by Jesse Miles
Ten minutes later, Miss Montez turned out to be the nurse-in-white. We sat in a cubicle behind the counter, and she slapped my patient forms on the desk. “Let’s see what we have here.”
She reviewed my forms. I waited.
Finally, she said, “I think we can have a doctor see you in ten or fifteen minutes.”
I said, “Is there any chance I can see Dr. Mirabeau? I’ve heard he’s great. I can come back later if I have to.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but I need to go over one more thing. I see you are using an attorney.”
“John Grant, in Culver City. I haven’t signed with him yet, but I talked with his secretary. I’m supposed to drop by his office this afternoon and sign the papers. She said I won’t have to pay any medical bills until we settle the case. Is that how it works?”
“Once you sign with the law office, they fax me the papers, the billing goes on a lien, then you have no out-of-pocket medical expenses. But I need you to go ahead and make sure I get the fax today.” She pointed toward the waiting room. “Just have a seat, we’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
Twenty minutes later, I was back in Dr. Mirabeau’s office. He was seated behind his monstrous mahogany desk, wearing a white doctor’s coat and a bow tie. In person, his wide, toothy smile was even more annoying than his Internet photos.
Miss Montez directed me to one of the chairs facing the doctor’s desk. She took a seat at a table in the corner and started typing into a notebook computer.
Dr. Mirabeau sat with his hands folded on his desk. “How are you doing today, Mr. Edwards?”
“I got banged up a little, but I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t fix.”
He looked down at my patient information forms. “I see you were T-boned on the driver’s side. I hope they hit you behind the driver’s door.”
“That’s exactly how I got nailed. Side airbags went off, not the front. The guy who hit me tried to lie his way out of it, but there were witnesses, and the cops could see what happened from the damage and the scuff marks on the road. I should be able to pick up the accident report from LAPD later this week.”
“What symptoms are you experiencing?”
“Sore neck and back. Headaches. I can hardly get out of bed in the morning. I could use something to relieve the pain.”
“Is there a particular medication you’ve taken that works for you? No stomach upset or side effects?”
“Something like this happened to me seven or eight years ago, and they gave me Percodan. No problems with that.”
He picked up a prescription pad and stood up. He was taller than I had imagined. He said, “Let’s take a look at you.”
Miss Montez led us down the hall and into an examination room where Dr. Mirabeau said, “Please lie on your back on the table.”
The nurse set her computer on a counter and began typing. I lifted myself onto the table. Within seconds, I found myself surrounded by Dr. Mirabeau, Miss Montez, the two blue-clad boys I had seen in the physical therapy department, and the carrot-headed security guy from the garage. A few seconds after that, I was strapped to the table in the posture of a soldier standing at attention, only I was horizontal rather than vertical.
Dr. Mirabeau waved his hand, and everyone else left the room. He said, “Why did you use the false name Bill Edwards rather than your correct name Jackson Salvo?”
“I was going to use the name Haywood Jablomi, but I thought Bill Edwards sounded more like a regular guy.”
“You’ll have to forgive my failure to appreciate your razor-sharp wit. Miss Montez made some inquiries and learned that you are in fact a private investigator. You had no accident, and you are not injured. When you signed the patient information forms, you gave your explicit permission, in writing, for our office to record any and all events in our office. We now have such recordings. We also have your false written report detailing a fictitious automobile accident, and we have a photocopy of your false identification papers. Your attempt to illegally obtain the opiate Percodan should be of great interest to the state agency that controls your investigator license.”
“Are we being recorded now?”
He said nothing.
“Do you record your activities in that nookie apartment you set up behind your office? The view of Capitol Records is great. I’ll bet the view, the booze, the dope, and the amyl nitrate poppers inspire some inventive forms of physical therapy. I took photos and sent them to myself. They could be a real sensation on the Internet.”
Mirabeau leaned over me with a disinfectant pad in his hand. With his other hand he rotated my strapped right arm to get the angle he wanted and wiped the inside of my elbow with the pad.
I said, “I also visited your private office. The big mahogany desk is impressive, but the antique phone is pretentious. You ought to toss it. I couldn’t access your computer, so I picked the desk lock and photographed some fascinating documents and emailed them to myself. You have a lot of investments and attorney friends.”
Dr. Mirabeau held a syringe where I could see it and dragged the needle across the inside of my elbow, enough to make it hurt without breaking the skin. “Attorneys and investments are common in the business world.”
“They’re also common in the world of insurance fraud. It wouldn’t be easy to camouflage all the kickbacks between you and the shysters, not to mention the tax-dodging. I did some research on that tangle you had with the California Department of Health a few years ago. You pleaded nolo contendere to a charge of what they called moral turpitude. What they meant was ‘ambulance-chasing.’”
Mirabeau pulled the lightly-dragged-needle routine again. He made it hurt again. “That was a perfect legal storm. I was burdened with a dishonest office manager, an incompetent attorney, and a convoluted State Welfare and Institutions Code that enables low-IQ bureaucrats to play endless games. It was an unfortunate confluence of events which was completely resolved and is now ancient history. Now back to reality, I suppose you’re wondering how we found you out.”
“Let me guess. Miss Montez sniffed out the fakery in my patient information forms. She had the security guy in the garage get the plate on my car. You have a contact who can run the plate, probably through your attorney’s office or an investigator who works with your attorney.”
“Not a bad supposition, but not quite spot-on. Miss Montez received a call from our security control center. You were on their video surveillance in the garage. You looked like an electrician, but no electrician was scheduled today, and nobody had ever seen an electrician driving a new BMW M4. And considering the sum of all your transgressions, I think you’re skipping over the essence of the word fakery. How did you unlock the elevator door?”
“I have a way with locks. Where was the camera?”
“Well hidden. Why are you here?”
“I’ve got questions about Cinnamon Strauss.”
He froze for a moment. “I want to be sure I understand this. You illegally break into my office, you falsely claim to have been in an accident, you try to illegally obtain opiates, we catch you red-handed, and now you’re demanding details from my personal life? Am I missing something?”
“Let’s call it reciprocal protection. You tell me what I need to know, and I vanish.”
He dragged the needle across my inner elbow again and said, “The word reciprocal implies balance. You are implying an equivalence that simply isn’t there. We have iron-clad proof of your committing various crimes. We obtained the evidence legally, and we can call the police right now and have you thrown in jail. You, on the other hand, claim to hold certain information, the information really amounts to nothing, and you obtained it illegally. And now you want to call it fifty-fifty and make a deal?”
My low back was starting to ache from being strapped down flat. “It’s more like eighty-twenty in your favor, considering all your previous indiscretions. In addition to the moral turpitude charge, I believe there’s another indiscretion in your biography. Something happe
ned immediately before you changed your name and dropped out of school for a year and moved across the country.”
He quietly cleared his throat and put a labored calmness into his voice. “And what specifically are you referring to?”
“If it were a chapter in your memoirs, the title would be ‘She Was So Tight, She Squeaked.’ You know the story. The fifteen-year-old girl. Spring break in Florida.”
“If you had performed your due diligence, you would have learned the judge dismissed the case almost immediately. The girl was a physically mature she-devil with a professionally fabricated false ID.”
“I don’t dispute the legal outcome, but I’m sure the salacious details would be available through any PI firm in Florida. Maybe you can go on a TV talk show and explain the jailbait episode to an audience of feminists. Maybe you can convince them the child molested you, and you were the victim. The playboy pad behind your office might be harder to explain.”
He growled, “Who sent you?”
“I sent myself. Last week I was hired to find a runaway girl named Lillie Manning. I found her dead Thursday afternoon. Drug overdose. I want to know the exact set of circumstances that caused her to end up dead.”
“I saw that news item, but I don’t see how it relates to me.”
“It relates indirectly. You were shacked up with Cinnamon Strauss. She was pals with Lillie Manning. I think Cinnamon might know something about the circumstances of the girl’s death.”
“Why don’t you ask Cinnamon?”
“I was planning to drop by her place again this afternoon, but she never seems to be home. I’m sure I’ll have the opportunity to meet with her eventually, but I doubt if I’ll get much in the way of unvarnished truth from her, based on what I’ve learned about her.”
“That, Mr. Salvo, is the first sensible thing you’ve said during our brief, unfortunate acquaintance. Cinnamon Strauss is the most underhanded, treacherous woman I have ever known. If she were an actress, her signature role would be Jezebel. And before I forget, I want to emphasize something. If you should be so injudicious as to try to take some action against me, you will find the cost much higher than the benefit. My expensive attorneys and I can guarantee you a very bad outcome.”
“I’m in no position to disagree.”
He cleared his throat sharply. “I’ll tell you a very brief fable. Cinnamon Strauss lived with a man for six months, and it was no secret to anybody. The arrangement ended when she lied to him. It wasn’t just a lie. It was a cynically calculated whopper. She said her father had a stroke and could not cover his medical bills. She was especially convincing with the unsavory details of his being confined to bed and being unable to care for himself. She put on quite a theatrical performance. Cinnamon’s kindhearted gentleman friend wrote her a check. Ten days later, the same day the check cleared, the man came home from work expecting to find a hot meal waiting for him. Instead, he found Cinnamon’s closet empty and a Dear John note, beautifully written, almost poetic. He was somewhat provoked, but he thought it over and said to himself, ‘What the hell, prostitution comes in many forms, and that was one of the more entertaining examples.’ As far as he was concerned, Cinnamon Strauss no longer existed.”
Mirabeau seemed more relaxed, now that was off his chest. After a brief silence, he said, “What can I do to facilitate your permanent absence, Mr. Salvo? Or shall I extend my hospitality a few hours?” He showed the needle again and spoke through pursed lips. “You might need a sedative—a very strong sedative.”
I said, “One final question. Do you know the name of the drug rehabilitation outfit Cinnamon Strauss was kicked out of?”
Mirabeau glanced at his watch. “I heard something about that incident from a dermatologist friend of mine. He didn’t know any details, but he understood that her departure from the clinic was somewhat dramatic. I don’t remember the name of the clinic, but I’ll know it when I see it.” He turned to the computer Miss Montez had left behind. A few seconds later, he said, “Here it is—Latigo Alliance, in Malibu.”
He dropped the needle into a sharps container, said, “May we never meet again,” and walked out the door.
Less than five minutes later, Carrot Head, the goons from the physical therapy department, and Miss Montez returned. Carrot Head was carrying a long, heavy flashlight, holding it at the end, as though it were a bludgeon.
They unbuckled me and escorted me into the private section of the central hallway, then through a door to the service elevator I had previously pirated. Miss Montez pushed the button, and we all waited. The three men took me into the elevator car, and Miss Montez stood just outside.
Before the door closed, she stepped forward and said, “I’m sorry, but we’ll have to send you a bill for a consultation.” She was sympathetic and sweet, like a candy striper comforting a patient with a broken arm.
I was trying to think of a suitable wise-ass response when she sucker-punched me. I lurched backward into Carrot Head, minimizing the damage. He pushed me up straight. When the door closed, I expected the trio to work me over, but nobody moved or spoke during the ride to the first floor.
Back in my car, I checked my face in the mirror. The love tap from Miss Montez didn’t merit an ice pack.
I called Gabriel Van Buren, and he said, “What’s going on?”
“Just another day at the office. Do you have any contacts at the drug rehabilitation outfit known as Latigo Alliance? It’s in Malibu.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Information on a previous patient.”
“Those drug rehabs are very touchy on the subject of patient privacy.”
“The patient I have in mind left the program with a dishonorable discharge. She probably left behind a group of pissed-off doctors and administrators, and they’re not likely to forget her. Her name is Cinnamon Strauss.”
“Didn’t she have a fitness show on television a few years ago?”
“That’s her.”
“Now that was one wild-looking chick. Can you get me a date with her?”
“I’ll see what I can do, Gabe.”
20
4
On the way to my office, I called ahead to a deli and ordered a sandwich to-go. At my desk, I had taken one bite when a call came in from Gabe. “I got a contact for you at Latigo Alliance.”
“How did you get it so fast?”
“I was highly motivated, thinking about my upcoming date with Cinnamon Strauss. The Latigo Alliance security director is an ex-LAPD detective named Sebastien Thurman. I did him a favor back a few years ago. I hadn’t thought about him for a long time.”
“Name sounds familiar.”
“About fifteen years ago, when he was working as a detective out of Pacific Division, he was off-duty, getting cash out of an ATM. Some dirtbag steps out of the shadows and points a gun at him. Thurman is the kind of guy who knows how to take care of business. He drops his money on the ground and steps aside. When the perp reaches down for the loot, Thurman put two slugs in him. Totally justified shooting . . . up to that point. Now the perp is flat on his back, bleeding out. His pistol is on the ground, a couple of feet from his hand. Thurman, instead of kicking the pistol aside and calling 911, puts another round into what Internal Affairs called ‘the robbery suspect’s groin area.’”
I adjusted my sitting position. “Ouch!”
Gabe continued, “The DA wanted to put Thurman in prison for this unseemly use of force, but he ended up with the option of being prosecuted or voluntary termination. He had only put in eight years with LAPD, so he terminated and got totally screwed out of his retirement. Had to work as a security guard for two or three years, wife left him, didn’t even have a car for a year or so. Eventually, he worked his way up in the private security world. Now he has a nice soft desk job at Latigo Alliance as the Director of Security. He’s expecting your call, and I’m expecting a date with Cinnamon Strauss.”
As soon as I ended the call with Gabe, I called Thurman and introd
uced myself. He said, “I talked with Gabriel, and if he says you’re okay, you’re okay.”
We briefly chatted about my PI business and the weather. Then we agreed to meet at ten o’clock the next morning.
21
4
Latigo Alliance was in the hills of Malibu, a few miles beyond the pier. During my drive, I passed by the Castellammare district. My natural instinct was to go up the hill and ask the neighbors what they might have seen around the house where I found Lillie Manning, but the LAPD detectives had already covered that, and I wasn’t sure where I could find an investigative foothold.
At ten o’clock, I was in the Latigo Alliance reception room. The sky and the Pacific Ocean filled the room’s only window, which was stretched across the south wall. On closer inspection, Catalina Island was dead-center in the window, faintly visible through a silvery mist.
The décor was all in for warm pastels. I sank back into my peach-colored velvet armchair, wiggling my feet in the pale blue carpet, feeling warm and fuzzy. The matronly woman behind the reception desk asked if I wanted coffee, tea, or hot chocolate. I suppressed the urge to wink at her and ask for Coke.
Sebastien Thurman sauntered into the lobby. He was five-nine, two hundred pounds, no neck, big head, big eyes, and a small, pinched mouth. His thinning, grayish-blond hair was cut into a flattop. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, shook hands, and went down the hall to his office.
The room was fitted out with traditional furniture in neutral colors. A framed print on the wall depicted an idealized version of life on the farm, from an elevated perspective, in a childlike style.
I stared at the artwork. “Grandma Moses in the Security Director’s office?”
Thurman shut the door behind him and spoke in a relaxed baritone. “Grandma Fucking Moses. Heartwarming, isn’t it? Everything we do at Latigo Alliance is heartwarming. Every time I take a dump in this place, I sing ‘Joy to the World.’ But of course, I sing it softly. That way, I don’t pollute the tranquility. Have a chair.”