Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
“Depends on the child.”
“Some kids need more discipline.”
I nodded.
She said, “Matt sure doesn’t need any more, he’s the most self-disciplined person I’ve ever met.”
“How about you?”
“I’m okay … I guess I know how to take care of myself … I wonder what Aimee will be like. Not that I’m trying to box her in with expectations. I mean obviously I’d like her to be beautiful and brilliant—healthy, that’s the most important thing. Healthy. So you’re saying I need to get to know her before I work out my plan.”
“You may not need a plan,” I said.
“No?”
“A lot of people have good instincts.”
“But some don’t.”
“How about your mother?”
“She had excellent instincts,” she said. “The best.” Wide smile. “Now I feel better. Saying something nice to make up for the other thing.”
She crossed her legs. “That was your plan, right? To guide me to say something nice.”
“Like I said, Holly, sometimes a plan isn’t necessary.”
“You knew me well enough to just let me go on.”
“You know yourself.”
“I guess I do, Dr. Delaware.” She placed a hand on her belly. “This is mine, I own it. I’m not saying Aimee’s not a separate person, I get
that. I’m talking about the process. Carrying her, nurturing her with my body. A woman needs to feel she owns that … I feel much better now. If I need you can I call?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t care anymore about the house or the remodeling or any material crap,” she said. “That kind of ownership doesn’t matter.”
I
made a couple of tuna sandwiches, brought them to Robin’s studio.
She said, “The perfect man,” washed sawdust from her hands, gave me a kiss. We ate near the pond, talked about everything but work, returned to work. Blanche chose to stay with Robin but she licked my hand first.
I said, “Master diplomat.”
Robin held out the half sandwich she’d wrapped in a napkin. “More like I’ve got the goodies.”
“Definition of diplomacy.”
I sat wondering what Adriana Betts had done for money and lodging during the months between leaving La Jolla and showing up dead in the park.
Maybe she’d saved up enough to coast. Or perhaps she’d resorted to what she knew best: taking care of other people’s offspring. I printed a list of every employment agency in L.A. County that advertised nannies, au pairs, governesses, any sort of in-house staff.
For the next hour, my lie was glib and consistent: I was Adriana’s potential employer and she’d listed the agency as having handled her in the past. I must have been pretty convincing because I encountered a lot of outrage at the falsehood. Several people said I was lucky to learn about Adriana’s poor character early on. Most made sure to let me know they had far superior candidates.
With a dozen calls to go, I took a coffee break and checked with my service. A family court judge had left a message thanking me for a “helpful” custody report, ditto one of the attorneys on the case. Third was Holly Ruche offering her gratitude, no specifics.
The service operator, a woman I’d never talked to before, said, “You have teenagers by any chance, Doctor?”
I said, “Why?”
“Everyone seems to appreciate you. If you tell me your teenagers do, I may make an appointment, myself.”
I laughed.
She said, “You sound cheerful, so that’s my answer. You don’t have any.”
I’d whittled the agency list to four companies when the man who answered at Gold Standard Professionals in Beverly Hills listened to my pitch but didn’t reply.
I said, “You know Adriana?”
He said, “Hold on for a moment, please.” Deep, mellifluous voice.
As I waited, I examined the company’s Internet ad. The pitch featured twenties-style cartoons of butlers, footmen, chefs in toques, maids in lace uniforms, lettering in an angular art deco font. Boldface motto:
The ultimate in classic service, beyond the ultimate in classic discretion
.
Maybe discretion was what kept me on hold for seven minutes before the connection was cut.
I redialed, got voice mail. After fielding more indignation at the remaining three agencies, I gave Gold Standard another try.
This time no one answered.
I Googled the company. A single reference popped up, a piece from
the
Beverly Hills Clarion
that could’ve been a paid ad or least-resistance journalism. Gold Standard’s owners were Jack and Daisy Weathers, “former performers, now entrepreneurs in the field of high-end service,” who’d parlayed their knowledge of “the unique demands of the industry with post-graduate training in human factors and development.”
For Jack that meant a master’s degree from a “university” I knew to be a correspondence mill. No educational specs for Daisy. The accompanying photo showed the Weatherses to be white-haired, tan, wearing matching pink shirts and smiles crammed with post-graduate dental work.
The smooth voice could easily have been that of an actor, so maybe I’d talked to the boss. Gold Standard’s address was a P.O.B. in Beverly Hills, 90211. South end of the city, maybe a mail drop.
Was there no need for an office because clients of sufficient importance merited house calls? Or did one have to pass muster before being favored with private-club status? If the latter was the case, I’d flunked. Maybe that had nothing to do with Adriana, just disdain for an obviously undeserving plebe with no link to “the Industry.” But no other agency had reacted that way.
I put in a call to Milo. He said, “I was just going to call you. Eat, yet?”
“Had a sandwich.”
“That’s a snack not a meal. The usual place.”
“No reporter in tow, huh.”
“Speaking of Lois Lane, I may have created a monster. I’m walking over right now, gonna start grub-festing without you. Seeing as you already had a
sandwich
.”
I found him at his usual corner table at Café Moghul, perched like a potentate behind platters of lamb, chicken, lobster, and crab, some kind of meatball big enough to hurl at Dodger Stadium, the usual Himalaya of naan and vegetables, bowls of mystery sauce.
Be nice if synchrony ruled the world and there was a master detective in Mumbai stuffing his face with burgers, fried chicken, and pizza.
Unlike every other time I’d been in the restaurant, the dining room was nearly full. The new patrons were uniformed cops and plainclothes detectives. Everyone chowing down on generous portions but none of the wretched excess left at the Altar of Milo.
I sat down. “Looks like the world’s caught on.”
“What they caught on to is a special lunch deal, half price on everything.”
A detective I recognized waved and brandished a lobster claw. Milo muttered, “Bargain-hunting vulgarians.”
The bespectacled woman brought me iced tea and a clean plate. She looked exhausted.
I said, “Busy.”
She beamed at Milo. “They listen to him.”
He said, “You’ve got to believe me, it was the flyer you left at the station.”
Her smile widened. Knowing she’d encountered a deity and figuring humility was one of his divine attributes.
I said, “What’s up, Mahatma?”
He leaned in close, lowered his voice. “Ol’ Kelly’s digging like a gopher. So far I’ve received about fifty pages of attachments on infanticides, none of which is relevant. Meanwhile, zip on Adriana, Wedd, or Charlene Chambers as herself or as Qeesha D’Embo. And none of the cult sites I’ve found seems to fit. Including their photos.”
“Cults post publicity photos?”
“You better believe it, they’re proud of themselves. Basically, it’s a party scene, Alex, lots of nudity and naughty groping. Weirdest thing I found was a Beelzebub-worshipping bunch that gets off by smearing themselves with food, the prime sacramental offering being baked beans. Vegetarian, of course.”
I said, “Someone’s engaged in truly ugly behavior, why advertise?”
Nodding, he downed half a plate of lamb, wiped his hands and mouth, scanned the room, switched to a low-volume leprechaun brogue. “I
was
a wee bit
impish
, laddy. Gave Ms. LeMasters the name
and number of one Maria Thomas and told her it wouldn’t displease me if she harassed the brass about going public on selective info.”
“Selective as in what you decide.”
“Is there another definition?”
“Maria’s not going to make the connection to you?”
“The story Kelly’s telling her is she’s fed up with me because I keep stonewalling her so she’s decided to go over my head. If Maria gives her the okay, no problem. If Maria tells her no, she’ll publish a follow-up piece on the park murders, anyway. To my great apparent chagrin.”
I said, “Impressively devious.”
“When in Nome, do as the Ice Queen does. Meanwhile, no cult link to Wedd but I have learned a few things about him, most of it disappointing. Not only does he lack a criminal record, according to his landlord he’s a model tenant, pays on time, never complains. As opposed to Surf-Boy Sommers who’s chronically late with his rent and bitches about everything and who the landlord sees as a druggie. So I’m not sure he’s gonna work as a witness. I also found out that an A.C. company was in Wedd’s place to install new thermostats two weeks ago, landlord let them in, the place was neat, clean, nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Landlords have to notify tenants about service calls, so Wedd would’ve had time to clean up.”
“In this case the landlord got phone authorization from Wedd the same day. He did say from the look of the place Wedd didn’t seem to use it much. Which backs up the dual-crib theory. I was able to get Wedd’s cell number and email, as well as the work history Wedd listed on his application.”
He pulled out his pad. “Steadily and gainfully employed for over three years at a company called CAPD, Inc. The intriguing factoid in this whole data storm is CAPD has no listed address. The ‘PD’ part made me wonder if they’re trying to sound police-like, a hush-hush private security outfit. But there are no business listings in the county under that name and when I called the number Wedd listed I was automatically
transferred to a company of the same name on Grand Cayman Island and their answer was an electronic beep that then cut off midsentence. And when I searched for an island address, there was none.”
I said, “The Caymans are big on offshore banking.”
“That was hypothesis two, some shady financial scam, and Qeesha being a naughty girl mighta had a history with them. So I called Ray Lhermitte in New Orleans but CAPD meant nothing to him.”
“Wedd told Sommers he worked in the industry. I just fielded my own bit of intrigue, based on that.”
I told him about my agency calls, the evasive response at Gold Standard.
“Maybe he just didn’t like the sound of my voice but my gut says he was hiding something.”
A cop across the room flashed a thumbs-up. Milo growled, “Rank conformist.” To me: “Gold Standard. Why not Platinum? Okay, let’s ditch these bandwagon-jumpers and see what
Gold
Standard’s all about.”
He threw cash on the table. The woman in the sari rushed over and tried to return the money. “For your commission!”
“Give it to charity,” he said.
“What charity, Lieutenant?”
“Something kind and gentle.”
“Like you.”
He stomped out of the restaurant.
The woman said, “Such a wonderful man!”
One of the cops called out, “Pardon, could we have some more of that spinach?”
A
s we drove to the south end of Beverly Hills, I thought of something. “Sommers said Wedd avoided conversation. How’d he know Wedd was an Industry guy?”
“Let’s find out.”
Sommers answered his phone. “He used to get
Variety
delivered.”
“Used to?”
“Haven’t seen it for a while. Also the way he walked was a tip-off. Full of himself. Like ‘I’m a dude who
knows
people.’ He do something bad to those girls?”
“No evidence of that, Robert.”
“Meaning maybe he did,” said Sommers. “Okay, if he shows up I’ll let you know.”
Gold Standard’s address matched a two-story building clad with salmon-colored granite. Quick ’n Easy Postal and Packaging took up the street-level space. The female clerk working the counter was young and cute with doe eyes and a fox-face. Her hair was a red tsunami.
Sleeve tattoos and a steel stud jutting from her chin said pain wasn’t an issue for her. Neither was discretion.
Milo said, “Where can I find the people who rent Box Three Thirty-Five?”
“Go outside and up the stairs.”
I’d been wrong about a mail drop. Was glad to be humbled.
“If their office is right here why do they need you?”
The clerk said, “Hmm. ’Cause I’m cute?”
He squinted to read her name tag. “Well, sure, I can see that, Cheyenne. Is there any other reason?”
She twirled the chin stud. It caught for an instant, made her wince, finally rotated. “The building owner doesn’t provide mail slots for the tenants.”
“How come?”
“ ’Cause that was the deal in order for us to move in. It worked, most of them rent from us. Are those guys in trouble or something? ’Cause they don’t seem like the type.”
“What type is that?” said Milo.
“They’re kinda … like old?” She inspected us. “I mean serious old.”
“Grandma and Grandpa.”
“Not like my Gram-peeps.
They
don’t have a clue.”
“These guys do.”
“These guys are like cool dressers. In an old way.”
“These fashion plates have a name?”
“Plates?” she said.
“What are their names, Cheyenne?”
A fingernail pinged the stud. A speck of blood seeped from between steel and skin. A tiny red bubble formed. She flicked it away. “They
are
in trouble? Wow.”
“Not at all, Cheyenne. We just need to talk to them.”
“Oh. They’re Daisy and Jack. She used to act on TV and he was like a musician.”
“They told you that.”
“Yeah, but it’s true, I saw her acting.”
“Where?”
“On TV,” she said. “One of those movies, cowboys and horses. She was like the girl he loved.”