“We’ll put it on the speakerphone in my office,” Tyler said, leading the way down the hall. Tasya and I followed, the other woman wiping her hands on a dishtowel as she went.
Under other circumstances I would have loved the chance to look around Tyler’s office. The wall directly behind his desk was covered with awards and photos of him and other famous people and there were other types of Hollywood memorabilia on his desk and on nearby shelves. But today, Jennifer was first on all of our minds.
He indicated the phone I figured he likely used handsfree for conference calls. Without a word I dialed into my voicemail. First we heard the timestamp, then Jennifer’s voice floated into the room. “Hi Madeline. It’s me. Jennifer. I know it’s the middle of the night but please pick up the phone I really, really have to talk to you. I can’t… I can’t leave a number but I’m not at home. I’ll try you again later.”
“Did it say 2:45 am Tuesday?”
I nodded and Tyler, sitting behind his desk, put his head into his hands as though the former needed holding together. “About thirty-six hours ago.” It was a statement and there was so much left unsaid. And simply nothing I could add.
“For God’s sake, Tyler,” Tasya said from the doorway behind me. “Look at her, she’s as worried as we are. Tell her. Maybe she’ll have an idea.”
I looked up expectantly. “Tell me what?”
Ignoring my question, Tyler seemed to be considering his wife’s words. Finally he looked at her and said, “What the hell, right?” She shrugged, raising her hands helplessly.
“All right.” Then to me, “Last night we didn’t have any errand. Right after you left here I got a call. It was an automated voice — I couldn’t interact with it — saying there was a package for me at the bottom of the hill. That I was to look under the mailbox by the store at PCH and there’d be something taped to it. I knew it had something to do with Jen. Tasya and I raced down there and this is all there was.” He placed an envelope in front of me and when I hesitated, he said, “Go ahead. Open it.”
Fearing what was inside, I found I didn’t want to touch the crumpled manilla envelope at all. But Tasya and Tyler were watching me expectantly.
The envelope itself looked like it had been through the wringer, almost literally. It was scuffed up and even torn in spots. The label had clearly been printed on an inkjet printer because watermarks had caused the ink to smear slightly. There were no stamps and no return address. “Was it this damaged-looking when you picked it up?”
“It looked exactly like that, which doesn’t make any sense to me. It didn’t even have to go through the mail.”
“And it was taped under the mailbox?”
Tyler nodded. “Just where the phone call said it would be.”
I pulled the envelope towards me gently and pulled the flap back. There were three things inside: a photo, a letter and a sandwich bag containing a hank of hair.
I picked up the bag carefully and looked at the hair inside closely, though without opening the bag. Tyler answered my unasked question. “It’s hers. I’m about 95 percent sure.”
The photo was clearly Jennifer. It was a Polaroid and she looked frightened, though undamaged, and was holding a copy of the LA Times with yesterday’s date showing clearly. Behind her you could see a pale, blank wall, a window with the blinds closed, an electrical outlet: it could have been taken anywhere.
The ransom note looked straight out of a bad kidnap movie: like a kid’s art project gone horribly wrong. The letters that made up the words were cut from magazines and pasted on a heavy piece of paper. Even the message itself was crude:
“YouR dAUghter hAS beeN KIDnappED. IF yoU wANt TO see HEr aLIVe in THis LiFE DO NOT cALL tHe PolIcE. AWAiT FUrThER iNSTRuCtIONS oR tHe KID dIEs GROtEsQUely.”
As soon as I saw it, something twigged. There was something familiar here I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
“Did you call the police?”
Tyler shook his head. “And it’s killing me. All my senses are telling me to call them. There are all kinds of clues there. Prints and stuff, you know. Maybe they could find whoever has her.” He looked me in the eye, then, and I blinked at the raw and naked pain I saw there. “But they said they’d kill her, Madeline. How can I take that chance?”
For Tyler it was rock and hard place time: he could jump in either direction, but the view wasn’t going to get any better. And I couldn’t begin to imagine what I’d do in his place.
“And you haven’t heard anything since?”
He shook his head again. “Nothing,” he indicated the phone, “and I’ve been glued to this thing since we picked it up. And I figure, if I just bide my time they’ll contact me again and come up with a figure. I’ve got money, Madeline. And I can get my hands on more if it’s not enough. I just wish they’d contact me. I hate all this sitting here. Waiting.” And then, more quietly, “and I just pray to God they don’t hurt her.”
And then the familiarity hit me: the note looked just as Emily had described the letter that had been sent to Langton: letters cut from magazines, crude, like a ransom note on a television show. It wasn’t that I thought the two disappearances were connected, except, maybe, in one way.
“Tyler,” I said, not really knowing how to bring it up, “considering what they told me at school is it, you know, possible that Jennifer might have arranged this herself?”
He looked at me, first startled then with growing anger. “Are you suggesting that my only child might be playing some sort of horrible game with me?”
I wouldn’t have put it that way, but… “It’s a possibility, Tyler. She’s seventeen. She was kicked out of school the day before she disappeared. I’m sorry but, yes, I guess that’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”
“Tyler, stop it,” said Tasya. “What Madeline is saying is very possible, and you know it. Jennifer has been so angry lately. It’s not Madeline’s fault: she’s only pointing out another possibility. We must keep our minds open.”
His anger seemed to flare out, like a candle extinguished. “I’m sorry, Madeline. It is a possibility. I guess, at this stage, I hope it’s a possibility. Here’s the problem though: it doesn’t change anything on my end. Not unless I know. I have to proceed as though she’s in the utmost danger. I have to.”
I hated leaving them, but there was nothing more I could contribute. I asked them to let me know if they heard anything and especially if they thought of anything I could do to help, though I couldn’t imagine what that might be.
Though the weather was warm enough, my apartment felt bleak. I kept thinking of Jennifer’s message and what it might have meant. More importantly, what might be different if I’d been home and able to answer. What if. It made me think of Jack. I looked at the time: eleven. It would be two o’clock in the afternoon in New Jersey. There was a good chance Sarah would be home, preparing to go pick the kids up from school.
She sounded delighted and slightly amazed to hear from me.
“I’m only on the other end of the country, Sarah. Not the moon,” I chided her.
“I know. It’s just odd. I was thinking about you so hard this afternoon: it’s like I called you telepathically. And you answered!”
I laughed. For all the talk of telepathy, it was good to hear her grounded voice.
“How are you getting along?”
She hesitated. “You know, I cope. You just do one day at a time. Some days are better than others. You?”
“Oh Sarah, I don’t even know where to begin. Remember when I told you I hoped to find a quieter lifestyle? A simpler pace?”
“Sure.”
“It hasn’t happened. I don’t even know if I can tell you all that has.” Then, before I could even think about it, I did. I told her everything that had happened since I moved to L.A.
“It sounds pretty hairy out there,” she said when I was done.
“It does, doesn’t it? It’s starting to feel like…” I hesitated. This wasn’t a thought I’d even articula
ted to myself before. “Like stuff is following me, or something.”
“Oh pish, Carter. That’s just silly and you know it.” I did, but it made me feel better hearing it from her. And being called Carter. That was a New York name. A work name. It made me feel more like my old self: in charge and in control. “Sometimes things just happen. Coincidence. Sometimes they’re good coincidences. Sometimes they’re not. You know.”
Though she couldn’t see me, I nodded. She was right.
“But tell me again, the name of the old boyfriend you ran into.”
“Ernie. Ernest Carmichael Billings. Why?”
“Dunno. It twigged something. I’ll have to think about it, but I’ll let you know if I remember what it is I’ve forgotten. Meanwhile, are you ever going to come back here to visit? The kids would love to see you.”
We chatted for a while. Rose had lost another tooth, Nigel was doing better in math. “They seem so OK, Madeline. I know that should make me happy and it does — it does, really — but sometimes I want them to be more broken. Like me. And sometimes I’m afraid they’ve forgotten Jack altogether.”
“It’s OK to feel that way, Sarah. Whatever you feel is OK. But kids are super resilient. Think about yourself as a kid. We bounced back from whatever was thrown at us. It’s harder when you’re an adult, I think,” my voice cracked a bit. “When it’s your whole life. Oh shit, I’m sorry…”
“No, no, Madeline. You’re right.” I could hear she was crying softly. And I thought that we get better at anything we do a lot of. With practice. Sarah could now cry and carry on a conversation while doing it. She’d gotten practice since Jack died. “It’s good to hear all of this. Out loud. From a friend.”
After I got off the phone, I remembered a saying I’d liked in college, though, in retrospect, at the time I didn’t have a clue what it meant. Wherever you go, there you are. Here I was a couple of thousand miles away from the place that had been my home for over a quarter of my life, and I was still dealing with what I’d left behind. Plus now I had a whole new set of problems.
I gave myself half an hour to wallow in self-pity, self-recriminations and self-loathing before I hit the shower. I knew myself: if I gave into it completely, it would overcome me, as it had in New York after Jack died. The only thing I knew that would save me was motion. I felt like a shark: if I stopped moving, I’d die.
Chapter Fifteen
I kept moving. At four o’clock, knowing there was three hours before meeting Alex for dinner and the restaurant was only a half hour drive away, I left the house, dressed in black slacks, a sleek black tank and boots. This would do for dinner and whatever else happened in between.
My destination was unclear, but I had an idea. I’d noticed several surf shops between Las Flores and downtown Malibu proper. It stood to reason that surfing instructors would frequent surfing shops, though everything I knew about that world would fit onto an Advil.
Walking into a shop called Tubes reminded me of when I’d moved to New York and ventured into Saks for the first time. Then I’d felt underdressed, underaged and underfinanced. Tubes gave me the same feeling at a different volume: now I felt overdressed, overaged and fully alien, as though I was stepping onto a different planet for the first time.
The guy behind the counter was cut, half-dressed and wore his blonde dreadlocks like a badge of honor. He looked like he could get a bit part in a surfing movie. I decided this was a good starting point for a conversation.
“Say,” I said, amusing myself. “Didn’t I see you in a surf movie?”
He smiled. “Which one?”
“Which one were you in?”
He laughed, a vaguely stoned sound. “All of them. You casting something?”
I thought about the lie I could tell, then thought better of it. I’d been on the West Coast less than a month and even if I technically did live in a famous director’s house, I still didn’t know much about the film industry. Now, Emily on the other hand…
“No. I’m looking for an instructor. Named Corby.”
I saw the suspicion flare up like the hood of a cobra. “Why?”
“I… I want lessons.” This admission brought no less suspicion.
He looked me up and down, then came closer, putting his hands on me, as though we were dancing. The top of his head came roughly to my shoulder, I could smell the product in his hair: coconut and fruit.
“I could give you lessons,” he said softly, bending his head to kiss the exposed skin of my upper arm.
His movement shocked me, but didn’t rock me, though I knew it should have. Despite the disparity in our height, ages and personal grooming ability, I felt myself begin to move to his rhythm, felt myself strangely aroused by his blatant and ridiculous come on, and perhaps by some raw sexuality housed in his surf-taut body. Whatever the case, I knew it wasn’t what I was there for, nor was it something I actually wanted, no matter what my body was currently telling me.
I took a step back, almost upsetting a display composed of brilliantly colored latex bikinis. “I don’t think so.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and stood where he was. “I can teach you better than Corby ever could.” He cocked his head to one side, like a dog listening for something he wants to hear. “A lot better than Corby.”
“You know him then?”
“Yeah, I know him. This isn’t his turf though.” He took a step towards me, and when I took another back, he laughed, but not unkindly. “You’ll find him at The Curl,” he pointed north up Pacific Coast Highway. “But when he lets you down, I’m here.”
It wasn’t until I was back in my car, driving farther up the coast, that the flicker of a possibility occurred to me: I looked at my Kate Spade bag, my Balenciaga boots and Kors pants and top — all leftovers from my New York trading life — and realized that, in the context of Malibu in the afternoon, specifically in a surf shop, there might be various types of lessons that a well dressed — an expensively dressed — woman might be looking for, especially one over 30. I felt color rise to my cheeks, but pressed on. At least I’d had the good sense to turn him down.
The Curl was near Zuma Beach, and clearly different turf. Tube had been in a strip mall between a scuba diving shop and one that sold ice cream. The Curl stood alone. Inside I was greeted by the same smell of new latex and wax and the same lackadaisical looks from the sales staff. And they certainly didn’t look as though they believed in dressing for success.
Since I knew that a surf instructor named Corby was associated with this spot, I decided to dispense with the subterfuge. “Do you know where I could find Corby?” I asked the bikini-clad sales girl, whose one concession to dressing for the office seemed to be a pair of Sanuck sandals.
“Naw. But hang on.” And then she shouted towards the back of the shop, “Hey Piston!” A lanky haired guy popped his head around a doorway, questioningly.
“Mmm?”
“Corby?”
I deduced that surf-type people didn’t believe in wasting a lot of words, possibly a necessary trait on the ocean when the surf is crashing in your ears, though it didn’t do much for communication on land.
Piston looked me up and down then up again, then looked at the surf chick and shrugged his shoulders. “Not today,” he said, then his head disappeared again.
“He come in here most days?”
“Most,” she said, as though she really didn’t care.
“Look, I really need to get hold of him. I’m… I’m casting a movie and… I think… well, never mind. I should really speak to him directly.” The girl suddenly looked a lot more interested.
“A surf movie?” Wow: three words at once.
“I really shouldn’t say but,” I looked at her blonde hair. “Is that your natural color?”
She nodded enthusiastically and I felt suddenly bad I wasn’t really a casting director. I could tell her hopes were rising by the second.
“Well, listen, after I’ve had a chance to talk to Corby, we’ll see wh
ere we are, OK?”
She nodded enthusiastically, “OK. Leave me your number. He usually stops in here every couple of days. When I see him, I’ll tell him to call you.”
“Excellent,” I said, jotting Emily’s name and home phone down beside it. “Thanks.”
“Should I give you my number?”
“No, we’ll be in touch,” and I beat it back to my car.
The first phone booth I saw was at the Malibu Center Mall. When I called, Emily wasn’t home, so I left her a message. “Hey Emily, I hope you don’t mind but I’ve taken your name and phone number in vain. I gave it to someone who might have a reason to recognize my number and I don’t want them knowing it’s me who’s trying to get in touch with them. Confused? You should be. I’ll explain better when I talk to you. For now though: if anyone you don’t know calls about being in a surfing movie, try to tell them you’re not there and take a message, OK? Thanks. And I owe you, obviously. See ya.”
I went back to my car and just sat there for a few minutes and thought about things. Assessed. Was any of this a good idea? Was it traceable? Would it endanger Jennifer? I decided that it wasn’t and wouldn’t. I didn’t have any options and, in any case, it was already done: I couldn’t take it back.
I looked at my watch. Five-thirty. Still an hour before I had to head to the Palisades and I didn’t feel like going home in between. I looked around at the mall and could see that coffee was a possibility. I took myself off to where I knew a latté was waiting for me.
*
I got to the restaurant a little early, before Alex did, which was fine. It gave me time to look around. It was one of those charming places with a fish in the logo, a stuffed marlin over the bar and lots of things with swordfish on the menu. It’s a place where you know the food won’t be terribly good and the prices will be astronomical but no one cares because you’re really there for the view.
This one had all of that, plus practically no light and a lot of candles, meant obviously to be an expensive, seaside, romantic place for dinner. Despite a latent hint of touristy, the room had a very real warmth and I felt comfortable waiting for Alex at the corner window table he’d reserved for us, watching the gulls play over the darkened water.
Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money Page 19