Robert B. Parker's Angel Eyes E-Book

Ace Atkins

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: A Spenser Novel
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 374

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

In the latest thriller featuring the legendary Boston PI, Spenser heads to the City of Angels to meet old friends and new enemies in a baffling missing person case that might shake Tinseltown to its core. Gabby Leggett left her Boston family with big dreams of making it as a model/actress in Hollywood. Two years later, she disappears from her apartment. Her family, former boyfriend, friends--and the police--have no idea where she is and no leads. Leggett's mother hires Spenser to find her, with help of his former apprentice, Zebulon Sixkill, now an L.A. private eye. Spenser barely has time to unpack before the trail leads to a powerful movie studio boss, the Armenian mob, and a shadowy empowerment group some say might be a dangerous cult. It's soon clear that Spenser and Sixkill may be outgunned this time, and series favorites Chollo and Bobby Horse ride to the rescue to provide backup. From the mansions of Beverly Hills to the lawless streets of a small California town, Spenser will need to watch his step. In Hollywood, all that glitters isn't gold. And not all those who wander are lost.

Leseprobe

CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR ROBERT B. PARKER

‘Parker writes old-time, stripped-to-the-bone, hard-boiled school of Chandler… His novels are funny, smart and highly entertaining… There’s no writer I’d rather take on an aeroplane’ – Sunday Telegraph

‘Parker packs more meaning into a whispered “yeah” than most writers can pack into a page’ – Sunday Times

‘Why Robert Parker’s not better known in Britain is a mystery. His best series featuring Boston-based PI Spenser is a triumph of style and substance’ – Daily Mirror

‘Robert B. Parker is one of the greats of the American hard-boiled genre’ – Guardian

‘Nobody does it better than Parker…’ – Sunday Times

‘Parker’s sentences flow with as much wit, grace and assurance as ever, and Stone is a complex and consistently interesting new protagonist’ – Newsday

‘If Robert B. Parker doesn’t blow it, in the new series he set up in Night Passage and continues with Trouble in Paradise, he could go places and take the kind of risks that wouldn’t be seemly in his popular Spenser stories’ – New York Times

For Maureen the Wonder Dog,

In life the firmest friend,

The first to welcome, foremost to defend

1

‘Whoever said it never rained in Southern California lied,’ I said.

‘Albert Hammond,’ Zebulon Sixkill said.

‘Albert Hammond wrote it?’ I said.

‘Albert Hammond and Mike Hazlewood,’ Z said. ‘Albert Hammond sang it. 1972. I can’t recall the label.’

‘I can recall record labels and ball players,’ I said. ‘It’s one of my many gifts.’

‘What are your other gifts?’

I shrugged, trying to look modest. ‘I don’t like to brag. But there’s a reason Susan stays with me. Beyond my obvious good looks and stellar charm.’

‘Must be your fashion sense.’

‘I color-coordinated my ball cap with the T-shirt,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you notice?’

‘I did,’ he said. ‘You’ll look right at home on Rodeo Drive. They’ll think you’re a wealthy eccentric.’

‘And they’d be half right.’

We sat parked outside a mid-century modern apartment building in West Hollywood, not far from the Runyon Canyon Park. I’d brought breakfast burritos and two hot coffees from my hotel and graciously shared with Z. Every few seconds, the windshield wipers on his highland-green Mustang would tick tock across the glass. Downslope, the L.A. Basin spread far and wide from the hills. Tall palms moved as if blown by a gentle breath. ‘What do you know about 1972?’ I said. ‘You weren’t born yet.’

‘You live long enough in Los Angeles and you pick up things,’ Z said.

‘Ray-Bans,’ I said. ‘Sports car. An office in Hollywood. You’ve become the cliché of a private eye.’

‘Might I remind you I am a full Cree Indian?’ he said. ‘That gives me character.’

‘Character only gets you so far,’ I said. ‘Right now, I’d settle for a clue.’

‘Have you spoken with Samuelson yet?’

‘I put in a call,’ I said. ‘He’ll be thrilled to hear from me.’

‘You think the cops know more than us?’

‘Wouldn’t take much,’ I said and opened the paper around the burrito and started to eat. I hadn’t eaten since asking for an extra pack of pretzels on the flight from Boston. No one came from the building, which was guarded with a steel gate and punch-key entry. The rain continued to ping the car. It was overcast and cloudy at nine in the morning. But who was I to complain? It was like summertime compared to the Back Bay at the moment.

‘Tell me again about Gabby,’ Z said. He was tall and thick-muscled, with a wide, flat face and long black hair. For three years he’d been my sleuthing apprentice, and now was on his own. His claim to fame was being the only mortal man who could out-bench-press me and Hawk. And he never let us forget.

‘Gabrielle Leggett,’ I said. ‘Twenty-four. From Cambridge. Her mother takes yoga with Susan. The girl came out here two years ago. She rented this apartment, joined an acting class, and got a job as a dog walker and personal assistant for a woman named Nancy Sharp. She did some modeling, shot a few commercials, and expanded her career as a social media influencer.’

‘Influencer,’ Z said. ‘Good work if you can find it. These people don’t have to pay for a damn thing. They get comped clothes, meals, hotels.’

‘Maybe we should try it.’

‘What would you influence?’

‘Beer and donut consumption,’ I said.

‘And what does Gabby use to influence people?’

‘Gabby,’ I said. ‘I scrolled through her Instagram before I flew out.’

‘Ugly?’ he said.

‘Hideous.’ I pulled out my phone and showed Z a picture. Blonde, tan, long-limbed and lithe, Gabby Leggett posed in a microscopic black bikini and a ridiculously large hat. Another photo had her in cut-off shorts and a crop top, a flower wreath in her hair, at some big music festival I’d never heard of. Z stared at the screen for a while and then let out a very long breath.

‘Impressed?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘My left leg won’t stop shaking.’

‘Young enough to be my daughter,’ I said. ‘Or so Susan claims.’

I handed him my phone and he scrolled through her account. He raised his eyebrows. ‘When did you get Instagram?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘And your handle is Pearl the Wonder Dog?’

‘She already has twenty followers,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell her. She’ll get cocky.’

We both looked up as a white BMW wheeled into a space across the road and a thin young man crawled out and walked toward the apartment. He appeared to be the man we’d been waiting for all morning.

‘What do you think?’ I said.

‘Could be,’ Z said. ‘Hard to tell. All you white people look the same.’

I opened the passenger door and walked toward the young guy as he punched numbers on the keypad. He had a neatly trimmed beard and a Hitler youth haircut and wore a three-piece navy suit with a skinny blood red tie. He stood a little under six feet in tall lace-up boots favored by Victorian-era jockeys.

‘Mr Collinson?’

He nodded, a leather satchel hanging over his shoulder. The metal door sprung open.

‘My name’s Spenser,’ I said. ‘I work for the Leggett family.’

‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘Sorry I didn’t return your calls. To be honest, I don’t feel comfortable with this.’

‘You agreed to let us into Gabby’s apartment,’ I said.

‘That was before I spoke to the police,’ he said, trying to let the door close. ‘I’d rather you handle your business with the family and leave me out of it.’

I wedged my foot in the door frame. I wore Red Wing boots with steel toes and didn’t feel a thing. Z had gotten out of the Mustang and hung back, oblivious to the rain. Indians were like that. One with nature.

‘Hey,’ Collinson said.

I gripped his upper arm and walked with him into the apartment building. ‘The Leggett family greatly appreciates your cooperation. I’m sure you realize they’re quite concerned. They haven’t heard from her in ten days.’

The boy stopped, grunting, trying unsuccessfully to shake my grip. He had the general upper body build of Mr Salty. ‘Twelve.’

‘Excuse me?’ I said.

‘Twelve days,’ he said. ‘Gabby’s been gone for twelve days. I’ve been looking for her since then. I’ve told the police all I know. I don’t know what else to do.’

‘When did you see her last?’

‘Would you please let go of my arm?’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I left my kid gloves at home. How about you let me into Gabby’s apartment and we can talk?’

‘Ouch,’ he said. ‘You’re hurting me.’

I let go and Collinson looked back through a large plate glass window. He seemed transfixed by the sight of the extra-large Native American standing next to the Mustang. Z leaned against the hood with his sizable arms folded over his chest. Collinson pointed his chin in Z’s general direction. ‘Who the hell’s that?’

‘My associate,’ I said.

‘What’s he do?’

‘Runs the West Coast office.’

‘And you?’

‘Boston talent scout.’

‘You guys look like thugs,’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘We do our very best.’

‘I told Gabby’s mother I didn’t feel comfortable with letting you in,’ he said. ‘I just need to pick up some scripts and contracts. Materials confidential to the agency.’

‘You used to date,’ I said. ‘And now you’re her agent?’

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘And you kept her key?’

‘It’s complicated,’ he said.

‘Uh-huh,’ I said. ‘Any ideas of where she might have gone?’

‘Why don’t you ask her new boyfriend,’ he said. ‘Or her so-called friends.’

‘And who’s her new boyfriend?’

‘That’s her business,’ he said. ‘And I have mine. Now, please.’

‘Did I mention I took the red-eye from Boston last night and had to sit next to a fat guy with halitosis and sleep apnea?’ I said. ‘I’m tired, need a change of clothes, and wish to get into Gabby’s building.’

‘You don’t stop, do you?’ he said.

‘It’s never suited me.’

Collinson sighed and shook his head. ‘Maybe you should come work with me at the agency,’ he said. ‘You seem to have the temperament.’

I looked over at Z and waved, following Collinson deeper into the apartment lobby. He punched up the elevator and waited with a cellphone in hand, staring down at the screen, scrolling with his thumb. There was a bulletin board by an empty reception desk with flyers for lost dogs, sofas for sale, roommates wanted, and a killer metal band seeking an intense drummer. Collinson hooked a thumb into the leather satchel’s strap as we waited.

‘You mind me asking what happened with you and Gabby?’

He looked up and said, ‘We weren’t suited for each other.’

‘How’s that?’

‘She’s six years younger,’ he said. ‘She said I was stifling her personal growth.’

‘I can see that,’ I said.

‘Our relationship isn’t any of your concern.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Eric,’ I said. ‘All this is my concern now.’

The elevator opened and we zipped up to the up to the third floor and exited, Collinson already ahead of me down an unremarkable hall and slipping the key into an unremarkable door. The carpet was an industrial gray and black metal sconces dimly lit the walls about every eight feet. The air in the hallway was hot and stuffy, smelling as stale and musty as an old attic. As we walked inside, my eyes had to adjust to the darkness until Collinson found the switch.

The apartment was a wreck. Broken glass, stuffing from cushions, and upturned drawers. It didn’t take a detective to see someone had been looking for something and wanted to find it very badly.

‘Holy shit,’ he said. ‘What the hell?’

I walked over and picked up an overturned poster of Boston. A picture taken at twilight across the harbor with a wonderful view of the Custom House Tower and the city skyline. The kind of print you might find at the Quincy Market. I felt slightly homesick.

‘God,’ he said. ‘What a fucking mess. These people.’

‘What people, Eric?’

‘Whoever did this,’ he said. ‘I don’t know who. I guess who took her.’

I ran my hand over the back of my neck as I stretched my hands high overhead. My back and legs ached from the flight. I watched as he disappeared into a bedroom and returned a few moments later. I stooped down, looking through some scattered papers.

‘I’d really rather you not do that.’

‘Do what?’

‘Snoop.’

‘I’m a detective,’ I said. ‘Not a psychic. Snooping is my business.’

‘I don’t know if the cops have been here yet.’

‘They have.’

‘Was the apartment like this?’ he said.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well if it wasn’t, they damn well need to know about it,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be responsible for anything you might mess up.’

‘I may look like a bull in a china shop,’ I said. ‘But I’m stealthier than a Sumatran tiger.’

Eric Collinson rolled his eyes and shifted his weight in his stylish lace-up boots. He looked both bored and annoyed. I’d only just met him, but I wasn’t a fan.

‘If you know anything…’

‘I don’t,’ he said.

‘But if you find out something.’

‘I will,’ he said. ‘Can I please go? I need to go.’

‘For her personal agent, you don’t seem to be of much use.’

He shook his head and tried to pass me through the narrow hallway. I took up a lot of space and kept my boots firmly planted.

‘Why don’t you just talk to KiKi?’ he said. ‘She knows more than me. She knows all about Gabby’s new beautiful life and new beautiful friends. I warned her. I warned her something like this would happen.’

‘And how do I find KiKi?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Phone number or address works.’

‘All I know is she used to hostess at the Mirabeau,’ he said. ‘She provides bottle service for rich douchebags.’

‘Fantastic.’

‘Do you even know what the Mirabeau is?’

‘I told you I’m a pro,’ I said. ‘I just mastered Google.’

‘They have a guest list,’ he said. ‘They have a huge wait to get in. It’s pretty much the kind of place that you have to know someone.’

‘I know many people,’ I said. ‘And I just purchased a blazer that promises to be wrinkle-free.’

Eric Collinson looked as if he doubted me. ‘It’s a hangout for industry people. Beautiful people.’

‘I’m the definition of beautiful,’ I said. ‘Inside and out.’

He handed me the key, and said he was done with the whole thing.

‘If you had to guess where Gabby went…’

‘I can’t.’

‘But if you did, where might she go?’

‘It’s Mr Spenser?’

‘Just Spenser,’ I said. ‘With an S, like the English poet.’

‘I know how to spell it,’ he said. ‘I went to Princeton.’

‘Of course you did.’

He kept looking at me, as if appraising my trustworthiness, and then finally nodded. ‘If I had to guess what got her?’

I nodded.

‘Ambition.’

‘Ambition?’

‘Welcome to L.A., Mr Spenser,’ he said, turning away. ‘What else is there? Gabby was a wonderful girl. I wish I knew what the hell changed her.’

‘Will you answer next time when I call?’

‘Gabby’s mother knows where to find me,’ Collinson said. ‘I hope you find her. But I’m done with all of this mess.’

2

I spent the next hour going through Gabby Leggett’s apartment with Z. It was hard, as most of her belongings had been tossed on the floor, but we made slow, deliberate work. She didn’t have a lot of personal items other than clothes. And there were a lot of clothes, more than most boutiques on Newbury Street, and enough shoes to outfit an army of Kardashians. The interior seemed to have been recently renovated with a new manufactured bamboo floor and sleek gray cabinets in a Scandinavian style. Her furniture was basic and utilitarian, classic IKEA. In the drawers, there were no letters or personal photos. No suicide notices, hidden diaries, or maps to One-Eyed Willy’s secret treasure. The only sense that Gabby Leggett had lived here was a MacBook computer slid halfway under her bed.

I pulled it out and showed it to Z. ‘Almost as if someone wanted us to find it.’

‘What did Collinson say?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I think we made him feel a tad uncomfortable.’

‘Or inadequate,’ Z said as he upturned a massive framed black-and-white poster of Gabby Leggett from a modeling shoot. The glass had spider-webbed across the image but the print was otherwise undamaged. ‘This girl would break that boy like a toothpick.’

Gabby was posed in the corner of a shuttered business. The rolling metal grate covering the entrance had been painted with the faces of Tupac and Charlie Chaplin. She had on black jeans and a T-shirt generously cut out from the arm holes. Her lean flank and the side of her breast were on prominent display. She looked right into the camera with her sleepy eyes, full lips parted as she touched the upper part of her chest as if holding back a terrific secret. Shh.

‘I hate to say it,’ Z said. ‘But she’s pretty average for this town.’

‘Tough critic.’

‘She could’ve gone anywhere,’ he said. ‘For all we know she could’ve skipped out on her rent and gone down to Baja for a few weeks.’

‘Then we go to Baja.’

‘I wish,’ Z said, hands on hips, looking over the mess, ‘we’ll end up watching Motel 6 in Van Nuys.’

On the way out, I tried to find the super without any luck. I spotted two security cameras in the lobby and one out by the gated entry. I made a mental note of their placement as Z and I got back into his Mustang and drove back toward his office. I set her laptop in the backseat.

‘Can you hack it?’ I said.

‘Hack it?’ Z said. He zipped down Hollywood Boulevard, slowing at a red light. ‘You mean unlock the laptop without the password?’

‘Hacking sounds more tricky and professional,’ I said. ‘Good for billing.’

‘I know just the girl,’ he said. ‘Works in K-town.’

‘Good to have friends.’

‘She knows a guy in Canada who can track Gabby’s movements from her cellphone.’

‘I used to pull phonebooks at the Boston public library for addresses,’ I said. ‘That almost feels like cheating.’

‘Almost,’ Z said.

The office of Zebulon Sixkill, licensed California investigator, was at the corner of Highland and Franklin. Z had the corner space on the second floor of a double decker strip mall. The other tenants included a Thai massage parlor, a vape shop, a movie star tour bus service, a twenty-four-hour liquor store, and a nail salon. His office was twice as large as mine with half the furniture and a secretary, a pleasant Latina named Delores. Delores was a little older than me but lacked my stellar charisma. She barely glanced up from her National Enquirer as we passed her desk. Rob Lowe Reveals His Sex Tape Regrets!

‘I’d offer you coffee,’ Z said, ‘but I haven’t bought a coffeemaker yet.’

‘I started out with just a jar of Sanka and a chipped coffee mug.’

‘Do you think someone tossed her apartment after the cops?’

‘Probably.’

‘Why don’t you think the cops took the laptop?’

‘It wasn’t there,’ I said. ‘Someone left it later.’

‘Collinson?’

I nodded. It felt odd sitting on the opposite side of the desk. I wasn’t used to being the one in the client’s chair and missed my accessibility to a bottle of Bushmills and a .357. Although I suspected Z’s gun was handy. The Bushmills, not so much. Z had quit drinking almost five years ago.

‘I have a list of friends from Gabby’s mother,’ I said. ‘And the name and address of her current employer and acting school.’

‘What about her Instagram?’ he said. ‘Friends in the photos?’

‘I made a list,’ I said. ‘But most of her pics only feature herself. Gabby seemed mainly into promoting Gabby.’

‘You want me to hit up the friends and you stick with the acting coach and her boss?’

‘Do I detect a hint of ageism?’

Z grinned. He stood up and hung his leather biker jacket on a hook on the back of a bathroom door and sat back down. Some pictures of him from his playing days at Cal Wesleyan lined the walls, along with a photo of him and Henry Cimoli when he worked at the Harbor Health Club. A few scars remained on Z’s face from a nasty incident a while back at an old dog track in Revere.

‘I am closer to their peer group.’

‘Maybe the woman she worked for is older than Maureen O’Hara and will take a shine to me.’

The office had a lone window that looked into a narrow alley where some homeless people had made a small tarp city. An all-night diner pumped smoke and grease into the wide-open space over a dumpster. Rain tapped against the small window and pinged the puddles along the alley.

‘Where’s the glitz and glamour?’ I said.

‘Use your imagination,’ Z said. ‘It’s all around us.’

‘I was thinking maybe I’d get a martini at the Cocoanut Grove,’ I said.

‘I’d take you there,’ Z said. ‘But they razed it twenty years ago.’

‘Maybe have dinner at the Brown Derby?’

‘Burned.’

‘Chasen’s?’

‘Gone.’

‘Clark Gable?’

‘Dead.’

‘Damn,’ I said. I made a few notes on a pocket-sized spiral notebook I kept in my jacket.

‘What’s the girl’s mother say?’ Z said. He had on a gray T-shirt that said Rocky Boy North Stars. The short sleeves looked as if they might burst at any moment.

‘I met her at Harvest with Susan the other night,’ I said. ‘She didn’t know much about Gabby’s life in L.A. Sounded like they were estranged. On the positive front, she hated Eric Collinson. Said he’d made a mess of her career.’

‘Maybe Collinson was jealous of Gabby’s new friends?’

‘Yep.’

‘Maybe we should’ve appealed to his better nature.’

‘You mean shaken the ever-living truth from him?’ I said.

‘Sure,’ Z said. ‘That.’

‘Sometimes I forget you’ve learned as much from Hawk as from me.’

‘What can I say?’ Z said. ‘Boston was one hell of an education. Without you guys, I could never have come back to California as a professional.’

‘Professor Spenser?’

‘Hawk called his class the school of hard knocks.’

‘At Harvard it would’ve been called “A History of Violence Through the African-American Prism.”’

Z laid his hand on the small silver MacBook. ‘I’ll take this to K-town and see what I can find. Then I’ll try and round up some of Gabby’s friends, see what I can find out about where she’s been and what she’s been up to.’

‘Try and use some of that Native American charm.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ he said. ‘Girls love stoicism.’

‘And I’ll try that acting coach,’ I said. ‘Maybe he’ll see some untapped potential in me. Maybe I could be the next Nat Pendleton or Ward Bond.’

‘Maybe,’ Z said. ‘And who the hell are they?’

‘So young,’ I said. ‘So much to learn.’

‘I learned from the best.’

3

Gabby Leggett took acting classes twice a week at an old movie theater right across from a Ralphs in Studio City. I parked at a nearby Starbucks on Ventura for some much-needed caffeine, left a voicemail with Susan, and walked over to the studio. The rain had let up, but it was still dark and overcast, with a slight chill in the air. I hadn’t expected Los Angeles to be chilly. The only clothing I’d packed with long sleeves was an authentic Pats sweatshirt I’d gotten as a gift from Kinjo Heywood.

I lifted the collar on my leather jacket, stepped under the aging marquee, and let myself into the lobby searching for Jeffrey Bloom. Bloom was supposed to be an industry legend according to his own website, featured in dozens of iconic film roles. After a quick viewing of IMDb, I found out he’d been in two space horror movies in the early eighties and had a recurring role as a cop on Matlock in the early nineties. He offered something called the Bloom Method for several hundred dollars a month.

Testimonials on the site proclaimed the price a true bargain. His method nothing short of genius. I suspected Bloom wrote much of his own copy.

I found an empty office and wandered into the dimly lit theater. A man I assumed to be Bloom sat at the edge of the stage leafing through a binder. He didn’t look up as I entered and walked down the aisle, nor when I sat in the front row, perhaps three feet from him.

I hadn’t been furtive in my movements. I crossed my legs and leaned back into the chair, curious as to how long it would take him to acknowledge my presence. He was a short, somewhat rotund man, somewhere in his mid-sixties, bearded and balding, with the rest of his curly salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a ponytail. His maroon guayabera shirt was unbuttoned to his chest and he wore tortoiseshell half-glasses down on his nose.

After a few minutes, he simply said, ‘I’m not payin’.’

‘Is that from Twelfth Night or Merchant of Venice?’

‘Ha,’ he said. ‘You guys did shitty work. The lights still flicker on and off. Like I said, if your people in El Segundo have a problem, talk to my lawyer. I grew up in Brooklyn. I don’t answer to shakedowns.’

‘Is it the size of my neck or my casual clothes?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘What made you think I’m an electrician?’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘And I’ve never been to El Segundo. Not on purpose, anyway.’

‘What do you want, then?’ he said. He had yet to look up, seemingly transfixed by what he saw in the binder. From where I sat, they appeared to be black-and-white headshots. ‘You’re too old to be an actor.’

‘Be nice to people on the way up,’ I said. ‘You might meet them on the way down.’

‘I’ve been on both trips on that elevator, friend,’ Jeffrey Bloom said. He finally looked up and removed his glasses, letting them hang from a cord around his neck. ‘Would it be too much to inquire who you are and what it is exactly that you want?’

‘I’m a blogger,’ I said. ‘I wanted to come to talk to you about Horror at Party Beach Part Two. How exactly did the Bloom Method serve you during the production?’

‘Christ almighty.’

‘Just Spenser,’ I said, offering my hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Nobody gives two shits about that rotten picture,’ he said, not accepting my hand nor moving from the stage. ‘It was a joke when it was being filmed and it was a joke in its minor release. How it’s become a cult classic is beyond my understanding, but I’ll take it. I took that part for the money. It allowed me to do summer stock for two years. I took an even worse picture that I won’t name five years ago to do a one-man Faulkner play. Like I tell the kids, you do what you need to do to practice the craft.’

‘I can relate.’

‘And again, is it too much to ask what you do, Mr Spenser, or are we playing some kind of game?’

‘I’m a detective,’ I said. ‘I’m from Boston and have just arrived in California to find a missing girl. In my craft, it’s called a Wandering Daughter Job.’

Bloom sat for a moment, face impassive, before he pushed away the binder and broke out into a loud, obnoxious laugh. I’d heard a better laugh from Francis the Talking Mule. ‘Oh yeah?’ he said. ‘And I’m Sam Spade. Or better yet, Philo Vance. Do you know Philo Vance, Mr Spenser?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Years ago, I worked the Canary Murder Case with him.’

He laughed again, but this time it sounded more genuine and real, coming from somewhere down in his protruding gut. He stood up on the stage, hands on his hips, and for a moment I wondered if I had time to get some popcorn and a Coke. I felt that a one-man play might be about to begin. But alas…

‘Who’s the girl?’

‘Gabrielle Leggett.’

He nodded. He looked down at me, solemn, and nodded some more. His beard had been trimmed into a somewhat devilish point and as he talked he pulled at it, in what the acting folks called giving their character some business.

‘Gabby’s missing?’ he said. ‘I thought she’d just dropped out of the class. I’m sorry. I wish I could help you more, but I really don’t know much about my students’ personal lives.’

‘How long was she here?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’d have to check my records. Maybe a year or two? Too short a time to make any real progress. But she had a very interesting look about her, something feline in those eyes. When she didn’t show up for the last few classes, I almost called her to say she had something really special to give the world.’

‘From my experience, that can be a curse.’

Bloom found the stairs at the edge of the stage, walking down the first aisle toward me. The chairs were covered in thick red upholstery and had not aged well. Several had been sealed with duct tape, others showing exposed foam spilling from the seats. Ceiling tiles bulged and hung loose. Somewhere down there were vintage Jujubes stuck to the floor.

‘Do you drink, Mr Spenser?’

I showed him my Starbucks cup. ‘Pike Place Roast.’

‘Maybe some Irish coffee?’

‘Why not?’ I said. ‘True to my heritage.’

We moved out of the theater and into the bare-bones lobby, a wide, empty space of scuffed black-and-white linoleum tiles. The walls showed off dozens of posters of plays the Bloom troupe had put on. Glengarry Glen Ross. True West. Deathtrap.

‘Eclectic,’ I said.

‘I like to challenge the students,’ he said, reaching into a cluttered roll top desk and extracting the largest bottle of Jack Daniel’s I’d ever seen. He could have served half the state of Tennessee. I opened my cup’s lid in an effort at solidarity and let him make a generous pour. Technically, the coffee was about as Irish as the Grand Ole Opry.

Bloom sat down at the edge of his desk. He offered me a seat, but after being on a plane all night, I told him I preferred to stand. There were so many framed handbills and headshots on the wall that they formed a jigsaw puzzle of the man’s life.

‘So,’ he said, guzzling the whiskey from his mug. ‘What the hell happened to the poor girl?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘Any idea?’

‘Nope,’ I said. ‘I was hoping you could tell me something.’

‘So very sad,’ he said. ‘So very L.A. I’d like to tell you this was the first time this has happened to a student. But it’s not. Not by a longshot. It’s drugs or boys. Or girls. Or both. Or money. Or power. Most often it’s drugs. Did she have a habit?’

‘Only one I know about is shopping,’ I said.

‘You know heroin is very chic again,’ he said. ‘Very cool. I thought all that went out of vogue when River Phoenix overdosed at the Viper Room. He was a brilliant kid. So much potential. One of my very closest friends produced Mosquito Coast. I knew Harrison long ago. When he worked as a carpenter.’

He poured out some more whiskey. I thought about asking him if he needed help with the heavy bottle. It looked like I could do a set of one-armed curls with the jug.

‘Was Gabby friends with other students?’

He shrugged. ‘Probably,’ he said. His cheeks brightening, eyes becoming a bit glassy. ‘Many of the kids go out for beers after class. I don’t know which ones, but I’d be glad to ask. As far as my relationship, it was professional only. After five wives, I’ve learned to stay far and away from these hungry young creatures. Some of them are actually convinced I can help them with their careers.’

‘And you can’t?’

‘I tell them from day one,’ he said. ‘I can help you become a better actor. I can help you develop your craft. But I am not a businessman. You must separate the art from the business.’

‘Sounds like sleuthing.’

‘Are you not good with business, Mr Spenser?’

‘I’m a genius with money,’ I said. ‘But I spent it all on gambling and women. The rest I spent foolishly.’

‘George Raft.’

‘No one tossed a coin better,’ I said, toasting him with my Tennessee coffee.

‘I have a class tonight,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask about Gabby. How long has she been gone?’

‘Twelve days.’

‘And nobody has seen or heard from her?’

‘No one I’ve spoken to yet.’

‘That’s disturbing,’ he said. ‘Highly disturbing.’

‘Yep,’ I said.

I shook hands with Bloom and let myself out.

Standing under the old marquee, I saw the rain had returned again, patting the little pools and turning the pavement slick. A lovely vision along Ventura Boulevard and out into the expanse of the Ralphs parking lot. I placed my hands in my pockets and waited for an opening in traffic. Back in Cambridge, it would be dinnertime. Susan would be done with her patients, probably opening up a nice bottle of Riesling, and settling in with Pearl for the night.

I pulled the cap I was sporting that season, the Greenville Drive, down over my eyes. The coffee and whiskey sat heavy in my stomach.

I headed back to the hotel and waited for a call from Z.

4

Back at the Loews across from Z’s office, I changed into gym clothes and did a series of pushups and sit ups. A hundred of each. Not my best effort but better than nothing. After I got a little sweat going, I decided to journey out in the rain for a little jog. I often did my best thinking pounding the pavement or on a barstool. As it was not yet five o’clock, I laced up my running shoes.

I followed Highland a block over to Hollywood Boulevard and headed for the curved neon sign of the Roosevelt Hotel, passing the Egyptian Theatre and then the Tam O’Shanter where Walt Disney enjoyed a frequent Scotch Mist. Two men asked me for money. A woman tried to sell me a tour of the stars’ homes. Another man tried to sell me either drugs or sex. He was so smashed, I couldn’t understand him through his broken teeth. I was delighted to see Hollywood was as I’d left it.

I slowed as I ran past Madame Tussaud’s. A sign promised up-close-and-personal experiences of replicas of Michael Jackson, Madonna, and Shrek. The time-traveling DeLorean from Back to the Future was parked outside, surrounded by tourists taking selfies. Everyone had a camera. Everyone was smiling except for the homeless people sleeping in empty doorways.

Rain puddled all along the Walk of Fame. I ran over stars for James Garner. Steve McQueen. Kermit the Frog. I thought about something Gabby’s mother had told me at Harvest. She said Gabby had always been a seeker. I wondered exactly what she’d meant. I should have asked more questions. But at the time all she knew was that her daughter was missing and she’d been unsatisfied by answers from LAPD. Sometimes you headed right into something and figured it out on the fly.

When I got back to my room, my clothes were soaked from sweat and the rain. I took a hot shower, shaved, and brushed my teeth. I pulled on a pair of 501s, a gray Henley shirt, and a lightweight navy blazer. It would do nicely to cover the shoulder holster and .38.

I picked up my phone and checked in with Z. He didn’t answer but texted that he’d dropped off the MacBook in K-town. He could meet me later tonight at the Mirabeau on Sunset.

I sat in the chair by the window and dialed Susan. After several rings, she picked up.

‘Let me guess, you’ve already found Gabby and are headed home,’ she said.

‘How did you know?’

‘No soap?’

‘None whatsoever,’ I said. ‘But I did spend some quality time with her ex-boyfriend-turned-agent and her current acting coach.’

‘And?’

‘They knew less than me.’

‘What about the woman she worked for?’ she said. ‘Gabby was her dog walker.’

‘Next on the list,’ I said. ‘Maybe I’ll interview the dogs, too. You know I’m good with animals.’

‘It’s part of your innate mind.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Is there any chance this is a misunderstanding?’ Susan said. ‘Maybe she just went off for a long vacation. Or is in a new relationship? And maybe forgot to tell anyone?’

‘I went to her apartment this morning,’ I said. ‘Someone made a real mess of it. On the upside, Z knows someone in Canada who can pinpoint Gabby’s cell within a city block.’

‘Is that even legal?’

‘Probably not,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to know.’

‘Have you had any luck with the police?’

‘I have a call in to Samuelson,’ I said.

‘This is so awful,’ she said. ‘No parent should ever go through this.’

‘This is Hollywood,’ I said. ‘I’ll search for a happy ending.’

‘You do that.’

‘Love,’ I said.

‘Love.’

5

‘I wish I could help you more, but Gabby quit working for me six months ago,’ Nancy Sharp said. She was a trim, athletic-looking woman with premature silver hair, shoeless in black yoga pants and a loose purple shirt that hit her right above the knees. Behind the door, dogs barked and made a lot of racket, Sharp having to shush them and push them back with her hands. Their names were Nanook and Willy.

‘I’ll take what I can get,’ I said. ‘Right now Nanook and Willy know more than me.’

‘And her mother?’ she said.

‘Worried sick,’ I said. ‘Can you help?’

‘Of course.’

She invited me into a classic nineteen-thirties Spanish bungalow with stucco walls and a barrel-tile roof. Outside, the landscaping was bougainvillea, lavender, oleander, and some interesting looking big orange flowers. Some other stuff I could not identify, but knew would never make it through a Boston winter. West Hollywood seemed as exotic as a trip to Bora Bora.

As I entered, the dogs charged me and began to sniff my legs and hands. I got down on my knees and offered my hands, petting an old brown dachshund with a graying muzzle.

‘That’s Willy.’

‘Hello, Willy,’ I said.

Nanook was much more suspicious, a big Siberian Husky with the trademark mismatched eyes, who stood on a couch barking at me. It wasn’t a mean bark, just a courteous warning. I let her sniff my hand, too. Whatever my smell, it seemed to satisfy her as I took a seat nearby, Sharp still standing.

It was a pleasant little house with what looked to be original hardwood floors and a small kitchen with an arched entrance framed in Spanish tile. A cup of hot tea sat on a coffee table in front of the leather couch and a television showing the local news was on mute. A small wooden bookshelf overflowed with meditations on Eastern philosophy and best-selling self-help authors. A medium-sized gong had been situated before a large brown sitting pillow. The room smelled like the inside of a Cambridge tea shop.

‘Her mother said Gabby mentioned you often.’

‘I liked Gabby a lot,’ Sharp said. ‘I’m sorry. Would you like anything to drink?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘I have some good local beer.’

‘When in L.A…’

She walked off into the kitchen and returned with an Angel City IPA. She popped the cap and handed it to me. I could see why Gabby Leggett liked Nancy Sharp. The woman liked dogs and had a fridge full of good beer. I decided she was a good and decent person.

‘What can you tell me about Gabby?’

‘What do you know?’ she said.

‘I know she worked as a model and wanted to be an actress,’ I said. ‘She was beautiful and some say talented. And I know she has many fans on Instagram wondering why she hasn’t posted in a while.’

‘How many is she up to now?’

‘Forty thousand and some change,’ I said.

‘She only had about five or six thousand when she started working for me,’ Sharp said, taking a seat by Nanook and tucking her bare feet up under her. ‘She’s moved up in the world.’

Sharp reached for the hot tea while I sipped the beer. On the television, the news headlines scrolled a 4.0 Quake strikes near Alta Vista.

‘Did something change?’

‘Gabby became a lot more aggressive with her social media,’ she said. ‘She cultivated famous people to follow her and repost. She did a lot of stuff in bathing suits. Some semi-nude. Not that I’m some kind of prude. Lots of nice trips down to Mexico with beautiful friends and a beautiful life. Parties on the beach. Cocktails at the best clubs.’

‘I often drink mimosas in a thong,’ I said.

‘Ha,’ she said. ‘I bet. But for this generation, your life is not fully lived unless you’re sharing it with the world.’

‘I prefer just to be.’

‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘I’d rather just experience what I’m seeing without a buffer, be in the moment rather than recording it for everyone else.’

‘I only take pictures when people are doing very bad things.’

‘Cheaters.’

‘Sometimes,’ I said. ‘But I prefer to eschew divorce cases. Unless money is really low. Or the money they offer is really good.’

‘And who hired you to search for Gabby?’

‘Her mother, Amanda,’ I said. ‘Three days ago the police got involved, but her mother wasn’t satisfied with what they knew or had learned. She asked me to come out here.’

‘And your services don’t come cheap.’

‘Nope,’ I said. ‘They don’t. Although I did fly coach.’

‘You look too big for coach.’

‘Premium economy,’ I said. ‘I need the legroom.’

‘Have you been to Los Angeles before?’ she said. She held the tea in one hand and brushed back her straight silver hair with long fingers. Willy pawed at her legs to get up on the couch, his diminutive legs not quite able to make the leap from the floor. She pulled him up and he found a comfortable place in Nancy’s lap. The two dogs continued to eye me with suspicion.

‘A few times,’ I said.

‘Know people?’

‘A few,’ I said.

‘And do you fear the worst?’

‘I don’t have much to go on,’ I said. ‘But I’ve come across a few details that cause me some concern. Did she ever mention a boy named Eric Collinson?’

‘I know Eric,’ she said. ‘He was an agent of some kind at one of the big ones. ICM. Or maybe Endeavor. One of those Ivy League hipster types. Always backpacking in Argentina or heading up to wine country. He lives quite a curated, beautiful life, too.’

I named the agency and she nodded.

‘I know they had a rough breakup,’ she said. She had to lift her chin and hold her mug high as Willy tried to lick her face. ‘Eric was completely obsessed with her and wouldn’t let her breathe. After they broke up, I told her to find a new agent.’

‘And why didn’t she?’

‘Apparently Eric is very good,’ she said. ‘And very connected.’

‘Was he abusive?’

‘Not that I know of,’ he said. ‘But he called her all the time. She had to draw some boundaries between the personal and professional.’

‘Eric let me into her apartment today,’ I said. ‘I can’t say we hit it off. He was reluctant to discuss Gabby.’

‘Eric was smitten,’ she said. ‘Gabby was beautiful and very popular. She went from a gee-whiz kid from the East Coast to a big-time player on the party scene.’

‘I doubt dog walking is that lucrative,’ I said. ‘Even in L.A.’

‘She made a decent amount making commercials,’ she said. ‘I seem to recall something for Carl’s Jr. where she had to eat a cheeseburger in a string bikini.’

‘We’ve all been there,’ I said.

She laughed and reached over Willy to put down the tea. I smelled curry coming from the kitchen. Several brown bags of groceries waited on a table near the stove.

‘Did you know any of her other friends?’

Sharp shook her head. ‘Other than Eric, I couldn’t tell you,’ she said. ‘When she was here I was at work. We had some pleasant conversations, but often just in passing or when I was paying her for watching these guys.’

‘Where do you work?’

‘I do on-set publicity for film and TV,’ she said. ‘I volunteer a little for a nonprofit.’

‘Eric mentioned she had a new boyfriend, but didn’t give me a name.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said. ‘Have you talked to her friends?’

‘My associate is on that,’ I said. I had drained the beer to the halfway point. ‘He has more cred with the young people.’

‘That happens fast,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t it?’

‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light…’

‘There can’t be that many literate detectives out there.’

‘Only one that I know,’ I said.

‘I guess you want to find the new guy?’

‘Yep,’ I said. ‘We’re going to a place called the Mirabeau tonight. Eric mentioned a friend of Gabby’s named KiKi worked there.’

‘Are you on the list?’

‘Nope.’

‘‘I can help with that,’ she said. ‘One of the perks of being a publicist. I can open a few doors.’