by Sean Black
The usual place was a small, beaten-up wood-framed house on two acres near Mulholland Drive in the Hollywood Hills, a short distance from the 101 freeway. It had belonged to Krank’s grandfather, who had left it to him as part of a trust. It came with the condition that it could not be sold for at least thirty years after transfer. As far as Krank was concerned, it was a classic move that typified his relationship with his family. Leave him something that was worth enough money to change his life, but make sure that he couldn’t actually use it to do that. Turn a windfall into a millstone. Yeah, that was his family, all right.
Using it like this was Krank’s way of subverting his grandpa’s wishes. You want me to keep the house? Okay, Pops. I will. But I’ll make sure that by the time I’m done no one will ever want to live there.
As a place to bring people like the girl, it was perfect: tucked in close to the freeway, with easy access to the Sunset Strip, but still secluded; plenty of room out the rear that didn’t back onto any other homes. Krank had added extra height to the wall at the front and put in electric gates but those were the only changes he’d made.
He hit the clicker, and the BMW slid through, then up the winding, weed-infested driveway. He parked in back. The others were already there. The Honda was at an angle, and the white van was tucked in tight next to the external steps that led down into the barn his grandfather had used to store his collection of classic cars.
Krank crossed to the main house. The door that led into the kitchen was open. MG was there, head over the sink, dousing his eyes with water. Krank pulled open the refrigerator door and took out a carton of milk. ‘Water just makes it worse. Use this.’
He had to place the carton in MG’s hand. He’d be amazed if he didn’t have to wipe the kid’s ass some day. He wondered why he bothered. Then he reminded himself that he had been like MG. It was just that he was further ahead on his journey than the kid.
‘Thanks,’ MG said, cupping some milk in hands that still trembled from the adrenalin dump of his screwed-up abduction. He splashed his eyes, which were like red slits that had been carved into his face.
Krank had to hand it to her: she’d got MG good. It was something he would use later with MG as a teachable moment. Showing mercy, hesitating in the fight, could only end badly for everyone. Now what would have been a quick death had been prolonged.
He leaned against the kitchen island, with its knife block and red granite top, and watched MG get cleaned up. Finally, he said: ‘You ready?’
MG looked at him, or as best he could with his eyes like that. ‘I don’t know.’
Krank advanced on him. He reached across and tapped MG’s left temple with his knuckle. ‘You’re thinking too much. Thinking time’s over.’ He dug out a Nietzsche quote he’d used before in this kind of situation. ‘“When faced by unpleasant consequences, one is too ready to abandon the proper standpoint from which an action ought to be considered.”’
MG ran a hand through his dense mop of hair and gave a little nod. Krank slapped him on the back. ‘First one’s the hardest. It gets easier after that.’
PART TWO
7
Even though he wasn’t a father, Ryan Lock understood the power of children to change people. Some of the biggest idiots he’d met ‒ and, in his line of work, he’d met plenty ‒ could often set aside their own self-obsession and egomania, albeit temporarily, when they became parents. Around their children, they were different people. Sometimes for the better, other times for the worse.
Becoming a parent increased your surface area, and made you more vulnerable. A child’s pain was yours. Its failings tracked back in many parents’ minds to some failure on their part. Was there something you could have done differently? Had you been too harsh when a softer approach would have worked better? Had you been too soft when a little discipline was needed?
There were no easy answers. People did their best. It was just that sometimes their best wasn’t enough. Tarian Griffiths was just a mom trying to do her best. When the dust settled, and the body count had been tallied, that fact would be lost. But it was the truth.
Ryan Lock handed the keys of his new car, a custom up-armored, metallic grey Audi S6, to the valet parking attendant standing outside Café Del Rey. Along with the keys he also palmed the man his usual hefty gratuity, along with the instructions that went with the cash: ‘Keep my car up front, parked facing out and ready to go.’
The valet accepted the cash with a smile. ‘Certainly, sir.’
Lock walked into the restaurant that looked out over the marina. It was early evening on a Tuesday. The place was quiet. This was a meeting he had agreed to with reluctance. From the initial conversation it had sounded a lot like babysitting. Not that a babysitting gig was unusual, far from it. Much of the time bodyguarding could be described as babysitting, but with guns.
Over his years working high-end private security, Ryan Lock had realized that it was a hell of a lot easier to save someone from an external threat than from themselves. Stalkers, kidnappers, blackmailers could all be dealt with. Headed off. Arrested. Scared. If it came down to the wire, and they presented a clear and present danger to life, they could be killed. But a principal who was determined to screw up their life? Or to place themselves in a bad situation? That was a whole other deal.
The challenge of the job was managing the individual you were charged with protecting, your principal, whether they be a politician who liked to plunge into the crowd or a rock star with a taste for the low-life. Then you had to factor in the wishes of the client ‒ the person or organization who was picking up the tab.
At the restaurant reservations desk, Lock informed the hostess whom he was there to meet. She led him toward a table at the front of the long dining room that looked out over the boats in the marina. Tarian Griffiths was already seated, a glass of mineral water on the table in front of her. She tapped away at the screen of her iPhone with perfectly manicured fingers.
‘Ms Griffiths,’ said Lock, waving away the offer of a menu. ‘No, thank you,’ he said to the hostess. ‘Just some water, please.’
Tarian Griffiths didn’t get up but she did extend her hand. Lock shook it. With auburn hair, bright blue eyes, high cheekbones and a perfect smile, Tarian had been a successful soap actress back in New York, before she had met and married wealthy tech entrepreneur Peter Blake. They’d had one son together, Marcus, before divorcing a few years later. Peter Blake must have fallen hard because he’d married Tarian without a pre-nuptial agreement.
She had married again a few years ago, a fellow multi-millionaire she had met via her charity work. Teddy Griffiths came from Texas oil money, and to keep her happy he had re-located to LA, where she had continued to pursue her acting career, with mixed success. They’d had two children together ‒ a boy and a girl, both under ten ‒ and were a regular feature on the LA philanthropy circuit. But she was there to talk to Lock about Marcus.
When Lock had spoken to her the previous day, she had been deliberately vague about the specific problem. All he knew was that twenty-year-old Marcus Griffiths was having problems, and his mom didn’t want to go to the cops. If he’d had to guess, he’d have put his money on drugs. Maybe money owed to someone heavy, or a blackmail attempt that she wanted him to shut down.
Lock sat across from her. Outside on the dock an elderly guy was parking a sky blue Maserati next to one of the half-dozen wooden docks.
‘Thank you for seeing me, Mr Lock,’ said Tarian. She made strong eye contact. He understood why men fell for her. Not only was she beautiful but there seemed to be a real person there too, beneath the sheen of glamor.
With all that said, this wasn’t a date and Lock wanted to get down to business. ‘How can I help you?’
‘It’s my son, Marcus. He’s going through a difficult time at the moment, and . . .’ She sighed. ‘Well, I’m sure you know what kids are like when it comes to talking to their parents. I need someone to keep an eye on him for me.’
Lock flattened his hands palm down on the bright white linen tablecloth as a waiter brought his water. ‘Okay, first things first. Is there something specific you’re concerned about? Do you believe your son is being threatened by someone? Is he involved with drugs? Has he fallen in with a bad crowd? All easily done in this town.’
She swallowed hard. ‘No, nothing like that. No one is threatening him that I know of, and I very much doubt he’d be involved with drugs. It’s difficult to explain. He’s living on his own here in the Marina, and I’m just worried about him.’
Lock decided to change tack. Clearly something was wrong but she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, articulate it. When he first met a client it was often the case that they didn’t want to say flat out what the problem actually was. Some kind of trust had to be established first. ‘Okay. When you say keep an eye on him, are you thinking surveillance or security?’
She gave him a puzzled look. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well,’ Lock said, ‘do you need someone to track him without him knowing? That kind of keeping an eye on? Or do you think he needs someone with him, offering close protection? Because if it’s the former, you’d save a lot of money just using a regular private detective rather than myself or my partner.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, yes, I see. No, the latter. I want you to provide security. Be his bodyguard.’
They were finally getting somewhere. ‘And he needs a bodyguard, because . . .’ prompted Lock.
‘I can more than afford to pay your fee, Mr Lock,’ said Tarian.
Lock didn’t doubt it. ‘I’m sure you can. But that wasn’t what I was asking you. Why does your son need protection?’
‘I don’t know that he does,’ she said.
In future, for meetings like this, Lock was going to ask potential clients for money up front – some kind of consultation fee to offset time wasted. He took a breath. ‘Mrs Griffiths, if Marcus is caught up in something that you might not be comfortable telling, say, law enforcement, well, I’m not law enforcement so it goes no further. If he’s being blackmailed, and you don’t want information to become public—’
‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ she said, and lapsed back into silence.
Lock didn’t say anything for a good ten seconds. After that, he started to get up. She motioned for him to sit down.She was struggling with this. Perfect white teeth bit down on a plump lower lip. ‘I’m concerned that my son is either going to hurt himself or someone else.’
Lock wanted to be clear on what she was saying. ‘By hurt you mean physically harm?’
Tarian looked away. ‘Yes.’
8
Sunlight sparkled on the water as Lock strolled with Tarian Griffiths by his side. He had suggested they take a walk for two reasons. First, there would be less chance of their conversation being overheard, and second, walking made conversations like this easier. There was something about physical activity that helped people unburden themselves. And while Tarian Griffiths had what seemed like the perfect life, the reality was different. In Lock’s experience, it usually was.
According to Tarian, even though Marcus had been barely five when she had left his father, he had never recovered from his parents’ split. He was a quiet child, introverted, and had found it difficult to make friends. Later, when his behavior had become more difficult a psychologist had diagnosed Asperger’s, but Teddy Griffiths had flown into a rage at the very idea. He was old school. Didn’t believe in putting labels on kids. He definitely didn’t want people thinking his stepson was some kind of a (his words) ‘loony tune’.
For her part, Tarian had hoped that her first-born son was simply a late developer. That he would find his feet and place in the world at college. He was bright and attended the University of Southern California. But barely three months after starting in the fall, he had dropped out and moved to a place in Marina Del Rey. No amount of coaxing from Tarian or bluster from Teddy would get him to go back to college. His biological father, Peter, blamed Tarian.
A breeze picked up from the Pacific, sweeping Tarian’s long auburn hair back over her face. ‘So,’ Lock asked, ‘why don’t you speak to a mental-health professional?’
‘Marcus flips out if I even mention the idea. I thought that perhaps this way I’d have someone close to him who could keep an eye without any of that stigma. And, if I’m honest, I don’t think it would hurt to have a male role model around him who isn’t constantly telling him he’s a failure.’
‘You think that’s how Marcus will see it? Or do you think he’ll believe you’re interfering?’
‘He won’t think I’m interfering if there’s a reason for us to have called in private security.’
‘But there’s not,’ said Lock, not liking where this was going.
Tarian stopped and stared out across the marina to the ocean beyond. ‘A white lie, Mr Lock. And, given the unusual circumstances, I’d be happy to pay double your usual fee. If you can get Marcus back on track, perhaps even re-enrolled at USC, I’ll pay you an additional fifty thousand dollars.’
‘Fifty thousand dollars?’ Lock said, not entirely sure he’d heard her correctly.
‘If that’s too small an amount . . . I’d have to talk to Teddy, but I’m sure that I can—’
Lock cut her off: ‘First, let me talk to my business partner. If we think we can help, we will. But I don’t want to take your money without a good reason.’
Something approaching a smirk flashed across her face. ‘Well, Mr Lock, for someone like me, that’d be a first.’
9
Sitting in traffic on Ocean Avenue, Lock called Tyrone ‘Ty’ Johnson. They had crossed paths while serving in the military, and quickly established an unlikely friendship that had turned into a lucrative high-end private security business after they had both moved to civilian life. Lock took Ty briefly through his meeting with Tarian Griffiths, getting no great response until he reached her offer. Ty cleared his throat. ‘Double our usual fee? What’s there to think about, brother?’
‘The money’s good, but it hardly qualifies as a job. I mean, what are we gonna be doing apart from making sure he eats his Wheaties and wipes his ass? That’s the beauty of it, know what I’m saying? And the mom’s smoking hot too, Ryan. I Googled her. Goddamn, that’s one good-looking woman.’
Lock flipped on his turn signal to take the Channel Road down to Pacific Coast Highway. He was heading back to the condo he was renting in Pacific Palisades. ‘Number one, she’s married. Number two, clients are off limits.’
‘Just saying. Listen, I’m driving up from Long Beach in the morning. Don’t turn it down before I get there.’
‘I wasn’t planning on it,’ said Lock, as the lights flipped and he joined the jostle of beach traffic and people heading back to the Valley from jobs on the West Side; the ocean shimmered to darkness on his left as the sun crashed hard into the Pacific Ocean.
As he pulled into a parking spot outside his condo, Lock’s cell phone rang. It was one of the ex-cops he’d tasked with checking out Marcus. He listened to what the guy had to say, asked a few questions and killed the call. If he’d been curious before, now he was worried.
He ditched his plan to head back to his condo, switched lanes, then headed through the McClure Tunnel and onto the 10 freeway, heading for the main campus of the University of Southern California near Westwood.
10
Next morning, Lock took a seat on the hotel terrace where he had agreed to meet Tarian. It was a table in the far corner. His seat backed onto a wall and gave him a view not only of his fellow guests but the deep stretch of beach. Unfeasibly tanned and healthy-looking folks biked or rollerbladed past on the concrete path. Further down, a group of young men who looked like they’d stepped off the cover of GQ magazine were getting ready to play beach volleyball.
Lock glanced at the file he’d begun to assemble on Marcus Griffiths, then up at the perfect blue sky. Everywhere he looked all he could see were beautiful people busy being beautiful. He had
a sense of why this young man might have felt he didn’t fit.
Ty strode toward Lock’s table, pulled out a seat and sat down. Boot-cut jeans, a grey-marled T-shirt that revealed tree-trunk arms, and Oakley sunglasses that only a six-foot-five-inch African-American Marine could pull off without looking like he was trying too hard.
The two men fist-bumped as a waiter appeared. ‘Ice water’s fine,’ said Ty, his elbows resting on the table. He glared at Lock from behind his Oakleys. ‘Trying to e-con-o-mize.’
The waiter left them to it. ‘You need a loan, Tyrone?’ said Lock.
‘No need of a loan when we got a primo gig ahead of us. Right?’
Lock slid the file over the table to his partner. Ty took off his sunglasses, opened the folder and began to flick through the pages.
‘This is an upscale place, so try to read without moving your lips,’ said Lock.
Ty flipped him off by way of reply.
‘How’s Malik?’ Lock asked. Malik was the friend Ty had been visiting with in Long Beach.
‘About how you’d expect a man to be after what went down,’ said Ty, flipping to a fresh page.Malik’s family had been killed after Malik had uncovered a case of serial child sex abuse at the college where he worked as basketball coach in Minnesota. Ty and Lock had come to his aid, but too late to save Malik’s wife and kids.
‘He knows he can call me anytime,’ said Lock.
Ty gave a curt nod. ‘I told him. He appreciates it.’ He paused as he flipped another page. ‘How you doing?’ He shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Y’know, being here.’
‘I’m okay.’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Ty, as he got to the section of the hastily assembled file where things got interesting. The letterhead read: ‘County Court of Los Angeles’.