The Middle Sister Read online

  Zara gave me a sarcastic left-handed salute and disappeared into the hallway. I sat at the table and started working on Lillie’s phone.

  There were fifty entries in the caller-ID list, mostly junk marketing calls. When a phone number accompanied the junk, I noted the entry on a three-by-five card. Six legitimate businesses had called Lillie: Pedro’s Pizza, Computer Scene, Bobette’s Nails, Hair Today, Cohen’s Liquor, and Squeaky Cleaners; I listed them on another card. There were also entries identified as private caller, unavailable, or out of area, with no number provided—all useless.

  Zara appeared in the doorway. “Did you find anything?”

  “Not much. How about you?”

  She leaned against the door jamb with her arms folded. “Okay, here’s my report. Her luggage is gone, no toothbrush in the bathroom. Both bathrooms are bone-dry, refrigerator is almost empty, no kitchen trash, wastebaskets are empty. The towels are fresh in both bathrooms, and the bed hasn’t been slept in. I can guarantee you the last person to see this place was the maid. If Lillie had been here for fifteen minutes, there would be some sort of mess. The maid comes on Mondays, and that was two days ago. Did you solve the case yet?”

  “It appears that six retail businesses called Lillie on this phone during the two weeks prior to her disappearance. Do you know any of these places?” I stood up and handed her the appropriate card.

  She studied it. “I’ve eaten at Pedro’s Pizza a few times. I’ve never been to Computer Scene, but I understand it’s quite popular. Never heard of Bobette’s Nails. I went to Hair Today one time and didn’t like them. Five or six years ago I was one of Cohen’s Liquor’s best customers, but I haven’t been there for years. Squeaky Cleaners is my favorite dry cleaner of all time, but since I moved to Brentwood, I have to use a cleaner at a more convenient location.”

  I waved the second card at her. “These are the marketing calls that gave a phone number. No guarantee that the numbers are honest, but I can work on them later if I run out of leads. The other calls were from unlisted numbers. I figure these are mostly Lillie’s family and friends, all of whom are likely to have unlisted numbers.”

  She nodded. “I would agree with that. Some of those calls might be from Lillie herself, when she’s out and about, when she uses her cell phone to check for messages at home. We all have cell phones and landlines, because we prefer the sound quality on the landlines when we have a choice in the matter. Where do we go from here?”

  “On the other occasions when Lillie vanished, where was she hiding out?”

  “With different friends.”

  “That’s the usual pattern. My plan is to interview her friends and ask what they know and the names of anyone else who might know Lillie’s whereabouts. Some of the stories I get probably won’t hold up. I will bust the false stories, someone will crack, and we will find Lillie. Tell me about Lillie’s close friends.”

  “Lillie’s current boyfriend is a low-bred rogue named Rod Damian. He’s a somewhat successful male model and a conspicuously unsuccessful actor. He makes some money modeling, but male models don’t make very much. Plus, he sponges off of Lillie. He is impossibly good-looking, but no respectable woman would touch him with a vaccinated crowbar.”

  “How smart is he?”

  “His street-smart IQ is over two hundred. With regard to intellectual IQ, he has to unzip his pants to count to eleven.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Beverly Glen. He has a small house he inherited from his two-bit con-man father.”

  “Did you call him when Lillie vanished?”

  “I don’t have a speaking relationship with him.”

  “You must have told him what you thought of him.”

  “But I didn’t sugar-coat it, as I just did for you.”

  “How about other friends?”

  “Her best friend Nikki Wolf goes back to grammar school. She’s a graduate student at Cal State Northridge, getting close to her master’s in speech language pathology. She loves to work with children, but she really doesn’t need to work at all. Her family is quite well-off. She has a house down by Roxbury Park. Nikki has never drunk more than a cocktail or two, she has never done drugs, and she has never swum out to meet troop ships. To my amazement, she and Lillie have always been close friends. I called Nikki on Monday, and she said she has no idea where Lillie might be hiding out.”

  “Who else did you call?”

  “A girl named Viola Klein. She didn’t know anything either, at least she said she didn’t. Viola functions as Lillie’s sidekick, watches her back. I would say she is Lillie’s second-oldest friend, going back to middle school.”

  “Does Viola do anything productive?”

  “She can only do four things, three of which are eat, sleep, and talk. She is pathologically lazy, and it’s a shame, because she’s smart and talented, has a degree from Berkeley in history. She started a PhD program and dropped out, simply because she didn’t want to do the work. She also could have been an accomplished keyboardist if she didn’t spend all her time shopping, lazing around, and chasing boys. She and Lillie like to go out together dressed in clothing that would best be described as lingerie. They compete to see how many boys they can tempt to approach them. Then they compete to see who can crush the boys with the best put-down line. It’s comically superficial.”

  “I take it you phoned Viola and asked about Lillie’s whereabouts.”

  “I called both Viola and Nikki, and, as I mentioned, I called the building management at this place, but I learned nothing.”

  “Did your mother or sister make any attempt to track down Lillie?”

  “Mother is leaving it up to me. Arden is busy with school, and she wouldn’t be comfortable dealing with Lillie’s friends. It’s better if I do it. Lillie’s friends are mostly parasites, and she goes through them fast. Generally speaking, she doesn’t get along with other girls. She can get into a catfight at the drop of a hat. She always likes to keep an aspiring boyfriend or two on probationary status. Sometimes she invites two of them to her place at the same time, to see how they deal with it. Her favorite outcome is a fight.”

  “What are the demons driving this behavior?”

  “Too numerous to list, but here’s a humdinger. I might as well tell you, because it’s not exactly a secret. A few years ago, my mother was angry at my father for all his affairs. She retaliated by having an affair with a Saudi prince. Lillie was the result. As you can see in photos, she doesn’t favor the rest of the family. Everyone in town knew about Lillie’s parentage, especially her classmates. When she was in high school at Harvard Westlake, her primary tormentor was a girl who used to refer to Mother as ‘the camel-fucker fucker.’ Lillie ‘accidentally’ pushed the little bitch down a flight of stairs, fracturing her skull. I have to admit I was on Lillie’s side on that one.”

  “Was Lillie tagged for the infraction?”

  “No, she had a friend who claimed she accidentally stumbled and pushed Lillie, causing the accident.”

  “Was it Nikki who gave the alibi?”

  “As a matter of fact, it was Nikki. That’s probably the only dishonest thing she ever did.”

  “I’ll need contact information for Nikki and Viola, and I’ll need you to call them and give me an introduction. I think I’ll take Rod by surprise.”

  Zara sat at the table and pulled a phone, notebook, and ballpoint from her purse. She positioned everything just how she wanted and called Nikki Wolf. Nikki said she still hadn’t heard from Lillie, and she would be happy to meet with Mr. Salvo later in the day. Zara scheduled me for four p.m.

  Zara’s conversation with Viola Klein was more entertaining. “Hi, Viola. This is Zara Manning. Lillie hasn’t been seen for at least six days, and Mother is freaking out . . . you haven’t seen her . . . oh well. Anyway, Mother has hired a private detective, and I’m the Girl Friday. He’s here now in Lillie’s condo, looking at things and asking questions. Could he come over to your place and talk to you thi
s afternoon?”

  I held up three fingers.

  Zara said to Viola, “How about three o’clock? . . . okay, I’ll give him your address and number . . . hang on for a second.” She looked me up and down as though she were inspecting a tall floral arrangement. Speaking at a somewhat reduced volume, she said, “Not bad. Probably close to forty, a little over six feet. Pretty solid, definitely not fat. He’s wearing a nice sport coat and slacks, looks tailored, Breguet watch . . . I couldn’t believe it either . . . I have no idea where he gets his money—maybe hiding in hotel room closets.” She shot a devilish laugh back at something Viola said. “Okay, he’ll be there at three, bye.”

  Referring to the contacts on her phone, Zara wrote into her notebook. Her pen moved quickly, producing an elegant cursive script. She tore out the sheet and handed it to me. “These are the addresses and phone numbers you’ll need.”

  I glanced at it and folded it into my pocket. “Thanks. Now here’s another approach. Where does Lillie usually hang out?”

  “Katana, Chateau Marmont, Coucher Du Soleil, The Terrace at the Sunset Tower, and . . . let me think . . . the Fairmont, in Santa Monica. I’ll think of more places later.”

  “Why don’t we make the rounds and grab lunch? Are you hungry?”

  She gave me the uniquely female face that blends boredom and amusement. “Are you suggesting a lunch date?”

  “I’m suggesting you have entrée to the classier joints, and I don’t. You can talk to the management, maybe get a lead on Lillie’s whereabouts. I can talk to the parking valets. Those are the guys who know what really goes on.”

  “By all means, let’s have lunch at a classy joint. And I almost forgot about the business aspect of our arrangement. How much do you charge for your services?”

  “Three hundred an hour and expenses. I’ll need a retainer of twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Twenty thousand? That’s preposterous.”

  I slipped a client retainer contract from an inside jacket pocket and handed it to her. “That’s the going rate for top-quality PI work. I don’t nickel-and-dime expenses, and I don’t chisel on the hours. If I don’t use all the hours, you get a refund.”

  “Do we look like the sort of family who would stiff you?”

  “You look like the sort of family who didn’t gain wealth by being deferential.”

  I got one of those heavy silences that makes time stop.

  I said, “If I didn’t do it this way, I’d spend half my time collecting from deadbeats.”

  She folded the contract into a small rectangle and shot it into her purse with a quick flick of the wrist. “I’ll talk to the accountant.”

  I looked at my notes. “After lunch, we should also swing by Pedro’s Pizza and those other places that were on Lillie’s phone. You might recognize someone who can help us out.”

  During the elevator ride down to the lobby, there was no conversation, but I thought I heard her snarl the word deadbeat.

  Coucher Du Soleil was a Sunset Strip restaurant I used to frequent in my younger days. We parked in back and walked around to the front.

  I said, “You want a sidewalk table with the tourists and the phonies, or do you want an inside table with the real Hollywood people?”

  “Let’s sit outside. It might reduce the volume of hot air.”

  A waiter pointed us to a table, and we took it. A man who turned out to be the owner came outside and told Zara how glad he was to see her. She asked about Lillie, but we got no usable information.

  While we waited for our food, I pulled out my iPhone and showed Zara one of the investigative databases I subscribe to.

  She leaned in for a closer look. “Let’s find Cleo Baldini. She’s a real estate agent.”

  I let Zara type in the name. The results popped up instantly.

  She said, “Forty-four years old, about what I thought. She puts her makeup on with a trowel and claims to be thirty-six.”

  “How does she rate such special attention?”

  “Last year I sold a five-million-dollar house for her. I referred a friend, the friend bought the house for cash the same week, and Cleo got a huge commission. I didn’t even get a thank-you call.”

  “She should have bought you a Lalique crystal something-or-other and delivered it in person. And it should have been in the original packaging, so you could exchange it for what you really want.”

  “Exactly.” A sly smile crept across her face. “A wisecracking private detective with social know-how. What will they think of next?”

  I let that one blend into the restaurant’s polite chatter.

  After lunch, we visited other eateries and bars known to be Lillie’s favorites. We covered a lot of territory and made good time. At each location, we got a similar reception. Zara walked in cool and slow, and stood perfectly still. Her head did not turn. Her eyes did not wander. She let her imperial presence do the talking. The manager, maître D, or owner would skate across the floor and proclaim they were honored to be in her presence and anxious to follow her instructions. Different phrasing, but the message was always the same. It was fun to tag along and watch Zara work the room, but we gained no information on Lillie’s whereabouts.

  Zara tagged along while I talked to parking valets. Three of them knew of Lillie Manning and her boyfriend Rod Damian, but none of them had seen Lillie or Rod recently. I gave those three my business card and a promise of compensation for any useful information.

  Next, we visited the six businesses that were on Lillie’s caller ID. When parking was scarce, I dropped off Zara and drove around the block or waited in the car. We took that approach at three of the six: Pedro’s Pizza, Bobette’s Nails, and Hair Today. On all three attempts, Zara came back to the car giving me a thumbs-down.

  When we went into Squeaky Cleaners, the manager said Lillie was a very good customer, and he missed her, but he hadn’t seen her for two weeks.

  The owner of Cohen’s Liquor said how happy he was to see Zara again after all this time. He had not seen Lillie for about two weeks, and he was sorry he couldn’t help.

  Computer Scene employed a take-a-number system to keep track of their customers. When we arrived, they were helping number 21. We were number 33. Zara held our place in line while I wandered around and unsuccessfully tried to find a manager or access to the offices.

  I rejoined Zara and said, “I don’t see any shortcuts here. We’re going to have to stand in line.”

  She leaned into me and spoke softly. “And when we finally work our way up to the front and say we’re looking for personal information on a customer, they’re going to tell us to shove it.”

  “You are starting to understand the realities of private investigative work. This is a low value target, and I have more important things to do. I say to hell with it for now, and maybe I’ll come back later.”

  We drove back to Holmby Towers, so Zara could pick up her car. She volunteered to drop by another of Lillie’s hangouts: The Bungalow, a fashionable watering hole at the Fairmont Miramar Hotel in Santa Monica. She also promised to make more phone calls and see what she could dig up. We agreed to meet at my office the next morning at ten.

  3

  4

  The address I had for Rod Damian was in Beverly Glen, an artsy-woodsy neighborhood clinging to the eastern side of Bel Air. The “Glen” is reminiscent of Laurel Canyon, but with a lesser chronicle of gruesome murders and paranormal folklore. If the neighborhood could talk, it would scream, “Hey, look! We’re laid-back!”

  I drove west on Sunset, swung north on Beverly Glen Boulevard, and found Rod Damian’s narrow street about a mile and a half up the canyon. The eroded asphalt twisted up a steep, wooded hillside. The houses were mostly multi-level and set on small lots. At some points, the roadway was hard to distinguish from the driveways. I slowed to walking speed when overhanging foliage dragged on my car’s roof.

  Damian’s house was a boring, clapboard-and-stucco single-story. Across the street was a steep, bare hil
lside. Below his house was a towering metal-and-glass residence that looked like a spaceship from a low-budget movie. The dry-stacked stone wall in front added an ironic contrast. Above Damian’s house was a rustic stone cottage that looked like it might have been built by the Seven Dwarfs. At the side of the Dwarf house, a tiny electric car was plugged into a receptacle. A red Corvette was parked in front.

  I parked on a dirt stretch near the spaceship, trudged back up the hill, and stopped at Damian’s driveway. Music floated softly from the back yard. I followed the music. Behind the house was a concrete patio and a freestanding single garage. No grass, a few bedraggled plants along the sides. The garage door was up, and a shiny black Porsche 911 convertible was inside.

  A barefoot man in his twenties stood at the rear of the car. He wore gym shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Sunlight sprinkled through the slowly swirling overhead leaves and cast moving patterns on his chiseled features and ropy, muscular body. He was polishing the lettering on the rear of the car using a Q-tip. A portable stereo sitting on a redwood table emitted complex guitar melodies at a low volume.

  I said, “The guitar sounds like Wes Montgomery.”

  He finished outlining the s in Porsche, dropped the soiled Q-tip into a squarely-folded paper grocery bag, and turned toward me with the serene ease of a thousand photo shoots. His eyes were dark and unreadable.

  I said, “Have you seen Lillie Manning recently?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Jack Salvo. Greta Manning hired me to find Lillie.” I stepped forward, handed him my business card, and stepped back a couple of paces.

  He took his time reading it. His lips didn’t exactly move, nor were they stone-steady.

  I said, “Are you Rod Damian, or did I get the wrong house?”

  “You came to the right place, but I can’t help you. I haven’t seen Lillie since the weekend. She’s a headstrong girl. She had a fight with her mother, and when she gets mad at her mother, she gets mad at everyone. She’ll cool off, and eventually she’ll come back to civilization.”