The Middle Sister Page 8

  There was no response to the doorbell. I could have dropped my business card down the mail slot, but that would have given Cinnamon time to research me on the Internet and weave me a tangled web of disinformation. I wanted my smiling, skeptical face to be thrust into hers, and I wanted it to be a surprise.

  I parked four or five blocks away, powered up my iPad, and learned a few things. In photos from her younger days, Cinnamon Strauss was striking. She had big eyes, a sensuous mouth, and a slightly cleft chin. In her workout videos, her flaming hair was pulled back into a ponytail. In other images, it was flowing over her shoulders, the way I had seen it earlier in the day. She was one month short of her thirty-sixth birthday.

  Her television show Strauss Rocks lasted two years. She had landed an occasional minor acting job in television and movies, always in the role of a Lycra-clad coach or personal trainer. She made enemies along the way, especially in the yoga world, which she had dismissed as “stretching for herd-followers.”

  On her web site, Cinnamon was now trying to sell herself as an artist. Her oil paintings had appeared in exhibits, but the serious art world pegged her as a lightweight. Four of her paintings were listed for sale at prices in the low five-figures.

  As I was reading, a call came in from Gabe. “Hey, Jackson, we found some interesting details for you on Marty Trask. Last month I hired a part-time girl. She’s a student in the criminal justice program at Long Beach State, the same program you were in before you turned into a philosopher. She has an Orange County connection, and that’s where Trask grew up. She put together a pretty good report. I’ll bet you’re wondering what you have to do to get the report.”

  “I’ll bet it has something to do with food.”

  “You have to pick up lunch for me and four of my guys, and while you’re at it, feel free to pick up something for yourself.”

  “And while I’m at it, I pay.”

  “Only if you want a mesmerizing summary of Marty Trask’s ascent from a trailer park to Hollywood Hills nobility.”

  14

  4

  Western Investigative Services was located on Olympic Boulevard in a newer medium-rise, not too far from my office. During his college football career, Gabriel Van Buren had been a linebacker. He still had the appearance of a bruiser, but he was a lot smarter than he looked. Gabe, two hungry investigators, and two hungry bodyguards were waiting for me. I handed out the food, and we all exchanged the usual insults regarding one another’s parentage, intelligence, and sexual bents.

  In Gabe’s office, he handed me a copy of the report I had requested. I ate my lunch and read the report.

  Martin E. Trask grew up in a single-parent home, lived mostly in Garden Grove and Santa Ana. Mother Eleanor worked as a dancer at local clubs. She was the crowd favorite at the most popular beer bar in Garden Grove for two years. Made good money on tips, bought a red Camaro, married the car salesman, Otis Trask. Marty came along soon thereafter, a little too soon.

  Father spent the family into bankruptcy and vanished when Marty was 2 years old. Mother lost her looks and worked in sales in the better department stores in Santa Ana: Buffums and Bullocks. Marty and mother ended up on welfare in a Garden Grove trailer park.

  There was a serious drug problem in Marty’s high school. Police assigned young-looking officers recruited from the police academy to pose as students. The narcs set up a lot of arrests. Marty was selling drugs, but too smart to do business with students or anywhere near a school. At age 16 and 17, he worked for car dealerships, doing menial work. Many of the car salesmen and mechanics smoked marijuana and Marty was a reliable supplier of the goods. By the time he was 18, he had a loyal clientele at the most prestigious Orange County car dealerships, mostly in Newport Beach. He improved his profits by switching from MJ to cocaine. He also expanded his clientele beyond the car business.

  Lived on the Newport Peninsula for one year, then moved to a house on Skyline Drive, in the hills above Tustin, county territory under the jurisdiction of OC Sheriffs.

  A retired Sheriff’s detective stated Marty was both intellectually gifted and street-wise. When interviewed by police, he was polite and businesslike, but he didn’t give up anything significant. Held in jail for questioning, he was assaulted by a larger inmate and put assailant in hospital.

  Marty knew how to cover his tracks, never convicted. The police never fully understood one event. Two Mexican gang members from Santa Ana were found shot up, numerous small-caliber bullet wounds. One died in the hospital. The other refused to talk. The police suspected they ripped off Marty, and Marty retaliated.

  Marty moved to Los Angeles in 2010 and expanded his drug sales further. He laundered money through a men’s clothing store named Azzure, real estate, and by importing expensive men’s clothing from Europe. He established his nightclub ShangriLA in 2012 and dropped out of the drug business. Currently hosts an exclusive Saturday night party at his house on Blue Jay Way, in the Hollywood hills. The in-crowd refers to the party as The Blue Jay.

  I said thanks to Gabe and his troops, and drove to Montana Fitness in Santa Monica, where Cinnamon Strauss had worked as a personal trainer. The club took the top half of a two-story building. The products and services offered by ground-level businesses included hair extensions, hair removal, yoga, and yogurt. I parked around the corner, next to the outdoor tables at a coffeehouse.

  I ran up the stairs, dodged a cluster of gym patrons and employees, and worked my way through the exercise machines. I ended up in the spin-bike room, where the only person was a middle-aged African-American woman wielding a Windex bottle and wiping down the bikes with a towel. She wore a pale-blue T-shirt imprinted with MONTANA FITNESS.

  I showed her a folded fifty and handed her my business card. “My name is Jack.”

  She read the card quickly and tucked it away. “I’m Antoinette. What’s happening?”

  “I’m looking for a woman who used to work here as a personal trainer. Her name is Sophia Strauss—also known as Cinnamon Strauss.”

  “That girl used to work here all right. I could tell you a thing or two about her.”

  “Tell me something interesting.”

  “When she first came to work here, she was livin’ with some doctor in a house around here somewhere. That deal went sour, so she needed some other source of comfort.”

  “How long ago?”

  She thought about it. “A little more than a year.”

  “Do you know the doctor’s name?”

  “No, I don’t, but then she got friendly with one of the members here, a really old guy who drove a Rolls Royce. He hired her as his personal trainer. Pretty soon after that, he was followin’ her like a puppy dog. I don’t know any of the details, but if she wasn’t squeezin’ money out of him, I would be seriously shocked. I would also be shocked if he was able to get much of anything from her. Father Time caught up with him years ago.”

  “What was the elderly gentleman’s name?”

  She made a special effort to pronounce the name clearly. “Ross Halliday.” She watched my reaction, smiling. “You knew that already, didn’t you?” She stepped closer to me, and a graceful sweep of her hand made the fifty disappear. “Thank you.”

  I said, “Can you get me the home address Cinnamon gave on her job application when she first came to work here, when she was shacked up with the doctor?”

  “Only way would be for me to access the club’s records. I get caught, my ass might be out the door.”

  “Would a hundred enable you to pull it off safely?”

  “An additional fifty for a total of a hundred would not. An additional hundred for a total of a hundred and fifty would turn me into Mata Hari, only I ain’t gonna get shot.”

  I showed the money before folding it into my shirt pocket. “It’s a deal.”

  She headed for the door, then stopped short and turned back. “You know, I’m not sure I can get that address for you, but there are a couple of women who work here in the gym. They like to tal
k about the members, and I heard them talkin’ about Cinnamon, back around Halloween. I don’t remember any details, but what they said was definitely not favorable. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  She went out the door, and I looked at emails and news headlines on my iPhone.

  Less than five minutes later, Antoinette returned with a piece of notepaper folded in her hand. “This is the address she gave when she first came to work here. Couldn’t find a later address.”

  “That’s probably what I’m looking for, and if not, you get paid anyway—for risking the firing squad.”

  Antoinette looked around for witnesses before slipping me the note. “I also got a couple of interesting gossip items. Miss Cinnamon got kicked out of a drug rehab a while back. It was a very expensive place, and the way the story goes, she caused quite a commotion on the way out. She got caught sneaking cocaine into the place.”

  “Did you get the name of the rehab?“

  “I tried to get it, but these girls didn’t know, and I didn’t want to appear to be too inquisitive.”

  “Do you know when this event occurred?”

  “Julia, one of the girls I was talkin’ to, said it was right after she started to work here. That would have been about . . . two years ago.”

  “What was the other piece of gossip?”

  “I heard something interesting about what happened when she moved out on her doctor boyfriend. Cinnamon was heard talking on her phone down in the parking lot. The gym members are not allowed to talk on their cell phones in the club, so they go outside sometimes. Anyway, Cinnamon was laughing and bragging to someone that she cheated the doctor for a nice little ‘exit-bonus’ right before she moved out on him. Pardon my French, but Cinnamon also called him the most conceited motherfucker she ever knew.”

  “Any details on the dollar amount or the method by which Cinnamon separated the doctor from his money?”

  She shook her head. “No, I think I pushed my luck as far as it’ll go, and I think I got the juiciest gossip there was to get. I hear something more, I’ll call you, but don’t count on it.”

  I slipped her a Benjamin and a Ulysses and said, “A total of two hundred is my final offer.”

  I returned to my car and researched Cinnamon’s previous address. It was a luxurious house in a Santa Monica neighborhood within walking distance of my condo. The owner was Dr. Marshall Mirabeau, a highly successful whiplash quack. He was associated with three medical office/physical therapy mills specializing in auto accidents in which the patient was never at fault and there was always an insurance company to fleece. His main office was in Hollywood in a building he owned. His other two offices were in Marina del Rey and Encino.

  During his college years, he had changed his surname from Vassar to Mirabeau. He had been involved in sports car racing, even when he was in medical school; to pull that off, he must have had some family money. He probably took the name Mirabeau from the famous turn in the Monaco Grand Prix.

  On the Internet I found photos of Mirabeau attending high-profile charity events. He was a flashy bastard with a toothy smile. Always smiling, always in the company of celebrities, always wearing a paisley tuxedo. Paisley tuxedos make my trigger finger itch.

  About six years previously, the State of California had tried to nail Mirabeau for an ambulance-chasing scheme. He skated on a technicality. I hit pay dirt when I ran his original name, Marshall Vassar. When he was an undergraduate at University of Florida, he was charged with statutory rape. The girl was fifteen. There was no conviction, but he changed his name, dropped out of school for a year, and moved to California for the remainder of his education.

  I wanted to go straight to my office, but I drove past Mirabeau’s residence first. It was on a wide street that dead-ends at Ocean Avenue. The lots and houses were generously sized, but not massive. Some of the houses were lovingly restored vintage homes from Santa Monica’s early history. Mirabeau’s house was of newer construction and was shielded by hedges, walls, and a tall sliding gate. I knew the neighborhood well. It was bursting with home security systems, small-minded private security guards, and large dogs. I thought I might try to contact the good doctor at his office Monday morning.

  On the way to my office, I thought I saw a black Mustang tailing me, a half-block behind. I swung into a parking space on the side of the road, and the Mustang turned off behind me. I sat there for two or three minutes, then pulled back into traffic. A familiar-looking white Chevrolet SS was now trailing me, four or five cars behind. I went around the block and continued on my way. Now the black Mustang was back on me.

  Instead of turning toward my office, I drove through Westwood Village and into the residential district east of UCLA, making no attempt to shake the following cars. In this neighborhood there was little traffic, but I stayed at or below the speed limit. One of the two following cars was always behind me, staying at least a block behind. I stopped in the middle of the street and leaned to my right, as though I were looking for an address. The following car slowed. I slowly turned a corner. When I was sure my pursuers couldn’t see me, I floored it and raced all the way up to Sunset Boulevard. No more following cars. I cut north of Sunset and took the back way to West Hollywood. I was thinking about crashing a party.

  15

  4

  Blue Jay Way meanders up a steep ridge in the Hollywood Hills and dead-ends at a cul-de-sac. During my drive to the top, the only visible humans were a FedEx driver wrestling a large box out of his truck and a construction crew framing a new house. It was unlikely that any of these hard-working men would have the time and desire to help me find a party house. More important, it would have been embarrassing to stop and ask for directions.

  I turned around at the summit and idled down the hill, stopping periodically. A potential information source appeared. I parked at the curb, stood in front of my car, and unfolded a movie star homes map I keep in my car for occasions such as this. A young woman wearing shorts and a halter top stood on the front lawn of the house on my right. She had long legs, short hair, and a wide mouth. A fifty-something, uniformed Hispanic maid stood next to her. The maid picked up a coiled hose and said the pansies needed water. I watched over the top of my map.

  The woman with the legs and the mouth looked up at me. “Who are you?”

  I refolded the map. “I’m a tourist. Do you know where the house is where the Beatles wrote the song ‘Blue Jay Way?’ I know it’s on this street somewhere.”

  She whispered something to the maid, strutted into the house, and shut the door smartly.

  I made a fifty-dollar bill visible against my movie star map.

  The maid smiled respectfully at President Grant, set the hose down, and walked toward me, brushing her hands clean. She said, “The entire Beatles didn’t actually rent that house, just George Harrison.” She pointed down the hill. “It’s right before the big water tank, on this side of the street. You can see it when you go down around the bend. Also, two months before Marilyn Monroe died, she did a photo shoot down there. You can see the water tank in some of the shots. They’re on the Internet.”

  She stepped into the street to get a better look at my car and to look me up and down with no attempt at subtlety. “High-powered BMW, Prada shoes, just the right haircut. If you’re a tourist, I’m Tinker Bell.”

  “I was kidding about the Beatles. I like the Stones. But what really intrigues me is the Blue Jay party, especially the address.”

  “I’m with you. I prefer the Stones, and I know all about that party.”

  I slipped her the fifty and my business card.

  She made the fifty disappear and looked at my card. “Mr. Salvo, the party is every Saturday night—almost every Saturday—and it gets going at nine o’clock. They’re very good about not making too much noise, and the crowd really isn’t that big. The party is very invitation-only, and it’s not a typical party. It’s more of a warmup for the beautiful people going down to the clubs on the Strip. If you show up at the door an
d you don’t have the right car, or you say the wrong thing, or you don’t have the right look, you don’t get in. Eleven o’clock, most of them start heading down the hill. They get a lot of pretty girls from the Valley and who-knows-where. They all want to be actresses. And there’s local men with money and nice cars. They want to get the girls.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “The maid grapevine. I know the girls who work there. They say the owner is a scary guy, but he pays well, treats them respectfully. They respect him because he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty when something needs to be done. I’ve considered working there myself, but I really don’t like Hollywood types.”

  “That shows a lot of integrity for this part of town. Do you know the owner’s name?”

  “The owner of the house is . . .” She held the back of her hand to her forehead and batted her eyelashes. “I’m afraid my integrity is starting to weaken.”

  I gave her another fifty, and she said, “The owner is Marty Trask. He owns ShangriLA, a big-deal nightclub on the Strip, and he owns some men’s clothing store . . . forgot the name of the store. I used to know it. It’s super expensive. You know who Trask is?”

  “I’ve heard the name.”

  She pointed up the street. “His house is on the right side, just uphill from that big palm tree. It’s all shiny white in front, goes way down the hillside. It’s on a big lot. Has three cute little palm trees in front.”

  I thanked her, drove back up the hill, and stopped two houses past Marty Trask’s residence. Three or four minutes of research on my iPad told me his house was under corporate ownership. That corporation was owned by another corporation. Marty Trask knew how to keep a low profile.

  I didn’t want to arrive at the Blue Jay Party in my BMW, because Marty’s boys had seen me in it. Also, pulling up in front driving something flashier would improve my chances of not being turned away. During my drive down the hill, I called my friend Franz, who owns an independent German car repair shop in Van Nuys. As a side-business, he buys and sells used Porsches. He is also one of the best drivers at Willow Springs International Raceway when the Porsche club conducts time trials. I explained to him that I needed to make a dramatic entrance to a Hollywood Hills party.