by Eve Goldberg
Mrs. Flynn reached into her purse. She pulled a photo out of her wallet and handed it to me. Joey looked nothing like his mother. He had shaggy blonde hair, a turned up nose, blue eyes, and a few freckles.
“Also, I’ll need that PO address for your husband.”
“Former husband.”
“Right. Sorry. And a photo of Mr. Flynn — as recent as possible.”
“I’ve got some at home, but I can’t leave work until five.”
“Okay. I can get it tomorrow, although . . . ”
“Although what?”
“If I could get a photo of Mr. Flynn today it might help. The sooner I start pursuing this, the more likely we’ll find Joey.”
“Well . . . ” She looked at her watch, shook her head. “I’d never make it to the Palisades and back during lunch break.”
“If you have an extra key, I could go out there myself.”
“You mean let you into my house? When I’m not there?”
“Yeah. Basically.”
“No, no, no. I don’t think so.”
I shrugged. “Okay. I can get it tomorrow.”
Mrs. Flynn chewed on her gum for a while. I waited. I watched her and couldn’t help thinking: This is a woman who is hiding something. Sure, I was essentially a stranger, and maybe she was just being cautious about who she let into her house. But something told me different.
“The key’s under the mat in the carport,” she said finally. “There’s a photo album on the bookshelf in my bedroom. Take whatever you need. As for Richard’s post office address, I’m not sure where I left my phone book, but it’s in the house somewhere. I’m sure you’ll find it.”
CHAPTER 2
I drove west on Sunset out of Hollywood, through Beverly Hills and Brentwood, around the big sweeping curve at Will Rogers State Park known for more than its share of killer car accidents, and into Pacific Palisades.
I turned up a quiet, tree-lined street of low-slung suburban ranchers with new, gleaming Rivieras and New Yorkers and Country Squires parked in spotless carports. It was the kind of neighborhood where housewives didn’t check the prices at the grocery store, kids splashed around in backyard swimming pools, and Japanese gardeners arrived each week in their pick-ups to mow the lawn and trim the bird-of-paradise.
Cora Flynn’s house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac under a couple of towering eucalyptus. The house was all glass and concrete, with a low flat roof, and a long, rectangular reflecting pool leading to the front door. It was modern and ritzy, but signs of neglect were everywhere. A blue Schwinn bike with a flat tire lay on its side in the driveway; the strip of grass that ran along the reflecting pool was parched the color of wheat; and the reflecting pool’s dark water was littered with leaves.
I parked on the street, then walked into the carport and flipped up the mat where Mrs. Flynn said I’d find a key.
The door from the carport led into a kitchen with all-electric oven and stove, and a white round-edged Frigidaire with a top freezer. But despite the swanky appliances, a feeling of decay had settled over the room. The linoleum floors were scuffed. Dust balls had accumulated in the corners. A cupboard door hung open, exposing shelves bare of anything except a box of Lucky Charms and a jar of peanut butter.
Mrs. Flynn’s bedroom was at the end of a hallway. The bed was made, but it was a half-assed job: the pink chenille bedspread pulled hastily over the pillows. On the night table was a glass with an amber puddle at the bottom. I could smell the booze from the doorway. Rum and Coke. My stomach clenched. The smell of my childhood.
I spotted the photo album and pulled it off the bookshelf. Wanting to escape the rum and coke stink, I thought about taking the album into another room, but forced myself to stay put and thumb carefully through the photos. A happy family beamed out at me: mother–father–baby . . . mother–father–boy . . . boy on bike . . . Christmas tree and boy . . . All the cookie-cutter shots that reveal nothing much about the people in them except that they had enough dough for a camera and knew how to move the right facial muscles when someone said “cheese.”
I slipped out a color photo of mom–dad–boy, and tucked it into the back of my spiral notebook.
Joey’s bedroom was up the hall, just off the living room. His bed was unmade, blanket and top sheet crumpled in a heap against the wall. Above the bed hung a poster of Koufax and Drysdale, each bent forward in their pitching stance, lefty and righty, glove to glove. On a small, kid-sized desk was a record player with some 45s scattered around it: The Drifters’ “Up on the Roof,” The Four Seasons’ “Walk Like A Man,” the Beach Boys’ Chuck Berry rip-off “Surfin’ USA.” I doubted Joey knew or cared that “Surfin’ USA” was just “Sweet Little Sixteen” with a suntan. Chuck Berry knew it, you could bet on that. He was probably burning up right this minute in his Missouri prison cell just thinking about it.
Under the desk was a wastebasket containing an empty pack of Juicy Fruit gum, several Oh Henry! candy bar wrappers, and a single white envelope. I plucked out the envelope and examined it. It was addressed in a tight, jagged script to Joey Flynn. The postmark was too blurry to read. The top left corner of the envelope—where the return address should have been—was torn off. I slid the envelope into the back of my spiral notebook alongside the Flynn family photo.
Next: Mrs. Flynn’s address book. It should have been easy to spot—by the phone, on the dining table. I searched all the usual, obvious places. But it wasn’t there.
So, I searched the un-obvious places.
I finally found the address book in the sunken living room, wedged between the seat cushions of a black leather couch. I jotted down Richard Flynn’s PO Box address and was about to leave when something caught my eye. In front of the couch was a glass coffee table which sat in the middle of a throw rug. The rug was black with a pattern of bright yellow, geometric shapes looking vaguely like leaves. The leaf shapes were clean-edged and bright. Except one. On the far corner of the rug one of the yellow leaves was infected by a dark fungus.
I bent down and examined the spot. The stain was a reddish-brown color. And it was larger than I first thought, extending into the black part of the rug where the stain was noticeable only because it caused the carpet fibers to clump and stick together. I touched the stain. Dry. I worked the carpet fibers between my fingers, dislodging some of the crumbly substance. Was it chocolate? Blood? Cherry soda? Ketchup? Paint? I had no idea.
If Lou were here, he’d know.
I put my nose to the rug and sniffed at the stain. I touched it to my lips, tasted a slight metallic tang. Not chocolate. Not cherry soda. Not ketchup. I dug into the carpet’s thick pile where the liquid had saturated the threads and, insulated from the summer heat, still felt tacky to the touch. I flipped up the edge of the rug. Some of the liquid had soaked all the way through to the floor. I scraped at it with my fingernail. Not paint.
I went out to my car and got one of the small plastic baggies I kept in the glove compartment. Back inside the house, I scraped some of the caked, brown, possibly-blood, substance off the rug, and put it into the baggie.
I locked up the house and went out into the mid-day heat.
As I walked towards my car, I noticed a black Cadillac Eldorado parked halfway up the block. The Caddy was facing towards Sunset, its sleek tailfins jutting towards me. The windows were tinted. The car definitely had not been there a few minutes earlier when I came out for the plastic bag. I stood very still and listened. The Caddy’s engine was purring. I thought about this for a minute. On the one hand, a Cadillac, even a new top of the line ’63 Eldo, is par for the course in this kind of neighborhood. But dark-tinted windows? Not so much.
Just then, the Caddy eased away from the curb, made a smooth, arching U-turn, and began cruising slowly up the street, headed in my direction. Curiosity mixed with caution, I watched the Caddy when suddenly the driver hit the gas hard and peeled out. The tires squealed and smoked. Three thousand pounds of metal and chrome was barreling straight at me.
Sun glinted off the front grille. The smell of smoke, rubber to concrete, drifted up my nostrils. The Caddy was closing in fast.
If I were paddling out and this had been a nasty breaker about to crash right on top of me, I’d know what to do. By now it was automatic. Head directly into the wave, grab the rails of my board, flip over sideways, stay underwater until the wave passes.
But this wasn’t a wave.
I leaped towards my car, trying to put the Falcon’s steel body between me and the metal monster. The Caddy swerved. Brakes squealed as the driver made a sharp (sharp for an Cadillac, that is) quick turn, nearly side-swiping my car.
A moment later, the Caddy was headed back towards Sunset, its tailfins disappearing around the bend.
I gulped air, breathed it out. Danger past. My muscles started to relax. Then it hit me:
I didn’t get the plates. Shit.
I stood in the hot sun mentally kicking myself. Wishing I had paid better attention when Lou drilled me on memorizing license plates.
“You know the make and model of every car on the road, Ryan, but you can’t keep three letters and three numbers straight in your head,” he had complained to me more than once.
Back then, when Lou had tried teaching me the tricks of being alert to plate numbers, I couldn’t have cared less. Now I cared.
Water under the bridge, Ryan. Let it go.
I waited on the sidewalk for a few more minutes, just to be sure the Caddy wasn’t coming back. Then I walked up the block to the address Cora Flynn had given me. Ackerman. Home to Nicholas, Joey’s best friend. It was Nicholas who had told her Joey wasn’t at school on Thursday.
The Ackerman house was a beige rancher with a stacked stone chimney rising at the far end. A flower box overflowing with color ran across the front. In the carport was a turquoise Chevy Bel Air.
I rang the bell. Immediately, the high pitched yapping of a small dog started up from inside. Moments later I heard footsteps. The door opened a few inches and a face covered in cold cream poked out. The greasy white mask was framed by a circle of pink clip-on curlers. The door opened a few more inches. The woman behind the mask wore a pink terry cloth robe. In her arms was a small grey poodle. Two black holes at the center of the white mask peered out at me suspiciously.
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for Mrs. Ackerman.”
“That’s me.”
I held out my card. “I’m a private investigator. I’m looking for Joey Flynn. He seems to be missing.”
“Missing?” she exclaimed with alarm. “I knew that he . . . but . . . ”
Mrs. Ackerman reached for my card, inadvertently jostling the poodle who took it out on me, snarling and showing his tiny razor-sharp teeth.
“That’s enough, Buster,” she said so mildly that the dog snarled one more time for good measure. She bent down so that her cold-creamed face nearly touched the dog’s.
“You’re such a good boy,” she cooed. “Such a brave watch dog, aren’t you?”
Then she turned back to me. “I don’t know what to make of this. I mean, Cora said something, but . . . missing? A private investigator?” Her pink curlers jiggled when she shook her head, puzzled. “Honestly, though, I’m really not surprised. That was trouble waiting to happen.”
“What’d you mean?”
Instead of answering, Mrs. Ackerman stuck her head further out the door and made a quick visual sweep of the street. Her eyes stopped momentarily on my car. The white Falcon was Lou’s idea of the perfect PI ride. It was bland enough for surveillance, but still on the lower end of acceptable to people like Mrs. Ackerman. I would way rather be driving a T-Bird, but the Falcon’s price was right, Lou kicked in for the insurance, and the rack for my board mounted in nothing flat.
Mrs. Ackerman glanced down at my business card again, then up at me.
“Do you want to come in?” she said.
“Sure. Thanks.”
She hoisted the poodle up over her shoulder. Buster eyed me from his perch as I followed Mrs. Ackerman through a living room with floral upholstered furniture covered in plastic, and into a sunny kitchen with white Formica counters and table. She set Buster down onto a mat by a sliding glass door that opened up onto a kidney-shaped pool. The dog kept eyeing me.
“Hey, Buster,” I said.
I crouched down. Keeping my open palm lower than the dog’s chin, I slowly brought my hand towards him.
“Buster doesn’t like strangers,” Mrs. Ackerman warned.
“I like dogs,” I answered.
“Do you have one?”
“No. Landlord doesn’t allow pets.”
“Too bad,” she said.
“Hey, Buster,” I repeated.
The dog sniffed my hand. He looked me in the eye and wagged his tiny pom-pom tail. I lifted my hand slowly, patted him on the head, and stood up. Buster watched me as I crossed the room. He growled half-heartedly, just to be sure I knew who was boss. Then he curled up and went to sleep.
“So, what did you mean about Joey, that trouble was waiting to happen?” I asked Mrs. Ackerman.
“It’s that family,” she said. “They’re not normal. Doc Flynn, now why he’s called ‘Doc’ I’ll never know. He was a teacher, for god’s sake, biology or botany, something like that. Not a real doctor. Anyway, Doc Flynn always seemed strange to me. Not that I’ve ever said anything. That’s not my place. A few years ago he leaves his family, takes off with this, not that I’m prejudiced, but still, this Oriental woman. Now who does that? Up and leaves his family for no reason that I could ever find out. Not that Cora and I were close. I tried to be neighborly, but we just never . . . we never clicked is how you’d say it these days. And now . . . ”
She took a sip of coffee, shook her head. “It’s no wonder the child goes missing. Nobody home for him after school, Cora staying out late, bringing home . . . men. But maybe that isn’t for me to say.”
She looked at me. I could tell she was itching to say more.
“Please continue, Mrs. Ackerman. Anything you can share with me might be important in finding Joey.”
“Well, I’m not a gossip, but this is all very upsetting. I mean, I hope nothing has happened. Have you talked to anyone else in the neighborhood?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. So what about these men — did you meet any of them?”
“Of course not! I only know about them because of the strange cars parked there all night. And sometimes, if I just happened by coincidence to be out front gardening, I might see one leave in the morning.”
By “coincidence” I figured Mrs. Ackerman meant that she spent a significant amount of time at her front window, peeking through the curtains.
“When was the last time you saw Joey?” I asked.
“Hmmm . . . a few days ago. He comes over to play with my Nicholas all the time. They practically grew up together, both being only children. They’re almost like brothers.”
“Do you remember what day that was?”
She thought for a moment. “Tuesday. Yes, it was definitely Tuesday. Nicholas has cello lessons on Tuesday, and I let Joey watch TV during the lesson. He had dinner with us, like he often does. I mean it’s that or the boy is all alone at home until who knows when.”
“How did Joey seem on Tuesday?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was he happy, or sad, or any different than usual?”
“Just normal, I would say. Joey’s a quiet boy.”
“Do you have any idea where he might be right now?”
“Certainly not! Why would I?”
She seemed alarmed by my question. Rookie mistake. I had put her on the defensive, and now I’d better mop it up quick.
“No reason, Mrs. Ackerman. I’m just covering all the bases. Is your son home? I’d like to talk with him, if that okay with you.”
“Of course it is . . . anything we can do to help. Nicholas gets home from school about 3:30 PM. Oh, no, 2:30 PM today because it’s
the last school day before summer vacation. But I can tell you, he doesn’t know anything about this either. He would have said something to me if he did.”
Which told me exactly how much Mrs. Ackerman knew about 11-year-old boys.
I thanked her for her cooperation and said I’d be back. The poodle perked up when I pushed back my chair.
“Hey, Buster,” I said, offering my open palm.
Buster sniffed at my hand. He looked up at me, cocked his head, then covered his face with his paws and went back to sleep.
I got into my car and I checked my watch. Just after 1:00 PM. I could hang around, interview another neighbor or two, then talk to Joey’s friend Nicholas when he returned from school. But all that, I decided, could wait.
I drove back up Sunset, pulled into a gas station with a pay phone, and called Cora Flynn.
“Did you find out anything?” she said, her voice brittle and clipped with worry.
“Not too much, but I’m headed your way,” I lied. “Can I come by the studio and talk?”
“What is it? Why can’t we talk on the phone?”
“I need to show you something.”
“Something about Joey?”
“Mrs. Flynn, I’ll be out there in half an hour.”
For the second time that day I drove east to Hollywood. I made it past Pinnacle’s hostile gate keeper, cruised slowly to Building 8 where Cora Flynn was waiting for me out front.
“Let’s walk,” she said. “I need a smoke.”
After lighting up, she practically bolted down the street. I fell into step with her as we headed away from Building 8.
“I’m going nuts sitting in there,” she explained. “The phone rings and I nearly jump out of my skin. I can barely concentrate on work, so I guess it’s a good thing the studio’s slow. Seems like nobody knows what kind of pictures to make anymore. Word is Cleopatra went so far over-budget that Fox is headed for bankruptcy no matter how it does at the box office. And not even Pinnacle’s immune . . . ”
She was chattering non-stop in rapid-fire bursts, as if the barrage of words could keep her anxiety at bay. Or maybe she was just scared of what I was going to tell her if she gave me half a chance.