Emily forces a smile. “Of course, you can’t just expect to go from one man’s care to the next! You don’t want to be relying on the kindness of strangers your whole life.”
“Oh, Emily,” I say, “I didn’t know you were a Tennessee Williams fan.”
“I’m not,” she says with a smile, “I’ve never even been there.”
After an awkward moment, Quinton clears his throat and says, “Either way, you’ve got friends here, Addie; never forget that.” Emily glares at Quinton again, but we both ignore her. He’s just being helpful, after all, and right now that’s all I need or want ... or can handle.
I drive back to my apartment, half-expecting to see a bunch of police squad cars with their lights flashing, carrying an arrest warrant with my name on the charge of grand theft auto. I begin to wonder what Randolph is capable of, what actions he might take.
I trusted him too much, I realize, and I wonder if I can reverse the damage to my life and future that I may have inadvertently caused, or unwittingly allowed Randolph to cause.
Nice theories, Princess Paranoia, I chide myself. Things aren’t that bad. You got hurt, doesn’t mean anyone’s out to destroy you.
The next day, I get a closer look into what Randolph is thinking and feeling.
And planning.
As he promised, Quinton follows me up the winding hillside street Micheltorena, to that modern manse behind the locked gate. Emily insists on joining us. The cluster of square, concrete sides and big, glass windows shines like a beacon on the hill.
I park his Beamer on the street while Quinton idles behind me in his Kia Sentra, in a whole other class; a much better class, as far as I’m now concerned. I pitch the key ring over the fence. Hearing the little clanky thud, I know my payload’s been delivered. Without giving him the satisfaction of a rant, the humiliating display of any emotion, I turn and cross back toward Quinton’s car.
The sooner I get out of there, the better I know I’ll feel.
Until I hear the click of the massive wooden front gate, released from its stone wall jab; followed by his voice, instantly recognizable. I don’t need to turn around when he utters my name.
But I do.
I just stand, waiting. He’s come down, having seen my approach from On High when he could have remained safe in his sanctuary, to collect his property and let me slink away. But His Holiness, the great and majestic Ruler of the Silverlake Mountains has deemed to grace me with his presence, so surely he has some reason that I in my lowly ignorance cannot manage to guess.
Finally, he says, “Won’t you come up? Your friend can come too.”
My mind streams with thoughts; bickering voices (as usual), each with something to say and nothing to hear.
Come on up? To be tricked and manipulated again? No! Take your mansion and go to hell!
Come on up? Well, if you’d like to clear the air, I suppose that’d be good for us both.
Come on up? How do you know the person behind that wheel isn’t a paid gunman ready to finish you off and usurp your life entirely, while I stay in the shadows and reap the benefits?
I can’t believe such a thing would cross my mind. I’d never have entertained that kind of a malevolent notion before, not even in jest. Randolph really is a bad influence on me, I realize, and that’s when I decide to stand my ground and not be coaxed back into his luxurious spider’s web.
Instead, I remain standing in the street with Randolph in front of his house. If he has something to say, he’ll say it here. And he does.
“Okay, Addie, I know things didn’t look great when you came over here last time. But I’m asking you to think for a minute. Were we ever committed to each other in that way? Did I really make any promises that I wasn’t able to keep?”
“Able? She was holding a gun to your head, I suppose?”
“Willing, then,” Randolph responds. “But you have to admit, we were never exclusive, at least not specifically.”
“The hell we weren’t,” I respond, letting my voice get louder so his neighbors can hear. “You made love to me, we travelled together. I wasn’t seeing anyone else and you knew that -”
“Your choice, I never -”
“But you knew! You can’t stand here now and tell me you didn’t realize what kind of relationship we were having, no matter what was explicitly said. You might be a complete moral blank, Randolph, but you can’t possibly be that dense!”
“I’m not saying I wasn’t conflicted,” he says, his voice faster and louder. “I had ... I have real feelings for you, Addie. But ... it all was happening so fast -”
“You were seducing me!”
“Maybe it’s best if you see things that way.” He looks at me, calmer now, as if I’ve stepped over some line and put him squarely in the right.
“You don’t give a damn about how I see things!”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Addie. I helped you out ... financially. Regardless of what has happened between us personally, there are business matters that bind us together. We have to respect those boundaries -”
“Boundaries?” I can hardly believe he’s said it, even less so after I repeat that hated excuse. “You didn’t think we needed any boundaries when you were laying me down in your bed, or in your Jacuzzi, or on your backyard lawn.” With a bit more volume for extra neighborly effect, I add, “Or on your front yard lawn!”
“Y’see? This is why it’s so important to keep your business life and your personal life separate. You need balance, Addie, we all do. I never should have let myself be so charmed by you.”
“Charmed by me? You led me around like a dog on a leash!”
“How else does a dog get its master to clean up after it, without even asking -?”
My hand leaps out from my side, acting on its own. The slap is loud and echoes between the houses, seeming to ring out over the entire city. Randolph stares at me, anger and shock in his reddening face.
But I don’t wait to see it change colors yet again. My body is coursing with adrenaline and temper and energy, and I use those things to get me back into Quinton’s car. Because I know Randolph’s body is coursing with that same powerful energy, which I can already feel is a terribly destructive influence. I don’t wish to destroy Randolph, despite what he’s done to me.
And even more, I don’t want to be destroyed by him, which I’m beginning to feel is a much more likely outcome.
We drive on to our next destination, the string of new and used car lots along Brand Boulevard in Glendale, just east of Los Feliz. We look at several before Quinton allows them to run my credit. They all want to do that first thing, but he knows how many dings that can put onto a record like mine.
“My manager insists that we run her credit before we do a test-drive,” we hear from almost every salesman we meet, even those who say differently after we first approach.
Quinton’s answer is the same. “Your manager’s desires aren’t our concern. Do you think we’re going around test-driving cars without wanting to buy one? Do you think we’d go onto a car lot without the credit enough to make a deal?”
“Well, no, sir, but -”
“Then what are you and your manager insinuating?”
“Nothing at all, sir, it’s just ... a matter of policy, for insurance reasons -”
“Lie to me again and you’ll have the Better Business Bureau on your butt so fast they’ll be repaving this place next week for a new WholeFoods, get me?”
“Okay, okay, let me see what I can do, if you’ll just give me a minute.”
Funny how they all managed to get us a test-drive before running my credit and having me fill out the loan forms. Unfortunately, that might have saved us all a lot of time. My blood runs cold when the salesman returns to his desk with a scowl and a manilla folder.
“I’m sorry, but there are some issues with your credit,” the salesman says, “and your employment history, which we are unable to verify.”
Quinton and I exchange glances that tel
l the other what we both know happened; Randolph has denied ever hiring me. Nearby, Emily seems to be flirting with one of the salesmen, or else she’s letting him flirt with her. Either way, it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting a car loan today or anytime in the near future, perhaps ever.
I say, “My former boss is a bit of a jerk, but my credit is good, and I have enough for a down payment -”
“Not quite,” the salesman says. “I see that two of your cards are maxed out.”
“Two of the -? But I only have one credit card.”
“Not according to this.”
I rush home and start making some calls. The first thing I discover is that two credit cards have been taken out in my name, and that while there isn’t much credit on either card, both are maxed out with cellphone calls to Florida and other locations outside of California, some to Belgium! The second thing I check into are the buildings, to make sure that whatever identity thief has apparently struck me hasn’t somehow changed the deeds. But, like the credit cards, everything is in my name.
This makes me feel better, but not much. I call Quinton. He reassures me that identity theft happens to a lot of people, and he’s got a buddy who is just starting off on a career handling such things. He’ll put me in touch and the matter of the cards and the phone will be worked out. Quinton’s theory is that somebody in Florida has swiped my bankcard pin number from a machine (something thieves can now do with ease) and did what he could with what he could get. Judging by the cellphone, Quinton’s guess is that he’s a drug dealer.
A knock at the door startles me. I half-expect it to be Randolph, maybe ready to dish out more lame excuses about the way he’s mistreated me. Maybe he wants me back, I think to myself on the way to the door. Ha! Fat chance! Then I think it might be Emily, with a growing sense of jealousy and protectiveness over Quinton, who is acting as my de facto legal advisor.
But when I close one eye and press the other up against the peephole in the door, my blood runs cold and my heart skips a beat.
Two uniformed police officers stand on the other side of my front door, and they do not look happy. I open the door and stand there, innocently and honestly confused.
“Addison Danielle Compo?” one of them asks.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“We have a warrant for your arrest.”
Another beat skipped, my heart goes right to frantic pounding. “Arrest? For what, on what charges?”
“Distribution, trafficking and manufacturing of a controlled substance.”
“Controlled substance?”
“Heroin,” the other officer says as he turns me around and pulls my hands behind my back. The cuffs are cold, hard metal as he bangs one lightly against my wrist and it locks tight.
“But those are just the charges we’re bringing you in for,” the other officer says. “The feds have their own list.”
“The feds?!”
“That’s right. Until then, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law ... ”
CHAPTER SEVEN
They process me at the local police station, Rampart Division, and I can hardly stay on my feet throughout the ordeal. I’m put on bench after bench, stand in line after line; being photographed, fingerprinted, thrown into a holding cell filled with female gang members, crack addicts and prostitutes. The smell of the cage is beyond my ability to describe, except to say that the smell of urine, body odor and stale perfume is persistent at the very least.
I’m finally allowed to make a call; and it’s to Quinton, of course. He’s as close to a lawyer as I’ve got. Unfortunately, Emily answers the phone and she picks this moment to say how sick and tired she is of me trying to steal her man (which I never tried to do and explain as such with increasing desperation). Before slamming the phone down, Emily expresses her fondest wish that I should rot in hell, where she strongly feels I belong.
And they only give a person one phone call. Finally, they pull me in and sit me down and take my statement.
“I want my lawyer,” I say. “Quinton James, his number is in my phone.”
A plainclothes police detective whose desk nameplate reads Charles Vincent offers me a reassuring smile. “He’s already contacted us, Miss Compo.” Thank God, I hear myself silently exclaim, she told Quinton and he’s coming for me after all! Detective Vincent goes on to say, “And you do have a right for an attorney to be present at all times. If you’d rather wait, we can make you comfortable here for some time until we can get a proper meeting arranged. Or you can justtell us what you know and maybe we can get this whole thing sorted out. I wouldn’t take you for an international drug kingpin, Miss Compo. Won’t you trust me enough to help me straighten all this out as quickly as possible? Surely, it’s some kind of mistake, right?”
“Yes, exactly, it is a mistake.”
“Okay then, why not cooperate and we’ll all work together to get you out of here and back home where you belong, eh?”
I give it a little thought. This guy must be playing Good Cop, I tell myself. Well, better that than have to sit here while somebody plays Bad Cop and screams at me that I’m going to be passed around the federal prison like currency.
I don’t like the idea of saying anything without a lawyer around, but I like the idea of spending another forty-eight hours here even less. And I truly am innocent, which I feel will definitely rise to the surface. I’m confident that justice will prevail. So I nod and he leans back, eyes glancing at my file on the desk.
“You’ve been quite a busy woman over the p ast year or so, Miss Compo; two properties, one an apartment building, even have a limited liability corporation. Impressive for a woman your age. How did you manage the financing?”
“My former boss, Randolph -”
“-MacLeish, indeed. We’ll be speaking to him in greater detail. How long have you known Mr. MacLeish?”
“Not long, about nine months. He wanted to help me get into my first few properties.”
“And that’s all he wanted?”
“I don’t see how our private affairs are any of your concern.”
He looks back down at the manilla folder in his hand. “I see.”
Around us, telephones ring, conversations are muttered and mumbled, coffee cups clink against desks, fingers tap on computer keyboards. It’s getting harder to concentrate, but I know this is no time to let my mind wander.
Oh no, my little internal skeptic says, you’ll have thirty years to life to do all the daydreaming you like!
Stop it, please! I beg myself. Not now!
“Look, I don’t know anything about any heroin,” I say. “I just don’t see what this has to do with me!”
“The property in your name, in Atwater Village; the D.E.A. busted it out this week. It’s one of the single biggest distribution centers of heroin in the city.”
“Distribution center? It’s just apartments -”
“Over five hundred pounds when the bust went down, half-a-million in cash, four semiautomatic machine rifles, armor-piercing bullets -”
“I don’t have anything to do with that. I don’t know a thing about it, this is the first I’m hearing of any of this!”
“You just bought the building,” the detective says, “how should you know what’s going on inside and around it? You don’t live there.”
“That’s right, I don’t.”
“And nobody ever complained to you about it, neighbors or tenants.”
“No.”
Now he leans forward, toward me on the other sideof his desk. “Well, of course not; since your tenants are all part of the organization, and your neighbors represent a good part of your customer base.”
“For whatever reason, I don’t know anything about it!”
“And I’m inclined to believe you, Miss Compo, I really am. Believe me, I’ve seen drug lords, and you just don’t fit the bill.”
“Um, well, thank you ... and there’s no reason I should!”
/> “Of course, that could be the very heart of your M.O. Who’d suspect a pretty, pleasant young woman from Colorado? It’s the perfect front.”
“It’s not a front,” I say, becoming more and more offended and, as I’m sure the detective is planning, more and more upset. “I don’t think I want to say anymore without a lawyer.”
“Just a few more things to clear up, Miss Compo, you could be out of here within just a couple of hours.” After a frustrating few more seconds, he smiles and goes on to say, “What about this property in Ft. Lauderdale?”
“What about it? I bought it, also with Mr. MacLeish’s help. It’s just an income property -”
“It is not just an income property, Miss Compo,” the detective says, the snap of his voice reflecting as much anger and upset as my own. “In fact, it is a depository for the heroin after being smuggled in by boat, probably after being processed in Brussels with raw ingredients from Afghanistan. The smack is then smuggled across the country in moving trucks and delivered, by an amazing coincidence, to your property here in Los Angeles; with both properties in your name. Then there is the matter of the cellphone charges; the number is in your name, and the calls go directly to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, Brussels, Belgium, and other places relevant to this investigation. How would you like to explain that?”
I scramble to put it all together, to solve the crime as an amateur in five seconds when this dedicated public servant can’t seem to do it at all. Unless ...
“What about Randolph MacLeish? He helped me get into both buildings, he must have something to do with it.”
“Your name’s on everything, Miss Compo, his name isn’t anywhere near anything incriminating.”
My heart is pounding as I review the images from the past year; his casual notice of that house in Florida; the entire trip may well have been a rouse so that we’d drive by it quite accidentally. He set up the L.L.C., it was his idea, and now I know why. That charmer, I realize, all that help and care and even our ... oh no! He seduced me, tricked me, set me up as a front for some drug smuggling operation.
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