by Robert Crais
I said, “How many Reeds do you show in the county?”
“A little over two hundred.”
So much for calling the Reeds.
I finished the gelato, sipped the coffee, and decided Nora Gurwick probably wouldn’t return my call. People usually didn’t, so I phoned her again, and struck out again. I left a second message, and wondered if telepathy was a rare skill. Neff and Hensman probably used mental telepathy instead of a phone, and didn’t have to wait for callbacks. A definite advantage.
I was wondering if I should give up detecting to open a gelato shop when Joe Pike called.
He said, “Say location.”
No hello. No howzitgoin. All Pike all the time.
“The Palisades. I’m thinking about opening a gelato shop. Why?”
“Stay away from the Connor house. The man who entered planted something outside the garage when he left.”
“What kind of something?”
“A motion detector, most likely, so they’ll know if someone comes home. I’ll pick up some gear and head back to check.”
This was good news. They wouldn’t bug Tyson’s house if they had him.
“Where’d they go?”
“Downtown. They delivered something to a man outside an office building. I got the address. I wasn’t close enough to be sure, but it looked like a laptop.”
“Pictures?”
My phone chimed with incoming mail as he answered.
“Sending now. Can you copy?”
“Go.”
He recited an address for one of the newer office buildings near the financial district, then described the two men and told me what happened from the point they arrived at Devon’s house.
I said, “Think they were cops?”
“They match the descriptions you had. Both big, one bigger. Everything else is optics.”
Pike.
The pictures he sent were of the two men, the businessman they met, and their car. The clearest image was of the man who entered Devon’s home. The picture of his partner was hazy with glare and the focus was soft, but if Alec’s roommate or the Crenzas identified either man as Neff or Hensman, Cassett could distribute their pictures and have every cop in the city looking for them. The picture of the businessman also gave me something to work with.
The fourth picture showed the Chrysler sedan and the fifth was a close-up of the dealership card. Ezekian Motor Craft. A quick Internet search produced no results. Ezekian Motor Craft did not exist. This should have surprised me, but didn’t. Their attention to detail was impressive. The two men were thorough.
I was studying their pictures when my phone buzzed with an incoming text. The message was short, and even more exciting than the pictures.
James Tyson Connor had replied.
TYSON: What’s on their laptop?
I set the coffee on the bench by my leg and held the phone with both hands. Tyson had been off the grid, out of touch, and could vanish again just as easily. Demands, questions, and warnings might drive him away, so I typed a simple response.
ELVIS: I don’t know.
Seconds ticked past, and each passing second was a war with restraint. Tyson would text again, or he wouldn’t. I stared at my phone, and finally the phone buzzed.
TYSON: What kind of laptop is it?
I answered quickly, but still carefully. We were having a conversation.
ELVIS: I don’t know. I don’t know what kind of laptop they want or why they want it. All I know is they want a laptop.
TYSON: OK.
The time stretched again, and nothing arrived. A question could be threatening, but a statement might encourage a response. I didn’t want him to withdraw. I didn’t want to scare him away, or make him regret reaching out to me, but I needed to warn him. I sent the pictures of the two men without explanation. He responded almost at once.
TYSON: Is this them?
ELVIS: Yes.
I let the time drag. He had read my earlier text, and thought about what I wrote. He had probably found out as much as he could about Alec’s death, and Louise August, and the other things, but his information would be limited. He was trying to figure out what was happening, and what he could do about it, and had reached out for help.
ELVIS: Everything I told you is true. Show Amber. If you see them, run. Stay in open places with other people. Keep yourself safe.
TYSON: Who are they?
ELVIS: Don’t know.
TYSON: Whose laptop is it?
ELVIS: Don’t know.
TYSON: Know any real detectives?
Smart-ass, but his being a smart-ass was good. We were developing a relationship. He might pull back if I pushed too hard, but I wanted to keep him alive.
ELVIS: If you have their computer, it could tell us who these people are.
He didn’t respond. These kids had been selling the things they stole, so this particular laptop was almost certainly gone.
ELVIS: If you sold it or gave it away, I might be able to get it back.
Nothing.
ELVIS: If it’s gone, it’s gone. I get it. I can still help you.
More time passed. He was probably trying to remember what he had done with the laptops they had stolen. I wondered where he was and what he was doing and whether he was alone. He could be driving north on the 5 or boarding an airplane or watching TV. He could be hiding in an Airstream or on his way to Vegas or in Vegas. I wondered if he was frightened. I wondered if he was smart enough to be frightened.
My phone buzzed again.
TYSON: Tell my mom I’m okay.
ELVIS: Your job.
TYSON: Gotta go.
ELVIS: Tell her.
My hands felt clammy.
ELVIS: She needs to hear it from you. Tell her.
Nothing came back.
ELVIS: Are you safe?
ELVIS: Are you safe?
His next text was angry.
TYSON: YES
I thought hard about what to say, and chose my words carefully.
ELVIS: I’m here if you need me, son.
I sat on the bench with the phone in my hands for another ten minutes, but Tyson was gone. I tossed the coffee and gelato cup in a trash bin, and used the bathroom in the ice cream shop. Devon would be relieved, and thankful, and had every right to know her son was alive, but I did not tell her. Tyson could have texted his mother, but he reached out to me. I wasn’t sure what this meant, but we could build on it if he reached out again.
When I left the ice cream shop I walked past a realty office, and noticed their sign. The realtor was a local outfit specializing in Palisades properties. Pictures of houses in their window were labeled with little signs. FORECLOSURE. BANKRUPTCY. DIVORCE FORCES SALE.
I broke out my phone. Maybe I didn’t need Nora. Maybe someone else could help me find Jazzi and Amber.
A quick property search of Nora Gurwick’s address showed the title was held by Richard L. and Nora A. Gurwick. Hundreds of Reeds lived in the county, but only three Gurwicks. Richard L. owned a patio furniture showroom in Santa Monica. I didn’t call. I plugged the address into my phone, and followed the coast to Santa Monica.
32
GURWICK PATIO LIFESTYLE OCCUPIED an entire block on a side street south of Broadway. Arrangements of outdoor furniture and full-sized patio umbrellas filled an enormous showroom stretching from one corner to the next. Outdoor kitchens more elaborate than the kitchens most people had in their homes had been built between the umbrellas so browsing customers could imagine themselves entertaining family and friends. I’d seen Cadillac dealers with smaller showrooms.
I walked up to the nearest salesman.
“Hi. Is Dick Gurwick available?”
“Sure. Can I tell him who’s calling?”
I gave him a card.
“It’s about Nora.”
The salesman glanced
at the card, arched his eyebrows, and walked away. Divorce was serious business.
A few minutes later the salesman reappeared with another man, pointed me out, and Dick Gurwick came over.
Gurwick was tall, thin, and a regular at the local tanning salon. His hair was unnaturally dark, and pulled into a tiny man-bun. It looked silly on a man his age. He didn’t offer his hand.
“Dick Gurwick. You another process server?”
“I don’t work for Nora, and I’m not involved in your divorce. I’m trying to find Amber and Jazzi.”
Gurwick scowled, his face folding up like a stack of plates.
“They aren’t my kids. You know that, right?”
“I understand. I tried to reach Nora, but she’s away. Banff. Or Aspen. I called her cell, but—”
Gurwick interrupted.
“Fuckin’ bitch, with the traveling. That woman spends money like a monkey shits soup.”
I made a noncommittal shrug.
“Can you help me find Amber or Jazzi?”
He scowled even deeper and turned away.
“I dunno. Maybe Jasmine. C’mon in back.”
I followed him along a hall past shelves stacked with product brochures to a cluttered, windowless office. The office was spare, cheaply appointed, and didn’t look like the office of someone who made a great deal of money, but this might’ve been why he was successful. His office was a place to do work.
Gurwick took a seat behind the desk, put on a pair of reading glasses, and swiveled to a battered metal file cabinet. He opened and closed drawers with something specific in mind, but had no idea where to find it.
He glanced over the top of his glasses.
“What kind of trouble is she in?”
“Her sister, Amber. I was told Amber used to stay with Jazzi when things at home got rough.”
He grunted, and opened and closed more drawers.
“That’s true. Couldn’t blame her, a nutcase like Nora for a mother. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
I nodded, letting him rant.
“The worst three years of my life, only three years, and you wouldn’t believe how much money the bitch is trying to squeeze out of me.”
He opened the next drawer, fingered through files, and fell silent. He adjusted the glasses, read for a moment, then swiveled back to his desk and wrote on a pad.
“I don’t know if this is still good. Been a couple of years.”
He tore off the slip, but didn’t give it to me. His dark face was scowling, but the scowl seemed softer.
“Nora wanted a house, so I bought a damn house, not her, me, and the next thing I know I’m in this toxic maelstrom, the three of them, every day, all the bullshit. I felt bad for those kids. Living with those three was hell, but I felt bad.”
He paused, and the scowl deepened.
“I tried to fix it. That’s a mistake we make, us guys, thinking we can fix this dysfunctional bullshit. Amber was a mess. Sad, but a mess. Jasmine, she was older. Maybe tougher, and smart. Smart enough to know living with her mother was toxic.”
He called her Jasmine, not Jazzi.
“Are you and Jasmine close?”
He waved the slip.
“Nah. I helped her find a place. Told her, I’ll pay the first six months. You don’t have to pay me back, but after that you’re on your own.”
I nodded, watching the slip.
“Generous.”
“It was like throwing a life preserver. Someone’s drowning, how can you not?”
He held the slip closer, and let me take it.
“Jasmine’s a flight attendant now. I don’t know if she still lives here. Flies all over the world on charter jets.”
A Woodland Hills address was written on the slip.
“Thanks, Mr. Gurwick. Do you have a phone number for Jasmine, too?”
He leaned back and shrugged.
“I don’t have anything to do with them. They aren’t my kids.”
Gurwick was behind his desk, staring at nothing, when I left.
I hurried to my car, and drove hard for the Valley. The Sepulveda Pass was a blur. I hit the Ventura, raced across Encino and Tarzana, and followed the map to a small, modern apartment building three blocks north of the freeway.
I parked by a fire hydrant, eased out of my car, and saw Tyson’s Volvo parked three cars ahead. I moved closer to check. The plates matched. The interior was a trash bin. Tyson.
I studied the building, crossed the street, and took a closer look.
Mailboxes and a call box were set into the wall beneath a covered entry by a wrought-iron gate. Six mailboxes for six units. Unit five was Reed. The buttons by the call box were numbered. I pressed the button for unit five. When no one answered I pressed again. A young female voice answered. Amber.
“Hello?”
“UPS. Package for Jasmine Reed.”
“You can leave it, thanks.”
A package for Jasmine, Jasmine would come. The voice was Amber.
“On the sidewalk?”
“Yeah. That’s fine.”
“I need a signature. It’s a pretty big box. It’s from Neiman Marcus.”
Amber hesitated.
“Okay. Hang on.”
I trotted across the street and hid in my car.
Tyson Connor opened the gate. He stepped out onto the sidewalk, expecting to find the UPS driver. He checked around the gate for the package, maybe thinking the driver had left it, then checked the street in both directions, looking for the truck.
Tyson appeared calm, relaxed, and unharmed. His manner suggested neither he nor Amber were being held at gunpoint by killers in Jasmine’s apartment. Tyson stood on the curb for almost two minutes, waiting for a UPS truck that did not exist. He finally got tired of waiting, went inside, and closed the gate.
I sat in my car, enjoying the moment.
Hello, Tyson. I found you.
I called Devon Connor, and told her what I had wanted to tell her since the night her son vanished.
“He’s safe. Tyson is safe. I found him.”
33
DEVON SOBBED ONCE, the gasp of a heart returning to life, and then she drew a breath.
“Put him on the phone. I want to talk to him.”
“I haven’t approached him. I wanted to let you know he’s okay.”
“He’d better enjoy it while it lasts. When I get that boy home I’m going to kill him.”
I watched the street for the black sedan. Maybe I beat the two men to Jasmine, but they wouldn’t be far behind. They could show up at any moment, and might have already arrived. They might even be watching me. I tried to look tough.
“We can’t take him home, Devon. The men who searched your house went back. They’re still trying to find him.”
She was quiet for several heartbeats. Devon had thought it would end when we found him. She probably believed their lives could go on. I got out of my car and leaned against the door. Better to watch the street. Tyson was inside the building one hundred feet away. I wondered what he was thinking.
Devon said, “I understand. Where is he?”
“Woodland Hills. They’re with Amber’s sister.”
“He’s with that girl?”
“I haven’t seen her, but Amber lives with her sister, so Amber would be here. The sister, I don’t know. She travels.”
“All right. I’ll leave right away. Where are you?”
“Not yet. I’m going to move them.”
“Move them where? Why are you moving them?”
“The men. They’re coming.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“I’ll take him to a safe house. Someplace not connected to Jasmine or Amber or you, where they can’t find us.”
“I want to see him.”
“You’ll see him at the safe house. Joe’s going to call. He’ll tell you where. Did you finish printing the documents?”
“Yes. And the research you wanted. It’s a lot.”
“Bring it.”
I gave her the downtown address, and explained what I wanted.
“It’s an office building. Find out about the developers and the leasing agency. Check for a tenant list. Print what you find.”
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Pack your things and be ready to roll. The safe house might be spare, so bag up towels, sheets, cleaning stuff, things like that. You’ll find garbage bags under the sink and next to the washer.”
“Got it. I know what to bring.”
I forced myself to slow down, and tried not to miss anything.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t warn him. Don’t call or text. We don’t want him to know he’s been found.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
I called Pike next, and told him about Tyson and Amber.
“Have you reached Devon’s house?”
“Close.”
“Come here instead. We need to move them.”
A friend of Joe’s in the real estate business had helped us with safe houses before.
“It’s short notice, but you think she can help?”
“A safe house is always short notice. I’ll call.”
“Give Devon the address. I’ll stand by here and watch for our friends.”
I gave him Jasmine’s address, and hurried across the street.
Anyone entering her building through the gate or the parking garage would be obvious, but I couldn’t see much past the front wall, and didn’t know whether someone could gain access from the rear. I went to the wrought-iron gate, but the view was limited. Lady palms, yuccas, and bright orange ginger lilies stood tall in decorative planting beds along the length of the building, hiding the ground-floor apartments and the rear of the property. A quick spin around the block would answer my questions, but leaving was out of the question. If Neff and Hensman arrived, I wanted to say hello.
