Through my open sliding glass door, a mishmash of trees and plants and everything in-between swayed and swished on the hillside that rose up just outside my balcony. Beyond the trees, mostly hidden from sight, were Echo Park’s bigger homes. Beyond them was Elysian Park, and still further was Dodger Stadium.
I was trying to make sense of the facts of the case, and nothing much was making sense. I had a dead twin, a missing girl, a white van, an unknown driver, a bum, a grocery store clerk, a distraught mother, and little else.
Actually there was something else. I went online and found a number in the Yahoo Yellow Pages. I dialed it and while I waited, I scratched my sleeping cat between her ears. She mewed and stretched and then sort of curled under herself in a position that didn’t look entirely comfortable, but one she seemed fine with. The line picked up.
“Keys Agency.”
“Rick Keys please.”
“You got him.”
“Help, I think my wife is cheating on me!”
“I’m sorry to hear that, what makes you—”
“You were following me the other day, dickhead,” I said, breaking in. “I want to know why.”
Rick was silent, chewing on this. “Is this King?”
“You think?”
“Just doing my job, King. No hard feelings.”
“Who hired you?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“I could threaten to kick your ass,” I said.
“You’re too old to kick my ass.”
“True,” I said, but I still thought I could take him. Keys was smaller than I, and he wore a mustache. I could kick anyone’s ass who wore a mustache. “Then what was the nature of the surveillance?”
I could almost hear him working through it on the other end of the line. I had, after all, tagged him. The gig was up.
“To follow you,” he said. “And give a detailed report of your activity.”
“And did you?”
“Emailed it this morning,” he said. “And about an hour ago I was called off your case.”
“Called off?”
“The assignment is over.”
“You must have filed a hell of a report.”
“Or that I inadvertently gave my client what they were looking for.”
“And you won’t tell me who this person is.”
“Not even if you beat me with your cane. Goodbye, King.”
He hung up, and I absently drummed my finger on my unsteady drawing desk, which promptly started wobbling. Someday I would get a new desk. Someday. But new desks cost money, and I’d become a miser in my dotage.
Wobbling or not, the cat slept soundly, although her ears moved independently of each other, no doubt honing in on police sirens, bird chirps and sounds unheard by human ears.
So who had hired Keys to follow me? I didn’t know, but I took it as a sign that I was getting close to the truth, and if I had to, I’d beat the shit out of Keys to get his information.
Better go buy a cane.
Chapter Forty-five
“Flip what’s-his-name’s murder and Miranda’s disappearance could still be a coincidence,” said Clarke.
“That’s no way to speak of the dead.”
“Coming from someone who’s supposed to be dead.”
We were in my apartment. I was sitting at my desk drinking a beer and absently flipping through Miranda’s case file. Clarke was making his rounds around my apartment again; meaning, he was examining everything, touching everything and generally acting a bit creepy. He did this sometimes, and I wasn’t sure why. I knew that Clarke had been a big fan of mine, but he usually kept his fan-like tendencies in check. Except on these rare occasions when he seemed incapable of sitting still, when he seemed possessed by a need to peruse my home, my belongings, my everything. I was certain—and this was a slightly disturbing thought—that he would have probably gone through my drawers if I were not around. Not that he would take anything, just that he seemed incapable of controlling himself, of reigning himself in.
At the moment, he was standing in front of my entertainment center, looking at the assorted pictures of my daughter and caressing the frames carefully. I wondered if he was even aware of his actions.
“Do the police have any leads on his murder?” Clarke asked.
“None yet.”
“Or none that they’re telling you.”
“Or that,” I said.
“So he gets murdered and four days later she goes missing. We still don’t even know if they were dating, let alone seeing each other. Might be good to know.”
I agreed.
Now Clarke was looking at my shot glass chess set carefully. Picking up each piece, turning the glasses over in his fingers, and putting them back exactly where he had found them. Disturbing as it was, I was used to this strange behavior, and just chalked it up as another bizarre oddity in the life and times of Aaron King and his attorney sidekick, Clarke.
Miranda’s case file was now quite thick and filled mostly with my own hand-written notes, all stamped, of course, with the date they were filed and placed in chronological order. A private detective’s notes can potentially be subpoenaed and used in a court of law, and so I did everything by the book, just in case I was ever called in to testify, which I sometimes was. I generally made for a good witness, in part because of my meticulous notes.
And because you are a ham.
Now as I flipped through the file, skimming past notes and witness statements and tidbits of evidence collected no matter how small or trivial, I came across a tiny piece of paper that I had taped to a bigger piece of paper so that it wouldn’t get lost in the shuffle. It was the receipt I had found in Miranda’s jeans. I squinted at it now. A pub called Half Pint. It was in Hollywood, and I knew the place. The receipt was dated two days before Flip’s murder and, consequently, six days before Miranda’s disappearance.
Presently, Clarke was scanning the books on my bookshelf—the same books he had scanned a few weeks earlier, the last time he was here. He pulled one out, leafed through it, shoved it back in place. Now he was examining the DVD covers to Miranda’s movies. The movies were days late, but I didn’t care. I would add the fines to my final bill.
As I watched Clarke flip through the movies, an idea occurred to me, and as it did a familiar sensation rippled through me. It was my Spidey-sense, so to speak. It told me that I was in the presence of a clue, or perhaps something big. Either that, or I had eaten some bad shrimp for lunch.
“Clarke, you’ve seen all of Miranda’s movies, right?”
“Of course,” he said. He had already moved on to examining my dented brass world globe. “I’m an entertainment attorney, remember? I represent Miranda and her family, and I get free shit all the time, especially movies and CDs, sometimes even before they come out.”
“Fine,” I said. “What were the themes of the first two movies?”
“Themes?”
“You know, the basic through-line?”
He tilted his head, thinking, then moved away from the globe and re-read the back of the movies. “A bank heist and a serial killer.”
“Look deeper,” I said.
He did, then snapped his head up.
“She was kidnapped in both,” he said.
I nodded and stood. I ran my hand through my hair, my mind racing, and paced the small area in font of my computer desk. There was something here. Something important.
“So what are you getting at, Aaron?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I said.
“You think someone kidnapped her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Life imitating art?”
“Maybe. There’s something here. I can feel it.”
“You’re grasping at straws.”
“At least I’m grasping at something.”
“Millions of people have seen her movies, Aaron. That’s a lot of potential suspects.”
“So let’s narrow it,” I said. “What do we k
now about Miranda?”
“And that’s a rather broad ques—”
I cut him off. “We know that the men in her life tend to act oddly, irrationally.”
Clarke nodded, following me.
“She tends to attract stalkers,” he said.
“And those who appear to have a hard time letting her go,” I said.
“Like her ex-boyfriend,” said Clarke.
“Exactly.”
“So you’re saying some weirdo watched these two movies, developed an obsession with her, and decided to act out the movies and kidnap her?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“That’s a hell of a reach, my friend.”
I ignored him. “What if Miranda found herself in another situation where someone she knew or dated is having a hard time letting go,” said Clarke.
“By keeping her captive, like in the movies?”
“Maybe it’s a sick fantasy.”
“I’ll bite, but unless it’s someone she knows, that’s a lot of potential suspects out there.”
“Then let’s work with who she knows.”
“Hey, you’re the detective, Aaron. I’m just a humble entertainment attorney.” He finally sat on the leather sofa, which he examined as well, running his hands over it and basically molesting the thing. “We know all about her past boyfriends. One’s dead, and one’s in New York. So who’s left?”
I had stepped over to the DVD cases and was flipping through them, thinking hard. “Is there anything else that connects her with these two movies?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Did she work with the same actors or director?”
Clarke shook his head.
“No, I repped her for both deals. Different directors and actors.” He frowned and stopped examining my couch. “But she did sign a two-movie deal with Alpha-Beta Productions.”
“So she worked with the same producers on both movies?”
“Exactly.”
“But not on her third or fourth movie?”
Clarke nodded. “Right. She’d left Alpha-Beta by then and was working with a new production company.”
That familiar tingle was back, that wonderful crackle that whipped wildly through my body like an electric current. Now I was about 90% certain it wasn’t the shrimp I had eaten at lunch.
“So maybe someone from her old production studio didn’t want her to leave?” said Clarke.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Another obsession?”
“Only one way to know.”
Chapter Forty-six
Half Pint was a small place in Hollywood. It was also gloomy and consisted mostly of a lot of tall stools and one long scarred oak counter. A massive screen TV hung suspended from the ceiling. Presently showing on it was a taped Joe Cocker concert. Lord, I love that man.
I sat on a tall stool at the long bar. The bartender was a young guy with a lot of hair and even more tattoos. He wore his jeans low on his hips. There was something shiny sticking out of his chin. A spike, I think. I ordered a Heineken and showed him the picture of Miranda. As he poured my drink, he studied the picture closely, squinting.
“Beautiful girl,” he said.
“She ever drink here?”
He frowned, which for some reason caused the spike in his chin to turn up a little. “Looks a little familiar.”
“She was here two weeks ago,” I said.
“Why do you care?”
I told him why I cared, that she was missing and quite possibly dead, and showed him my PI license. He squinted at my picture. Frowned some more. The spike in his chin quivered.
“What day was she here again?” he asked.
I told him the date on the receipt. He went over to a dirty calendar hanging on a wall near a door behind the bar. He pealed back a page and scanned the dates with his finger. As he did so, he unconsciously pushed his lower teeth out against his bottom lip. The movement projected the spike forward, making it look like a mini warhead ready to launch from his face.
He came back and stood in front of me. More frowning. More quivering. I found the spike highly distracting.
“Yeah,” he said. “I worked that night. Mind if I see the picture again?”
I showed him it again and he studied it some more and began nodding. The spike nodded, too. Damn that spike.
“Yeah, I remember her. Hard to forget that face, come to think of it.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Seriously. She had everyone here going.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Another bartender, the bus boys, some of the local chaps.”
“Did she do anything to get you boys going?”
“Didn’t have to. Just sitting here was enough.”
“She that pretty?” I asked.
“Look for yourself.”
I did, again, for the millionth time.
“She’s a real looker,” I said.
“That’s an understatement.”
“So what did she do when she was here?”
“She ordered a glass of wine, paid for it with cash, and then a guy comes in and sits next to her. We all sort of groaned, you know. The lucky son of a bitch.”
Ah, the plot thickens.
“Could you describe the guy?”
“Sure, we all checked him out. You know, the old ‘what’s he got that we don’t?’ sort of thing.”
“So what did he have that you didn’t?”
“Muscles. Thick neck.”
I showed the bartender another picture. The bartender took one look at it and nodded. “Yup, that’s him.”
It was Flip Barowski, of course.
“Can you tell me what they did together?” I asked.
“Talked—and lots of it. The guy seemed upset, or something. Not necessarily at her, you see. He was talking—” he searched for the right word, “—excitedly.”
“Like perhaps he was trying to get her to forgive an egregious error.”
The bartender grinned and the missile in his lip turned up. T-minus and counting....
“Sure, something like that,” he said and grinned again.
“Did they kiss, hold hands, any public displays of affection?”
He was nodding. “Yeah, I noticed his hand in her lap, but that was it. And then they left together and I haven’t seen them since.”
And he wouldn’t, either.
Chapter Forty-seven
A true multi-tasker, I went from the pub straight to my next appointment.
I was early for the appointment, but I didn’t care. I’m a rebel like that. Besides, I was giddy with excitement. I hadn’t been to the Paramount lot in nearly forty years. I doubted the old crew was still there, and if anyone was, they sure as hell wouldn’t know who I was, not now. Besides, I had just been a kid back then, determined and full of ambition. Paramount had given me my first movie break, and so, no matter what had happened after, they would always have a special place in my heart.
I pulled up to the pearly gates. Or, in this case, the massive wrought-iron gates right off Melrose Avenue. The security guard was packing heat. Movies are serious business.
“Name?” he said.
Elvis Presley.
“Aaron King,” I said.
He scanned his list, found my name, checked it off with a pen that had been tucked behind his ear. He gave me a parking permit that I placed between my dash and windshield. A moment later, the red-striped arm barrier rose. Access granted.
I drove slowly down a center road, passing between buildings and offices and sound stages. An entire street straight out of the Bronx appeared to my left, a beautiful replication of downtown living. Pedestrians were strolling up and down the thing as if it were the real deal. Maybe they were replications, as well. Movie magic.
My appointment was with Alpha-Beta Productions, the same company that had produced Miranda’s first two movies. The same movies which just so happened to feature her being kidnapped.
I eventually found Alpha-Beta’s building in the back corner of the lot. It was a massive, ivy-covered brick structure that didn’t look entirely structurally sound. It was also a building I was certain I had visited many years before, and under very different circumstances, of course.
I made movies here. My own first movies.
I turned off the car and stepped outside. There are few places on earth like a major Hollywood studio; truly worlds unto their own. I breathed in the surprisingly fresh air, air only marginally tainted with combustion and smog. This was Hollywood air. Magic air. Movies were created here, real movie magic, magic I had once been a part of. Those movies, no matter how campy, had put a lot of smiles on a lot of faces—as they would continue to do so—and, really, what more could you ask?
I stood there, next to my car, turning slowly, taking in what I could, knowing there was much more hidden from view, secret chambers and rooms and stages where the magic further happened.
Maybe I’ll make a movie again.
As Aaron King.
Lord, help me.
I stopped scanning and I think my jaw dropped a little. Actually, I was certain my jaw had dropped. There, just around the corner of Alpha-Beta’s brick building, was a fleet of white vans. White cargo vans. Five of them to be exact, all no doubt used to transport props, supplies and people to various sets and stages.
Milton the bum had seen a white cargo van, driven by a man with pockmarks. There’s a million white cargo vans in L.A, of course. Hell, there’s probably a hundred or so white cargo vans here on this lot.
I think this was a clue.
Chapter Forty-eight
Heart thumping steadily in my old chest, I stepped into the Alpha-Beta offices and was greeted by a pretty young thing sitting behind a kidney-shaped desk. By greeted, I mean stared at blankly. The pretty young thing was wearing ultra-hip rectangular glasses that made her blank stare look even more blank. She asked if she could help me. I told her she could. She waited. I waited. She then asked how she could help me. I told her how, that I had an appointment to see Gregory Ladd, owner of the company. She asked for my name and I gave it to her. She tried to contain her enthusiasm. One of her techniques for containing her enthusiasm was to push her narrow glasses up the bridge of her nose and stare at me blankly some more.
What Happens in Vegas Page 38
