by Lysa Daley
Punching the call button, it buzzed a couple times. While I waited, I turned a slow circle, taking in my surroundings. So this was how the other half lived? Kind of like Disneyland but nicer.
“Deliveries go around to the service entrance,” said a gruff male voice.
“Oh, um, I'm not delivering anything,” I said quickly before he could hang up. “I'm here about… the stolen item.”
A long pause followed. The silence made me think that I hadn’t been quick enough, and he’d hung up on me.
Until a grating buuuzzzz sounded and the pedestrian gate next to the driveway gate clicked open. I followed an elegant blue slate path, curving to and fro, meandering its way to the main house.
Honestly, I'd seen smaller hotels.
With the French country chateau-style house and the lavender plants and olive trees, you might be fooled into thinking you actually were in Provence and not smack dab in the center of Los Angeles.
One of a pair of oversized oak front doors opened. I came face-to-face with a scowling man in a formal black suit.
“Yes?” he said, sounding bored.
“Mr. Stroud sent me.”
“Another one?” He sighed, looking me up and down. “They must be getting desperate.”
I decided to ignore that. “Could I ask you a few questions?”
“Who exactly are you?” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“My name is Lacey McCray,” I said, extending my hand.
He reluctantly shook my hand and introduced himself. “Jenkins. Head butler of the Mason household.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“I’ve talked to at least four other people from your organization. And now you’re the one they’ve sent us? Did everyone else quit?”
Wow, this guy was a charmer. But then it occurred to me that maybe he was right. Maybe everyone else had already quit. Mr. Stroud said that this was a difficult case, and it had been nearly a month. Maybe all the leads had gone cold, and I was wasting my time.
Of course, there could’ve been some other reason no one wanted this job. Some more sinister reason.
“I’m sorry that you’re disappointed,” I said, trying to get this conversation back on track. “But I’d still like to ask you a few questions.”
“Oh, I am disappointed. And don’t think it’s because you’re a girl,” the butler went on. “They already sent a girl. And let me tell you, she was badass. All spandex and attitude. Karolina something. What are you? You look like a kindergarten teacher.”
“I beg your pardon. I do not look like a kindergarten teacher.” I glanced down at my cotton floral print dress and jean jacket. Maybe a high school teacher. Definitely not a kindergarten teacher.
Note to self: buy some badass clothes.
“Whatever. You do not look like a proper recovery agent.” He leaned on the door, examining his cuticles. “The other ones at least offered me a little incentive to tell them something.”
“You mean a bribe?” I asked. “They bribed you for information.”
He waved a hand in the air. “You make it sound so ugly.”
“If they bribed you, I'm sure they regret it now. Because as far as I know, no one has been able to locate the helmet. Or even come close. Which probably means your information is no good.”
He leaned toward me. “Oh, my information is good, Missy.”
“Right…” I turned to go. My gut told me this was a total waste of time. I’d have to find some other angle.
He called after me. “Listen, chicken, if the others haven’t found it, you won’t either. That’s for sure.” Then the big heavy door slammed shut with a boom.
Why was everyone slamming the door on me today?
I marched back the way I‘d to come, down the blue slate path to the pedestrian gate. But when I got there, the gate wouldn't open. It was locked. I shook it a couple times, hoping someone, somewhere, on some security camera, would see me stranded at the gate and take pity on me.
No one did.
The butler was probably watching me, laughing his ass off.
I could have either stood there and waited for a car to arrive at the main gate, so I could slip out. Or I could’ve scaled the twelve-foot fence.
Neither option seemed good.
A second narrower slate path snaked along the edge of the fence toward the south side of the property.
I followed it past a hedge of flowering oleanders and stumbled upon the service entrance with a much simpler, less ornate wooden gate. An older Hispanic man stood in the shade, washing a big shiny Mercedes with a sudsy sponge.
He looked up and waved as I approached. “Well now, you must be lost,” he said with a bright smile.
“I got stuck at the pedestrian gate,” I said, happy to encounter a friendly face.
He chuckled, pointing at a small bank of black and white TVs that displayed a live feed to the grounds. “Yes, I saw you. Boss man likes us to know when he's coming and going. That way we can run over and get his car back to the garage.” He must have read my thoughts because he added, “I can’t open the main gate from here. But I can open this gate.”
“That would be great.” I smiled and moved toward the small, plain gate.
“You here about the maid’s job?” he asked.
“No, I’m a —” I stopped. Something clicked. “Yeah, but I don't think I'm going to get it. Not enough experience.”
“Probably better off anyway. If I were a young person like you, I’d get myself into community college. Pretty girl like you might even do good in beauty school.”
“That's not a bad idea. In fact, I'm trying to raise money for college tuition right now.”
“Lots of better jobs than being a maid.”
“Did she get fired?”
“Rosario?” He shook his head sadly. “No. Poor thing was real upset about breaking up with her boyfriend. So upset, she kept showing up late. Boss man gave her the axe.”
“When was that?”
“Two, three weeks ago.” He seemed to consider this for a moment. “Well, actually, it was more like a month back.”
Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe it wasn’t. The helmet of Perseus disappeared about a month ago.
I decided it was time for someone to have a little chat with Rosario.
“You don't happen to have her cell number, do you?” Then as a way of explaining my interest, I said, “I might know of a job lead for her.”
“I don’t have her number,” he said, polishing the front headlights with a shammy. “But she lives in my neighborhood, right off Wilshire and Western. I can give you her address.”
Chapter Nine
I googled Rosario’s full name and address and stumbled upon a photo of her from a high school reunion two summers ago. Plain and a little chubby would be an accurate description. But she had soft, kind eyes. They didn’t seem like the eyes of a thief.
Still, she was the only lead I had, so I was going to follow it up.
Rosario lived two blocks away from Wilshire and Western in an old Spanish apartment on St. Andrews Place. This neighborhood, known as Wilshire Center, sat in the heart of the city.
If you were in the market for Salvadoran tamales or some top-rated Korean barbecue, you came to the right place.
It was a solid mix of Hispanics and Asians. The good people who lived in this lower middle class area were the working heartbeat of L.A. Many found employment as gardeners, nannies, cooks and housekeepers, along with a few young hipsters drawn in by the reasonable rents in a city of generally unreasonable prices.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t a good way to get from my neighborhood across town to Wilshire and Western, so I ended up snaking my way east through a forest of never-ending stoplights on Wilshire Blvd. The five mile trip took thirty-five minutes.
L.A. has some of the worst traffic on the planet. Possibly in the entire galaxy.
I parked at a meter on a side street half a block from Rosario’s apartment, then found a seat in an A
sian ice cream/donut shop on the corner. Before I tracked down Rosario, I had time for an extra large iced boba—a flavored tea with small delicious chewy tapioca balls that get sucked up through an extra wide straw. I’d never had Boba before I moved to California.
From where I sat at a small round table near the window, I could see the rusted front security gate of her dilapidated two-story apartment building.
Assuming I could find her, what would I have said if we came face to face? Hi, I'm wondering if you happened to steal a precious ancient magical item from your former boss? Or if you have any information about it?
Yeah… that probably wasn't going to work.
After tossing around some equally bad opening line options, I decided the best approach would be to do a little surveillance. See what I could see. And then, if it appeared as if she might actually have the helmet, I could figure something out then.
For the first half hour, no one came or went from the apartment building. It made me wonder if there was a rear entrance that was more convenient for the residents.
But as I finished my second salted caramel Boba, I nearly fell out of my chair when a woman matching Rosario’s description came trudging out the front gate. She was unmistakable in her old-fashioned black and white maid’s uniform. She looked like something out of the 1950s.
Looked like Rosario found herself another job. Good for her.
She carried a small purse-backpack but also hoisted a large plastic grocery bag over her shoulder. Whatever was in the bag was both bulky and heavy. Could it actually be the helmet?
My lucky break continued as she crossed the street and headed in my direction. For a moment, I had a fleeting thought that she actually knew I was watching her.
That was ridiculous, of course.
I tried to look like I wasn’t staring as she walked closer, but I wanted to get a good look at the bulky grocery bag. Sucking up the last of the boba balls, I glanced up as she passed the window.
From what I could see, it was entirely possible that the helmet was inside the bag. Of course, it could have also been a sack of lemons or a couple pairs of shoes.
I slipped out of the shop and followed her as she turned the corner onto Wilshire Boulevard. She crossed at the corner, and I even managed to slip easily into the crosswalk before the light changed from green to red.
I was obviously a natural at tailing a suspect. This was all going really well.
Feeling pretty good about myself, I suddenly realized she was about to jump on the city bus. She was the last one to leap on before the doors closed.
Shoot. I was going to lose her if I didn’t hurry.
Ignoring my frantically waving arms, the bus pulled into traffic. Like a fool, I chased it down the block, yelling and waving, but it didn’t stop.
All I could do was watch the orange and white metro bus accelerate passed me in a plume of noxious exhaust.
So much for my amazing surveillance skills.
Luckily, because rush hour had inched its way in, traffic had slowed to a crawl. I stood on the corner watching the tall bus stop and go, stop and go, down the four lanes of dense traffic.
If I hurried I could make it back to my car to follow them. I looked up just as the light blinked from yellow to red. Attempting to jaywalk across the street would be suicide. I had no choice but to wait for the light to change.
Which was taking forever.
As I stood there, I kept my eyes on the still visible bus. Finally, the light turned green. Halfway across the street, I saw the bus take a left.
Great. It was gone from my line of sight. Hurrying down St. Andrews Place past the boba shop, I returned to the spot where I’d parked my car only to discover it wasn't there anymore.
“Where’s my car?”
My heart raced. Had someone actually stolen my car? I’d only been away from it for half an hour. There was still money in the meter.
Standing in the empty parking spot where my car had previously been, an elderly Korean man sweeping the sidewalk said, “You have Civic?”
I spun around, desperate for information. “Yes. Did you see it?”
He nodded. “Tow truck came.”
“What?” How could I get towed? I put way more than enough money in the meter.
He pointed up at the sign behind my car that read “no parking between 4pm and 7pm.” Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was 4:07pm.
Fantastic. I hadn’t read the stupid sign and now my car was gone.
The question was what to do now? Did I call an Uber to go retrieve my car at the impound lot? And how much was that going to cost me? A few hundred dollars, probably. Which I really couldn’t afford to pay.
Did I give up on following Rosario?
It seemed no matter what I did lately, I just got myself farther and farther into a financial hole.
There was another option. I wasn’t going to quit.
I hurried around the corner into an alleyway and away from the watchful Korean man’s gaze. The alley was empty with the exception of a homeless guy sleeping on an abandoned mattress. Sprawled on his back, he looked passed out.
I ducked behind the dumpster. Closing my eyes, I formed a picture in my mind, chanted the spell and shifted into a bird.
Birds were tricky.
Getting their wings right can be complicated. And if they weren’t exactly, precisely, right, then trying to fly wasn’t such a great idea. Trust me; I’d crashed landed more than once.
Bursting into the air and hoping for the best, I took flight as a small colorful bird.
The homeless man, who I thought was sleeping, bolted straight up. “Holy hell!”
Guess he wasn’t quite so passed out after all.
Oh well, I felt bad he saw me transfigure. I hoped he didn’t go around telling people about the girl who turned into a bird and flew away. Everyone would think he’d gone totally bonkers, and lock him up.
My wings stretched out, rhythmically flapping, lifting me skyward. So far so good. Everything seemed to be working correctly.
I hoped I could remember exactly how to stay aloft. After flying a couple circles and loops, I got the hang of it again.
Birds were my favorite. Flying felt nothing short of amazing. Total freedom.
I’d taken the form of a red-breasted finch, a common songbird. Twice as many finches probably lived in Southern California as humans. No one would pay any attention to me, not even the other finches.
If I wanted, I could have chosen something bigger, like a hawk or a raven, but I might not have been able to hold onto that form for very long. The smaller the animal, the easier it was for me to maintain its form for a longer period of time.
I could stay a songbird for at least an hour. Maybe two.
My father, a full mage and a rare class four animagi, could easily transform into much larger animal. Eagles and coyotes, even the occasional black bear, were a snap for him. And he could stay in their form for days at a time.
Growing up, he’d promised me that I would eventually become as skilled as him. It was a matter of practice and experience. But because I rarely practiced, my experience remained limited. And would probably stay that way.
Still, I had to confess, being a bird was pretty crazy incredible.
Once I felt comfortable with my wings, I soared up and over the treetops, buildings, and telephone poles, heading southwest in the direction where I’d last seen Rosario and the bus.
There was only a slight west headwind, so the flying was easy. The form of a bird saved me a lot of time because I could cut across the city diagonally. Gliding around the old art deco Wiltern Theater, on the corner of Wilshire and Western, I quickly spotted the bus three blocks away.
I felt a little rush of relief.
That is until I saw a second bus half a block past the first bus. From above, they looked identical. Which one was she on?
Luckily, because of the heavy traffic, they both crept forward at a slow pace, and I caught up to them.
&n
bsp; I trailed behind the two orange and silver behemoths, gliding just high enough to avoid breathing in their black bus exhaust.
I had to figure out which bus was carrying Rosario. But in order to do that, I needed to get down lower so I could see in through the bus’s wide windows.
The heat off the pavement, along with the wind, and the uneven air flow of the automobiles, could be pretty treacherous to small bird. If I wasn’t careful and got too low, I might’ve gotten sucked right down into traffic.
Up ahead, a stoplight flickered from yellow to red. Great timing. Both buses, along with the rest of the traffic, would temporary stop, making my navigation a lot safer.
Unfortunately, the buses were about to part ways. One inched over a lane waiting to turn left onto Pico Boulevard, while the other would continue southbound on Western Boulevard.
I had to work fast.
Gliding on outstretched wings, I slowed my pace and descended to bus level. Holding steady, I flew past the windows of the first bus.
No Rosairo.
I swooped around and made a second pass from the other direction, confirming that she wasn't on this bus.
The stop light flicked green, and the second bus rumbled on through the intersection. Chasing after the second bus, it occurred to me that it was possible she had already gotten off at an earlier stop. Unlikely, but possible. I may have already lost her.
I took my chances and continued following the second bus, but it was so packed with passengers that I couldn’t tell if she was on it or not.
The bus drifted to the right, slowing to a stop to let passengers on and off. When this happened, I tried to land on a light post to watch.
My biggest challenge came when I had to fly over the 10 Freeway. The whooshing air currents and pollution from a dozen lanes of rush-hour traffic forced me much higher up in the air than I felt comfortable flying.
At this height, it was difficult to navigate and fly straight. As my tired wings feverishly beat, I glanced to my side at a much larger bird flying toward me.
