Jinxed

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  “You must have spoken to her immediately after she left. Was she in the park? Did she mention waiting for a ride?”

  “No, or I would have told the detective. Chelsea was walking and talking, but I don’t know where. Last thing we did was confirm our Skype session the next day.”

  That means that Chelsea had time to make at least two phone calls before she disappeared: one to Jeremy and the other to Dirck.

  Amid a blast of honking horns, Dirck squeezes through traffic and hangs a right from a left-hand lane. He whips up a residential street and asks, “Are we anywhere near this joint?”

  “We’re two blocks away. Start looking for a parking spot.”

  He finds one in a space marked LOADING ZONE up the street from the restaurant. He pulls in and parks, looking pleased with himself. “What the hell if I get a ticket. It’s a rental.”

  I grit my teeth and release the seat belt. If a parking ticket is the worst that comes of this outing, I’ll be grateful. As we head toward Gilligan’s, I caution Dirck to control his temper. “If he sees that you’re angry, he’ll clam up. Besides, if Chelsea digs this guy, it’s her business, not yours.”

  “Yeah? Maybe you should stay in the car and mind your own business.”

  “Yeah? Maybe too late,” I say, walking up to the door of Gilligan’s.

  I step inside, greeted by a gust of chilled air and dead silence. We’ve arrived during that hushed, morgue-like lull between lunch and cocktail hour to find a completely empty restaurant. There are no customers and no one staffing the reception area.

  While I look around, Dirck strides inside, his footsteps echoing on the terra-cotta tile floor. He raps his knuckles on the bar. “Hellooooo, anyone home?”

  A male voice I recognize as Jeremy’s calls from the patio, “We’re closed until four o’clock.”

  “The barn door’s still open, buddy.”

  “Sorry, but—” He appears in the archway, the words scarcely leaving his mouth before the sound of Dirck’s inimical voice strikes home. He blinks twice, then blurts, “What’re you doing here?”

  “So, how’s about a beer, Jerry? I mean, why tip a stranger, eh?”

  Jeremy’s eyelids drop to half-mast as though he’s sizing up a full-moon bar-crawler. “Hey, Dirck. No trouble, okay?”

  “Given what you owe me, how about one on the house?”

  “It doesn’t work that way here. I could get in trouble, you know?”

  “Take it easy, Jer.” Dirck laughs. “We just dropped by to visit. And you can mail me the check for the classes, now that I know how to find you.”

  Before things get rough, I step deeper into the bar area so Jeremy can see me. “Hey, it’s not quite happy hour yet, is it?”

  The moment my voice registers, Jeremy’s face contorts into a rapid succession of expressions that, sadly, I doubt he has the acting chops to duplicate on camera. “Wow, you two both here together? Sorry, but now’s not such a good time. We’re closed.”

  He glances back toward the patio and I hear, “Is that her? Why is she here?” It’s a kittenish voice I recognize instantly.

  “Lisa? Is that you?” I call out. “Could I talk to you a minute?”

  “Haven’t you done enough?” A busty babe with cascading strawberry-pink hair, dressed in shorts and a low-cut tank top, sidles up next to Jeremy. Teetering on platform wedges, she glares at me through bruised eyes. One cheek is swollen. Her lip is cut. “Why can’t you just leave me alone!” she cries plaintively.

  “I’m so sorry! Lisa, please tell me what happened.” I start to move toward her, but she holds up her hand.

  “All’s I did is try to help your friend. You got me in trouble.” Tears roll down her puffy face, trailing black mascara.

  “With who? The police?”

  “You gave ’em my number. Why’d you do that?” she wails.

  “My fault, Lisa,” Jeremy says, glaring at me. “I shouldn’t have trusted you. They came here, too, asking questions. I could’ve lost my job! Why the hell did you go to the police? We didn’t do anything.”

  “I’ll tell you why, you sleazeball,” Dirck booms. “My daughter is missing. I’m guessing you pimped her out like she’s some hooker! I want to know where she is.”

  “Chelsea? Your daughter?” Jeremy’s face buckles in horror. “She never said she was your daughter. I swear. Sir.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know,” Jeremy says. “I wish I did.”

  “But you set her up, you scumbag. Is she with some pimp, thanks to you?”

  “No!” Lisa cries. “Nothing like that!”

  “Of course not,” I say in as soothing a tone as I can muster. “Chelsea told me how much you helped her. She really appreciated it. In fact, she was looking forward to seeing you when she finished working with me that night. But something happened. You were going to pick her up, right? She’d left her car somewhere?”

  “Yeah, at Ernie’s place. I had a . . . an appointment, so Ernie dropped her off. Then we were going to pick her up for dinner after, but she was, like, a no-show. Gone. No call, nothing.”

  “So her car’s at Ernie’s?”

  “No, when we got back later, it was gone.”

  “Ernie? Ernie?” Dirck bellows. “So who’s this Ernie? Your pimp?”

  “He’s not a pimp! He’s my . . . my manager!” She turns and totters at surprising speed back out to the patio. I move to follow her, but Jeremy blocks my way.

  “Just leave her alone. Let her go.”

  “Yeah? Is she your girlfriend, too?” Dirck yells. “Are you two-timing my daughter with some hooker?”

  “Shut up, Dirck,” I say, “that’s enough.” I run past him out of the bar and back onto the street, hoping to catch up to Lisa.

  Even in her platform wedges, she’s somehow managed to sprint out the back way, through the patio shrubbery. I spot her racing toward Wilshire. She stops and waves. A red convertible turns the corner and pulls to the curb. The driver leans over and pushes the door open. Lisa hops in and the car takes off before she’s pulled the door closed. I stand for a moment, watching the convertible speed through a yellow traffic light and disappear up the boulevard.

  As I turn back toward Gilligan’s, I look up the street and see a tow truck ratcheting Dirck’s rental compact up on its back wheels. Streams of thought race through my brain as unflattering windows open on ancient scenes of marital strife. Hasn’t this all happened before in another time and place? Do I really have to play all this back? I glance up at the street sign that reads TOW AWAY ZONE: LOADING ONLY and try to calculate the cost of retrieving an impounded car.

  I see a long night stretching ahead and consider calling Jack. However, that would mean explaining why I set out on a misguided venture with my ex-husband when I’d promised to remain at home. None of this bodes well for a romantic evening at the beach.

  By the time I reach Gilligan’s, Dirck’s blue rental car is already on its costly journey to an out-of-the-way barbed-wire enclosure somewhere. I try to come up with a gentle way of imparting this news to Dirck.

  However, when I enter Gilligan’s, happy hour is in its first flush of arrivals and Dirck is ensconced on a stool, drinking a frosty mug of beer. Jeremy has his hand on Dirck’s shoulder and the two are deep in conversation across the bar. They look up as I approach. I’ve apparently interrupted some sort of misty-eyed male bonding.

  “Hey,” Dirck says, “I wondered where you’d run off to. Listen, Jer and I have a lot to go over. You think you could take a cab home?”

  “Not a bad idea. Oh, by the way, your car was towed.”

  “Oh, man!” Dirck says, clapping his hand to his head. “Towed? I can’t park up the street for ten minutes? What kinda fascists run this damn city?”

  “Bummer,” Jeremy says, with feeling. “Hey, man, hang out for a while and I’ll help you get it back.”

  “You okay with that?” Dirck asks me. “Just go on home and I’ll check out the neighborhood until Je
rry’s off work.”

  “Fine by me.” I smile and wiggle my fingers in farewell. “See you around, guys.”

  I walk toward Wilshire Boulevard and look down the street toward the Federal Building, where Jack is toiling away. For one fleeting moment, I again consider surprising him, but quickly dismiss the idea. My surprise visit would entail way too much explanation.

  Instead, I stroll to the corner, my eye on a city bus worming its way through rush-hour traffic. Even if I could afford a taxi, Los Angeles isn’t a town where you can stick out your hand and hail a cab—and, lucky me, a ready-made option is lumbering up to the curb. The door wheezes open and I board.

  The bus is crowded, but I manage to find a seat in the back. I check messages on my cellphone, then decide to take another look at the video I shot the night Elaine died. The image on the screen is small, but I’m still able to glimpse the water geyser, the approach of the fire truck and the darkened park beyond. Again I see the headlights of a car swing around the north side of the park, coming from Sunset Boulevard; a bicyclist cuts across the road in front of it. A squad car, lights flashing, races down the boulevard. Detective Yarrow’s face pops up, looking at me over Detective McCauley’s shoulder.

  It occurs to me that perhaps I should forward the video to her, although the car is clearly coming toward the park area, not leaving it. There’s hardly anything suspicious as far as I can see. On the other hand, I’ve promised Jack I’ll fully disclose any leads I have, so I may as well comply. I pull up Detective Yarrow’s email address, attach the video and press Send. If she has the tools to pick out the car’s license number, more power to her.

  I don’t have to ride too many stops up the Wilshire corridor before I alight near Holmby Park, but it gives me time to reflect. Reporting phone numbers and license plates to the police may be the prudent thing to do, but discretion is advised. I hurt Lisa. I almost cost Jeremy his job. I gave the guy in the red convertible an excuse to vent his anger on a strawberry blonde with little ability to defend herself. Now I’ve sent video that just may get some anonymous motorist a surprise visit from a detective.

  Conclusion: Nothing against the police, but they have their own way of dealing with things. I can operate with a bit more finesse on my own.

  I walk down the residential street, pausing at the scene of my near demise. The embankment is healing, with crushed ivy and ferns quickly rejuvenating to cover the Volvo’s tire tracks. There’s already little sign of the trauma to the pavement. I stand at the corner, looking around, glancing at the crosshatch pattern in the hard-packed earth at my feet and trying to imagine how someone could have so nearly taken my life—and then wondering why.

  I skirt Holmby Park and head toward Donna’s house, figuring that I’ll have just enough time to shower and dress before Jack picks me up. I mentally pack my shoulder bag with essentials that include my outmoded laptop and a few changes of clothing. Just as I’m tapping in the code to open the gates, my cellphone rings. I glance at the caller ID and answer.

  “Hi, Corky. How’s it going?”

  “Okay, good,” he says, then whispers, “Can I talk to you?”

  “Sure, what’s on your mind?”

  “Can you hang on? I need to go outside.”

  I hear the strain in his voice and deduce he’s bumped up against yet another artistic concern he needs to share. I welcome the break in working out my own dilemmas to help sort out his. By the time the gates have opened and closed, Corky is back on the line, still whispering.

  “Hi, hey, any chance we could hook up tomorrow? I mean, you know, meet?”

  “What’s up?”

  “I need to talk to you. Like, just you and me, all right?”

  I hear the quiet urgency in his voice. “Is everything okay with you? I hope I didn’t upset your family yesterday.”

  “No, it’s not you. I mean, it is, but that’s what I need to talk to you about.”

  “Want me to come by?”

  “No! Sorry, no, that wouldn’t work. I’m going to get my mom to drop me off at the La Brea Tar Pits in the morning so I can shoot some stuff. Can you meet me there?”

  “Sure. How about just outside the Page Museum. What time?”

  “Like, ten o’clock?”

  “You got it. See you then.”

  I would like to think that Corky hasn’t developed the sort of agonizing adolescent crush on me that could take the better part of tomorrow morning to resolve. On the other hand, he could have been so embarrassed by the hand-holding heart-to-heart we engaged in yesterday that he’s hoping to let me down easily by telling me I’m way too old for him. Either way, tomorrow morning is beginning to look awkward. It occurs to me that I could ask Donna to pack up some ginger snaps or fudge to bring to our rendezvous. Food helps.

  I turn my key in the door and slip inside, hoping Donna is in the kitchen and won’t hear me enter. Unfortunately, as luck would have it, she and Doug are sitting in the living room, enjoying wine and canapés. Donna is wearing one of her more exotic caftans. Doug is sporting his regulation safari-jacket-and-jeans ensemble. Oddly, they raise their glasses as I enter, although neither of their faces looks particularly convivial.

  “Nice of you to show up,” Donna says pointedly. “I thought you were staying in today.”

  “I was, but Dirck asked me to accompany him to a meeting. I obliged, but the meeting went on longer than we anticipated, so I came home for fear I would worry you. Could I have a glass of wine, please?”

  Both eye me suspiciously, but Doug pours me a glass of exquisite Montrachet from the bucket on the table. Where else but in Holmby Hills does the house pour come from a renowned chateau? I take the glass and greedily imbibe. “Cheers!”

  “Cheers, yourself,” Donna says. “I put out some nibbles in case you and Jack want to join us. He called to say he’s on his way.”

  “Perfect.” I glance at the assortment of “nibbles” on the coffee table: it looks more like a high-end smorgasbord stocked with smoked salmon, an assortment of meats, crudités, cheeses and crackers. I’m torn between diving in and running upstairs to pack.

  “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  I race up the stairs, glass in hand, my mind a jumble again. Food and wine will do that to you. But it’s also occurred to me that I’ve left Dirck in the company of Jeremy, who just may come up with some forgotten clue to Chelsea’s whereabouts. If that’s the case, and Dirck storms off in vigilante mode to rescue his daughter, it could spell disaster.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “The face,” Dirck moans. “Why’d they have to mess with my face?”

  Indeed, he’s not a pretty sight. We’re back in a hospital again, this time in an emergency room cubicle where Dirck, minus his leather jacket, lies on a gurney, hooked up to drips and monitors.

  “Hey, squeeze in,” Dirck bellows as we push the drapes aside to enter.

  He’s holding court, his baritone rumbling magnificently despite broken ribs. Even with a black eye, significant bruising and an arm in a sling, he’s in high spirits. With a nod to Detective Yarrow, hovering at the rear with Jack and Donna, he says, “I was just filling her in on what went on. I got jumped, you believe it? Never happened to me in New York, but I come out to Lotusland and get the crap kicked out of me. But if you think I look bad, you should see the other guys!”

  He does a series of cartoon whop! pow! kazowie! sounds that make everyone laugh, including Detective McCauley and a young intern standing at the head of the gurney. “No one sucker punches me and gets away with it!”

  I roll my eyes, joining in the laughter. “You’re a one-man SWAT team, fella!”

  “Who did this to you?” Donna asks. “Was it a robbery?”

  “Yeah, they got my wallet. But, hell, I would’ve given it to them. They didn’t need to beat me up. I just went for a breather while I was waiting for Jerry, this former acting student of mine, to clock out and help me get my car out of the pound. Then this car pulls up behind me. Two guys jump out a
nd start beating me. At least I didn’t lose teeth. It’s crazy! Broad daylight! I gotta think these goons are tied into Chelsea, somehow. Who’s behind this? That’s what I want to know. I mean, we’re gettin’ picked off one by one, right, Megsie?”

  Dirck is so animated I begin to wonder if his meds need to be dialed back, but I remind myself this is nothing more than his natural reaction to being the center of attention. He really can’t get enough of it.

  “Don’t let us interrupt anything, here,” Doug says to McCauley.

  “That’s okay. We’re just finishing up.” He glances at me. “We’d like to get a word with Miss Barnes, of course. Maybe outside?”

  “Sure, anytime.” I move toward Jack and Detective Yarrow, preparing to leave.

  “Hey, guys, that’s it for me already?” Dirck sounds disappointed as half his audience starts to walk out of the cubicle. “If there’s anything else you need, you know how to find me.”

  “You’ve been a big help, Mr. Heyward,” McCauley says, edging around Donna. “Just take it easy now.”

  “Hey, I was wondering,” Dirck says, catching McCauley’s sleeve. “Any chance you could work some magic with that impound place? You know, all things considered, maybe they could waive the fees on my car?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll have to get back to you on that,” McCauley mutters.

  “Hey, wait! You can’t all go. You just got here,” Dirck says, sounding even more plaintive.

  “We can stay a little while,” Donna says. “I think they’re going to keep you for the night.”

  Jack turns to me, speaking quietly. “I’ll just go to the waiting room until you’re finished.”

  “No, please stay with me.”

  The two of us follow McCauley down a corridor to an L-shaped space fitted with several molded plastic chairs and a water cooler. I’ve had no time to fill Jack in on what happened, and I know he’s wondering what I was doing in Westwood when I’d said I’d be home. He arrived at Donna’s just as the sun was going down and had barely walked in the door when the call came about Dirck. Within minutes, we were all in separate cars traveling in convoy to the emergency room at UCLA Medical Center.