“Yes,” I said. “Something frolicsome but not rebellious, with a whisper of oak and counterintelligence.”
“I have just the thing,” she said.
“Mind if I make a phone call?”
“Step out on the balcony if you like.”
I did. And called Ira.
“The prelim did not go well,” I said.
“Do you want to tell me why?”
“Not now. I’m dining with an old acquaintance.”
“Care to tell me who?”
“Holly Samara, the DEA agent, remember? I bumped into her downtown, right after the Sand family threatened me. So I’ll be here a bit and—”
“Hold it! What’s this about the Sand family?”
“Oh yeah. Sammie Sand and his dear old dad were waiting for me outside the courthouse. Gave me a little business. I gave a little right back. You know how it goes.”
“For you, yes, I know how it goes.”
“I accused them of being behind the snipe. Didn’t seem to be any reaction. Still, I wouldn’t rule them out. Stay left of bang.”
“Always do,” Ira said.
Back inside, a glass of white wine was waiting for me on the dining room table. I sat and watched Holly prepping the food. She’d put on some jazz.
“Diana Krall?” I said.
“Very good,” she said. “Is there anything you don’t know?”
“I’m a little shaky on the eighteenth century Ottoman Empire,” I said. “But other than that…”
“We’ll have to brush up,” she said.
From there we dropped into easy conversation, which I guided toward her side of the ledger. We talked about her grandfather, who’d been an L.A. cop in the days of Chief William Parker. He’d retired under his favorite chief, Daryl Gates, in 1986.
When she started probing for more of my story, I mostly deflected.
“You really are a mystery man, aren’t you?” she said.
“International,” I said.
“You know, I don’t cook for just anybody. You’re going to have to give a little.”
“Maybe in time,” I said.
“Time is what we have,” she said. “I’ve got the rest of the week off.”
I sipped my wine.
She was right about the meal. Exquisite. We ate and spoke of things other than business. I found out she loved the Dodgers and Union Station. A real Angeleno she was. And thus just as despondent about the state of the city as most locals these days.
When we were finished we sat in her living room with coffee and listened to more jazz, classic and contemporary—Ella Fitzgerald, Stacey Kent, Nina Simone. When Cassandra Wilson came on with her seductive “Don’t Explain,” Holly told me that could be our theme song.
“Ours?” I said.
She leaned toward me, put her hand behind my head, and kissed me.
“Stay with me tonight,” she whispered.
It took me a moment to catch my breath. And another to figure out what to say.
“Ninety percent…” I said.
“Of what?” she said.
“Of my body, screaming at me to say yes.”
She pulled me in and kissed me again, hard.
Coming up for air, I said, “Make that ninety-five percent.”
“Then it’s settled.”
I said nothing.
“Isn’t it?” she said.
“Holly, I’ve messed up a lot of my life because of the ninety-five percent. I’ve used women, I’ve killed men… wait, you’re law enforcement.”
“Not tonight,” she said.
“The five percent is what keeps us from becoming animals,” I said.
Holly sat up, straight and stiff, her eyes aflame. “That’s what you think this is?”
“Bad choice of words,” I said.
“You got that right.” She stood, walked over to the window, her back to me.
I got up and went to her. “Would it help if I changed the word from animal to brute?”
With considerable consternation she said, “What are you talking about?”
“Can I try to explain? Just once?”
With a deep sigh, she turned around. “Once.”
“Maybe I do think too much,” I said. “But I don’t know any other way. I lean philosophical. Maybe it’s a curse, maybe it isn’t. All I know is, it’s me.”
“Philosophical…”
“Here it is, Holly. There’s a stark raving difference between Eros and the brute. The object of Eros is a person. The object of the brute is his own satisfaction. The brute wants only pleasure from a woman. Eros wants to be completed by the woman. One night years ago I woke up with someone beside me, weeping, and knew I was a brute. I didn’t want to be that anymore.”
She pondered a moment.
She said, “So what is your philosophical conclusion about the two of us, Socrates?”
“I don’t have a conclusion,” I said. “Yet.”
“Hurry it up,” she said. “I’m not going to wait around.”
“Understood,” I said.
“And one other thing.”
“Yes?”
“I hate philosophy.”
The hardest thing to figure out, the ancient sages knew, is your own messed-up self (translated loosely from the Greek). This is especially true in matters of amour. D.H. Lawrence may have had it right in his poem, that we’ve made a great mess of love.
Othello smothers Desdemona, then pitifully declares that he loved not wisely, but too well. To Cleopatra, Antony says, “We have kissed away kingdoms and provinces.”
The romantic poets were adamant that there is no greater happiness than that which is found in love. But they had to admit there is no greater misery, no despair more searing, than love lost or unrequited.
Did I even want to mess with the mess of love?
Mike Romeo, boy philosopher, trying to solve the mysteries of the heart going 80 mph on the 405. And the last thing I wanted to do was spy on a real estate agent with a penchant for serial affairs.
I searched Mandi McGuane’s website and found the four active homes she repped. Two in Porter Ranch, one in Northridge, and one in Chatsworth. It would take a lot of driving to cover them all, but I remembered Joey Feint finding some damning information just by looking at a house. His client was a middle-aged woman who suspected her husband of having an affair with a “floozy.” Joey found the floozy’s house and scoped it, noticing a pair of deck shoes in the corner of the porch. The shoes were too big for a woman, and were well worn. They also had faded script that read Shennecossett Yacht Club. Soon enough Joey had photos of the illicit couple in flagrante delicto aboard a, ahem, pleasure craft.
I started with the Porter Ranch properties. Both had Mandi’s sign with that overconfident picture of her. One of the houses looked occupied, so I gave it just a cursory glance. The other Porter Ranch house didn’t have any activity going on and no cars were in the driveway. I watched it for five minutes.
From there it was a short drop down into Northridge. The Mandi McGuane property there had, as they say in the biz, curb appeal. It also had two little kids playing in the front yard with what could have been the dad. But you never know these days.
I stopped and got out.
The man looked at me warily.
“Saw the sign,” I said. “I’m looking to buy.”
“Oh,” he said. “Sure.”
“Can I have a look?”
“There’s an open house this weekend. Let me give you a flyer.”
“Great.”
He went into the house, taking the kids—a boy and a girl—with him. I wouldn’t have left them out there with me, either.
The man came back and handed me a color flyer with all the info, and that Mandi smile.
“Mandi McGuane,” I said. “She’s hard to miss.”
“Yeah,” the man said. “Persistent. And she’s very, very good.”
“Know her well?”
“I’ve gotten to,” he said.
�
��Does she work with anyone? A partner maybe?”
He shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
“Okay,” I said. “My name’s Phil. Maybe I’ll see you this weekend.”
“I’m David. Hope so.”
Chatsworth is nestled in the northwest part of the Valley. It was an early success owing to the railroad coming through in 1893. That gave the farmers access to a much larger market for their crops. When they decided to bore a tunnel through the Santa Susana mountains, workers from all over the country came in for the job, which was completed in 1904. The town became known for its oranges, lemons, and grapes. Also, for thoroughbred horse ranches.
Lucy and Desi had a big spread out here, adding to the glamour.
Like all other parts of the Valley, there were boom times and lean times, leaving good parts and not-so-good parts.
Of course, Mandi McGuane only bought and sold in the good parts.
I pulled up at the address. And right there in front of the house was Mandi’s BMW.
Right behind it was a pickup truck. One familiar to me.
Serendipity!
And a suspicion of what was happening inside.
The Romeo school of lock-picking was again in session. I popped the door open a crack and listened. Voices—and a giggle—came from a distant part of the house. I padded into the nicely appointed living room and had a seat. There was a copy of Better Homes & Gardens on a side table. I picked it up, opened it, and cleared my throat.
The voices stopped. And thankfully the giggling, too.
A moment later Mandi McGuane came into the room, her hair a bit disheveled.
She stopped on a proverbial dime when she recognized me. There was an immediate transformation of the facial features, from confused hostess to enraged Medusa. If she could have turned me to stone, she would have.
“What… what…” she hissed.
Before she could find the words, Brian Cunningham came in, tucking his shirt in his jeans.
“Have I interrupted something?” I said.
If Mandi was Medusa, Brian was Zeus… and I was Prometheus, about to be chained to a rock so an eagle could eat my liver.
His fists were balled and his face a dangerous shade of red.
“Don’t go off half—” I quickly changed my phrasing. “—mad.”
“Get out of here!” Mandi said. “I’m calling the police.”
“Please do,” I said. “We can all discuss matters like civilized folks. I’ll bring your brokerage into it, too. They’ll be interested in how you, um, show properties.”
Brian Cunningham, “What are you doing here?”
I tossed the magazine on the table. “I’ll be doing the asking. Why don’t you lovebirds have a seat?”
“This is outrageous!” Mandi said.
“Unorthodox, I’ll grant you,” I said. “But you’re a negotiator. You know when you’re out-leveraged. And that’s what you are. Now sit down.”
The unhappy couple exchanged a look. Then they went to the sofa and made themselves, as it were, at home.
“I’m curious,” I said. “What is Clint Cunningham’s father doing here with the mother of one of Clint’s classmates?”
“Why is that your business?” Mandi said.
“My business is to find out what people aren’t telling me,” I said.
“What’s the big deal?” Brian said. “We’re seeing each other. We know each other from Elias. You got a problem with that?”
“I never clog the highway of love,” I said. “I’m only interested in matters criminal.”
“We aren’t doing anything illegal,” Mandi said.
“Between the two of you, no,” I said. “But let’s cast a wider net. You both have sons in trouble.”
Mandi shot to her feet. “What’s happened to Gavin?”
I said, “The trouble I’m talking about is somewhat nefarious. I told Gavin I had no intention of telling you about it, and that was true at the time. But intentions change with the circumstances.”
“So what is it?” Mandi said.
“Gavin has been selling test information to students, with the help of another classmate, one Bianca Aiken.”
This news sent Mandi back to a sitting position as she issued a one-syllable curse.
“I warned him!” she said.
“Might not get into Harvard,” I said.
This pushed her over whatever edge she’d been teetering on. She started screaming. Her words were aflame with Fs and Ss, and in between a ramble on how she was doing everything she could to make sure her only child got every advantage in life, but people keep coming around to eff things up, and that included me… and Brian.
“Me?” Brian said. “What do I have to do with this?”
Mandi said, “You and your lousy kid!”
Brian asked her what the eff Clint ever did to Gavin, and then the two of them effed back and forth at each other in a discordant symphony of blame and recrimination.
I sat there like some ignored relationship counselor letting his clients hash it out.
Finally, I said, “Children! Enough! I’m going to find out what I want to know if it takes all night.”
They stopped their match and looked at me for the next move.
Which Mandi made. “Gavin was never in trouble until he took up with Clint Cunningham.”
“Oh, come on!” Brian said.
“One at a time,” I said.
“It’s true!” Mandi said. “A four-point-five GPA, soccer team, student council. But after Clint came along he started to slide.”
Brian Cunningham looked like he wanted to say something, but was being prevented by some sort of force field emanating out of Mandi McGuane. He put his head back on the sofa.
“Right?” Mandi said. “Am I right?”
“I don’t know,” Brian said.
“Because you don’t want to know,” Mandi said.
“Let’s see if we can work this out,” I said. “Because I’d hate to be the one to bring trouble to this budding romance. If each of you gives a little, maybe we can all go home happy.”
“I just wish you’d go away,” Mandi said.
“I intend to, believe me. Just so I get the story straight. Your claim is that Clint somehow dragged Gavin down.”
Mandi nodded.
I asked Brian. “Do you think what Ms. McGuane here suggests is possible?”
Defeated, Brian said, “I guess.”
“Would you guess it could be drug related?”
He threw up his hands. “How would I know? I don’t see him.”
“You know that Clint is pretty gifted when it comes to drawing.”
“Yeah, sure, since he was a kid.”
“And poetry,” I said.
“Poetry?” Brian said. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Let me describe to you a picture Clint drew,” I said. “Of a skull, looking like death, with blood dripping from the teeth. He’s holding a gun and pointing it at his temple. In the empty eye sockets are two letters, T and B. In the mouth is a letter D, with a snake coming out of it.”
“Good God,” Mandi McGuane said.
“What’s the TBD?” Brian said.
“To Be Done,” Mandi said.
“Maybe,” I said. “Or a reference to persons, with the D being death.”
The two of them noodled on that. Followed by blank stares.
“Your ex-wife’s name is Trista,” I said. “Your name is Brian.”
“Wait, what?” Brian said.
“Might your son be wishing the two of you to be dead?”
That hit him like a punch in the nose.
“And if so, why?” I said.
Brian shook his head. “Man, I didn’t see that coming.”
“Nothing in Clint’s behavior to make you think he’d be holding such thoughts about you?”
“We had fights, the usual stuff. But never anything like this.”
“He’s sixteen,” Mandi said. “Overdramatic
.”
“You don’t know anything about him,” Brian said.
“I know enough,” Mandi said.
“What does that mean?” Brian said.
“I know he cries when he doesn’t get his way.”
I jumped in. “How do you know that?”
“I saw it,” Mandi said. “He was over at the house awhile ago, with that girl that goes with Gavin now. They were in the backyard talking about something when I got home. I saw them out there. Clint had his head down. The girl was talking. Then Gavin. Then Clint started crying.”
“What was the reaction of the other two?” I asked.
“Non-committal.”
“Did you talk to them?” I said.
“No, it was better they were left alone. I went upstairs and did some work on the computer. I heard them leave.”
“Them?”
“It must have been all three, with Gavin driving.”
“Did you ask Gavin what the conversation was about?” I said.
“I mentioned it,” Mandi said. “He said it wasn’t anything and didn’t talk about it further.”
“It was obviously about something,” I said.
Brian looked at Mandi. “You never told me about that.”
“I’m supposed to tell you everything?” she said.
I said, “I’ve got a feeling both of you aren’t telling me things, and that causes me to become annoyed. People generally don’t like it when I become annoyed.” I stood. “And if I find things out that I should have been told, I move from annoyed to irked. You don’t want to see me irked, do you?”
They said nothing, but I think Mandi nodded.
“Here is what I think,” I said. “There’s drug traffic at Elias, and Clint got caught up in it. But he’s not the head of the snake. Whoever that is, Clint’s afraid of him, and won’t give up a name. TBD may be a clue to the name, or may mean nothing at all concerning this case. But if I were to select someone able to manipulate Clint, I would at this point choose Gavin McGuane. I don’t think he is the head of the snake, either, but he may know who it is.”
“I do not believe that,” Mandi said.
“You should,” Brian said.
That brought a fresh, curse-laden rebuke from Mandi McGuane.
“Enough!” I said. “Do either of you know the name Shibuk?”
Brian said, “No.”
“I don’t think so,” Mandi said. “Who is it?”
Romeo's Town (Mike Romeo Thrillers Book 6) Page 17