At first I wondered if somebody from the media was dogging me to get an interview about Evan’s murder. Unlikely. I didn’t see any satellite equipment or cables mounted on the van’s roof. It could be a case of road rage. I didn’t remember displaying any egregiously bad manners—at least not today—but it didn’t take much to annoy people. Maybe lingering too long at the green light had been enough. The third alternative? I was just being paranoid. I decided to test my theories.
If the guy was following me, I didn’t want to lead him back to my house. I waited for a break in traffic and moved into the lane that merged onto the 405 Freeway, heading south toward San Diego. My pulse quickened when the van followed. As I neared Washington Boulevard, I moved over to the far right lane as if I planned to exit. So did the van.
I drove past the exit, frequently glancing at my rearview mirror to see if the guy was still on my tail. He was. My hands felt sweaty on the wheel. I told myself not to panic. While I was trying without much success to convince myself that everything would turn out okay, I drove past the exit that led to the police station where Deegan worked. I checked my gas gauge again. It was creeping downward. I decided against taking another exit. I didn’t know the neighborhood and didn’t want to take the risk of getting lost. At least the freeway was crowded with witnesses if things turned bad.
The traffic was heavy but moving. Just past the airport I calculated the holes in the flow and did the unthinkable. I stepped on the gas and shot across four lanes of traffic and the double yellow line of the carpool lane. I figured it would only be a matter of seconds before the California Highway Patrol pulled me over. My confidence disappeared when I noticed that the van had moved over, too. It was now cruising in the fast lane a car length behind me. Unfortunately, it was too far away to make out the identity of the driver.
I darted in and out of the diamond lane through El Segundo, Manhattan Beach, and Gardena, trying to draw attention to myself. It didn’t work. I attracted a lot of rude gestures but no CHP officers. I’d always wondered why Deegan called the CHP the “Auto Club with guns.” Now I knew. They were all back in the office, handing out road maps and booking cruises.
Luckily, the Boxster maneuvered better than a big, clunky van, but my wrists and shoulders were beginning to ache from my death grip on the wheel. The farther I got from L.A., the tenser I became. For what seemed like the millionth time, I checked the gas gauge and saw that the warning light had come on, indicating a low tank. I swore out loud, wishing I had a Prius.
I didn’t want to run out of gas in the middle of a freeway lane. My car and I would end up looking like a sculpture at the Museum of Contemporary Art. On the other hand, I had to get away from this guy. I was getting dangerously close to Long Beach, a city crisscrossed with streets I couldn’t even name. I had to get back to familiar territory. At the next exit, I flipped on my turn signal and maneuvered into the right-hand lane. The van followed. I took a deep breath and turned off onto the exit road. So did the van. My gaze flitted back and forth between the rearview and side mirrors, waiting, calculating before I spotted my salvation.
On the left side of the road was a rocky berm separating the road from the freeway. On the right side was a guardrail. The road sloped downward. Soon the berm would become too steep to navigate. All I cared about was waiting until it was too steep for the van but not for the Boxster. I slowed. The distance between us narrowed. My timing had to be flawless. At the last possible minute, I wrenched the wheel left and slammed my foot down hard on the accelerator.
Gravel pinged against the car’s metal body as the car fishtailed and bumped across the unstable ground. The sound was deafening. For a moment, I thought I was losing control. I tried but failed to remember if you slowed down in a skid or sped up. Pookie had once dated a stuntman. He probably could have told me, but I’d barely bothered to learn his name.
Seconds later I was back on the freeway. I put my hand over my heart as if that might quiet the pounding. I was safe, but the car’s wheel alignment was probably shot, not to mention the paint job. I glanced out the passenger-side window and watched as the van pulled to the shoulder of the exit road.
I took the next exit, driving around until I located a freeway entrance that would get me back to L.A. Just my luck—it was closed for roadwork. Near the intersection of a quiet little neighborhood, I pulled over and dug out my trusty Thomas Guide map book. I’d just pinpointed my location when the white van raced through the intersection in front of me. I was in unfamiliar territory, trying to evade a person or persons unknown, on a nearly empty gas tank. I crossed my fingers, hoping he wouldn’t see me. Just then I heard the screeching of tires as he braked.
I made a quick U-turn and raced down the street, looking for a way out. That’s when I saw the brick wall. The street was a dead end. Before I had a chance to do anything, I saw the van bearing down on me. I was screwed.
The van’s driver slammed on his brakes and swerved to a stop in the middle of the street, blocking my exit. There was no way around him. The street was jammed with parked cars. Fences blocked most of the yards.
I locked my door, knowing it was a futile gesture. All he had to do was break the window and pull me out. Hell, all he had to do was shoot me. Either way, I was a goner—unless he wanted the car intact. Fine. He could have it. Except that I had a feeling he wanted more than that. I just didn’t know what. For the first time, I wished I had a weapon: a gun, a knife, or a large bull elephant with irritable bowel syndrome.
The van’s door opened. A leg covered in blue denim emerged. A black military-type boot punctuated the leg. I couldn’t see if the boot had a silver medallion on it, but even so, my mind buzzed with thoughts of renegade commandos, trained killers, and bloodlust.
Joe Deegan had once cautioned me to fight like hell if anybody ever tried to force me into a car. He said it was better to die fast than to suffer what probably came next. No wonder our relationship had never gone anywhere. While other couples were spending romantic weekends in Carmel, Deegan was lecturing me on the best way to die.
In any event, Joe Deegan was nowhere in sight. I was on my own. I depressed the clutch, slid the Boxster’s gearshift into first, and poised my right foot on the gas, keeping my gaze fixed on the man’s leg until another emerged. Finally, the driver’s whole body came into view. He was wearing a beat-up olive-drab army jacket that looked as if it was a holdover from the Vietnam War. He stood around five feet eleven or so and looked fit. His short, sandy hair was turning gray, so it was hard to tell how old he was. I estimated somewhere between late fifties and geezerdom. Behind his aviator glasses, I assumed his eyes were as hard and unyielding as his body language.
Slowly he began walking toward me. I watched and waited. Then I let up on the clutch and pressed down on the accelerator. If the bastard came any closer, he was going to be sucking his dinner through a tube in the ICU.
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my leg felt tense and tingly, poised on the gas pedal. I watched as the driver of the white van came closer and closer. I revved the engine. He stopped, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out something small and black. Shit, I thought—a gun. I dove for cover across the passenger seat. As I did, my feet slipped off the gas and clutch pedals. The car lurched and the engine died. No gunshots followed. That was good. Carefully, I raised my head far enough to peek over the dashboard. The guy was still standing in the same spot. He was smiling. I scrutinized the object in his hand and realized it was too flat to be a gun. It looked more like a wallet. That’s when I knew I’d been living in L.A. too long. He flipped it open as a cop might. But he was no cop, and if he thought I was going to fall for some Tinkertoy fake badge, he was mistaken.
I rolled down the window and shouted, “Don’t come any closer or you’re road kill.”
“Be cool,” he said. “I just want to talk.”
“Join Toastmasters.”
“Look, it’s not what you think. I’m a private investigator. Here’s my license.” Again
, he stepped toward me, holding out the wallet.
“Stay where you are,” I shouted. “Throw it over here.”
He hesitated. Then he pitched the thing, but it fell short of its goal. I restarted the engine, inched forward, and cautiously opened the door. When I had the wallet in my hand, I once again locked myself inside the car.
The wallet contained a laminated card that appeared to be some kind of state document. It looked official, but I’d never seen a PI license before, so I couldn’t say for sure. The name read: Charles John Tate.
I rolled down the window and stuck my head out. “Why are you following me?”
“A client of mine wants us to have a conversation.”
“Why didn’t you pick up the telephone and give me a call?”
“I was working up to that.”
“How long have you been tailing me?”
“Couple of days.”
“A couple of days? I don’t believe you. I would have noticed.”
He grinned. “Yeah, that’s what they all say.”
“Why did you pull that stupid freeway stunt? I could have been killed. Don’t you gumshoes have a code of conduct?”
He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, in all fairness, you have a point. A freeway chase is probably not such a great idea, but old habits die hard. If I say I’m sorry, will you answer a few questions?”
“Not until you tell me who you’re working for.”
“No can do. That’s confidential.”
“I’m not telling you a damn thing until I know the name of your client.”
While he paused to consider that, he rearranged rocks on the ground in front of him with the toe of his boot. Finally he said, “I’ll tell you under one condition.”
“No conditions.”
“I don’t think we should be shouting at each other on the street like this. Somebody’s going to call the cops.”
“That’s even better.”
“Look, there’s a café down the road a ways. Tell you what. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. We’ll talk about my client. If I get out of line, you can scream for help.”
I hesitated going anywhere with him because I didn’t trust him. On the other hand, I wanted to find out why he was chasing me down the 405 and if he knew the location of the nearest gas station. Finally, I agreed. Tate led me to a Shell station and waited in the van while I filled the tank and checked for gravel dings from the Boxster’s recent mountain climbing expedition. Everything looked fine, at least on the surface.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting in a booth at Deanna’s Diner, staring at Charles Tate’s business card through the billowing steam of my coffee. The “T” in “Tate Investigations” had a Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass superimposed over it, making it larger than the rest of the letters. That wasn’t exactly an original concept. He needed to hire me to create a corporate image with a little more pop.
“So, who’s your client and what does he want with me?”
His ice blue eyes sparkled with a keen sense of mischief. If I’d gotten the impression from Tate’s military jacket and boots that he was a burnt-out Vietnam vet, I was wrong. He looked alert and fully engaged. I suspected that if he hadn’t seen it all, he’d at least seen most of it.
“I answer to everything but ‘Hey, you,’ but my friends call me Charley.”
“I’m not your friend, Mr. Tate.”
His grin was crooked and appealing. “Okay, have it your way, Ms. Sinclair. Let’s just say my client was clearing up a couple of issues when you showed up in the window of opportunity.”
“That sounds about as clear as mud.”
Instead of responding, he took a sip of coffee. I noted that he didn’t slurp—unusual for a man.
“So what happened to your face?” he said.
I’d gotten so used to looking at my bruises and scrapes in the mirror for the past few days, I now took them for granted.
“None of your business.”
He shrugged. “You look too smart to hook up with a guy who slaps you around, but I could be wrong. I still have friends in the Department. If you give me his name, I’ll put a bug in somebody’s ear.”
“You were a cop?”
He nodded. “LAPD, thirty years, the last ten of it on the bomb squad. Personally I hate guys who beat up on women. If my buddies on the force can’t do anything, I wouldn’t mind taking a shot at the guy myself.”
“Not literally, I trust.”
Tate smiled. I was beginning to wonder if there was a required class at the police academy called Macho Bullshit 101.
“It wasn’t a boyfriend,” I went on, “at least not mine. In fact, I’m not sure who it was—yet. So, who’s your client?”
I may have been mistaken, but I thought I saw his facial muscles relax. “Let’s just say it’s somebody in the public eye.”
There were only two people in my life who fit that description: Darcy Daniels from Celebrity Heat and Lola Scott. I suppose Jason-the-twit-producer could have hired a PI to track me down, but his attention span didn’t seem that long. That left only one other person.
“So let me take a wild guess,” I said. “Your client is Lola Scott.”
He looked surprised but dropped any further pretense of client confidentiality. “She heard you were pretty desperate to find her.”
“So she hired a private detective to find me first? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Sure it does. People like her have to worry about your kind of persistence. With all the wackos wandering around, she didn’t want to take a chance that you were one of them.”
“Come on, Tate. Don’t bullshit me. Do I look like a stalker? This is about the porn video. Right?”
He stared at me, frowning. “You watched it?”
“Yup, and it was pretty icky. I take it you haven’t had the pleasure.”
He shook his head. “I don’t play in that sandbox.”
“So what’s Lola want with me? She got the tape back. Jakey saw to that. He was the one who attacked me, wasn’t he?”
Tate leaned back against the leatherette booth and took another sip of coffee. “She’ll pay your medical bills.”
“In exchange for what? Dropping charges against her boyfriend?”
His jaw muscles twitched. “Among other things.”
“Like what? Keeping my mouth shut about the videotape?”
“That and one more thing.”
“Jeez, what else is there?”
He paused for a moment, as if he was reluctant to tell me. “She wants the bed.”
“The what?”
“The bed in Brice’s apartment. She bought it for him. Now she wants it back.” Tate shrugged, clearly embarrassed. “Look, what can I tell you? The guy’s death hit her hard. She thinks the bed will get her through the pain.”
In a way, I wasn’t surprised it belonged to Lola Scott. On the other hand, from what I’d learned about Evan’s love life, Lola may not have been the only woman to frolic on those exotic sheets. I didn’t understand why she’d want to be custodian of a piece of furniture with such a murky history.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s say I agree to give Lola everything on her wish list. Here’s what I want in return: an interview.”
Tate shook his head. “It ain’t gonna happen. She’s a mess right now.”
“Let’s put it this way, Charley. Make it happen.”
He looked at me for a long time. Finally he rolled his eyes. “Stay put. I’ll be right back.”
Tate stood up, turned, and walked away. As he did, I saw him pull a cell phone from the pocket of his jacket. When he finally returned fifteen minutes later, the look on his face was a mixture of anger and menace. It wasn’t directed at me, but it made me wonder if I should be more careful about what I asked for.
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according to Charley Tate, Lola Scott had agreed to speak with me about Jakey and the porn video, but only if I would leave the diner immediately and meet her on the set of Kin
gs Road. I agreed. Tate gave me directions to Sony Studios in Culver City and told me I was on my own.
As instructed, I drove to the Overland Boulevard entrance to the studio and spoke with the guard at the kiosk. After he found my name on his list, he advised me that somebody would meet me in the parking lot. A few minutes later I climbed into a golf cart driven by a young man who took me down a narrow street lined on both sides with large warehouselike buildings. He stopped at one toward the end of the row. Mounted above the door was a red police-type light. I followed him inside a dark room. Somewhere in the distance I heard the murmur of voices.
The young man pointed to an empty chair. “You have to wait with the atmosphere. The cast is getting notes. When they break, somebody else will come to get you.”
The Kings Road “atmosphere,” aka extras, were congregated in a back corner of the sound stage, reading or chatting in hushed voices. A woman in her fifties with a sweet, pudgy face was noshing at a table loaded with bagels, muffins, fruit, and soft drinks. When she noticed me, she popped a couple of grapes in her mouth and made a beeline for my chair.
“Hi, I’m LeAnn Bradley.” Her mouth was still full of food. “You must be replacing Darlene. I told that girl not to bug Lola Scott, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“Lola sounds like a pill.”
She nodded. “Aren’t they all?”
For the next ten minutes, LeAnn regaled me with a list of every TV and film extra job she’d ever had, including some of her best scenes, which tragically had landed on the cutting room floor.
“Once I got special business on Facts of Life because I was standing next to Tootie, and they couldn’t cut me out. I still get residuals. Don’t you love the life?”
LeAnn eventually ran out of special-business tales and wandered back to the food trough. After making sure no one was watching, I maneuvered around a series of curtains. When the voices grew louder, I stopped maneuvering and started peeking.
Cover Your Assets Page 19