A security guard was posted at the gate, and as we drove by a third time his suspicions were aroused. He pulled out his cell phone and moments later an LAPD squad car fell in behind us, blue lights blazing. I pulled over to the curb and shut off the engine. The cruiser stopped behind me and two officers stepped out. One kept back while the other put me through the “license and registration” routine. When he asked me bluntly why I appeared to be “casing” the neighborhood, I told him that we were interested in Frank Lloyd Wright houses. He explained that there had been some security problems with the home and the owner was wary, but if we’d care to look at the house through the gate, he and his partner would accompany us.
Though any notion of meeting Dick Sangfroid by walking up to his front door and knocking seemed remote, I could see no reason to refuse the cop’s offer. Perhaps something would occur to me. We drove back to the front gate of the mansion. The cops exchanged a few words with the security guard and drove off. The guard, a pleasant enough fellow, opened a door-within-a-gate and allowed us to walk a few paces onto the grounds for a better look.
Now that I was outside the car, the view was different, and it wasn’t the Fillmore House that arrested my attention, though I tried not to show it. Appearing above us about a quarter-mile away, clearly visible over a row of eucalyptus trees, were the two top stories of an apartment building. Small balconies jutted out from the individual units. Residents would have a bird’s-eye view of the entire Sangfroid compound. This must have bothered the security people, but they could do little about it.
After an appropriate amount of oohing and aahing at the house, not all of which was disingenuous, we got back in the car. I suggested we try to find the front of the building that we’d seen looming. This was not easy in the twisted, irrational roads of the Hollywood Hills. After ten minutes of U-turns, fruitless winding, and equally fruitless expletives, we hadn’t found it. I felt as though I was in one of those alienation dreams where everything you try is thwarted.
Eventually, one of our random turns—for we’d abandoned all attempts at a logical search—put us on the street that fronted the building. A large sign identified it as “The Vista du Lac Service Apartments.” A smaller sign said “Rentals—monthly or more.” Despite the foreign-sounding name, the building was pure California, from the stucco façade to the potted palms surrounding the swimming pool just visible off to the side.
There was a rental office on the site. A “service apartment,” I found out, is for people who need to stay in the area for too long a time to stay in a hotel, and too short a time to lease a regular apartment. It’s completely furnished, right on down to knick-knacks on the mantel, and it contains a fully functioning kitchen with dishes, flatware, pots, pans, and small appliances. Daily maid service relieves the resident of any domestic chores apart from cleaning up after meals.
I asked if there were any single units available on the top two floors with a view overlooking the city. There was one. It was currently rented but, as luck would have it, the occupant was due to move out the next day.
We took the elevator to the sixth and topmost floor where the agent admitted me to flat 6G. Within a moment, I knew it would do for my purposes. Across the smallish living room on the far wall was a sliding glass door leading to a small porch. It afforded the best view yet of the Fillmore House. From the balcony, I could keep the entire property under surveillance, including the entrance gate.
As we rode around the streets of the Silver Lake district, I’d been thinking about how to gain access to Dick Sangfroid. He was inaccessible at work, inaccessible at home, and most likely inaccessible at times in-between. I had no inkling of what his private life was like. Did he hang out in bars or clubs? Did he attend parties? Did he have people over?
I couldn’t stake him out at work. A car parked in that neighborhood for more than a few hours over the course of one or two days would attract attention, even without a blonde occupant. I considered trying to meet him when he went out for lunch, if he did. But then what? Ask him for a blood sample? Pull some hair and run? How about invite him to a hotel room and initiate intimacy until I got a sample? No thanks. My experience with Fatboy Beck had put me off that stratagem, and besides, when I was with Charles such thoughts were repugnant to the point of being unthinkable even while brainstorming.
As in all professions, when the going gets tough, the tough return to the basics. For private investigation, that means observation and patience, and the observation is best carried out surreptitiously. What better place for that than the very place that I stood having these thoughts? From here I could watch Sangfroid’s comings and goings, monitor his visitors, and spy on him when he went outside. If I could learn something about his habits, I might give myself a chance to devise a means of recovering a DNA sample.
“What is the rental fee?” I asked the agent, “and if I lease the unit, what is the soonest I can move in?”
“It’s $4,000 for one month, $10,000 for three months, $18,000 for six months. Beyond that, the rent is negotiated.”
Charles sucked air through his teeth.
“As to when you can take occupancy,” said the agent, ignoring Charles, “I could let you move in a week from today. We’ve got to clean the place, change the lock, and check inventory after Mr. Nishida moves out.”
“Hmm, if you don’t mind, I’d like to move in Monday if that’s humanly possible. I’ll take it for one month and pay $4,300 in advance. The extra $300 should take care of the weekend cleaning and the locksmith.”
The agent was about to open his mouth to object, for it would be extra work on his part.
“…and for being so helpful,” I continued, “please accept this.” I folded two C-notes into his hand.
He brightened visibly. “Yes, ma’am, I mean miss, uh…”
“Jamison. Dagny Taggart Jamison. Shall we go downstairs and sign a lease?”
Charles observed the transaction with a look of adorable incredulity. He wasn’t as used to seeing Ashley’s money being spent as I was.
When we returned to the car he slid over and nuzzled my neck, whispering, “Mmm, I want you to know I loved you even before I knew you were rich.”
I laughed and ran my hand through his hair. “You’ll be disappointed if you’re after my money. Maybe I need to fix you up with Ashley.”
“No way, José.”
On the way back to the Biltmore, I explained my plan for spying on Sangfroid. Charles couldn’t find any flaws in it. Then I explained my short-term plan. It was for us to drive to Ensenada, Mexico, for a weekend of R and R. He found nothing wrong with that, either.
CHAPTER 23
Ensenada is a small resort about 175 miles south of Los Angeles in Baja California, Mexico. Visitors may enjoy both the tourist side of Ensenada and its Mexican village side. The several excellent hotels on the oceanfront are convenient for sunning, surfing and sailing. More English is spoken there than in many parts of Los Angeles.
A winery founded in the seventeenth century dominates the interior of the town. Free tours are available and educational. They’re best taken early in the afternoon, for the winery offers generous samples of its wares, and their effects may be pleasantly napped away on the beach as the day begins to cool.
Charles and I spent a lovely, relaxed weekend with long walks on the sandy shore and strolls through the village. For thrills, we went parasailing, first time for each of us. Evenings, we sat arm in arm in the sand and watched the hazy sun sinking in the sea. Afterwards, we struck out for the cantinas for food, margaritas, and mariachi bands. It felt extra special to be with Charles, after having spent all those nights alone in the bars of the Disney World hotels in search of Harry. I cherished having someone care deeply for me, someone who let me care back in kind. The distress that had lingered inside me from the fearful events of the previous weeks receded in my memory.
The weekend ended all too soon. We drove back to L.A. early Monday morning. Reluctantly, we parted, I to take posse
ssion of my service flat, Charles to return to Santa Barbara and work. The challenge of finding a means of connecting with Sangfroid masked for the moment the deep loneliness I felt when Charles drove away.
I stopped at a grocery store for basic provisions on my way up to the Vista du Lac. The security guard was expecting me. He gave me the key to 6G and summoned a young man to help me carry my meager belongings.
The end of the day was cool and unusually clear for Los Angeles. A strong Pacific breeze had pushed the polluted air of the city into the luckless counties to the east. Left behind was a translucent atmosphere that blended with the glimmer of shimmering ocean just visible across the city to the southwest.
I padded the two wrought iron chairs that were on the balcony with throw pillows from the sofa. I sat in one chair and, using the other as a footrest, kicked back to watch the shadows grow, a glass of Mexico-bought wine on the floor by my fingertips. I had a fine view of Sangfroid’s house and grounds, though for surveillance I’d need to invest in some serious scopes. The eight-by-forty binoculars that I usually carried with me wouldn’t be up to this particular task.
Daylight Saving Time had ended a week ago Saturday, so it was getting dark early. Just after six, a car with two occupants was admitted through the main gate. In the twilight, even with my binoculars I could only just make out the figure of a man getting out of the passenger side and entering the house through a side door. The car returned to the gate, where it paused for a few moments by the guard shack. It then proceeded slowly down the hill and out of sight. All I could tell about the passenger before he disappeared was that he was a male of small stature. That was my first view of Dr. Richard Sangfroid—the Dick of Ashley’s Tom, Dick, and Harry—not exactly up close and personal, but a beginning.
I must have nodded off, for when I next looked down in the direction of Sangfroid’s house the streetlights had come on. A car with a driver in it was parked outside the gate and I wondered if Sangfroid was going out for the evening. Instead, about half an hour later, a woman came out of the house, passed through the door for personnel built into the gate, and got in the waiting vehicle, which drove away. Nothing happened for another two hours until, finally, the lights in the house in all but one room went dark.
Sangfroid’s car collected him at 8:00 a.m. In the morning light I could see his features more clearly. I ate a breakfast of fruit and cereal while perusing the morning Times, which apparently came free with the flat. I updated my files with additions that I’d gathered over the past week. When I’d finished that, I drove downtown for a shopping spree.
I supplemented my wardrobe to the point where I’d have clothes to wear while I washed dirty laundry in the stacked washer-dryer unit in the kitchen of the flat. But the real fun was had in a gigantic shop of optical devices.
I bought two video surveillance cameras, one with a wide-angle lens and the other with a telephoto lens. Each one was capable of digital photography and of displaying images on a TV screen. A high-powered telescope and medium-powered binoculars, along with tripods for all, topped off the sale. The young sales person, clearly a neo-geek of lens-bearing devices, was deliriously happy. He volunteered to interface the cameras to my TV set, warning me that adapters might be needed. I offered him fifty bucks if he’d do it over his lunch hour, to which he happily agreed. I gave him directions to the Vista du Lac.
By the afternoon my flat had been converted into a spy center. The wide-angle video camera took in the entire grounds of the Fillmore House, while the telephoto video camera focused on the main gate. The images showed on the large screen of the TV set and alternated every five seconds, so I could sit indoors in comfort and observe any goings-on.
I set the binoculars on a tripod aimed at the front of the house. They had a wide enough field to take in the area between the main gate and the front door, and were of a power halfway between that of the two cameras. The telescope afforded an extreme close-up look at objects and was capable of resolving the lettering on the cap of the security guard.
No sooner were all the lenses in place than I realized that they were, to understate the scene, conspicuous. They’d be readily visible from the front gate of the compound, as well I knew since it was from there that I’d first seen the apartment. I hastily pulled everything inside and closed the curtain. I went downstairs to the lobby and asked the duty supervisor if he’d object to a few plants on my porch. He probably thought “geraniums” when he consented with an indulgent smile. Later, when four six-foot tall Leyland cypress trees in 10-gallon redwood tubs rolled into the lobby, he may have had second thoughts, but apart from a “Lord, why me?” raising of his eyebrows he didn’t protest.
I’d moved from a Mission Impossible scene to one from Gilligan’s Island. My lenses were now well concealed among the greenery of the young cypresses. The trees also screened me from view, and I could peer through the binoculars or the telescope without fear of arousing suspicion. But mostly I sat and watched the TV screen.
The car returned Sangfroid from work at the same time as on the previous night. For a couple of hours afterward not much happened. A few residents passed by the property on an evening stroll, and occasionally a vehicle drove by. Around nine o’clock a car stopped by the gate and let out a woman. I nearly tripped in my rush to the telescope. In the dim light I managed to see that she had a trim figure in provocative clothing, and a pretty face somewhat hardened by her profession. There was little doubt that she was a girl on call.
Though I couldn’t be sure, I thought the waiting car was the same as the one I’d seen the previous night. I wondered if the girl was the same. About an hour and ten minutes later she emerged from the house, her appearance unchanged from earlier, though I imagined that she’d been in and out of costume. As her car pulled into the street, I focused the telescope on the license plate and recorded the four letters and three numbers. I wasn’t sure what I’d do with it, but such observational habits had been instilled in me by my brother John.
The next day began as the previous two, except I got my first close look at Sangfroid through the telescope. What I saw was consistent with Ashley’s sketchy description of Little. In the evening, though, instead of a car, driver and hooker, an ambulance came quietly to the property and was waved through at once as if expected. It stopped to let out two persons dressed in white, who walked toward a side door of the house and were quickly let in. The ambulance continued around to the rear where I couldn’t observe it. It reappeared nearly four hours later, well after midnight, and was let off the premises by the guards on the night shift.
The daytimes were tedious. Only the comings and goings of domestic workers varied the sameness. Little else happened in Sangfroid’s neighborhood. To break the monotony, I thought I might drive into the city and watch his office building to see if he went for lunch. I didn’t have a plan of any kind. I just needed to treat my cabin fever. Anyway, the closer I was to Sangfroid, the more chance I had of contact.
That day I saw neither hide nor hair of Dick Sangfroid. I did think that I had sighted the square-jawed man with a crew cut whom I’d seen in the hotel lobby in Orlando, and whom I thought I’d seen in Istanbul. When I tried to follow him, he turned a corner and vanished before I could get a closer look. I felt sure I’d projected the actual man seen in Orlando onto similar-looking men here and in Istanbul. I feared that the trauma I’d suffered in Ernest’s car was having some kind of weird effect on me, making itself felt through recurring false resemblances. My subconscious was too rational to make the dead Ernest appear. It wouldn’t even dredge up Harry, who was too concretely fixed in my mind. But a fleeting image of a man in a crew cut might be just the thing for my psyche to feed off.
That night a whore came again. The man had both a sexual appetite and a bank account. It’s a wonder that his journalist detractor didn’t find out he was hooked on ladies of the night. That would have made good copy. I suppose he didn’t have my, or I should say Ashley’s, resources.
I dress
ed in different clothes and wore a cap for my second lunchtime vigil, and eschewed makeup entirely. I looked a bit like a vagrant and it nearly worked in my favor on that Friday. A few minutes after one o’clock my patience was rewarded. Sangfroid came out of his building accompanied by a shifty-eyed man with a small asymmetry in his suit jacket that meant he was packing. Rather than going to lunch, the men stopped at a nearby barbershop. Sangfroid went in and must have been expected, as he was seated immediately, despite several waiting patrons. The bodyguard stationed himself outside the shop and began idly to pick his teeth.
I formed a desperate, if not ridiculous, plan, wherein I’d obtain my DNA sample in one fell swoop, a single stroke that would, mythologically speaking, cut the Gordian knot. Across the street, I found a convenient light pole to lean against that provided a place of semi-concealment. That let me observe the barbershop without drawing the attention of the bodyguard, whose focus had now shifted to his fingernails.
When the barber had finished and was shaking out the sheet that had covered Sangfroid, I quickly crossed the street and entered the shop.
“Hi,” I said brightly. “I need to earn a few dollars for a meal and I’d gladly sweep out your shop, if you’d help me.”
Before the surprised barber could accept or reject my offer, I grabbed a nearby broom and began sweeping up the hair around Sangfroid’s chair.
“Say, that’s not necessary,” said the barber, who’d gotten back his voice. “Here, I’ll give you a couple of bucks.”
Where Evil Lurks Page 19
