Moon Dance (Vampire for Hire #1)
Page 20
It was hotel stationery from the Embassy Suites here in Los Angeles. Just two words were written across the middle of it in small, neat cursive: Happy Birthday.
I stared at the letter for some time, my mind running through a possible list of stalking candidates, and came up with nothing. Finally, I opened the plastic case and put the watch on―and kinda liked it. It would go well with my already sizable collection of Elvis memorabilia. I’m a nerd like that.
My cover was blown, that much was for sure. By whom I did not know, and how long before Access Hollywood came knocking at my door, I didn’t know, either.
Numb and sick to my stomach, I pushed away from the table and went over and sat at my desk in the far corner of the living room. I found a plain manila case folder and wrote “Stalker” on the tab. There, now it was official. I had me a stalker. I slipped the note inside, along with the padded envelope, and filed the whole thing away in my dilapidated filing cabinet that I had gotten for free from a retired doctor.
In my bathroom, from the medicine cabinet, I found my little bottle of pick-me-up pills. Vicodin. My preferred drug of the day. I tapped out three fat pills, poured myself a cup of sink water and knocked them back one at a time like a whooping crane downing sardines.
In the kitchen, from a cupboard above the sink, I found my not-so-hidden bottle of Jack Daniels. I unscrewed the cap and drank it straight, and I kept on drinking until I finally felt better.
Chapter Four
We were at a Starbucks in Silver Lake, which is a hilly district east of Hollywood. Yes, there was even a lake here. Granted, it was a reservoir surrounded by an eight-foot high chain-linked fence topped with barbed wire, but, hey, that’s L.A. for you.
I was eating a $1.60 old-fashioned chocolate donut that tasted remarkably like a .60 cent old-fashioned chocolate donut. Across from me, drinking a mocha something-or-other, was an old friend. A very trusted old friend. Clarke McGuire was a defense attorney here in L.A. Five years ago, Clarke hired me to help clear one of his clients of murder. The case started simple, but ended bad. Very bad. Someone had ended up dead, and Clarke and I had been at the wrong place at the wrong time, and suddenly we had a body to dump. And so we did, together, in the desert, in a grave we dug together. Call it a bonding experience. Now we shared a secret that we would take to our own graves, and since we were sharing secrets, I had let him in on a big one of my own.
Now Clarke McGuire, defense attorney, with his perfectly bald head and too big hands, was one of only three people on Earth who knew that Elvis Presley was living in obscurity in L.A. and working secretly as a private investigator.
Unless you counted the stalker.
Without looking up from his newspaper, Clarke said, “Happy birthday, by the way.”
“Is that why you splurged for the donut?” I asked.
“That, and because you’re broke again.”
“Well, you’re a day late,” I said. “My birthday was yesterday.”
“I’m a day late, and you’re a dollar short.”
“Oh, brother,” I said.
Clarke chuckled to himself, turned the page, snapped the paper taut.
Starbucks was filled nearly to capacity. We sat alone in a corner, near the front entrance, at the only rectangular table the place offered, a table which was designated for the handicapped. I knew this because a little yellow wheelchair was routed into the wooden surface. I wasn’t handicapped, and neither was Clarke. By all rights, this was an illegal coffee affair.
“We’re sitting at the handicap table,” I said.
“I know.”
“Neither of us is handicapped,” I said, “unless we count your baldness.”
“Baldness isn’t a handicap.”
“Should be.”
He shook his head. His bald head, that is. “I tried calling you yesterday,” he said. “Your phone was off. Wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”
“I hate my birthday.”
“I know.”
I was quiet. Clarke was reading the L.A. Times, or at least pretending to. More often than not, I caught him watching me. Clarke was a good friend, my only friend, but he was also infatuated with me. Sometimes I wished I had never divulged my secret to him. Surprise, it turned out he was quite the Elvis fan. Lucky me.
“She was on TV yesterday,” I said. “Oprah.”
Clarke nodded; he knew who she was. “How’d she look?”
“Beautiful,” I said. “And sad. Always sad.”
I was tracing the engraving of the wheelchair with my finger, listening to the chatter of orders at the nearby counter, everyone speaking a secret Starbucks language, meaningless to the uninitiated. I was suddenly wishing my drink had something stronger in it than just a shot or two of espresso.
“I’d do anything to see her again, Clarke.”
“I know.”
“Just one minute. One hug.”
“Dead men don’t give hugs.”
“Thank you, Davy Jones.”
He chuckled and turned back to his paper. We were silent some more. Starbucks was alive and well and running on caffeine. A few minutes later, without looking up, Clarke said, “I have a job for you if you’re interested. Missing person case.”
Working was good for me. It kept me sane. Kept my thoughts in check, my mind in check. It was damn easy for my life to spiral out of control if I let it. Working hard and helping others kept me grounded, alive. It also put food on my table.
“Tell me about it,” I said.
“Missing female. Twenty-two, an actress. Missing now for three days.”
“Haven’t heard about it.”
“And you won’t. The mother wants to keep this quiet, if possible. Her daughter has a movie coming out this fall, and the mother doesn’t want the bad publicity.”
“Nice to see her priorities are in order.”
Clarke shrugged. “Not my business,” he said. “Ideally the girl is found safe and sound and the public is none the wiser.”
“Except the public might have leads to her whereabouts.”
“What can I say,” he said. “I’m just their attorney.”
“Fine,” I said, “What does the LAPD have so far?”
“So far nothing, which is why the mother is hiring every available PI she can find.”
“Even old ones?” I asked.
“Even old ones,” said Clarke. “I told her that you’re the best in the business at finding the missing, that, in fact, it’s your specialty.”
I finished the last of the donut. “Sometimes they’re found dead, Clarke,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “I left that part out.”
About the Author:
J.R. Rain is an ex-private investigator who now lives in a small house on a small island with his small dog, Sadie, who has more energy than Robin Williams. Please visit him at www.jrrain.com.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four