by David Chill
Moss froze. "What do you mean?"
"She's gone missing."
"I wasn't aware of any such thing."
"Really?" I asked, leaning forward. "The Head of School unaware the governor's daughter hasn't shown up for class in three days?"
"I'm aware," she said, a touch of condescension growing in her voice, "that her father's an elected official and is campaigning for governor. I'm sure she's helping him."
"But you don't know that for a fact."
She looked at me carefully. "I've been in touch with her mother. I know more than you think. I'm sure Molly is fine."
"So her father has no idea where she is, but her mother does," I said. "Do I have that straight?"
"I don't care to comment further on that," she said."We maintain a strict privacy policy at this school, especially when it comes to our families. There are numerous children of celebrities who attend here. It's how we maintain our reputation."
"Your reputation," I repeated. I thought of Gail and our baby. When he or she was ready for 7th grade, I got the feeling Stone Canyon would not be on our list of schools. I was equally sure our name would not be high on Stone Canyon's list of families granted preferential treatment for admission.
"Well it's good to know that Molly is safe," I said, recognizing we wouldn't be able to get much more out of her. "But the fact she was one of the last people seen with Diego before he was killed, is going to become very public, very soon."
Lazar shook his head in agreement. "We're going to get to the bottom of this. It's better if you cooperate."
"My goodness," she exclaimed, "you're not the police."
"No," said Lazar. "My paper is more important. We shape opinions."
Moss stared at Lazar in disbelief. So did I. And I knew what was coming next. The Head of School rose and walked toward the door.
"Thank you for your time, gentlemen," she said, holding the door open for us. "Good day."
Chapter 7
As we made our way to the parking lot, Lazar whipped himself into a frenzy about the story he was going to write. He said he would decimate the school, and highlight any and every role it may have played in the demise of Diego Garcia. He asked me about the other kids who had been with Molly at the USC game. I doubted they'd reveal anything additional to him, and Adam Lazar struck me as a loose cannon. And while I didn't think too much of the staff right now, I also didn't believe the school deserved a hatchet job. Not wanting to give Lazar any more fodder, I didn't reveal any names to him. He sniffed and said he didn't need anyone's help. He'd go find them himself.
As Lazar stalked off to hunt for the students, I drove toward the edge of the campus, and got a final laugh as I exited. A dark sedan was stopped at the entrance. The security guard was arguing with a man who was pointing a threatening finger at him. As I cruised past them, I slowed down and gave Detective Lally a smile and a wave. He stopped arguing for a moment to watch me leave, his mouth open and his head shaking.
Loretta Moss had brought up something interesting. She indicated she had had contact with Molly's mother and that Molly was okay. Molly's father, ostensibly the most powerful man in the state, was somehow, inexplicably, unaware of this. Jeremy Hoffman had told me Molly lived near the school. I tried to get the address from Shelly Busch. but was told she was in conference and couldn't be disturbed. I placed a quick call to Juan Saavedra, and after providing assurances he would not regret it, Juan provided me with Rex Palmer's home address. He also cagily pointed out if I knew what I was doing, I could probably scrape this off the Internet. The Palmers' home was located adjacent to Beverly Glen, a short drive from Stone Canyon.
Beverly Glen Boulevard is one of those north-south arteries that connect the Westside with the San Fernando Valley. The road starts at the Rancho Park Golf Course and meanders up past Wilshire Boulevard into Holmby Hills, one of the many exclusive neighborhoods dotting the Westside. The Palmers lived two blocks away from a studio mogul who had built a 50,000 square foot palace, a massive structure that dwarfed even the most magnificent of homes in the area. It had cost tens of millions of dollars to construct. And yet the rumor was that when the mogul moved in he quickly wound up suing his contractor. Apparently, the roof leaked.
Rex and Nicole Palmer lived on a quiet street in a large, beautiful home, mostly hidden from the street behind large hedges. I pushed a button next to an iron gate, and was soon buzzed in. The house was white with black shutters, and was dramatically lit by a series of upward pointing spotlights. The large green lawn had a few leaves scattered about, giving it a New England feel. There were floodlights turned on in the backyard.
Wiping my feet on the welcome mat, I rang the doorbell which set off a sequence of chimes that took a good five seconds to complete its progression. The door eventually opened and a housekeeper said hello. I flashed by P.I. license and told her I needed to speak with Nicole Palmer about an urgent matter. Her eyes widened and she told me to wait. A few minutes later, a tall, slender woman with ash blonde hair and pale blue eyes appeared before me. She was wearing a dark v-neck sweater with jeans, and she held a wine glass casually in her right hand. She swirled it absently.
"Mrs. Palmer?"
"Yes, that's me."
I handed her my card. "My name's Burnside. I work for your husband. Can I speak with you for a few minutes?"
"About what?" she asked, not bothering to look at my card.
"I'm a private investigator. Your husband asked me to look into finding your daughter."
"Really? That's interesting. I wasn't aware he had hired anyone to look for Molly."
I stared at her. "Her friends say they haven't seen Molly since Saturday."
"And which friends might those be?"
"Riley Joyner and Connor Pierce."
She thought about this for a moment. "All right, well it sounds like you're not a complete fraud."
"May I come in?" I asked.
Nicole Palmer shrugged and motioned me inside. As I entered, I noticed my business card had fluttered out of her hands and landed on the white carpet. She didn't bother to pick it up. Neither did I.
We walked through the spacious home, and she led me onto an outdoor patio. A pool and Jacuzzi were nearby, and the sparkling blue water of the pool shimmered amidst lights on the deck. The backyard was surrounded by a small redwood fence.
"Would you like a glass of wine?" she asked, picking up a bottle of Chardonnay.
I politely declined. Work and alcohol were never a good mix for me.
"So I'm surprised Rex even knew Molly was away," she said, pouring wine unevenly into the glass. "Or did some apple polisher in his campaign point it out?"
"Maybe a little of both. You don't seem too impressed with his staff."
"You think? Those toadies have one goal. To be in the governor's good graces. Whoever the governor winds up being. Trust me, if Rex loses, they'll have their resumes in front of Justin Woo the day after the election."
"You think he'll lose?"
She shrugged. "It was a close win last time."
"Were you involved in Rex's campaign four years ago?" I asked.
"Not so much," she said, taking another sip. "But that shouldn't be surprising. Spouses aren't usually a big part of a campaign, unless it's for president. First ladies matter there. Voters care about who a president is married to. But not a governor. It's just as well. If they knew what our marriage was like, I don't think he'd get many votes."
I took this in. Given the way she was drinking, I imagined his campaign had wanted to keep Nicole Palmer as far away from public view as possible. Her attention was riveted on her golden Chardonnay. She swirled the wine around, and held it up to see how it draped the glass.
"We all have our private lives," I finally said.
"Sure. And Rex's life is so private that I rarely see him these days. He's normally in Sacramento all week, and he flies home on weekends. But with the campaign in full swing, he's staying downtown at the Ritz-Carlton."
&nb
sp; "What about Molly? You don't seem worried. Have you heard from her?"
"Oh, maybe," she said in a high-pitched voice, that was probably intended to make her sound playful, but only served to make her sound tipsy.
"That's an interesting answer," I mused.
"Thank you. Yes. I heard from her. She texted me on Saturday. She said she was staying with a friend after the game."
"Anything since?"
"No," she shrugged. "But Molly's 18 now. She's an adult. She can do what the hell she wants. She can go out with who she wants."
"Who's Molly going out with?"
"You mean this week or last week? Or the week before? I have trouble keeping up."
I shook my head. "Did you know she's missed school?"
"What are you, the truant officer?"
"No," I said, my patience rapidly disappearing. With parenthood a few months away, I was perhaps a little more sensitive to this topic than I might otherwise have been. "But I know parenting doesn't stop just because a child becomes an adult in the eyes of the law."
"Oh, and when does it stop, Mr. Expert?" she said, glaring at me. "When do I get to have my own life? On my own terms? When do I get to stop living my life through my child? Or through my husband? When is it my turn?"
"Sounds like I hit a sore subject," I commented, waiting for her to continue.
"You did all right. Ever since right after college, when I got knocked up by Rex. We decided to get married and have the baby. I thought, okay, there are worse things than being married to a wealthy guy, the son of a former governor. How bad could that be?"
I didn't bother to provide the answer, I knew the Chardonnay would bring it out of her.
"It was plenty bad. Sure, this house is lovely, my family is rich and famous, but let me tell you something, mister. My life is not my own. Everything I do comes under scrutiny. I can't even go out to lunch without someone tweeting about what I ordered. And I'm getting a little sick of it. This place is nothing more than the crown jewel in the California prison system."
"So you wouldn't be unhappy if your husband lost the election?" I observed.
"Take a guess."
With that, she slammed her glass down on the table, and it teetered for a moment before falling onto its side. The small amount of wine still left in it sloshed out and spilled onto the carefully tended grass. She stormed off, leaving me to gaze out at the shimmering pool and the steaming Jacuzzi. After a few minutes, when it became obvious Mrs. Palmer wasn't going to return, I got up and walked through the house. As I approached the front door, I noticed my business card on the white carpet. It was still there when I walked outside to my black Pathfinder.
*
When I arrived home, I smelled something very good. The kind of aroma that makes you hungry. But Gail was not in the kitchen, rather, she was sitting on the couch in the living room, curled up, reading a book. Chewy was curled up next to her.
"Taking a break from slaving over a hot stove?" I asked.
"Not at all, in fact the stove is cold. We're doing takeout tonight. I had a craving."
"I'm praying it's not pickles and ice cream."
"That's an old wives' tale. I can't imagine anyone having that kind of craving," she said. "Nope, I felt like Chinese. There's something about salty foods that I like right now. Pregnancy thing, I'm told."
"Speaking of which, how are you feeling?" I asked.
"Wonderful," she replied. "Except for all this extra weight I'm carrying around."
"All for a good purpose," I said, bending over and kissing her pouty lips. "How was your day?"
"Good, just winding down a few cases. I'll have to hand off everything next month. Doctor Habish said he wanted me at home in December. Bed rest. We're going to have quite a Christmas celebration."
"Indeed."
"I pulled a bottle of wine out for you," she said.
"That's thoughtful sweetheart, but I'm going to pass. It's been a rough day." I sighed, recalling Nicole Palmer's tipsiness and thinking maybe a clear head would be a better choice tonight.
"Goodness, do I dare ask? Most people think of winding down a rough day with a glass or two of something potent in their hand."
"You can't drown your problems," I said, recalling an old axiom I had picked up from a sergeant who went through AA. "They just learn to swim."
I eased onto the couch and slipped my arm around Gail. She responded by putting the book down and nuzzling closer to me. I stroked her chestnut brown hair and gazed into those lovely clear, gray eyes. Chewy looked up and then put her chin down on Gail's lap.
"Tell me about it," she said, stroking the back of Chewy's neck.
"So it's like this. The governor hires me to find his missing 18-year-old daughter. But he doesn't have enough time to spend with me. So he delegates it to his campaign staff, who act like they'd rather be doing just about anything else. The governor's wife says her daughter's disappearance is nothing out of the ordinary. The head of her school says largely the same thing. The girl's friends think she'd be better off staying away from her parents entirely. And all wrapped up in this is the shooting death of her classmate, Diego Garcia. Who she may have been romantically involved with. In fact, she's one of the last people to have been seen with Diego before he was killed."
"Interesting," Gail said. "The city attorney has gotten very intrigued by this case, too. Especially after that blurb in the Times today. They figured out it was Molly rather quickly. Speaking of the Times, did you have lunch with Virgil?"
"Yeah, we went to Philippe's."
"And?"
"Good French dip."
Gail poked me in the ribs. "And ... ?" she asked, raising the timbre of her voice.
"And I made a new friend today. The reporter who's covering that story. Name's Adam Lazar. Guy's a piece of work. Has a smartass answer for everything."
"Oh, really?" she asked, her eyes shining. "You know, sweetie, they say the things we dislike in other people are really the things we dislike in ourselves."
I chuckled. "That come from a psych class?"
"I think I heard it from one of those shrinks that used to be on talk radio."
"Ah."
"And so what do you think of the possibility that the campaign is somehow involved in Diego Garcia's murder?"
"Well, my dear assistant city attorney, I only have circumstantial evidence to tie them together. Not much, in fact. But Diego was identified as having a meal at Langer's recently with a couple of professional-looking folks in suits and ties. It's possible the suits were part of Rex Palmer's campaign. I'm not sure why they would be taking a poor kid in the neighborhood out for a $15 sandwich. But I think they did, and evidently the conversation became a little heated."
"Okay. But you're right. Very circumstantial."
"Anything the assistant city attorney would like to share?"
"Let's see," she said, pursing those pretty lips and wrinkling her brow to pretend she was deep in thought. "A murder investigation that might involve someone close to the governor of the largest state in the union. Sorry, sweetie. Some things I can't share. Other than to say it might be worth looking into."
"Rats. What's the point of sleeping with a beautiful ACA if all I get is great sex and a burgeoning family out of the deal?"
Gail kissed me on the cheek. "You also get Chinese food. Anything else you'd care to share with me about your day?"
"Hmmm," I managed, as we got up and moved six feet to the dining room table. I was clearly looking forward to having more room in our new house. "My other case. I had coffee with Xavier Bishop from SC. Wants me to find out who beat up his girlfriend."
Gail started to laugh as she opened the myriad of white food cartons, steam drifting out of them. "And what did you tell him?"
"I told him I'd try."
"You Trojans stick together. But that one's looking like a slam dunk. A couple argues, an altercation ensues, a young woman gets assaulted and a young man has bruised knuckles."
"Gl
ad you're at least sharing something with me. Are you working on that case?" I asked as I sat down and opened a container of velvet shrimp and spooned some onto my plate.
"No, one of my colleagues was yakking about it at lunch. I guess Xavier was on the radio this morning. Sports talk. Pleading his case to the court of public opinion. But my understanding is we're going to pursue this."
"The kid swears he didn't do it."
"Wouldn't be the first time an athlete lied about his behavior."
"You know," I said, piling white rice next to the shrimp and then adding cashew chicken on top of it. "There will be times when our cases overlap and we wind up on opposing sides. We need to be able to deal with that."
"I can deal with it fine," Gail said, reaching for the velvet shrimp and glancing down into the carton to see how much was left. "But I'll tell you only what I'm at liberty to tell you."
"Sometimes that's enough," I answered, taking a bite of dinner and smiling. Chewy pawed my leg and I responded by shaking my head no. She gave me a disgusted look and turned her attention to Gail.
"There's something else I'm going to tell you," she said, carefully wiping the oil off a piece of chicken and slipping it to Chewy.
"What's that?"
"The velvet shrimp," she smiled. "I'm finishing it."
*
I woke up hearing someone speaking with a Southern twang, a happy voice extolling people to always give their best and let the Lord do the rest. I glanced at my Swiss Army watch and the glowing green hands told me it was 5:40. The pitch black room told me the sun had yet to rise. The only thing I didn't quite know was what day it was. Thanks to Ms. Linzmeier's DVR and her newfound devotion to religion, I got to hear the preacher's sermons on a daily basis. For me though, the only thing getting saved was the ability to get some extra sleep.
I took Chewy for a quick stroll, leading her back to the apartment right after she did her business, denying her a full walk. She gave me a disappointed look when I turned her around before we reached Palisades Park, as if to ask why we weren't going to look out at the ocean today. Maybe tomorrow, I told her. She walked slowly, maybe her way of telling me she didn't think too much of that idea. When we got home, I gave her a piece of rawhide to try and buy my way back into her good graces.
