“I’ve been listening to your show and, while I’m sorry to hear about Monica Channing and Ms. Bixby’s granddaughter, I guess I got a different take on some of these websites.”
“You’ve used them?” Cupid put his elbows on the console and leaned into the mic. “Visited these websites, seen girls for hire?”
“Why not? It’s a free country. I mean this is between a man and woman, isn’t it? Besides just like you said, Detective, some of these gals are probably living better than they would anyway. So far as I’m concerned, long as nobody’s getting hurt, it’s not a problem.” Caller three hung up the phone, the dial tone droning out over the airwaves.
Cupid quickly filled the void. “Well, I think our caller, Mr. Man-of-the-World, is missing the point. These girls aren’t acting of their own volition, they’re—”
“Excuse me, but as the grandmother of one of these missing girls, I think what your caller forgets is that many of these girls had no choice. They were kidnapped. And if I might, Cupid, I’d like to say my friends with the red-hatted ladies society and I will be out on Hollywood Boulevard with flyers this Friday and every night until my granddaughter and Brandy White are found. I hope that you’ll join us. Until then, we believe every young girl needs to know she could be a target. We may not be strong, but we will not go away until our girls, and the Gabi Garrisons of the world, are found safe and returned home.”
CHAPTER 17
I left Detective Browne and Ms. Bixby in the studio with Cupid and returned to my office to find I had a message from a former client. Tony Domingo had called several times. In addition to a pink call-slip left on my desk marked urgent, I found another message from him on my voicemail. Curious, in that we hadn’t spoken in nearly a year.
“Carol, this is Tony from Financial Futures. I need to see you. Right away. Tonight. It’s about Gabi Garrison, and it’s strictly off the record. Don’t tell anyone, particularly the police. Meet me at The City Grill, Century City, eight p.m. and come alone. See you then.”
His voice sounded strained, not at all like I remembered. And just hearing Gabi’s name made me feel as though I’d just been zapped with an electric charge. I stared at the phone. The last time I had seen Tony Domingo was the day I’d met Gabi Garrison outside his office. The idea that he’d reach out to me now, with Gabi missing, made absolutely no sense. Unless—
I didn’t allow my mind to wander. I had too much to do. I had one last top-of-the-hour news report to read before I left for the day and, as I stared down at the list of stories Tyler had pulled from the wire, I was furious. Attached was a note. KCHC’s new management team would like us to have a lighter, more friendly side to our news. Think chick-lite, happy news.
The stories Tyler selected were nonsensical. IKEA had introduced a new catalogue, an old-fashioned print version. The slug on the story read Back to the Future. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie had just made their relationship official and announced their marriage, and Sunday’s earthquake had caused the waves off the Santa Monica beaches to swell. Twenty footers were breaking off the pier. Between the details of the Brangelina Wedding and the surf report, there was no time to include anything concerning the Hollywood Missing Girls.
I finished my report and left the studio in search of Detective Browne and Bessie. I wanted to catch them before they left the station. I still had questions for Detective Browne concerning the Clark Gable lookalike that Freddie said he had seen with Monica and maybe Leticia and possibly Gabi. I passed Tyler in the hall, nearly knocking him over in my rush.
“Have you seen Detective Browne?”
“He was headed towards the front door a minute ago.”
I raced towards the lobby, hoping I still might be able to catch them. But I was too late. Detective Browne’s car slowly cleared the gate as I reached the door.
My cell buzzed and I glance down at the caller ID. It was Sheri. The boys were back from their weekend football retreat with my ex and she was picking them up from school.
“Are you up for some spaghetti bolognaise? I thought it might be a nice welcome home.”
I didn’t want to say no. I was looking forward to welcoming Charlie home, hearing all about the game and spending time with the boys, but now, with Tony’s call, and the idea that it might have something to do with Gabi’s disappearance, I felt I just couldn’t do both.
“Actually, I was just about to call and say I’d be late. I need to meet with a client.”
“A client, tonight?”
“Yes, I—”
“Really, Carol, at this hour? Who are you kidding? You’re not in sales anymore. Just who are you meeting, and where?”
I should have known better. I could hear the suspicion in her voice. I fessed up and told her about Tony’s call, and that I was concerned he might have information concerning Gabi’s disappearance.
“But you can’t breathe a word of this. He said not to call the police. So promise me you won’t. Not unless I suddenly disappear, and then, if I do, call Tyler. Have the station put out an APB. Spare nothing.” I laughed nervously. I didn’t want to think Tony might seriously have something sinister to do with Gabi’s disappearance, but the idea that he wanted to see me alone had me feeling a little edgy.
“Wait a minute. You’re telling me you actually think this Domingo guy might have something to do with Gabi’s disappearance? I thought you said he was a client. Not some hit man for the mob.”
“I said he was in finance, loans, re-fis, that kind of thing. I used to write his commercials. He’d sing them on the radio. Don’t you remember? He sounded a little like Frank Sinatra, but I never said he was in the mob.”
“Oh, Tony, the tenor?”
“You remember?”
“No. But that definitely settles it. After what happened Saturday night, I’ll save the bolognaise for the boys and come with you. You’re not going alone.”
“Sheri, please.”
“No way. You’re not going alone, and we’ll take my car. It’s less identifiable than that red bomb of yours.”
I wasn’t so certain about that. Half an hour later, though, Sheri met me outside the station. She pulled up in her gold-trimmed, pearl-white Mercedes coupe, with the top down. Not exactly low profile.
I indicated with my thumb, pointing down, that she needed to put the top up, and as she did, she asked, “So where is it we’re going?”
“Century City. The City Grill. But you need to drop me off. He’s expecting me to come alone.”
I explained I’d run in, find out what it was he wanted and then we could grab a bite afterwards. Sheri acquiesced, begrudgingly, but only after I promised I’d buy dessert.
Twenty minutes later, we pulled onto the Avenue of the Stars in Century City and were just about to enter into the Grill’s parking lot when I saw something I didn’t like.
“Stop!” With my hand nearly in front of Sheri’s face, I ordered her to brake short of the entrance. A large black Rolls Royce was parked directly in front of the restaurant where the valets usually park late model, upscale cars. It looked familiar, in a very sinister sort of way, with its blacked-out windows and shiny, silver hood ornament of a woman leaning forward with her arms stretched out behind her like a bird about to take flight. “That’s the car. I recognize the hood ornament. The Spirit of Ecstasy. It’s exactly like the car parked in front of Holly’s cottage where we went for the pub crawl. ”
Sheri pulled to the side of the road and doused the Benz’s headlights. We waited in the dark.
“That’s the car I saw parked in the lot in front of the Holly Wood Tours cottage. The one the Clark Gable lookalike got into.”
“You think it’s a coincidence?”
I stared at the car, then back at the entrance to the restaurant. Three men appeared at the door.
“No, but I think it might be bad luck, at least for Tony. Look.”
&nb
sp; From inside the restaurant three men appeared at the doorway. All of them were dressed in business suits and approached the parked Rolls with their arms about one another like linemen for a football team. Two of them I couldn’t identify. The third man, in the center of the other two, was Tony. He looked like he had been drinking, his hair mussed, tie loosened, coat open. The two larger men on either side of him ushered him roughly into the backseat of the Rolls, then slammed the door.
Neither of us said anything. Instinctively I slipped down into the seat, my eyes barely above the window, following the black Rolls as it sped past us. Then with a sound unusual for a Rolls Royce, the car screeched onto the street, running the light onto the Avenue of the Stars.
“Did you see the plates?”
Sheri shook her head. “I’m not sure what that was.”
“Dream Maker.” I reached inside my bag for a note pad and quickly wrote down the personalized nameplate, the time and the date. “DRM MKR. The same plates I saw on the Rolls parked in front of Holly’s cottage Saturday night.”
Sheri tried to convince me as we drove home that Tony had been drunk, and that whoever the men were who were with him—probably friends—had put him in the car for his own safety and taken him home.
I didn’t think so. Nothing about what we’d just witnessed appeared friendly. I kept thinking about his message. He had information about Gabi Garrison. He wanted me to come alone. Why? I checked my phone to see if I still had his contact information in my Outlook file. When I was in sales, I kept a detailed database, including birthdays, anniversaries, personal addresses, and phone numbers for all my clients. But since leaving that part of my life behind me, I had deleted my sales contacts and had nothing but Tony’s cell number from my list of recent calls. I tried his cell. There was no answer.
My next call was to Detective Browne. I left a brief but urgent message on his voicemail, explaining I’d gone to meet a former client for dinner and had maybe witnessed a kidnapping. I wasn’t sure. Only that I thought it might have something to do with Gabi Garrison’s disappearance. I described the car, including the personalized plates, and hung up. There was nothing more I could do.
CHAPTER 18
The next day, Detective Browne called me first thing in the morning. He told me he’d listened to my message and I couldn’t possibly have seen a kidnapping. Particularly since the car I described with personalized plates—Dream Maker—belonged to a civilian member of the police commission.
“Dr. Diamond,” he said, “was appointed by the police chief himself, and he’s a respected member of the community, a real estate developer who probably owns half of Hollywood. He supports a group home for at-risk children and, hell, I was in his suite at Staples Center last week for a Laker Game. Carol, I know what you think you saw, but if your friend looked anything like you say—falling down drunk—I’d interpret that as someone helping out a buddy, who maybe had a little too much to drink.”
“Yes, but I was meeting him because he wanted to talk about Gabi Garrison.” I explained Tony Domingo had been a client of mine and I’d met Gabi outside his office back when I was in sales. “I got the feeling he had information concerning her disappearance, and he asked me to come alone.”
“Alone, huh?”
I didn’t like the inflection in Detective Browne’s voice. I could tell, based on the fact he believed Tony had gotten into some police commissioner’s car, that he didn’t think he’d been kidnapped.
“Look, Carol, I’ll be happy to ask Dr. Diamond what he knows, but my hunch is that if you saw this friend of yours getting into Dr. Diamond’s car, it’s nothing. Least not what you think.”
I let the innuendo that Tony’s interest in me was other than professional slide and pushed harder.
“Yes, but he mentioned Gabi Garrison, like he knew something and wanted to talk to me specifically.”
“Exactly, and the fact that he called you, and not the police, and asked you to come alone, makes me wonder if this former client of yours wasn’t a little bit lonely. Maybe he’s been following the story in the press and is looking for an excuse to get together.”
Detective Browne may have been convinced, but I wasn’t. Police Commissioner or not, I knew something wasn’t right. I decided, as I hung up the phone, to drive by Tony’s office. It was maybe an extra twenty or thirty minutes from the radio station, but after last night and talking with Detective Browne, I figured it was well worth the drive. I needed to settle my curiosity concerning Tony’s wellbeing.
Tony’s office, a small efficiency suite, was located inside a high rise on the corner of Glendon Avenue and Kinross in Westwood, just steps from the busy UCLA campus. I arrived and took the elevator to the twelfth floor. As the doors opened, I noticed the door to Financial Futures was ajar.
The office was empty.
In front of me, the receptionist’s desk sat vacant. The drawers of her desk yawned open, their contents spilled out onto the floor. Pens, pencils and scraps of paper lay littered at my feet. I walked to the back of the suite where Tony’s private workspace overlooked the busy campus below. The venetian blinds hung awkwardly at a forty-five degree angle as though someone had tried to close them in a rush and then given up. Dust had settled on the desk where Tony’s computer had been, but it was gone. Everything was gone; the pictures on the wall of him singing, the phones, the computer, the files, and most of all, Tony. There was nothing left.
I reached into my bag for my phone. I was about to call Detective Browne when my cell rang.
“So did you find him? Was he at his office? Did he say what happened? Is he okay?” It was Sheri, rattling off questions like a machine gun.
I laughed and started walking towards the elevator. Sheri knew without my saying anything to her that I’d try to track Tony down first thing this morning.
“No,” I said. “In fact, I’m leaving his office right now, and it’s empty. Everything’s gone; phones, files, and there’s not a trace of Tony anywhere. Looks like he left, and in a hurry.”
“So what are you going to do? Call that Detective back?”
I thought about it while I waited for the elevator. I knew if I called Detective Browne and told him Tony’s office was empty that he’d listen politely, but I doubted, after this morning’s conversation, he’d take his disappearance seriously. He’d probably chalk it all up to some failed business deal, which might explain Tony’s drunken appearance with Diamond. I knew he’d assure me he’d check it out. But I was beginning to feel our relationship, particularly since I’d mentioned seeing Diamond’s car twice now, was beginning to wane. He didn’t need to tell me, but I knew if I continued to harp on Dr. Diamond, the good will between us would evaporate like water on asphalt in the middle of a California heat wave.
“No, and I don’t think I can tell Tyler, either. He’s got his hands full with this new chick-lite format. I get the feeling sex trafficking and the kidnapping of young girls might not be exactly the type of story corporate would get excited about. In fact, they might get difficult and want to pull it—it doesn’t exactly fit that lighter, friendlier form of news. But I do have another idea.”
“And what’s that?”
“LAPD’s not the only one investigating this case. The FBI’s working it too, and while they may have rules and regulations about talking to a reporter concerning an open investigation, there’s no reason I can’t talk to them.”
“So you’re thinking about calling Mark?”
“I am. If Eric were in town I’d be sharing some of my thoughts with him. No reason I can’t talk with Agent Delfino. Let him know that I suspect Gabi Garrison’s disappearance and that of my former client, Tony Domingo, may be connected to Monica’s murder. And while I’m at it, mention that Dr. Diamond may be someone they’d like to talk to. LAPD sure doesn’t seem interested.”
The elevator arrived, and Sheri asked me to say hello to Mark for
her. I suspected there was a dinner invitation in there somewhere, but decided not to pursue it. I promised I’d call later and hung up.
I was wrong about traffic. It took longer than I thought to get from Westwood back to the station in Culver City. The Santa Monica freeway, which should have been a clear shot mid-morning, was backed up, and the east-west thoroughfares, south of Wilshire on through to Venice, were all congested. Traffic lights were out everywhere. I tuned to KNX for a traffic report. A water main had broken off Overland and Venice, and streets in the area were being shut down, another story that would fill the midday news report. I selected an alternate route, weaving through surface streets and small neighborhoods peppered with stop signs, while I tried to call Agent Delfino. He wasn’t in his office, and he wasn’t picking up his cell. I left a message and asked him to call me, then tuned to KCHC.
Aaron Whitehall was a business news reporter Tyler was testing out. I caught him in the middle of his show, interviewing some developer. The topic seemed dry and I was curious how it fit into KCHC’s new chick-lite, happy news format. I still had my finger on the dial when I heard the station’s quirky sing-songy ID and got my answer.
KCHC…Chick Radio…A thirty-second sponsorship followed. Everything old is new again. Live, play, and dine in the heart of old Hollywood…
“Sellout!” I yelled at the station. Corporate may have wanted Tyler to program KCHC as a new, lighter, more feminine talk radio station, but if listening to Aaron was any indication, it was obvious if a host came through the door with a paid sponsor, KCHC could be whatever it needed to be for that hour.
Aaron welcomed back his audience. “So, in addition to your position as a member of the police commission, Dr. Diamond, you’re a developer…”
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