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EVA BEVERLY ANSWERED on the second ring. “Mr. Cooper, any news?” I could hear the strain in her voice.
She was never going to call me Jimmy. I was back in my car, rubbing my forehead. “No, nothing yet.” Time to get to the point. “Did you and your husband hire another detective?”
A long silence on the other end was pretty much all the answer I needed, but she felt like explaining herself.
“Yes,” Eva admitted. “We thought... well, after last night, Robert and I discussed it. We thought it would be good to have more than one person looking for our son.”
I stopped rubbing my forehead and started squeezing my eyes. “It would’ve been nice to know, Mrs. Beverly. As a bit of professional courtesy.”
“Yes, I see that now.”
That was the only apology I was going to get. I pressed forward. “But, Matty Goodman?” I could think of half a dozen more qualified private investigators. Or, you know, going to the cops.
She sighed. “Edward recommended him.”
Edward? Again? What was up with this guy? Did he not know about Matty’s staggering lack of experience?
“Mrs. Beverly, I have some concerns about hiring Matty Goodman.”
“This wouldn’t be professional jealousy, would it?”
I gritted my teeth to prevent a scream. Because it wasn’t. It really wasn’t. Was it?
“Mrs. Beverly, it isn’t — ”
She cut me off. “Time is of the essence. And, quite frankly, it shouldn’t matter to you how we spend our money in our crisis. You have a job to do, and as I recall, we’re not paying you to sit on the phone and complain.”
Right. They weren’t.
“Just to be clear, I’m not complaining.” I totally was. “I just don’t want a situation where we are stepping on each other’s toes.”
“I guess that’s up to you two.” She hung up.
I stewed for a bit before realizing there wasn’t much I could do at that moment. I still needed to talk to Sayles so I moved my car and found a spot where I could see the building’s parking garage. I checked my watch. Three o’clock. I settled into the driver’s seat and started playing Dolly’s “Here You Come Again” as perhaps a prayer to the surveillance gods. Sooner or later the guy would have to leave, and I bet he didn’t take public transportation home.
Everything I learned about surveillance, I learned from Gordon Bixby. He would tell me, “There’s nothing fun about surveillance. It’s time-consuming. It’s boring. And you can’t be distracted because the moment you check your phone... your target? He’s gone.” Let’s all take a moment and roll our eyes at the incredibly serious use of the word “target.” He was right, though. Thus the need for a never-ending playlist or I’d go crazy.
An hour or so later, my phone dinged with a text. I picked it up out of the cup holder, looking at it.
Hey, you.
It was from Ito.
Hey I typed back. What’s going on? Smooth, Jimmy. Real smooth.
We still good for coffee? she replied.
Shit, shit. The coffee date. I’d said mid-week and here we were, on the cusp of mid-week.
Yeah, yeah, coffee. Great!
What was I doing? I didn’t have time. I was in the middle of a case. A case that she can’t know about.
There’s a place on Larchmont I like, she suggested.
Larchmont was a quaint neighborhood a few blocks long and just south of Paramount. Cute shops and places to eat lined the avenue. It’s a fun spot.
Sounds great. Text me the place. What time? I texted before realizing I was committing myself to seeing the woman I really should’ve been avoiding at this point.
Ito replied immediately. I got some time around two.
See you tomorrow, I typed and tossed the phone back on the passenger seat with a grunt. Shungudzo’s “It’s a good day (to fight the system)” started up. I ran through how to handle my coffee date with Violet Ito. She was a detective and trained to seek out the truth. I’m screwed.
But then, I wasn’t doing anything illegal. I was doing my job. A job that she knows that I have. So everything should be just fine.
Spoilers: I didn’t really believe that.
Two hours later, a black SUV pulled out of the garage, being driven by the guy that was with Sayles at the club. He paused to look both ways.
Guessing that Sayles was in the back, I started my car as the SUV turned left onto Wilshire. He was a few cars ahead of me, but I made it through the light. We went west on Wilshire, then turned south onto Fairfax Avenue, passing LACMA and the spaceship with its red swooshes that was the Petersen Car Museum. The SUV made its way up the ramp onto the 10 West just as the Dave Brubeck Quartet’s “Take Five” started.
I let them get a bit ahead of me. After all, Sayles’s bodyguard might have been on the lookout for tails. The only danger for me was all the other black SUVs driving around on the 10. Seriously, what is it with black SUVs in this town?
As I followed them, I deliberated on Matty working the case. It really got under my skin. I shook my head, feeling stupid. This was the same sort of bullshit I had experienced when I was an actor, when I wouldn’t get a job and some other kid would. It had even irked me when I heard more about another actor and wondered why people weren’t talking about me instead.
Mrs. Beverly wasn’t wrong. She and her husband had wanted more eyes on the case, and I should chill the fuck out.
But I didn’t want to chill out. There was something bothering me about the whole thing that I couldn’t figure out. I just knew in my gut it was wrong to hire Matty Goodman. Which also begged the question: Was there someone else, or were we two idiots the only ones?
In my self-pity, I almost missed the SUV moving into the far left lane to avoid a slowdown, thanks to all that pesky merging and exiting.
“Shit.”
Moving into the lane, I squeezed in front of a minivan. I waved an apology behind me, and the mom at the wheel gave me the finger.
I turned the volume up and my attention back to the case. Derrick Sayles. If he was overextended like the Beverlys said, and if Patrick had screwed him over... That’s a lot of motive. It’s money, it’s personal. But even if those ifs were true...
It’s one thing to want to kidnap someone but entirely another to go through with it. A kidnapping takes planning and, more importantly, willingness. Most people don’t actually do bad things. It’s a big leap from saying you want to do a bad thing to actually going through with it.
We crossed over the 405, and the SUV started snaking its way across, getting ready to exit. Finally, it took Centinela Avenue North, heading toward beautiful downtown Santa Monica.
Santa Monica is what TV wishes Los Angeles was, with its clean streets, walkable neighborhoods, and proximity to the beach. It’s like a suburb with an ocean view.
Of course, all that beauty comes at a price. Not just the real estate prices — those too — but also the police using a heavier-than-needed hand to keep out the people they didn’t think belonged.
The SUV turned off Centinela onto a side street and then made another turn. It eventually slowed and stopped in front of an apartment building.
I slid into a spot nearby, hoping to figure out what he was doing here.
The bodyguard stepped out and opened the back passenger-side door. Derrick Sayles hopped out, slipping on sunglasses. His dark hair, with a dash of white, fell to his neck, capturing a certain rock and roll vibe that made him a bit of a bad boy lawyer. It was a great brand, I had to admit. He wore a gray suit; his tie was gone, and the white button-down was unbuttoned a few extra. I wondered if he’d gotten that move from Robert Beverly. Always dress for who you want to be, not who you are.
He headed to the front of the building, where he met...
“Matty,” I growled.
I got out of my car. What the hell was he doing? He was going to fuck up my stakeout.
I moved quickly down the sidewalk. I could see the two of them shaking hands and smiling at each other. Matty pointed to the building but then spotted me. His eyes went wide.
“Derrick!” I called.
As he turned, the bodyguard stepped in front of him. When you’re an accident lawyer, maybe random attacks from strangers are a thing.
Matty’s mouth became a thin line. His eyes burned into me.
Derrick spoke from behind his bodyguard. “Do I know you?”
That hurt. I had been getting attention all over for just being me. “I know you,” I said and offered him my hand.
Derrick didn’t take it, and the bodyguard didn’t move. Awkward. I pulled the hand back. “I don’t know if you got my note...”
Matty said to me, “Sir — ”
Sir? What a way to stay in character, jerk.
“Sir,” he said, “we’re in an important meeting. Maybe you should call Mr. Sayles’s office. Make an appointment. I’m sure you could snag one in a few weeks.”
I grinned. “Or I could talk to Mr. Sayles now.”
“Mr. Sayles is busy,” Matty replied.
Derrick looked back and forth between Matty and me. “Do you guys know each other?”
Matty shook his head no.
I said, “My name is — ”
“Jimmy Cooper,” finished Sayles. He put out his hand, and his bodyguard stepped away. “I read the news. Yeah, I got your note.” He smiled in that noncommittal way lawyers practice in the mirror. “Sorry I couldn’t see you. I had business to attend to.” He nodded at the building. “So. You’re representing the Beverlys.”
He wasn’t impressed.
“That’s right.”
“Funny to run into you here in Santa Monica,” he said.
Matty grunted.
“Well, you know,” I said brightly. “It’s a small town.”
“You live in Santa Monica?” asked Sayles.
“Oh. No. I mean, you know, the greater... L.A. area. The whole...” I didn’t bother to finish. I turned to Matty and offered a hand. “Jimmy Cooper.” If he was going to stay in character...
“Oh yeah,” Matty deadpanned. “I remember you. Weren’t you in those awful teen movies?”
“I was. But at least I wasn’t stuck doing awful teen TV, am I right?”
I laughed. Matty did not.
Pressing on with Sayles, I asked, “Have you seen Patrick lately?”
“Patrick?” Derrick replied. Was that surprise or confusion?
“Patrick Beverly,” I clarified.
Derrick’s eyes narrowed. “Is there a problem?”
“Well, he’s missing. More specifically, he’s been kidnapped.”
Matty looked like he was about to blow a gasket.
Derrick nodded and said nothing. Maybe he wasn’t such a terrible lawyer after all. He was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
I kept going. “Have you seen him since that time you and your bodyguard got tossed from the club? That must’ve been embarrassing.”
The bodyguard took a little step toward me. Matty took a step back.
Matty grunted. “Mr. Sayles isn’t here to answer questions — ”
“Maybe he would if you give him a chance, person-I-just-met,” I said over my shoulder. Turning back, I continued, “Given the circumstance, I think it’d be great if you started talking, Derrick.”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Cooper?”
“Man, why does everyone call me Mr. Cooper? Jimmy. Call me Jimmy. It’s so much friendlier.” I looked from person to person, hoping to get it through. Turning back to Sayles, I said, “It’s not a threat as in, ‘Ooh, I’m going to beat you up.’ It’s more of an ask. Because, like, you know, we don’t want things going sideways.”
“Jimmy,” started Derrick Sayles, “Yes. Patrick and I had some... words. As I’m sure you’re aware, he owes me a great deal of money.”
Now I was.
“Since he had not been responding to my polite requests for repayment, I went to him. I haven’t seen him since.” He wasn’t lying. Then again, just because he might not have seen Patrick, it didn’t mean other people in his employ hadn’t.
“Must be a lot of money,” I said, crossing my arms. “To go through all of that.”
“I see what you’re trying to do,” said Derrick, smirking. “It’s a nice suggestion. That I have a motive for hurting Patrick.”
“Is he hurt? I just said he was missing.”
Derrick nodded. “I don’t know. But I do know I’m not the only one Patrick owes money. Some of them are really bad people.” Derrick leaned closer. “He’s quite the idiot.”
With something like that, I had a million follow-up questions, but a woman’s voice interrupted everything.
“Hey, Matty!” It was kind and friendly and belonged to a tall blonde woman who had stepped out of the apartment building. She was dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, ready for a run, about to push in some earbuds.
Matty stared at her.
She spotted me and gasped. “Oh, my God! Jimmy Cooper! I love you!” She looked back and forth. “Wait. Do you guys know each other?”
Sayles looked to Matty. “Do you guys know each other?”
The woman continued. “It’s, like, a club or something? Like child actors all know each other?” She pulled her phone out of her running armband. “I gotta get a pic.”
“Hold up,” I said, as a few puzzle pieces fell into place, then turned to Matty. “Were you trying to sell him your apartment building?”
Sayles pointed at the building. “This is your building, right? Like yours yours? As in, you own the whole thing and you can sell it?”
Matty was sweating. “Yeah.”
It wasn’t. Matty was lying. Why he was lying I didn’t know and things were moving too fast to ask.
The woman gestured to Matty and me. “Can you guys move closer together?” She held the phone at arm’s length, leaned in next to me, and snapped a pic. “My friends are going to freak! Bye, Matty!” And she was off on her run.
“Who the fuck is Matty?”asked Derrick. “Are you Matty? Are you just some actor?”
Matty wasn’t talking so much as hemming and hawing. When the bodyguard decided to get involved and stepped closer to him, he crumbled like a fistful of crackers.
“Hey, hey, OK, OK!” He held up his hands. “Yeah, yeah, my name is Matty Goodman. I’m a private investigator!”
The bodyguard grabbed Matty by the shirt, pulling him up and closer. Matty went pale and started breathing hard. He was scared.
“Derrick,” I said, trying to sound tough.
He looked at me. Pissed. “What?”
“Listen, we’re just trying to find out what happened to Patrick.”
“Oh, so you’re working together.”
Shit. “I can see how it looks that way. But we’re not — ”
He wasn’t listening. “We’re done. Let’s go, Richard.”
Richard — the bodyguard — dropped Matty, who fell on his ass.
Derrick opened his car door. “If I ever see you again, I will be filing a restraining order.”