Alex Ames - Calendar Moonstone 02 - Brilliant Actors

by Alex Ames

  “Sounds sad. But probably similar to a lot of cops’ lives,” I said.

  “That is true, but in the end, what do you have? What have I really achieve in life so far? When I didn’t like the answer, I changed my life.”

  “Like Terrence,” I drew the parallel. “He left public service, too, and went into private practice. And from what I heard, it was mainly due to personal reasons.”

  “Well, I like serving the public. And Redondo is much nicer than Orange County. Smaller area, much less crime, and much easier to control. I’ve held the job for some years now, have a great track record, managed to pick up tennis and sailing, and have time to go out on a date now and then.” Henry smiled. “That was impossible to think of in my old life.”

  “And your former wife?”

  “Sheila married again after a few years. She was … well, is an attractive woman, and she got herself some computer guy who is home on a regular basis. Even had another kid.”

  “So you had kids, too?”

  “John just turned fifteen, is an ace in tennis and a great kid, not such a troubled teenager like you hear now so often. Henry Junior is twenty years old and goes to college in North Carolina. Has a full football scholarship, which makes my financial life a lot easier. He’s a great guy, too. Has had a steady girlfriend since he was about seventeen, and I bet he’ll grow old with her. We go sailing or for games regularly.”

  “Sounds like your ex-wife and you did a great job,” I said.

  “More like Sheila’s and Marcus’ success. I mean, we’ve been divorced for about twelve years now.” Henry picked up a handful of sand and let it run through his hands. “Life changed us all.”

  We didn’t pick up that thread of the conversation again, but his last line reverberated in our heads for the rest of the evening.

  Henry dropped me off at home shortly before midnight and walked me to my door. The grass was still wet, but the insects had started making night music and the flowers and blooms started radiating smells again.

  “That was a very nice evening,” Henry said. “Thanks for not going to the movies with me.”

  “You are right; it would have spoiled it. You know what the best part of the evening was for me?”

  “Tell me so I can repeat it next time,” Henry said.

  “That you made me forget all my troubles and didn’t mention the case once.”

  “I thought that was the easiest part.” Henry smiled. “And maybe this comes close?”

  Almost. He gave me a shy kiss on my cheek and said, “Goodnight, Calendar Moonstone. Take care.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Follow That Cab

  For the first time that week, I had a dreamless night of deep sleep. Because of the unplanned shop shutdown, I didn’t need to get out of bed the next morning, so I didn’t set an alarm. When the phone rang and startled me, it was around ten o’clock in the late morning.

  “Hello?”

  “Did I wake you?” Henry asked.

  “Yeah, but you are allowed to. You should kiss me more often.” I grew beet red the second the words had left my mouth; luckily, this wasn’t a video phone. The startled second of silence told me that Henry probably was stunned, too. It must have come from the state of wakefulness I was in.

  “I mean,” I quickly corrected myself, “that I had a wonderful, deep sleep without the nightmares I had the past few nights and….” I realized that this was a lame excuse and basically distorted the facts, so I changed course in mid-sentence and continued, “Forget it. I stand by my original assessment: you should kiss me more often.”

  After a second of more delay, Henry found his words. “I must say, you hippie girls have a direct way. Should I come right over, siren and lights?”

  “Break, break, break!” I said, stretching myself awake. “This is getting out of hand, Henry. Can I call you back in a minute?”

  He gave me his direct line number—he actually was at the office on a Sunday—and I quickly stepped under the shower and fixed a double espresso on the machine. While it steamed up, I had to smile to myself. I almost started whistling, something I hadn’t done for years. Calendar in love?

  After the espresso and a banana, I decided I was able to face Henry and drove to his office. Why call when he was only a five-minute drive away? The desk announced me, and I walked upstairs. Mable’s desk was deserted, and the door to Henry’s office was open. He looked up and gave a mischievous smile when I entered.

  I closed the door behind me and motioned for Henry to sit down.

  “Listen, Henry, before we come to business, I have to give a little speech.”

  Henry looked at me, astonished. “Sure,” he said slowly.

  “I feel very attracted to you,” I started. “When I was in the shower, I almost sang; when I made coffee, I whistled with the machine. I never do that, usually. You got to me.” I had to breathe twice to keep from fainting.

  “Take it slow, Calendar, please.”

  “No, I have to say this in advance,” I said. “Yesterday we didn’t talk shop, which was very good. And things have turned a little serious for me now, and I hate being disappointed.”

  “So far, I follow you … and agree completely,” Henry said.

  “I want this to go further, but I want this to be good. So please, Henry, can we take it step by step? And more importantly … very slow?”

  Henry looked at me with his wise eyes and said, “Let me guess; you have been hurt very badly by your New York friend, and it took a long time to heal, probably never. And you don’t want to get involved too fast, too deep in order to keep your emotions at bay, first.”

  “Yes.”

  We sat for a minute and looked at each other. There was the man I fell in love with last night after a dinner, a walk, lots of talk, and a goodnight kiss. I wondered what Henry was thinking right now.

  And after a few more seconds, Henry simply said, “Okay. Slow is good. I like slow. I like you.”

  And then we both were stunned again, not knowing what to say. So, Henry came around his desk and gave me a full kiss.

  “How is that for slow?” Henry said when we parted after a three-minute kiss.

  “Forget slow!” I managed.

  “Shop?” he asked carefully after our hearts had stopped racing and we were at regular breathing levels again.

  “Oh, and I thought you had called to wish me a good morning,” I said, playfully disappointed.

  “No. Yes. Both. To tell you good morning and to tell you the results of that little Rip Delaware taxi hunt.”

  “Oh, yes, you found the cab!” I exclaimed.

  “The cab was the easiest part. Finding the gypsy cab driver was a little harder, but my deputy did and interviewed him.” Henry opened the file. “I am not sure what you expected, but the driver brought Rip to a shopping mall near Century City.”

  “Westfield?”

  “Exactly. Rip paid the driver and went into the mall.” Henry closed the file. “No words beside the necessary were exchanged. End of story.”

  “Thank you; that will help.” I got up and gave him a smile. “I will contact you when I have his location.”

  “Hang on, hang on. You don’t want to tell me how you plan to get hold of him? Come on, you don’t expect him to show up there again, do you?”

  “No, but at least he wasn’t driven to Orange County or Huntington or Newport. He is still in LA!”

  “Hey, but so are thirteen million others!”

  “It is all a matter of statistics,” I said mysteriously and left Henry.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Chasing Rip Delaware

  I have this theory about finding people that I have never put into action. But there is always a first time. The theory goes as follows: stuck in our ordinary lives, we tend to walk the same paths over and over, day in and day out. We live in a certain area, so we go shopping around there, we go to the movies now and then, or we drive toward the same freeway ramp on a regular basis. So, hand m
e the approximate area, and I will give you—sooner or later—the person. I just have to sit and wait in the right spot for a while, and the person in question will drive past me on his way to work or when he goes shopping. Of course, patience is the key. Slow is good.

  Maybe a thief like Rip Delaware deviates slightly from the definition of a regular Joe. He may not hold a steady job, but he has basic needs like anyone. He has to go shopping, and he will go to the movies. Or for a new Beverly Hills heist. As I said before, if we sit and wait at the right corners of LA, we will spot him one fine day.

  I was standing in front of a stained wooden table in the back room of a smoky, beer-stinking biker bar in Long Beach. On the table, I had put the police photo of Rip on the evening of the Oscar party, two other shots that had been made on the premises that night, and a map of the Santa Monica/Beverly Hills/Westwood area. Additionally, Fowler’s insurance agency resources had variations made from the police photo: Rip with a fashionable goatee, with blonde and black hair, cut shorter, and with modern glasses.

  Ten rough, rugged, bearded biker faces were looking at me incredulously after my little speech. They were sitting and standing around the table, smoking and drinking beer. Hard rock music was subwoofing through the walls from the bar.

  Uncle Bernie, rough, rugged, bearded, smoking, and drinking beer, considered his words carefully when he finally started to speak. “What the fuck are you trying to sell us here? That we hunt down this guy by butt-squashing our bikes and watching the fucking traffic flow?”

  “Exactly the way I wanted to express it, but couldn’t due to lack of grace and style.”

  “You must be out of your fucking mind, Calendar girl!”

  “I am open to improvements or alternatives, Uncle Bernie.” I held his glare.

  He burped and looked around at his guys—no equalization of the sexes in this posse. “Any fucking comments?”

  Silence. Bernie was the head of an antique motorcycle rocker gang that used to roam the country in the good old times but lately had come to the conclusion that business and biker weather was best in California. Another possibility was that they were on the wanted posters of most of the other forty-nine states. Now they had started some ventures, whose legal entities seemed to consist of a large number of biker bars in the South California area. Probably fronting illegal endeavors. Who was I to judge them?

  Another important fact: Bernie Moon was the alienated brother of my father, Harry Moon, which made him my uncle. Maybe every branch of our family had a shady side?

  He had helped me out of a tight spot before, and I had had the brilliant idea to enlist the service of his gang again. The advantage of using Bernie and his gang was the fact that Bernie knew that I was not the little, innocent girl jewelry maker. He didn’t know all the details, but he knew that I was in strange troubles sometimes. Because of a fall-out with my dad years back, he wasn’t on speaking terms with the rest of the family, which suited me fine, too.

  I looked around, and when no feedback came from the guys, I hammered my flat hand on the table and made the bottles jump. “Hey, you dorks! Your boss asked you a question. If you have no better idea, I think you should follow mine!” I shouted and looked mean.

  Which drew a round of hearty laughs from the guys all around. The mouse that roared.

  Cousin Mick, one of Bernie’s many offspring from very attractive biker girls, smiled his winner smile. He had long, brown hair with lots of curls, the modern incarnation of Jim Morrison. “I don’t know about the rest of the boys, but Calendar’s idea is all right with me.”

  Bernie gave a deep growl and threw Mick a dirty look.

  Mick held up his hand. “Dad, you asked! I think we should give it a try. It is a new approach, and I want to find out how it works. It may come in handy another time.”

  “Like fucking when?” asked Bernie.

  “Aren’t you still looking for that bookmaker, Joel Shoeman? If Calendar’s exercise works out, we could try fishing for him. We know that he lives in the Newport area.”

  “Okay, no need to go into details here.” Bernie turned towards me. “Speaking of which: you were under the fucking impression that my guys and I work for free?”

  “We could arrange for a finder’s fee if you like,” I baited him.

  “How much did you say this Delaware guy ripped you off?” Bernie chuckled over his own genius.

  There was no easy answer to that, as my plans in case of successful retrieval were a little sketchy at best. “I can’t base your fee on the complete potential retrieval. In order to clear my name, we have to let the police find most of the stolen jewels.”

  “Come on, your best guess.”

  “What Rip stole from my safe was worth a little over two million dollars. One percent all right?” Nothing like a little seven-digit number to get some respect from the guys.

  “Jesus, I should go into jewels and not these crappy iPhones and DVDs,” Bernie groaned, and then, business-like, “Forget one percent, make it an even five, and we are in business.” And his expression showed me that this was his earnest and last offer.

  “I could hire a private detective army with that! But all right. Mick, what were your suggestions?”

  Bernie beamed under his beard, and the guys shuffled their feet to get a closer look at the maps on the table.

  Mick pulled the map of West LA toward him. “Let’s refine the search area a little bit. From what you said, he is interested in movie stars and loves to rob them. So, West LA seems like a good start. Plus the taxi dropped him off right in the middle of it.” He pointed at Century City.

  “He used to commute to Redondo on a regular basis to spy out my shop,” I said.

  Bernie joined the conversation, too. “That somehow makes it improbable that he lives in the valley. Too long to commute, so he wouldn’t live further north.”

  “From your description of him, he sounds like a cocky bastard. Very self-assured and close to arrogant. A successful jewel thief, just did plenty of movie stars and didn’t get caught, even when the police closed in on him.” Mick summed it up.

  “That is correct, but will that help us?”

  “It means that he wouldn’t live in one of the lesser quarters more to the south. Like down here, San Pedro or Del Rey. Or even close to downtown. I bet he has a nice apartment or small house that somehow reflects his status. I mean, he has to live for something if not the sweet life. Even if it is just temporarily. So, we are looking at the better areas, like close to the coast—Venice Beach, Santa Monica, Pacific Palisades, the Hills. He wouldn’t go for less.”

  After an hour of discussions, we had made a dozen strategic crosses in all different areas of town. All the junctions, streets, and locations would be watched by one of Bernie’s guys from noon to 7:00 P.M., the time a person is most likely to go out to shop, lunch, dine, or wine. After 7:00, darkness set in, and spotting became more difficult. We’d even discussed his wheels, and when I told them that during the Redondo Beach stakeout he had driven a nondescript Datsun, Mick and Bernie had said in unison, “Convertible!”

  “Why a convertible?” I asked.

  Mick said, “Fits his self-image as a successful thief with a double life. For stakeouts and his plain Joe identity, he uses a rundown car that fits his supposedly low income. But I bet you your jewels that in real life he drives a German sports car. Nothing too flashy like a Ferrari to make people look twice, but maybe like an older Porsche model, a BMW Z-model, or a Merc SLK. The toys of successful professionals in LA.”

  In the course of the discussion, the other guys had participated, too, and all in all I had developed a good feeling that my crazy plan would work.

  “How long will we have to do it?” the Mountain asked, a Hagrid-style giant with an extra sized bike of impressive dimensions. Did I mention rugged, rough, and bearded?

  “I have about twenty-something days left to prove my innocence. Let’s give it a few days, okay? Then we can decide how we go will on.”

&n
bsp; Bernie said, “Unfortunately, the weekend is over. People tend to go out a little more often on weekends, and moving people is our chance to catch him. But let’s see how it will turn out.”

  After last-minute logistics and communication issues, I left them and drove home again. I had to shower before going to bed with beer and cigarette smell in my clothes and hair. I slept with some strange dreams somewhere between Henry and the jewels.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Mouse And Cat

  Monday noon, Operation Rip-Spotting was rolling into action. Around 1:00 P.M., Mick called and told me the guys were on the lookout. Luckily, the weather was perfect—agreeable temperatures, no rain or excessive sun.

  Not so nice was a phone call I received from Fowler, who felt that he had been left out of the loop.

  “What are you working on? I have no clue what you are doing, and if I have my say, I think you are preparing the next heist,” he whined through the line.

  “Fowler, could you calm down, please? I am preparing my next heist. You’re right,” I answered, annoyed.

  A short hesitation. “You are?”

  “Yes. Not the heist you are thinking of, but a great way of catching Mr. Delaware.” I gave Fowler Wynn a short update on the operation.

  “I’ll have to drive past a few of those spots in order to believe it myself,” he muttered. “Have it your way.”

  “Fowler, this is my neck, so it is my plan. Shut up and wait for the results. Don’t you have other insurance swindlers to catch or other suspects to drill? And make sure that my own insurance check gets processed!”