The Jetpack Boogie: A Dieselpunk Adventure (The Crossover Case Files Book 4)

by Richard Levesque

  I pulled over in the same spot where the studio chauffeur must have parked early in the morning after driving the doomed woman from the party she’d been attending in Hollywood. Getting out of the car, I walked to the steps and looked up at them, the walls of a few hillside mansions visible beyond their top. Then I glanced back at my sorry old Winslow tucked into the narrow shoulder and told myself it would have to take its chances.

  As I trudged up the stairs, I wondered how a drunk woman—probably in high heels—would have negotiated them in the early morning hours. I expected that the police would have gone all over these stairs for signs of Miss King’s passage up them, but then again, I also knew the police missed things on occasion. It struck me as at least possible that she could have stumbled on these stairs, maybe breaking her nose here and not on the steering wheel of her fancy car. If so, there might have been blood on the stairs a week ago, traces of which might still be here. For the first time since talking to Imelda, I wondered if Detective O’Neal had any connection to the case. I doubted it, as the Palisades were a long way from downtown and her normal stomping grounds. But she might have some affiliation with whoever was running the case. Either way, it would be interesting to run my stairway theory past her if I got the chance, just to see what she’d say.

  At the top of the stairs was a pathway that ran along a little ridge, evolving into an actual street about a hundred feet away. I followed Penny King’s last steps and was soon at the house I’d seen photographed in the papers—a white Spanish-style home built into the hillside with three blue garage doors facing the street on the ground floor. In the papers, a black arrow had been superimposed onto the photograph, pointing at the last garage door with the caption “Death Scene” printed next to the arrow. Beyond the door was a stairway, painted blue to match the garage doors and the trim on the house. At the top of those stairs would be the door to the main house, I knew, the door Penny King would have found locked when she came home too late to suit the man she’d gotten tangled up with.

  I stood at the bottom of those stairs, picturing Peter Mulligan on the other side of the door above me, locking it with a superior look on his smug face and then going to bed with his wife. My earlier negative feelings about the man came back in full force, and once again I really didn’t want to do anything to help him. I was, however, still interested in helping Penny King find justice and—possibly—helping Katrina Mulligan out of a jam. So, I stood there for a minute, taking in the quiet street and opulence of the other homes.

  Then, feeling I’d gotten all I could here, I turned around and headed back for the stairs. Going down them was a lot easier than going up had been.

  Back in my car, I made a U-turn on the coast road and headed back to Sunset, which wound its way up into the hills. Before long, I made the turn I should have made in the first place and was soon on another quiet little street, this one much higher up from the ocean. I parked in front of the house matching the address Peggy had given me and gave it a moment’s consideration—a little cottage on a patch of lawn with a rose-covered trellis beside the front door. Picture windows faced the street and—more importantly, I supposed—the blue expanse of the Pacific stretching out to the horizon, a squadron of pelicans fading into the distance.

  Not bad, I thought as I got out of the car and went up the narrow walkway. When I got to the door, I knocked and waited.

  A woman with honey blonde hair piled high on her head opened the door not long after I stopped knocking. She wore a floral print dress and had large pearl earrings fixed to her lobes. Her expression was friendly enough, the face of a woman who lived in a nice enough neighborhood to not have to worry about strange men at the door posing any kind of threat.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I certainly hope so,” I said, taking off my fedora with one hand and reaching into my coat pocket with the other. “Are you Mrs. Pruitt?”

  “I am.”

  Taking a business card from my pocket, I offered it to her while saying, “My name is Jed Strait, ma’am. I’m a private detective, and I’m looking for a missing person who I’m hoping you might be able to help me with.”

  Her expression clouded, and I knew whatever goodwill I might have started with had just slipped away like one of those pelicans. My guess was that she hadn’t been expecting anyone to come nosing around after her friend Katrina, but now that I was here, she wasn’t happy about it and might even be kicking herself for being so unguarded.

  “I can’t imagine how that could be possible,” she said, and I saw a hand go up to the side of the door. She was ready to push it shut, I saw.

  “It’s possible I’ve been misinformed,” I said. “In which case, I apologize for the inconvenience. There’s a woman, though, who might not just be missing but might actually be in trouble. I would hope that if you have any idea where she might be found that you’ll do what you can to help her.”

  I was pleased with myself for that one—turning the focus away from helping me and toward helping her friend. People like to feel important, I’ve learned. Needed. In situations like this, I had to be part detective and part salesman. Sometimes, the detective part dropped out of the equation altogether.

  My self-satisfaction was a bit premature, though.

  Mrs. Pruitt kept her hand on the door and said, “Mr. Strait, I don’t take kindly to your manipulation. I know very well what you’re after from me, and I can’t help you.”

  I smiled my best smile, the disarming one. At least, I hoped it was disarming. “Can’t or won’t, ma’am?”

  She raised an eyebrow, and I knew the door was about to go.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be impertinent,” I said. “It’s just that Mrs. Mulligan may be in real trouble. I’m not trying to manipulate you. I promise.”

  Her expression didn’t soften, but I noted a little exhale, which told me I might still have a chance at some cooperation from her.

  “What kind of trouble?” she asked.

  “I’m not exactly at liberty to say, but suffice it to say that if she’s actually safe, there’s a chance her continued silence will make her look suspicious.”

  “In the murder?”

  I shrugged.

  She exhaled again. “You said ‘if she’s actually safe.’ Do you think she’s not?”

  “I don’t know. I’d love to find out. There’s a chance, of course.”

  “That?”

  “That there was more than one woman who got hurt that night.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Her incredulity kicked into gear then, and I was afraid the door would slam.

  “It’s not ridiculous. There’s a very real possibility. Missing wife. Husband accused of violence. It’s not a good formula.”

  She thought about this for a few long, silent seconds. Then, for the first time sounding genuinely concerned for her friend, she said, “I haven’t seen or heard from her. Not since before it happened.”

  I believed her. “Thank you for saying so. Do you have any idea where she might have gone? Anyone she might be staying with?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think she ever had much use for her family. There was a boyfriend. Before she met Peter.”

  Now we were getting somewhere.

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “It was…John something.”

  I’d been a fool to get my hopes up that something concrete would drop into place on my first interview.

  “Or was it Joe?” she asked herself.

  It gets worse, I thought.

  She smiled, a bit embarrassedly, and said, “I’m sorry. I can’t remember. I met him only once, just before they split up.”

  “That’s all right. There’s nothing else you can remember about him?” I asked.

  “He owned some hotels,” she said.

  And then, just as quickly, we were back on track.

  “In Mexico, I think.”

  My hopes were a yo-yo, and this woman’s memory was the string
that yanked it up and down. I pictured going to Imelda and asking for travel money to head south. It was doubtful that I’d be able to turn up anything useful for her by the Wednesday afternoon deadline, but a trip to Mexico would at least be interesting.

  “That’s helpful,” I lied. “Anything else?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. No. I can’t imagine where she’s gone.”

  I smiled at this, hoping I was exuding confidence. Then I nodded toward my business card still held in her delicate fingers. “If anything else occurs to you, just call the number, will you? And, of course, if you should actually hear from her, it would be even more crucial that you get in touch with me.”

  She nodded. “I understand. Should I call the police, too? If I hear from her? You know…to make sure she’s all right?”

  Still smiling, I said, “That would be your choice, ma’am. I really don’t think she’s in any danger. We’re just trying to cover all the angles.”

  She thanked me then, and I tipped my fedora. Moments later, the door that had been threatening to slam in my face for the last few minutes closed instead with a gentle click, and it was just me and the sound of the ocean rising to the top of the bluff where a woman like Jeanette Pruitt could perch with not many worries to trouble her day.

  I’d just given her a few, and it didn’t bother me. A glass of wine and a few minutes of staring out that picture window would probably set her right before I was a mile away. If Katrina Mulligan did reveal herself to her friend Jeanette, I’d be lucky if the woman remembered which knickknack she’d set my business card under.

  The sun was dipping toward the horizon, and I expected it would be a pretty spectacular sunset from up here. For a moment, I thought about driving down the street and parking to watch the show that was just getting started in the western sky. But then, considering how much traffic I’d likely have to face on the way back to Chavez Ravine if I lingered at the coast, I decided against it. There would be other sunsets, after all. I just had to hope I’d be able to see more of them in this world.

  It all depended on Guillermo. I had no doubt that he’d gotten the machine fixed. The question was: would it stay fixed long enough for me to leave this world and come back again?

  Considering how uncharacteristically strange he’d been acting earlier, I decided that I didn’t like the odds.

  And yet, once I got the Winslow started, I did my duty, turning it around on the narrow clifftop street to start the drive back toward Chavez Ravine and who knew what beyond that.

  Chapter Five

  Walking into Guillermo’s living room felt a bit like arriving at my own funeral. Guillermo, Osvaldo, Carmelita and even Perdida were lined up in front of the old man’s badly worn sofa. They all stood there staring at me as I pulled open the screen door and stepped inside. I noticed that Carmelita had gotten her eye finished; it was back in the socket, and although her face still looked a little misshapen, I saw that she’d have no problem passing for beautiful again, especially once a little more make-up was applied to her synthetic skin. Even Osvaldo, who almost never made eye contact, was watching me intently as I stopped in the middle of the room and took off my fedora. All looked like they were there to say goodbye to me; not even the little mechanical dog bounded forth to greet me the way she usually did.

  “Well, good evening to all of you, too, I said.

  Guillermo was the first to break, his smile a force of its own and seemingly refusing to be contained by anything, certainly not by worry.

  “Sorry, lobo,” he said, stepping forward and shaking my hand, a gesture far more formal than anything I was used to from him. “We’ve just been talking about how much we don’t know about…”

  His voice trailed off and Carmelita picked up the thread.

  “What’s on the other side,” she said. “There are so many unknowns. We’re a little worried about sending you over, Jed. I’m sure you understand.”

  I gave her a little smile that I hoped conveyed more confidence than cockiness. “Sure. I understand. I’m not exactly itching to go, but I know it’s got to be done.” Then, catching Guillermo’s eye, I added, “Can we talk in the kitchen for a minute?”

  He looked uneasy, but he stepped forward and followed me out of the room. Perdida followed.

  When we were alone, I said, “Is there something else going on here, Guillermo? Something you’re not telling me about?”

  He looked at the floor for a moment and then back at me. “I don’t know how safe this is, lobo. I’ve done all the tests I could do without actually sending you through, and I think it’s safe, but…”

  “You just don’t know.”

  He echoed my words and sounded defeated doing it. “I just don’t know.”

  “Well,” I said. “We know Klaus Lang did it multiple times, and you followed his plans to the letter, right?”

  “Right.”

  This didn’t seem to make him feel any better.

  So, I changed the subject, just a little.

  “I crossed over today, like the other times.”

  His eyes lit up. “While playing guitar?”

  “No. While listening to myself play guitar and sing with Sherise. She and I were singing along with a record she made of us, and I just…slipped over.”

  “Tell me,” he said, eagerness in his voice.

  I did, giving him all the details I could remember.

  “And Sherise?” he asked. “She couldn’t tell anything had happened?”

  “Not until I was back.”

  He nodded, and I could see that his mind was racing with the new data.

  “Do you think it means anything?” I asked. “I mean, that it happened when I wasn’t actually playing?”

  “Maybe. Maybe it’s getting easier for it to happen, which could mean it will be easier to control once we really figure it out, yes?”

  “You think it still has something to do with musical vibrations?”

  “Si. But how and why…we just don’t know yet.”

  I nodded. “And you don’t think that what happened today will affect me crossing over for real? I mean…bodily?”

  Again, a shadow of uncertainty crossed his features, but he reined it in. “No. No, I don’t think. If you’re ready to go…”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Back in the living room, he reached into a box that was resting on a shelf and pulled out the little gun that had first led me to him when I’d come to Los Angeles. I hadn’t seen it in a while, a dull grey metal pistol with a simple trigger and a manufacturer’s plate riveted to the bottom of the handle with “Garcia Industries” stamped into it. It was Chavezium-powered and non-lethal, firing an incapacitating beam rather than a bullet.

  “You should take this with you,” he said, “in case you get into any trouble.”

  I looked at the weapon and thought it over for a moment. Then I shook my head. “Thanks, but I don’t think it’s wise. In fact, I was thinking it would be better if I went with almost nothing.”

  At this, I emptied my pockets, setting my car keys, some coins, and my wallet on Guillermo’s scarred coffee table. Then I reached into my coat pocket and took out my tablet, pencil, and business cards. Finally, I took off the jacket to unstrap my shoulder holster and firearm. The only things I had left were my watch and the stubby roll of silver dollars I’d gotten at the bank.

  “Why?” Guillermo asked.

  “We don’t know what’s over there,” I said. “Not at all. This stuff might all be fine, but what if it’s not? What if there’s a cop on every corner checking people’s papers like it’s the Third Reich or something? Hell, the Germans might have won in that world. Elsa might be right at home.”

  “Do you really think it could be that bad on the other side?” Carmelita asked.

  “No,” I said. “Not really. But I don’t want to take a chance. Not this time. Let me go over and get a feel for Elsa’s new world and see what I can see. I won’t even try to look for her tonight. I just want
to see what’s there. Once I know a bit about that world, I’ll know what’s safe and not safe to arm myself with when I go back and really start the hunt.”

  Carmelita nodded. “That makes sense, Jed. Good thinking.”

  “I’m glad you approve.” Then, turning to Guillermo, I asked, “Have you got a little flashlight?”

  He smiled and nodded, reaching to the shelf where the gun had been kept. He handed me the little torch, which I examined for a moment.

  “Batteries or modified?” I asked.

  “Batteries,” he said.

  I put it into my pants pocket. “Good. Nothing that’s going to get me in trouble. You ready then?”

  “Yes, lobo. Let’s get started.”

  He gestured to Osvaldo and they both turned toward the crossover machine. It looked the same as it had weeks earlier when Elsa had passed through it, a column of machinery with an array of dials and meters on its face, and mounted to it was a metal ring big enough for an adult to step through. Fluorescent tubes bordered the opening, and complicated wiring and other elements could be found inside the frame. The bullet hole I’d made in the machine had been mended so well that I couldn’t tell where my shot had hit.

  Guillermo gave his assistant a nod, and Osvaldo flipped a switch. When the machine had come to life out in the workshop, it had made the whole room shake. The floor of Guillermo’s house was raised above a narrow crawlspace, and the wooden floor’s relative flexibility seemed to distribute the energy the machine put out better than the concrete slab that the workshop rested on. It was loud, as it had been before, but the hum was closer to a thousand bees buzzing in the rafters than a nest of machine gunners looking to riddle the walls with holes.

  About half a minute after the machine started, the tubes lit up, and I knew it was ready. Looking through the ring revealed nothing about what was on the other side. All I saw was just more of Guillermo’s living room, but I knew that when I stepped through, I’d be in the dark office that Perdida had filmed.