by Blake Pierce
Right at that moment, a guy wearing a gaudy silver suit sauntered up to them. He had Miami Vice–era stubble, a dyed-brown receding hairline he was trying to hide with a grisly comb-over, and the smell of a man who had recently bathed in cigarette smoke.
“Can I get either of you ladies a refill?” he asked forcefully. “Or maybe you’d like some fresh, organic liquid refreshment? I’m happy to provide some.”
Keri stared at him, stunned that someone actually thought that line would work under any circumstances, much less in an environment like this. She started to speak but Mags raised her hand almost imperceptibly as if to say “I’ve got this,” before turning to face the man directly.
“What’s your name, you strapping sir?” she asked.
“Kyle.”
“Kyle what?”
“Kyle Hinton.”
“Kyle Hinton—it just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it, Keri?”
Keri nodded, curious to see where this was going next.
“Kyle,” Mags continued, “if what you mean is that you would like to pay for another drink from the bar for one or both of us—why, that would be delicious. But if you’re hinting that you’d like to present either of us with some ‘liquid’ of your own creation, I feel confident in declining on both our behalves. I can assure you that neither of us have any interest in engaging in sexual activity with you. Or in talking to you. Or even in being in your proximity any longer. Do you know what I mean, Kyle?”
“Fine, be that way,” he said, realizing he was out of his depth. “Couldn’t you just have said ‘no thanks’?”
“I could have, Kyle. But how would that help the next lady to whom you offer fresh, organic liquid refreshment? Let this be a lesson to you, Kyle Hinton. There’s no hiding for men like you anymore. Now be on your way.”
Kyle stood there for a second, then, apparently done taking abuse for the night, turned and left without another word.
Keri watched him go, then looked back at Mags with awe.
“Can I take you along to some of my precinct meetings? I think you could really clean up the place.”
“It would be my great honor.”
The waiter came over to ask if they wanted another round, snapping Keri out of the moment and reminding her of her priorities.
“Not for me. But I would love a few Advil if you have some behind the bar.”
“And I’ll take a refill, darling,” Mags told him. He nodded and walked off.
“So you were saying,” Keri prompted.
Mags picked up where she left off as if there’d never been an interruption.
“So the photos never ended up in any publication as far as Kenny could tell. And she was pretty confident that she couldn’t even be recognized. She said she wore a blonde wig and heavy makeup.
“But a couple of years ago, right around the time there was a big cover story on the foundation in the Times, she got an anonymous letter in the mail. It demanded money and included one of the photos from the session.”
“Did she tell Jeremy about it?” Keri asked.
“Absolutely not. She was mortified. And she didn’t want Jeremy to think ill of her. I told her that he would understand. She was twenty-three, for heaven’s sake. But she wouldn’t hear of it. She said that he’d be really hurt. I suggested she go to the police but she worried that would guarantee it would become public knowledge.”
“She’s probably right,” Keri sighed.
“It was a predicament. She obviously knew who it was from so she went over to try to talk to the guy. He was still living in the same sleazy apartment that he used as his photography studio all those years ago. Kenny said he had head shots of young women plastered all over the place.
“Anyway, you can imagine how receptive he was to just dropping the whole thing. He demanded five thousand dollars a month to stay quiet. She told him that anything more than two thousand would draw her husband’s attention and if he found out, the guy wouldn’t have anything to blackmail her with anymore. That made sense to him and that’s where they left it, Kendra paying this guy two grand every month for the last two years—until last month.”
“What happened then?”
“He demanded she pay more. She said she was finally going to put an end to it.”
“When was she going to do that?”
“This last weekend.”
“And you don’t know what happened after that?”
“I haven’t talked to her since last Friday. I was surprised she didn’t call but figured she’d reach out when she was ready. I’m starting to regret that.”
“You couldn’t have known. I get that you’re worried but don’t start obsessing over every potential mistake you’ve made.”
That’s my job.
Mags nodded, without a clever response for the first time that night.
What this guy’s name?” Keri asked.
“Rafe Courtenay. He lives in a walk-up in Hollywood.”
The waiter returned with Mags’s drink and Keri’s Advil, which she downed right away.
“I’ve got to go, Mags,” she said, putting her shoes back on and dropping a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Thanks for all the info. I’ll be in touch.”
She had already made her way halfway across the room when she heard Mags’s genteel voice behind her call out, “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
She waved over her shoulder without looking back. She’d spent enough time with the Beverly Hills elite.
It was time to get down and dirty with a Hollywood sleazebag.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Her body coursing with adrenaline, Keri pulled up in the alley behind Rafe Courtenay’s apartment and sat there for a moment, preparing for what was to come. She looked at her watch.
It was almost 8:30 and the late September summer sun had set almost two hours ago. Hollywood was now lit by streetlights and the endless array of neon signs that dotted its primary boulevards.
The drive over from the Peninsula had been a busy one, with multiple phone calls. First she’d let Brody know she had to leave to follow up a lead. He was pissed until she said she was going to try to get Detectives Sterling and Cantwell sent over to help with interviews at the gala. They were almost as crusty as Brody himself and his complaining stopped at the news.
Then she called Manny Suarez to see if there was any new info from the Palm Springs bus station. There wasn’t. But he did give her a rundown on Courtenay.
The guy was forty-eight, with a record of misdemeanors, most related to either DUIs or contributing to the delinquency of a minor for buying drinks for underage girls. There was nothing about blackmail and he’d never served more than a couple of days in jail.
He didn’t strike Keri as an imminent threat but in her diminished physical state, threat was a relative term. And since she’d promised Mags to keep the situation off the radar if at all possible, she was reluctant to call for support, which required approval and ultimately, paperwork. That meant this had to be a solo trip. So to be safe, she changed right there in the alley.
She got out of her evening gown, strapped the rib padding back on, and followed that up with her bulletproof vest. Then she put on the hooded sweatshirt and mom jeans she’d originally planned to change into the minute she left the gala but hadn’t had time to until now. Lastly she put on her sneakers, tied her hair back in the old, reliable ponytail, and strapped her police radio, Taser, handcuffs, holster, and weapon to her waistband.
The rear entrance to Courtenay’s complex was locked so she made her way around front. The building was in the middle of a long block on Afton Place, a seedy side street between North Gower and Vine. As she walked, Keri recalled her last and most unpleasant phone conversation on the drive over. It was with Lieutenant Hillman.
“Why the hell did it take you so long to reach out?” he had demanded before she could get a word in. “I’ve talked to Brody three times today and this is the first I’ve heard from you since you left my office
this morning.”
“Sorry, sir. I’ve just been running around so much that I forgot to call. I guess I’m out of practice, not having been in the field for two weeks.” She hated being deferential or apologetic, especially to Hillman. But she had to calm him down if she was going get him to approve her request.
“That’s exactly why you need to check in more often, Locke. It’s not just protocol. It’s for your safety and my peace of mind.”
“You’re right, sir—won’t happen again.”
There was a brief pause in which Keri knew she’d laid it on too thick.
“What are you after, Detective? You’ve never been this accommodating with me, not even on your first day. You’d better come clean fast.”
“It’s nothing, sir. I just had a request I was hoping you could approve.”
“What is it?” Hillman growled.
“I had to leave the gala to check out a time-sensitive lead and I was hoping you could send Detectives Sterling and Cantwell over there to help Brody with interviews. They seem to work well together and there are a lot of potential leads there, too many for just one person to handle.”
“Sterling and Cantwell are off for the night,” he said curtly.
“Yes sir. But this is a pretty high-profile case and I thought you’d want to direct all available resources to it. But I understand if that’s not possible. If you prefer, we could call Beverly Hills PD and ask them to pick up the slack for us. It is, after all, their jurisdiction.”
“So help me God, Locke, I hope your attempts to manipulate witnesses and suspects aren’t as clunky as your attempts to manipulate me. Do you think I can’t see through this—trying to make me view this as a turf war—hoping I’ll protect my territory?”
“Of course not, sir,” Keri answered, keeping her voice even.
“What is this lead that’s so important that you had to abandon the gala, anyway?”
“It’s probably nothing, sir. I don’t want to waste your time with it. It’ll take a half hour and then I’m on to the next thing.”
“By ‘the next thing,’ I assume you mean following up on the Palm Springs bus station, where there seems to be actual evidence that suggests what may have actually happened, namely a rich woman bailing on her stifling life.”
“That’s exactly what I was going to pursue next, sir.”
“Remember, Locke, there’s nothing illegal about a person just dropping out of their life. If she doesn’t have debts to pay or children to support, Kendra Burlingame is allowed to just disappear. And unless we can find evidence of a crime, there’s no case. And if there’s no case, we need to put our resources elsewhere. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir, I do. And I will keep that front of mind. But I’m almost to my destination, Lieutenant. Shall I call our Beverly Hills colleagues to help with the gala interviews or would you prefer to handle that?”
“Locke, you are a pain in my ass. I’ll send our people over. Do not call BHPD. Finish whatever it is you’re doing that you won’t tell me about fast and move on. Got it?”
“Got it, sir.”
Keri thought the conversation had gone about as well as it could, all things considered.
She arrived at the front entrance of Courtenay’s building and studied it. It was a five-story walk-up, easily half a century old. Someone had made a sad little attempt to give it a Spanish stucco look by attaching brown tiles that had mostly cracked or broken off.
Keri stepped into the interior entry. Courtenay supposedly lived on the fourth floor in unit 412. On the resident directory, that unit was listed as “The Dream Factory.” Keri felt the slight urge to vomit.
She buzzed the building manager’s unit and after a minute, she was met by an elderly woman in a nightgown with her hair in rollers. Keri flashed her badge and the woman let her in.
“Are you here for the druggies in two seventeen or the pervert in four twelve?” she asked in a raspy voice.
“The pervert, ma’am,” Keri answered. “But as long as we’re chatting, are the druggies users or sellers?”
“Mostly users. They sell to their friends, I think.”
“I can’t do anything about them right now, but I can have someone come back later to deal with them if you like.”
“No, that’s all right. They’re loud and they smell bad. But they pay their rent on time. These days, that makes for a good tenant.”
“Yes, ma’am. Well, here’s my card anyway. If you change your mind about that, give me a call and I’ll see what I can do, okay?”
“Thank you, dear. You’re not like the asshole cops I usually deal with.”
“No ma’am,” Keri said and started for the stairs, before turning back. “Oh, and ma’am, if you get any complaints about noise in unit four twelve, I wouldn’t worry about it. Sometimes these visits can get a little rough and tumble.”
The woman stared at her for a few seconds before breaking out in a wheezy cackle.
“You are a pistol, aren’t you?” she laughed.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t worry, Detective. I’m quite hard of hearing.” She cackled again and headed back to her room.
Keri began the four-story slog up to Courtenay’s place. The Advil from the hotel bar was already starting to wear off and she could feel the sharp pain returning to her ribs with each step she took up the stairs. She cradled her left elbow in her right palm and pressed it against her chest to diminish the jostling.
When she reached the fourth floor, she snapped into professional mode, releasing her left arm and using her right hand to unbutton her holster. The hallway was mostly quiet, save for a few loud conversations and the noise of several televisions. Not unexpected on a Tuesday night.
She reached Courtenay’s door and pressed her ear to it, hoping for some clue as to what was happening inside. But other than the muffled sound of music in the background, there was nothing. She stepped back, knocked loudly on the door, and moved to the right so that she would be out of view of the peephole and out of the direct line of fire if he reacted with gunfire instead of a hello.
She heard the music stop, followed by some rustling and the creak of floorboards.
“Who is it?” Courtenay called out from the other side of the door after about ten seconds. His voice was low and throaty.
“Detective Keri Locke, LAPD,” she said as she held her badge out in front of the peephole. “I need to ask you a few questions, Mr. Courtenay.”
“What about?” he demanded warily.
“Open up and I’ll explain. I’m not going to shout back and forth through the door.”
“You need a warrant for that,” he said stubbornly.
“I need a warrant to search your place, Mr. Courtenay, not to ask you questions. Now, I came all the way over here from the West Side to chat with you. It was a long drive and I’m in a bad mood. If you want to be difficult, I can call for backup, have this door smashed open, which you’ll have to pay to repair, and question you on the street in cuffs or back at my station house. That’s one possible outcome. Or you can open your door and we can have a friendly chat. It’s your choice but you have about five seconds to make it.”
There was a brief pause before she heard several locks turn and the door opened halfway.
Rafe Courtenay stepped back far enough for her to see him and said, “I don’t have to let you in.”
Keri realized immediately that her assessment that Courtenay wasn’t an imminent threat had been mistaken. He may have been forty-eight, but the man was in great shape. She guessed he was about six foot one and 210 pounds. He was wearing a too-tight white tank top and yoga pants and his muscles bulged in every direction. He had long brown hair that swept across his face, probably an attempt to mask his horribly pockmarked face.
Behind him, Keri could see a cabinet with several framed karate belts, including a black one, and photos of him in competitions. A pair of nunchucks hung from the wall.
It occurred to Keri that trying to
talk her way into the apartment of a muscle-bound, karate-obsessed, blackmailing potential abductor while she was without backup and recovering from multiple serious injuries might not be the wisest course of action. But the thought only lasted a second before she pushed it away and replaced it with one she liked more.
That’s just how I roll.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“You like karate?” Keri asked. It wasn’t a sparkling conversation starter but she needed to move the discussion away from the doorway and stroking this guy’s ego seemed like an effective way to get there.
Apparently it worked as Courtenay opened the door all the way so she could get a better look at his display.
“‘Like’ is one way to put it. A devoted practitioner is another.” He tried to sound put out but his pride got the better of him and it leaked into his tone.
“So is black the best belt to have?” Keri asked as innocently as possible. She fleetingly thought that her attempts at impressed flirtation would work better if she was still in the black dress but shook the thought away. No interrogation was worth wriggling back into that thing.
“It is. I attained that twenty years ago but still train as if I have yet to achieve it.” He had suddenly adopted the air of a wise karate master. Keri tried not to laugh.
“Pretty sweet,” Keri said admiringly. “Mind if I get a closer look?”
“You may,” he said after a brief moment of hesitation. “But that doesn’t mean I’m consenting to any kind of search. I’m just being polite.”
“Of course,” Keri said, agreeing that he was being polite but silently rejecting his assertions beyond that. She stepped over the threshold and walked to the cabinet, taking in the room as casually as possible.
As Mags had mentioned, the walls were covered with headshots of young women, many of them signed. In the corner of the living room, she could see the door to another room that appeared to be Courtenay’s photo studio. The kitchen counter was covered with bowls of fruit and she could see a huge blender next to one of them. She suspected Rafe was a big protein smoothie guy.