by Ace Atkins
“There,” Chollo said. I slowed but kept on moving.
We saw the SUV parked at a crooked angle behind a large chain-link fence topped with concertina wire. I turned down the Jerry Mulligan and parked a few blocks away. I killed the engine and we sat and waited for the car to back out.
“You can run the address,” Chollo said. “But one way or another, it’s Sarkisov.”
“Will Sarkisov speak with Mr. del Rio?”
“Not without a gun stuck up his culo.”
“Can that be arranged?”
Chollo gave a gentle shrug. He didn’t seem to dismiss the idea. “Is this what you Anglos called a Mexican standoff?” he said.
“Sí,” I said.
26
After I dropped Chollo back on Olvera Street, I returned to my hotel, made some phone calls, and drove a short distance to Runyon Canyon Park. I’d changed into my shorts and Nikes and a navy sweatshirt with the arms cut off at the elbows. I needed to sweat and think. Sitting in a car for more than six hours hadn’t done my body any favors.
Along the street, a man under a small canopy sold fruit slices and chilled whole coconuts. I bought a bottle of water for two bucks and walked inside the gates. At the base of the canyon, thirty or forty people practiced outdoor yoga en masse. There were professional dog walkers and shapely young women in micro–workout clothes. I chose one of the most difficult trails and started off on the paved path, getting a fast walk going before transitioning into a run. I stopped at a tight turn in the hills and stretched against a park bench.
I watched a young woman, blond and comely, taking a selfie with Los Angeles stretching out behind her.
Gabby had lived less than a quarter-mile away. Her mother had told me she’d often visited the park to exercise or take Nancy Sharp’s dogs for a walk. It was warm, a mugginess covering the hills with a smoldering haze down into the basin. I pushed off the bench and loped into a slow run. My gait wasn’t pretty and the run wasn’t easy. As my regular path was flat along the Charles, I wasn’t used to making a vertical climb. There were evergreens, sage, and what I figured might be tumbleweeds. I spotted warnings for snakes and coyotes but had yet to see either of them. As I ran, I was mindful of my surroundings. As I’d been followed twice since I arrived, I hadn’t grown complacent.
Two older women in bright blue tracksuits passed me on the way down. One of the women had had so much plastic surgery, her features seemed to have been formed of clay. Almost no nose and blooming red lips. She looked like a house cat brought to life.
I continued to climb up along the canyon.
Gabby Leggett had disappeared. The credit cards I tracked hadn’t been used. Her phone had remained inactive, no longer connected to her Apple account. Her laptop contained some nasty emails to Jimmy Yamashiro but no replies. Eric Collinson had done his best to scrub it clean but had been no match for Jem Yoon. She’d even found the infamous video of Gabby and Yamashiro’s tryst. It was dimly lit and poorly acted, a reject from Cinemax After Dark and easily forgotten.
I was sweating now, steadying my breath, my quads aching as I glanced up at the hilltop goal that seemed as far away as Katmandu.
The last time Gabby was spotted was her infamous last brunch with Jade. The last time we knew where she’d been was leaving her apartment building that morning. There was a charge on her credit card at a Starbucks on Sunset. And then nothing. No one had seen or heard from her. No one had found her car.
All I had now was a trail of fibs that seemed to center on an organization that prided itself on its anonymity. HELIOS advertised human and spiritual growth but partnered with someone like Vartan Sarkisov. Gabby Leggett had been a member of HELIOS for many months, but Nancy Sharp had done all she could to keep that detail private.
Those most likely to hold the answers I needed had steeled themselves behind a brick wall. I could press Samuelson to get his detectives to make inquiries into HELIOS, but I’d need more.
As I ran, I started to wonder what Hawk would make of the hiking trail. I think he’d like the challenge. I know he’d like the women. Dozens of them going up and down the Hollywood hills. Old ones. Young ones. Few unattractive ones. Many taking photos. Some walking slow. Others passing me on the way up, their backs shiny with sweat and calves bulging from the climb.
A muscular man carrying a green rucksack jogged down the winding trail. The sleeves had been cut from his sweaty gray T-shirt, showing red arrow tattoos on his delts. I nodded at him and he nodded back, my reflection in his mirrored sunglasses.
I missed mornings in Cambridge with Susan and Pearl. Taking Pearl for a run along Memorial Drive, cooling off at Magazine Beach Park, and walking slow among the reeds and goose droppings down along the Charles. The rowers on the water, steam lifting in the early morning as they’d disappear under bridge to bridge. The coach shouting instructions to pull harder and faster.
I missed afternoons at the Harbor Health Club. Henry Cimoli strutting around in his white satin tracksuit that never seemed to fit the times. I liked the metallic smell of the old weights and the sweat in the boxing room. I liked the feeling of pushing myself to exhaustion on the heavy bag until my arms felt dull and heavy, knowing the only direction was forward.
I missed drinking coffee and eating corn muffins, waiting for the next client who always walked through the door of my office in the Back Bay. I liked the simplicity of working for myself, paying my bills, and not having to answer to anyone. I liked Mattie Sullivan, now a student at Northeastern, dropping by when she could to help with errands and begging me for some real work.
I missed nights with Susan. Waiting for her upstairs while she finished with her final session of the evening, making small talk in her kitchen. Her with a glass of Riesling and me with a beer, deciding on dinner. Sometimes I cooked. Sometimes we went to Harvard Square. There was the Russell House Tavern, Harvest, or Legal at the Charles Hotel. Cambridge our oyster. We were friends with bartenders and waiters. Old Fashioneds poured over a large cube of ice and no fruit. Vodka gimlets in a perfectly chilled glass.
I thought of Susan waiting for me alone in the bedroom, smelling of good soap and wearing nothing else but her La Perla lingerie and a devilish smile. Her curly black hair worn loose across her bare shoulders.
I missed Boston. I’d never feel at home here. Los Angeles seemed like a sunny, silly void to me. Everything was concrete and palm trees and overpasses and emptiness. It seemed the perfect place to drop off the face of the earth. Or be swallowed whole into nothingness. Samuelson was right. There were no rules here. I had few contacts. No one cared about history or allegiance. It was the snake trying to eat its own tail.
I’d made it to the top. I stood tall on the Hollywood Hills and looked down along Runyon Canyon and into the haziness of Los Angeles. I was breathing very hard. My sweatshirt was nearly soaked through. I checked the time on my phone and noticed I had a text from Jem Yoon.
It simply read: Received invite to HELIOS fund-raiser. Want to join?
27
How do I look?” Jem Yoon said.
“I might just break into ‘On the Street Where You Live.’”
“I don’t know that song,” she said. “Is that good?”
“Only for you and Eliza Doolittle,” I said. “Mainly for you.”
Jem Yoon had on a lacy coral-pink dress that hit her just above the knees and a pair of very tall beige stiletto heels. Her blue hair had been pulled back into a loose little bun with strands of hair hanging down below her elfin ears. The only jewelry she wore was a silver necklace with a mini-padlock as a pendant.
“You don’t look half bad yourself,” she said. “I thought you didn’t have a suit.”
“Off the rack from Brooks Brothers,” I said. “They had a little trouble finding a forty-eight-long jacket.”
“I like the tie,” she said. “It fits you.”
“I asked for one
with a dancing hula girl,” I said. “But they were out.”
“Shall we?” she said.
I finished the beer I’d been working on before her arrival, paid the tab at the lobby bar, and offered her my arm. We walked out the doors and I handed the valet my ticket. It was a breezy early evening in Hollywood and the sky above the hills was dusky.
“Is Sixkill jealous?” I said.
“I could only get two tickets,” she said.
“And what do they call this wealthy Korean socialite?”
“Jem Yoon.”
“Creative,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “She’s exactly like me. Only with much more money.”
“And how did she get her money?”
“Her horrible father,” Jem Yoon said. “A real Bond villain a-hole. He sells lasers or something. That would explain my date. I have repressed issues and prefer to be with an older man.”
“Much older?” I said.
“How about respectably older?”
“Is there any such thing?” I said.
“Of course,” she said. “We’ll make it so.”
Jem Yoon cut her eyes at me, a slight grin on her lips, as my rental glided into the roundabout and wheeled its way to the curb. I opened the door for her and walked around to pay the valet. She slid into the seat, knees locked in the tight dress, and the doorman closed it with a snap.
“What do we do if they recognize you?” she said.
“Once I’m inside?” I said. “Nothing. In fact, the plan is that I hope they do.”
“You want to agitate them?”
“Mainly I want to agitate Joseph Haldorn.”
“And what if he has us thrown out?”
“Then we know we’re on the right track.”
We headed out onto Highland and then took La Brea south back to the old mansion where Chollo and I had spent the morning. We drove for almost forty minutes before reaching the West Adams neighborhood. Out front, a car valet service had set up for the event. Instead, we parked a few blocks away, just in case we needed to make a hasty retreat. Jem Yoon was not pleased about the walk in the stilettos.
The entry gate was guarded by two men with thick muscles. One black and one white. Both were bald and wearing black shirts, black pants, and sunglasses. They looked like guys who’d almost made it to the NFL, but didn’t make the cut.
“Jem Yoon,” she said. “And guest.”
“And your guest’s name?” the white guy said. Speaking as if I weren’t present.
“Busby Berkeley.”
“I don’t see your name on the list, Mr. Berkeley,” he said.
Jem Yoon moved her body between me and the man. I watched as she touched his shoulder and smiled, head tilting, mouth parting, and becoming a new person. She spoke in a high, lilting tone, using a lot of the vocal fry. “That’s why it read and guest,” she said. “Right? Wow. Oh my God. You look so strong.”
The man smiled and let us through the front gate and onto the lawn peppered with tables overflowing with food and drink. There were two open bars before we even got to the steps of the Italianate mansion that glowed gold from its windows and open doors.
“Fucking idiot,” she said.
“I would like to say men are more complicated than that.”
“Than reacting to nice tits and a bouncy little ass?”
“Would it be sexist if I said we all have our gifts?”
“Yes,” she said. “It would.”
We found a long, linen-covered table where champagne had been poured. I grabbed two glasses and followed Jem Yoon up the marble staircase and into a grand house from another age. The room was polished dark wood with tall wooden columns rising into a vaulted ceiling. I craned my neck up to see an intricate fresco of angels frolicking in the clouds, a beam of sunshine shooting down from the heavens. A trio of violinists played Strauss. Or at least I believed it was Strauss. Whatever it was, you could definitely waltz to it.
“See anyone you know?” I said.
“I only met a couple of recruiters,” she said. “With the bullshit profiles I created, I’m sure they will be finding me soon. Crazy rich Korean with mucho dinero.”
“How rich?”
“Did I mention I took a private jet to Napa yesterday to collect a case of my favorite cab?”
“Save any for me?”
“No,” she said. “But you’re welcome to what’s left of a six-pack of Pabst in my fridge.”
I’d been to countless fund-raisers in Boston and Cambridge with Susan, but there was something odd and surreal about the energy in this room. Everyone was so upbeat, laughing and smiling as if nitrous oxide had been pumped into the air ducts. I finished the champagne and set it on the tray of a passing waiter. Coming down the staircase, I saw a man in a gold metallic dinner jacket with a black shirt and black pants. He had a longish beard and long hair swept back off his high forehead. Despite the tux, he still appeared dirty.
Jem Yoon elbowed me hard in the rib.
“You know I am a trained detective?”
“Just making sure you are paying attention.”
Across the room, through the din of conversation and music, I spotted Nancy Sharp standing with Mallory Riese and a much older woman who looked as if she might be Mallory’s mother. They looked to be in deep conversation, whispering into one another’s ears, and not-so-furtively glancing in my direction. They did not appear to be members of the always popular Spenser Fan Club.
“How do you say ‘the jig is up’ in Korean?”
She said something in Korean. “Is it?” Jem Yoon said.
“Two of my biggest admirers over by the staircase.”
“Shit,” she said. “And I was all ready to play the part of the ditzy socialite. I had to borrow this damn dress from my cousin. Lace. I don’t usually do lace. I’m more of a leather girl.”
I looked away from Sharp and Riese as they met Joe Haldorn at the landing. I stood back and took stock of the room, looking for anyone else that might seem familiar. Or anyone that I could recall seeing in Gabby Leggett’s thousands of photos. Before I could, I felt the short shadow of two of the security guards at the front. They were wise enough not to place a hand on me.
“Sir,” the white guy said. He had a thick neck and large arms but was several inches shorter than me. His bald head gleamed under the chandeliers.
“Busby Berkeley,” I said. “I was just about to ask that trio to play ‘I Only Have Eyes for You,’ and there you appeared.”
“Please come with us, sir.”
“Not yet,” I said. “Mr. Haldorn wanted to see me.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, I do,” I said. “Let’s go ask him. Joe is such a huge fan.”
“Sir.”
“Ask him,” I said. “I’ll stand right here and wait until you get back.”
Jem Yoon walked up to him and patted his cheek. “So cute,” she said. “Like Vin Diesel. Only dumber.”
Three more men in black T-shirts and black pants had joined us. I took it they were either security or trying to form a boy band. I glanced across the room and caught the eye of Joseph Haldorn. He saw me but looked away, trying not to acknowledge my presence. As I turned back, the short, thick guy grabbed my right wrist.
I punched him with a hard left in the solar plexus. He stepped back as if he’d swallowed an Everlasting Gobstopper whole. Another man wrapped his arm around my neck and I reared my head back until I heard the crunch of his nose. The classical music stopped; the attention was on me.
I was pretty sure Joseph Haldorn knew I’d joined the party. And to punctuate the point, I took on a third man who tried to karate-kick me in the groin by catching his foot, twisting it hard, and sending him onto a long linen-covered table neatly adorned with a delightful assortment of crudités.
There was a lot of noise. And mess.
And then good ol’ Joe walked up, his hand raised in a gesture of peace and calm. The jewelry on one wrist looked like he’d looted the tomb of an Egyptian cat. Everyone watched and listened to him. A spiritual twin to E. F. Hutton.
“Leave him alone,” he said. He spoke with a hard intensity but with a low volume. “This man is welcome here.”
I looked to Jem Yoon. She was confused. I was confused. The guards were confused. Mostly the one whose black tee was splattered in some kind of white herb sauce.
“This is not a closed group,” he said. “There’s no reason for deceit and misdirection. You could have simply asked to speak to me about what we offer.”
“How much does it cost to drink the Kool-Aid?”
Joe Haldorn’s eyes were an icy blue and possessed a weird tranquility. “Why are you causing trouble?”
We were within inches of each other now and he continued to smile his odd, tranquil smile. “I’ve been hired to find a woman named Gabby Leggett,” I said. “She’s been missing for more than two weeks. I understand she’s one of your faithful followers.”
“I know Miss Leggett.”
I nodded. Someone told the band to play on and they did, diving into a Mozart concerto.
“If you care about your people so much,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me the last time your people have seen her? And why she’s disappeared without checking with her family and friends?”
“I have no idea,” he said.
“When is the last time she checked in to the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse?”
Haldorn’s smile faded as he continued to stare at me. “I teach my students to never keep secrets,” he said. “Secrets can devour your soul. We want to rid ourselves of anything that binds the intellect.”
“So pleased to hear that,” I said. “Where’s Gabby been for the last two weeks?”
