Eats to Die For! (3 page)

“I suppose having the battery run out is too convenient.”

“Oh, come on. Have you ever run out of juice while working a case?”

I almost hated to confess that yes, I had. I had forgotten to charge my phone so when I needed it the next day, it was dead.

“Crikey,” Jack said, after hearing my confession, “you should get two.”

“Two phones?”

“Yes, so while you're carrying one, the other's always charging, and…oh, bollocks! I've just made my problem twice as bad, haven't I?”

“Only if you've already established that Tory Poacher has two phones precisely for that reason.”

“I haven't, but it's such a good idea that I've got to do it at the end of this book, after he's gotten out, just so he can make certain this never happens again. I'm dying, David, naked to mine enemies. Please help. Is there never really a time when you don't carry your mobile phone?”

“When I'm in the shower or in bed.”

“No good. He's accosted in a crowded movie theatre.”

“A movie theatre?”

“His client is a big director and Tory's been invited to a screening of a movie the guy's made because the director is anticipating trouble from one of the producers, and don't bother telling me that you have to power down the mobile once inside the theatre, because I know that. You can always power it back up later, so he still has the damn thing.”

“Jack, is this a pre-release screening?”

“Yes, like a sneak preview, but with a lot of people in attendance. You know how much I like the idea of somebody disappearing from a crowd.”

“Then you've solved your own problem, Jack.”

“How so?”

“Have you ever been to a sneak preview?”

“Only movies made from my own books, though the last one was quite some time back. Why do you ask?”

“Because if you go to a screening or preview today, you can't take in your phone or any other device that could record what's shown on the screen. The studio's are paranoid about film piracy, so if you're packing, so to speak, they literally confiscate your phone and put it in a little plastic bag and hold it until—”

“That's brilliant!” Jack shouted. “Tory goes to the screening, has to surrender his phone, and is abducted before he can get it back! Then it becomes a question of who has it! David, my boy, J.D. owes you a lunch, with gratitude.”

“I'll take it. But in the meantime, I have a return question for you.”

“Make it quick. Now that I'm back on track, I have to get typing.”

Oh, I do hope I'm not inconveniencing you
, the mordant voice of Vincent Price said in my head.

“Jack, someone broke into my office today and planted a bug.”

“A bug? Who'd want to spy on you?”

A thought bulleted through my mind: it might be someone from the legal dream team defending a certain killer I had brought to justice, who had threatened to crucify me in court when the trial finally occurred. But if so, they would probably have been more professional about it.

I didn't wish to tell Jack any of this.

“I've no idea,” I said instead. “What would Tory Poacher do?”

“Well, Tory would look out the window, see a strange van with tinted windows, deduce that's where the listener is, and run down to the street to confront it, only to have the van speed away from the curb, leaving Tory in a cloud of exhaust, which serves to obscure his view of the rear license plate. But then he would look down and find something, like an Irish Sweepstakes ticket from 1957, lying on the ground where the van had been.”

“What's the Irish Sweepstakes got to do with it?”

“I haven't the foggiest. I'm making all this up. It's what I do.”

“Look, at least tell me how I can trace this device. Maybe where it was bought. I know there are commercial spy shops in town, so could I go in and ask who purchased one of these?”

He laughed.

“David, this is L.A. Not only are there commercial spy shops in town, there are so many of them that you might as well go into a Whole Foods market and ask who bought the organic eggplant. These days, you probably don't even have to go into a spy shop, just go to one of those sex stores and find microphones and perv cameras on the same aisle as the handcuffs. Or go online and get your spy gear delivered by a drone, thank you Mr. Bezos. I think you're looking at a dead end.”

“Yeah, well, at least I know where to buy handcuffs now.”

“That's so twentieth century,” Jack said, laughing. “These days the cops are likely to use nylon cable ties instead of bracelets.”

“Nothing is the way it used to be, is it?”

“Only rejection. That is the one fixed point in a changing world. Now, if you'll excuse me, the voice of my muse is screaming in my head. I have to get back to work.”

You're lucky
, I thought.
You have only one voice. I have dozens
.

“I'll let you know about lunch,” he said, and then hung up.

“Great,” I said to the dead line, and replaced the receiver. Since my window didn't face the street, I didn't bother to get up and go look for a van, but I still did not know what to do with the bug. Stomping it to bits didn't seem like a good idea, since it was possible the thing could still bear a clue as to its planter, but just sticking it in my desk drawer wasn't a good idea, either, since I only assumed I had deactivated it by removing the card.

Now would be an outstanding time for one of my friends to chime in and give me a suggestion. Bogie? Any ideas? Mitch? Basil Rathbone? Lloyd Nolan? George Sanders? Heck, Johnny Weissmuller? Anyone?

While I didn't hear Johnny's voice, which would likely have consisted of little more than “Me, Tarzan; you, stupid,” it was simply thinking of the former Olympic swimming champion that gave me the solution. Swimming…water…tank of water.

Going to the small kitchenette that came with the office, I grabbed a food storage bag, the kind with the zipper closer, from the cupboard and put the bug and SIM card into it. Then I took my only two spoons and put them in as well (I'd bring some more from home). When I was done I squeezed out all the air I could and zipped it shut, and took it to the equally small bathroom that came with the office, took the lid off the toilet tank and dropped in the baggie. If the thing was still working, whoever was listening would be getting some mighty interesting sounds.

There was little left for me to do but lock up and head home, because in my experience, nobody contacts private investigators after four in the afternoon.

It was another successful day at Beauchamp Investigations.

After powering down my laptop, I closed up and headed out.

Driving down Ventura toward my apartment, I fought down an urge to stop at the brand-new Burger Heaven, not because I was hungry already, but just to see Louie and tell her how I was progressing on the case.

But'cha aren't Dave, ya aren't
! Bette Davis was nice enough to point out.

Well, I could still check in with her, couldn't I?

As I drove by, I saw the tomato waving alongside all the other ingredients, and rolled down my window to wave. Then I stopped.

The tomato was there, all right, but it was not Luisa Sandoval. It was a young African-American woman wearing the same costume. Well, maybe Louie's shift had ended.

You really think it's that simple, kid
? Bogie said.

Until he had piped up, I was certainly hoping.

CHAPTER THREE

I made a flash decision to turn into the Burger Heaven. I was not particularly hungry, having eaten a Twin Halo only a couple hours ago, but damned if I wasn't also drooling at the thought of having another one. Could it be that Louie was right?

Pulling into the first parking spot I saw, I got out and went inside. There was a line for the order counter—there always is—and I waited patiently until I got up there. A very young, fresh-faced, overly made-up woman smiled effusively at me and said, “Hello, welcome to Burger Heaven, how may I help you?” Her voice had a Midwestern twang, which probably meant she was on last month's bus from Iowa or Missouri or Indiana, one of a thousand wannabe actresses ready to take their shot at the big time.

“Oh, just a regular burger, I guess.”

“Not the combo?”

“No, not the combo.”

“Our fries are awfully good.”

“Yes, I know they are, but I'm not hungry enough for a full meal. Just a regular burger.”

“All righty,” she said, grinning, and calling the order into a microphone. The burger was wrapped and on a tray within thirty seconds, and I carried it over to the first vacant table. Sitting there, munching the burger, I looked through the front wall of windows to watch the ingredients dancing and skipping about outside the restaurant. I may not be much as a PI, but I didn't have to dress up as a pickle to earn bed and board.

I was about to pop the last, rather large piece of burger into my mouth when a voice said,
You're not going to finish that, are you
? It was Lauren Bacall, and she arrived just in time. The point of my being here was to bring home a leftover. Looking longingly at the aromatic six-ply of buns, meat, tomato, lettuce and onion, I forced myself to wrap it up inside a napkin. After carrying my tray to the stack above the trash can, I started for the door, cupping the still-warm ort in my hand, thinking that whatever I decided to charge Luisa Sandoval for the patty chunk was the easiest money I ever made.

I was just about to go through the door when someone suddenly touch my elbow from behind. Turning, I saw a very tall woman in a security guard uniform, which bore a shoulder patch containing the Burger Heaven logo, holding a clipboard. “Thank you for coming, sir,” she said. “If you can spare a moment, we'd like you to take a survey.”

“A survey?”

“Yes, regarding how often you come to Burger Heaven, what you order, and so on.”

“Oh, well…”

“It will only take a minute or two, and in return for you time and information, we will give you a gift certificate for your next visit.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.” She smiled broadly, which made her look very unlike a security guard.

“All right,” I said.

“Excellent, let's just step out of the doorway.” She led me a few steps away to an alcove, and handed me the clipboard. “It's just a few questions.”

Since taking the clipboard and writing on it took two hands, I had to set the napkin-wrapped burger bite down on the counter. The survey questions were pretty basic: Do you live in the neighborhood? How often to you visit Burger Heaven? The prices are competitive; Agree, Disagree, Don't Know…that sort of thing. It did, in fact, take only a minute to complete, including jotting down my email to receive further coupons. I handed everything back to the grinning guard who thanked me so emphatically one would think I'd just donated a kidney to her, and handed me the gift certificate.

I glanced down at it and saw it was for ten bucks! “This is very nice,” I said, but when I looked up again, she was gone.

And so was the wrapped up bit of burger I'd set down to take the survey.

Okay, all right; somebody thought it was trash and picked up like a good employee. That's all.

You're
certain
of that
, the voice of Raymond Burr intoned in my head, phrasing as a statement, not a question.

Well…even if I was not convinced, with a ten dollar gift certificate, I could try it again sometime.

Right now I thought I have a word with the new tomato. Going outside, I sidled up to the happy group on the sidewalk, only to be told to get out of the shot by a woman taking a picture of them with her phone. Once the woman was done, I went to the tomato and said hi. She smiled without really looking at me, handed me an ad flier and said, by rote, “There's no hunger in Heaven.”

“Got a second to talk?” I asked.

“Sorry, but we're not suppose to fraternize, just perform,” she replied.

“Well, I was really hoping to talk to Luisa anyway, you know, the tomato who was here earlier today?”

The tomato handed a flier to a middle-aged Japanese man, whose expression indicated that he was wondering on what planet he has suddenly found himself.

“Don't know any Luisa,” she said, “and I've been here since nine this morning.”

“But—”

“Sir,” another voice said, and I turned to see the happy security guard, only now she wasn't quite so happy. “I'm very sorry, sir, but we can't really allow you to interfere with the duties of the Heavenly Host.”

“The Heavenly Host?”

“The performers. Please, sir.” Taking my arm, she started pulling me away gently but firmly—firmly enough as to imply that if I became a problem it would no longer be gently. “It's an insurance problem, you see.”

I didn't, really, but I decided not to press the issue. “I am sorry. They're just so…”

“Heavenly,” she finished for me.

“That's the word. Well, thank you again for the gift certificate. Goodbye.”

“Have a heavenly day, sir. Come again.”

As I walked back to my car, I attempted to make sense of what had gone on today. The new woman in the tomato suit was plainly lying, because I had seen for myself Louie Sandoval standing out in front of the restaurant, but what was the point of lying? Nothing made any sense.

I drove down Ventura toward home, but while stopped at a light, I made another decision. Louie had wanted me to get a burger sample, and I had failed. Even though I still found it a little hard to swallow that it was impossible, I had failed. So I decided I was going to go get a piece of hamburger or die trying. I made a quick left turn at the next street, went around the block, and headed back toward the same Burger Heaven. Pulling in to the lot, I parked and got out of the car, and then noticed a woman walking to the back of the restaurant. Even though she was no longer wearing the awkward tomato costume, I recognized her; the green stem hat was the tipoff. I watched her as she trotted through the parking lot and stopped by a large brown dumpster, where she lit up a cigarette.