The Middle Sister Read online

  He wrote something in his notes and said, “Where does Cinnamon live now?”

  “That’s what I was going to ask you.”

  “If you never knew Cinnamon’s address, how did you find her in the first place, so you could tail her?”

  “One of the trainers at my gym told me she works out at Montana Fitness. I followed her from there.” That was a complete fabrication on my part.

  “How did you learn about my party?”

  “I bribed one of the parking guys at the Chateau Marmont to tell me what he knew of Lillie’s travels. He said the Blue Jay party was the “A” party, and it was at your house, and that would be the party Lillie would attend.” Another big fat lie. I didn’t want to cause a problem for “Tinker Bell,” the maid down the hill.

  Marty had been interrogating me in a calm voice, with a backdrop of threat. He was asking pointed, insightful questions, and he was asking them in a systematic fashion. I was giving clever answers that were not totally factual. I couldn’t maintain that tap-dance forever. Eventually, he would trip me up.

  He pushed his notes aside. “Let’s skip to the central question. Why are you here?”

  “Your boys were trying to follow me. They were driving a black Mustang and a white Chevy SS, and they were a trifle lacking in finesse. I figured you might want to talk to me, and I crashed the party.”

  “Just cut the bullshit and tell me what you want.”

  “The same thing you want. I want to know exactly what happened to Lillie Manning during her final hours. I especially want to know the identity of the last person to see her before I found her.”

  He stood up. “I don’t think we’re going to be able to help each other. Let’s go back down to the garage.” When he put the big Glock .45 back in the desk drawer, his suit jacket fell away, revealing a smaller pistol on his belt.

  I said, “First, I have to see that old radio.” I walked over to it. It was bigger than the usual antique console radio. “Is this an original Radiobar? It looks new.”

  “It’s better than new.”

  He lifted up the hinged top, revealing the underside to be a mirror. He swung out the two curved doors that fronted the upper third of the massive device, which triggered internal lighting. With everything opened up, spread out, and illuminated, there were sparkling glasses in racks, bottles of booze, bar accessories, more mirrors, and a little less than an acre of polished chrome.

  He said, “These things were popular in the 1930s, as a reaction to the end of prohibition. It was a pile of shit when I bought it. I had it restored from the ground up. Every square inch of wood was refinished, we fabricated new hardware pieces, and we did a lot more.”

  He reached down and turned a knob. The rich, clear sound of Prince singing “Little Red Corvette” filled the room.

  I moved back from the radio and listened. “There’s no way that sound is coming from the original electronics or speakers.”

  He turned the sound off. “The electronics are from a McIntosh receiver. We put in high-quality speakers, and the FM signal comes from a boosted roof antenna.”

  He folded the doors in and set the top down. “I would offer you a drink from the Radiobar, but the outcome of our business isn’t clear yet.”

  I said, “Speaking of outcomes, before you decide to cut my throat and throw me down the hillside, the guy I borrowed the Porsche from knows I’m here, and there’s a GPS device planted in the car.”

  “Does he know why you’re here?”

  “He has a general idea. I didn’t give him any names or specifics, just the address.”

  “The address is the same as my name.”

  “You might want to keep that in mind.”

  “I wondered how a private detective, working out of a cheap little office down on Pico Boulevard, could afford to drive a Turbo. Did it ever occur to you that you might be into things that are just a little over your head?”

  “Marty, in dealing with you, I’ve made a special effort to be cautious. I heard about those two gang-bangers in Santa Ana, the fellows with numerous small bullet holes in them. I think that was a year or two before you moved from Skyline Drive in Orange County to Los Angeles.”

  He tried to keep the surprise off his face, but the corner of his mouth showed a little twitch. “You’ve been doing quite a bit of research, Salvo. Research takes time and money. What’s in it for you?”

  “What’s in it for both of us?”

  “Easy answer. You keep my name out of things, you keep yourself healthy. Also, if you should come across any information you think I could use, it would be greatly appreciated. I never forget an act of kindness, and I never forget when someone fucks with me.”

  “I can appreciate that. I have a similar personal philosophy.”

  On the way down to the garage, Corey and the Asian behemoth were waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs. Franz’s Turbo was now in the garage. The doors and trunk were wide open. The car’s contents were laid out on the table, next to the contents of my pockets.

  My private investigator’s supply bag had been removed from the Turbo’s trunk and emptied. The items on display included my Smith and Wesson Model 64 and holster, two speed-loaders, two boxes of .38 cartridges, tactical flashlight, batteries, tool pouch, binoculars, KA-BAR fixed blade knife, duct tape, latex gloves, paper towels, and trash bags. My iPad sat next to the items from my pockets.

  Marty said to two torpedoes, “Put everything back in his car. Nice and neat.”

  Marty’s boys jumped into action.

  While I retrieved my wallet and other personal items, I said to Marty, “What happened to June?”

  “He is no longer with us.”

  “I hope you don’t mean that in an ultimate sense.”

  He laughed politely. “No, June was on probation, and he didn’t make the cut. I’ll give him a one-month severance and a pep talk on how to win friends and influence people. I believe in modern management techniques. I also believe in protecting my interests. Maybe I’ll see you around, Salvo.”

  18

  4

  Sunday morning, I drove the Turbo over the hill and met Franz at a coffee shop near his home. We switched cars, ate breakfast, and I recounted my adventures at the Blue Jay party.

  During the meal, Franz told an anecdote from his younger days in which he went to a party in the Hollywood Hills and met a beautiful actress. She had a fixation on race car drivers, she thought his German accent was cute, and she didn’t mind the fact that she was two inches taller than Franz, who could not believe his good fortune. On their first and only date, Franz had a major lapse in judgment and let her drive his beloved 1973 Porsche 911 Carrera RS. She spun it, smashing the rear of the car against the front door of a house. I had heard the story before, but it was worth hearing again. Every time Franz tells it, he adds a new comic embellishment.

  On the way home, I considered dropping by Cinnamon Strauss’s house. I considered it further and said to hell with it and devoted the rest of this day to loafing and watching football.

  19

  4

  A few minutes before eleven Monday morning, I arrived at the Hollywood branch of the Mirabeau Clinic. It was in a six-story office building near the boulevard. I parked at the lowest level, near the service elevator. I was dressed business-casual: T-shirt, jeans, and running shoes. As I approached the main elevators at the middle of the building, an electric cart slowly passed by. The driver was a muscular young man whose long face was topped with a tall sprout of hair. He reminded me of a carrot. His blue shirt was emblazoned with SECURITY in signal-yellow.

  According to the lobby directory, the Mirabeau Clinic occupied the entire sixth floor. The businesses on other floors included geriatric psychiatry, public relations, singing lessons, fortune-telling, acupuncture, chiropractic, colonics, and Kung Fu. I wondered about the sequence in which those services would be most beneficial to the average Hollywood resident.

  The elevator took me to the top floor, where t
he main entrance to the Mirabeau Clinic faced me. Instead of going through the frosted-glass door, I strolled the central hallway in both directions, scanning the signage and sizing up the floor layout.

  On the north wall of the west hallway, a sign said PHYSICAL THERAPY. There were separate doors for the patients to enter and exit, the latter being locked from the hallway. I stood near the exit door and waited. Two or three minutes later, when a young woman came out and walked toward the elevators, I slipped through the door. A short corridor led to a spacious room in which suspicious physical therapy modalities were being administered.

  There were two rows of beige treatment tables, most of which were occupied by patients of various ages, sizes, and shapes. Most had hot packs around their necks. Some of the packs might have been cold packs, but it probably didn’t matter. One accident victim was speaking slowly and methodically into his cell phone, explaining to his sales crew how he wanted them to arrange their schedules. Another was watching a cartoon on her tablet and grinning like an idiot while a motorized traction device rhythmically pulled on her neck. Three or four patients seemed to be sleeping.

  Two employees were also in the room, both white males, both clad in short-sleeve, dark-blue scrubs. The larger of the two was leaning over a table, talking quietly with an older female patient and arranging a blanket over her lower body. The roughly-drawn tattoo on his neck was all black, with no fill. It was the sort of tattoo one might acquire in an institution other than a tattoo parlor, especially if one had a lot of spare time on one’s hands. The other technician was pushing a cart loaded with clean towels. He was a sturdy-looking lad with a permanent smirk and a nose that had been broken at some time in the past, probably in a polo match. I slipped back into the hall before they noticed me and came at me with their brass knuckles.

  The medical offices were on the east side. Dr. Mirabeau had top billing. The other two doctors’ names were printed in smaller, less flowery lettering. The east hallway stopped short at a locked, unmarked door. I wondered what might be behind it.

  I went down the stairs and found that the east hallway on the fifth floor went all the way to the end of the building, where a locked door marked MAINTENANCE blocked access to the service elevator. My best entry point to the service elevator would be in the parking garage.

  Five minutes later I was at the trunk of my car, strapping on a leather pouch holding small tools, electrical tape, and a voltage tester. I easily could have passed for an electrician, unless someone were to ask me the difference between alternating and direct current.

  The locked service elevator was in a shallow vestibule near the east end of the building. No visible camera. The lock-picking features in my custom Swiss Army knife gave me a free ride up to the off-limits section of the sixth floor. I stepped into a dark room and let the elevator close behind me. My penlight showed the room to be the size of a single garage. It contained a well-stocked wine rack and a cabinet of expensive booze. Another rack held towels and bedding, all fresh from the cleaners and wrapped in plastic.

  There was a door on the west wall, which was the direction I wanted to go. I put my ear to it and heard nothing. The door was unlocked. I opened it silently and let myself into the next room. A heavy-duty locking bolt was installed on the other side of the door, and a similar lock was on the door straight across the room.

  The room’s main features were a king-size bed and a chocolate-brown leather sofa. Framed photos on the wall showed street scenes of Hollywood Boulevard in the 1920s and ‘30s. There were also photos of Dr. Mirabeau wearing a Nomex race suit and posing with race cars, and others of him wearing a paisley tuxedo and posing with other philanthropists at charity events. The Capitol Records Tower dominated the window view. From the bathroom window, there was a partial view of the Hollywood Sign.

  A small refrigerator and stove were integrated into the wet bar. In the refrigerator, next to the champagne, a glass jar held marijuana buds. In the bedside table drawer were cigarette papers, disposable lighters, two vaporizers, amyl nitrate “poppers,” and little plastic bottles holding various pills and substances I did not recognize. I took photos with my iPhone.

  Leaning my head against the other door, I heard nothing, peeked inside, and entered Dr. Mirabeau’s personal office.

  I estimated the mahogany desk at five hundred pounds. It was intricately carved and had too many inlays. A high-back leather executive chair sat behind it, with two matching guest chairs in front. The desk telephone was an ornate, Victorian-era design. The potential information sources were the desk drawers and the desktop computer.

  I cautiously cracked open the door on the west wall. At the end of a long, dim hallway was a brightly illuminated room holding file cabinets. Faint voices floated from that direction. I closed the door silently and turned a locking handle that would prevent anyone from entering the office, even with a key.

  Mirabeau’s computer was password-protected, and I didn’t have the hacking skills to break in. Most of the paper files in the desk related to Mirabeau’s investments and attorneys. I was photographing them as fast as I could when a female voice sounded from the hallway. I crept to the door and listened. The voice faded. I was ahead of the game, and it was time to go. I replaced the desk contents, put the door lock back to its original position, and retreated to the service elevator. On the way down to the parking structure, I emailed the photos to myself. I moved my car out of the garage and put it in a metered space on the street.

  A few minutes later I was in the Mirabeau Clinic’s main reception area. A nurse sat behind the counter. At least she looked like a nurse, in her white uniform. She was young, tall, and big-boned. Her clear, creamy-tan skin made her white uniform look even whiter. She was frowning at the clipboard in her hand and talking across the counter to an older woman who was dressed for the Academy Awards: long slinky dress, expensive purse and shoes, too much jewelry, flawless makeup and hair. The older woman stood in a tall, confident posture and spoke in a sonorous voice. “I hate to repeat myself, but I simply don’t give out my age.”

  The nurse kept an even tone. “But the doctor must have complete patient information in order to make his diagnosis and treatment plan.”

  “I’m sorry, but one does not publicly broadcast one’s age.”

  The nurse softened her voice and hardened her big brown eyes. “We treat all our patients’ privacy with the utmost respect at the Mirabeau Clinic.” She pointed to the clipboard. “I just need this one little speck of information, then we can continue.”

  A long silence followed. During the standoff, I eased up to the counter and said, “I need the patient information forms.”

  The nurse shoved another clipboard at me without looking at me or changing her expression. I took a ballpoint pen from a cup on the counter and found a seat. On my left, two young women sat side-by-side with their heads together, giggling nervously and whispering. I leaned in closer to hear what they were saying.

  “. . . we got nothing to worry about . . . we have to run up the medical billing to the right dollar amount . . . this doctor is totally cool . . . we can definitely get some pills out of this.”

  I filled out my forms using the name Bill Edwards. I stated I had been in an auto accident (false), I did not have health insurance (false), the accident was the other guy’s fault and he had liability insurance (fantasy), and I had lined up an attorney (contrived). Gabriel van Buren and I had an arrangement with a law office to use their name whenever we needed an instant mouthpiece for any matter, criminal or civil.

  As I reviewed the fiction on my clipboard, the frosted-glass door opened, and a sweaty, overweight man lunged inside. The logo on his shirt said BAY CITY CAB. He held the door open for a pretty girl who shuffled in behind him. She was strapped into a plastic body brace and integrated neck brace. Her left forearm was in a cast covered in a rainbow design. She limped her way onto a chair and leaned at an angle, as though it was painful to sit any other way. She was in her early twenties, with flu
ffy blonde hair, big blue eyes, and perfect pink fingernails. She wore spotless, bright-white Bermuda shorts, and a striped T-shirt. The overall picture didn’t make sense, but it was about to.

  The cab driver approached the nurse-in-white behind the counter. “I just drove this woman here from Venice. She told me up front she didn’t have the fare, but she said the doctor’s office would take care of it. Forget the tip. Fare is forty-four dollars.” He looked at the girl in the body cast and blinked hard.

  The nurse’s voice was a flat monotone. “I’m sorry, but our medical office never pays for patient transportation. That is the responsibility of the patient.”

  The cab driver’s eyes slowly widened in the crawling realization he had been taken for a ride. He took a half step toward the body brace, caught himself, and went back to the white uniform. “Look, the fare is the fare. Someone has to pay it.”

  Without taking her eyes off a document in her hand, the nurse said, “That would be the responsibility of the patient.”

  The cab driver snapped his head back toward the girl, whose beautiful eyes were now focused on infinity and whose mouth hung in a forlorn droop. Her right hand vibrated with a newly arrived tremor. The driver’s lip curled into a sneer Elvis would envy. He bolted for the door, threw it open, and marched out. His voice trailed behind him. “Goddam fucking bitch whore . . .”

  The giggling girls were now silent, staring at the girl in the body brace. The grande dame had taken a seat, her date of birth intact; she sat with her chin slightly elevated and gave no acknowledgement of any awkwardness in the room.

  I completed the patient information forms and handed my clipboard to a young man behind the counter. He flipped through the forms and nodded. “Looks good.”

  I said, “I don’t have an appointment. Can you work me in?”

  “I think we can take care of you. Miss Montez will want to interview you first. Just take a seat. We’ll be right with you.”