Evening Bags and Executions

by Dorothy Howell

  I took a peek at my watch. Nearly nine.

  I fought off total panic.

  How the heck was I supposed to find the kidnapper and deliver the ransom? Was I expected to just stand around and wait?

  I’m not good at waiting.

  I took the long, wide staircase down to Hollywood Boulevard.

  The street was alive with bumper-to-bumper traffic and droves of people. The marquee of Disney’s old school El Capitan Theater blazed. The bronze stars of the Walk of Fame shimmered with reflected light.

  To my right was the Dolby Theater, and a couple of blocks farther the huge Hotel Roosevelt sign shone atop the building. In between was Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and the footprints of stars cast in cement. To my left toward Highland Avenue was Ripley’s Believe It or Not! Museum with a dinosaur’s head coming out of the roof, and nearby was the Hollywood Museum.

  The crowd was thick, and the H&H complex was immense. How the heck was the kidnapper going to find me—even though I was wearing red? I wasn’t sure whomever it was knew to look for a female. I hadn’t been instructed where to stand. We could wander around this place for hours and keep missing each other.

  How was I supposed to find the kidnapper when all I had to go on was a first name? Janice? Who was that? Was somebody going to walk by carrying a sign that read JANICE like limo drivers did at the airport?

  I couldn’t stand still waiting for something to happen. I headed toward Highland Avenue, maneuvering my way through the crowd and—froze.

  On the corner stood Superman and Marilyn. Nearby were Iron Man, Darth Vader, and Batman. Harry Potter, Elvis, and Cher were positioned a little farther up the block. Dozens of tourist crowded around the celebrity and superhero look-alikes, smiling, joking, and having their pictures taken.

  Oh my God—I’d seen these guys a zillion times. Why hadn’t I thought about them before? That’s how I’d find the kidnapper. All I had to do was look for a famous Janice.

  I moved closer to the building near the stairs that led down to the underground Metrolink station where I could keep watch. The costumed impersonators were really working it, waving tourists over, mugging for their cameras, flirting, posing for whatever tip was offered.

  Another Batman rounded the corner, and I wondered if there would be trouble. The look-alikes—or, rather, the actors in the costumes—were territorial. They staked out the best spots and didn’t want another costumed character nearby distracting the tourists and taking their tips. Arguments and fights had broken out.

  Great. That’s all I needed. A throwdown that brought the police.

  But this new Batman didn’t seem to want trouble. He moved slowly down the street, taking in the traffic, the lights, the people, looking for a good spot on the sidewalk where he could draw a crowd of his own.

  I glanced at my watch. A couple of minutes past nine. Janice should appear any minute now.

  My heart rate picked up, and the twenty grand in the duffel bag seemed to get heavier.

  My thoughts raced.

  Maybe I should have insisted Jack come with me—even though he hadn’t volunteered. Maybe I should have offered to pay him. Or have sex with him.

  Jeez, why did I keep thinking about having sex with Jack? I couldn’t have sex with Jack. Not when I still thought so much about Ty. Jack was right. We shouldn’t get involved—not until this thing with Ty was settled.

  Still, I hadn’t had sex in a while. Would it be wrong—totally completely wrong—if we did? Jeez, didn’t anybody have empty, meaningless sex anymore? Couldn’t we just—

  Oh my God, there was Janis Joplin.

  A woman with a mop of long, thick, curly hair was headed my way from Highland Avenue. She had on a huge, wide-brimmed floppy hat and tiny round glasses with rose-colored lenses, a long tie-dyed top with bell sleeves, and purple elephant-leg pants; she’d styled the costume with a zillion necklaces and bracelets.

  She looked totally retro except for the Coach bag I recognized from three years ago, a yikes-what’s-this-thing tote covered in fuchsia flower blossoms, and a black duffel bag, which I hoped held Sheridan Adams’s Beatles bobbleheads.

  Thoughts pinged around in my head, things Jack had told me—kidnappers were unstable, make sure to see the bobbleheads before handing over the money, and . . . something else. He’d told me something else that had seemed important at the time. What was it?

  I stepped away from the building and faced Janis Joplin so she’d be sure to see me. Even though I couldn’t make out her features clearly, I sensed that she’d spotted me. She shifted direction slightly and walked straight toward me.

  Jeez, I wish I could remember that last thing Jack told me to watch out for.

  Janis walked closer. My heart pounded.

  She drew nearer. My gaze moved to her duffel bag. Inside was my job, the future of L.A. Affairs, Sheridan Adams’s Beatles charity auction.

  My palms started to sweat. I drew a breath, forcing myself to calm down.

  Janis stopped. Our gazes held for about two seconds, then she whipped around and headed back toward Highland Avenue.

  Oh, no! What happened? She wasn’t supposed to leave. We were supposed to—

  My duffel ripped off of my arm. I held on to the strap, whirled around, and came face-to-face with Batman.

  A partner. That’s what Jack said I should watch out for. No way was I letting Janis Joplin’s partner take the money while she got away with the bobbleheads.

  I held on for all I was worth and dug in my heels, locked in a tug of war with Batman.

  “Let go, Haley,” he said.

  That voice. I knew that voice.

  Oh my God, it was Jack—in the Batman costume.

  “Stay here,” he told me.

  The duffel slipped through my fingers. Jack took off down the street after Janis, his cape flying behind him.

  I just stood there, too stunned to move.

  What the heck had happened? Why had Janis Joplin left? What was Jack doing here? And was that bulge in his tights a gun?

  I dodged through the crowd, stopped at Highland Avenue, and peeked around the corner. A block away near the entrance to the parking garage, Batman and Janis Joplin faced each other and were peering into the open duffel bags held between them.

  Batman reached inside Janis’s bag and pulled out the cardboard display box containing the Beatles bobbleheads. He checked it over, then put it back inside. He handed his duffel to Janis and took hers. She locked her arms around it and disappeared into the parking garage.

  Rage burst inside me. Janis Joplin was getting away. She’d taken what didn’t belong to her, ransomed it, created havoc in my life, Muriel’s life, Sheridan’s life, all of which nearly resulted in me losing my job and L.A. Affairs going out of business. No way was I going to just stand there and let her get away.

  Jack headed in my direction, the duffel tucked under his arm. I took off down the sidewalk and cut around him, headed for the parking garage. He caught my arm and pulled me up short.

  “Let go,” I said, yanking away from him.

  Jack held on. “We have to get out of here.”

  “No!”

  He headed for the corner, pulling me along with him, and leaned down.

  “She knew you, Haley. That’s why she took off,” he told me. “Who was she?”

  “What?” I asked, stumbling along beside him.

  “She recognized you. She must have. There was no other reason for her to bolt,” he said.

  My head spun. I thought back, trying to remember what little I’d seen of her face.

  “I—I have no idea who she was,” I said.

  Jack kept his hand locked around my arm as we turned the corner onto Hollywood Boulevard. A few people on the sidewalk glanced our way. If any of them had noticed the struggle we’d had over the duffel a few minutes ago, they didn’t say anything.

  “You need to get out of here,” Jack said. “Where are you parked?”

  He was looking around, taking in the c
rowd, watching for trouble—which I hadn’t even thought about.

  Jeez, my private detective skills need a lot of work.

  Worried now that Janis Joplin might still have a partner nearby who would try to take the bobbleheads back, I hurried alongside Jack up the stairs to the central courtyard, then down the escalators to the parking garage.

  “Do you think she has an accomplice here somewhere?” I asked.

  The Caped Crusader and I were getting a lot of looks now.

  “Doubtful,” Jack said.

  Wish I could have worn a Catwoman costume.

  “This wasn’t a professional operation,” he said.

  At my car, I popped the trunk and Jack put the duffel inside, then opened my door and hustled me in behind the wheel. I started the engine and buzzed the window down.

  “Watch behind you to make sure you’re not followed. Go straight to Sheridan’s,” Jack said. “Call her. Tell her you’re on the way. Don’t get out of the car until you recognize someone standing in the doorway.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  I put the car in reverse and backed up a little, then hit the brakes.

  “How did you get into that costume and down here so quick?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I was in the Batcave when you called.”

  I grinned and backed out of the spot, then drove away.

  I exited the parking garage and crept along Highland Avenue as it curved around to the entrance to the 101. Once I’d merged into traffic, I put in my Bluetooth and called Muriel.

  “Got them,” I said, when she answered.

  All I heard was a little mewling sound, which I took to mean she was both happy and relieved.

  “I’m on my way to Sheridan’s house,” I said. “Meet me there. Tell the security guard on duty to let me through the gate. Stand in the open doorway. I’m not getting out of the car until I make sure everything is safe.”

  “I understand,” she said. “Wow, Haley, you really are good at this.”

  I saw no need to tell her that I might have blown the whole thing if it hadn’t been for Jack.

  “See you soon,” I said, and we hung up.

  Keeping Jack’s other advice in mind, I checked my rearview mirror in case Janis Joplin and a possible partner might be somehow following me. But since it was dark and all I could see were headlights, it was hard to tell if a vehicle was tailing me. I changed lanes frequently, sped up and slowed down—well, mostly I sped up—just in case.

  I tried to focus on the traffic but the whole ransom exchange kept playing over and over in my head.

  I thought I’d handled everything pretty well. I’d followed the kidnapper’s instructions, gotten everything I needed, made it to the appointed spot, and I’d even figured out who to make the ransom exchange with.

  But if Jack hadn’t been there when the whole thing went bad, I don’t know what I’d have done.

  I glanced in my side mirror and changed lanes again, pulling in front of a pickup truck.

  Of course, there had been no way I could possibly know that the kidnapper would take off without making the exchange. Jack had claimed that Janis Joplin recognized me. He’d thought that if she knew me, I’d know her. But I had no clue who she was.

  Or maybe I did.

  I hung in the lane behind the pickup, thinking back. In my mind I played the whole encounter over slowly. Seeing Janis Joplin as she turned the corner. Realizing she was the kidnapper. The relief I’d felt that I’d found her.

  A couple of miles passed. I checked my mirrors and glanced over my shoulder, and eased into the next lane behind a green janitorial service van.

  Mentally I pictured the kidnapper. I’d been so overwhelmed at realizing just who Janis was that all I’d noticed was her costume. The floppy hat, the mass of long curly hair, and the round glasses had all disguised her features. Yet something about her—other than that ratty old Coach tote—had seemed familiar.

  Miles passed. I transitioned south onto the 405. I ran dozens of people and places through my head, hoping something would match up—like that facial recognition software casinos use when they target cheaters.

  Had I seen her at Holt’s? At a restaurant? In my classes at the College of the Canyons? Was she connected to L.A. Affairs? Maybe she’d been at—

  A face exploded in my head, like the mushroom cloud from a nuclear bomb.

  Oh my God—could I be right? Was I remembering her correctly?

  I ran everything through my head again—her height, weight, build, age, chin, jaw, nose, forehead—and knew I wasn’t mistaken.

  But how could it be? It didn’t make sense.

  Why—and how—would Belinda Giles steal the Beatles bobbleheads?

  I was still fired up when I pulled into the parking lot of my favorite Starbucks in Santa Clarita. Jack had called to make sure I’d gotten the bobbleheads to Sheridan okay, and we’d agreed to meet here.

  When I’d pulled into Sheridan’s driveway, the guard for the private security firm I’d hired had waved me through the gate. Muriel had been watching from a window and came out of the house. She hadn’t asked for details on the exchange or if I’d gleaned any clue about who had stolen the bobbleheads in the first place. She seemed relieved and glad the ordeal was over—and that she’d get to keep her job.

  She wanted me to come inside, but after hearing that she would have to wake Sheridan with the news of the bobbleheads’ return I decided I could definitely pass on seeing Sheridan in her PJs or whatever she slept in. I figured I could talk to her about the whole ransom thing at the party tomorrow.

  I spotted Jack’s black Land Rover parked nearby, then saw him seated at an umbrella table looking more like Bruce Wayne—if Bruce Wayne had been a Navy S.E.A.L.—than Batman, in jeans and a black T-shirt.

  I walked over. Just seeing Jack made my blood boil—but not for the usual reasons.

  My outrage over recognizing Belinda and knowing what she’d done must have shown on my face. Jack sprang out of the chair.

  “Forget it,” he told me.

  His know-it-all tone irked me—even though he did, in fact, know it all when it came to security work.

  But no way was I going to forget what I knew.

  “I know who it was,” I told him.

  “I figured you’d remember,” he said.

  “I can’t stand by and do nothing.” I might have said that kind of loud.

  “Yes, you can.”

  “I won’t let her get away with it.” I’m pretty sure I shouted that.

  “Yes, you will.”

  Jack sounded way calm—which annoyed me further. “It’s not right.” I definitely yelled that.

  The couple seated at a nearby table turned to look at us. Jack touched my shoulder.

  “Sit down,” he said quietly.

  I didn’t want to sit down. I didn’t want to hear anything Jack had to say. I wanted to call the police and rat out Belinda big-time. I wanted to see her arrested, tried, jailed, and made to pay for stealing those bobbleheads and putting Sheridan, Muriel, and me through this whole thing.

  “You want justice,” Jack said. “I understand that.”

  Okay, that made me feel better—but only enough that I sat down at the table. Plus, Jack had a mocha Frappuccino waiting for me.

  He took the chair next to me and sipped the coffee he’d bought for himself. He didn’t say anything. I gulped down some of my Frappie; the chocolate, caffeine, and sugar calmed me, which was weird but there it was.

  “It was Belinda Giles,” I said. “I met her at Lacy Cakes. She’s Lacy Hobbs’s cousin.”

  “The owner who was murdered,” Jack said.

  I could see that his mind was racing, trying to make a connection.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “I don’t know how Belinda could have stolen the bobbleheads from Sheridan’s estate, and I don’t see how it could have anything to do with Lacy’s murder.”

  “I don’t put much stock in coincidence,” Jack said.

/>   I didn’t either, but so far I couldn’t come up with anything that linked the two crimes—although I wished it could be Darren, somehow, since I didn’t especially like him.

  Jack sipped his coffee and I worked on my Frappie for a minute or two, then he said, “You can’t go near Belinda.”

  My anger spiked and I was ready to blast Jack with what I thought of his advice, but he cut me off.

  “Your suspicion about her connection to the bakery owner’s murder will show. So will the fact that you recognized her at the ransom exchange,” he said.

  “Good,” I said. “She should be worried that I intend to go to the cops.”

  “Belinda believes you didn’t recognize her,” Jack said. “If she thought that disguise of hers had failed, she’d have never stopped for me and made the exchange.”

  I just looked at him, unsure of where he was going with this.

  “If Belinda knew you’d recognized her, and if she’s connected to Lacy Hobbs’s murder,” Jack said, “she might try to kill you to keep you quiet.”

  Oh. I hadn’t thought about that.

  I calmed down, thinking over what he’d said.

  It made perfect sense—but didn’t make me feel any better about Belinda.

  “I can’t stand it that she’s going to get away with this,” I said.

  “I know,” Jack said. “You want justice.”

  “Damn right I do,” I said.

  “You’re not in law enforcement, Haley,” he said. “And neither am I.”

  “But—”

  “Private investigation,” Jack said. “Private. That means doing what you’re hired to do, what your client wants you to do.”

  I shook my head. “No, I can’t pretend I don’t know what I know—and do nothing about it—just to make Sheridan Adams happy.”

  “Sometimes there’s no justice in this kind of work. No good guys. No win,” Jack said. “You have to do what you do, know what you know, and let it go.”