by Brian Finney
To my surprise there’s more. Another ten devices are listed at the same address, in the living room, den, dining room, office, three bedrooms, and three bathrooms. The entire house has been bugged.
What the hell is Todd doing? Is he paranoid? Why would he want to tape the everyday comings and goings of his family, friends, and staff?
Could it have something to do with Susan’s disappearance?
All the cards were activated a day after Susan left Todd. Does he suspect that someone in the household has something to do with Susan’s disappearance? Alternatively, could he be responsible himself for her disappearance? I’m baffled. A private eye who lacks eyesight.
I leave the records department and lock myself in my viewing booth, where at least I know what I’m looking for.
On my worktable lies the card for RAUL PEREZ. There’s a Post-it stuck to it that says, “Please deal with this one first. Grant.” I insert the card into the digital player, slip on my headphones, and turn my iPod to The Fame Monster. Lady Gaga opens with “Oh, caught in a bad romance.” Some bloggers say that Gaga’s bad romance is with fame. I relate it to my experience with Gary.
I become aware of Grant hovering behind me, watching the tape on fast-forward over my shoulder.
I press STOP and remove my earphones.
“Evening, Grant,” I greet him. “Isn’t it kind of late for you to be here?”
“I just wanted to check whether Perez was caught on video running with the dog again last night. I promised my friend who employs him that I’d phone him tomorrow morning with news of how much evidence he has to use against him.”
“I was just getting to the time he takes the dog out on the tape when I stopped it.”
“Let’s have a look at it now, so I can go home.”
I press FAST FORWARD. As soon as Perez appears on the monitor at his front gate with the dog, I press PLAY. He’s limping badly. When he throws the ball for his dog he stays where he is until the dog returns the ball to his feet, when he stiffly reaches down to pick it up.
“This time he appears much more impeded than the previous day. Why is nothing ever black or white in this business?” Grant says. “I’ll have to advise the client to select which tape segments to use, and then the outcome will depend on whether Perez is given a lawyer smart enough to demand all the segments.”
“The difference in his mobility might just be because he took a painkiller in the earlier segment, and not in this one.”
“He’s just a lazy jerk in my book.”
Another conservative CEO who thinks every poor American on public assistance is robbing them. I change the subject.
“You’re a friend of Todd Granger’s, aren’t you?” I ask.
“We meet for lunch from time to time.”
“You know I take care of his plants?”
“No. You never told me. You’re a girl of many talents.”
“Yesterday when I was talking to Todd’s housekeeper she asked me why he was taping her in the kitchen. I took a look at the SD card hidden in a digital picture frame. It was one of ours. What puzzles me is why Todd would want to bug his own house.”
“He wouldn’t,” Grant says.
“Then who would?” I ask.
Grant instantly recovers his professional persona. “I have no idea. And if I did, I’d be breaking client privilege to talk about it with you.” He clearly regrets his momentary slip.
I feign nonchalance. “Not important. Just wondering.”
“I’ve got to get going. I’m due at a charity dinner at the Standard in ten minutes.”
“I hope the food’s good,” I say.
“Goodnight,” he calls as he leaves.
“Bye,” I call back.
How, I ask myself, can I find out who paid Total Surveillance to bug Todd’s house? And whether the bugging has anything to do with Susan’s disappearance . . . I know.
I take the elevator to the third floor and let myself into Grant’s empty outer office, where he keeps all the client files. The cabinets are organized alphabetically by location—Newbury Park; Newhall; Newport Beach. I pull open the drawer. The files are sequenced by streets—Balboa Blvd; Bay Ave; Bay Island. I pull out the bulky pocket file for 399 Bay Island and extract the contract:
“This agreement is made on this August 3, 2010, between Jorge Valdez of 2410 Imperial Avenue, San Diego, CA 92102, hereinafter Debtor, and Total Surveillance Inc. of 10252 Santa Monica Boulevard, Los Angeles, CA 90067, hereinafter Secured Party . . .”
I am entering the name and address of the client in my iPhone when Alexandro Perez, the security officer, bursts through the door.
“Oh! It’s you, Jenny.”
“Hi, Alexandro,” I greet him with a smile. “What’s up?”
“You set off the alarm when you opened the filing cabinet.”
“I’m sorry. I must have entered the wrong code.” In fact, I’d forgotten I needed to deactivate the alarm before opening the drawer.
“That’s okay. Beats sitting staring at those security screens all night.”
“I should be done here in an hour or so.”
“Bueno. Drop by on your way out.”
“Will do.”
He leaves, and I use my iPhone to take a copy of the contract, then turn to the trove of SD cards in the file. I separate those labeled kitchen, living room, dining room, office, and den, and make copies of all of them. I return the file to its drawer and go back to my booth on the first floor, where half a dozen more cards from other cases wait to be played and annotated.
As I’m leaving the office later, I phone Alice.
“Hi, sweetheart, “she says. “I knew it was you.”
“I’ve just left work.”
“At 10 pm?”
“I know,” I sigh. “Is your party still going?”
“Everyone except Bruno left at least an hour ago.”
“And who’s Bruno?” I ask teasingly.
“He’s an immigrant from Brazil. Overstayed his tourist visa. Now he’s in hiding.”
“And you’re no doubt helping keep him hidden?”
“You could say that.”
“I sense an ulterior motive. Handsome?”
“Gorgeous. I’m looking at him as I say this.”
“In that case I’ll let you go. Have a great evening—or should I say night?”
I end the call, feeling sorrier for myself than ever.
MIGUEL
Miguel wakes up, rolls over, and glances at the clock radio on the nightstand next to him. He is stunned to realize he’d slept till 12:23 pm. It’s worth it, he decides. For the first time in a week he feels well rested. The floor of his tiny bright-yellow bedroom is littered with the clothes he threw off last night, two empty beer cans, some textbooks, a file of loose papers, a Lakers pennant, and a dented black toolbox.
“Mamá! What’s for breakfast?” he calls out through the door.
“Get your lazy butt in here and you’ll see,” she calls back.
After a quick shower, Miguel stands staring at his closet. What figure does he want to present to the world this Saturday? He selects dark gray clinging chinos and a light gray zip-up vest with a crest logo. Yes, he decides, nothing but shades of white, black, and gray. So he pulls out of his drawer a black long-sleeved T-shirt and chooses white sneakers to complete the effect.
“Off to see El Presidente?” his mother teases him as he enters the kitchen.
“How did you know? The limousine will be here at 1.” He pours himself a cup of coffee and watches his mom cook his favorite breakfast dish—sausage-and-egg tacos. Having browned and crumbled the sausage she pours beaten egg into the skillet and stirs the mixture till it’s done. After taking out two heated tortillas from the microwave she fills them with some of the mixture, sprinkles on grated cheese and cilantro, and rolls them up. Miguel adds salsa and sour cream and bites into the first one.
“Great, Mamá.”
“You’re so appreciative this morning,” his
mother says. “You must want something.”
“How about no more deportations?”
“We should be so lucky.”
“Where’s everyone?” Miguel asks.
“Unlike you, they got up this morning. Your sister is helping Aunt Teresa clean the Enderbys’ house. Dad took the car to the shop.”
“You mean Dad’s being ripped off by those two crooks at Silva Auto Repairs again?”
“You need to go easy on your papa. You know he’s not well. All that dust from the weed whacker and leaf blower brings on his asthma.”
“How can I not know? He tells us at least once a day.”
“Don’t be like that. He has such a tough time with his breathing.”
“Then why doesn’t he do something about it?”
“Like what?”
“Like go to the ER?”
“You’re crazy. They’d ask for his ID.”
“Anyone knows they don’t do that. Anyway, that wasn’t what I was talking about. I just don’t understand why he lets those dudes at the shop rip him off all the time.”
“We can’t do without a working car, mijo. Finish your tacos before they get cold.” She slides two more freshly made tacos onto his plate.
“Where are you off to?”
“I’m taking Adela to the movies.”
“You’re treating her?”
“Of course.”
“Why can’t she pay for herself?”
“Oh, Mamá! If I like her, why can’t you at least like her for my sake?”
“I just don’t trust her. She uses you,” she responds.
“You say that about every girl I’ve ever dated.” Looking at his watch, Miguel says “Gotta go,” grabs his bike lock and quickly leaves the house.
✽✽✽
Emerging from the Regency Foothill Cinema in Azusa where they’d seen The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest, Miguel and Adela stand blinking in the blinding afternoon sun.
“I don’t think it was as good as the last one,” says Miguel.
“I liked it better,” Adela says. “Less blood.”
Adela looks up at him with her large beautiful eyes. Miguel loses interest in their budding argument.
“Can we get a frozen yogurt at Pinkberry?” she suggests. “It’s right here, and I love their pomegranate mango swirl—”
“And I love the swirl you put me in,” Miguel says flirtatiously.
“Oh, come on with you,” she says, blushing.
They drift into Pinkberry’s clean, bright space with its soothing air-conditioning and join the line.
Suddenly three men with handguns drawn burst into the store. They’re wearing T-shirts with ICE emblazoned across the front. One of the agents roughly pushes Miguel and Adela aside and jumps the counter.
“Everyone stay where you are and don’t move,” he yells. “Don’t move!”
He turns to the two young women behind the counter: “Give me your papers. Now!”
One of the women reaches for her purse. The other freezes in place, visibly shaking. Then she makes a dash for the rear exit. The ICE agent easily grabs her from behind and throws her face down on the floor. Then he forces his knee into her back and puts his full weight on it. She screams.
“Stop it!” Miguel shouts. “She’s not resisting you.”
The agent forces the woman’s arms together behind her back. The other agent thrusts his face into Miguel’s. “Who do you think you are? The Dark Knight? Show me your papers. NOW!”
“As soon as you stop brutalizing that woman,” Miguel says.
“Your papers!” the agent demands. “Quick!”
Miguel reaches into his back pocket for his papers.
“Slowly does it,” says the agent, obviously fearing a weapon.
“I thought you just said ‘Quick!’” Miguel says as he hands the agent his papers.
“Don’t get clever with me,” the agent says. “Hands behind your back.”
Miguel complies. The agent grabs his hands and cuffs him.
“What are you doing?” Miguel sputters. “You asked me for my papers. I gave them to you.”
“You’ll have to come with us while we check out this social security number,” the agent announces. He appears to enjoy throwing his weight around.
“Where are you taking him?” Adela asks. Miguel glances at her and sees tears streaming down her face.
“Downtown.”
“Where downtown?” she demands.
“Please step away from the officer,” the third agent tells Adela. The one who handcuffed Miguel shoves him out the front door and into a dark SUV marked ICE that’s idling at the curb. The first agent manhandles the young woman who tried to run into the back next to Miguel. She and Miguel are seated with one agent between them. The other two agents get in the front seats, and the driver takes off with a screech of tires.
Sunday
OCTOBER 31, 2010
Istart my Sunday, orange juice in hand, with my weekly call to Mom.
“Hello, sweetheart. How are you?” she asks, as she does every Sunday.
“Oh, okay. Well actually I’m feeling a little fragile today.”
“And why is that?” Mom immediately suspects the worst.
“I broke up with Gary,” I blurt.
After a pause, Mom says, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No, you’re not. You never really liked him.”
“I did think he should have offered to marry you before now.”
“You do know that more Americans are unmarried than married?”
“That doesn’t make them any happier, does it?” Touché.
“Tricia thinks it’s the best thing I’ve done in a long time.”
“Your sister never did see things the way you do.”
“You can say that again.”
“She’s well?”
Tricia rarely calls home.
“She’s doing great. The housing market is picking up. Last week she closed a deal for a million-five.”
“My goodness! And you, dear?”
“I still have my two part-time jobs.”
“That’s something these days. And how’s Gary?”
“Mom! I just told you, we broke up.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, unaware of repeating herself. “I told you that Dad had his overtime cut off completely last month, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Mom.” What the hell?
After a pause, Mom says, “I saw Dr. Snow last week. Or was it yesterday?”
Uh-oh.
“And . . .?”
“He said I’m suffering from depression.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“I’ve been trying to keep my thoughts to myself. Your father’s got enough worries as it is.”
“What worries?” I ask.
“He’s worried that he may be let go.” Even my mother is using one of corporate America’s more absurd euphemisms. As if employees have been dying to be released and a corporation has reluctantly agreed to their wishes.
Mom continues, “He’s been talking about moving to Oakland.”
“Oakland?”
“I mean Oklahoma.”
“Oklahoma! Why Oklahoma of all places?”
“An old college buddy of his now works at this non-profit in Oklahoma City—”
“What nonprofit?”
“It’s called the African American Health Board something or other. His friend says they are looking for—what was it?—an advocate in social action.”
“How’s the pay?”
“About the same as what he’s getting now. But they have no restrictions on overtime.”
“And do you want to move to Oklahoma?”
Mom starts crying. “All my friends live here,” she says between sobs.
“Have you told Dad how you feel?”
“I tried. But he’s so excited about starting a new mission in Oakland.”
“Oklahoma.” I correct her a little unkind
ly. Is Mom going senile? “It’s not a mission. It’s just another job, Mom.”
“He sees it differently. It’s about improving the lives and health of the poor. I feel selfish putting my friends before his career.”
“What about your life?”
“You don’t understand, Jenny. It’s complicated.”
“Yes, it’s complicated because it involves you as well, not just Dad.”
“Oh dear, I’m going to have to hang up. Your father just got home from walking the dog.”
“We’ll talk about this again, Mom.”
“We’ll see, dear. Goodbye for now.”
“Bye, Mom.”
What a mess. Is Dad going through a late midlife crisis? He’s normally so evenhanded. Family! Hell for children, as Strindberg said.
✽✽✽
After I’ve had breakfast on my own at home, I shut myself in my bedroom to go through the SD cards I copied. I had planned to spend the morning at the Santa Monica farmers market on Main Street. It’s a cool place, combining fresh produce—organic, of course, as it’s Santa Monica—with stalls selling cooked artisan foods, and a mix of local retail outlets and artist vendors. Families watch their kids having their faces painted, or taking pony rides, or petting farm animals. But this Sunday I am forced to give all that a miss.
The fifth card is a recording of Todd’s living room. And here’s Todd talking to a Mexican-looking guy. I switch to PLAY mode:
“. . . the question is, Jorge,” Todd says as he pours out a whiskey and hands it to him, “how clean are the sources of the money you’re investing in my company?”
Jorge, I recall, is the name on the surveillance contract. Jorge is Spanish for George, so the name is common as mud. How likely is it that he is the same Jorge who signed the contract?
This Jorge looks like he’s in his early fifties, with pale skin, black hair, piercing eyes, and a black Pancho Villa moustache. He’s wearing a smart white shirt with a plain dark-blue tie over loose black linen pants, and a huge silver signet ring on his right middle finger. He speaks impeccable English.
“No problem. The money is legit. It comes from our racing stable in Galveston.”