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“I FOUND HIM!” I SAID, sitting at my desk, L.A. stretching out behind me. Mr. and Mrs. Beverly had left about twenty minutes ago, after giving Nora and me more information on Patrick and his friends. A meeting with their security guy, Edward Stratton, had been set up over at Patrick’s house in Silver Lake.
“You what?” said Nora, stepping into my office with a cup of coffee.
I held up my phone. “Online. I found him... Sorry, I should’ve led with that. I found his socials.”
She took a deep breath and cradled the mug, trying to calm her rattled nerves. Together we had watched the hostage video the kidnappers had sent the Beverlys. It wasn’t pretty.
From a fade-in, there he was, Patrick Beverly, age twenty, blondish in the glare of the overly bright lighting. He had been placed in a chair in front of a white wall with no pictures and, of course, no distinguishing marks. He looked to be healthy and in good shape, in that way twenty-somethings have, if you ignored the fact that he was also duct-taped to a folding chair and looked terrified. His eyes were wet and pleading as he sucked on a ball gag. Very Pulp Fiction.
“We have your son.” The voice was filtered and loud, as if the kidnapper was eating the microphone. “Fifty million dollars in diamonds will get you his safe return.” A figure in black with a leather mask — they were really going for a whole BDSM thing, huh? — stepped into frame and grabbed Patrick’s hair, pulling his head back. He placed a knife to the kid’s throat. The voice continued, “You have until Friday. We will contact you two hours before the exchange with a location. Do not call the authorities. Do not fuck with us.”
And that was that. The screen had gone black, and I had looked over at Nora. She tapped a finger to her lips; she was barely breathing.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Maybe I should’ve watched it alone.”
She snapped out of it. “It’s... You see these sort of things in movies all the time, and, you know, you don’t think about how they could be real and...”
“Yeah.” I had closed the file on my computer. “Go take a break.”
She didn’t move.
“We’re going to find him,” I assured her.
“That’s what you said to them.”
“And I believe it.”
“How can you be so sure?” she asked.
I honestly didn’t have an answer for her, but I gave her my best reassuring smile. After she left, I decided it was time to look at the security footage from Patrick’s house the night he was taken. The clip showed Patrick walking up to his place on Friday evening. Just as he got to his door, a large man — bulkier than the guy in the video — stepped up from behind Patrick. He pulled the kid back, a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. And then they were gone, leaving nothing but a grim, black door in the security camera’s frame.
It was done in seconds. These guys — at least two of them — were experienced. Patrick hadn’t heard his kidnapper coming, and the other must’ve have been waiting in some sort of vehicle to carry him away.
I took a cleansing breath and turned to Patrick’s socials.
The coffee in Nora’s hand actually smelled good, which confused me. The coffee that came out of the Cooper and Associates break room was traditionally terrible. I looked back at my phone and said to her, “I think I’m beginning to like this kid.”
Patrick Beverly — I don’t think there could have been a name any further from Ivan’s cold Russian winters — was in his junior year at USC, studying communications. His father had rolled his eyes when Eva told me that. Patrick got decent grades, texted his parents, and, scrolling through his socials, he seemed to have a great life. Lots of friends. It helped that he was rich, sure, but Patrick had a warm smile. And maybe I’m a sucker for a warm smile.
“Jimmy,” said Nora firmly, snapping me out of my reverie.
I looked up from my phone, then remembered, “Right, I have to go over to Patrick’s — ”
“Your mother is here.”
I stopped in the middle of getting up. “What?” I sat back down.
“Your mother is — ”
“Here. OK. That’s what I thought you said.”
“She’d like to speak to you.” Nora took a sip of her coffee. “In her office.”
Greta Cooper, my mother, was here on a Sunday. Was that extraordinary? I didn’t know. I never came in on a Sunday. Maybe Mom was always here.
I nodded to Nora and headed to my mother’s office. On the way, I wondered why she might want to see me about. She hadn’t handled my solving the big case very well, and I had kept out of her way for the past week. She had fully expected me to fuck things up, but then, lo and behold, her son had pulled out a win. She probably thought it might all go to my head and make me unbearable.
Spoilers: She was probably right.
I stopped in the hall, halfway there. Or maybe she knew Paul was in town.
Shit.
Greta Cooper also had a corner office, this one with a view of the Hollywood Hills. She sat at her desk, reading glasses perched at the end of her nose, reviewing a case file. She was dressed as casually as I had ever seen her in this office, in a cream-colored blouse and navy blue slacks. The pearls around her neck added that dash of class she wouldn’t leave home without.
I knocked on the doorframe and decided my best defense was to dazzle her. “You’ll never believe who I signed as a client. You’re going to be impressed.”
She looked up, pulled her reading glasses off, and folded them. “You mean the Beverlys, James?” She leaned back, secretly enjoying herself.
I folded my arms, immediately disappointed. “Nora told you?”
“Of course.”
I noticed on the side table along the wall beneath a large abstract painting, a cardboard coffee traveler from one of Century City’s more upscale cafes, holding enough have to get twenty people wired. Well, when it came to the origin of Nora’s coffee, and it’s quality, mystery solved.
And I also now knew Nora’s price to spill the beans.
“They really don’t want to go to the police?” she said.
I shook my head.
She sighed. “While it’s not illegal, their choice, it is...”
“Stupid?” I suggested.
She blinked. “I was going to say dangerous.”
“I told them that.” I shook my head. “They’re risking their son.”
Mom shook her head. “I meant for you. It’s dangerous for you.”
I frowned. “You mean, it’s dangerous for him. He’s the one that’s, you know, kidnapped.”
She leaned forward. “Of course he’s in danger, James. But the Beverlys are putting you in the line of fire as well. They get everything they want — privacy — and if it goes wrong, they have someone to blame.”
She didn’t have to say who.
I rocked back and forth on the balls of my feet. “I guess we’ll just have to make sure nothing goes wrong.”
“James,” she said, annoyed. I assumed that she wished Gordon Bixby was handling this important case. But he wasn’t here. I was.
“Come on, Mother. You gotta give me the benefit of the doubt. Right?”
She paused, considered my track record. “I do. I actually do.” She nodded.
Stop the press, Vicki Vale. My mother was giving me props. In her own, special way.
“I’m worried,” she said, looking away. “I’m uncomfortable with the bargain.”
Whoa. She actually was worried.
“You want me to quit?”
She glanced up at me.
“Oh, no. Of course not. We’ll be charging them a lovely retainer for your services, and perhaps they can take advantage of our other legal services as well.” She tapped a finger on her desk. “Besides, I would rather you focus on a case.”
Pause. What did she mean by “rather”? Rather than what? Working on a case rather than hiding your father from me? Was that what she meant? I thought about asking her. Sure, I would get some clarity and I would know if she knew my father was in town, even if she tried to lie to me. But then, if she didn’t know, she would ask why I was asking, and then would I be able to come up with an airtight lie that would convince her to stop asking?
Spoilers: I would not.
Best to just play her game.
“Right. Better working a case than wasting time here at the office.”
A thin smile. “Yes. Wasting time at the office. Did you think I meant something else?”
At that point, I couldn’t tell you which way was up. She was a master at this game.
“Nope!” I said overly loud, ready to get out out of her office. I turned and headed to the door.
“James.”
I stopped and turned.
“Regardless of their motivations for sticking your neck out, the Beverlys are important. They are the biggest clients we’ve ever had walk through our doors. I’d like to keep them. Please act professional.” She paused. “As much as you understand professionalism.”
I smiled, finger-gunned, and left.
Fifteen minutes later, I was in my car, heading east on Santa Monica Boulevard, followed by an easy right onto Beverly Boulevard while in Beverly Hills, blasting Harvey Danger’s “Flagpole Sitta” as loudly as my speakers were able. I sang along as I headed to Silver Lake, where the Beverlys had rented a place for Patrick while he studied at USC. Not exactly close to the campus, but way cooler.
It was easy to weave through the Sunday traffic, and it suited my mood. The conversation with my mom had unnerved me. I didn’t like the position the clients had put me in — especially after Mom confirmed to me how serious the consequences could be — and I didn’t like not knowing whether Mom knew Paul Cooper was in town or not. I thought about just coming clean with her, but then again, Paul was leaving today and I could get away with it.
Focus. I had to focus. There was a kid out there who needed me.
The neighborhood wrapped around the Silver Lake Reservoir, built by William Mulholland because the desert basin that is L.A. needed a steady supply of water. (See? Chinatown is not only a great movie, but a piece of history.) It’s one of those hip and cool places to live and hang out.
Of course, the movie nerd in me loves it because it’s where Laurel and Hardy tried to wrestle a piano up an impossibly long flight of stairs.
To be honest, even after reviewing the kidnapping footage and Patrick’s socials, I had very little to start this case on. I hoped the Beverlys’ security guy could give me a lead, and as such, I wondered what sort of person I was going to be working with. Would he want to be in charge, giving out orders? I did not want to deal with some Alpha Dude. But then, he had recommended me to his clients. He couldn’t be all bad.
Beverly Boulevard turned into Silver Lake Boulevard, and Prince’s “Pop Life” started as I hit the reservoir. I turned left and went up and around, the roads getting narrower and the real estate prices going up as I climbed.
The house the Beverlys had rented for their son, a Spanish Revival from the 1920s, was built on a hillside, and I doubted there was much of a backyard. I bet there was a hot tub, though. I parked on the very steep, very short driveway next to a polished, dark blue BMW. Classy. Must have been Edward’s car. I paused in front of the house’s black front door, and a shiver passed through me. Right here was where it happened. A few days ago, Patrick stood here, coming home, and he didn’t hear someone coming behind him. It felt... well, it felt like visiting those steps where Laurel and Hardy kept losing the piano. Discordant. Like stepping into something unreal.
A slow-moving cyclist plugged away, heading up the hill. He was in his fifties, gasping for air. He looked at me through those dumb wraparound sunglasses.
I waved.
The cyclist nodded as he kept gasping and pedaling.
He was probably going to live forever while I would be lucky to make it pasty forty.
I jumped as the front door opened.