Everyday People

by Louis Barr

  It took about two minutes for my eyes to begin drooping. In about another minute, I’d fallen asleep.

  Now, some noises can sound like a gunshot—for instance, a backfiring engine or a slammed metal dumpster lid. In a breeze, some types of dried weed pods can sound like the initial, slow warning of a rattlesnake. But when it’s the real thing of either of the two, you know goddammed good and well what you heard.

  I’d heard the muffled crack of a small caliber gunshot. The sound came from somewhere near the front of my house. I checked the child monitor. Ian slept peacefully, but I saw Sammy pacing the floor beneath the bedroom’s windows.

  I grabbed my Glock and a high-lumen penlight out of the safe. Yes, if I want a working flashlight, I have to keep one locked away, along with my car fob, keys, sleeping pills, and guns. I pulled on jeans, shrugged into a T-shirt, and went to Ian’s bedroom. He’d rolled on his back and was breathing softly. Sammy came to me for a petting, then went back to the foot of Ian’s bed. I left Ian’s bedroom door ajar.

  I tapped on Raoul’s bedroom door—no response. I knocked harder, let myself in, and switched on the light. “Wake up, Raoul.”

  Raoul started awake. “Moose, what’s wrong?”

  “I heard a gunshot somewhere near the front of the house. I’m going outside to check.”

  Raoul got out of bed. His white sleep shorts glowed against his tanned skin. We headed downstairs.

  I’d told Raoul I wanted tinted one-way glass installed throughout the house while he and his crew remodeled it. I like my privacy. From the bay window, I saw a familiar pickup truck parked at the curb. I said to Raoul, “Don’t let anyone in. I’ll text you when I’m back in the garage.”

  I slipped outside through the garage’s pedestrian door.

  Monterey pines lined one side of my driveway. Tall, perfectly symmetrical, dark green, and thickly needled, they kept me out of sight. Looking around the final tree, I saw Scott Davidson’s old GMC parked at the curb. I didn’t see lights on in any of the neighboring houses. Christ, had I been the only one in the hood who’d heard that gunshot, or had I imagined it?

  Approaching the Jimmy from the rear, I didn’t see a shadowy figure in the cab. I crept toward the driver’s side door. Both windows were rolled up. Shining the powerful penlight into the cab, I saw Francis Valentine Davidson lying supine on the bench seat.

  I wrapped my hand around my T-shirt and opened the driver’s side door. The dome light didn’t work. The mixed smells of booze, emptied bladder and bowels, blood and gunpowder struck me like a flying drop kick. I stepped back and exhaled.

  Holding my breath, I took a closer look. Davidson’s eyes didn’t react when I pointed the pen light at them. Then I saw the trickle of blood from the bullet hole on the right side of his head. His right hand still held a thirty-eight caliber revolver. I silently closed the pickup’s door.

  I wondered, suicide or a handgun accident? As much as Francis Davidson drank, the crazy bastard might’ve pointed the revolver at one of my house’s windows, fumbled the weapon, and shot himself. Not likely, but who the hell knew when it came to the mishaps of a dedicated alcoholic.

  And who the hell told Francis Davidson where I lived? I kept my home address and landline number unlisted.

  Hauling ass back to the garage, I unlocked and entered through the pedestrian door. Phone in hand, I started to call the Beverly Hills PD. Then I stopped. The BHPD wasn’t incorporated into Los Angeles and the LAPD. No, the Hills of Beverly had its own police department.

  I’d have a lotta ’splainin’ to do to the Beverly Hills cops. I could either identify Francis Davidson’s body or lie and tell the responding officers I’d never seen the man before and didn’t know his name.

  If I did tell the truth, the responding officers sure as shit wouldn’t shrug off all I knew about Francis and his deceased son. I’d likely spend at least a couple of hours in an interrogation room.

  A memory surfaced. About twelve hours ago, I’d seen Francis Davidson holding a gun in his left hand and a cigarette in his right.

  Old man Davidson had been a southpaw. He would hold a gun in his predominant hand—his left hand.

  But minutes ago, I’d seen a thirty-eight caliber revolver in Davidson’s right hand and a bullet hole in the right side of his head. It didn’t seem likely Francis Davidson shot himself. More likely, someone else did.

  Like son, like father—a pair of identical murders.

  My phone showed 0010 hours. Fuck the time. There’s one man I knew who could throw some Police Administration Building high jingo (JFGI) at the Beverly Hills gendarmerie and make it stick. Oh, the glory of cop buddies in high places.

  Captain Flynn answered on the fourth ring. “Steele, why the hell are you calling me at twelve minutes past fucking midnight? This better be good or I’ll shove that badge I gave you so far up your ass you’ll be tasting brass for a fucking fortnight.”

  “Wow, tasting brass for a fortnight; is that like ten days or two weeks?”

  “Ahh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I’m hanging up.”

  “Don’t get your cop panties in a wad. A couple of weeks ago, a man followed Diana Danning into my office.” I told Flynn of my meeting with the stranger who’d lied and called himself Scott Davidson and later drove away in the pickup that was presently parked in front of my house. I told Flynn I didn’t know his real name yet. I mentioned the sketch Mars had drawn of the man who’d accompanied Danning to the Laguna supermarket. “I think the face in the sketch belongs to the man who abducted Shane Danning.”

  “I’m not following you.” Flynn’s voice turned sardonic. “But since I’m half asleep, you go on without me.”

  “There’s a dead body in that pickup. I think it’s a homicide staged to look like a suicide. There’s more, but I’ll tell you when you get here.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I sent Raoul a text, telling him I’d be waiting by the truck for Captain Flynn. As an afterthought, I told him to go back to bed.

  Flynn arrived at the scene, shined an LAPD-officially banned eight-cell Maglite through the GMC’s driver’s side window, clicked off the flashlight, went to his unmarked car, and radioed the Beverly Hills PD.

  I’d barely finished giving Flynn the details on Old Man Francis and Deputy Scott Davidson when a BHPD cruiser rolled to the curb. It disappointed me to see that Beverly Hills cops did not wear Gucci loafers. I let Captain Flynn do all the talking.

  Flynn came across like the Police Administration Building brass he was. “Both this GMC pickup and the dead body inside, one Francis Valentine Davidson, are directly linked to an ongoing LAPD investigation of a serial felon. I’m taking this matter off your hands.”

  And Flynn did.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Do Not Go Gentle

  Clint, Steele & Whitman Investigations, Thursday, May 17

  I plopped my feet on the edge of my desk, rubbed my eyes, and leaned back in my swivel chair. I couldn’t sleep after Captain Flynn convinced the BHPD’s homicide commander to turn Francis Davidson’s body and the GMC over to the LAPD.

  Forcing myself to whip it up, I dropped my feet to the floor and returned to reading the Danning file, hoping to find something I felt certain I’d overlooked. I didn’t have a frigging clue what it might be, but I’d know it when I found it. This sounded good in theory.

  Two days had gone by since the kidnapper’s call. The fact that he had not given Diana his instructions for Shane’s release troubled me. Maybe this nameless predator, and I didn’t doubt that Captain Flynn and I had such a person on our hands, liked driving home the point that Shane’s release would come only on his terms and timeline. Plus he liked fucking with people.

  It chilled me to consider what might have happened to Shane Danning since his kidnapping. Repetitive torture and rape seemed likely since his abductor didn’t appear to be in a hurry either to let Danning go or to collect his five-million-dollar ransom.

  I went back to my case notes. Goddammi
t, what was it? Maybe I’d heard something and hadn’t written it down. I rubbed my eyes and looked up.

  Sierra sat in one of the client chairs smiling at me.

  I slapped the Danning file shut. “For Christ’s sake, Sierra, why am I still seeing you?”

  She quoted Dylan Thomas, “Do not go gentle into that good night.”

  “Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” I said.

  “I’m so pleased you love to read and got Ian hooked on books too,” she said. “You’re a modern Renaissance man.”

  I rubbed my eyes with both palms, then took another look.

  No Sierra.

  I crossed the room and stretched out on my office sofa. “After pulling an all-nighter, you’re taking tomorrow off…unless the kidnapper calls,” I said aloud.

  I fell asleep in seconds.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Eye High Kicks

  Raoul Martinez, The Flats, Saturday, May 19

  A distant sound woke me. I’d worked eighteen hours Friday and planned to sleep in this morning, goddammit. I whacked the alarm’s snooze button. The noise continued.

  Then I realized the sound came from my cell’s “Rock the Casbah” ringtone. That meant my agent, Del Kendal, had gotten around to returning my calls. I reached for the Levi’s I’d dropped on the floor last night. I almost did a face plant into the carpet.

  Grabbing the phone out of my jeans pocket, I answered with a mumbled, “Yeah, Del.” I listened for a couple of minutes. “When and where?”

  Thirty minutes later, showered and dressed in a polo shirt and designer jeans with stringy holes that made them especially pricy, I bounded down the stairs, jumping over Heathcliff, who lay sleeping on the bottom riser.

  The big cat started awake and glared at me. He kept his distance from my dance steps and eye-high kicks. It’s not a gay thing. I’d learned an ass-ton of strange and wondrous stuff at Juilliard.

  In the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator and scanned the contents. At once ecstatic and scared spitless, I knew I couldn’t eat anything. I sipped a glass of orange juice and checked the time on my iPhone. It was damned near noon. The house’s silence reminded me Clint had taken Ian to a birthday party.

  Del had warned me not to say anything to anyone until everyone signed on the dotted lines. I saw Del’s directive as nothing more than industry superstitious bullshit. In particular, all actors had their own rituals and good luck belief systems; for example, on Hollywood’s biggest night, some always put on the same underwear they’d worn when they’d won their first Oscar.

  Del told me all about the staged drama of yesterday and this morning’s negotiations: flurries of raised voices, sour faces, Khrushchevian tabletop poundings (but with a two-thousand-dollar shoe), offers, counter offers, and threats, culminating in Del declaring, “You’re asking my client to give you the fucking moon—we’ll talk again in a couple of hours after all of you sober up.”

  “You had recently tested,” Del said. “I knew Vona Steele wanted you badly for her next shoot. Do you know how often you get fast-tracked in Hollyweird?”

  I did, but I kept my mouth shut. Otherwise, Del would’ve carried on for another ten minutes regarding how often fast-tracking does not happen.

  Steele Productions’s representatives, all of them entertainment lawyers, returned with a proposal that looked like the original offer, but with minuscule adjustments to key percentages, Del told me. But when you considered the number of tickets sold worldwide, minuscule adjustments meant a fargon lotta cash in someone’s pocket.

  “It might as well land in your pocket,” Del said.

  “And yours too,” I said to reaffirm I wasn’t too fucking stupid to live.

  Within a couple hours, counter offers for additional adjustments were dropped on the table by each side, with both sides rejecting most of the revisions. But in the industry, bartering and the art of compromise still flourished—until they didn’t.

  You’ve finally gotten your shot at a film career, I thought. The starring role in the Peter Remington movie belonged to me. I only needed to sign my name.

  I scribbled a note to Clint, letting him know I’d been offered a contract and needed to review it with Del Kendal. Then most of the Kendal agency and I planned to celebrate. I added that I likely wouldn’t get home tonight.

  I again checked the time. I patted my pocket for the car fob and house key, then headed out for Century City.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The Sky’s the Limit

  Clint, Beverly Hills, Saturday, May 19

  Sitting on a bench under the shade of a sycamore, I scanned the Pruitts’ three acres of backyard bedlam. I estimated about a hundred children, ages five to seven, accompanied by one or both parents, had come to Sage’s birthday bash.

  But it did not look like a little boy’s birthday celebration. Oh, hell no. Spencer and Joan Pruitt had turned a child’s party into a balls-out soiree, a major happening, with clowns, a wizard, pony rides, a children’s Ferris wheel, a calliopied merry-go-round with pastel unicorns that probably sneezed Skittles and crapped swag bags, and a junior roller coaster. All the rides were operated by workers who looked like frat boys, not Hell’s Angels. Then there was the four-piece boy band, musicians from one of L.A.’s Schools of Rock. And to maintain law and order, I must mention the ten Party Helpers, identifiable by their toothy smiles and muscular or big-boobaged chests stuffed into psychedelic-orange T-shirts. I had to wonder what the hell happened to the dancing elephants and the mime jugglers on unicycles, an obvious oversight on the part of the party planner.

  I returned to watching Ian with his birthday buddy, Sage. The two boys stood side by side scrutinizing the wizard’s sleights of hand. They laughed, knowing bullshit when they saw it. I thought the wizard sort of resembled W.C. Fields (JFGI) in drag.

  “Do you mind if I share your shade, Clint?”

  I knew that voice from somewhere. Turning, I saw a young, blond-haired guy wearing aviators, a second-skin T-shirt, and tight, low-riding jeans.

  I recognized him. We’d met almost three weeks ago at the Jugs & Mugs Saloon. I’d been working the Danning case, so I’d declined his invitation to join him for a drink. But I’d given him my business card.

  “Dan, join me.” I scooted over.

  “You remembered my name,” he said.

  He sat beside me and flashed a smile. The androstanol level of his fresh summer sweat and woodsy cologne nearly threw me into a hormonal overload. And he’s way too young, I reminded myself. “What brings you here?”

  “Sage is my nephew. His father is my older brother.” Dan raised his sunglasses. “I’ll ask you the same question.”

  I pointed. “My son, Ian, and your nephew are best friends forever.”

  “They’re adorable with their arms across each other’s shoulders.” He grinned and nudged me with his elbow. “Both of them will be breaking hearts in a few years.” He paused. “You’re married?”

  “No, I’m a widower.” Before he could offer his condolences, I said, “How old are you? I’d guess nineteen or twenty.”

  “Thanks for the compliment.” Dan chuckled. “I’m thirty, and I recently defended my doctoral dissertation.”

  His age shocked the shit out of me, but I quickly regrouped. “My wife was barely thirty when she earned her PhD in economics. You’re a brand-new doctor of what?”

  “Medical laboratory science. I’ve been recruited to become part of a university consortium for basic and translational cancer immunology research,” Dan said.

  “Congratulations, sounds fascinating.”

  For whatever it is you’ll be doing, I thought. People with doctorates often spoke in tongues vis-à-vis their areas of expertise. I’d learned not to ask Sierra for detailed explanations. I only became more confused.

  Dan removed his sunglasses and gave me a slow once-over. Then his blue-gray eyes met mine. “I kept your business card. I won’t mention how many times I came close to calling you.”
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  I smiled. “Close only counts in horseshoes and grenades.” I wanted to ask what stopped him from calling. “The birthday boy and my son are making a run for us.”

  Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Sage chanted, “Un-cul-Dan, Un-cul-Dan.”

  Dan hugged his nephew and wished him a happy birthday.

  “Daddy, Mrs. Pruitt asked if I’d like to spend the night with Sage.”

  Ian and Sage frequently had sleepovers, either here or at our house. I smiled. “Did Mrs. Pruitt invite you or did you invite yourself?”

  Ian shook his head. “I did-ent invite myself.”

  “Let me talk with Sage’s mom.”

  Seeing Joan Pruitt standing about fifteen feet away, I walked over to talk with her. Dan followed me, placing a hand close to the top of my ass.

  Always gracious and never missing a thing, such as the location of Dan’s hand, Joan Pruitt said, “I invited Ian. He’s never a problem, and our boys play together so well. If you don’t mind, he can stay with us through Sunday dinner.”

  I smiled and nodded my approval. “Thanks.”

  She grinned. “I’ll bring Ian home Sunday evening.” She winked at me. “You and Dan can let your hair down.”

  Dan followed me back to the shade. I liked the smile he wore. He leaned closer. “My sister-in-law believes she’s a matchmaker. Got any plans for tonight, Clint Steele?”

  “I’ve been thinking about asking this new doctor if he’d join me for dinner.”

  Dan grinned. “You’re on.”

  I suggested a restaurant. Dan agreed to meet me there.

  As I waited for the party’s valet—yes, valet—to bring me my car, my phone vibrated. Raoul had sent a text.

  Got the lead! Thnx! Won’t be home 2night. 143 buddy! LD

  The fact that Vona offered Raoul a contract came as no surprise. With all due modesty, I recognized great talent when I saw it. I sent Raoul a congratulatory text.

  Then I went home and spent the afternoon deadheading, watering, and feeding my roses and talking to my orchids. Don’t laugh. They sometimes listen.