Montecito Heights Page 14
