The Middle Sister Read online

  11

  4

  The next morning, I called my friend Gabriel Van Buren at Western Investigative Services, one of the larger PI agencies in the region. He and I used to work there as investigators and hired muscle. Now he owns the company. I told him about my being hired to find Lillie Manning and the circumstances in which I found her.

  Gabe said, “I saw it in the news. It didn’t surprise me. I never encountered Lillie Manning in person, but I always heard she was wild.”

  “What do you know about Marty Trask?”

  “He’s a smart retired drug dealer. Owns a club on the Strip. He’s what you call a survivor.”

  “I tried to run a background on him and came up with very little. I wonder what you might dig up.”

  “I’ll do that, and I’ll be thinking how you might return the favor.”

  At nine forty-five I was parked at the curb in front of Whole Foods in Brentwood, hiding behind a newspaper. Cal Lamont was sitting outside, tapping a paper coffee cup on his table. I assumed the Marty Trask team was nearby, but I couldn’t spot them.

  A woman in a black Jaguar sedan drove slowly past me. Cal nodded to her. I noted her license plate. She turned into the small parking lot on the west side of the market and walked back carrying a small black purse and a folded newspaper. She was a redhead, wearing oversize sunglasses and a dark purple maxi-dress. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, but she had a teenage bounce in her step.

  Cal and the redhead sat and talked. She pushed her newspaper forward, and a transaction took place under it. They continued their chat for two or three minutes, then she gave him a cheery smile and went back to her car. Cal walked into the market.

  The redhead pulled the Jag out of the lot, and I followed, hanging back at a respectful distance. She turned down through the apartment section of Brentwood, frequently looking into her rearview mirror. I looked into my own mirror, which was now filled with a white Chevy SS identical to the one carrying Marty Trask’s gorillas the night before. The same two gorillas were now scowling through their windshield. I turned right, and the Chevy followed the Jag. After circling the block counterclockwise, I tried to rejoin the procession, but I missed the boat. Both cars were gone. My first impulse was to kick myself for losing the redhead, but I didn’t have much choice in the matter.

  I stopped at the curb to call a DMV contact who could run the Jag’s plate. I got the name Sophia Strauss and an apartment address on Darlington Avenue in Brentwood, just two or three blocks from where I was parked.

  The apartment building was a common two-story design with a central hallway, driveway on the side, and carports in back. The unit I was looking for was unlocked, vacant, and smelled of fresh paint. On the kitchen counter were rental applications and flyers describing the apartment’s features. The management company would probably have the forwarding address for Sophia Strauss, but it would take a special effort to extract it from them.

  The carport space assigned to the vacant apartment was empty, as was its storage cabinet. There were no name tags on the electric meters on the back of the building. Back in the apartment, I paced back and forth like Felix the Cat, which is how I frequently respond to an investigative dead-end. As usual, it didn’t get me anywhere.

  A woman walked through the open door carrying a Yorkshire Terrier. She was a tall, sixty-something brunette with big eyes, hoop earrings, and a flowery dress. She said, “Hi, I live down the hall. Are you thinking about renting this place?”

  I handed her my business card. “I’m trying to find the previous resident, Sophia Strauss.”

  She glanced at the card and tucked it away. “Private investigator . . . I used to date a private eye. I could never believe a word he said.”

  “I tell lies all the time, but only in the pursuit of justice.”

  She walked a half circle around me, sizing me up. Then she walked back to the door and looked both directions in the hallway. “Well, if you really want to find Cinnamon Strauss—that’s her stage name—stand on the sidewalk and hold up a handful of hundred-dollar bills. She’ll find you. By the way, my name is Myrna.” She stuck her hand out, and I shook it.

  I hit the jackpot with Myrna. We went to her apartment, and I sat on her sofa and mostly listened while Phaedra the Yorkie sat on my lap.

  From the other end of the sofa, Myrna said, “Sophia Strauss is Cinnamon Strauss, the has-been celebrity fitness expert. You may have seen her TV show.”

  “I may have seen it, but I don’t have a clear memory.”

  “Well anyway, a few years ago she was one of the hottest fitness chicks in town. Her show never went national, but it did okay in LA. On the show, she would always surround herself with girls who weren’t quite as pretty as her, or they had a few extra pounds on them. They weren’t bow-wow by any means, but they were always a notch or two below Cinnamon. By comparison, they made Cinnamon look glamorous.”

  Myrna wanted to talk, and Phaedra wanted to sit in my lap. I sat and listened.

  Myrna continued, “Eventually, Cinnamon got to the point where she didn’t look quite so good no matter what tricks she came up with. I think she was having some personal problems, and she lost her show. She lived in this building for one year, moved out last month. For about the last six months she was living here, she was stringing along a wealthy older man by the name of Ross Halliday. He’s a retired real estate developer. His wife died several years back, guess he was having a second childhood. The Halliday family’s been prominent in the area for years. They have an office up on San Vicente, not sure who’s running the show now. That old guy Ross has to be totally retired by now, if he’s still alive.”

  I was happy to get this flood of information, but I was skeptical. “How do you know all this?”

  “I’ve lived in Brentwood for forty years, in this apartment, another apartment, and two different houses back when I was married. I’ve got a wide circle of friends, and I know what goes on around these parts.”

  “Did Cinnamon have any other friends?”

  “People came and went . . . nothing out of the ordinary. Most interesting was this tall boy, I’d say five or ten years younger than her. He used to spend a lot of time at her place. Other than Junior, she didn’t have any visible male companionship until Ross Halliday came along.”

  “You wouldn’t have a name for Junior, would you?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Over six feet tall, long legs. I’d call him lanky rather than skinny.”

  “Hair and complexion?

  “Dark hair, pale skin.”

  “Any notable features?”

  “He was kind of strange-looking. From certain angles he was really good-looking, like an actor. From other angles, he was nothing to write home about.”

  “Did they have a close personal relationship?”

  Myrna fluttered her hand by her face. “I’m trying to think how to say this in a ladylike way, but from the sounds coming out of her apartment, I got the idea his most remarkable contributions to the relationship were not performed in public. But anyway, after Cinnamon started working on Ross Halliday, Junior’s visits became less frequent. Eventually, the sugar daddy was spending more and more time with Cinnamon, and then Junior vanished.”

  “What kind of car did Junior drive?”

  “I know nothing about cars, but I think it was an American car, dark color, made too much noise. When he would park out in front overnight and leave early in the morning, like six-thirty or seven, the noise from the engine would always wake me up.”

  Myrna finished her tale, and I set Phaedra aside and thanked both of them. That was one of the easier interviews I had conducted in the past few months. The subject was anxious to talk, she was rational, and she didn’t proposition me or throw anything at me. Every now and then, the conscientious private investigator deserves a painless, productive interview.

  12

  4

  Halliday Real Estate was
in a midcentury-modern office building on San Vicente Boulevard, not too far from where Cal and Cinnamon had met earlier in the morning. According to the company’s website, Ross Halliday’s son Richard was now running the business. I parked in the subterranean garage, and a few minutes later I was admiring a thick slab of stainless steel. The polished metal was bolted to a black lacquer door. Laser-cut through the steel was Halliday Real ESTATE. I tried to imagine how it would look as SALVO INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES. It looked expensive.

  I went through the door and handed my business card to the receptionist behind the desk. She had the colorless, well-presented look of a woman who had found the office job of her dreams and planned to keep up the good work forever. I couldn’t tell if she was thirty or fifty.

  An elderly man stood at the window, gazing outside. He was around ninety, wearing tan Bermuda shorts, a matching short-sleeve shirt, and leather moccasins with no socks. He wasn’t quite drooling, but his mouth had fallen into a sort of permanent smile. I figured he was Ross Halliday.

  When I told the receptionist that I wished to speak to Richard Halliday, she frowned and took my card into a private office.

  I stepped over to the window, looked down at the San Vicente Boulevard center median, and said, “I never get tired of looking at the above-ground root systems on those coral trees. Whoever designated the coral tree as the official LA tree ought to get a medal.”

  The old guy said, “I most certainly agree. Most people think the official Los Angeles tree is the palm tree. I say phooey on that.”

  A prickly male voice sounded from across the room, “How can I help you, Mr. Salvo?”

  Richard Halliday was in his fifties, lean and muscular, casually debonair in his tailored slacks and polo shirt. His bright blond hair was swept straight back. A confident leer was pressed into his face, which was pink from too much sun, probably from being on a sailboat. His wristwatch was slightly smaller than a dinner plate.

  The older man said, “Gotta go the little boy’s room,” and limped out the door.

  I waited for the door to close and spoke quietly. “I’d like to inquire about Cinnamon Strauss.”

  The receptionist, who had been standing tall and staring stilettos at me, averted her gaze. She plopped onto her chair, kept her head down, and started shuffling the papers on her desk.

  Halliday gestured toward his office. “Let’s talk in here.” He ushered me inside, closed the door, and gave me a bored handshake. “I’m Richard Halliday. Have a seat.”

  I took a chair and waited for him to get settled behind his desk. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, Mr. Halliday, but I’ve been working a missing person case, and I thought Cinnamon Strauss might be able to help me. I’m trying to find her.”

  “Before we get to that, I’d like to know a little more about you.” He scrutinized my business card, pecked at his keyboard, and looked up at me to make sure I matched what he saw on the screen. He typed a few more strokes and did a double-take at the screen. “You were involved in that shooting in Laurel Canyon a couple of years ago? Wasn’t that an espionage case?”

  “I just got a flesh wound. You should have seen the other guy.”

  Halliday looked at his computer display for a few more seconds. “Okay, you’re an established private investigator, and you’ve paid your dues. What do you want from me?”

  “I need Cinnamon’s current address and anything you might know about her activities and associates.”

  “How did you get my name?”

  “I spoke to a gabby neighbor at Cinnamon’s previous residence, an apartment down on Darlington Avenue. She seemed to know everything that’s happened in Brentwood for the last forty years, but she didn’t know where Cinnamon moved. She recognized your father when he was visiting Cinnamon. I found your name on the Halliday Real Estate website.”

  Halliday shut his eyes and slowly opened them. “Jesus Christ, this is going to turn into common knowledge.”

  “I have no interest in publicizing anything. I just want to find Cinnamon Strauss.”

  “If I tell you nothing and kick you out of my office, where do you go from here?”

  “I would go back to her old apartment and talk to more neighbors. The next step would be to burn favors with investigative agencies and other sources with whom I have mutual back-scratching arrangements.”

  “Where do you go from here if I give you her current address and tell you what little I know?”

  “I go to her front door and knock on it. When she opens the door, I stick my foot inside and start asking pointed questions.”

  Halliday looked down at his desk, smoothed back both sides of his already-smooth hair, and thought for a moment. When he looked up, he said, “I like that answer. I might be able to help you, but I don’t want any entanglements.”

  “My client wants zero publicity.”

  “I also want zero publicity. Here’s the story. Cinnamon Strauss was a personal trainer at a gym called Montana Fitness, in Santa Monica. Dad was almost ninety years old, at the point where he could hardly move anymore. I’ve been a gym rat for thirty years, but Dad never believed in it. He used to say, ‘Horses have muscles and men have brains.’ Finally, I talked him into going to Montana Fitness.

  “I should have picked the personal trainer for Dad, but he picked the cutest girl, who turned out to be Cinnamon Strauss. She started working with him, and he became a lot more active, improved his diet, lost twenty pounds, looked a hell of a lot better. I have to give her some credit. But she also wiggled her ass and led him on, made him think there was somehow a romantic relationship between them. Then she started draining him for money.”

  I tried to sound sympathetic, which wasn’t hard. “I can see how you might be steamed.”

  Halliday’s face had slowly turned a darker shade of pink. “She eventually talked her way into his will for ten percent, then she started training him hard enough to kill him. I’m certain that was her plan. They would go hiking out of Will Rogers State Park, up the trail to the wooden bridge. When they went for these hikes, if he met the time schedule Cinnamon established, for a reward he would get to see some tits and ass, maybe feel her up, right up there on the hillside. He admitted that to me. There is no doubt in my mind the gold-digging bitch was trying to push him so hard he would drop dead.”

  I wanted Halliday to keep talking, so I kept my response short. “I know the trail up to the bridge. That would be a tough hike for an old guy.”

  He continued, “She was living with some doctor. He had a house, I think in Santa Monica. I never knew his name or address, and I really don’t give a shit. Anyway, that arrangement came to an end, and she moved to an apartment, probably the one you saw on Darlington. Cinnamon gave Dad the full boo-hoo routine, said the doctor was abusive. Dad felt sorry for her, gave her money for expenses and furniture. He even bought her a car.”

  “A black Jaguar XF sedan?”

  Halliday pointed his chin at me. “How did you know about the car?”

  “This morning I was following her in her Jag. I broke away from the tail job, because a pair of tough guys in another car were trying to follow her, and I was the meat in the sandwich.”

  “Jesus Christ, is she involved in some kind of criminality?”

  “Can’t say for sure, but I’d like to talk to her and find out.”

  “If you already found her, why do you need my help?”

  “Based on her license plate, all I found was her old apartment.”

  He moved a yellow file folder from a desk drawer onto the desktop. “Okay, here’s the end of the story. Dad let Cinnamon stay rent-free in a small house in Brentwood, down south of the country club. It was one of many properties we own as investments. My sister and I had a serious talk with him, and he finally agreed to revise the will back to the original status. Actually, we talked him into leaving that ten percent to St. John’s Hospital instead of the whore. But Dad insisted on signing the house over to her, didn’t want to put her out on th
e street. The house wasn’t much, but the land is worth over two million. He also insisted on having the house fixed up. Roof, flooring, copper, electrical, windows, appliances, and more. And I’m sure he slipped her some cash.”

  He lightly slapped his hands on the desk. “And here’s the punch line. The moment the house was in Cinnamon’s name and the remodeling was paid for, she instantly transitioned from kissing Dad’s ass to not taking his calls.”

  I said, “I hate to use vulgarity, but that’s lower than whale shit.”

  He pointed the yellow file folder at me. “I don’t mind helping you out, Mr. Salvo, but I don’t want the faintest connection between anything sleazy and Halliday Real Estate. My grandfather started this business in 1950, and we have a rock-solid reputation. We’ve never had a legal problem beyond nuisance lawsuits from scammers. That’s what I thought you were when you walked in and presented your private eye card.”

  He looked inside the yellow folder, wrote something on a notepad, and stood up. I rose, and he handed me the note.

  He said, “This is her address. If she’s done something wrong, nail the fucking whore to a cross, and keep me and my family out of it.”

  I nodded politely. “I appreciate this, Mr. Halliday. And by the way, wasn’t that your dad in the waiting room?”

  He spoke with pride in his voice. “That was my father, Ross Halliday.”

  “I liked him. I like people who use the word phooey.”

  Richard Halliday finally cracked a smile.

  13

  4

  Cinnamon’s house was a cute little 1930’s Spanish, not far from Halliday Real Estate. The roof wasn’t tile, but the tile trim at the edges gave that impression. The fresh-looking tan paint job and white trim gave it a nice dose of curb appeal. Most of the older homes on the block had been demolished to make way for two-story mini mansions filling every cubic inch allowed by city codes, and in some cases a few inches more. If I were a house-dweller, rather than a condo-dweller, I would be pleased to live in Cinnamon’s Spanish-on-a-budget bungalow.