Damage Control: A Novel

by Denise Hamilton

  We were on the 405 now, instinct sending Luke hurtling home to Villa Marbella. In the dead of night, cars shot past leaving liquid traces in the air.

  Miranda and Henry were in Washington, D.C., for some kind of political fund-raiser, which at the beginning of the evening had seemed like a lucky break for us. Now I just wanted to climb upstairs, crawl between the covers, and forget this night had ever happened.

  “Maybe we should ask Anabelle what she wants to do in the morning?” I said.

  My voice rose in Valley Girl lilt, turning the statement into a question, hoping he’d disagree. Because even then, I wasn’t strong enough to defy Anabelle’s wishes by myself.

  But I need to say this too: I was a coward.

  “You sure?” Luke’s voice radiated concern. And something else. A tinge of relief, perhaps? He was the one who’d brought us here. He was Anabelle’s older brother. He should have been looking out for us.

  I watched Luke’s face in the rearview, the moon and headlights glinting off the white teeth in that tanned face, his eyes tense and uneasy, glancing from me to his sister to the road and back again. Trying to decide. Gauging me, what kind of a witness I’d make, if it came to that. And whether to tell his parents.

  Slowly, I nodded. “I think this should be her call.”

  “Okay.” Luke let out a long breath. He turned to look at Anabelle, whose head lolled back against the seat, eyes closed.

  “It’s my fault, more than anyone’s,” he said, his voice wavering.

  “It’s not any of our faults,” I said mechanically.

  But I breathed with selfish relief that he didn’t hate me or blame me after all. Then something struck me.

  “Luke, if Anabelle was snorting coke at that party, wouldn’t it have counteracted the roofies? Why’s she still so out of it when I’m okay?”

  Luke’s upper lip twitched.

  “That wasn’t coke. It was heroin.”

  18

  At our morning meeting, Fletch slunk into Faraday’s office. He looked pasty and rat-bit, like he’d been up all night and had slept under his desk.

  He said, “You wanted to find Jake Slattery.”

  Faraday stood half out of his seat. “You got him?”

  Fletch looked down, unable to bear the eye contact, much less scrutiny from three pairs at once.

  “I got something,” he mumbled, opening his laptop. “Lot G. Long-Term Parking, LAX.”

  I felt the familiar tingle up the back of my neck at the mention of LAX. Anabelle was lying in the culvert, shaking, as the jet passed within feet of her prone body. So many booby-trapped places.

  “What?” Faraday exploded.

  Fletch twitched and grinned like the cat that ate the meth canary.

  “I love patterns,” he said. “In nature they’re a thing of beauty—golden ratio, seashell spirals, pi. Apply them to what I do and they can be exquisitely revealing. Consider Jake Slattery’s credit card bills. There’s a pattern to the charges. Most of them occur near the airport.”

  “Maybe that’s where his new job is?”

  “He doesn’t have one,” Fletch said, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “But he shops at Trader Joe’s in Westchester. Drinks at the Sky-Hi on Sepulveda. Buys his gas at an ARCO station on La Tijera, near Randy’s Donuts—that’s the place with the fifty-foot-high brown donut you can see from the 405 Freeway. They make a killer glazed. Anyway, he’s also been paying one hundred fifty dollars a month for long-term parking at LAX Lot G since June.”

  “I don’t get it. Is it cheaper than street parking?”

  Fletch shook his head. “There’s no in-out privileges. It’s a onetime deal. But the credit card went dead a week ago, right after Emily Mortimer was killed. No new transactions posted.”

  “He’s using cash,” Tyler said.

  “Or he’s got cards under a different name,” I said.

  “Well, the interesting thing is that the two previous months’ fees for parking were posted on his card July 2 and August 1. And it’s now almost September.”

  “You think his car is still there?”

  “He drives a blue Honda Odyssey minivan,” Fletch said, scratching his head. “I’ve got his license plate.”

  “Well done,” said Faraday. “Tyler, Maggie, get over there and take a look, will ya? On your way back, stop at Randy’s and buy Fletch a dozen glazed.”

  So much for giving me a break from the Paxton case.

  But I didn’t protest. It sounded awfully exciting, and perhaps even borderline dangerous.

  Faraday said, “Now let’s hear some theories about why his van’s at a long-term lot in LAX.”

  “He ditched it because there’s evidence inside?”

  “He killed Emily and then somebody killed him and left his body inside.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?” I said, feeling queasy.

  No one bothered to answer.

  * * *

  The jets screamed and shrieked like Nazgûl, darkening the sky as they came in for landings.

  I shivered and forced back the spectral image of Anabelle in the LAX ditch. That had ended a long time ago. Anabelle had survived and conquered her demons. I didn’t need to worry or freak out anymore. Besides, we were a good mile from the runways.

  Lot G was off Imperial Highway, surrounded by other parking lots and expressways where thousands of cars whizzed past every day. It was a perfect example of hiding in plain sight. What would it be like to work here? I wondered, driving a shuttle bus filled with people nervous about making their flights, the entire lot juddering each time a plane swooped past.

  We drove up to the gate of Lot G, took a ticket, and entered.

  At the office, we asked about long-term parking. You had to pay a month in advance.

  We thanked the counter lady. Then, armed with Jake Slattery’s license plate, we cruised around looking for vans. The farther into the depths of the lot we got, the more beat-up cars we saw. Then the RVs and campers started.

  Some were festooned with bicycles and camping gear and plastic vessels to hold water. It looked like people were living in the airport parking lot. There must have been more than a hundred RVs and campers clustered on the far fringes.

  “Look.” Tyler pointed to a life-sized ceramic dog in front of one camper. From inside another RV, a real dog barked. One camper had laid down a tiny Astroturf lawn surrounded by a white picket fence. Another had a semicircle of plastic chairs. Did people relax here with drinks, late at night when the crowds melted away and jet traffic slowed?

  We found the van.

  Excited, we called Faraday. He told us to watch from a discreet distance before making contact.

  For an hour, we sat and watched. And waited.

  There were no signs of life.

  Slowly, we approached and knocked.

  There was no answer.

  We tried again to no avail, then struck up a conversation with a bearded man who poked his head out of the camper next door. He said he didn’t know anything, but twenty bucks made him remember that his neighbor had taken off on his bicycle that morning.

  Tyler peeled off two more twenties to buy the man’s silence when Slattery came back.

  We parked far enough away not to draw attention and close enough to monitor who came near the van. For two more hours we sat in Tyler’s vintage BMW 2002. Faraday told us to stay put and call him immediately if Jake Slattery returned.

  But Slattery didn’t show. Eventually, stuck in such close quarters, the talk turned personal and I learned Tyler had grown up in Inglewood.

  He grinned. “People who aren’t from here are always surprised to meet a native. But we’re really not that rare.”

  “They like to think it was just tumbleweeds and dust before they arrived. A handful of Mexicans riding burros and Chumash gathering shellfish along the coast.”

  “Do you remember going to the beach as a kid and finding sand dollars and whelks and clams and pointy spirals? Now you’re lucky to get one lo
usy cowrie.”

  “It’s the same with butterflies,” I said. “I used to sit in my friend’s overgrown yard and see monarchs and swallowtails and painted ladies and buckeyes and so many others I didn’t even know the names of. I was a nut for butterflies.”

  I looked up, suddenly self-conscious, but his eyes met mine in silent understanding and I knew that he too mourned the passing of these tiny, jeweled creatures.

  When Faraday called, it startled us both.

  Tyler recapped the stalled stakeout, then handed me the phone.

  “I need you to put in some time on Hollywood-Graystone this afternoon, so take a cab back, Tyler can handle it,” Faraday said.

  “What about Salazar?”

  “I’ve got a few people working it.”

  Back at the office, I made calls to bands, agents, caterers, and event planners to make sure all systems were go for the gala party that we’d put together for the Hollywood-Graystone Hotel on Sunset Strip.

  They’d hired us after the notorious rock star Magnus Rex had OD’d in the penthouse suite. We’d done all the usual things to make it clear the Art Deco hotel bore no responsibility for the death. We even unearthed records confirming that hotel security had called 911 and sent its on-site physician to the room moments after the cleaning lady found the body, cold and stiff with rigor mortis.

  Once the investigation was over and the hotel cleared of any wrongdoing, I’d gotten creative. Instead of downplaying the death, I suggested that management play up the notoriety and turn the penthouse suite into a glam, rock-and-roll bordello shrine to Magnus Rex (birth name: Sherman McCoy). It had been my idea to invite psychics and ghost hunters to the top floor, carrying steampunk equipment to scan for restless spirits.

  Of course we’d alerted the media.

  To nobody’s surprise, the ghost hunters, who’d been plied with free rooms and booze, reported sighting a glowing, ethereal presence that couldn’t be captured on camera. A bellboy had felt a rush of cold air when he’d gotten off on the wrong floor by accident, and patrons reported lights that flickered on and off around midnight (the coroner’s estimated time of death). There was also a guest’s laptop that had switched inexplicably to a YouTube clip of Magnus Rex.

  All the hubbub had stirred up TV interest and a producer had dispatched a reporter and camera crew to investigate the supernatural activity as part of a ghost-hunting reality TV show. They’d be filming the party we’d set up to celebrate the official reopening of the suite, which had been rechristened with the dead singer’s name and now cost triple the old nightly rate.

  Already the hotel was booked six months solid with fans, looky-loos, and tourists who wanted a taste of Hollywood rock star glamour.

  Gotta keep those billable hours coming.

  As the sun began its nightly plunge into the western sea, Tyler strolled past my office.

  I threw off my headphones.

  “Did he show? Did you talk to him?”

  Tyler turned away. “No. Faraday brought me back.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “That’s stupid. What if Jake Slattery returned and you missed him? What if his neighbor spilled the beans and scared him off for good?”

  “Don’t worry, champ. I didn’t leave until my replacement arrived.”

  “Who’s that?” I said, curious.

  “I don’t know his name.”

  19

  Several hours later, Tyler and I found ourselves leaving the office at the same time.

  In the elevator, office etiquette reigned once more and our conversation was perfunctory and stilted.

  In the car, I sprayed on Mitsouko by Guerlain. I’d scored a tiny bottle on eBay awhile back, but didn’t dare wear it at the office. Created by Jacques Guerlain in 1919, Mitsouko was one of the original Orientals: a sweet, spicy, leathery, mossy fragrance with hints of peach and oak. Happily, I inhaled the scent of World War I ending, the Roaring Twenties, flappers and pearls, expat American writers sitting in red velvet chairs at Les Deux Magots mooning after beautiful French courtesans.

  As I drove out, I saw Tyler bent over the open hood of his car.

  “What’s the matter?”

  His face was glum. “I don’t know.”

  “Need a jump? I’ve got cables.”

  “We can try,” he said dubiously. “But I replaced the battery in June.”

  I pulled alongside and Tyler hooked up the cables. The car started. It coughed and rumbled like a tubercular ward, then died.

  “Shit,” said Tyler.

  “You have Triple A?”

  “No.”

  “You going to have it towed somewhere?”

  “Viken can look at it tomorrow.” He saw my puzzled look. “He’s one of the daytime security guys. Armenian. Used to be a mechanic in Beirut. Those guys know their German cars.”

  “You’re going to leave it here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Want a ride home?”

  He looked up, considering. “That’s okay, I’ll jog.”

  I examined his clothes, his leather shoes. “Dressed like that? Are you crazy?”

  He pointed to a gym bag in the passenger seat. “Got my gear. And I don’t mind. It’s a great way to see the city. You should try it sometime.”

  “Where do you live?” I asked, surprised.

  “Hollywood.” He gave me a loopy grin.

  It was infectious. I grinned back.

  Then I leaned over and flung the passenger door open.

  “Get in,” I said. “It’s on my way home.”

  * * *

  It felt strange to be in a car with Tyler and not be driving somewhere for work. There was a relaxed, almost playful air between us. Like we’d ditched school to play hooky.

  Tyler lived way up Beachwood Canyon.

  I followed his directions through the rustic stone gates of Hollywoodland, past the little coffee shop and dry cleaners, until the road grew winding and narrow.

  As we pulled up to Holly View Drive, I saw two pairs of amber eyes reflected in the headlights. I flipped on the brights and they came into focus on the terraced hillside. Two deer, unperturbed by our presence. They checked us out, then bent their heads again to graze.

  “Look,” I said, enraptured.

  “Rats with hooves,” said Tyler. “They’re after my tomatoes. I want you to know that I’m sacrificing a significant portion of my fall harvest for your gawking pleasure.”

  Somewhere below, a car backfired. With a fluid motion, the deer melted into the darkened hillside.

  “Aw!” I said.

  “They’ll be moving on to my side yard for their second course. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  We got out of the car and, for the first time, I looked at Tyler’s house. Up at the top of the bluff, a large villa was silhouetted against the night sky.

  Unlocking the gate, Tyler ushered me into a rickety elevator. He pressed a button and the elevator began to rise.

  “We could have taken the stairs,” he said, “but there are two hundred twenty-seven of them and I figured with those high-heeled sandals . . .”

  I glanced down, surprised he’d noticed. Locked in this tiny moving capsule, the space between us felt suddenly hot and intimate. I wondered what would happen if it stalled and we were trapped inside. It didn’t seem like such a horrible thought.

  The elevator clanged to a stop and we stepped onto the porch of a large Spanish house with a smaller house off to the right. The property was perched on a cliff that overlooked the L.A. Basin, giving a full view of the downtown spires.

  Holly (wood) View Drive indeed.

  At the very edge of the cliff, a pool glittered cerulean blue.

  Tyler pointed to a neatly tended garden of staked vegetables. “I figured the deer would be munching my corn, but they’ve skedaddled so I won’t need my shotgun.”

  “You don’t have a shotgun!”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “Mr. Tough Guy,” I scoffed.

  “I also have a very
sharp shovel. Comes in handy for killing rattlesnakes.”

  I glanced down and did a little two-step in my open-toed sandals.

  Tyler shrugged. “The first time I found one, I called the Department of Fish and Game. I figured they’d put it in a bag and relocate it. But a guy came up and killed it. ‘Dude,’ I said, ‘I can do that all by myself.’ ”

  I nervously scanned the yard.

  “We get tarantulas and scorpions too,” Tyler said slyly. “Don’t worry. I sweep the place clean every morning. Throw the scorps over the cliff.”

  The idea of scorpions and tarantulas raining down on unwary homeowners below made me flinch and laugh at the same time.

  “I’m scaring you off,” Tyler said.

  “It’s late. I should go.”

  “Will you stay for a drink? I’ve got a thirty-year-old Laphroaig that a grateful client gave me. It’s the least I can offer you for driving me home.”

  Tyler took my unresisting arm and led me to an outdoor table sheltered by a grape arbor. Fat purple fruit hung in tantalizing clusters between emerald leaves.

  During the day, the arbor would keep out of the worst of the sun and filter the light. At night, the pale moonlight cast a ghostly glow, diffused through the green and purple. The moon was almost full, illuminating the L.A. basin like a giant spotlight.

  Above La Crescenta and La Canada Flintridge, the fires still raged with apocalyptic greed. Here in Hollywood, the sky was a peaceful dark velvet blue, the breeze warm but not stifling.

  Tyler brought out a bottle, two glasses, and a plate of cheese and crackers. I almost didn’t recognize the lanky figure standing before me in khaki shorts, flip-flops, and a black Iggy Pop T-shirt. He’d changed.

  “Full disclosure,” said Tyler. “This heap isn’t mine. I rent the guesthouse.”

  “Who lives in the big house?”

  “A woman named Dina Schwartzman. She was a screenwriter and her husband was a big director. He’s passed on.”