by D. V. Berkom
“L.A. is big city. She could be anywhere.”
Greg narrowed his eyes and grabbed Yuri by the throat.
“If she's not back in forty-eight hours, dickhead, consider yourself and anyone you love dead.”
CHAPTER FIVE
SUNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH THE SMALL opening in the cardboard box, waking the occupant from a restless sleep. Mara Quigg rubbed her eyes and peeked through to the alleyway. Seeing no one, she wiggled out from under the temporary shelter and stomped her feet to rid herself of the numbness from sleeping on asphalt all night. Luckily, it hadn't been very cold. Her light summer dress wasn't designed for warmth.
Trying to stay calm, she still glanced in every nook and cranny. With each step, she expected someone to jump out at her. She crept down the alley, past a garbage bin surrounded by debris, glad she hadn't seen the rats the previous night. She'd slept outside before, when her foster monster would drink too much and turn mean, but she didn't usually have to stay somewhere this dirty. Her real mother never got mean. In fact, Mara couldn't remember her ever yelling at her.
Unsure what to do next, Mara turned left out of the alleyway and walked at a slow but steady pace, alert for signs of the men who had taken her. She needed to think of a plan. She didn't know anyone in L.A. she could call for help. Hope had filled her when she saw Miles Fournier, the actor who played her favorite movie character, Jake Dread, in the hotel lobby. He'd have saved her if he knew where the man named Yuri was bringing her. She shouldn't have screamed when she ran to him. He probably thought she was a total psycho idiot now.
Thinking about Miles Fournier brought up one of the few memories she had of her mother, when she would take her to the movies. It rarely happened, since they didn't have a lot of money, but whenever Jake Dread was playing, they'd scrape up enough for two tickets. Afterward, on the way home, they'd both fantasize about how much fun it would be to live with him. Mara was certain he'd be an excellent father. His eyes were so kind. Sadness from missing her mother swept through her and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block the memories. She waited for the wave of emotion to pass before she opened her eyes and kept walking.
Her stomach rumbled as she passed by a small diner, the smell of fried eggs and toast reminding her she hadn't eaten since the morning before. Mara peered in the window, cupping her hand to her eyes to look inside the restaurant. A beefy man with chalk-gray hair sat at the counter with his back to her, reading the paper, an empty plate pushed to the side. The young waitress paused to top off his coffee and laughed at something he said.
Little bells hanging from the top of the door jingled as Mara entered the diner. Keeping her eyes on the floor, she walked to the counter and climbed onto a seat two down from the man. The waitress came by and slipped a plastic, double-sided menu in front of her, a rush of perfume permeating the air around her.
“Hi, sweetie. What can I get you?” she asked.
Mara stared at the menu. Tears blurred her vision as she realized she was too scared to ask for help. What if they figured out she was a runaway and called the police? Mara refused to go anywhere near a policeman. Not after what happened with her foster mother. She shook her head and pushed the menu away.
The waitress set the coffee pot on the counter and leaned toward Mara. “What's wrong, honey?” The man next to her lowered his paper and looked at her.
Mara wiped at her eyes and started to slide off the stool. “I…I forgot my money. Sorry. I'll come back later.” Her foot barely reached the linoleum when the waitress touched her arm.
“It's okay. Just so happens we've got a special on breakfast today. How old are you?”
Mara turned back to the waitress and smiled shyly. “Twelve.”
The waitress beamed and winked at the man. “That's the exactly right age for our special breakfast. You get a choice of eggs, any style, ham or bacon, toast, pancakes and orange juice. And, because you're twelve, it's free.”
The gray-haired man smiled and nodded his head. “You're very lucky you walked in here today, young lady.” His eyebrows disappeared into his shaggy hair when Mara braved a glance at him.
“You have very unusual eyes,” he remarked. Mara looked at the floor, embarrassed. He turned to the waitress. “Don't you think, Rita? Jade green with gold flecks.”
Rita nodded. “Gorgeous. Honey, you shouldn't hide those pretty things. I'll bet you could be a model or an actress or something, just with those peepers alone. Now, what would you like to eat?” She waited while Mara decided. Then she picked up the coffee pot and headed to the kitchen.
The man searched through his newspaper, pulled out a section and handed it to her.
“The entertainment section,” he said, by way of explanation. “I always like to have something to read while I eat.”
Mara accepted the paper gratefully and smoothed it out in front of her on the counter. She sucked in her breath when she saw the picture of Jake Dread on the front page and quickly read the accompanying article.
Don’t miss Jake Dread live! Miles Fournier will be immortalized in cement in a special handprint ceremony this Tuesday at Grauman's Chinese Theater.
The article went on to give the time and address and other particulars. It had to be a sign. Mara asked Rita for a pen and wrote the information on the back of a napkin. When she finished her breakfast, she thanked her and the nice man, and before they could ask her any more questions, slipped out the door and disappeared.
CHAPTER SIX
LEINE LET OUT A LOW WHISTLE as she drove along the tree-lined driveway to the Spanish-style mansion. Situated in a canyon on over ten acres of prime Los Angeles real estate, the massive stucco and wood home had been built in the late nineteen-twenties by a noted architect of the time. A shady porch with arched doorways extended along the front, buttressed by square posts and sago palms. The long, sloping tile roof topped curved, pedimented gables, and reminded Leine of a Spanish hacienda in an old western she'd seen as a kid.
She parked her car on the gravel drive and got out, stretching to her full height, and filled her lungs. The rich always had the best air. The soothing sounds of an ornate, three-tiered fountain flanked by lush gardens welcomed her to the front entrance.
She walked up the sprawling brick steps to the oak and wrought iron entrance. A man dressed in black jeans, sunglasses and a dark t-shirt emerged from the shadows.
“Identification,” he said.
“What, no hello, how are you?” Leine eyed the M-4 in his hands as she rummaged through her purse. “That's a tad overkill, don't you think? He's a movie star, not the president.” She pulled out her wallet and flipped it open to her driver's license. “I already showed this at the front gate. Mr. Fournier is expecting me.”
He glanced at the license, gave a kind of half-nod and slipped back into the shadows. At least the guy wasn't talkative.
The chimes echoed through the immense home. Leine turned to survey the grounds. The verdant landscaping held too many places for an assailant to hide, and the stone wall surrounding the property was screaming for some razor wire and motion-activated perimeter lights.
Leine could have kicked herself for taking an around-the-clock security job for some spoiled movie A-lister, but at the sound of Jensen's voice she would have agreed to jump off the Santa Monica Pier naked if he'd asked. Besides, she needed something to occupy her time other than stalking.
She was in deep, but didn't care. Jensen had become an obsession, and obsessions were new to Leine. She'd always been able to rely on cool calculation to get her out of tight spots. This was a different animal. At least the job wasn't open-ended. She only had to work it for a couple of weeks until Walter's other security guy, Ben, was available. Leine could manage that much.
She turned at the sound of the door opening. Bloodshot eyes resembling a road map of downtown L.A. scrutinized her from the dark interior, darting back and forth between her and the driveway. Leine got a whiff of fear and body odor, mixed with the sour bouquet of stale alc
ohol. Tequila, if she wasn't mistaken.
Shit. He's a paranoid wreck. Leine plastered a smile on her face and extended her hand.
“Mr. Fournier? Leine Basso. Walter Helmsley with the LAPD sent me?”
A hand snaked out, latched onto her elbow and drew her inside. He quickly closed the door behind her.
From what she could tell in the darkness of the foyer, Miles Fournier hadn't slept or shaved in some time. He sported a five o'clock shadow that was closer to ten-thirty and the bags under his eyes were pronounced. Dressed in a pair of gold and purple sweat pants with the name of a prominent basketball team stenciled down one leg, he completed the ensemble with an old gray t-shirt bearing the logo of a popular brand of tequila and a pair of flip flops. In one hand he held a large green Sippy cup, the other raked through his disheveled brown hair. Leine was at a loss to explain why this guy was popular. Sure, he'd be good looking if he cleaned himself up, but it took more than that to make a man interesting. To each her own.
“Did anyone follow you?” he asked, his anxiety palpable.
Leine swallowed the sarcastic remark that sprang to her lips and again pasted on the smile.
“No, Mr. Fournier. That's part of my job.” When he gave her a blank look, she added, “To make sure I'm not followed.”
“Got it.” Miles paced to the sidelight next to the door and peered out, then turned abruptly and took a deep pull on his Sippy cup. Leine watched him with mild curiosity. Miles glanced at the plastic cup and held it out to her.
“Would you like some? It's a Herradura slushy.”
Bingo on the tequila. “No, thanks. Who's the guy with the gun out front?”
“He's a temp I hired 'til you can get a plan in place.” He took another swallow of tequila. “You do have a plan, right?”
“I will when you show me around. I'd like to get a feel for what I'm dealing with.”
“Of course, yeah. This way.”
He turned and staggered down the long hallway, using the wall like the bumper on a pinball machine and he was the ball. Leine sighed and shook her head as she followed.
He led her through a cavernous living room with massive beams, authentic mission-style furniture, Native American weavings, and pieces of art. The walls were made in the old way, thick with built-in niches and faced with lath and plaster. A massive river rock fireplace anchored the room to its past. All in all, a substantially built home.
They took the sweeping staircase to the second floor and he showed her each of five bedrooms and baths, all with a Spanish theme. Next, they headed to the master suite.
“You'll stay in the adjacent room,” Miles said. “There's access through a door next to the closet. I'll keep it unlocked unless—”
Leine held up her hand. “There's no 'unless', Mr. Fornier. The door is to remain unlocked at all times. Seconds count.” Miles appeared to consider what she'd said and shrugged.
“Fine. No locky. I'm warning you, though. When I have a lady overnight, you need to stay out, even if you hear—noises.”
“As long as I've cleared her, that shouldn't be a problem.”
Miles’ bedroom was decorated in country French. Luxurious gold-colored floral drapes hung from tall windows and over a king-sized, four-poster bed. French doors opened onto a balcony overlooking the drive. Wing-backed chairs covered in blue gingham surrounded a spindly-legged metal and glass coffee table in the center of the room. The space had a distinctly feminine feel. Leine wondered whose tastes were reflected. Neither Jensen nor Helmsley had mentioned a girlfriend.
She made a mental note to switch out the lock on the French doors with a biometrics one. Probably should replace the door altogether, she thought. The glass panes would be easy enough to break.
They finished their tour of the upstairs and headed down a level to the stainless and granite kitchen at the back of the house. Leine noted the large, single pane window above the sink and entry door with glass inserts. The only safety feature she could see was a deadbolt. A kidnapper could easily pop out the glass, reach in and unlock the door.
Miles led her outside onto a raised patio with steps leading down to lush gardens and a sparkling lap pool. A young woman wearing a hat with a floppy brim was sunbathing nude on a chaise lounge. Miles called down to her.
“Hey, Naomi. Put some fucking clothes on, will you? I have a guest.” Naomi sat up, turning to see who was with Miles and smiled. She reached for the gauzy cover up next to her and put it on. Miles shook his head.
“Who's she?” Leine asked.
“A girl I met last night.”
“I see.”
He glanced at Leine and shifted from one foot to the other. “What?”
“I assume you had her checked out?”
“What do you mean? No, I didn't have her 'checked out'.” Miles' voice rose an octave, obviously irritated. “How the hell do you check someone out when you're…you know…working it? Tell her, 'Hold on a minute, what's your social?' Or, 'Here, let me swipe your driver's license?'“ He laughed. “Can you say mood killer?”
Great. He's not only a drunk—he's also an idiot. She crossed her arms in front of her chest.
“Mr. Fournier. This arrangement won't work unless you start to think like a kidnapper. What if they hired Naomi to get inside your home? Maybe unlock a door, or give them the floor plan?” Leine glanced at the now-covered Naomi, texting on her phone. “What if she's in contact with someone right now, telling them your security set up? Seriously. You need to rethink your behavior or I'm gone.”
Miles' expression darkened and he looked like he was about to say something, but apparently thought better of it. He inhaled deeply and let it out before he replied, “You're right. I messed up.” He glanced at Naomi, anxiety obvious on his face. “Do you think she's…?”
“Odds are she's not. I merely said it to make a point.”
The look of relief was immediate. The man definitely wore his emotions on his face. Probably a requirement for an actor, Leine thought.
“Should we continue?” he asked.
Leine nodded and they descended to the lawn where she surveyed the back of the home.
There were several points of entry, depending on who was doing the entering. A pro would have no problem breaching the minimal security. Hell, a ten year-old wouldn't have a problem breaking and entering. She turned to Miles.
“Mr. Fournier. How prepared are you to secure your property? Your home is going to need extensive modifications. There will be a significant cost to do it right.”
Miles took another hit off his Sippy cup and nodded.
“Yeah. Absolutely. Anything you say, Leine. Do it.” He glanced at her, squinting against the sun. A small bead of sweat slid down the side of his face. “Can I call you Leine?”
“Of course,” she replied. “Have there been any attempts before or since? Anyone tried to get in contact with you? Something you might consider unusual?”
Miles started walking toward the pool. “No, but I know they're after me. I can totally feel it.” He shook his head. “You weren't there. They would have grabbed me if it wasn't for the fact the friend who was with me has a black belt. I'm sure they're planning to hold me for ransom. I've already made arrangements with my attorney, giving him instructions to pay whatever they want if they get to me.”
“I'll do everything I can to mitigate that possibility, Mr. Fournier. Either way, you need to instruct your attorney to cooperate with law enforcement should anything happen.”
“Call me Miles.”
“Miles. I'll take care of securing the property. That, along with my being here on site coupled with security in front and covering the perimeter should be sufficient to take care of any need that arises.”
The theme song from Miles' latest movie announced itself from inside the pocket of his sweatpants. He whipped out his phone, glanced at the screen and turned away, muttering, “I need to take this.”
Leine fished a small notebook from her purse and proceeded to jot down
security upgrades for the property. Motion sensor lights and cameras at strategic points around the perimeter; replace the original doors with steel core replicas and bullet-proof glass; biometric locks on all entrances and exits; motion sensitive window alarms; full complement of surveillance cameras both inside and outside the home with direct feed to her laptop.
Leine turned her attention to Miles as he shouted into the phone.
“You call that loyalty? Really? I call that bullshit. I thought we were brothers, man. Brothers don't do that kind of shit to each other. Brothers watch each other's backs.” He was silent for a moment. “You know what I have to say to that? Fuck you.” He viciously jabbed his finger at his phone, then stuffed it back in his sweatpants.
“Fuck.”
“Something wrong?” Leine asked.
Miles' face had turned a deep shade of red during the call, but was now fading to a less alarming pink. He took several deep breaths before he replied. “No. Nothing.” He nodded at the notebook Leine had in her hands. “You don't waste time.”
“We'll need to get a security team in here as soon as possible. It'll make my job much easier and should help you feel safer.” Maybe then he'd relax. An agitated client was much more susceptible to impractical and impulsive behavior. Her first priority was to make him feel secure. Leine was tempted to slip him a sedative, except he'd had far too much to drink. She didn't want to kill the guy.
“Mr. Fournier—” Leine began.
“Miles.”
“Miles. That phone call didn't sound like 'nothing'. If I'm going to work for you, you need to trust me. Inform me of anything that occurs, phone calls, contacts, whatever, even if it doesn't seem important. Let me decide if it's nothing. Okay?”
Miles gazed at a stand of scrub oaks on the buckskin-colored hillside and took another drink. Appearing to make up his mind, he turned back to Leine.
“It was Jarvis. He's like family. Well, he was. We were out the other night and I got into it at a bar with a guy about something stupid. He took a swing at me, and I swung back. Then his friend joined in. When I looked around for Jarvis to back me up, he was nowhere in sight. He told me he'd always have my back. He didn't.” Miles' cleared his throat and looked away.
