by Ace Atkins
“Like what?”
“You’re too much of an old-fashioned good guy,” he said. “White knight and all that crap. I’d make the hero fresh out of prison.”
“Really?”
“Sure,” he said. “Gives him some mystery and edge.”
“Ah.”
“And I’d tone down that friend of yours, Hawk,” he said. “He makes me nervous as hell. The black hat and cowboy boots. Jesus Christ. He’d make viewers really nervous, too. I get the chills just thinking about him.”
“Can’t have a show without me and Hawk,” I said.
“Maybe make him a young kid from the streets,” he said. “Shows some promise but real green. Can’t shoot. Can’t throw a damn punch. You could take him under your wing. A real Boys Town kinda thing.”
“Like a big brother?”
“Exactly.”
“Hawk would love that,” I said. “He’s always admired me. But, Sandy?”
“Yeah?
“I’m not pitching a show,” I said. “I’m out here working a case. I’m looking for a missing girl and Jimmy Yamashiro might know a thing or two. It needs to be handled delicately. And I figured there are many layers to get to a guy like Yamashiro.”
“More than a fucking rotten onion,” Salzman said. “Let me make some calls. I know he started out over at CBS. A guy who used to work for me, fetching coffee, later became Yamashiro’s mentor. Blase McCarthy. Great guy. Blase has a direct line to Yamashiro. He can relay a message.”
“Perfect.”
“Spenser?”
I waited. Since we’d been talking, the interstate traffic had moved all of four feet. Over the rails and down the slopes, the jacaranda trees bloomed bright purple as the sun shone weakly through the city haze. “I wouldn’t do this for just anybody,” he said. “Don’t make me look bad.”
“Discreet is my middle name.”
“You weren’t so discreet back when you worked with Jilly,” he said. “Christ. You put that poor woman through the fucking ringer.”
“And she was better for it.”
“Have you spoken to her lately?”
“Nope.”
“She’s a damn mess,” Sandy said. “What’s Yamashiro’s connection to the girl?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Christ,” he said. “What’ll I say, then?”
“What did I say?” I said. “Discreet.”
“But he’ll want to see you?”
“Mention I work for Gabrielle Leggett’s mother,” I said.
“How do you spell that?”
I told him and he repeated it as he wrote it down. Traffic moved another two inches.
“And that’ll get his attention?”
“Like a ten-thousand-watt cattle prod.”
“Yikes.”
9
Irolled through a gigantic Art Deco arch at what used to be the old MGM Studios and stopped behind two cars at the guard shack. The other cars drove in and I slid up to a wiry old man in a blue uniform. He looked to have gotten to Hollywood slightly before Thelma Todd.
“Hello, Jonesy,” I said. “I’m here to see Mr. DeMille. Where’s he shooting today?”
The old guard looked at me with a proper amount of annoyance. He tapped at his clipboard with a pen, wishing for me to get on with it. Behind us, a humorless person honked their horn.
“Spenser,” I said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Yamashiro.”
He walked into the shack and after a few moments returned with a parking pass. He asked me for my ID, which I showed him, and the gate lifted. I followed signs to guest parking. Billboards of many famous films covered the walls of soundstages and Art Deco buildings. The Wizard of Oz. Ben-Hur. Singin’ in the Rain.
I left my rental and walked past the old studio commissary and then a large building named after Jimmy Stewart. Spenser, private eye to the stars. I was told Yamashiro had his office in the main building on the studio campus. The structure was newer, constructed in a mod style, with mirrored windows and an austere lobby. A security guard checked my ID against his list and followed me to an elevator, punching up the fifth floor and holding the door wide. Upstairs on the fifth floor, I met Yamashiro’s secretary, a bubbly young black woman in a bright yellow dress overlain with a navy cardigan.
She offered me coffee, tea, or bottled water.
I accepted the coffee.
She offered me a blueberry muffin.
I accepted the muffin. Who was I to try and buck the Hollywood system?
“I don’t suppose you have a Bloody Mary cart?”
“I can check.”
I held up the flat of my hand in surrender.
The waiting room was austere to a point that followed form over function. The walls were black marble and the floor four-foot-by-four-foot sleek white tile. Most of the trim done in weathered beach wood. A glass-topped table the length of half a football field prostrated along a long black leather couch. A grouping of industry magazines had been neatly aligned. Variety. The Hollywood Reporter. On the walls, several posters of recent hits had been framed. None of them I wanted to see.
I checked the messages on my phone. I used the bathroom. I drank coffee. And I waited. Twenty minutes turned into nearly an hour.
“Mr. Yamashiro must be a very busy man.”
“Mmhmm,” the secretary said from behind her oversized desk.
“Very nice for him to fit me in so quickly.”
She nodded and tilted her head, without a smile. “It was unusual,” she said. “You must be very special.”
“I am,” I said. I gave her the full smile that was known to melt steel beams and make women lose all self-control. “I helped solve the Fatty Arbuckle case.”
“Really?” she said.
I nodded.
“Won’t be much longer.”
A half-hour later, she appeared again and ushered me down the hall into a glass-walled conference room. A long oval table filled the center of the room, with several comfy rolling leather chairs. Orchids flowering in white lined the center of the spotless table. Our movements echoed in the middle room, as the secretary disappeared and two men entered. One was about my age, or a bit older, with weathered skin and whitish hair fashioned into a severe crew cut. The other man was younger but twice as large, with a bald head shaved close. They wore dark suits and waited by the door until a short, chunky Asian man walked through the door and came over toward me.
He offered his hand. “James Yamashiro.”
“Spenser,” I said, shaking it.
“Can we get you anything?” he said. “Coffee, tea?”
“Already had coffee,” I said. “Tasted as if the beans were picked by Juan Valdez himself.”
“Fine, fine,” he said, beaming. He wore a tightly tailored gray suit, a pressed white shirt, and a long black tie. He had dark skin and black eyes, hair so silver it seemed metallic. His haircut was precise and exact. His fingernails buffed and manicured. His smile so white and blinding, I nearly reached for my sunglasses.
As he moved toward the opposite end of the long table, Yamashiro nodded to the two men and they walked out the door. They followed orders like two dopey yet faithful golden retrievers.
“So you know some people,” he said. “Sandy Salzman is a name I haven’t heard in some time. He was doing some producing work over at CBS when I first got started in the business. I believe he’s been retired for some time. How do you know him?”
“He hired me years ago to help track down a stalker.”
“Fascinating,” he said, still-beaming eyes taking me in, his palms spread out flat on the slate table. “Absolutely fascinating.”
“When people aren’t shooting at you.”
I crossed my legs and looked back at Yamashiro. He’d chosen a seat eight places away from me at the
head of the table. He looked like the kind of guy who refused to sit anywhere but the head of the table. I rocked a little in my chair and smiled back. Spenser, O, Friend of the World.
“I heard you are also friends with Miss Leggett.”
“Never met her,” I said. “I work for her family.”
“The family,” he said. “Of course.”
He nodded, smile dropping, hands disappearing from the table. He took in a long breath and leveled his black eyes at me. I assumed this was the kind of look that struck fear in producers with hopes and dreams armed with dynamite pitches. I wondered if I needed to sit on my hands to make them quit shaking.
We didn’t speak for a while. The silence was so long and protracted, I wondered if we were playing some sort of game.
“I know why you’re here,” he said. “Do you people have no shame?”
I shrugged. “Did you see me pocket an extra muffin?” I said. “But you tell me. Why am I really here?”
“You’ve come to embarrass and humiliate me if I don’t play along,” Yamashiro said. “But my answer is no different than it was two weeks ago. I don’t answer to bribes and threats. If you want to go and whisper in the ear of some dip at The Hollywood Reporter, be my guest. What Gabby and I had was nice, pleasant, and consensual. I didn’t know who she was and the kind of people she consorted with.”
“Okay,” I said. “What kind of people did she consort with?”
“The only reason I let you get one toe past that front gate is to stop this nonsense once and for all,” he said, ignoring my question. “I’m not afraid of you or what Gabby has to say. My wife and I have a strong and very modern relationship. She knows I am a grown man with lots of pressure and many needs. My arrangement with Gabby was nothing unusual. And nothing to be embarrassed about.”
I held up my hand like a confused kid at school. I swiveled a bit in the nifty chair, leaning forward. “I am employed by Gabby’s mother in Boston,” I said. “Gabby went missing nearly two weeks ago and no one has seen nor heard from her. I have been out here less than twenty-four hours and have spoken to several people who knew her. But you seem to be the only person I’ve met who has a semblance of an idea who she really is. Or has been in touch with her recently. So may we press rewind and start again?”
He leveled a hard look at me. I tried not to quiver. His nostrils flared and he swallowed. I smiled back at him. The lid of his right eye twitched ever so slightly.
“Who is trying to shake you down?”
He didn’t answer.
“How is Gabby connected to them?”
He still didn’t answer. I started to worry he’d spit in my coffee and poisoned that muffin. I knew those blueberries had a little something extra.
“I will tell you what I told the police, Mr. Spenser,” he said. “Gabby isn’t missing. She may not be at her old apartment, but she’s never been gone. I’m sorry she’s put her family through worry and trauma. She’s not really the kind of girl that you see. She’s someone very, very brilliant. And someone who is very, very devious.”
“And someone who is blackmailing you?”
Yamashiro stood up. The two men in dark suits entered the room. The older one with the throwback crew cut held the glass door wide. “I am done here,” Yamashiro said.
I pulled out my card, the one featuring my image clutching a bowie knife in my teeth, and tossed it on the table. “A little cooperation never hurt anyone.”
He walked toward the open door and briefly turned back to me. “Do I look like a man who needs help?”
“Those two look like they just escaped from the circus,” I said. “I, on the other hand, am bonded and insured and the best in the business.”
Yamashiro disappeared. The two men stood there, arms folded over their chests, and stared at me. I waited a moment to see if they would growl or bark at me.
“This is the scene when you offer the easy way or the hard way,” I said. “And I run away with my tail tucked between my legs.”
“Yeah.” The older man with the crew cut was leather-skinned and flinty-eyed. “You got that right, bub.”
“‘Bub’?” I said. “Boy, that is a hit from the past. How long have you been doing this?”
“Too damn long.”
“I know the feeling.” I walked myself back to my rental with dashed dreams and waved to Jonesy on the way out the gate.
10
Imet Z at Chunju Han-il Kwan, a tiny restaurant in a K-town strip mall wedged between a dry cleaner and a nail salon. I slid into a hard wooden booth across from him and told him about my power meeting with Jimmy Yamashiro.
“If Yamashiro saw you,” Z said, “he must be scared shitless.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But he still seemed pretty full of shit.”
“Having a mistress is hardly a scandal in L.A.,” he said. “It’s more of a job requirement.”
“He feels the same way,” I said. “He called his wife a thoroughly modern woman who understood his pressures and needs.”
“Just like Susan?” Z said.
“The complete opposite of Susan.”
Z looked around the restaurant at the small gathering of mainly Asian customers huddling over steaming bowls of soup.
“The tech is meeting us here,” he said. “I figured you might be hungry by now.”
“You know me,” I said. “I’m always hungry.”
Z had on a sleeveless black Mickey Mouse T-shirt with faded jeans and well-broken-in brown cowboy boots. He looked like an extra from The Outsiders.
“There’s no shame in eating while you work,” I said. “It’s what efficiency experts called multitasking.”
“I also figured you’d dig their budae jjigae,” he said. “It’s a spicy kitchen-sink stew. Has about everything in it you can imagine.”
“I can imagine quite a lot.” The restaurant was paneled in dark wood and lit by bronze lanterns, looking almost like a Korean Cracker Barrel. The air smelled of onions, garlic, and spice.
“What else did Yamashiro say?” Z said.
“He admitted to the affair and said before she disappeared Gabby had tried to blackmail him.”
“Wait,” Z said. “Repeat that again.”
I repeated it for him. He listened and nodded along with the details. “And he thought you’d been sent to shake him down?”
“Correct.”
“But he knew Gabby was missing?”
“Also correct,” I said. “But somehow didn’t believe it. He said she was both highly intelligent and devious. He said she may not be in her apartment but definitely hadn’t been abducted.”
“Did he elaborate?”
“Right up until the time he had his people toss me out.”
“That didn’t go well.”
“Believe it or not,” I said. “I went quietly.”
The waitress arrived and Z ordered for both of us without a glance at the menu. Besides the budae jjigae and a side of kimchi, I had no idea what was for lunch. The waitress stared at each of us as she jotted down the order, looking dubious that we could put away such a Korean feast.
“Don’t worry, ma’am,” I said. “We’re professionals.”
Z leaned back into his chair and rubbed at his chin. “So we have a jealous ex-boyfriend and a powerful married man with something to hide.”
“Both men would have reasons to make Gabby disappear,” I said. “One for love. One for money.”
“Any more from the cops?”
“Not yet,” I said. “The Yamashiro angle has been buttoned up by the LAPD. I was lucky to have gotten what I did from Samuelson.”
“I know he’s a big fan.”
“Besides Quirk?” I said. “The biggest.”
When the feast arrived, it covered every inch of the table. The budae jjigae came out bubbly over a butane burner
and smelling of rich garlic and otherworldly spices. The waitress needed help arranging all our side items around the burner. I ate a little kimchi as we waited for the stew to cool.
“My friend is very good,” Z said.
“How good?”
“She handles a computer the way Vinnie handles a pistol.”
I nodded in appreciation.
I was on to my second helping of stew when an attractive young woman walked in the door. She turned the heads of most of the men in the restaurant, wearing a black biker jacket over a cropped white hoodie and tattered blue jeans. Her hair was pink, the color of cotton candy, and she was clutching the small silver MacBook we’d taken from Gabby’s apartment. I could tell it was Gabby’s by the stickers.
Z watched my gaze and looked over his shoulder. He smiled and waved her over. I stood and she took a seat across from me and next to Z. The table was so crowded, she seemed confused where to put the laptop. The woman’s name was Jem Yoon. It appeared she and Z had been friendly for some time.
“Are you in?” Z said, not looking at her as he dipped an oversized spoon into the large bowl.
“Scoot over,” Jem Yoon said, pushing at Z’s shoulder for more space. “Am I in? Of course I’m in.”
Jem Yoon had large brown eyes and very delicate features. Her ears were almost elflike and peeked out from her short pink hair. She slid out of her biker jacket, showing off a sleeveless hoodie and several leather bracelets on her slim wrists. “Doesn’t look like this machine had been used in a while,” she said.
“How long?” I said.
“A few weeks.”
I nodded.
“I was able to access her iCloud,” she said. “That would include documents and photos taken on any other devices. I would think that’d be pretty helpful to your purposes.”
“That would be most helpful.”
Jem Yoon rested her hands on top of the table and stared directly into my eyes. If I hadn’t been so tough, I might have blushed.
“So this is him?” she said. “The one who trained you? The master?”
“Yep,” Z said.
“He looks just like you described him,” Jem Yoon said, as if I weren’t actually present. “He looks like a tough guy. With the busted nose and scarring around the eyes. Very authentic, Zebulon. Very authentic.”
