* * * *
Note to file: It's just about impossible to lose a tail in Los Angeles when you're driving an exotic sports car. The Tesla has an advertised max speed of a hundred and twenty-five mph, but try finding a clean stretch anywhere in town where you can push it past forty-five for more than five seconds. The traffic is just too congested. And the Tesla isn't exactly what you'd call inconspicuous.
Not that it would have helped even if I'd been able to open her up because, as it turned out, my shadow could have topped one fifty. (Later I learned it was a 650i model BMW coupe. I figured I'd better learn something about makes and models if this was to become a common occurrence.) It had illegally tinted front windows, which usually means some undercover cop or gangsta at the wheel—somebody who doesn't want to be recognized. No such thing as a legit unmarked police Beamer, not given budget shortfalls and the heart attack-inducing size of the sticker. Gangbangers got the cash, but they prefer rides that can seat more than two homies—extra firepower for when they pepper the tract homes of their rivals’ moms. So I had absolutely zero idea who it was. But this time, I had a plan.
Instead of getting off the 405 onto the 10 and heading directly back to the McKinley Building, I kept going north and exited the freeway at Sunset. Lots of twisty residential streets in the neighborhoods around there, you see. But then I had second thoughts. If I didn't lose the rolling surveillance right away in the suburban labyrinth, he'd definitely figure out I was onto him.
So Plan B: Find a public parking structure with more than one exit. A mall would be perfect. There I'd have a couple of options. I could probably shake him or I could park the car and pretend to go shopping. Maybe he'd follow me on foot as I walked into the mall, and then I might be able to identify him. If he didn't get out of his car, I could ditch the Tesla, take to the sidewalk and catch a bus—didn't think he'd expect that—or I could start the whole merry chase all over again, maybe heading up into the Hollywood Hills for a spin on Mulholland.
Since I had already gotten off the San Diego Freeway, the Galleria in Sherman Oaks was out. That left Beverly Center in West Hollywood.
He kept with me past the winding rollercoaster heights of Bel-Air and the flat civilized stretch of Beverly Hills, all the way to the gaudy club-strewn Strip, discreetly keeping his distance, and followed me when I turned south on La Cienega. I still hadn't made up my mind what I was going to do when I arrived at the mall. I drove in, keeping half an eye open for a space.
Luck was with me. By the time the BMW could follow me in, I had slipped the noose. He'd have to search all eight floors to find me. I wouldn't be there.
I exited and headed west on Beverly Boulevard, doubling back toward Beverly Hills, then turned left on Doheny Drive and scooted down to Wilshire. From there I leisurely ambled downtown, as free and footloose as a Venice Beach sidewalk skater. I was pleased with myself: Erica H. Wooding, P.I., sexy and tough and smart, and completely at ease in a completely bitchin’ sports car. Take that, ye minions of darkness.
Wrong. By the time I got to the McKinley's garage, he had already parked in a guest spot and was waiting for me. Different suit, same lustrous black hair and wide shoulders. He leaned his tight buns against the back of the Beamer, arms across his chest, and watched as I parked in my reserved space.
I stepped out of the car and stared at him staring at me. Finally he shifted off the car onto his feet and dropped his arms to his side.
“You could have just told me that you were a private investigator yourself instead of giving me that song and dance about coffee with a girlfriend,” he said.
“So you looked up my license with Consumer Affairs,” I said. “Maybe I should be flattered, but I don't think so. I shouldn't have given you my real name.”
This was met with a short, sarcastic laugh. “So you really are Erica Wooding—good to know. But it wasn't your license I looked up, honey. It was the license plate on the Tesla—amazing what you can do with a smartphone and a good app, even in traffic. Registered to Fowler Investigations.”
“The Fowler Investigative Analysis Team,” I corrected him.
“Whatever you say. It might have occurred to you that we're on the same side.”
“Really? I thought we were rivals.”
“What for? I'm on salary, get paid either way—and I'm ineligible for the reward, because I work for the company offering it. So I won't stand in your way. Hell, I might even help you collect.”
“What reward?” I asked, as nonchalantly as I could.
“The two hundred fifty grand for finding the Chengfeng, as if you didn't know. But even if you didn't, you can bet your precious Miss Enola does. How else do you think she pays for that penthouse?”
Now this was a very good question, but when embarrassed I'm least likely to back down. Sexy and tough and smart? Yeah, got that covered, but only when I'm not being sticky and stubborn and stupid.
“If you think that, you don't know Miss Enola,” I said, which of course was probably more true of me than of him. At least he'd heard of her.
He shrugged. “Forget about it. What I want to know is why you lied. And also what you said to that Aussie tart Rachel. Whatever it was, she told everybody else at MTRG and suddenly it was like I had the plague.”
“My heart bleeds. But I'll bet you already know all about tarts,” I said, with astonishing originality and sparkling wit. “I don't suppose you'd consider what you did to her as taking advantage.” Great. Now I was defending Rachel's all-too-easy virtue.
“Listen, I asked Rachel out because I wanted to question her about the yacht, and the next thing I know she's on me like a leopard on a wounded wildebeest. So yeah, maybe I should have done the noble thing and turned her down. So I didn't call her the next day, sue me. She's not the kind of girl you call the next day. I have more respect for myself than that.”
“Respect? Really.” I shook my head in disgusted wonderment. “That's so, so like a guy.”
“Hey. You don't know me at all. The biggest difference between men and women is that women think they understand men. Men know they don't understand women.”
“Then why do you care what I told Rachel?”
“Never mind. You're right. This is getting us nowhere. But I was serious when I said we're on the same side, so listen up. I know who made the Chengfenggo missing.”
“What? Who?”
“Here's a hint. There's an eight-million-dollar insurance policy on the boat and a four-million-dollar life policy on Oliver Long. Guess who took them out?”
The life insurance policy might be for Long's mother as far as I knew, but there was only one party I could think of that would insure the yacht. “MTRG?”
“Very good. And guess who owns MTRG.”
I knew the answer to that one, if I could remember the name. Rachel's arrogant ratbag blobhead. No, wait, Adrian was supposed to be the ratbag, so just the blobhead. Mr. Blank Blobhead Blank . . . in a flash I had it. I'm not always slow and stupid. “Colin Pippinger.”
He gave me a coyote smile. “Colin. Pippinger. So do we go talk to Miss Enola?”
If we really knew who and the why (money, apparently, big surprise), thehowcouldn't be far behind. I wasn't too sure about the most important question as far as the FIAT was concerned, though, which was where. But Miss Enola had an idea about that, didn't she? The one she was going to call the Navy about.
“Let's go,” I said. “Be warned, though. She can get—”
“Crotchety. Yeah, I heard.”
Don't you hate being interrupted? I pulled out my new smartphone and speed-dialed the office. Fredericks answered with a flat “FIAT” instead of saying “hello” or anything normal, but I could be terse too.
“I'm bringing in Adrian Tabi.”
“Please hold.”
A few seconds later Miss Enola picked up the line. “That will be satisfactory, Erica.”
* * * *
“In short, your theory is that the boat was stolen and Oliver Long kidnapped
and murdered at the behest of this man Pippinger for an insurance payoff,” Miss Enola said. “Very interesting. How do you suggest they dispose of the yacht?”
“I've got a theory about that too,” Adrian said. He sat in the middle chair between Fredericks and me, his left ankle on his right knee, as relaxed as a team owner lounging in a stadium luxury box. “I'll bet you didn't know that the SEC has evidence that MTRG may have been laundering money for a Mexican drug cartel, but that they quit that line when they started attracting attention. You don't walk away from a deal like that without consequences. It occurs to me that Chengfeng, probably under a new name, wouldn't get a second glance in Acapulco or Cabo San Lucas—handing it over to a drug lord would appease the cartel and make the boat fall off the radar. I've heard you're well connected. I suggest you get your friends at the DEA to look into it. And have the Coast Guard look for Long's body. It's almost certain to wash up somewhere along the Mexican coast.”
Miss Enola treated him to a frosty smile. “I'm afraid you overestimate me.”
Fredericks's phone chirped and she put it to her ear. “FIAT.” Pause. She lowered it to her lap and addressed Miss Enola. “The U.S. Navy on line one.”
Adrian grinned. “Really?”
“Please excuse me, Mr. Tabi,” Miss Enola said, reaching for her headset.
Adrian seemed reluctant to stand until Miss Enola raised an eyebrow at him. Then he got up, smoothed his trousers, submissively nodded, and walked out of the room.
I started to stand up myself so I could keep an eye on him, but Miss Enola motioned me back down. She shot a glance at Fredericks, who discreetly acknowledged the unspoken order and followed him. Miss Enola put the headset on and tapped the keyboard.
“Hello, Commander,” she said. “Thank you for returning my call. . . . Yes, I have reason to believe it was caused by a massive explosion on board a large yacht. . . . I shouldn't think so. The yacht, or what was left of it, almost certainly would have sunk, but there's bound to be flotsam and jetsam. . . . Somewhere along a course between Los Angeles and Hilo. . . . I have already confirmed that it had scheduled to be refueled there but missed the rendezvous and hasn't been heard from since. . . . Thank you. I look forward to it.”
She tapped the keyboard again and removed the headset.
“The Chengfeng blew up?” I asked.
“So it would appear.”
“That's terrible.”
“It is, but that isn't all, I'm afraid.”
I'd say that usually Miss Enola has a poker face like an Easter Island monument, but this time I could actually see her expression switch tracks. She tapped the keyboard again, and Fredericks brought Adrian back in.
“You have provided me with several interesting leads, young man,” she said. “I'm grateful. Fredericks will see you out. You may rest assured that you will hear from me soon.”
“Like I said, we're on the same side,” Adrian replied. He beamed at her and then he beamed at me and then he beamed at Fredericks and then he left.
Miss Enola gazed off into thin air for a second and then said, “I'm glad you decided to keep your own car, Erica. How did you enjoy being shadowed by Adrian Tabi?”
“About as much as a root canal.”
“How would you like to return the favor?”
* * * *
Before I left, Miss Enola reminded me to get the Nikon D3X out of the Tesla's trunk and take it with me, since she wanted pictures. That was good, because I had no idea it was even there. Now, this is a slightly better camera than the one in my smartphone, the same way that the Koh-i-Noor is a slightly better rock than a piece of gravel stuck in your shoe. It was in one of those fancy aluminum cases with a bunch of different lenses and other accessories stowed in black, shockproof foam plastic, but I was still deathly afraid of dropping it when I lifted it out.
Rhonda is not quite as conspicuous as a fire-engine-red Tesla, but even so, woodies aren't exactly the rage these days, so I wanted to be well back when Adrian exited the parking garage in his Beamer. As it turned out, I don't think he even bothered to check his rearview mirror. People with fast cars are often like that. It's like anything behind them is unworthy of notice.
It would make the job a lot easier if every time you tailed somebody, he took you directly to something interesting. Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way.
Remember how I told Miss Enola that I didn't do divorce work? This is not because of any ethical qualms on my part. There are people going through divorces who are victims and can really use the help of somebody like me. But it's not on my menu because either it's too exciting, or it's too boring. First of all, by the time an unhappy couple gets to the hiring a private investigator stage, one or both of them have gone crazier than honey-bucket rats and will do deranged things with all the restraint of rabid wolverines, like destroy valuable cameras or attack private eyes’ cars with sledgehammers. But more commonly, one of them is trying to hide something from the other, usually an affair or a large sum of money squirreled away somewhere safe, and they can get very, very sly about it. The P.I. is hired to dig it up. That means hour upon hour of lethally dull surveillance, usually over several weeks, for a five-minute payoff. Pays the bills great, but majorly sedates the brain, not to mention the never-ending fun in the sleep deprivation department.
Such is direct surveillance in all its manifestations. And so it was being close on Adrian's heels. The first day was a bust—the office, dinner and a beer at Karl Strauss in Universal City Walk, home again to a nice apartment in Los Feliz. The next day, more of the same, but dinner at the Pacific Dining Car downtown instead. So I learned he didn't cook. Hurray.
On the third day as I waited for something to happen, by now feeling pretty confident it wouldn't, I mentally went over what I'd learned about the case. In particular, I was trying to figure out what Miss Enola obviously knew that I didn't.
The Chengfengassistant engineer's bad habits. Nothing.
The Navy. What was that about? Search and Rescue at sea is the Coast Guard's job, so it wasn't that. Maybe it had something to do with Ray Zielinski's service record, but if that was the case, what did somewhere between L.A. and Hilo, Hawaii, have to do with it? Wait a minute. Adrian was a Pacific Islander, so he was probably Hawaiian himself. Was that important?
Then there he was, driving out of the lot. A little early for lunch. I put Rhonda in drive and slipped into traffic. He was headed for the Westside, maybe even the marina again. Okay, this could be interesting.
But he wasn't going to the marina. It was a bowling alley on Venice Boulevard in Mar Vista.
A bowling alley?
I weighed the factors—Adrian Tabi, bowling alley, Adrian Tabi, bowling alley—nah. It didn't seem right. You probably think it's pathetic that I could get excited about a guy going into a bowling alley. But anything out of the ordinary can be significant. Adrian Tabi renting bowling shoes? This I had to see.
I parked, luckily finding a rare open meter halfway down the block from the bowling alley, and regarded myself in the vanity mirror on the visor. Wayne's beautiful cut went into a ponytail, cascading out the back of a pink Dodgers ball cap above the adjustable sizing band. I had on a dark orange T-shirt and black jeans faded to charcoal, nothing very distinctive, so as long as I kept my distance, I hoped Adrian wouldn't even notice me. Not much of a disguise, I admit. I needed something more.
A girl should never be without her compact, especially if she's a private eye. I don't wear much makeup as a rule, and then not very often, but you'd be amazed at how a deft stroke here and there can improve one's appearance—that is, if you think being made up like a drag queen is an improvement. It's all a matter of context: If it keeps me from being recognized, then you bet it's an improvement. For it to work, though, it's important to get the shades all wrong. Glittery blue eye shadow (ugh), a brown eyebrow pencil, and some red lip liner to alter the appearance of the shape of my mouth, and presto, I was set.
The final touch was posture. You have t
o be careful here because usually when people try to disguise the way they move, they overdo it and look false. Luckily, part of what I had learned back in my acting classes was how to pretend to be someone else. So instead of standing tall with my shoulders back and charging in like I owned the place, I slouched a little and sort of shuffled.
Adrian had only seen the confident, tasteful Erica. He might not recognize the insecure, painted Jezebel version. No way I could bring the Nikon in with me without people noticing, so I did the next best thing. I pulled out my smartphone and pretended to be texting like mad, oblivious to the world, when what I really was doing was using the camera.
I stood near the entrance and saw Adrian sitting at the snack bar with two men. They looked like they could have been bikers if they'd been dressed differently, only they were wearing blue workmen's utilities instead of denim and leather. One was in his forties, slim and weasely with slicked-back dark hair and large teeth. The other was a huge, carroty redhead with a gut like a propane tank, his mouth covered by a bushy moustache over a long beard and his hair pulled back in a ponytail. They appeared to be not very happy with Adrian. I snapped a couple of shots and retreated.
When I got back to Rhonda, I called the office. Fredericks answered per usual and put Miss Enola on the line. I briefly told her where I was and e-mailed the photos to her.
“Erica, drop Mr. Tabi and pick up the red-haired man,” she said.
“Can you tell me what's going on?”
“We will know very soon. The dark-haired man is Herbert Holloway—don't bother with him. He will be very easy to find again.”
“So who's the redhead?”
“All I have at present is a supposition, but I suspect he is Ray Zielinski.”
"What?"
“Do not let him get away without finding out where he is going.”
“But he doesn't look at all like Ray Zielinski.”
“Erica, did you sail into the bowling alley under your own colors?”
AHMM, July/August 2012 Page 24
