by Alan Russell
For Sirius, playing with discs was love at first bite. He enjoys retrieving balls or sticks, but it’s clear they’re only pleasant diversions. Discs are another matter. Before I toss that first disc, he actually trembles with anticipation.
A favorite spot of ours was an elementary school only a few miles from where I was going to be meeting with Elle. One of its attractions was the back entrance that allowed for speedy departures. I don’t like having to play the cop card to other cops. It’s better to just not get caught.
I gave Sirius a flexible disc to hold in his mouth during our drive there. He looked and acted like a kid on Christmas morning. We parked on the street but still had to walk by several signs informing us that unauthorized visitors weren’t allowed, dogs weren’t permitted, and playing on the fields was prohibited.
Other people apparently obeyed the signs, as the school fields were deserted. I walked the grass, looking for gopher holes, foxtails, glass, or anything else that could harm Sirius. As usual, we did a short warm-up. I had four discs, all different sizes and weights. They each had their own purpose, much in the way different golf clubs do; I had my “driver” disc for long-distance throws, my “wedge” disc for maximum loft time, my “putter” for accuracy, and my utility disc for all around play. My favorite picture of Sirius shows him proudly holding all four discs in his mouth.
Sirius and I have developed our own vocabulary when it comes to our disc routines. “Rare air” is when I really let one fly; “track” is when I am going for a boomerang toss, and he expects it to hang in the air and then come back; “fast” is when I toss all four discs in rapid succession, and he has to make a series of catch and drops so as to catch all four; and finally there’s “ninja,” which is our wild-card toss and catch. When ninja is declared, Sirius doesn’t know where I am throwing the disc, and he’s further handicapped by having his back turned to the action. Ninja means Sirius has to be ready for anything and react instantly. When ninja is called, Sirius is expected to think and act on his own.
One day I am going to get a vet to explain to me how dogs can catch discs as well as they do despite their visual acuity not being anywhere near that of a human’s. A typical dog has 20/75 vision, which means what a human can clearly see at seventy-five feet dogs can only see at twenty feet. I do know dogs detect motion much better than humans do, so maybe that allows them to see the big Frisbee picture better. They also have a wider view of the world than do humans, as their eyes are at the sides of their head. However they do it, some dogs are great at catching discs. Most retrievers take to it easily, but disc catching doesn’t seem breed specific. One of the best disc dogs I have ever seen was a Boston terrier.
We started with a few easy tosses. Hip dysplasia is common among German shepherds, but Sirius seems to have missed that bullet. He also seems to have missed the memo that he’s no longer a spring chicken. Sirius loves it when I toss the disc sixty or seventy yards and he catches it on the fly.
“Rare air,” I said, and he started running.
I stepped into the throw; it didn’t wobble, but flew true. The tracking missile began its pursuit. Sirius ran hard, his strides growing longer and longer. Just before gravity claimed the disc, my partner launched himself. His timing was perfect; like a classic outfielder scaling a fence, he went higher and higher to make the play. When he caught the disc, I cheered, and Sirius began his long lope back. He pretended to be nonchalant about the whole thing, but his wagging tail gave him away.
“Track,” I announced and turned to face the wind.
Like a discus thrower—or maybe a whirling dervish—I started in on my rotation. The idea was for me to release the disc into the wind. I finished my spinning and whirled the disc into the unseen current. The Frisbee went higher and higher; for a moment it looked as if it was suspended in air, but then it started coming back toward us. As it dropped, the disc picked up speed. Someone adept at tossing discs can confidently throw into the wind and wait for the disc to return like a boomerang, right back to the throwing hand. My throw was off, and the wind was showing the errors of my way. The disc was going to overshoot us by at least twenty feet, but Sirius was already moving. Displaying the footwork of an athlete, demonstrating perfect timing, he leaped into the air and landed his prize. All the proud papa could do was cheer.
“Gravity is overrated!” I yelled.
It’s a phrase disc players like to use, and I was most definitely in the presence of a disc player.
Usually Sirius and I play disc at dusk. It’s cooler then, and it’s also a time when parks and schools are likeliest to be deserted. Sirius was panting from the hot day, and I didn’t want him overheating. Since the plastic discs can conveniently serve as water bowls, I filled two of them up. Sirius humored me by drinking, although his posture was saying, “Come on, throw the thing.”
There were at least two more hours of light left in the day, but even when we play in the near-darkness, that doesn’t bother Sirius. Dogs have much better night vision than humans.
I hadn’t officially announced ninja yet, so I did a few short tosses. One thing about ninja is that anything goes; Sirius had to be ready for anything and make the play before the disc hit the ground. I sent him long, and Sirius didn’t disappoint. He loped back to me and couldn’t resist showing off at the end, tossing the disc into the air. It landed a few steps from my feet.
“Quit getting cocky,” I said. “It’s time for ninja.”
There were no trees near the field and not much to hinder Sirius’s line of vision. I positioned him facing away from me, his hindquarters touching an upright soccer post.
“Ninja!” I yelled, faking one way and then throwing the other.
My misdirection froze him for a moment, and he was slow on picking up the direction the disc was heading, but the instant he got his bearings, Sirius went into overdrive. Despite a valiant effort, his slow start doomed him, and Sirius failed to make the play.
The boobirds came out, or at least one did. My partner pretended to ignore the peanut gallery. He retrieved the disc and brought it back to me. Without being told, he repositioned himself behind the soccer upright and waited on my command. He would be blind to where the disc was first tossed.
I chose my disc carefully: I was going for maximum time aloft. When the disc did return to earth, it would be coming fast and at a sweeping angle.
Once more I went into my whirling dervish routine. Even without looking at me, Sirius could hear what I was up to. As I released the disc I shouted, “Track ninja!”
It was up to my partner now. He had to track the disc and then be ready to make the play. Past experience cued him into the fact that I was going for maximum time aloft with a boomerang return. The disc went skyward, climbing and climbing. I was already backpedaling, knowing it would come down at least twenty-five yards from where I was standing. I began running with my head turned back toward the descending object, and it seemed as if the disc was in hot pursuit. Just as contact was imminent, Sirius leapt into the air and caught the disc only inches from my neck.
“Good dog!” I yelled.
Disc in mouth, he circled back toward me. I mussed up his fur, and made a fuss over him. Like Oliver asking for more, he dropped the disc atop my right foot. I had to disappoint him.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s time for us to reach the unreachable star.”
Don Quixote was nothing without his Sancho Panza; it was the same with me.
CHAPTER 11:
A STAR IS TORN
Elle’s building was only a few blocks from Central Westwood; to the west was the UCLA campus, and to the east was Beverly Hills. The Residences, as it was called, spanned twenty-four stories but had fewer than eighty condos. The least expensive units started at three million dollars.
I followed Elle’s printed directions and found the underground entrance in the back of the building. There was a manned security booth, but
Elle had called in and put me on the approved visitor list. I was directed to pull into one of the temporary parking spaces. As I parked, Sirius began to pace in the backseat.
“Chill,” I said. “I am going to meet with a woman I saw pictured holding some kind of exotic pet like a chinchilla or kinkajou or hedgehog. Or maybe it was one of those hairless cats. So you’re going to stay here so as to avoid any untoward encounter.”
With a grunt, Sirius settled into familiar real estate.
I had made a point of arriving fifteen minutes early. That would be enough time, I hoped, to stop sweating and make myself somewhat presentable. Despite my intentions to treat Elle Barrett Browning like everyone else, I found myself doing more tidying up than usual. I keep a toiletry kit in my car, and I commenced with dabbing on some aftershave. Then I started crunching on some breath mints.
In the hours since my morning meeting with Elle, I’d had time to rethink our silent conversation on both a personal and professional level. My anger, combined with the texting and note writing, had thrown me off my game. Despite that, Elle hadn’t seemed surprised when I’d told her that someone had recorded Lisbet’s and my lovemaking. I also found it interesting that Elle never defended her boyfriend against my not-so-veiled accusations. Of course she had blamed the paparazzi for forcing us to communicate through texts and notes, but I wasn’t buying that.
I decided to turn on the AC for a minute; even though I wouldn’t leave Sirius without cracking open all the windows, the subterranean garage had retained much of the heat of the day. Besides, I could use the chill myself; I was still sweaty from our disc diversion.
Another car entered the garage during our cool down. The black Tesla Model S sedan silently pulled up to the elevators. The driver’s door opened, and I saw Elle Browning’s personal assistant get out of the car. He came around the side of the car and opened up the passenger door, extending a hand to help Elle out of the car. Then he stepped over to the elevator and pressed the up button. Maybe he was protective and didn’t want Elle to break a nail, or maybe she insisted on the star treatment. Elle spoke to him as she stepped inside the elevator; whatever she said made him smile.
He returned to the car and then parked a short distance away in a charging station for electric cars. I studied him as he hooked up the charger to the Tesla. Maybe he heard my engine running, or it’s possible he felt my eyes on him. He turned around and we made eye contact. What he saw made him scowl and then turn his back on me.
There’s no better way to get a cop’s attention than by ignoring him. The car was now cool enough for Sirius to be comfortable. I exited my vehicle, and my footsteps announced my approach, but Elle’s assistant still didn’t acknowledge me.
“How long does it take to charge the car?” I asked him.
Without facing me he tersely said, “About half an hour.”
“So this must be one of those superchargers?”
He minimally tilted his head in agreement.
“I think I saw you at the hospital this morning. Are you Elle’s chauffeur?”
“I’m her assistant.”
“That must be interesting work.”
He didn’t answer.
“I’m Detective Gideon,” I said. “And you are?”
Since I hadn’t conveniently disappeared in the face of his ignoring me, he turned and faced me. “My name is Joe Valentine, and I hope you won’t think I’m rude, but if you have any questions about Ms. Browning and her business I’m not at liberty to comment.”
“And why is that?”
“I signed a nondisclosure agreement when I took the job as her assistant, and it specifically prohibits me from discussing my employment or anything that has to do with Ms. Browning.”
The words were right, but the vibe wasn’t. Valentine couldn’t mask his disapproval of me.
“In that case I’ll ask you something that doesn’t have anything to do with your boss,” I said. “You seemed bothered when I showed up at the hospital this morning. And you kind of seem bothered now.”
“It’s my job to run interference for Ms. Browning.”
“It seems like you wear a lot of hats. You bring tea, you’re the driver, and you act as security. You do windows too?”
He shrugged and said nothing. Maybe he thought answering would violate his NDA. But I thought it was more likely he just didn’t want to talk to me.
I stepped into the elevator and used the key that Elle had provided me. It began an almost soundless ascent and came to a stop one floor from the penthouse. I wondered who had those digs. The elevator opened into a private hallway, and I entered the foyer of a residence whose front door was open.
“Hello?”
Out of sight, a voice called, “Come in.”
I followed the sound of the voice. Elle was sitting on a sofa in the living room, and behind her was the L.A. skyline. From up high, the city looked clean and new. Distances can be deceptive.
Elle was wearing the same clothing she’d had on that morning. It was probably dinnertime on the set, and it was likely she would have to return to work. She was holding a wineglass, but I wasn’t sure if she was drinking wine or water. The liquid was clear, whatever it was.
“Can I get you something to eat or drink?”
I shook my head and said, “I’m good.”
I pretended not to be nervous in her presence. I guess there was more than one actor in the room. Cops like to act as if we’re incapable of being starstruck and that being in the presence of celebrity isn’t any big deal. But cops are as human as anyone. I tried not to touch my scarred face, but I couldn’t help but be mindful of my deformity, especially in the presence of her beauty. I practiced a trick a cop at Metro had taught me: to avoid being influenced by a beautiful woman, he said you should always stare at the bridge of her nose. In that way, he said, she thinks you’re making eye contact with her but despite that are impervious to her charms. Most of the time I appeared to be looking at Elle, I was actually acquainting myself with the bridge of her nose.
Big name actors are well insulated from the world at large. Access to the star is limited by publicists, agents, lawyers, and managers. That Praetorian Guard restricts entry to their charge. This kind of contact was very unusual.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I said. “I’m not very good with Quaker meetings. Since you’re not holding a phone or pad, I’m assuming we can talk freely.”
“The Residences caters to public figures. This is a security building especially designed to keep wannabe intruders at bay.”
“How does it do that?”
She pointed to the windows. “The windows have been treated so that we can look out, but no one can look in. That treatment also prevents cameras from being able to take pictures of anyone inside. If someone were to try and snap a picture of us now, we wouldn’t even be a blur.”
“What if someone wanted to record what we were saying?”
“Most of the actors, athletes, and entertainers who live here have the noise generator package, which prevents even the best surveillance systems from being able to eavesdrop. Those noise generators make the spoken word unintelligible on recording devices.”
“I generally don’t need a noise generator to be unintelligible,” I said.
That got me a polite smile.
“How long have you lived here?”
“I bought this unit three months ago,” she said.
“Where did you live before?”
“I still have a beach house in Malibu. That’s my main residence. And most nights I’m at Drew’s place.”
“Why did you buy this?”
“It’s my downtown getaway. Why do you ask?”
“I wondered if the privacy afforded here had anything to do with your purchasing it. After what happened to me last night, I could understand why someone would want their privacy safeguard
ed.”
“I bought here because it fit my needs,” she said, and didn’t elaborate.
“When we talked this morning—or should I say when we wrote our texts and notes—you didn’t act surprised when I told you someone managed to make an audiotape of what should have been private time between me and my girlfriend.”
“I wasn’t sure how to react. It was clear you were upset. I didn’t want to make matters worse.”
“Three or four men were laughing in the background while the tape was playing. It was dirty laughter, the kind where everyone knows they’re doing something wrong, but they’re still clearly reveling in the wallow.”
Elle looked down at her wineglass and refused to meet my gaze.
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the Attack Pack came over last night. I suspect they were the ones I heard laughing in the background.”
“I went to bed early,” she said, still not looking at me.
“Do you know the regulars of this Attack Pack?”
“You should ask Drew.”
“Speaking of Drew, did the two of you discuss the reason for my visit yesterday?”
Elle shook her head.
“I’m investigating the death of a man who died two nights ago. Twenty-four hours before he died, this man said he was witness to the murder of an angel.”
Elle involuntarily reached for the ankh tucked under her shirt.
“This witness saw a Tesla Roadster pull up to what he said was the downed angel. As he described it, the angel was bleeding out or, more accurately, was losing its light. He said a man got out of his Tesla and stood over this angel just like a big game hunter.”
I waited for her to react. After a few seconds she asked, “What happened then?”
“My witness was terrified. He was cowering behind shrubbery, afraid of being seen. When he finally got nerve enough to look, the angel was gone. And the Tesla was silently being driven away.”
