Good. A name.
“I’m guessing Mr. Barsotti will want to know about this,” I said. “When do you think he’ll be available?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “It could be a while.”
“No worries. I can wait.” I looked around in vain for a place to sit down.
“We don’t get a lot of visitors.” Her voice was clipped.
“I can’t imagine why,” I said, testing for signs of humor.
No response, except that immovable smile.
I moved to the corner. Just stood there, waiting. She eyed me for a minute or two, nibbling on a hot-pink finger-talon, then went back to clacking away on the computer.
I turned my back to her and stepped close to some old framed photographs of what looked like prize-winning hogs on the wall, as if I were admiring their girth and blue ribbons. Actually, I was adopting the time-honored but effective secret-agent trick of using the reflection off the glass to spy on her. She glanced at my turned back, picked up her phone and had a short, whispered conversation punctuated by a couple of more quick peeks in my direction.
Fortunately, I was also half-facing the window into the parking lot. Within moments, a man exited the back of the building and hustled toward the new Mercedes, shrugging a sport coat over his dark lavender shirt and matching tie as he trotted. He looked to be in his mid-40s. His longish hair was uniformly dark, except for suspiciously perfect little flags of silver at the temples. Prominent nose. Fairly fit body, though his somewhat loose jowls hinted at a recent weight loss. I was too far away to see, but I was betting on manicured fingernails. All in all he wasn’t bad-looking, in that “I’m determined to look younger than I am” way.
It had to be Barsotti, in a rush to get out of there. I wondered why he was so anxious to leave.
My gut twanged. A man in a hurry is a man with a secret. Follow him.
I turned to Low-Cut. “Sorry. Just remembered something I should take care of. I’ll have to come back another time.”
“Okay,” she chirped, without looking up from her work.
I decided to double-check I had the right guy, just in case. “By the way, how does Mr. Barsotti like his Mercedes?”
“Oh, he just got it, and he loves it.” She wasn’t too bright. I suspected Barsotti hired her for what was below her neck, not above it.
I popped out of the door just as Barsotti was smoothly reversing out of his parking place. Engine purring, the sleek machine glided toward the exit.
I sprinted across the lot and jumped into my jalopy. I reached the main road just as he was accelerating, maybe a quarter-mile ahead. I goosed my hard-working engine, willing it to catch up. I felt like a mutt chasing a greyhound. Soon Barsotti reached the freeway entrance.
He turned onto the ramp heading south on the 14 toward Los Angeles. Thank goodness. I didn’t want to restart things with Julie by canceling our dinner.
For once, heavy traffic was my friend. If both the 14 and the 5 hadn’t been jammed with stop-and-go traffic, his wheels would have left mine in the dust. As it was, we surged and slowed our parallel ways back into town.
Just north of where the 5 and the 170 meet, the lanes inexplicably cleared, and I almost lost him. I floored my Toyota, pushing the tachometer to redline as I merged onto the 170. Every nut, bolt, and belt in the car rattled and howled in protest, but I managed to just keep him in sight as he suddenly zipped off the freeway at Roscoe. I felt a niggle of recognition. I’d been in this part of North Hollywood before, but I couldn’t say why. Then Barsotti again turned, this time onto Coldwater Canyon Boulevard.
I was confused. Coldwater Canyon serves as a back way into Beverly Hills, that famous playground of the rich, where shiny new luxury sports coupes feel most at home. But if that was his destination, he should have taken the later Coldwater exit, made a left at the bottom of the ramp, and climbed over the hill to the high-rent side of town. We were a far cry from there.
As I turned onto Coldwater myself, I realized why this area seemed so familiar. I was a stone’s throw away from Wat Thai, the ornate Theravada Buddhist temple located, incongruously, right off the freeway. Two turns and you think you’re in Bangkok.
A pair of looming demons guarded the gates of this classic Thai temple, with its red roof and ornamental eaves outside, and a plump, gilded Buddha watching over the chanting monks within. I’d love to say I went there to join their meditation practice. In fact, it was the lure of mango and sticky rice, purchased from temple food stalls using funny plastic temple money, that drew me. That and the Thai Iced Tea, a divine beverage if ever there was one.
Barsotti had a different elixir in mind. I almost ran up his tailpipe when he braked suddenly and turned into a strip mall. I took a deep breath to slow my pulse, and sent a prayer of gratitude to the chubby Buddha next door. That would have been one pricey fender bender. Barsotti hurried into a Starbucks-or Fourbucks, as Bill likes to call it-phone glued to his ear. He emerged moments later with two 20-ounce Ventis nestled in a cardboard box.
Unless his car drank coffee, he was on his way to meet someone.
I sincerely hoped my gut wasn’t leading me on a crazy chase for nothing.
Traffic again formed a thick clot, and I had no trouble keeping the sports car in sight as he turned right, toward the jumble of apartment complexes and houses that sprawl for miles out there, forming separate branches of the seemingly infinite grid known collectively as “The Valley.” I found this part of town monotonous, flat, and downright depressing, but to each his own. I gave myself a mental attaboy for choosing to drive the Toyota today. A saffron Shelby Mustang would have made this part of the pursuit problematic. Happily, older Toyotas were a dime a dozen.
Coldwater quickly became Sheldon, condos became houses again, and I dropped back another two cars. His destination turned out to be a small but beautifully appointed cluster of stables and paddocks surrounding a riding ring, a jewel of a place in the East Valley. Several riders mounted on thoroughbreds trotted around the ring. A discreet sign revealed this to be the East Valley Equine Center. I knew about the enormous equestrian center in Griffith Park, but this was obviously the well-kept-secret alternative for wealthy horse-owners craving privacy. I parked across the street and watched as Barsotti maneuvered into a tight space between a Beemer and a Lexus. He carried both coffees to the riding ring, set them down, and leaned against the fence to watch the riders.
I now knew where we were, but I still hadn’t a clue what either of us was doing there.
I left my car across the street, retrieving only my binoculars-they were getting quite a workout today. I found a secure vantage point and peered at the ring, trying to guess which rider, or horse for that matter, Barsotti was visiting. I swept my field glasses past an older man with a patrician nose and a young, fresh-faced teenage girl posting up and down in spotless jodhpurs, her braces glinting as she grinned.
Then my binoculars filled with the smooth, glowing face of a beautiful young woman in her 20s. Blond curls spilled out from under her black helmet. With mental apologies to my Tibetan teachers, I lowered the glasses slightly. Yup, the rest of her equipment was equally to Barsotti’s taste, and I’m not talking about stirrups. She cantered past him, thighs gripping the sleek, chocolate-brown flanks of her horse. Barsotti’s head followed her around the ring as if magnetically connected.
As Julie would say: All righty, then.
A freckled kid on a two-wheeler screeched to a halt near me.
“Whatcha doing?” he asked.
I wasn’t going to lie. First of all, way back when, as a novice monk, I had vowed not to. Second of all, children get enough of that every day from the people they know; they don’t need strangers running cons on them, too.
“I’m watching a man watching a woman ride a horse.”
“Cool,” he said, and pedaled off. Would that all human communication were so simple.
I decided to give the binoculars a rest before I drew less agreeable attention. I let them da
ngle and took a slow stroll around the perimeter of the equestrian center, keeping watch on Barsotti out of the corner of my eye. As I completed one full lap around the place, staying well out of Barsotti’s line of vision, the blonde dismounted. She passed off her reins to a handler. He walked the horse toward the stables. She sashayed over to the fence and gave Barsotti a quick kiss. The giant rock on her left hand flashed and bounced light like a laser. Trophy wife, I thought. Explains the weight loss. Barsotti passed her a coffee and they shared a short conversation. As she left the riding ring, he escorted her over to, wonder of wonders, another brand-spanking-new Mercedes, this one a gleaming silver SUV. Same new plates. Same dealer. I took note of the name. One, or maybe both, of them went on a shopping spree recently, purchasing two new sets of wheels. I was betting on Barsotti, myself.
She got in her car and drove off. He got in his car and followed her. I got in my car and followed him following her. This is the exciting reality of detective work. A lot of waiting. A lot of watching. A lot of following.
They wound up parking several miles south, in an upscale condominium complex. I immediately deduced that the place had just opened-it had the freshly painted, newly planted exterior of a recently constructed building.
I heard Bill’s voice: “Right, detective. And that huge banner hanging from the roof proclaiming ‘Grand Opening, Now Leasing!’ has nothing to do with your conclusion.”
This is why my head will never get too swelled.
The two lovebirds, hand in hand, disappeared into one of the condos. I readjusted my thinking. Trophy mistress, maybe? They would be occupied for a while. I couldn’t think of anything more I could learn from the lovers, not pertaining to my case, anyway.
Assuming any of this pertained to my case.
I pulled out my iPhone, fumbled around until I opened the little pad-icon, and typed in the dealer name, as well as the unit number and address of the complex. After a few false starts, I also located Bill in my cell phone’s address book.
“Hey, partner,” he answered.
“Oh, hooray. I’m still ‘partner,’” I said.
“You must be about to ask me for a favor.”
“Dang, you’re good. Yes, I need you to run a couple of plates for me. Dealer plates. Can you do that?”
“Sure, unless they’re brand-new, as in a day or two old.”
I read him off the numbers.
“You’re in luck,” Bill said. “I’m at the office in front of the computer. Stay on the phone.”
Bill hummed a tuneless song while the keyboard clacked in the background. I already missed that habit of his, that endearing, tone-deaf drone.
“Okay,” he said. “Got something to write with?”
”I can use my phone.”
“Well, aren’t you the fancy one,” Bill said. “So, the E550 belongs to the dealership, Golden State Mercedes-Benz over in Pasadena. The SUV is registered … let’s see, uh, as of three weeks ago, to one Ramona C. Cunningham. Same dealership, though I’m guessing you already knew that.”
“Got an address for Cunningham?”
He read off a Newport Beach address, a long way from a condo on Coldwater Canyon. My mind quickly revised the front-page lede: Prosperous middle-aged lothario lures someone else’s trophy wife from her unhappy home in Newport Beach for trysts at a love nest in The Valley, with the help of a horse, a car, and a cappuccino. Catchy.
“Hey, Ten?”
“Yes, Bill?”
“Any money fall out of any tree yet?”
“Funny. Really funny.” I hung up on the sound of his laughter.
Next stop, Pasadena. Golden State Mercedes-Benz, to be exact. Three freeways later I parked at the far end of their visitor’s lot and started walking, praying to slip inside unnoticed. No such luck. Out of nowhere, a trim, eager young man in a suit and tie intercepted me. His eyes darted over my shoulder to my long-suffering Toyota, looking clunkier than ever. It slowed him down, but not for long.
“Good day, sir,” he said, offering me his hand. “Chad Willoughby, sales consultant.”
“Tom Smith,” I said. I’m nothing if not original at times like these.
“Do you have an appointment, Mr. Smith? All showings are by appointment only.”
What would Sherlock do?
“No,” I said. “No appointment, but I spent some time with Mr. Barsotti this morning, and I really liked his new E550.” This is called lying and telling the truth at the same time, a skill all detectives, Holmes included, learn early in their careers. It was the closest I could come to observing one of the five root vows, while still being remotely effective in my job.
His demeanor changed instantly after I dropped the Barsotti bomb.
“Of course,” he said. “Please! Right this way.”
He led me to a row of brand-new SLK and E-class coupes, laid out like metallic jewels on the tarmac.
“Beautiful, aren’t they? Lease or purchase?”
“I haven’t decided,” I said.
“There are advantages to each,” Chad said. “I can go over them with you.”
I circled each car, squatting down to look at the tires and making other traditional auto-shopper-type moves.
Peering in a window, I kept my voice casual. “How long have you known Mr. Barsotti?”
“My boss? I’ve been working for him about a year over here. Before that I was at his Ferrari dealership on Pasadena Boulevard. When he sold it and moved here, so did I.”
So he owned a car dealership as well as a hog farm. Busy little bee, this Barsotti.
“Ferrari to Mercedes? Bummer,” I said. I was just making conversation, but Chad jumped on my comment with the intensity of the recently converted.
“Are you kidding me?” he said. “Ever know anybody with a Ferrari?”
I didn’t.
“Well, here’s everything you need to know about them: They suck. They’re great to look at and fun to drive, but they’re basically expensive pieces of c-r-a-p, crap. Buying a Ferrari is like finding out the blue blood you married is actually a stripper.”
Chad Willoughby might be politically incorrect, but he was also unusually candid for a car salesman. That could prove useful.
“Vince Barsotti will tell you the same thing. That’s why he unloaded the dealership.” He sighed. “Selling them’s a snap, mind you. They sell themselves. It’s what happens later that’s the problem.”
“How so?” I asked, trying to keep him loose and in the mood to confide.
“Guy comes in; maybe he’s just made his first big movie deal. He lays eyes on the Ferrari, it’s like he’s seeing his girlfriend naked for the first time. Practically drooling, you know? Twenty minutes later, you’re out on a test run with him, he’s listening to the snarl of that exhaust pipe, and he’s hooked. An hour later he’s taking his new baby home, I’ve got ten grand’s worth of commission in my pocket, and everybody’s happy.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Yeah. Like Christmas, right? The problem is, two weeks later the guy calls and screams at you for an hour because his new quarter-million-dollar pile of doo-doo has stranded him and his girlfriend on the side of the road somewhere. Again. You get one thing fixed and something else breaks a month later. Welcome to the Ferrari lifestyle. A year of that and the guy learns the truth about owning a Ferrari: the two happiest days of your life are the day you buy it and the day you unload it on the next poor sucker.”
He patted a bright red hood. “You can count on these,” he said. “They ride like hell, run forever, and start every time.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls,” I said.
After that, Chad Willoughby was putty in my hands.
“Would you like a test drive?”
I pointed to the black hardtop in the showroom. “I’d like to see that one.”
Once inside, I used the “Which way to the restroom?” excuse to check out several framed photographs of my new pal Vince Barsotti, posing with sports celebri
ties and famous actors. No prize-winning pigs that I could see, at least of the hoofed species.
When I got back, Chad was using a chamois to stroke and polish the Merc’s hood.
“You’re a little beauty, aren’t you,” he crooned. He turned to me. “Carbon copy of Mr. Barsotti’s. You’ll love it.” He winked. “Shall I get the paperwork started?”
I pointed to an SUV nearby. “That’s the same model Ramona has, isn’t it?”
“Ramona?”
“Vince’s friend, Ramona.”
His body stiffened. I stayed relaxed. Said nothing.
“I think Mr. Barsotti handled that sale himself,” he muttered. “I’m not really sure.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, as if I’d just felt it buzz. Raising one finger, I stepped away and engaged in a brief, intense conversation with nobody. I finished the phantom call and smiled an apology at my new buddy. “I’m needed back at the office-can I get your card?”
“Uh, okay.” A scrim of disappointment dropped over Chad’s face. I almost felt sorry for the guy. I pocketed his card and gave his hand a quick shake.
“Do you have a card?” he asked.
I slapped my pockets. “Fresh out,” I said. “But here’s a number you can call.” I rattled off a series of random digits in the 310 area code. It was definitely a number-just not one that had anything to do with me.
“I’ll let Mr. Barsotti know you stopped in,” Chad said.
“Please do,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll be surprised, if not thrilled.”
By now, I was starving, but out of time, and almost out of gas. I filled up at a local Arco station and grabbed a packet of peanut-butter crackers at the counter.
Made a mental note to remember wine for dinner.
Then I dashed back to Barsotti’s love nest, “dash” being a relative term anywhere in Los Angeles any time after three o’clock in the afternoon. It was close to dusk when I pulled into the complex. I was glad to see both cars still in place.
I’d no sooner opened my crackers when Barsotti emerged and quick-walked over to his car. Here we go again. I stayed five cars back as he hacked his way through traffic, this time taking Coldwater south. It was a slow grind, climbing up and over Mulholland, dipping down into Beverly Hills. Night was closing in by the time we reached Beverly Drive. I checked my watch. I was cutting my dinner plans close. Barsotti hooked a left, onto a quiet street in the part of Beverly Hills known as “the flats.”
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