by Alex Ames
He hung up rather forcefully.
Sometimes it is nice to have friends in high places. And it’s even nicer to have friends who do things for you without asking questions. My foundation buddy Margaret Peters, wife of my esteemed lawyer Terrence, had invited Mundy and me to a party at their house in the Pacific Palisades after I cued and coached her a bit to include me.
“This is not our usual foundation group, so I hope you won’t be bored.”
“No, it’s fine, Margaret,” I answered her when we were talking logistics over the phone the day before.
She shouted into the background over her shoulder. “Terrence, are you okay with your favorite almost-convict roaming around with your celebrity clients and friends?”
“I’ll tell them to leave the jewelry at home and not to shake her hand,” he replied somewhere in the background.
Margaret came back to me. “So, you heard … you are in, my dear. Come casual.”
Casual for a girl like me means a quick trip to the hair dresser and dipping into the tub for a shave and a peel. I was running a little late when I picked up Mundy from his home and we rode up 405. Terrence Peters was my lawyer, but at the same time I was involved in Children Unreserved, a foundation managed by Margaret to support children’s interests in a globally non-caring world. Terrence and Margaret Peters had been married for almost forty years and used their power-couple status in the Hollywood community to bring together film stars and common business people. Where other foundation managers sold seats at the table, Margaret preferred to convince her sponsors and donors in a much simpler way. She offered them a great, uncomplicated evening and then let them decide for themselves when and how much to give.
“Calendar, so good to see you,” Terrence said warmly and held my hands when we stepped onto the patio overlooking LA and part of the ocean. He apparently had had some drinks already. “Hope you guys enjoy yourself tonight.” Always the good lawyer, he didn’t mention my troubles in front of Margaret, although Margaret had to know by now—she was the premier tidbit exchange of South Bay.
“Just ignore me, little ones, and discuss the state of the investigation. I am merely thin air,” she said, winked at me, and flew away to take care of guests, catering, and the rest of the evening. I noticed one actor couple sitting on a sofa, talking quietly with three people I had never seen. Bob Beaufort, the country singer past his prime, was tinkling away on the piano in the living room, very casual, very relaxed.
Terrence asked me quietly about the case. I gave him a quick summary of my interviews with the movie industry suspects, omitting the unofficial parts, of course.
“I don’t know where this is leading,” Terrence said gruffly. “The police seem to have their hands in their laps, not doing anything. They should try to find that Rip Delaware guy and not wait for you to do it.”
Margaret walked by and chirped in, though it was impossible that she could have heard us. “Little one, those movie people all sound like suspects to me. But check out Swan Collins, too. I wouldn’t put it past her to remove her own precious star diamonds in order to cash in on the insurance.”
Terrence looked left and right, worried that libelous remarks were being overheard by his lawyer friends.
I asked, “But why would she? She is Swan Collins, after all, and the diamonds are a piece of her heritage.”
“Did she appear distraught or close to tears when you talked to her?” Maggie asked. “From what I heard, she is in serious trouble over her property deals. Some extra millions may come in handy.”
“Can you confirm her troubles?” I asked her, just to be sure.
“Of course, my bridge partner Rene Richardson has heard it from the developer himself. They have their anchors side by side in Marina Del Rey.” Maggie delivered that fact casually. “And a good friend of mine who sleeps with a Veep from Palsey Investment Partners happens to know the net value of Swan’s portfolio, and I tell you it isn’t what you expect it to be for a movie star of her past successes. ‘More holes than a bucket after a round of buckshot.’ That’s what she supposedly said!”
“Any other dirt that might help me get out of my spot?” I asked hopefully, but Maggie shook her head.
“I am not gossiping, just the facts, my little one.” As always, Maggie was without irony. “Oh, good evening, Commissioner Webber, so good to see you!” She had turned to the next arrivals.
As casually as possible, I walked away, gave Terrence a little wave, and after a few yards made a casual search for Mundy and was able to muster Commissioner Webber. He was a large man with black oily hair, a growing belly under a very expensive suit, and an attractive lady at his side—his third wife or so, Fowler’s background briefing had revealed. He radiated power and was not for nothing the Commissioner of Police of the second largest city in the US. Unfortunately he was a clever one as well. Like many policemen, he had the gift of feeling watched, and after shaking Maggie’s hand and passing the small talk over to his wife, he quickly looked up and scanned the room for the pair of eyes that turned out to be mine. Our eyes met for a second until I luckily managed to see Mundy approaching and gave a short wave out of pure desperation. The only thing I didn’t need tonight was the Commissioner’s statement to the police after I had broken into his apartment. The last thing I needed was for him to tell them that he had felt that a blonde California surfer girl had watched him at a party.
Mundy came over, at his side a good-looking guy who reminded me of that serious reporter from the Doonesbury cartoon, sporting a carefully groomed short red beard and a prominent nose.
“Let me guess,” I noted before either of them were able to speak, “a reporter?”
Mundy rolled his eyes, and the red-bearded guy laughed. “How could you have guessed? Johnson Rollins, InMovie editor and business insider at your service.”
Mundy said, “I thought you would be interested in his views on your little group of suspects.”
I gave Mundy a sharp look. “You didn’t tell him…?”
Johnson held up his hands and said easily, “Don’t worry, he told me that you are currently investigating the missing Collins’ diamonds because you are an expert on modern jewelry. That’s all; Mundy told me nothing more.”
“As long as I don’t appear on page one of your sheet tomorrow,” I said dryly.
Mundy broke in, “Don’t worry, Jay is okay. He knows probably as much as your friend Maggie about Hollywood and LA-LA Land society structures.”
“No strings attached,” Johnson said. “Just ask your questions, and I will answer. I owe Mundy anyway.” Another story to be told.
Mundy fetched us a new set of drinks, and we found ourselves an unoccupied room to talk.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Webber Job
Mundy and I arrived back at his apartment around midnight. We made a little noise, clapping the doors loudly and banging the trunk close to retrieve our coats. Hopefully we were noticed, all in the name of a good alibi.
In Mundy’s apartment, we discussed last-minute tactics, and after a few minutes of apartment darkness, I left through the fire door in the back alley and made my way into the good night. I picked up my false name rental from around the block and drove to downtown LA, where Commissioner Webber had his high-rise apartment. He was known to be a party animal, never left a reception or bash before three o’clock. The delivery door of the high rise had a comparatively easy lock to pick, and the alarm system deactivation code was 33459. It was good to have all that information delivered by professional sources, and I briefly wondered if Fowler was having bad dreams about this—handing out his highly positioned clients’ information to a crook.
I parked two blocks away on a parking meter in a line of other cars, checked that parking actually was for free at this hour, and walked briskly toward the address. There were only a few people on the streets, some tourists ready to be mugged, some late night outs, and here and there a police cruiser making its rounds.
I reached the hig
h rise and walked around the corner, past some shops that occupied the ground floor of the complex, until I saw the side entrance door. I pulled my baseball cap deeper over my face, stepped forward, and got out my automatic lock picker. The tumbler did its job in about twenty seconds, not extraordinarily long but longer than opening the door with a key. I simply hoped that the night receptionist hadn’t noticed.
I walked over to the delivery elevator, pressed the button for the thirty-third floor, and rode up. According to Fowler Wynn, there was no special security on the thirty-fourth floor, where Webber had his apartment, just an additional set of cameras that were installed right opposite the elevators and the two staircases that led to the floor. I glanced at my watch; it was close to 12:30 A.M., two more minutes to go.
The delivery elevator gave no sound as it stopped and the door opened. I got out and climbed up the stairs before glancing at my watch again. At 12:30 sharp, my prepaid burn-phone began to vibrate.
“Somerset, good evening,” I said cheerfully.
“Good evening, madam, this is John from Downtown Express Pizza. You requested a call before we went into your building.”
“Yes, thank you. Please proceed to the receptionist and simply ask for me. Mary Somerset, Apartment 1104.”
I hung up, switched off the phone, and waited one more minute. Now the young man with a stack of about ten pizza boxes was annoying the receptionist and Mrs. Mary Somerset in Apartment 1104—and, hopefully, the receptionist was too busy to watch the monitors.
I opened the door to the thirty-fourth floor and stepped over to number 3401. The door was quickly opened in another well-done twenty seconds, and the beeping alarm system was dutifully silenced with Fowler’s code.
As usual, I didn’t switch on any light but spent the first five minutes just listening to the sounds of the apartment. The elevators outside were emitting a low buzz and occasional clicks. Water was flushing somewhere, and some muffled street noises seeped up from below.
I switched on the Maglite and gave every room a quick check. If I approached a closed door, I put my ear close to it, listened hard, gave the doorknob a slow turn without opening it, and then turned the knob back. That was a good measure in case of a well-trained dog behind the door. If he was trained to deal with burglars, he would start yelping and barking the minute I came close to the door. If he was trained to kill silently, as some drug dealers’ and pushers’ dogs were, he would wait behind the door with a wagging tail and drooling fangs until I had opened the door. Just turning the knob confused the pup, and it should make him do something; the usual reaction would be to sniff loudly or scratch the door to test it.
But Commissioner Webber had purchased neither an anti-burglar nor a drug mafia killer dog recently and, to my satisfaction, I was the only living person in the apartment apart from the goldfish.
The commissioner and his third wife occupied about three-thousand square feet; the apartment took half of the whole thirty-fourth floor. Maybe I should get into public service, too?
I concentrated on the task ahead and made a quick overall inventory—plenty of rooms, loads of bedrooms and baths, a giant kitchen, reading room, work-out. I tapped here and there on walls and the floor, trying to get a feel for the layout and possible hidden rooms or locations of a safe. I ran carefully over the contents of his personal working desk without finding any incriminating content.
I got lucky after ten minutes of searching and found a pretty basic hiding mechanism—a fake wooden panel in the back of his dressing closet. Sliding it upward unlocked the panel-door and revealed a small room. It contained a wide and deep metal filing cabinet, about three feet high, like you saw in galleries or paper shops for large sheets of prints or paper. It had eight low drawers covering the whole width with the capacity of maybe 30 by 60-inch sheets of papers or prints.
It was a piece of cake to open the standard lock that blocked the drawers, but it took an expert to do it without any scratch marks on the shiny metal of the locks. The commissioner was a cop, after all, and you never knew what they might remember from their days of actual doing police work.
I glanced at my running stopwatch, fifteen minutes into the game. Not too bad, but cutting it close already. With a breath for good luck, I opened the upper drawer of the cabinet. Bingo! It was filled with about thirty pieces of modern art prints, each in a fitting cover. My layman expert opinion was confirmed by the large letter signature in the corner of each print. The names I recognized were Warhol, Rauschenberg, and Basquiat. Some others I didn’t, but judging from style and quality, they fitted into a similar group. The drawer below showed some more prints, mixed with drawings, this time clearly a little earlier in the twentieth century, before WWII.
I got out my digital camera, snapped a series of photos for Fowler, and pushed the drawers back in. While I made my planned way out of the apartment, I made a quick summary of tonight’s action for myself: for a regular commissioner in LA, he clearly didn’t have the means to afford limited edition prints and original drawings of twentieth-century artists, at least not in that quantity. I could dig one print as an extravaganza or inheritance, but not over a hundred. So it had to come from somewhere.
The bad thing was that nothing indicated whatsoever that Commissioner Webber fancied jewels as much as modern art prints. No safe to store them, and his wife’s jewelry box held only standard retail stuff in the four- and five-figure range. And, another giveaway: no books about jewelry on the shelves.
Thirty minutes in and out—already a high-risk operation, as my usual target time was twenty minutes. But everything had gone well. My inner tension was escaping slowly as I unlocked my car with a slightly shaking hand, sat down, started up, and left the area. After a few miles, I left the freeway and drove to an all-night diner near Inglewood.
Fowler was sitting in a booth. There was only one other customer on the other side of the room. The cook was banging pans in his kitchen, and the night waitress was doing crosswords beside the counter.
I slid in opposite Fowler, and we looked at each other for a while. The waitress came over, and I ordered an herbal tea.
After a few more moments without words between us, a quick smile crossed Fowler’s mouth. He cleared his throat, sipped on his coffee. “Well, the dynamics between us probably prevent any other beginning of a conversation, don’t you think?”
I shrugged, poured some sugar into my iced tea. Then I opened my small leather backpack and removed the memory card from my digital camera.
“Is the commissioner a known collector of rare twentieth-century prints?” I asked hopefully.
“He isn’t, at least not up to this point,” Fowler said.
“Webber definitely has some interesting stuff around. It will be up to you to make anything out of it.”
“Found our jewels?”
Shook my head. “No signs of our jewels nor any others. No indication that he is involved in our thefts.”
“Too bad. So, it is just the prints?”
“I found both, drawings and rare prints—and in such a quantity and quality that makes hobby or legal activity very, very improbable. I snapped photos of about ten of them, five known artists, five unknown artists. Well, unknown to me, anyway.”
Fowler looked at me with a neutral stare. “Okay, if the pictures link with what we have in our databases, then we know we need to look a little bit more closely.”
“Any possibility of an official search of his premises and other possessions to look a little more closely at the jewelry angle?”
“We will see,” Fowler said noncommittally.
“And you should look into his finances more closely. He lives in an apartment that costs three million minimum.”
“Webber is old money; his family made its former fortune by shipping concentrated orange juice around the world, so he has the means to live and act rich and serve the public.”
“And maybe purchase collector’s prints?”
“That is a possibility, but not a ver
y likely one, as he executes his hobbies quite publicly.”
“Webber is still at the party?”
“Yup. My guy gave me a report about ten minutes ago. You were in no danger whatsoever.”
“Good luck. For both of us,” I said and got up. “He’ll get my drink,” I said to the waitress in passing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Fall-out
I slept soundly on Mundy’s couch, woke up with him already gone to work, had a leisurely breakfast at the Casino Cafe, did some workout in Rockwell’s Fit studio, honed my skills in opening locks with my left hand, and jogged from Redondo up to Del Rey and back without getting mugged on the way.
Mundy was pacing the rectangle of the swimming pool when I arrived home. He held some printouts in his fist.
“You’ve been framed!” he said, waving the stack of paper. “Your sneaky British faker did it again. He used you for the Webber job!”
“What Webber job?” I said, feeling nervous. Mundy had been my alibi, and we both were on thin ice. If Fowler framed me for a break-in, things would look good on paper but probably not good in front of a jury or a judge.
“Read this, just came over the ticker; it must have flooded the internet by now, and tomorrow’s papers will be full of it. I bet CNN and all the major networks are already covering it.”
“Okay, what is this? Webber arrested, FBI, possession of stolen art, long planned operation,” I quickly scanned the news print out, the printer’s ink staining my sweaty fingers. I wasn’t getting it. “Translation please!”
Mundy sat me down on the deck chair before the pool and sat opposite of me.
“I went to your almost friend Lieutenant Lucas Graves and had a journalistic quick peek at the suspect lists that Fowler supposedly provided you,” Mundy explained.
