“Yeah,” Ezra grumbled. “But so far you haven’t even been able to get her to calm down.”
“Patience!” Polly commanded. “You disrupted this poor creature’s routine by adopting her. Then, before she could even get used to you, you moved her from your home to this office.” Like everything else about her, Polly’s dress beneath her jacket was bright—a long patchwork, peasant-style thing in blues, greens, and yellows. I’d have considered such a getup garish on almost anyone else, but on her it somehow worked.
“I brought Gigi home with me last night, then here again today,” Ezra said, aiming his habitual scowl at the parrot psychologist. “I figured she’d be better off going back and forth, having company, being wherever I am. Aren’t you, gorgeous girl?” This last was said in a soft and gushy tone. The bird stopped bobbing as if aware she was being sweet-talked. “Did you know she’s a Blue and Gold Macaw, Kendra? They’re smart and trainable, and Gigi already knows a lot. Don’t you, girl?”
“Gorgeous girl,” Gigi gargled demurely to her aging male owner. Amazingly, his attitude toward Gigi today indicated to me that, despite most appearances, Ezra Cossner had a modicum of humanity. I found myself almost liking the guy.
“I like having Gigi around,” Ezra said. “But she can’t hang out here if she’s noisy all the time. And I can’t have her eating everything, whether here or at my house.”
“Well, I’m glad you called me to come here, rather than to your house,” Polly said, peering around. She caught my eye and gave a grand, teeth-revealing smile. “There are lots of people around this office. It’s not lonely or eerie, like so many places I have to go.” She shuddered delicately, making her colorful coat shimmer. “I never refuse, of course, when a bird needs me. I simply take precautions if I must, and I have learned many. I have been all over the world, teaching people, enriching the lives of birds of so many kinds.” She tossed her head back dramatically, apparently pleased she had found an audience in me, though I couldn’t imagine why.
“What about Gigi?” I asked, attempting to redirect her back to her reason for coming to this particular piece of the world. “How can we help her?”
“She’s like a four-year-old child,” Polly replied with a much more mundane shrug. “She needs a schedule. She needs stability.”
“She needs discipline,” Ezra shouted. Then, slightly more calmly, he hissed to Polly. “You’re the bird shrink. Tell me what to do so we can make this work.”
Polly appeared both haughty and hurt as she took several sweeping strides toward Gigi’s perch. Gigi squawked even louder and stretched out her huge blue wings. Above the din Polly demanded, “Let me have a few minutes with her. Alone.”
I wasn’t sure what magic she would attempt on the macaw, but I, for one, was willing to let her try.
“Come on, Kendra,” Ezra said. “We’ll talk in your office.”
Before we exited, Ezra’s phone rang. He listened for a minute, and I wasn’t sure what he heard over the continued clamor from Gigi. “Yes,” he ultimately roared. “I get it. And I’ll figure it out before tonight. Count on it.”
When he hung up, he glared at me as if whatever he’d heard wasn’t good—and he’d set the blame squarely on me. “Let’s go,” he commanded. “We’ve got even more trouble than I thought.”
BORDEN HAD DELIGHTFULLY furnished my digs here with items both ergonomic and eye-catching: a chair adjusted to hit my back and buns in the most comfortable spots, a functional oak desk with deep drawers that doubled as file holders, wooden file cabinets to match, and compatible oak client chairs upholstered in brilliant blue.
Ezra plunked himself down with no preamble on one of the comfortable client chairs. “Damn!” he exclaimed.
“What’s wrong?” Of course he expected me to ask, but I complied only because I was curious.
“Word’s already gotten out. Damn!” he said again. He stroked his pointed chin, and his facial wrinkles seemed even deeper in the brighter light of day pouring in through open vertical blinds at my windows.
“Word about what?” I asked with an inward sigh. This conversation was already degenerating into a depressing game of Twenty Questions, and I had no idea yet if we were discussing animal, vegetable, or mineral.
“You know any good investigators?” he countered.
“Sure do,” I replied. “The best. And he’s due back in town”—I looked at my watch—“five minutes ago.”
I might often be ambivalent about my personal feelings toward my foremost pet-sitting client and sexy-as-hell lover, Jeff Hubbard, but I knew he was a damned good P.I.
“Good. Let me tell you what’s going on, then I need you to call the guy. We need answers fast. Before tonight.”
“Well, okay …” I equivocated. “I’m sure if anyone can find answers, Jeff’s your man. But—”
“Here’s the deal,” Ezra said. “I represent a major real estate developer. We do now—Borden’s firm, including you. You may have heard of the company: T.O. Properties. The initials stand for ‘Tomorrow’s Opportunities.’ T.O’s putting together a nice piece of prime property in Vancino and plans to construct a mixed-use development there.”
Vancino was the new name of a mature section of the San Fernando Valley. Because some areas, over time, develop a reputation of being rundown or rough, concerned commercial property owners and residents sometimes chose to have their neighborhoods secede and assume different names. Thus, parts of ill-reputed North Hollywood were now Valley Village. Portions of seedy Sepulveda were now North Hills.
Vancino had been part of Van Nuys, an area whose status had taken a nosedive. Its property owners had decided to take advantage of their proximity to nearby prestigious Encino. Hence, Vancino.
I had never heard of T.O. I opened my mouth to ask about the company and its legal needs, but Ezra beat me to the punch. “That call in my office? It was from Brian O’Barlen.”
“No kidding.” Despite myself, I felt impressed. O’Barlen was an impresario of L.A. ’s real estate scene. Was he involved with T.O.? If so, that made this deal decidedly real. High powered. Most likely hugely financed.
“The deal’s in trouble—the one I need you to work on. We were papering it—drafting purchase agreements, helping to obtain building permits, that kind of thing. But the shit’s hit the fan. Local property owners just found out what T.O.’s planning, and they’re up in arms. Everything’s been handled quietly, with affiliated and subsidiary companies doing the buying to avoid a local brouhaha before all pieces of the site were obtained.”
And to prevent the last owners of whatever parcel they were aggregating from knowing enough to charge premium prices, I thought, but zipped my mouth shut. Hey, it was business. And it wasn’t my business to sympathize with those who’d sold early on at what would later seem rock-bottom prices.
Even if I’d hate to be in their shoes.
“I’d been planning a meeting to introduce you to the T.O. guys and get you started with whatever paperwork they needed.”
“But I’m a litigator,” I protested. Transactional types papered deals, not me. I handled cases in court. After my recent problems, I mostly argued motions these days but hoped to take on a trial again soon.
“And a good thing,” he said, staring at me grimly. “First, we need to find and plug the leak, though that may not do much good now. I need you to get your investigator on it right away. Next, we’ll make it clear that T.O.’s doing this development, no matter what other area owners think. That may mean litigation. You ready to sue the pants off everyone involved?”
Inside, I sighed. I’d excelled in law school where I’d learned to think like a lawyer, so I now could fashion fabulous legal arguments for either side of an issue. And having Brian O’Barlen as a client was an incredible inspiration for dreaming up invincible arguments. But I’d argued cases where public opinion rested with the opposition, and no matter how much the law was on your side, those were damned difficult cases to win.
Well, hell. It
had been a while since I’d had a truly wonderful challenge. I was up to it. I would win! I hoped.
“According to O’Barlen,” Ezra continued, “the local property owners formed an association when Vancino first became a discrete area. It’s called VORPO: Vancino Residents and Property Owners. They’ve been fairly inactive—but they plan to meet tonight in an emergency session. We’re going to be there representing our client’s interests. You up for it?”
“Absolutely,” I exclaimed.
EZRA LEFT MY office soon afterward. I accompanied him to his own environs as I was curious how Polly Bright was faring.
Not that I had much doubt about the answer. As far as my aching ears could tell, Gigi hadn’t ended her screams.
“Damn!” Ezra muttered.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
He opened the door. Polly still stood beside Gigi’s perch, stroking her brilliant blue back and whispering to her, but her bright, red-outlined smile seemed more than a little frazzled.
From the doorway, I stuck my fingers into the sides of my mouth and issued my loudest referee tweet, aiming it at Gigi.
She stopped shrieking—for a moment, at least.
As soon as she started up again, I instinctively grasped for something—anything—to divert her attention once more.
Now, no one had ever accused me of having a civilized singing voice. In fact, in grade school, when children were supposed to carry tunes to the standard nursery songs, I’d croaked, and cried when other kids laughed. It didn’t improve as I got older, so I confined my singing to showers when no one could possibly hear. Until now.
It seemed that something outrageous might be the only method to distract Gigi. And so I approached, hands raised and outstretched like an endowed opera diva and began singing—assuming you could call such off-key clatter a song, “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer …”
Damned if Gigi didn’t stop and stare at me. But would it last? I kept on belting and didn’t stop until I got to “Eight-five bottles of beer … ,” which was when otherwise-silent Gigi began speaking in her inimitable rasp: “Bottles of beer. Bottles of beer.”
“Hey!” Polly exclaimed excitedly.
Ezra initiated applause.
I laughed and tossed a wave behind me to them both as I exited the office.
BACK IN MY own digs, I made the call I’d both promised and anticipated with pleasure. I reached Jeff on his cell phone practically the moment he stepped off the plane, or so he informed me.
“I’ve been eager to talk to you, too,” he said in a sweet, suggestive tone, morphing my mounting doubts about our relationship into a sizzle of sexy ashes. For now, at least.
“Hmmm,” I said. “Hold that thought. This is business.” Quickly I filled him in on Ezra’s issue. “I’m committed to work with the guy,” I finished, “and if you find the answer about who caused the T.O. leak before the Vancino meeting tonight, I should score a lot of points with him.”
“As long as you let me score,” Jeff replied, a laugh in his lustful voice.
“You’ve got to earn it,” I retorted.
“You bet,” he said. “See you soon.”
Chapter Four
THAT EVENING, I wished there were two of me. I mean, my pet-sitting agenda wasn’t overwhelming, but I didn’t want to cheat any of my charges, and tending to each took time.
I eventually hustled to Jeff’s, knowing he wasn’t home. As requested, he had pitched himself headfirst into our high-priority assignment. His whole team of trained investigators, too. He would meet us at the VORPO meeting that night.
With Jeff in town, I took care of Odin, then hurriedly hied Lexie back to my apartment and changed clothes before heading off, ignoring my pup’s perturbation at being alone. “I’ll be home soon,” I told her. And this way, I wouldn’t have to worry how the wind blew in my sometime relationship with Jeff.
The VORPO session was to convene in the Vancino High auditorium, a fitting place only a couple of blocks from the chunk of real estate that was the focus of this night’s assembly. Ezra, Jeff, and I had decided to convene quickly in the parking lot just before the meeting to conclave about our strategy. Ezra’s clients would meet us there, too, so we could all sit harmoniously together inside in a show of interest—and strength.
Jeff was waiting when I arrived, sitting in the driver’s seat of his big, black Escalade. My reservations about our relationship evanesced—at least for this instant—the moment he opened his door and jumped out.
Jeff’s about six feet worth of sexy male. He’s got a buff bod, and his looks are more than memorable: an angled face in which his teasing blue eyes fit just fine, light brown hair and lots of it … okay, I’m still smitten, despite the disputes we’ve had over his ex-wife Amanda’s reappearance in his life.
“Hi,” he said in that deep voice that never failed to get my hormones humming. He was clad in a dark buttoned shirt and black slacks, dressy enough for a client meeting.
“Hi, back,” I replied as I melted momentarily into his arms. All qualms about this evening were shoved to the farthest recesses of my distracted mind as we shared one heck of a sensuous kiss—
Until I heard an irritated harrumph from behind my head. Reluctantly, I stepped back and spun around. I tried unsuccessfully to obfuscate the fuzziness in my tone. “Hi, Ezra. I’d like you to meet the private investigator I told you about, Jeff Hubbard. Jeff, this is Ezra.”
They eyed each other warily.
“Hi, Kendra,” said a softer, cheerier voice. Elaine appeared around the side of Jeff’s SUV. “I decided to come, too.”
“Welcome,” I said fervently. Maybe she would temper Ezra’s irritability. Maybe not.
As always, Elaine wore a pretty and professional suit. I introduced her to Jeff.
“We spoke on the phone earlier today,” Elaine said with a smile, shaking Jeff’s hand. “I’m always happy to put a name with a face.”
The parking lot was already crowded. We didn’t have much time, so I immediately initiated our discussion. “I realize it was short notice,” I said to Jeff, “but were you able to find out anything about the leak—how VORPO members found out T.O. is behind the property purchases on Vancino Boulevard?”
We’d talked often this afternoon, and I’d given him what background I could. I’d put him in touch with Ezra and others in the Yurick firm who might even inadvertently have information, including everyone who lived in the San Fernando Valley. Sometimes neighborhood rumors resulted from reality.
“I sure did.” Jeff aimed at me one of those irrepressible smiles that always tossed a twinkle into his blue eyes. He opened the Escalade door and pulled out an expandable file filled with papers. “My assistants and I checked out all the names and information Kendra gave me,” he said to Ezra after closing the car door. “When I spoke to Elaine, she inadvertently gave me the key clue.” He smiled at her again.
“Elaine’s the source?” Ezra’s voice was so strident that some people walking by jumped as they glanced toward us.
“No,” Jeff countered, his tone low as if to set an example and his gaze on the obviously troubled Elaine. “The situation’s more ironic than that.” Before Ezra could interrupt with another inquiry, Jeff continued, “Elaine’s broker is Bobby Lawrence, a big wheel with a small mid-Valley office of Nessix Realty.”
Elaine nodded.
I’d heard of Nessix. Who hadn’t? It was one of the largest real estate outfits in the country, with lots of local offices.
Jeff continued, “He apparently wasn’t at all pleased that Elaine, after a week of negotiations on a house, decided to back off—without much explanation. That house is in Vancino.”
I hadn’t known that—but I suspected Ezra did.
I also had a sneaking suspicion of what Jeff was going to say. I swallowed and set my shoulders, ready to cringe.
Jeff continued, “Apparently Bobby Lawrence decided to see why someone wouldn’t want a home in perfectly lovely Vanci
no.”
“I told him I’d simply changed my mind,” Elaine protested. “Why would he think something was wrong with that?”
“He didn’t say,” Jeff said. “He mentioned he’d contacted a chum at a title company, who searched recent records for properties near that house and unearthed that a lot of sites along one side of Vancino Boulevard had changed hands lately. Some heavier snooping, and he learned that one company was behind all the purchases. Bobby himself lives around there, so he reported what he’d found to VORPO. I talked to him and confirmed that his discovery is why they’ve called an emergency meeting tonight.”
“Damned interfering—”
Jeff interrupted Ezra. “Elaine told me you’d insisted that she not buy that house. Her backing out was the reason Bobby Lawrence started snooping. So, Ezra, you’re indirectly the reason VORPO learned of T.O.’s involvement in the lot purchases.”
As I’d feared, Ezra erupted immediately. “Don’t you accuse me, you damned fool!”
His earlier shouting had snapped up some attention, but his latest outburst attracted a larger crowd.
“Let’s discuss this later,” I urged quietly, gesturing downward to suggest softer voices. Of course I was ignored.
Fine-Feathered Death Page 3