I had just popped the last bite of my burger into my mouth when I remembered that the reason I had come here was to try and leave with a chunk of uneaten hamburger. Dang. I could always order another, but I wasn’t hungry enough for another. Well, I guess it means I’ll just have to come back again sometime. Now that I have a little cash in the bank, from my last case, I might find myself eating out more often.
Carole Lombard commented on that one, but I won’t repeat it.
On the way out I was, as I always am, treated to a friendly “Have a Heavenly day” by the smiling security guard at the door. For all her dimples, legs and journalistic zeal, Louie Sandoval must be misguided; no place this friendly and cheerful could be engaged in shady activity.
Given that this particular Burger Heaven was within a few blocks of my apartment, it would have made sense for me to simply go on home, but I had left the lights on in my office, and it was only the middle of the afternoon anyway.
Even though I no longer had to worry about the DWP turning my lights off for me (at least for the next three or four months) there was no sense being wasteful, even if gas was perilously close to three bucks a gallon again, and the drive back to Sherman Oaks would probably drink up a half-dollar, minimum.
Three dollars…a GALLON? the voice of Jack Benny cried inside my head. My CAR didn’t cost that much!
Yeah, well, times change, Jack.
When I drove back past the ingredient parade in front of the newly-opened Burger Heaven, I noticed that Louie was no longer there. Maybe she was in the bathroom. Even tomatoes have to squeeze out a little juice now and then.
I was sure after I’d closed up shop and was headed back home I would see her again, on the sidewalk gleefully shilling in customers alongside someone who had played Hamlet at their college to rave reviews, but was now searching for his motivation as a sesame seed bun.
Outside of my office building was a For Lease sign, which I knew to be relating to the double-suite space on the first floor that had once housed a porn movie operation, but was now sitting empty. Upon entering my very-well-lit office, the first thing I did, as always, was to check the answering machine on my desk to see if there was a blue flashing light indicating that a call had come in.
There wasn’t, so I sat down and powered up my laptop, then went onto the Webfilms site to see if there were any new movies to download, or, more accurately, whether there were any old movies that were newly being offered for download.
People sometimes ask me how I can be such a fanatic over Golden Age Hollywood when at my age I should really be a fanatic of video games or role-playing endeavors. The truth is my father is to blame, though I hardly consider it blame. He is not simply a film buff but a genuine authority who has written scads of articles in magazines, mostly the ones catering to the hard-core movie freak. He is also a lawyer, but unlike my uneasy years at the bar, he is successful at it.
More importantly to me, he never told me that my preference for watching old movies over throwing around a baseball was not normal. I had to find that out on my own, in school. As a result, while Sammy Sosa and Barry Bonds are just names I’ve heard somewhere, Cuddles Sakall and Mischa Auer are old friends.
I was only a few minutes into a post-war gangbuster epic titled The Street with No Name, which featured a personal endorsement from J. Edgar Hoover himself, when my stomach became very unhappy. It wasn’t the Twin Halo, which was lying easy with the tide; it was the sudden realization that something was wrong.
It was the phone machine.
Even though the blue call-indicator was not flashing, there was a digital “1” on the screen indicating that I had an old message. Except I shouldn’t have an old message because earlier today I had cleared two overnight messages, which were nothing but misdirected fax tones. There were no old calls remaining, I was sure of that. Since no calls had come in while I’d been here in the office, there was only one other possibility: someone had phoned while I was out at the Burger Heaven. But were that the case, the blue light would be flashing.
That left only one possibility: somebody had called and left a message, and someone else had listened to it while I wasn’t here, relegating it to “old message” status.
Which meant somebody had broken into my office while I was gone.
Had it been the landlord? I couldn’t imagine why, since I’d actually paid my rent three months in advance last week. Even if he had come in, I doubt he would have listened in on my phone messages.
Then I noticed the picture on the wall.
It was a painting of a moody, rainy street scene that I’d picked up at a thrift shop. An appraiser would probably judge it the fine art equivalent of an Ed Wood, Jr. movie, but I liked it. Staring at it, I could imagine myself in a trench coat and fedora, cigarette in hand, walking down that wet street.
You don’t smoke, kid, Bogie reminded me, you’re allergic.
Details.
But something was wrong with the picture, and it took another couple seconds before I figured it out. Up until now that picture had been hanging at a slight angle. It was one of those things that I had intended to fix for a long time but never did, meaning I had not only become used to its tilt, I appreciated it for aesthetic purposes, like a “dutch” camera angle in a film.
But now the painting was perfectly straight. As I approached the picture, I tried to figure out why somebody would mess with it in the first place. Did they think I had a safe hidden behind it, like in the movies?
Taking the picture frame with both hands, I turned it back to its usual angle and heard a scratching sound, like something was abrading the wall. Lifting the frame off its hook, I turned it over and saw a tiny black box affixed to the backing. While I’m certainly no expert on high-tech spy gear, I can recognize a bug when I see one.
So while I was out enjoying a hamburger, someone had entered my office, listened to a phone message, and planted a bug. I’m sure if I looked around more I would find even more evidence of their presence. But what were they looking for?
And who were “they” in the first place?
Amateurs, obviously, said New Jersey-flavored voice that I recognized it immediately as belonging to Sheldon Leonard.
All right, Sheldon, I’ll bite: why amateurs?
It came to me a second later, prompting Sheldon and I to answer in unison: Because a pro would have noticed the picture was askew and re-hung it that way. Actually, Sheldon had said dat way, but I knew what we meant.
I peeled the device off of the backing, where it had been attached with a strip of medical adhesive tape, and fumbled with it until the back popped off. Inside was a SIM card like the one my cell phone used, so I presumed that removing it would deactivate the bug.
I knew I should call the police and report this, but there was one problem: I had no actual verifiable proof that someone had broken in. Sure, I was holding a bug, but I’m a private investigator, so it would be perfectly logical for me to have such equipment lying around. It would only be my word that I’d discovered it, having been planted by someone else.
And as for the phone message clue, it was my word against my phone’s, and given my past experience with the police, they would be more likely to believe my phone.
Speaking of my phone, I realized I had not yet listened to the message. While I doubted it would reveal a voice saying something like, “Oh, hi, I broke into your office earlier and planted a listening device, and now my keys are missing, so could you look around for them and call me back?” it might reveal something.
Stepping to my desk I jabbed the playback and was told the call came in at 2:47 p.m., which was maybe ten minutes after I’d left.
David, it’s J.D., a familiar voice said from the box. You are out ridding the streets of miscreants, I imagine, or else looking through the sale DVD bin at Best Buy. In any event, when you return, call me. Cheers.
Whil
e “J.D.” sounded like an old time Hollywood studio executive, it was short for Jack Daniels—yes, that’s his real name—a friend of mine who was a mystery writer. He wrote under a pseudonym, one you would immediately recognize if you’ve browsed through an airport newsstand in recent years, but off the page he was always Jack, or else “J.D.”
A Brit by birth, Jack lived in Santa Monica, Raymond Chandler’s “Bay City” and currently home to a large English émigré population, and he called every so often to grill me about investigative procedure for one of his stories. I in turn called upon him during my last case and asked him to use his writers’ imagination on an overabundance of facts, leads and clues that I could not conform into one solitary picture.
So it was his turn.
I dialed his number back and when he answered, said: “Jack, it’s Dave Beauchamp.”
“David, m’lad!”
He sounded soberish, so I went on. “Are you in need of someone to help you spend all that cash you’re making again?”
“Oh, yes, right!” he laughed. “These days most publishers think an advance check is a chess move. No, I called with a question. You have a second?”
I knew this was going to take longer than a second, but said yes anyway.
“You have a mobile phone, right?” Jack asked.
“A cell phone? Sure. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t.”
“Right, so here’s my problem. I need to get Tory into a situation where he’s abducted and he has to stay locked up for a big chunk of the book.”
Tory Poacher was Jack’s series character.
“But these days, like you say, everybody has a mobile. Anyone who’s trapped somewhere can simply call for help, or text for help, or go online and Facebook for help. So I have to get the phone away from him.”
“Well, have whoever’s abducting him take the phone away.”
“Cliché, my boy. In the old days, the bad guys always took the detective’s gun. These days they take the phone. I’m looking for something different.”
“How about he drops it somewhere and can’t reach it?”
“How many movies have you seen where the good guy loses his gun during a chase, while the bad guy retains his? All you’re doing is substituting a phone.”
“Hmmm. Well, then, there’s no service available where he’s being held. That’s endemic to a phone.”
“Yeah, but the bad guys are there too, and they have to call people, so there has to be service.”
“I never realized what a difficult job you have, Jack,” I said.
“I’ll tell you David, the ubiquity of mobile phones is the worst thing that’s ever happened to the plotting of a mystery. Even if you can figure out how to get rid of the damn things, it has to be for a logical reason or else you get a thousand-word two-star Amazon review explaining how a real person in the real world would have gotten around that problem. I think that’s why so many TV crime shows these days are done with period settings.”
“I suppose having the battery run out is too convenient.”
“Oh, come on. Have you ever run out of juice while working a case?”
I almost hated to confess that yes, I had. I had forgotten to charge my phone so when I needed it the next day, it was dead.
“Crikey,” Jack said, after hearing my confession, “you should get two.”
“Two phones?”
“Yes, so while you’re carrying one, the other’s always charging, and…oh, bollocks! I’ve just made my problem twice as bad, haven’t I?”
“Only if you’ve already established that Tory Poacher has two phones precisely for that reason.”
“I haven’t, but it’s such a good idea that I’ve got to do it at the end of this book, after he’s gotten out, just so he can make certain this never happens again. I’m dying, David, naked to mine enemies. Please help. Is there never really a time when you don’t carry your mobile phone?”
“When I’m in the shower or in bed.”
“No good. He’s accosted in a crowded movie theatre.”
“A movie theatre?”
“His client is a big director and Tory’s been invited to a screening of a movie the guy’s made because the director is anticipating trouble from one of the producers, and don’t bother telling me that you have to power down the mobile once inside the theatre, because I know that. You can always power it back up later, so he still has the damn thing.”
“Jack, is this a pre-release screening?”
“Yes, like a sneak preview, but with a lot of people in attendance. You know how much I like the idea of somebody disappearing from a crowd.”
“Then you’ve solved your own problem, Jack.”
“How so?”
“Have you ever been to a sneak preview?”
“Only movies made from my own books, though the last one was quite some time back. Why do you ask?”
“Because if you go to a screening or preview today, you can’t take in your phone or any other device that could record what’s shown on the screen. The studio’s are paranoid about film piracy, so if you’re packing, so to speak, they literally confiscate your phone and put it in a little plastic bag and hold it until—”
“That’s brilliant!” Jack shouted. “Tory goes to the screening, has to surrender his phone, and is abducted before he can get it back! Then it becomes a question of who has it! David, my boy, J.D. owes you a lunch, with gratitude.”
“I’ll take it. But in the meantime, I have a return question for you.”
“Make it quick. Now that I’m back on track, I have to get typing.”
Oh, I do hope I’m not inconveniencing you, the mordant voice of Vincent Price said in my head.
“Jack, someone broke into my office today and planted a bug.”
“A bug? Who’d want to spy on you?”
A thought bulleted through my mind: it might be someone from the legal dream team defending a certain killer I had brought to justice, who had threatened to crucify me in court when the trial finally occurred. But if so, they would probably have been more professional about it.
I didn’t wish to tell Jack any of this.
“I’ve no idea,” I said instead. “What would Tory Poacher do?”
“Well, Tory would look out the window, see a strange van with tinted windows, deduce that’s where the listener is, and run down to the street to confront it, only to have the van speed away from the curb, leaving Tory in a cloud of exhaust, which serves to obscure his view of the rear license plate. But then he would look down and find something, like an Irish Sweepstakes ticket from 1957, lying on the ground where the van had been.”
“What’s the Irish Sweepstakes got to do with it?”
“I haven’t the foggiest. I’m making all this up. It’s what I do.”
“Look, at least tell me how I can trace this device. Maybe where it was bought. I know there are commercial spy shops in town, so could I go in and ask who purchased one of these?”
He laughed.
“David, this is L.A. Not only are there commercial spy shops in town, there are so many of them that you might as well go into a Whole Foods market and ask who bought the organic eggplant. These days, you probably don’t even have to go into a spy shop, just go to one of those sex stores and find microphones and perv cameras on the same aisle as the handcuffs. Or go online and get your spy gear delivered by a drone, thank you Mr. Bezos. I think you’re looking at a dead end.”
“Yeah, well, at least I know where to buy handcuffs now.”
“That’s so twentieth century,” Jack said, laughing. “These days the cops are likely to use nylon cable ties instead of bracelets.”
“Nothing is the way it used to be, is it?”
“Only rejection. That is the one fixed point in a changing world. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the voice of my muse is scr
eaming in my head. I have to get back to work.”
You’re lucky, I thought. You have only one voice. I have dozens.
“I’ll let you know about lunch,” he said, and then hung up.
“Great,” I said to the dead line, and replaced the receiver. Since my window didn’t face the street, I didn’t bother to get up and go look for a van, but I still did not know what to do with the bug. Stomping it to bits didn’t seem like a good idea, since it was possible the thing could still bear a clue as to its planter, but just sticking it in my desk drawer wasn’t a good idea, either, since I only assumed I had deactivated it by removing the card.
Now would be an outstanding time for one of my friends to chime in and give me a suggestion. Bogie? Any ideas? Mitch? Basil Rathbone? Lloyd Nolan? George Sanders? Heck, Johnny Weissmuller? Anyone?
While I didn’t hear Johnny’s voice, which would likely have consisted of little more than “Me, Tarzan; you, stupid,” it was simply thinking of the former Olympic swimming champion that gave me the solution. Swimming…water…tank of water.
Going to the small kitchenette that came with the office, I grabbed a food storage bag, the kind with the zipper closer, from the cupboard and put the bug and SIM card into it. Then I took my only two spoons and put them in as well (I’d bring some more from home). When I was done I squeezed out all the air I could and zipped it shut, and took it to the equally small bathroom that came with the office, took the lid off the toilet tank and dropped in the baggie. If the thing was still working, whoever was listening would be getting some mighty interesting sounds.
There was little left for me to do but lock up and head home, because in my experience, nobody contacts private investigators after four in the afternoon.
It was another successful day at Beauchamp Investigations.
After powering down my laptop, I closed up and headed out.
Driving down Ventura toward my apartment, I fought down an urge to stop at the brand-new Burger Heaven, not because I was hungry already, but just to see Louie and tell her how I was progressing on the case.
But’cha aren’t Dave, ya aren’t! Bette Davis was nice enough to point out.
Eats to Die For! Page 2