The Lucky Dey Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (The Lucky Dey Series Boxset)

by Doug Richardson

  “Callin’ ’bout the girl,” said the young man’s voice.

  “Whaddayou know?” asked Lucky.

  “You a cop?”

  “Not this month,” he said glibly. “Just lookin’ for a girl.”

  “There like a finder’s fee?”

  “If this call leads me to her there’ll be a reward.”

  “How much?”

  “How much you want?”

  “Million dollars,” said the young man before his voice cracked with a hint of laughter. Lucky heard the scammer’s friends busting a gut in the background just a split second before the call was disconnected. Without missing a beat, Lucky reached into the car for another fistful of flyers and proceeded east on Franklin approaching Highland when the burner trilled again. Lucky checked the number, saw it was different than the last call, but still made a bet with himself that it was just one of the previous caller’s juvenile pals, dialing from another cell phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Yeah,” said the voice. “I saw the picture of your girl.”

  “And I’m talking on a phone connected with a GPS tracker. If you’re not real, expect a visit from the LAPD—”

  Click-beep.

  The caller hung up. And Lucky smiled to himself while thumbing off a pair of flyers to a duo of prostitutes who had not so inconspicuously retreated into an archway of flowering, Chinese jasmine that shook wet with the rain.

  “Ladies,” said Lucky. “Looking for this teenager.”

  “Who you callin’ ladies?” boomed a voice so low it sounded like it was rising from a basement.

  The shyest of the pair unleashed a not-so-girlish giggle. Lucky hadn’t so much looked at the hookers as much as scanned and profiled them before asking them to accept a flyer. Had he been more discerning, he would have looked past the Rocky Horror makeup and plus-sized dresses and clocked their mannish hands and stubbly Adam’s apples before mistaking them for “ladies.”

  “My mistake,” repaired Lucky. “Take ’em and call the number if you know anything. There’s a reward.”

  “What if my reward involved you and my girlfriend?” guffawed the man balanced on the size-twelve stilettos.

  “Not enough Viagra in the world to make that happen,” said Lucky.

  The quick comeback sent the hookers howling their approval. They gladly accepted ten flyers each, promising to spread them around before hailing him a very Merry Christmas. Lucky forced a smile and turned south onto Highland, dead reckoning for Hollywood Boulevard.

  The third phone call came when Lucky was papering the nightclubs up and down Vine Street. Lucky was most interested in the groups of obviously underage girls in short black cocktail dresses and the steep heels popularized by strippers. Never married—and childless as far as he knew—Lucky attempted to imagine himself as the father of one of these young tartlets. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t place himself in the shoes of a parent. Any parent for that matter. The closest he could get was picturing himself face-to-face with a neglectful father, pondering whether to employ a retractable steel baton to send a parenting lesson to his kneecaps.

  “Hello,” said Lucky into the burner phone.

  “Lookin’ at the paper you been givin’ out,” said the voice at the other end. By intonation and the bass in his timbre, Lucky instinctively figured him as a large black man. Possibly one of the linebacker-sized bouncers he’d met guarding the doors at one of the clubs.

  “Got something for me?” asked Lucky.

  “I might. Coulda seen your girl,” said the man.

  “Where and when?”

  “Dragonfly. Maybe three hours ago.”

  “What’s the address?”

  With that, Lucky backpedaled and retraced his steps until he found himself outside a three-story brick and wrought iron facade of what appeared to have been the entry to dozens of different venues over the years. The most recent incarnation, called Club Dragonfly, sported strips of deep blue neon accents. But after a blunt interrogation with the beefy black man in the size-sixty jacket, Lucky could only be certain that the part-time bouncer had pegged one of many young women who could fit the basic description of young, pretty, blonde and green-eyed.

  By four in the morning, with the streets of Hollywood reduced to a cold winter simmer, Lucky abandoned his walking tour in lieu of slow-trolling in the Crown Vic, handing his last flyers to anyone he came across, including both LAPD patrols and Sheriff’s black-and-whites whose jurisdictions abutted along lines that could have only been drawn by city politicians.

  The eastern sky was showing promise that dawn was imminent and Lucky was down to the bottom of his last box of color Xeroxes. He was calculating in his head the number of times he would have to perform similar paper hanging. Next, he reasoned, would be the Santa Monica to Venice corridor. Followed by the fifteen miles Ventura Boulevard ran from North Hollywood to Woodland Hills. Plus spot checks of the above-ground modeling agencies that serviced the porn industry. Three to four days of gas and shoe-leather to accomplish rounds two, three, and four. And Lucky hadn’t a clue if any of it would lead to something concretely investigative.

  Part III

  Wednesday

  9

  The sun-rotted windshield wipers of the borrowed Crown Vic could barely sweep clean the constant downward mist that had settled into the Basin like a soiled blanket. The burner phone, cradled in a console cup-holder that doubled as a change dish, had been silent for over an hour when it both rattled and trilled. The detective fished for it and before answering, checked to read the incoming number. The word “BLOCKED” displayed in fuzzy relief, reminding Lucky that he was both exhausted and in need of the folding reading glasses he’d absently left on his nightstand.

  “Hello,” Lucky answered.

  “Yeah,” said a man’s voice, flat and without affect. “Callin’ about the picture of the girl.”

  “You got the right number,” said Lucky. “What do you know?”

  “Tell you exactly what I know,” said the man. “I know her.”

  “You know the girl in the picture?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I’d like very much to speak with you,” ventured Lucky.

  “Thought that’s what we were doing?”

  “In person,” said Lucky. “I can come to you right now.”

  “Okay then,” said the man. “You know where the Norm’s diner is on La Cienega?”

  “I’m close by,” said Lucky. “Can be there in five minutes.”

  “I’m already here,” said the man. “Through the front doors, right turn, last booth next to the restrooms.”

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll recognize you.”

  Lucky knew the location alright. It was a mere mile away, dead in the heart of West Hollywood. And unlike its neighbor to the west, Beverly Hills, the somewhat recently incorporated City of “WeHo” hadn’t yet established its own, stand-alone police department. Instead, like some of other independent municipalities within the county, they’d contracted with the Sheriff’s Department for their first responder needs.

  Could I be this Goddamn lucky?

  It was 5:35 A.M.

  After a mere five and a half hours of plastering Hollywood with cheap flyers, he’d have been happy as hell to get a twenty on the missing teen and close up his private eye business nearly as fast as he’d opened it. Not all investigations took weeks or months. Some are solved in hours. Others had practically solved themselves just after pushing the simplest and most uncomplicated button.

  Two short blocks from the iconic Beverly Center mall, Norm’s La Cienega location was already gathering its fair share of early morning diners while jettisoning the late-night vampires who’d stopped in for a post-party pick-me-up. As instructed, Lucky walked through the diner’s entry, made a fast right and set a straight line for the restroom doors. The two booths flanking the back exit were both occupied—one of them by a trio of off-duty Salvation Army Santas.
The opposite booth contained a male in a plaid, flannel shirt; medium build, the bill of his golf cap pointed at a nearly completed Los Angeles Times crossword puzzle.

  As Lucky slipped into the booth, the man in the flannel shirt turned his grinning face upward to greet his guest.

  “You’re shitting me!” sniped Lucky.

  “You were expecting somebody else?” answered Andrew Kaarlsen with something less than a grin.

  “Jeeezus.”

  “Thought we agreed we were going to do this together?” forced Andrew.

  “How the hell did you—”

  Andrew lifted the newspaper to reveal one of the two thousand flyers Lucky had handed out.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” admitted Andrew. “Went for a pre-dawn run. Only thing that seems to work with all the stress. Anyway, turned a corner and this was starin’ up at me from the sidewalk.”

  “Been papering local neighborhoods all night long,” groused Lucky.

  “Thought it was you. But didn’t recognize the phone number,” pointed Andrew.

  “Bad idea to print out thousands of flyers with my own number on ’em,” said Lucky, revealing the burner phone from his pocket. “Numbers are attached to this one.”

  “Anything yet?” asked Andrew. “Leads?”

  “Aside from you pretending to be one?” groused Lucky. Aggravated, he sat back in the booth.

  “Lemme buy you breakfast,” insisted Andrew.

  “Why didn’t you tell me it was you when you called the friggin’ number?”

  “Told you yesterday. I’m sick and tired of seeing the inside of my hotel room, waiting for somebody else to do the work.” Andrew was leaning forward, practically covering the surface of the table with both arms. “I’m her father. I’m the one who wants her home. I need to be a part—”

  “Just tryin’ to find your girl,” defended Lucky. “My mistake, though. Shoulda let you in on my plans.”

  That familiar ache in his low back was beginning. The Percocet that hadn’t yet been totally scrubbed by his kidneys was losing its mojo.

  “Really wish you woulda told me what you were up to,” said Andrew. “I woulda helped.”

  “I didn’t start ’til midnight—”

  “Like I sleep a lot? Come on. I’m her only GD father and she’s my only GD girl. Sheesh. I’m sitting on my thumbs here. Bring me along. Use me.”

  Whether from years of practice or because it was just the way he was wired, Lucky gave away so very little as to what he was thinking. For his ability to keep his thoughts and feelings concealed, his old Reaper pals used to suggest that he compete at professional poker. Lucky might even have considered moonlighting down at the Gardena card casinos if he had the inclination to spend hours reading cards, calculating odds, and divining the motives of his opponents. But all of that required patience. Something of which Lucky almost always had in short supply. His idea of poker was assessing a quartet of ghetto teens hanging out on a street corner. Lucky would bet fellow Sheriff’s Deputies that he could divine—based on a mere fifty-yard once-over—which of the boys in question was packing heat, the caliber of the weapon, and what flavor of contraband he was holding.

  “Look, man,” said Lucky, fingers splayed and gently tapping on the tabletop. “You’re paying me to do something for you. And that’s what I intend. But some of the way I do things might not require assistance, if you know what I mean.”

  “Think I give a shit if what you do is legal or not?” pressed Andrew. “When it comes to Karrie, I don’t care what kind of chances I have to take.”

  “I hear ya—”

  “I don’t think you do,” pressed Andrew. “You don’t have children, then you haven’t the devil’s clue what this is like for me. Now, Connie vouched for you. Said you could get things done.”

  “Best I can do is give it my all,” said Lucky.

  “Well, that’s what it is to be a parent. Giving it your all for every moment your kid is on this GD earth. Do you think I’m giving it my all by sitting in my hotel room and waiting for the phone to ring?”

  “…No,” said Lucky, reluctant and in a rare breath of compromise. “I hear ya. But Connie informed you I’m not a regular PI Not up to speed on all the liability issues involved in clients riding along.”

  “You want a letter of indemnity?” asked Andrew. “Have a lawyer whip up something. Signature and witness. You will be absent any malice that might befall me in the quest for my daughter’s return.”

  Quest. Jesus.

  Then again, maybe it was Lucky who didn’t have his priorities straight. He couldn’t tell if it was fatigue or the spreading pain in his thorax that left him suddenly bereft of argument.

  “It’s your money,” was all Lucky could think to say.

  “Not about my money.”

  “I know,” corrected Lucky. “About your daughter.”

  “Karrie.”

  “Yes,” relented Lucky. “It’s all about Karrie.”

  10

  Silver Lake. 10:21 A.M.

  For the ten weeks Karrie had been residing in LA, she hadn’t once needed to pay for her room. Though need might not have been the best description. As a fifteen-year-old teen, she’d couch-surfed plenty back home in Wisconsin. The only difference was her parents pretty much thought they knew whose couches she was crashing on. At least, most of the time. From the moment she had landed in sunny, Southern Cal she found it easy to flash her perfect rows of recently straightened teeth, winking dimples and sea green eyes to charm her way into enough short-term friendships to borrow a nearby sofa for a night or two. Pretty soon she was receiving invites to roommate in apartments and rental homes from Los Feliz to Woodland Hills. Not that Karrie knew where Woodland Hills was exactly. She’d been silly drunk on the late night drive to the West Valley burg and she’d pretty much slept through her free ride to the next comfy couch.

  “C’mon, Val. Time to get up and out,” shouted Cherry Pie from the bathroom.

  Karrie woke for the third time, equally as out of it as she was the first time Cherry had poked her. Her eyes tried to focus on the old, cottage cheese-styled ceiling complete with blooms of brownish water stains from roof and plumbing leaks.

  Whose couch is this? Oh yeah. Cherry’s. And my name’s Valeriana. I’m in LA. Right…

  It was the first night she’d crashed at Cherry’s. The pale dancer with the purple-dyed hair had taken her on a trial run as a two-night roomie. The Silver Lake apartment Cherry shared with two dancers—conveniently away on tour—was a half-mile up the slope from East Sunset, a quarter-mile west of Dodger Stadium, and cramped with furniture rescued from neighborhood sidewalks.

  “Last call, Val,” barked Cherry, her footsteps shuffling quickly across the squeaky old hardwood.

  Karrie sniffed her hands and forearms for the scent of men’s cologne or manly fluids. It was her only waking routine since landing in Los Angeles. Though she could only recall one actual time she’d consented to sex in her ten weeks, she’d woken up two or three more times, disoriented, not at all sure where she was, and stinking of a man. There had even been some noticeable bruising. All of which was swept into her brain recesses with every other negative thought. Always replaced by a sunny smile. Such was how Karrie was built. Or so it was once explained to her.

  “Where we going?” asked Karrie, still recumbent on a corduroy couch the color of Campbell’s tomato soup.

  “You seriously forget?” said Cherry from the bedroom.

  “Foggy,” growled Karrie.

  “I said yes to this cuzza you.”

  If Karrie could have slid her fingertips under her skull and massaged her brain, she would surely have rubbed until a memory stirred.

  “My audition,” reminded Cherry. “Hello?”

  “…Oh,” said Karrie, mostly to herself. “Right. Think I remember now.”

  “You wanna shower you got, like, five minutes.”

  The night before took form in Karrie’s mind like a damaged file of low-resolution
digital video. Full of contrast and paper-thin voices. Karrie couldn’t recall the club as much as the scene. Loads of girls her age, she recalled. Only they were mostly dressed in designer togs, sucking back frothy, alcoholic concoctions from straws, and sounding no more sophisticated than the suburban brats she had left behind back in upscale Chenaqua.

  “TV commercial, right?” asked Karrie.

  “You wanna go all stinky with girl funk, that’s your call,” said Cherry.

  “Don’t smell that bad.”

  “Cold today and I don’t wanna have to roll down my windows,” said Cherry. “But I will if you smell like dude.”

  “Wasn’t no guy last night.”

  “Bullshit. Schmo-Joe with the dreads was all over your underage ass.”

  “Schmo-Joe?”

  “His words, not mine,” said Cherry, appearing at the center of the tiny living room, the air suddenly fragrant with hair spray. “You said you liked his hair. He said it was cuz he was half Samoan, half Jewish. Turned his Jew-Fro into dreads. You said ‘Jew Fro?’ like you never heard that before. He said Schmo-Joe. Everybody laughed.”

  Karrie shook her head with zero recollection.

  “Did I drink that much?” asked Karrie.

  “Dunno. You did pop a thizzy.”

  “Thizzy?”

  “Ex.”

  “Fuck me. I don’t remember shit.”

  “You need to remember that you said you wanted to come with me.”

  “Commercial thing.”

  “Audi commercial.”

  “My dad drives an Audi.”

  “No shit?” said Cherry from the kitchenette where she was doing breakfast inventory of the spare contents in the fridge. “Val’s got a rich daddy?”

  “I’m taking a shower.”

  “Hurry your high school ass up then.”

  Karrie stumbled to the bathroom, still steamy from Cherry’s shower. She stripped off her t-shirt and tatty sleep shorts and climbed under the lukewarm spray.

  Don’ wanna talk about who I was or where I’m from. Don’ wanna talk about who I was…