by Erin Huss
Once the application was safely in Patrick's inbox, I opened my laptop and connected to the internet (my phone was a hot spot, because I'm fancy like that. Also, Patrick paid for it). I conducted my usual prospective resident investigation. Starting with all social media accounts: Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, and Twitter. Fox's smolder and washboard abs were on all of them. He even had an IMDb account. His most recent role was two months ago as Dead Guy #6 in an episode of If Only.
Which was more impressive than a rental magazine.
Based on all his social media accounts, Fox didn't appear to be a drug dealer, or a party animal, or crazy, and that was about all I cared about.
Time to do the resident verification.
I called his current landlord.
"Liberty Park Apartments, this is Stanley."
"My name is Cambria Clyne, and I'm calling from Elder Property Management. I have a rental verification for your resident in Apartment 412, named—"
"I know Fox."
FYI: not a good sign.
"Can I send over a rental verification form?" I asked.
"We're not able to give out any information about residents aside from rent amount. Company policy."
That's code for:
A) This resident has been given notice to vacate, but I can't tell you that, because then he'll possibly sue me.
Or:
B) This resident pays his rent on time but is a royal pain in my rear.
My rear already had plenty of pains, but Burbank had plenty of vacancies. "At the very least, I need to verify he lives there. I have a signed rental application I can send," I said.
"If you go to our website, there's an online form you can submit. It's Star Management Inc. dot com backslash Liberty Park."
I froze. "You work for Star Management Inc.?" Dumb question. He just said he did. So I followed it up with, "Do you know anything about the place Star manages off Sepulveda?"
"Palmwood Park?"
"No."
"Seashore Park?"
"No."
"Rosewood Park?"
I was sensing a pattern.
As Stanley talked, I looked up the Star Management website and searched through the properties listed. Every building in the Southern California region had "Park" in the title. Even a Seagull Park located in Santa Monica. An unfortunate name choice. Seagulls crapped everywhere and stole your food—not an animal I would want associated with my apartment building.
In short, all Parks and no Creeks.
Unless I was missing something. "Does Star manage a place called Cedar Creek?" I asked.
"No," said Stanley, and my head imploded.
"Are you sure? Could it have been a newly acquired property?"
"No. I'm the district manager, helping out today because my PM is on maternity leave."
This meant two things:
1) Stanley was well acquainted of all Star rental properties in the area.
2) Out of the thousands of residents he was over, he still knew Fox by apartment number and first name only.
Not a great sign.
"If you submit the form within the next ten minutes, I can get it back to you right away."
"I will, thank you." I hung up, slid the phone down from my cheek slowly, and stared at the website. The company logo, the five small golden stars in a circle around an S, the same logo on the rental increase. Well, except for the color. Cedar Creek's rental increase had silver stars. Unless there were two Star Management companies?
I googled Star Management and…nope, only one.
Next, I googled Violet Pumpkin Los Angeles, California and got over 5,588,000 results.
Geez.
I skimmed through the first one hundred pages. The top hits were her private social media accounts, Cedar Creek's Facebook page, website, and roughly twenty different bakeries that offered pumpkin pie.
At the bottom of page ninety-five, one hit caught my eye:
Fictitious Business Name—Los Angeles Flyer—Ad Pay—Legal Notices
The Los Angeles Flyer was a free magazine delivered on Thursdays. They'd come by and dump forty on my doorstep. I'd give most to Silvia so she could line the bottom of Harold's cage and left a few in the office for residents to grab. Which they never did.
I clicked on the link.
The ad you are looking for has expired or is no longer available.
I should have dropped it.
But I couldn't.
"Flyer's Ad department, this is Santiago," answered a man with a Spanish accent.
I could hear fingers typing away on keyboards in the background, like a busy news office. Which I found funny. The Flyer mostly ran fluff pieces, classified ads, and obituaries.
"Hello, my name is Cambria Clyne the apartment manager—" I caught myself. Some habits are hard to break. "I'm on your website trying to find an ad for a fictitious business name, but it says it's expired."
"When was the ad placed?"
I went back to my original search and read the description below the hit.
Fictitious Business Name—Los Angeles Flyer—Ad Pay—Legal Notices
May 11, 2011. Full Name of Registrant: Violet Marie Pumpkin. The business is conducted by an individual.
I relayed this information to Santiago.
"The ads are up on the website for thirty days only," he said.
"Is there any way you could look up the original order placed and let me know what the name of the business is?"
"Hold on." The line went silent, and I drummed my fingers on my laptop.
"Momma, can I be done now?" Lilly asked.
"Sure…ahhh!" Rice covered the floor, and Lilly had flipped the Tupperware container over and was using it as a hat. I sandwiched the phone between my shoulder and ear, grabbed the broom, and swept up the mess.
Santiago came back. "Superior Tenancy Apartment Rentals."
"Superior Tenancy Apartment Rentals," I repeated. What a mouthful. I imagined having to answer the phone, Superior Tenancy Apartment Rentals, this is…
I slowly lowered my arm to my side, phone still in hand, Santiago still talking. Lilly still wearing Tupperware, rice and farm animals still on floor.
The company acronym was STAR!
I hung up on Santiago, abandoned the broom, and went back to the laptop, my fingers shaking as they pounded around on the keyboard. The website for Cedar Creek filled my monitor, and I searched each tab, looking for the link to a management company.
But there wasn't one.
I didn't want to jump to conclusions…
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
—But I did anyway…
"I believe Violet rented certain units under her own management company. She created Superior Tenancy Apartment Rentals so she could use the STAR acronym. That way, when a prospective resident looked up the management company, they'd see the real Star Management and assume they were the same. Star has a great reputation. She kept the rent money on those units for herself. The apartments are over four thousand dollars a month, which meant even if she had six or seven units, she was pulling in over twenty thousand dollars each month! Around the four-month mark, she'd pass out a rental increase giving residents the option to pay more or sign a lease for the same price. I bet the lease would be with the owners of the building! Violet didn't allow Stormy to do any of the management. She never trained her to use the software. And Antonio, the maintenance man, isn't in charge of turning vacant units. The owners don't get along with Violet and were looking for a reason to let her go, which is probably why they were doing an audit. Violet was about to be caught! It all makes perfect sense now!"
"And you figured this all out by doing a Google search?" Chase asked.
I switched the phone to my other ear. "Yes."
"Did you tell Hampton?"
"He didn't answer when I called." And I called several times. Like ten. "Where are you? I can barely hear you."
"I'm at the Vegas airport, standing in line about to board my connector flight home. Wher
e are you?"
"We're standing in front of Cedar Creek."
I could almost hear Chase shaking his head. "Why?"
"Waiting. Stormy must be giving a tour, because she's not in the office. But it's not like I'm going to tell her what I suspect about Violet."
"Then why are you there, Cambria?"
"I want to find something to debunk my theory. Even if Violet lied about her daughter, I still respected her as a manager. I respected her career. She gave me something to aspire to." And I didn't aspire to be a liar and a thief.
"You tampering with evidence or inadvertently tipping someone off who is involved could severely damage this case." His voice was stern. He rarely used his stern voice. It was hot.
Note to self: Google how long the flight from Vegas to LAX is.
"Can we go home now?" Lilly pulled on my hand. "Pleeeaaassseee."
"Tell Lilly I have a gift for her," Chase said.
I relayed the message to Lilly, and her eyes went wide. "When can me have it?"
"It's I, and when he gets home," I said.
Lilly puffed out her chest and jerked around in a circle.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"A sexy man shimmy!"
Oh geez.
"Did she just say 'sexy man shimmy'?" Chase asked.
I could hear the familiar swooshing and pinging sounds of the inside of the plane, and I pictured Chase pulling his suitcase down the narrow aisle, looking for his seat.
"She sure did." I placed a hand on Lilly's shoulder to stop her. Even though it looked less like a shimmy and more like an epileptic episode. If she sexy man shimmied in front of Tom, he'd have a heart attack.
"Thank you," Chase said to someone other than me. "Cambria, I just sat down, and I have a minute before we take off. Real quickly, I want to emphasize this. Don't talk to Stormy or Antonio right now. Try Hampton again, and if he doesn't answer, send him a text. He might be unable to answer his phone, but he should be able to read a text."
"Fine," I said. "We did find the guy who ran me down in the stairwell. His name is David Rocklynn. Ever heard of him?" Long shot. Los Angeles had almost four million residents. But before Chase worked as a detective, he worked undercover with the narcotics division and had met a lot of perps. He also loved Hollywood Pizza.
"Short hair. Early twenties. Sleeve tattoos. Looks like a young Bob Saget."
Dang. "Yes! How do you know him?"
"We've had a few run-ins. He works as a bookie. Taking illegal bets on everything from horse races to reality television."
Reality television?
I thought about the magazine in Violet's desk, with Raven's—the season's favorite to win—bio dog-eared and the -100 written beside it. If Amy was this season's favored to go home first and had +2500, and Raven was this season's favored to win and was a -100, then minus must be good and plus must be bad. Violet went missing the night of the shocking elimination. Could she have placed a large bet on Raven, and when she was eliminated, David came looking for Violet, ready to collect his money. When she couldn't pay, he took her, and she was currently being tortured or held at ransom until she's able to come up with the money?
Holy crap!
"I gotta go," I said. "Travel safe. Can't wait to see you. Bye." I hung up and composed a seven-paragraph text message that took three minutes for my phone to send to Hampton.
"Let's go." I grabbed Lilly by the hand and turned to leave.
"Yo, Cambria!" someone yelled, and I turned around to see who was calling my name. "Up here!"
I used my hand as a visor. Antonio was on a third floor balcony, waving. I waved. Lilly waved. We did this for awhile.
"You looking for Stormy?" he asked. "She's giving a tour."
"I was, but it's not important. I'll come by later."
Antonio leaned over and rested his elbows on the patio railing. "Did you hear the news? They arrested a guy in Apartment 105."
An arrest!
No wonder Hampton hadn't gotten back to me. Last I heard he was going to question David, not arrest him. A shrill of sadness swept down me. Perhaps I was right. Violet was embezzling money. Violet was gambling on Celebrity Tango. David came looking to collect from Violet, and one thing led to another…
Note to self: move to Montana.
Lilly tapped my leg. "You bum is making a noise."
Huh?
Oh, my phone!
"I have to go!" I yelled up to Antonio and slapped my cell to my ear without checking who it was. Surely it had to be Hampton calling to update me on David's arrest and Violet's whereabouts. "Hello?"
"Curious," came Patrick's familiar authoritative tone. "Do I still employ you?"
That felt like a rhetorical question.
I answered anyway. "Yes?"
"Good, because I was trying to figure out why there is no manager at the LA building or the Burbank building and why I have a three-day-old application in my inbox."
The line beeped, and I checked to see who was calling in.
Kevin.
Whatever it was, he could wait.
Ignore Call.
"I'm sorry, Patrick." I swung Lilly up on my hip and hurried home. "It's been busy here. I've done all the background checks on Fox…" Ahhhh! Except I hadn't. I never did send in the resident verification.
Crap.
It was like I was subconsciously trying to get myself fired.
"His credit is decent," Patrick said. "Not great. Not horrible either. He has a large balance on an Abercrombie & Fitch credit card. What did you find out?"
Errrrr…ummmm… I wrestled with my conscience.
On one hand: I could pretend I'd done the resident verification and tell Patrick everything checked on my end. Of course, if I did that and Fox turned into a nightmare resident, it would come back to me.
On the other hand: we'd done a complete background check on residents before and they turned out to be psychopaths.
So there was that.
"Cambria?"
…Errrrr…
"Cambria?"
…Errrrr…
"You still there?"
"I didn't do the verification, Patrick! I'm sorry." I followed a resident through the pedestrian gate so I wouldn't have to dig through my bag for my keys. "I dropped the ball, and I will take care of it right away."
The line beeped. It was Kevin, again.
Ignore Call.
Patrick huffed into the phone, and I pictured him rubbing his temples. "Please get the verification done now so we can get him moved in."
"I'm on it." I passed Mickey, who was talking to himself, and Silvia, who was talking to Harold, grabbed a soda can out of the bush and tossed it into the trash. "Also, do you know if the apartment is gluten-free? Fox wants to know. He's no longer eating gluten, or eggs, or…a few other things."
"Hello?"
I could now picture Patrick staring heavenward. "I have no idea. Tell him not to eat the walls and he should be fine."
I couldn't help but laugh. "I'll email you once I find out about the rental verification."
"Please." His tone was lighter. "Any word on Violet?"
Errrr…ummmm… I wanted to tell Patrick what I'd discovered but ultimately decided to keep it to myself. "They've made an arrest, but as far as I know she's not been found."
"That's a shame. Keep me posted."
I promised to do so and hung up just as Kevin called, again.
"Kevin this isn't a good time." I set Lilly down and dug around in my purse in search of my keys.
"I found your guy." His voice was barely audible over the swooshing of traffic in the background.
"Which guy?"
"Clint Eastwood."
I paused. "Where?"
"You've got to see for yourself."
I rolled my eyes and found my keys. "Can you just tell me?"
"No. You have to see this in person."
I looked down at Lilly. Then at my door. Then at the keys in my hand.
I had so mu
ch work to do.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
—But I went anyway.
The address Kevin gave took us to a 7-11 across the street from County Hospital. He was waiting by his car, wearing his work coverall and sucking down a large Slurpee.
"I'm here." I climbed out of my car, flipped the passenger-side seat down, leaned into the back, and unbuckled Lilly. "Where's the guy?"
A Cheshire cat smile spread across Kevin's face. "You're going to flip out." He reached for his phone, and I smacked his hand.
"You're not recording me flipping out."
"Please," he begged. "This could go viral."
"Is that why you made me come down here?"
He stuck the straw into the corner of his mouth, which answered my question.
Heaven help me. I may smack this man upside the head.
"I doubt whatever you show me will rival the information I've potentially uncovered today." I helped Lilly out of the car and used my hip to close the door.
"We'll see about that," he said, as if challenge accepted.
Great.
Kevin waved for us to follow. I held Lilly close. The street was busy, and a line of cars waited to turn into the underground parking structure. Nurses and doctors walked to and from the hospital entrance—some staring at their phones, others talking on them. I sidestepped the man asleep on the sidewalk using a newspaper as a blanket.
"Why is he sleeping on the ground?" Lilly pointed.
"Don't do drugs," the man grumbled.
Oh geez.
We stopped at the corner among a sea of people waiting to cross. Downtown Los Angeles smelled like BO, smog, and, now that marijuana is legal, pot. Lots and lots of pot. The light turned green, and everyone walked, except for Kevin. "You ready?" he asked.
"Fine. I'm ready. Is he one of these guys sleeping on the ground? Or that guy over there peeing on the tree? Or…what in the world? Is that dude dressed like Michael Jackson, or is he supposed to be Cher?"
"Monica Lewinsky." Kevin grabbed me by the shoulders and manually turned me around so my back faced the hospital.
"I still don't see him," I said, growing impatient.
