“This,” he said, handing her a bottle, already frosting.
“You know I’m not old enough to drink,” said Karrie, soft enough to be a purr.
Gabe laughed and showed a smooth beige tablet gently pinched between his thumb and index finger.
“Just one,” said Gabe.
“One what?”
“One Oxy. One beer. One dance under my stars.”
“Never done Oxy.”
“As mellow as it gets,” assured Gabe, showing her the tablet that was already on his tongue. He washed it back with a single swig.
“…Okay,” said the teenager, sticking out her own tongue as an invitation for him to feed the pill to her. Then she drank from his beer. “Now what?”
“Now we slow dance until the pills say otherwise.”
“Are you one of those goofy romantics?” she asked, allowing herself to fold into his arms. She pressed an ear against his chest and listened to the shocking speed at which his heart thumped. A telling clue that underneath his external calm, he was getting excited. She hoped to hell it was all because of her.
“My Gawwwwd. Your heart is racing,” she revealed.
“It is?
“S’okay,” she said. “Cool on the outside, crazy on the inside?”
“Think you just described most artists,” he replied.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“But you were going to an audition?”
“Only because Cherry was.”
“Cherry Pie. Helluva name.”
“Better than Herm,” joked Karrie. “I mean, what kind of name is Herm?”
“Short for Herman, I suppose.”
“Herman. Right. Sounds ancient. But then, if I remember, so was he.”
Disregarding the frantic beating of Gabe’s heart, Karrie swayed to an imaginary slow song. All the while surrounded by that constellation of Christmas lights. And, as the drug slowly took its morphine-like effect, she experienced an inner warmth that she hadn’t known since suckling at her mother’s breast.
That’s when everything faded into black.
22
Panorama City. 8:23 A.M.
Herman Alan Bland was born in Panorama City, California, and grew up in the shadow of the massive Budweiser brewery that marked the epicenter of the San Fernando Valley. The zip code was two parts small industry and one part modest, single-family homes. Depending on which way the wind was blowing, young Herm would wake to the sour odor of brewing hops. He hated the smell and swore to his mother and two older sisters that once he moved away he’d never, ever return to the immediate vicinity, not to mention the rest of the Valley. In Herm’s mind, he’d pretty much kept that vow, keeping his life small and manageable for the last thirty years inside the same two-bedroom, West Hollywood apartment.
But eventually his immigrant parents died, bequeathing their tiny clapboard home to Herm and his middle sister, Yvonne. Their elder sibling Janet having recently lost her battle with ovarian cancer, would not collect. With his only surviving sis married and living near Baltimore, it was on Herm to liquidate the sole family asset. And so he returned to the Valley and that neighborhood with the yeasty brewery stink. And no, he hadn’t missed the smell. The family house, though, was in such agonizing disrepair that he couldn’t bring himself to list it in its current condition. He had resolved to make it his weekend project to fix it up. Someone had told him that DIY renovation had become as easy as the Internet, with every matter of instruction available with just a click or two. And with the fix-up job only two short blocks from the do-it-yourself nirvana of Home Depot, Herm decided he might squeeze a better profit out of both the house and his geographically handicapped sister.
Who would have known that Herm would come to treasure his weekend avocation? So much so that he began cutting his Fridays short, leaving his girl-hustling biz—not to mention the potential for catching unicorns—around noon so he could be on his site with a Subway sandwich by one or two. If it hadn’t yet dawned on him that his old, family home had become a refuge of sorts, it became a sure signpost once he had run over that dreadfully dressed little human in that dark, West Hollywood back alley. No sooner had Herm recognized what he had done with an audible “aw fuck” than he had pointed his SUV toward the first northbound artery which promised to deliver him north of Mulholland. The entire drive, the sweat had nearly drained him of fluid, and his neck was tight from both checking the rear and side view mirrors along with peeking out the moon roof in fear that a police helicopter would be tracking LA’s newest hit-and-run driver.
Fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me…
It was a mantra, repeated a thousand or more times until Herm had safely parked his car behind his most recent project, a two-piece wooden gate hinged from each side of the tiny driveway with a roller assist for effortless operation. Herm had been waiting for the redwood to dry a week or two more before he planned to put a few coats of forest green paint on as a house-matching finish. As he hastily pulled the gate shut behind his rear bumper, his fingers picked up a few painful splinters, an ill-timed reminder that he had better prep the wood with some heavy grit sandpaper before he started slopping on the Benjamin-Moore Bavarian Forest.
Herm next used the flashlight function on his phone to locate the hose he’d been using to keep the backyard plants alive. He dragged the dirty old coil and attached it to the spigot directly underneath the kitchen window. From there, the hose would reach three hundred and sixty degrees around his vehicle, allowing the aging pimp to wash off every incriminating scintilla of blood, flesh, and DNA.
By the time Herm had finished with the SUV’s undercarriage, he was cold and soaked. If there was blood on him, he couldn’t tell. Still, once inside the house, he stripped himself naked, sacked his clothes in a plastic garbage bag, showered under a lukewarm spray, then thanked the god of his understanding that he had stayed in the old fixer often enough to leave changes of underwear, denim, t-shirts, and thick socks.
He brewed a pot of black coffee. Then as he sat at the same kitchen table where his father would lecture him on how that sour smell of boiled hops in the air reminded him of jobs and progress and everything that was great about America, Herm was finally relaxed enough to revise his mental things-to-do list. Yes. The house still needed so much work. Work that required investment. And those dollars grew not on trees, but from the silky white skin of teenage girls. His mind backspaced to his evening plans before his unscheduled accident and subsequent detour.
What the hell was that girl’s name? Cherry Pie’s roommate? The unicorn. Valeria-something?
“Hi,” said Cherry on the other end of the cell phone call. She clearly remembered Herm’s mobile number. “What happened last night?”
“Big big apologies,” said Herm. “Had a family emergency.”
“I’m sorry. Is everything okay?”
“On the mend,” said Herm. “But we need to reschedule your callback because show business doesn’t wait for my personal life.”
“That’d be great,” said Cherry. “I so appreciate it.”
“How’s later this morning?”
“I can make it work.”
“Late morning? Eleven? Noon even? Same casting place.”
“I can do noon.”
“With your roommate, don’t forget. I still need two girls.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Is there a problem?”
“If I can find her. I think she’s out for the night and she doesn’t have a phone.”
“Are you sure there’s no way to contact her?”
“No,” thought Cherry. “Unless you have the name of that photographer guy.”
“I don’t…which guy?”
“Works outta the same building as you. Think his name is Gavin or Gabe or something.”
“Gabriel. Yes. I think I’ve met him.”
“Well, after you didn’t show. Valeriana kinda hooked up with him. And now it’s what? Ten? So…”
“So we don’t expect
her home.”
“You know what? I’m at the gym. So she’s probably already back. Don’t worry. I’ll bring her.”
“You do that.”
Herm could hear his own shallow breath in the earpiece of his phone. It made him wonder if Cherry could hear the same thing. And from there, could she extrapolate that his underarms had begun to sweat with anticipation? Herm hadn’t been this anxious in ages. All from the anticipation of getting his practiced hands on that unbelievable little strawberry blonde.
“Can I ask something?” asked Cherry. “Are there other girls you’re considering?”
“It’s Los Angeles,” said Herm, not intending to sound so bleak, while massaging the bottom of his voice to roll out the gravitas. “There are always other girls.”
23
“So you really are lucky,” grinned Andrew.
“Just a nickname. This here happened because sometimes things just work out.”
“Divine intervention, maybe,” said Andrew, needing to form some kind of compromise to explain the excellent news.
“Whatever,” said Lucky. “I’ve had suspects go from being impossible to run down to having them practically appear in the backseat of my radio unit. All I needed was bracelets. Shit just happens.”
“To you.”
“If the glove fits,” said Lucky, allowing himself a rare smile.
The duo was seated at a small outdoor table under a bank of clicking heat lamps. The tiny deli sat amongst the few other restaurants and storefronts that made up the Glen Center at the top of the Santa Monica mountains, only yards from the iconic Mulholland Drive. The deli and its step-sister eateries enjoyed a mix of hill-dweller clientele as well as a cornucopia of Valley residents and Basin folk who used the destination as a convenient halfway point for meetups.
Andrew sat across from Lucky. He wasn’t really touching his weak cup of joe but was remarkably animated considering the bruising that had bloomed overnight across the left side of his face. Swirls of purple and yellow. Lucky could even make out the impressions from where a set of sheriff’s knuckles had connected with his face.
Lucky felt sorry enough to offer both Advil and Aleve to the runway’s father but refrained from suggesting Andrew try some of his precious Percs to manage a face screaming with pain.
“So?” suggested Andrew.
“So what?”
“You got a phone number?”
From his wallet, Lucky extracted a folded, yellow Post-it note. On it was a Valley phone number, scratched out by the secretary for the party company that booked out DJ and dance crews. Deputy Blumenthal’s tip had led Lucky to a fortuitously easy rundown. A phone call to the bar mitzvah boy’s family was followed by a visit to the West Hills office of the party company’s owner. The Russian-born man was not only quick to identify the photo of Karrie Kaarlsen, but had a record to show she had worked two parties, each for fifty dollars cash. She had only identified herself by her first name, Valeriana. But she had left her cell phone number in case they could use her for future jobs.
“Holy moly,” exclaimed Andrew.
“All you gotta do is dial,” said Lucky.
“I’m nervous.”
“Have a right to be.”
“What if she sees my home area code and doesn’t pick up?”
“Then leave her a voicemail.”
Andrew was holding his phone, his thumb sliding from number to number on his keypad without pressing a one.
“…I have to acknowledge,” began Andrew, “That she ran away for some kind of reason. What if she might not want to talk to me at all?”
“I’d say that’s a pretty grown-up thought.”
“From me? The actual grown-up? Who attacks cops with bottles of soda pop?”
“I’m nobody’s old man. But I know with teens that stuff gets pretty tangled,” said Lucky. “Look. She doesn’t know you’re anywhere local. So call. It looks like your dialing from Chinook-wah or whatever you call it.”
“Chenaqua.”
“Leave her a voicemail. Tell her you love her. See if she calls back.”
“I gotta figure out what the heck to say.”
“And you will. In the meantime, I’ll run down the number. See who’s been calling her, where she’s been calling from. That way if she doesn’t answer, we’ll be only a step or two away.”
“Okay,” nodded Andrew. “Think I’m good with that.”
“Take your time,” said Lucky. “Call her when you’re ready. And don’t forget to pay the bill.”
Lucky smiled, took his index finger, and used it to slide the Glen Deli’s bill over to Andrew’s side of the table before easing to his feet.
“Hey, Luck,” said Andrew. “Thanks a million.”
“Maybe you should text her a photo of your face,” joked Lucky. “Let her see the lengths her old man would go to get his little girl back.”
Lucky finished with a wink and a wave before crossing the parking lot in search of his car. Somewhere behind him were Karrie’s dad and a ten digit phone number scrawled on a yellow sticky-note. By the time he’d gripped the door handle to the Crown Vic, he’d already abandoned trying to calculate just when Andrew would stone-up enough to dial his daughter. The best he could figure was that parenting was full of so many complications, a childless, unmarried cop-in-transition who could barely manage his pain addiction didn’t have a hope in the underworld of understanding them. The best Lucky could accomplish was his job. And on that day, it was running down that phone number. With that, he began contacting his cop connections with access to cellular phone data. Hopefully, in an hour or so, whether Andrew had called or contacted his runaway daughter or not, Lucky would know the teenager’s network of recent contacts. And surely, one of those would know where the girl was.
Lucky was close to finishing the job. Very, very close.
24
Silver Lake. 12:51 P.M.
Cherry Pie was late, rushing, and hadn’t even reached the threshold to exit her apartment when she heard the phone ringing. Nearly three hours earlier she’d promised Herm the Casting Man that she would deliver her couch-surfing roomie. In hopes that she’d still turn up, she’d successfully pushed the call back another hour. Herm had made it clear that he needed two girls with contrasting looks for the job, strongly implying that without the freckled, strawberry blonde, Cherry Pie needn’t keep the appointment.
But hell if some irresponsible twat-of-a-teenager was going to stand between Cherry and a possible gig. After all, Herm had already expressed an interest in the girl with the purple hair. To Cherry, that meant she was halfway there. Come hell or high water, she was showing up for the casting. And not necessarily alone. She’d tripped through her call directory and social media pals for just about any girl who might fit Valeriana’s profile. And on shorter than short notice, Cherry had drummed up two candidates, both who promised to meet her at the casting place.
Then there was that phone trilling. And it wasn’t Cherry Pie’s barking Chihuahua ringtone. The sound was cheap and as stock as Radio Shack, easily recognized as that of Valeriana’s pay-as-you-go phone. Cherry Pie spun a dancer’s one-eighty from the door to her apartment, dropped her bag and stretched her fingertips as if those delicate digits were equal to her ears in assessing the whereabouts of the runaway’s phone.
The second trill was to her right, emanating from somewhere in the shamefully small kitchen. So cramped was the room there wasn’t even room to fully open the modern refrigerator door. Cherry sliced into the deco space, twirling in place before realizing that she was repeating herself. Plenty of times she’d carried in bags of groceries, cradling her phone between the shoulder and her ear, only to say goodbye and leave it resting face down on the cereal shelf in order to quickly stow the half-pints of Häagen-Dazs before everything melted.
Sure enough, there was Valeriana’s low budget phone, facing screen-out, leaning against a big, double box of Honey Nut Cheerios. As it trilled a third time, Cherry could easily read the inc
oming phone number along with the location sub-head:
(414)555-3298
Chenaqua, WI
Staring at the number, Cherry briefly wondered if it held some kind of importance to Valeriana—or if it was merely a wrong number or some kind of junk call. But the real reason she was interested in finding the phone was the strange compulsion that without her phone, Valeriana had forgotten Cherry’s number and had dialed her own in hopes her roomie would pick up.
“Hello?” Cherry answered, her voice a little extra smoky from a constant case of dry throat.
“Uh…” began the voice on the other end, high pitched yet distinctly male. “Hi. I’m looking for Karrie.”
Because there was nothing at all in the voice for Cherry to recognize, nor reason for her to answer for some stranger named Karrie, she switched back into hurry mode and abruptly ended the call.
“Sorry. Wrong number,” pitched Cherry, clicking off without another thought and making sure to leave the phone in plain view on the counter so Val couldn’t miss it.
Cherry keyed the dead bolt and scurried down the stairs to the street and her car.
As it turned out, Andrew couldn’t wait. That number passed to him by Lucky was supposed to remain undialed until he had returned to his hotel room. Then, in the privacy of his comfortable suite, he could have a moment to breathe, ease his heart rate, and carefully enter the ten digits. How many rings before she’d answer? Or might she see the caller ID and dismissively shunt her father off to voicemail? Still, Andrew would hear her voice at the other end, either live or recorded. One step closer to a family reunification.
Hallelujah.
Only that slip of paper with Karrie’s phone number was burning a hole in his shirt pocket. How or why the hell could he wait until the damned hotel? The inside of his rental car was private enough.
Andrew needed to hear his daughter’s voice. So he pulled over at the first turnout he could find on Mulholland Drive, switched off the navigation program, fidgeted for the tiny slip of paper, then let his thumb tap out the correct sequence. The pounding in his chest was so great that he heard the percussion trapped between the phone and his ear.
The Lucky Dey Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (The Lucky Dey Series Boxset) Page 42