SHERRI TOYODA AND HER FAMILY owned a watch shop in Santa Monica. The Toyodas sold moderately priced timepieces almost anyone could afford, but their restoration of antique and vintage collectibles had made them legends. Photographs of Sherri’s parents with dignitaries, politicians, and movie stars covered the walls. Three U.S. presidents, eleven senators, and four Supreme Court justices were among their clients.
I checked the numbers from the watch, and called her.
“Guess who?”
“Yesterday’s bad news?”
Sherri and I used to date.
“I need help with a Rolex.”
“I’ll help if I can, but we’re not an authorized dealer.”
“I’m not shopping. This is a specific Cosmograph Daytona.”
“Sweet! If you can afford a Cosmo, I might date you again.”
Everyone thinks they’re a riot.
“I need to know if it’s genuine.”
“Bring it in. I can tell if it’s real in five seconds.”
“I don’t have the watch. I have the serial and model numbers.”
“Do you have the chronometer certification that came with it?”
“If I knew what a chronometer certification was, the answer would be no. All I have are the numbers.”
She was silent for a moment.
“Okay, listen. I can check your numbers with a friend at the corporate office. If your numbers match his numbers, the watch is authentic.”
“Great.”
“Not so great if it’s stolen. He’ll want to know how I have the numbers, and why I’m asking. Is it?”
“Could be. How would he know?”
“Dude. You buy a watch like this, you’re walking around with twenty or thirty thousand dollars on your wrist. Guess what?”
“They get stolen.”
“Or lost, so the company keeps a list of AWOL watches for their clients. If you lose your watch, you give them the numbers. If your watch turns up, they know you’re the rightful owner, and give you a shout.”
“Meaning, you could find out who owns it?”
“Not necessarily. People sell watches. They give them as gifts. The company doesn’t know.”
“Oh.”
“Are you trying to find the owner?”
“Maybe.”
She thought some more.
“I still might be able to help. Stores activate the warranty when someone buys a watch like this. The original buyer might be in the warranty files. Want me to check?”
“You’re the best, Sherri. Thanks.”
I read off the numbers, and lowered my phone, but I still didn’t leave. Devon had searched Tyson’s room, but she was his mom, and almost certainly missed something. I was a trained professional, and knew where to look. Or maybe I’d get lucky.
I turned off my car, and walked up Devon’s drive for the second time that morning. The side gate squealed, I passed Tyson’s window, and let myself in through the kitchen.
The Connor residence held three bedrooms and two baths. Tyson probably wouldn’t hide something in his mother’s bedroom or bath, so I skipped them, and started in Tyson’s bathroom.
Green streaks of toothpaste highlighted the sink, and the counter was forested with deodorant, mouthwash, zit cream, and all the usual bathroom items. A frazzled toothbrush and disposable razor stood sentry in a plastic X-Men cup. Tyson’s medications were lined up beneath the mirror. The scripts bore Tyson’s name, and were written for medicines commonly used to treat depression, anxiety, and attention deficit disorder. I found nothing out of the ordinary in the cabinets, behind the towels, or in the toilet tank.
The third bedroom was set up as an office, but Devon used it as a catch-all room. Mirrored sliders filled a wall opposite a desk, a file cabinet, and a bookcase jammed with law books, paperback thrillers, and titles like The Unhappy Child, Coping with Fear, and The Single Mother’s Rule Book. Cardboard boxes of Christmas decorations were stacked on a treadmill between the desk and a window, and the desk was heavy with bills, unread magazines, and a file devoted to Tyson’s school. The file contained promotional brochures, articles, and another copy of the roster. I took a brochure and the roster, and moved on to Tyson’s room.
His closet and dresser were evidence free. No additional clues were wedged under his mattress, behind the headboard, or in, under, or around his nightstand. I found a pizza crust, a dead mayfly, six silverfish, and enough tortilla chip crumbs to fill a sandbox between his bed and the nightstand. Private detection was glamorous.
I was hoping his desk would contain a receipt, a note, a clue, or a photo of Tyson’s friends, but I found nothing. If Tyson had pix of the girl or his friends, they were on his phone and computers.
I rolled the chair aside, crawled under the desk, and found more crumbs and dust bunnies. I opened the top drawer, detached the drawer from its slides, and removed the drawer from the desk. Devon had looked inside the drawers, but not outside. A plain white envelope was taped to the back of the drawer. The envelope was sealed, and taped well. I felt the contents, and decided the envelope contained cash. I didn’t remove the envelope or open it. I photographed the envelope attached to the drawer, slipped the drawer back on its slides, and closed it. A second envelope was taped behind the middle drawer. Each envelope was thick, and probably held thousands.
Depressing.
I wandered back to the kitchen, and saw pictures dotting the fridge. Devon holding Tyson when he was a baby. Toddler Tyson with his mother at Disneyland, both wearing Mickey Mouse ears. Eight-year-old Spider-Man Tyson posing with an eight-year-old Incredible Hulk Halloween friend. Teenage Tyson locked in video game combat with a chunky gaming friend. The pictures were held to the door by magnets.
Finding the envelopes left me sad. I felt bad for Devon, and also for Tyson. She wanted me to find out what he was doing, but she wasn’t going to like what I found. I wouldn’t like it, either.
I let myself out, and went to find Tyson’s car.
—
THE CAL-MATRIX ALTERNATIVE HIGH SCHOOL was eighteen minutes away. Online trolls described a gulag for drama queen celebrity offspring, where rich people hid their crash-and-burn children from bad influences, bad behavior, and drugs. Former students and parents presented a different image. They described caring teachers and a safe environment where teenagers with learning and social disorders were able to flourish. The only point everyone agreed on was the money. The tuition cost a fortune.
I was disappointed when I arrived. After all the talk about celebrities and rich people, Cal-Matrix was a small, flat building on a commercial street in Reseda. It looked like a dental office.
I cruised past twice. Tyson wasn’t out front with drug-dealing gangsters, but his Volvo was in a parking lot adjoining the school. The lot was small, fenced, and held fewer than thirty cars. Tyson’s Volvo was the oldest.
I parked across the street and considered the layout. A fence surrounded the school and the parking lot. Signs on the fence warned against unauthorized trespassers, and asked visitors to check in at the office. I would have to pass the school’s entrance to reach the parking lot, but no guards were present and the parking lot was empty. I got out of my car, and immediately got back in. A girl came out of the school. She was thin, and wispy, and appeared to be fifteen or sixteen. She stopped outside the doors, lit a cigarette, and inhaled hard enough to inflate her body. I watched her smoke, and waited. Sooner or later, she would finish the cigarette or smoke herself to death.
She finally crushed the butt, and went back into the school. Alternative.
I hurried to Tyson’s Volvo, and opened the trunk. It held a pair of flip-flops, two bottles of coolant, a quart of motor oil, and a dirty towel. No human heads were present. I checked to make sure no one was coming, and slid in behind the wheel.
Tyson’s car was a rolling garbage can. Straws, wadded napkins, and take-out menus jammed a map holder built in the door. More napkins, plastic forks, and candy wrappers were wedged between the seat and the center console, and the console was crowded with open bags of Gummy Bears, M&M’s, and tortilla chips. Crumpled fast-food containers and soda cans were thick beneath the seat.
The backseat was even worse. Taco wrappers, drive-thru cups, and greasy napkins covered the floor. I dug through most of it, but the only evidence I found was evidence of tooth decay. Tyson was an eating machine. He probably turned to crime to pay for a junk food habit.
I finished searching the rear, and climbed into the passenger seat. The smoker appeared again as I closed the door.
I ducked low, and watched her over the dash.
She resumed her position outside the double doors, and fired up another cigarette. A volcanic plume arced skyward and she stared into space.
I stayed low, and found a sunglass case beneath the seat. The case was new, and cleaner than anything else in Tyson’s car. Inlaid black beads spelled a name across the mother-of-pearl case in swirling script. Amber. The sunglasses inside were sleek, black, and trimmed with an elegant spray of crystal. I didn’t need to recognize the designer’s emblem to know they were expensive.
Gucci.
The glasses were small, and sized for a woman. I studied the name again.
Amber.
I photographed the glasses and the case, then put the case back under the seat.
The smoker still smoked. She drew deep on the cigarette, held it, then tipped back her head and spouted a plume like a surfacing whale. She did this again and again. Inhaled, held it, exhaled. She seemed determined to smoke forever, and I was stuck in a Dumpster. Tyson’s car smelled like taco sauce and pickles.
The smoker was still smoking when my phone buzzed. I checked the Caller ID, and smiled. Hess.
“Elvis Cole Detective Agency, where the client is always satisfied.”
“Yes, she is. Where are you?”
“Hiding in a car in a parking lot. I’m watching an underage girl.”
“Not one more word, or I’ll arrest you.”
“She’s smoking.”
“Stop. I’m inviting myself to dinner. Feel like cooking?”
“Sure. Whatever you want.”
“You. I’ll see you tonight.”
Hess hung up, and I smiled even wider.
Janet Hess and I bumped heads on a difficult case, and began dating when the case resolved. Hess was a cop, but not an ordinary cop. She was Special Agent in Charge at the Los Angeles field office of the ATF. She was smart, interesting, and way over my pay grade. Also, she laughed at my jokes. I liked her a lot.
The smoker seemed content to keep smoking forever, but the longer I stayed in Tyson’s car, the more likely it became that a student or teacher would see me. The smoker was facing the street, so I decided to go for it.
I eased out of the Volvo, quietly closed the door, and stepped away as the smoker saw me. Her expression didn’t change. If she’d seen me leave Tyson’s car, she gave no reaction.
I walked.
The smoker drew deep, exhaled, and vanished behind a cloud.
My phone buzzed again as I reached my car. Sherri.
I climbed inside, pulled the door, and answered.
Sherri said, “You knew it was stolen, you bastard. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I called you.”
“That watch is so far beyond stolen I should be furious. It’s part of a major investigation.”
I took a breath, and listened.