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A THIN MAN IN HIS FORTIES with a shaved head looked me up and down. He was pale, which contrasted sharply with his black suit. He looked like the kind of guy who got in ten miles on the treadmill before his protein shake each morning.
“Jimmy Cooper.” There was a dash of disappointment in his voice. Normally it takes some time for me to disenchant people.
“The one and only,” I said, smiling and stepping into the house. “What do I call you? Ed? Eddie? Edward? That feels really — ”
“Stratton,” he said, indifferent.
“Oh. OK. A just-the-last-name type. Cool. Very cool,” I said.
It was not cool.
I wondered why he was being so uncool. Given that he was the one who recommended me to the Beverlys, where was my warm reception?
I looked around the place, left and right. The home was a classic with its beamed ceilings and terra-cotta floors. It had been lovingly kept up.... until a twenty-year-old moved in.
To my right was a living room that featured the largest TV a billionaire’s son could buy, with game controllers chaotically littered across the coffee table in front of the brown leather couch. Pizza boxes dotted the landscape, though they were eclipsed by a Chinese takeout mountain. A couple of shrines to exotic fruit-flavored soda had been built here and there. And, there it was, the smell of weed in the air — thick and skunky, something that wasn’t going to be Febrezed away.
“Someone’s not getting their deposit back,” I said conspiratorially.
Stratton cocked his head, not playing along. “I was told you wanted to look around,” he said.
I nodded, smiled again, and said, “Yeah, you know... look for evidence. Clues.”
He folded his arms. “You saw the security footage?”
“I did. Scary.”
Stratton bobbed his head. “And you think there’s something to be gained from searching the house?”
“I didn’t say search, but yeah. Maybe there’s something here. Maybe Patrick put on a Post-it, ‘I was being followed by a black van with no windows.’”
Stratton frowned. “Patrick didn’t leave any Post-its.”
“Well, yeah.” I snorted. “I don’t really think there’s one.”
“Then why did you say it?”
I paused. Had Stratton been born without a sense of humor or did he just have it removed? “You got me there.” I pointed at the stairs. “Can you show me the rest of the house?”
He smoldered, then said, “Upstairs there’s three bedrooms and two baths.” He turned and led me up.
It suddenly felt like I was with the worst real estate agent in L.A. I imagined Stratton’s pitch as he showed me through the house: This is a home. It overlooks Silver Lake. It contains three bedrooms, and a Jack and Jill bathroom. Perfect for not fully formed humans. Did I neglect to mention the newly renovated master bathroom? Well, there is. I have been told it is tastefully done. Out back there is a hot tub in a truly secure backyard.
Sold.
Looking around, what got to me, was how clean upstairs was compared to downstairs. The master suite, sure, it was lived in — Patrick had a closet full of graphic Ts and hoodies — but it was neat and orderly. The bed was even made.
Who was this kid?
As I snooped through a chest of drawers, not finding anything salacious, much less suspicious, I said to Stratton, “Tell me more about Patrick.”
Stratton put his hands behind his back and said nothing.
“You do know Patrick, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” he replied, like I had asked the dumbest question possible. “I’ve been with the family for years.”
“Then tell me about him.” I closed the drawer I had been poking around in and leaned against the chest. “I need a feel for the guy. What was he like? Did he get along with his parents?”
“What does that have to do with him being taken?”
I took a breath and pushed it out. “OK, look. What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
I pointed at myself. “You... you did recommend me to the Beverlys, right? You told them to hire me?”
He swallowed and said, “Yeah,” like he was a petulant teen who had been caught stealing.
I gave him a healthy dose of side-eye. He was telling me the truth, and I was still confused.
“Patrick’s a good kid,” he said. “From what I see. I don’t spend a lot of time with him.”
That wasn’t entirely true, but the guy was probably protecting Patrick. Stratton was, after all, hired to safeguard the family, and that included its secrets.
“He gets good grades. Keeps his nose clean.”
I nodded like I was buying it.
He went on to tell me that Patrick hadn’t seen anything weird or suspicious in the days leading up to his kidnapping. He said that he’d gone through all the security camera’s footage he could get his hands on and still hadn’t seen anything himself. This led him to believe that the kidnappers were well organized and good at their work. He shook his head. “Someone like Patrick never stood a chance.”
I agreed. “Do you think this was personal?”
“What do you mean?”
I shrugged. “I mean, do you think there’s more to this than just profit? There are tons of wealthy kids to kidnap in L.A. Why Patrick?”
Stratton didn’t have any idea. Maybe he was in the wrong line of work. Which begged the question: “Why aren’t you the one leading the case?”
I could see how uncomfortable my question made him.
“Why me instead of you?” I prodded. “I would think that, you know, this would be in your wheelhouse.”
“Well,” he said, licking his lips, “maybe because he was taken, it wasn’t so much in my wheelhouse. And...” He stopped. “I just thought I should fall on my sword. Take the blame. Let someone else find him.”
Which wasn’t quite the truth, but I wondered if Mr. Beverly had been the one to ask Stratton to fall on his sword, but I left it at that.
I checked out the other bedrooms. In one, Patrick had quite the computer setup. Three screens, great speakers, and a high-end desktop. I poked at the keyboard. The screen came to life and asked for a password. I typed PASSWORD to be a bit of a dick. Maybe I’d get lucky. I did not.
I looked at Stratton, who hovered in the doorway. “You know the password?”
He shook his head. “Patrick didn’t like to share. He didn’t like the idea of me being able to snoop in on his business.” He paused. “I can get one of the Beverlys’ IT guys to look into it.”
The other bedroom looked to be a guest room that no one stayed in.
Giving up on the idea of finding some secret clue to the kidnappers’ identities, I led Stratton back down into the first-floor mess.
Over my shoulder, I said, “Mr. and Mrs. Beverly mentioned threats.”
“Oh, yes. They get them quite regularly.”
“You never did anything about them?”
He cleared his throat. I was veering into unwelcome territory. “For the most part, they are cranks and crazies. Those that we assessed to be real threats, something that might have real action behind them, we forwarded those to the police.”
“And...?”
“You’d have to ask them.”
Which I couldn’t because the Beverlys wanted discretion.
“Right.” We reached the front door, and I turned to him. “Could you send me a list of those threats? Just in case?”
A slight shrug and a nod as he showed me out to the porch.“I could put something together.” He closed the door behind us, punched in a code and the deadbolt slid into place.
As he headed to his car, I said, “OK, this has been great! We should do it again sometime.”
He stood next to his car, frowned, confused, a man utterly bereft of a sense of humor. “Call my office if you come up with anything.” He slipped on some shades. “Day or night.”
“Got it. Hey...” I called. Stratton stopped. “How do you think Patrick’s holding up?”
Stratton said nothing. Then: “He’ll make it. He’s got reserves no one knows about.”
Huh.
Without so much as a goodbye, Stratton got into his BMW and headed downhill to my left. It made me think. Down would have been the quickest way back to West Silver Lake Drive. I looked to my right; the kidnappers could’ve gone up and around. It might have been slower, but less suspicious.
I took a step off the stoop and walked to the edge of the driveway.
And they would have to have staked out the place so they could get an idea of Patrick’s comings and goings.
Even then... the street was narrow and had limited parking. If they were staking out the place, someone had to have seen something.
A lot for the kidnappers to consider.
Just then, a round, short white woman in her sixties in a mint-green windbreaker strode down around the curve of the street. One arm pumped while the other held the leash to a large, black dog.
I grinned and waved at her. She nodded but didn’t slow.
People in L.A. aren’t going to stop and talk to just anyone with a smile. You’ll only get stuck in a weird conversation. Which I was about to have with this woman.
“Excuse me?” I called.
She was about to pass but slowed, looking at me with a wary Hmmmm? expression on her face. Even the dog regarded me with circumspection.
“How are you?” I asked, which could have been the worst opening ever.
She nodded. She also kept pumping her legs up and down. Everyone in this neighborhood was intent on living forever.
“You live around here?” Oh, man. Did I just get creepier?
She slowed in her steps and didn’t answer. The dog took a greater interest in me, moving toward my feet and sniffing. Look, dogs are cute, but they’re cuter over there, not up close and personal.
“Do I know you?” she asked, and then recognition dawned. “Oh! I’ve seen you on TV! You’re that detective guy.”
See? That’s how a fan is supposed to greet you. “I am.” Now that she knew who I was, hopefully this conversation would be easier.
She beamed. “What do you know? I am meeting a real celebrity.”
“Thank you,” I said, though maybe now she was the one taking things a little far. “I’m wondering, have you seen anything strange lately?”
“Huh. Well, I did see Elton John in the freezer section at Bristol Farms in Beverly Hills about a year ago.”
I shook my head. That was on me. I didn’t think I needed to be more specific. “I meant here,” I explained. “On this street. Maybe in front of this house?”
Still moving, she put a hand to her lips. “Nothing strange strange. I think a young man lives here. He likes to throw parties.” She shook her head with disdain.
I leaned closer and said, “You look like you know everyone around here.”
She took it as intended, a compliment to her ego. “I do like to keep an eye on things.”
“No one just sitting in their cars?”
She scowled. “That would be strange. And I said, I haven’t seen anything strange.” She paused. “Did something happen? Am I a part of an investigation?”
I put a finger to my lips. “Top secret.”
She shivered with excitement, then crowed to her dog, “You hear that, Cookie? Top secret.”
I gave her my card. “If you think of anything...”
“I will give you a call.” She beamed and tugged at the leash. “Let’s go.” She and her dog headed on down the hill.
No stakeouts, I thought. They must’ve tracked Patrick some other way. By his phone? Did they hack his schedule?
I dropped into my car. The next logical step would be to hit up Patrick’s friends. Maybe they had seen something or he had said something to them. I cross-referenced the list the Beverlys had given me with Patrick’s social media to see who he had been hanging out with recently.
My phone beeped in my hand. A text. My heart beat faster as I saw it was from Detective Violet Ito, LAPD, Robbery-Homicide. The very same detective that I had worried might be on this case, the very same woman I had chosen not to hang out with in favor of that stupid party last night in the Hollywood Hills.
Sup? she texted.
Are you asking in an official capacity? I replied with a winking emoji.
She and I, well... I didn’t know what we were. We had met on my last case, and, at least in my opinion, there was a strong will-they-won’t-they vibe between us.
I am not, she texted. Just making sure you’re not getting into trouble.
Me? Never. I grinned as I settled back against my headrest. We were totally flirting. Over text. We were flexting. It’s what the kids are calling it.
Spoilers: They are not and will never be calling it that.
Their loss.
Hey, I typed, professional question: have you ever worked a missing persons case? I hit send before realizing my mistake.
The bubbles on my screen danced. Stopped. Then danced again. Stopped.
My phone rang. A video call. From her.
After contemplating not answering — which would be pretty suspicious — I picked up the call.
Her face appeared on the screen. Violet Ito was in her late twenties, Japanese-American, with shoulder-length black hair. She was calling from her desk, and I could see the rest of the Robbery-Homicide bullpen behind her.
“Are you working a case, Jimmy?” she said before I could say hello.
“A case?” I paused. I had told the Beverlys I would be discreet. So I sorta had to be discreet and hope it wouldn’t blow up in my face. “Nah. Just curious.”
She examined me closely. I wasn’t sure if she was buying it or not. “Curious?”
I shook her question off. “Someone asked me about it.” I hoped she couldn’t see me blush. My face felt like it was on fire.
“Uh-huh.”
I tried laughing. “Could kidnapping be considered robbery?” I kept laughing through my poor attempt at a joke.
“Are you OK, Jimmy?” She looked deeper into her screen. “Where are you?”
“I’m great, I am great. Just running errands.” Change the subject! “I’m sorry about last night.” Perfect. Apologizing meant I didn’t have to keep lying about what I was doing.“Can I make up for it? Coffee sometime this week?”
A gruff voice shouted from behind her, “Would you stop talking to your boyfriend? Paperwork’s not going to finish itself.” Her partner, Kemble, was drowning in it, I guessed.
She turned to the off-camera voice. “Shut up. I’ve already done my half.” She rolled her eyes and said to me, “Coffee’s great. If you need anything...”
I grinned. “I got it. Maybe midweek?”
“Sounds good.”
Kemble grumbled again, “Ito, get off the damn — ”
She mouthed a “bye” and hung up.
I took a deep breath and started my car. Harry Styles’s “Sign of the Times” started up. I headed down the street, driving back home to West Hollywood, where I could plan out my next steps in some peace and quiet.