Hector silently led the way to the entrance. He rang the doorbell and no more than five seconds passed before he took out a ring of keys and inserted one into the lock.
“What are you doing?” I asked, dismayed that he felt it in his right to open the door to someone else’s home.
“You wanted to see the girl’s room,” he explained.
“Yes, but we can’t just barge into a stranger’s house without their knowing.”
“This is Mr. Valenti’s house,” he corrected. “His daughter lives here.” The nuance of his answer was telling. I’d watched enough British television series to know that the servants often spoke the language of their bosses.
I trailed him into the foyer. It was an open-concept room with a bank of windows that looked out over the lower half of one of the many canyons in the neighborhood. The furniture looked expensive and uncomfortable. To the left were the kitchen and public areas. To the right looked to be the bedrooms.
“You want to see her room?” he asked and led me that way before waiting for a reply.
“Are you sure this is okay to be snooping around?” I called after him, but he ignored me.
I followed Hector down a hallway lined with artwork but no personal photographs. The other wall was all glass and gave the illusion that you were outside. Several yards away was a stationary lap pool. Somewhere in the white froth was a swimmer beating futilely against a jet-propelled current.
Hector stood outside a door to one of the rooms and gestured inside. Like the guide who brings you to the altar of the holy temple, he was willing to point it out but he was going to let me desecrate it all by myself. I stood outside the room and fought off the feelings of creepiness that came with a middle-aged man skulking around a young teen’s bedroom.
A mish-mash of pastel purples and greens and frilly pillows, it was smaller than I would have imagined the daughter of the daughter of a billionaire would have. I gingerly stepped into the room and did a quick scan. By the time my eyes got back to the doorway, Hector had disappeared. I wanted to join him.
I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. A gnawing regret at having taken the assignment grew into a deeper regret that I was fooling with someone’s life. Maybe this was all just a troubled girl going through a difficult stage, but it very well could have been something more serious, and I was playing games purely out of boredom. One hour into the job, I was already ready to quit.
A slippery figure in white slid by the door. Seconds later it backed up and paused in the entrance to study the strange man in the young girl’s bedroom.
“And you are?” it asked.
The figure was a towel-clad woman with the smoothest, unblemished, most perfectly-tanned legs. Her skin had the patina of brass. She was overly-toned, bordering on overly-muscular. Wednesdays must have been her calf workout days at the gym because the slightest shift on her feet accentuated yet another muscle in the lower half of her legs that I didn’t know existed. She crossed her arms over her chest and gazed at me with pale green eyes. A quizzically arched eyebrow left no line on her engineered forehead.
“I was hired to find a missing girl,” I answered.
That seemed to amuse her.
“Give me a minute, would you?” she smiled and disappeared down the hall.
While I waited I looked over the room and a shelf piled high with books caught my attention. I always believed the books someone displayed said a lot about them, either in whom they were as a person or in whom they wanted you to believe they were. Jeanette’s shelf had your typical smattering of classics with wrinkle-free spines — no one actually read Dostoyevsky but having him on your shelf at minimum proved you knew who he was. There were also an inordinate number of well-handled books with titles that contained some combination of the words “power,” “winning,” and “transformation.” I pulled a few down to inspect the covers. They all followed a familiar formula — an incredibly catchy title with a declarative statement that boldly predicted the simple path to wealth, success, love, or any number of the elusive targets we spend lifetimes chasing.
All the books contained forwards from other self-help authors — the industry was apparently very welcoming to newcomers. It was as if they all understood that a self-help customer is a lifelong customer and that there were enough dollars to feed many mouths. Nothing in their books was actually going to solve whatever problem the person had. But the desire to fix ourselves is an insatiable want and the only answer is more books. Marketers call this enviable position, “creating dependency.”
There was at least a thousand dollars’ worth of improvement books here, all clearly read more than once. Fourteen years old seemed much too young for someone to be overwhelmed with the inevitable existential crisis of adulthood. I felt a pang of sadness at the idea that this girl had somehow skipped the trite saga of a teenage girl and jumped head-first into grown-up malaise.
I thumbed through a few of the more worn, dog-eared copies. Entire passages were called out in yellow highlighter. Particular sections were belt-and-suspendered with ink underlines. I read a few of the sections and they were remarkable in how assured the writing was in describing nonsensical concepts. My eye caught a slip of paper protruding from the back. I flipped forward and removed a carefully-folded printout of what appeared to be an old newspaper story. I got no further than the date at the top — June 1961 — when I heard footsteps approaching. I quickly shoved the paper into my pocket and replaced the book on the shelf.
The woman reappeared in a tennis outfit that was more revealing than the towel. She had taken the time to partly blow-dry her hair, which was now parted with the precision of a laser level. A trace amount of makeup had been applied, as well as a delicate citrusy perfume. She must have read the study about how the smell of grapefruit made people think you were five years younger than your actual age.
“I’m Meredith Valenti,” she introduced herself with a hand extended, “the missing girl’s mother.” There was something snide in the way she said the second part.
“Chuck Restic.”
“Dad hates private investigators,” she announced and sat down on the edge of the twin bed. “Do you work for the firm?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’re a real private investigator?”
“Define ‘real’.”
“Have you ever made a dollar doing that kind of work?”
“No.” I got the look reserved for deviled eggs left out too long at the party. “Your father asked me to help locate her.”
“Of course he did. Dad always gets serious when money is involved,” she added mysteriously.
“Money doesn’t seem to be much of a concern,” I informed her. After all, I was being paid double the amount of money that was asked for by the girl I was trying to find.
“You don’t know Dad.”
Her lack of a pronoun when describing her father was curious. There was something impersonal about it, like she was describing an inanimate object and not the human who shared her blood.
“Has your daughter ever done this before?”
“Done what?”
“Go missing for a period of time.”
“Who said she was missing?” she asked.
“You did, when you introduced yourself.”
“I was parroting you.”
“So you know where she is?” I asked, suddenly confused.
“I didn’t say that.”
“How long has she been gone?” I tried again.
“I don’t know, almost a week.”
“When did you last speak to her?”
“I can’t remember the exact date. Sometime last weekend.”
“Has she tried to make any contact since then?”
“Not that I know of.”
Her answers were terse and tinged with bemusement, but she was the only one finding enjoyment out of it. I took a moment to study her more closely. She was approaching the half-century mark and fighting it every step of the way. I’d seen t
his in others — both men and women — who become obsessed with looking better with each passing year in some manic pursuit of a simple phrase: She looks good for her age.
Meredith had seemingly reached a point where fitness had taken over her life — a strict regimen of juicing and enemas and twelve hours of Pilates. Yet nothing is as inevitable as the onslaught of age. For every perfectly-toned leg there is a lack of that youthful fat that just can’t be replicated in the gym. The response is more toning, even less fat, more muscle, and ultimately two legs with knees resembling giant clam shells. I stared at one of those knees and the leg coquettishly rocking on it.
“Pardon me for being so forward, but you are acting very casual for someone whose teenage daughter has been missing for nearly a week.”
“You don’t know me,” she said icily, “or my family.”
“No, I don’t know you,” I admitted. “But I am trying to locate your daughter and finding out as much information as possible would help me. Has your daughter ever asked for money before?”
“What do you mean?”
“She sent your father an email asking for forty thousand dollars.”
“Forty thousand dollars?” This was new information to her. “Dad paid it?” she asked incredulously.
I told her he had. She got a lot of enjoyment out of that, and the frost that had descended on our conversation started to melt. She went back to bouncing her leg on her knee.
“What did you mean earlier when you said your father gets serious when money is involved? If you didn’t know about the 40K, what money were you referring to?”
“There’s a lot more money involved than some forty thousand dollars,” she said dreamily. She seemed to get lost in some other thought. I wanted to bring her back to the present.
“Does your daughter keep a diary?”
“Yes, she keeps it next to her favorite locket and dreamy publicity stills of her matinee idols.” She couldn’t resist. But as if remembering our recent truce, she wiped the smirk from her lips and took a more conciliatory tone. “You don’t have kids, do you?”
When I admitted as much she went on to explain how children didn’t keep diaries anymore when they could share all of their darkest, insignificant thoughts on the internet for everyone to read.
“Where does she keep her computer?”
“If it was here it’d be on her nightstand.”
It wasn’t.
“And her phone?”
“In her back pocket.”
I glanced at the floor by the nightstand. There was a power strip and two empty slots that I assumed were for her chargers. That indicated some element of planning.
“Do you have the names of her friends I could talk to?”
She answered with the names of her friends, not her daughter’s.
“Oh, and the Mexican boy,” she added. “Nelson something.”
“Is that her boyfriend?” I asked.
“She’s not her boyfriend,” she chuckled. She riffled through the desk drawer and pulled out a photo of Jeanette and a young, dark-skinned boy with foppish hair and chubby cheeks. At least in this photo Jeanette was smiling.
“Can I keep this?” I asked and got a nod for approval. “Is it possible to speak to your husband?”
“Ex-husband,” she corrected. “You can speak to him any time you want.”
“Anyone else in the house that might have some information that would be useful?”
“Are you asking if there is another man?”
“Actually, I was thinking of a housekeeper.”
The frost returned to the room. She bounced to her feet and made for the door. “I have an appointment. Please show yourself out when you are finished.”
I pawed around the room a bit more but gave up after not finding anything of much value. I went back down the hall towards the foyer. Hector wasn’t there. He was either in the bathroom or perhaps helping himself to whatever was in the fridge.
I heard the key rattle in the door behind me. I first assumed it was Hector. Then, I thought of Jeanette and the fortune of being here when she returned home. I eagerly awaited her and the hundred thousand dollar bounty. Neither stepped through the threshold.
It was a man in his thirties, casually dressed in jeans and a flowy shirt open to the chest in order to showcase ten to twenty straggling hairs. He wore an unkempt Van Dyke beard and John Lennon frames. He was equally comfortable in the Schwartzman residence as he was in my personal space.
“Welcome,” he breathed into my face, “it’s good to see you.”
“You too,” I said, leaning back for a more comfortable distance between us. His breath was slightly sour, like fermented black bread.
“Meredith has spoken a lot about you.”
“That’s nice of her,” although I didn’t know how since I had just met her. “All good things, I hope.”
“Yes, wonderful things.” He had the penetrating stare of a cannibal. I detected an accent but couldn’t place it. “We need to set aside some time for just you and me, yes?”
“If you think it’s worth it,” I replied only because I had no idea what he was talking about. He stared at me far longer than the three seconds allotted for strangers to lock eyes. I badly wanted to crawl out from under his gaze.
“There’s something here,” he said and pointed to his heart. “Something unique and…powerful. It just needs to be released.” I couldn’t tell if the power was in his heart or mine. I nodded along with him. “I apologize but I have another session,” he said with regret. The calls of a prior commitment broke his fixation on me. His body immediately relaxed and he thankfully took a step back. “But we need time to share.”
“I look forward to it,” I lied.
He looked very pleased. I anticipated the phase: “My work is done here.” Instead I got St. Francis of Assisi with both palms opened towards the heavens.
“With light and love,” he bade me goodbye.
“Sure thing,” I said and scrambled out of the house.
THE WEST SIDE
“I don’t know what all the commotion is about,” Jeff Schwartzman told me as we crossed the reception area in his office. “I spoke to her yesterday.”
“You did?”
“She only calls me when she has a fight with her mom.” He paused, suddenly realizing something. “She usually stays with me when they fight.”
“Do you know where she is now?”
“No, she didn’t say and I didn’t think to ask her.” I watched a growing sense of unease be washed away with a sweeping hand gesture. “She’s fine,” he told himself. “She’s done this before.”
“How many times?”
“Too many.”
I followed him into a modest office crammed with museum catalogues and art books. The décor was appropriately contemporary with a desk made of glass and chrome but nothing looked particularly expensive. Conspicuously absent was any form of window with a view to remind you that you were on the expensive section of Wilshire Boulevard. It was not the office you’d expect for the director of a major art foundation.
“Those two are always bickering,” he said, sitting behind his desk. He motioned for me to pull a chair over. As I sat down opposite him, I couldn’t help but notice the giant black and white photograph of a male nude looming over him. The model’s instrument, magnified multiple times over, was strategically placed off Jeff’s right shoulder. “My wife is not the easiest person to get along with.”
“How long have you been separated?”
“Probably a week after we got married,” he laughed. “Let’s just say that kind of money and lifestyle aren’t made for guys like you and me.” Apparently he missed the memo about my offshore bank accounts. “Look, I married into one of the wealthiest families in Los Angeles but I still drive a Honda,” he told me as proof of his humble desires, but it sounded like, if he had a choice, he’d be driving something much more luxurious. “You can take the kid out of Northridge but you can’t take Northridg
e out of the kid.”
The kid from the Valley was an appropriately succinct description. Jeff was an unremarkable man in several ways, from his appearance in an off-the-rack collared shirt to his pedestrian personality. I tried to rationalize this image of an ordinary man sitting opposite me and the one of the fitness-obsessed heiress I met earlier in the day. Theirs was a curious partnership despite the fact that it may have only existed for a flash. Somewhere in that flash, however, a little girl came into this world.
“You’re studying me like you’re trying to figure out if it’s true.”
“What’s true, Mr. Schwartzman?”
“All the things the old man said about me.” He tried to remain above it all but his insecurity was palpable. “Did he mention the incident in Santa Barbara?” I didn’t answer, hoping he would answer for me. “Of course he did. He never misses a chance to bring it up.”
“What’s your side of it?”
“Let me ask you, is it theft to steal from someone who stole from you first?”
“Maybe not,” I replied.
He rambled through a convoluted story about a crooked art dealer and unpaid wages and some minor impressionist watercolor he borrowed as collateral until he got the money owed him. After the fourth time he told me that he was never officially charged with any crime, I decided to put his mind at ease.
“Sounds reasonable to me,” I told him.
“Right? Tell that to the old man. You know on my promotion to director, he introduced me as a ‘former art thief’ who has come a long way. He’s a piece of work,” he laughed, suddenly more at ease with me, but more importantly with my standing as a member of the commoners. “It’s a Maplethorpe,” he told me.
“What is?” I asked.
“The giant naked man behind me,” he said thumbing at the photograph. “I apologize. It’s hard not to get distracted by it.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“I don’t know anything about art,” I told him.
“It’s junk,” he scoffed. Sensing my confusion on why it was hanging in his office if he had such a low opinion of it, he explained, “Although I am director of the foundation, the old man retains the final say on which pieces go where. This is his idea of a joke. Hilarious, isn’t it?” I gave him a look of shared commiseration. “When I courted the local archdiocese in the fight against the museum, he had an icon of Christ smeared in human feces installed in the conference room where we met. Try explaining that to a Cardinal.”
The Eternal Summer (Chuck Restic Private Investigator Series Book 2) Page 3
