Racing the Light, page 7
I tackled their bathroom next. When the bath was good to go, I shut the light and checked the guest room again. The room didn’t need to be checked, but I found myself in the door. A framed photo of Ben and me at Lake Arrowhead stood on a chest. I used to keep it on a shelf in the living room, but I had moved it. In the picture, Ben was still small. We were standing in shallow water at the edge of the lake with me holding Ben overhead, both of us laughing. Lucy had taken the photograph. I wondered if the picture would make her uncomfortable. I thought about moving it back to the living room, but after a while I told myself I was being silly and left it.
I needed to tell Joe. Joe and Lucy and Ben were close. I wandered back to the kitchen, poured a fresh coffee, and called him.
Pike answered on the first ring. I’ve never called Joe Pike when he didn’t answer the first ring. Pike would have to be dead in a ditch not to answer the first ring, and then he’d probably answer the second ring.
I said, “Guess what?”
Pike didn’t respond. If you asked Pike “guess what?”, this was what you got.
I said, “Lucy and Ben are coming. They’ll be here tonight.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“She told me.”
“When did she tell you?”
“Last night.”
Amazing.
“In other headlines, we have a job. Or did you know this, too?”
“Need help?”
“Not yet.”
“Whenever.”
Pike hung up. Didn’t ask what. Didn’t ask who. Hung up.
Breakfast was the last of the squid and ginger rice. I ate standing in the kitchen and opened the In Your Face site on my phone. Josh had included a link to ClaudeSpace Gallery, along with a photo of Skylar and the gallery’s owner, a tall, thin woman named E. Claude Sidney, and a pitch for purchasing Skylar’s work. If Skylar maintained an ongoing business relationship with the gallery, it stood to reason Ms. Sidney might be able to reach her. I headed downtown to find out.
ClaudeSpace occupied the ground floor of a renovated industrial space south of the 101 between Little Tokyo and the river. The gallery’s glass front let people see the art on the walls before they entered. E. Claude Sidney and a younger man were talking in front of an enormous red painting. The painting had to be eight feet on a side, and was solid red except for a single black dot in the upper right corner. E. Claude looked exactly like her photograph, only taller.
I pushed through the door and tried to look like a customer. The paintings were all squares of various sizes, each square painted a single color. A yellow square, a pale green square, a luminous green square, a black square, a lavender square. Ten or twelve squares filled the walls, and each square had a black dot in the upper right corner except the black square. The black square’s dot was red. I was staring at the red dot when E. Claude Sidney joined me.
“Are you drawn to the dot?”
“I am.”
“I find this fascinating. Everyone watches the dot as if it might move. Are you interested?”
“I’d like to get in touch with Skylar Lawless.”
She made a wide, toothy smile.
“Isn’t her work fabulous? The originals are sold, but I do have a series of signed prints.”
“If I wanted to commission an original, could you arrange it?”
She smiled even wider.
“I’m sure I could. What did you have in mind?”
I held out my license. The moment she saw it she frowned.
“I’m sorry?”
“Do you recall a Josh Schumacher?”
“I do. Of course. He interviewed her on his podcast.”
“Then you know Josh and Skylar are close.”
“What is this about?”
“Josh is missing. I’ve been hired by his mother to find him. Skylar might be able to help.”
She frowned again.
“What does missing mean? Is he all right?”
“We don’t know. I’ve called, but his message box is full. As I said, Skylar might be helpful. It’s even possible he and Skylar are together.”
She looked uneasy.
“I don’t think so.”
“May I ask why?”
The younger man lingered at the red painting. E. Claude glanced his way, motioned me to a small desk in the corner, and lowered her voice.
“Josh phoned last week, asking if I’d heard from her. He was trying to find her.”
“Did he leave a message, or say where he was?”
“I’m sorry. He didn’t.”
“So what did you tell him?”
E. Claude Sidney looked nervous.
“Sometimes, she’s away.”
“She’s out of town?”
E. Claude looked even more uncomfortable.
“I don’t know, but she’ll be in touch. She has more prints to sign, and I’m holding money from sales. I can’t guarantee she’ll call, or when, but I’ll certainly give her a message.”
“I’ve left messages, Ms. Sidney. It would help if you called her for me, and asked her to speak with me.”
“Mr. Cole. There are times when she won’t return anyone’s calls. Even mine.”
“If you can reach her for a commission, please try to reach her for this. Josh promoted the hell out of her work.”
Ms. Sidney looked straight up at the ceiling. She touched her throat with the tips of two fingers, looked down at the floor, and took a breath.
“Well, it’s nothing she hasn’t said in the interviews.”
“What?”
She went behind the little desk and took a card album from the drawer.
“Skylar’s income as an artist doesn’t yet cover her expenses, so she makes other arrangements.”
“Are we talking about sex?”
“When she’s engaged this way, she turns off her phone. I doubt she even checks her messages.”
She found a business card, took it from the album, and placed it in front of me.
“Speak with her. If Skylar returns anyone’s calls, they would be hers.”
The card showed a woman’s name in a classic font, an address in Canoga Park, and the usual contact info.
Meredith Birch
The Birch Agency
Talent Management
I looked from the card to E. Claude Sidney.
“Her agent?”
“In Skylar’s former career, yes. My understanding is they still have business.”
E. Claude touched her throat again. Embarrassed. The careers of actors and actresses in the adult film trade were uncertain. Most performers made next to nothing, and most careers had the shelf life of a fish in the sun. More than a few gigged on the side as escorts.
I said, “I see.”
Meredith Birch was a pimp.
“And you know this for a fact?”
She nodded.
“Skylar is, perhaps, too open about such things.”
The name looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“Could I ask you to call? As an introduction?”
“I’d rather not.”
“I understand.”
I tucked away the card, stood, and offered my hand.
“Thank you, Ms. Sidney. Josh’s mom thanks you, too.”
I left and drove to the Valley.
12
The Birch Agency was located in an upscale business park in Chatsworth at the western end of the Valley. Other tenants included personal injury Attorneys, family practice Attorneys, a couple of insurance brokers, and a marriage and family therapist. The therapist was probably slumming. Traffic moved well, but driving to the far end of the Valley was like driving to Mars.
The two-story black glass building was shaped like a U around a courtyard. The Birch Agency occupied a ground-level suite at the back of the courtyard with raised aluminum letters spelling out the agency’s name. I tried to enter, but the knob wouldn’t turn. A buzzer and a little speaker were beside the door, so I pressed the buzzer. A male voice answered.
“Birch Agency.”
“Elvis Cole to see Meredith Birch.”
“Who?”
“Cole. First name rhymes with pelvis.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, sir, I don’t. I’d like to speak with Ms. Birch about a client.”
“We don’t see anyone without an appointment.”
“I’m here. Could I make an appointment for now?”
“Gimme your number. We’ll get back to you.”
“Getting back to me implies you might not get back to me until some unknown time in the future, which means I would have to leave. Since I’m here, and we’re talking, let’s make the appointment now.”
“Getting back to you means we’ll get back to you whenever the fuck we get back to you.”
“This won’t take more than a couple of minutes.”
“Fuck off, asshole. Beat it.”
I pressed the buzzer again. This time he didn’t answer.
I pressed the buzzer again and held it.
“The fuck, dude? Knock it off.”
I pressed the buzzer over and over, bz-bz-bz-bz-bz.
The door flew open and a large guy with a square jaw and overdeveloped pecs filled the frame. He was three inches taller than me, thirty pounds heavier, and did his best to scare me. Too much spray tan made him look like a tangerine.
He said, “Beat it, or I’ll—”
I stepped close fast, hooked my right arm under his left shoulder, planted my right foot between his feet, and spun hard. He fell over my foot and stumbled into the courtyard. I stepped inside, shut the door, and locked it.
A woman said, “That’s enough.”
We were in a well-appointed outer office with pale blue wallpaper, a tufted leather couch for waiting clients, and an impressive desk for the lox in the courtyard, who was probably Meredith Birch’s assistant. Meredith Birch stood in the door to her office, pointing a slick little Ruger .380 at me. It was one of their fancy subcompact models with a bright pink nylon grip and satin aluminum slide. Ideal for purse or pocket.
I raised my hands and knew why her name was familiar. Skylar and Meredith Birch had been photographed together at Skylar’s opening. I’d seen the photo and her name on Josh’s website.
I said, “I give up. Also, I apologize.”
Outside, the big guy twisted and yanked the knob, and pounded on the door.
Meredith didn’t move. Neither did the gun.
“Accepted. Now get out. If you don’t, I will shoot you and call the police.”
“Five months ago, ClaudeSpace Gallery hosted a showing for Skylar Lawless. You attended. Do you recall Josh Schumacher?”
Outside, the big guy pressed the buzzer.
Meredith Birch cocked her head. A vertical line appeared between her eyebrows, but not because of the buzzer.
She said, “Skylar’s friend. With the podcast.”
“That’s right. He interviewed her before the show and promoted her work.”
The tiny pink gun dipped, but only a little.
“We spoke. A bit intense, but I appreciated the respect with which he treated her. I know Skylar did as well.”
The buzzer buzzed. The big guy pounded.
“Josh is missing. My name is Elvis Cole. I’m a private investigator. His family hired me to find him.”
“And you’re here why?”
“It’s possible you can help.”
She suddenly lowered the gun, went to the big guy’s desk, and spoke into a call box.
“Everything’s fine, Randall. You can come in.”
She pressed a button to unlock the door, and Randall rushed inside. He glowered like a bull about to charge.
“Meredith, are you okay? Want me to throw his punk ass out?”
I said, “It didn’t work out so well the first time, Randall, did it?”
“I wasn’t expecting it!”
Meredith said, “Shush. We’ll be in my office.”
I followed her into a larger, more spacious version of the outer office, with the same blue wallpaper and tufted leather couch. A wall-to-wall tinted window gave her a view of the parking lot, but it wasn’t an unattractive view. Neither was my view of Meredith Birch. She looked to be in her fifties, with good arms, a trim build, and the tight calves of someone who worked at it. She closed the door behind us, offered me a seat on the couch, and leaned against her desk.
She said, “All right. I met Mr. Schumacher the one time at Skylar’s showing. How could I possibly help?”
“I have reason to believe Skylar has knowledge of his whereabouts.”
“If so, I’m sure she’d be happy to help. Why come to me?”
“She hasn’t returned my calls. Her friends tell me she might be away on business. They suggested you might be able to reach her.”
Meredith Birch shifted against the desk.
“I’m simply her friend now, Mr. Cole. I have nothing to do with art.”
“I’m not talking about art. A different business. Possibly business arranged by you.”
Meredith Birch raised her eyebrows.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Forgive me for being direct, but you do. You’ve arranged such business in the past.”
She smiled. It was a pretty smile, but sharp at the edges.
“I represent actors and actresses in the adult entertainment industry. My business is legal and licensed by the state of California. I have no other business.”
“My mistake. Thing is, Skylar herself has described your relationship. In detail, and to more than one person.”
Meredith Birch crossed her arms.
“I’m not here to make trouble, Ms. Birch. My only interest is finding Schumacher.”
“Hence, you want to speak with Skylar.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her gaze was cool, as if she was deciding what to say.
“I do arrange personal appearances for certain clients, but if they choose to break the law, I am not party to it. I certainly don’t condone it.”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t assume otherwise.”
“Having said this, I don’t know where she is. I haven’t spoken to Skylar in weeks.”
“Is it possible Skylar arranged an appearance for herself?”
Meredith Birch pursed her lips.
“Possible, but I would know. She’s always told me where she would be, and with whom, even if I were not part of the transaction.”
“Always?”
“Mr. Cole, women—and men, mind you—who place themselves in such positions require what we call a safety, even when their clients are well-to-do people. I am her safety.”
“A safety?”
“A person who knows where she’s going, who she’s with, and when she expects to return. In case.”
In case.
She uncrossed her arms and went behind her desk.
“You say you’ve left several messages?”
“I have.”
“She doesn’t know you. Perhaps she’s ignoring you.”
“An all too common response.”
Meredith scooped up her phone and punched in a number she knew by heart. A moment later, she left a message.
“Hey, hon. Please call. It’s important.”
She put down the phone and came from behind the desk.
“Leave your number. When she calls, I’ll ask about Mr. Schumacher.”
I stood and gave her a card.
“Please let me know either way.”
“Of course.”
She walked me out through the outer office to the door. Randall sat at his desk, sulking. He glared as we passed. I glanced at him, and leaned close to Meredith Birch.
“About Randall?”
She glanced at Randall, too.
“What about him?”
“You could do better.”
Randall said, “You suck.”
“A lot better.”
Randall was still sulking when I left.
13
Facing tiny pink guns required sustenance. I stopped for tacos in Winnetka at a taqueria the size of a closet. The pollo proved best, but the asada and carnitas were excellent. I ate in a parking lot crowded with firemen, construction workers, and Ukrainian plumbers. The little taqueria was making a mint.
Josh and Skylar were either with each other or not, and, together or singly, somewhere on the planet. Skylar being away didn’t mean she was away with a client. She might be in Vegas with friends or at Disneyland. My lack of hard information was impressive, second only to my lack of clues.
Skylar might be anywhere, but Josh had been seen at her apartment twice in the prior week, and the most recent time had been after Skylar had left. Maybe I’d find a clue at her apartment. Maybe I’d even find Josh.
I bought two tacos for the road and drove to Studio City.
Skylar’s neighborhood was as peaceful as before. A woman with curly black hair walked a German shepherd. A jogging man in his sixties braved the heat in a UCLA T-shirt darkened with sweat. I parked up the block, walked back, and checked the property for people and movement. The lawn and courtyard were empty. No braided blondes or women in green bikinis. I went up the sidewalk and crossed the courtyard to Skylar’s alcove. I pressed the buzzer one time, listened, and checked the courtyard. Nobody screamed for the police. I used a pick gun and opened the dead bolt in forty seconds. The knob lock turned in twenty. I readied to run if an alarm went off, but when I opened the door nothing happened. The alarm panel on the wall was dead. I stood very still. I pushed the door closed with my foot, pulled on a pair of gray nitrile gloves, and locked the door.
