“The BMW is registered to a Gustavo Noel who lives in Beverly Hills,” Marsha Russo told me when she picked up my call.
“Gustavo Noel, the movie mogul?”
“Is there another one?”
“Are you currently on your computer?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Look him up.”
“Gustavo Noel?”
“Yes. I want to know about him and his family.”
“One moment, please,” she pronounced in her faux official voice.
I waited.
She came back on the line. “You’re going to love this, Buddy.”
“Tell me.”
“Robaire,” she said.
“What Robaire?”
“The son.”
“Robaire Noel?”
“None other.”
“Robaire Noel,” I muttered. “Robber Xmas?”
“You know what, Buddy? You’re a lot smarter than I give you credit for.”
My mind was racing. Our tagger Robaire Noel is the son of Gustavo Noel, the movie industry giant.
“Catarina and Francesca,” Marsha added, interrupting my preoccupation.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Two daughters. Catarina and Francesca.”
“Sisters of Robaire?”
“Yep.”
“Do me a favor.”
“Only if you ask nicely.”
“See what you can learn about all three of the children. And get me Pere Noel’s address. And any other information you think might be relevant.”
“My pleasure.” She ended the call.
“Gustavo Noel,” I exclaimed to myself. “How about them apples?”
Gustavo Noel was the modern-day equivalent of the old-time movie mogul. His story was the stuff of Hollywood legend. Born the son of aristocratic parents in Mexico City, he had been educated both there and later, when his parents moved to Los Angeles, here.
It was while he was studying at The University of Southern California that he fell in with the motion picture crowd. He subsequently took film classes and produced several short movies, which connected him with such USC luminaries as Lucas, Coppola, and Spielberg.
After graduation, young Gustavo joined his father’s vast industrial complex but quickly lost interest. When he convinced the old man to finance his dream of becoming a filmmaker, he was off and running.
He proved himself a smart and cunning executive. Capitalizing on his USC connections, his debut feature, The Lonely Hunter, cast and staffed with his college chums, won Gustavo an Oscar nomination. His second film, Galaxy Wars, grossed in excess of seven hundred million dollars.
His purchase of Nexus Film Studios, a prolific low-budget production company possessing a backlot and a notable film library, coupled with his own bounteous annual output, qualified the fledgling Noel Films International as a mini-major.
With more than enough money to fund his myriad projects, plus an A list address book, Gustavo Noel soon became Hollywood royalty.
The bleating of my cell phone interrupted my musings.
“You’ll be pleased to learn that both Catarina and Francesca Noel occupy lofty positions in the hierarchy of Noel Films.”
“I’m sensing a but in there somewhere.”
“Robaire Noel, the prodigal son, is the family black sheep. He flunked out of USC after a single semester. Although he still lives on the family dime, he’s estranged from them.”
“What else?”
“He fancies himself a great artist.”
“Don’t tell me. Graffiti?”
“Bingo.”
“Where on the family dime does he live?”
“Cell phone tracking narrows the search to two locations. One in Beverly Hills. The other here.”
“In Freedom?”
“Yes.”
“321 Meeker Street.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m the Sheriff’s Chief Deputy. I know everything.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “Get yourself some new material. Oh, and Messrs Van Cleave and Henderson are cooling their jets in separate cells.”
“The football players.”
“Them.”
“I’m on my way.”
“They’ll be pleased to know that. One of them has already threatened to rip the bars out of the wall.”
“Terrifying.”
“Wait until you lay eyes on them.”