Montecito Heights

by Colin Campbell

  The germ of a plan began to form.

  Before Grant could give it too much thought, his cell started to vibrate in his pocket. He took it out, and the vibration gave way to the climbing ringtone. Grant checked the caller ID flashing on the display, then flicked the phone open and spoke into the mouthpiece.

  “That was quick.”

  Chuck Tanburro sounded excited. “You know what they say. Once a cop, always a cop.”

  “What have you got?”

  “That house you wanted checking. Up on Montecito Heights.”

  Grant felt a shiver that was nothing to do with drinking cold orange juice.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s owned by Stuart Ziff.”

  The shiver turned into goose pimples. He didn’t let his pulse race. He didn’t show his excitement because he didn’t get excited. He stayed calm and focused and nodded into the phone, even though Tanburro couldn’t see him.

  “Good work. Thanks. I’ll call you later.”

  He closed the phone but kept it in his hand. Citrin recognized the look on Grant’s face even though his expression had barely changed. He saw it in her eyes. She was more in tune with him than anyone else since…

  He pushed that thought aside. Citrin waited for Grant to explain the call. L. Q. Patton wasn’t that patient.

  “Well?”

  Grant put the phone back in his pocket.

  “I know where they filmed in Montecito Heights.”

  Citrin nodded. She knew too.

  “Let me guess.”

  “That’s right.”

  He picked up his glass but it was empty. He held it up to his eye and looked through the bottom like he was using a telescope.

  “And I think I know where the girl is.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  If Grant had let Citrin bring the cameraman along, then things might have turned out different, but he hadn’t. There was no point crying over spilt milk. Grant rarely looked back with regret even though there were many things he’d like to have changed about the past. Occasionally he looked forward. Mostly he lived in the here and now. It was one of the reasons he was so effective in combat. No aspirations. No regrets. Only action or inaction. But there would be a moment later when he wished he’d let her bring the cameraman.

  Citrin swung the minivan around on the scenic overlook so it was facing the gate of 1042 Montecito Drive. Dust swirled around them in the dying rays of sunlight. The sun was dipping below the horizon so fast you could almost see it moving. Soon it would be gone, and dusk would suck the light out of the day. In half an hour it would be dark. Grant looked through the windshield.

  “I’m gonna do a recce first. Then call for backup once I’ve checked the lie of the land. Standard procedure—note defenses and enemy strength.”

  “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

  “I have done this before.”

  “Doesn’t sound like police-type maneuvers.”

  “They’re not.”

  “Where’d you learn this, then?”

  “Somewhere else.”

  He focused on the twin gates of the houses on the ridge. The driveway for 1040 circled the wooded hill and headed along the ridgeline to the farthest house overlooking the valley. The drive of 1042 formed a tighter circle around the woods and led to the house where Nathan Burdett had hosted the Hollywood party yesterday. There was a narrow pedestrian gate and a dirt track that skirted the left of the hill for cyclists and joggers. Grant wasn’t considering skirting the hill. He was going to take the direct route, straight ahead and through the trees. Frontal attack. Always his preferred option. He turned to Citrin.

  “You wait here.”

  She was about to speak, but he held a finger up for her to stop.

  “Do not follow me. I need you ready to drive as soon as I get back.”

  “Am I your getaway driver?”

  “You got your phone?”

  “Always.”

  “When I call for backup, I’ll ring you too. Guide them in.”

  Citrin looked worried.

  “Have you got a gun?”

  “I hate guns. People tend to shoot at you if they know you’re armed.”

  “Unarmed people get shot too.”

  “Not as often.”

  “Don’t know if I’d be playing the percentages over something like that.”

  “That’s why you film reality, and I live it.”

  Citrin’s eyes stared into Grant’s. Grant stared back. It wasn’t one of those see-who-blinks-first contests. It was just saying goodbye. Grant leaned over and kissed her on the lips. Her arms came around and held him tight. She kissed him back with hunger and passion. They both stopped at the same time, and Grant got out. Citrin called through the open door.

  “Be careful.”

  Grant shook his head with a smile.

  “You really think I’m going to be careless? Anyway. I thought you were in the entertainment industry. Shouldn’t that be ‘break a leg’?”

  “That’s superstitious nonsense. Don’t break a leg. Be careful.”

  He didn’t answer. He simply closed the door, jogged across the road to the pedestrian gate, then disappeared into the woods.

  The trees were thick and heavy on the northern slope and provided perfect cover as Grant slid to his right from the dirt track toward the wooded hill. He didn’t crouch or sneak or creep through the woods. They only did that in the movies. He would be more careful once he approached the brow of the hill overlooking the house, but for now the only prerogative was to be quiet.

  Grant moved like a cat. Soft footsteps and perfectly quiet.

  Ten paces in, and the woods engulfed him. The outside world became an alien planet, and Grant’s focus was on the here and now. The absolute present and the single piece of land he was standing on. He loved night maneuvers. During military training his squad had been dropped in the middle of Salisbury Plain with a compass and a map and ordered to find their way from point A to point B without being spotted by enemy patrols. The silence and focus of being in the dark without a light had been exhilarating. He felt that same exhilaration now.

  He stopped next to a sturdy tree and listened.

  At first there was nothing. After a few short seconds he could hear the trees breathing around him, not the intake and exhalation of human breath but the tiny noises of living things moving in the dark. Leaves rustled in a nonexistent breeze. Branches groaned under the weight of their own burden. The smell of grass and bark and pine needles mingled with the scent of flowers in the distance. The pink blooms surrounding the gate to 1042 behind him.

  He waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom inside the woods. The sun had set, and the sky was dialing down the blue from its daytime brilliance to the darker blue of evening. Dark blue was the color for cops, even in police forces where the blue was nearer to black like the LAPD. Even in West Yorkshire, Grant’s uniform hadn’t been blue serge for many years. If dark blue was the shade for cops, then darker blue was more befitting Jim Grant, a man who erred on the side of getting the job done instead of observing the rules. He was straying well off reservation tonight, but his instincts told him it was the right thing to do. Results were the final test of any policing strategy. A result tonight would be finding Angelina Richards.

  Night sounds began to include more than the life of trees. Birdsong filtered into the woods, something that had been there all the time but overshadowed by traffic noises and the world of people. Grant could see darting movement among the branches overhead. Small black shapes dashed from tree to tree. The faint burrrring hum of wings. A squirrel came down the side of a pine, stopped to sniff the air, then continued down to the ground, where it bounded across the bed of pine needles and grass to a neighboring tree. Nature was all around. The secret life of Los Angeles.

  Satisfied t
hat he was the only biped in the woods, Grant walked slowly up the hill. He watched his feet as much as the horizon, his eyes performing a cycle as they traced his progress while checking for obstructions. He avoided every fallen branch. He dodged every low-hanging bough and leaf. He maintained his course toward the house on the other side of the hill. Through a gap in the canopy he saw a red light blinking atop a triangular radio mast. It was painted red and white and reminded Grant of the radio towers at Rampart and Hollenbeck stations, only not as sturdy. Cell phone masts were everywhere, even in people’s back gardens.

  Grant flicked open his phone. Yes. Five bars. A strong signal. He set the volume to silent, closed the cell again, then let his eyes re-adjust. First things first. No point calling the cavalry until you had some Indians to fight. He continued up the hill. The trees began to thin out as he approached the flattened summit, so he slowed down, taking more care about what lay ahead. He dropped into a crouch, keeping low to the landscape and foliage. The cell phone mast stood in a clearing overlooking the house. That was his preferred observation point. When he reached the tree line he knelt for a moment, checking for movement. The mast pointed its twisted finger into the sky. He could just make out the peaked roof and chimney of Ziff’s house. The top section of the split-level structure farthest up the hill from the parking turnaround.

  Beyond that, the view was breathtaking.

  Dusk had brought out every streetlight in Los Angeles. They sparkled like jewels across the flatlands below. Down in the folds of Montecito Heights, the street lamps of East Avenue and Johnston Street shone the brightest. The glass towers of downtown stood out, each with its own red blinking light to protect it from low-flying aircraft and helicopters. As if on cue, the distant throb of chopper blades cut across Dodger Stadium. A police helicopter, judging by the searchlight beam lancing toward the ground. A siren confirmed a foot pursuit somewhere near Elysian Park.

  Grant turned his attention to the cell phone mast. It was narrow and made of thin gauge metal struts with some kind of transformer box at its base. The box was painted green to blend with the surroundings, a pointless exercise since the mast itself was red and white. There were no lights on the top of the hill. Daylight was long gone, and the summit was dark and empty. There was nobody walking his dog. There was nobody having a late-evening cigarette, admiring the view.

  There was nobody standing guard.

  That was good.

  Grant walked low and fast to the transformer box, then knelt behind it. The rest of the house came into view. Three levels stepped into the hillside. The party level from the other night was at the bottom, next to the patio and barbeque area and garden. The guest bedroom where he’d spent some time with Citrin before discovering the hidden camera was part of the second level, together with toilets and the dining room. The top level was no doubt private quarters for the owner and his family. Ziff had no family, so the question was, if the porn moviemaker had the girl, where would he keep her? And how much muscle would be on hand to keep her under control?

  Grant had already met some of Ziff’s muscle. It would be easy to dismiss them as incompetent buffoons, but Grant never underestimated the opposition. He had encountered them at Zed Productions and caught them by surprise. His experience of conflicts around the world was that when you fought enemy troops on their home ground, the battle was harder and bloodier. Ziff was on home ground tonight. His boys would fight harder. This would be no pushover.

  Note defenses and enemy strength.

  That was the first order of business. Grant checked for movement down below. There was none. The hillside behind the house was sculptured garden and flowering shrubs. It was too steep for anything else. The true garden was around the front, where crazy paving and neatly trimmed lawns were complemented by flower borders and a decorative arch. Grant remembered standing beneath the arch in the dark with Citrin. He also remembered it being in the background of the sex scene with the gray-haired guy and the missing girl. Filmed on the cream settee in the living room facing the picture windows. The lower level of 1042 Montecito Drive.

  There was no movement. Lights were on in a couple of the rooms, but most of the house was in darkness. Patio lights illuminated the front garden. The swimming pool had underwater lighting. The sky was dark blue and clear. The first stars were beginning to twinkle overhead. The helicopter had gone. A different siren sounded somewhere across the flatlands. The peace and tranquility of the woods was a thing of the past.

  The turnaround in front of the house held two cars. Lights from the garden reflected off gleaming paintwork and polished chrome. Twilight robbed the cars of color, but they weren’t black. One was a light-colored sports car and the other was a big silver 4x4. Grant didn’t know what they called them in America. He was surprised it wasn’t a Humvee. Since Schwarzenegger had started the trend, half of LA seemed to like driving around in tanks. Zed obviously hadn’t got the memo.

  Preliminary recce completed, it was time to put some flesh on the bones. Put personnel numbers to the vehicles. Grant moved slowly across the flat crown of the hill, keeping low so his silhouette didn’t stand out on the horizon. He started with the top section. One bedroom light was on, but the curtains were closed. From his position up the hill he couldn’t detect movement behind the curtains.

  He moved down the rear garden to the second level. More lights were on here but still with the curtains closed. Grant wondered what possessed them to close the curtains on a secluded hillside in private grounds with a security gate. Maybe they didn’t want someone seeing out. He marked the mid level as a potential holding cell, then moved down to the lower level.

  The front of the house might have been wall-to-wall patio windows, but the rear only had small windows and a door to the terraced garden. Grant could see the swimming pool to the left—no naked swimmers this time—and the turnaround below. The curtains round back were open. He found a comfortable observation point and settled into a crouch for a few minutes, staring through the windows. The kitchen was bright and well appointed, as befitted a house of this caliber. It stretched along most of the back elevation. Steam rose from a kettle beside the twin washbasins.

  A short, round figure moved through the steam like a ghost.

  Ziff.

  The movie producer pottered around the kitchen until the steam drifted away. Grant was surprised he didn’t have some toady making coffee for him. Maybe he didn’t want domestic staff knowing who he was keeping at the house. Grant looked beyond the kitchen into the open-plan living room. He could only see part of it, the cream settee and the patio doors beyond. There was nobody else in view. Time to check round the front.

  Grant moved smoothly and silently down the back garden and bypassed the swimming pool. He kept his back against the house wall as he came around the side to the barbeque pit. The patio doors were slightly open, and soft music drifted into the evening air. Grant crossed the patio at the far end and stood beneath the decorative arch. The view out of the windows from the cream settee had framed downtown LA through the arch. The reverse view was just as enlightening. Grant could see the entire living room and the kitchen. The lights were bright and the furniture neutral colored. The scene blazed like the first night on Broadway. Or a brightly lit film set, which the living room had most certainly been, because there was no doubt that The Hunt for Pink October had been filmed there.

  Ziff came out of the kitchen carrying a silver tray. A mug steamed beside a sugar bowl and a plate of biscuits. No wonder he was so fat. Grant scanned the room. There was nobody else. There was only one mug of coffee. That put a shadow of doubt over Grant’s calculations. He didn’t let it settle. The best way to find anything out was to ask.

  It was time to ask Stuart Ziff what he’d done with the missing girl.

  Grant threw a glance to either side of the living room. The lights were off in the room to the right but on in the room to the left. The curtains were open. There wa
s no movement. The sirens across the city stopped. Cicadas chirruped down in the valley. The gentle music from inside sounded familiar, but he didn’t wait to figure out what it was. Satisfied there was nobody waiting to jump him, Grant walked swiftly across the patio and through the open doors.

  THIRTY-NINE

  “You sure you’ve got enough biscuits there?”

  Ziff almost spilled his coffee when he saw Grant standing among the folds of the open curtains. Grant could tell it was coffee now that he was inside the living room. The smell was unmistakable. It was shock that almost upended Ziff’s coffee, but other than that he didn’t seem surprised to see the man in the orange windcheater.

  “Walker’s butter shortbread. Get it imported from the Lake District back where you come from.”

  “I’m from Yorkshire, not Cumbria.”

  “Near enough.”

  Grant took a step into the room and closed the sliding doors behind him. He didn’t want any surprises coming up on his flanks. The background music sounded familiar. Ennio Morricone, but one of his obscure pieces. Nathan Burdett hadn’t been kidding when he’d said there might be some film music in the collection. Grant looked at the tray on the coffee table.

  “At least they’re chunky shortbread fingers and not them puffy petticoat tails.”

  “I make porn movies. Puffy doesn’t enter into it.”

  Grant threw Ziff a knowing look.

  “Two of your helpers are. Spitz and Swallows are as big a pair of puffs as I’ve ever seen. Might as well rename ’em Patrick Fitzgerald and Gerald Fitzpatrick.”

  “You hold something against homosexuals?”

  Grant shook his head.

  “Not as long as they hold nothing against me. I’ve told you about my tattoo, right?”