In Cold Blonde (23 page)

Detective Syd
Curtis was one interesting woman, Travis Taylor decided.  The private
detective sat in his Century City office surrounded by an array of computers screens
linking him to mainframes and databases across the planet.  But even in
the wired age, good old fashion police work and instincts were needed to crack
a case.  And that meant personal relationships with people who had
personal relationships with people who had personal relationships with people. 
And it was
that
network, the human network that had helped Travis crack
open Syd Curtis.

And his
investigation only confirmed an old axiom he believed in, you
never
know
what you’re going to find.

He’d started with the Department of Motor Vehicles.  The only real
paper trail he had.  When you apply for a driver’s license you are
required to provide proof of a birth date and social security number and, if
you have a valid driver’s license from another state, the driving portion of
the test can be waived.

Travis spent the last two years of his FBI career on loan to Homeland
Security and he spent a lot of time interfacing with DMVs all across the
country.  Valid driver’s licenses were prized possessions for illegal
aliens and potential terrorists so tough new measures were instituted to make
the licenses themselves much harder to forge. 

And he became quite friendly with Deputy Director Warren Welch of the
California Department of Transportation.  He called Warren who called his
friend, Joyce, who called her sister-in-law, Bella, and got Syd’s application
file pulled.  Elapsed time from Travis’s first call to Warren’s call back
with the goods, eighteen minutes.

Syd Curtis’s Social Security Number was 492-43-7490.  The number
alone told Travis something.  The first three numbers of a Social Security
Number are determined by the ZIP code of the mailing address of the application. 
And these three numbers, 492, indicated a Missouri address.  That was
confirmed by the birth certificate, issued by Truman Medical Center in Kansas
City, Missouri.  The birth certificate listed the birth mother as Amanda
Curtis and the father as Todd Curtis.

The date of birth matched her LAPD application.  But on the
application she’s claimed to be from Riverside, California.  Now it was
certainly possible that she was born in Kansas City and her parents moved to
Riverside, but since she lied about attending Arlington High School, there was
a good chance she’d never moved at all.

Judging by her age, Travis figured Syd had to be in high school ten to
fifteen years ago.  Syd was a very uncommon name so he was hoping to get
lucky.  He accessed the Kansas City School District database and searched
for Syd Curtis.  There were three students named Syd Curtis in the
district but two were male.  The only female, Syd Curtis, attended Lincoln
High School but dropped out her junior year.

Her home address was 1876 Tracy Avenue.  He checked the tax records. 
The property was owned in joint tenancy by Amanda and Jay Stevens, M.D. 

A wrinkle.  The last name was Stevens, not Curtis.  If the mother
divorced and remarried, that would explain the different last name, or there
was a chance the Curtis family moved.  Maybe they moved Syd’s junior year,
which would mean she actually transferred, not dropped out.

Travis logged into the Missouri Vital Records marriage certificate
database for the name Jay Stevens in Kansas City.  Travis had to set broad
parameters; Syd’s mother could have remarried as early as the year Syd was born
until last year.  That’s twenty-seven years and he was afraid he’d get too
many hits.  But only thirty matches came up and it took Travis less than a
minute to find the only Jay Stevens that married an Amanda Curtis.  They
were married on June 3, 1986. 

So the Stevens still lived in the same house.  Good. 

Next Travis Googled Jay Stevens + Kansas City, Missouri.  There were
a few hits about a boy named Jay Stevens who was the star of his little league
team, but then a slew of hits from the
Kansas City Star
about Dr. Jay
Stevens.  More specifically about his tragic death when he fell asleep in
his car after closing the garage door, but left the engine running.

The police ruled the death an accident.  Dr. Stevens was an
emergency room physician and kept very long hours.  His tearful wife told
officers it wasn’t the first time he’d fallen asleep in the garage, but it was the
first time he’d forgotten to turn off the car.

Travis found the date of the accident,

The same year Syd dropped out of school.

Interesting. 

On a hunch Travis ran Syd Curtis’s name through the National Center for
Missing and Exploited Children website and got a hit.  Syd Curtis was
reported missing by her mother, Amanda, on February 18, 2001.  There was
also a picture of a cute sixteen-year-old red head, undoubtedly Syd Curtis.

So Travis had a few questions.  Syd left home just one week after
her stepfather died.  Why? 

Syd Curtis is alive and well in Los Angeles but is
still
listed as
missing on the database.  Why? 

Does Syd’s mother even know she’s alive?  And if not, why?

One way to find out, Travis thought.  He used the FBI’s Reverse
Directory to input 1876 Tracy Avenue and get the home’s phone number.  He
dialed, heard the ring, then a tentative, “Hello?”

“Yes, hello, my name is Don Wofford, I’m a writer for the
Kansas City
Star
and I’m doing a Sunday feature on runaway kids.”  Travis decided
it wasn’t his place to tell Amanda Stevens that her daughter was alive. 
At least, not yet.  And he replaced his natural Texas twang with a flat
Midwestern accent.

There was a long pause, then, “And why, exactly, would you be calling
me?”  She pronounced her words very carefully but Travis could tell she’d
been drinking.

“I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Stevens.  I was in school with Syd, and
we were friends.  I remember that terrible accident, when Dr. Stevens was
killed, and I remember how upset Syd was.  A bunch of us tried to be there
for her, but I guess we let her down, because just a few days later…”  He
trailed off, letting her fill in the obvious blanks.  “Did you ever hear
from her, Mrs. Stevens?  Do you know where she is now?”

A long pause, Travis was afraid she’d hang up, but then, finally he
heard, “No.” Amanda Stevens’ voice was brittle, she was fighting back
tears.  “I never heard from Syd.  To be honest, I wasn’t that worried
at first; I was sure she’d get scared or run out of money and come running
home.  Every time the phone rang, I was sure it would be Syd.  But
the days stretched to weeks, then months, then… Did anyone at school ever hear
from her?  A phone call, an email?”

“No ma’am.  It was like she dropped off the face of the earth.”

“I think about her all the time, you know.  Wondering how she
is.  What she looks like.  Praying that she’s even alive.”  The
tears were flowing now.  “If God would just give me a second chance with
Syd, I would do things so differently.”

She blames herself, Travis thought.  Interesting.  “That’s
actually the point of my piece,” Travis said.  “How parents handle the
child’s disappearance.  How much blame the parents place on themselves;
what, if anything, they think they could have done to keep their child home.”

“I could have listened more,” Amanda Stevens said.  “I could have
chosen better.”

“Chosen better, I don’t understand.”

“My husband was a… demanding man.  He was an emergency room doctor,
under enormous stress, kept terrible hours.  Syd’s real father deserted us
and it was real hard on Syd and me until Dr. Jay came along.  Real
hard.”  Travis could hear ice rattle as she took a drink of
something.  “I couldn’t risk losing Jay.  No matter what...” she
trailed off, leaving the phrase unfinished.  Then she hurriedly added, “It
was best for both of us.”

But the unfinished phrase stuck with Travis.  No matter what…

No matter what he did to her, Travis wondered.  Travis knew better
than to come right out and ask, so he tread carefully.  “So you chose Jay
over Syd?”

A long silent pause then, “Yes.”  And then the dam broke.  Amanda
Stevens was sobbing now, years of guilt and shame pouring out of her. 
“She tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen.  Couldn’t
afford
to
listen.  You understand that, don’t you?  If Jay had gone to jail,
what would we have done?” 

And then Travis knew.  The stepfather was abusing Syd.  He’d
heard different versions of the same story so many heartbreaking times
before.  Abused by one parent, betrayed by the other, the only choice the
child sees is escape.  Some place different, any place different, no
matter what the risk.

There was nothing more Travis needed from Amanda Stevens at the moment so
he thanked her for her time and promised to let her know when the article would
run.

Part one of the Syd Curtis mystery was solved.  Syd ran away from
home when she was seventeen years old and ended up in Los Angeles.  Now
most kids with the same resume end up on the streets or doing porn, drug
addicted and all too often, dead.

But Syd Curtis ended up a cop.  How did that happen? 

The only lead Travis had was the woman Syd was living with when she
applied to the Police Academy, Andrea Templeton.  How did Syd and Andrea
meet?

Travis went online and Googled Andrea Templeton.  He wanted to
review the articles written about Andrea after her death.  And he found a
clue in a
Daily News
piece about Iraq war vets killed on the streets of
Los Angeles after surviving war in the Middle East.  It mentioned that a
brother and sister, both Iraq vets, were killed three years apart.  Amanda
Templeton, a cop, shot in the line of duty.  And her brother, Eric, a
paramedic, killed in a drug deal gone bad.

Interesting.  So Travis Googled Eric Templeton, and found three
pages of articles on Eric’s murder.  Templeton was stationed at Fire
Station 82 in Hollywood, and lived in an apartment nearby.  He was found
stabbed to death in that apartment along with another man, Ernesto Sian, who
had been shot once through the head.  No weapons were found in the
apartment.  The articles described Sian as a known pimp who had two prior
arrests but no convictions.  Eric Templeton had no police record.  And
as far as Travis could tell from the articles, no one was ever arrested for the
crime.

Something didn’t sound right.  What was Eric Templeton doing in the
same room with a scumbag like Ernesto Sian? 

So Travis called a friend of his, LAPD Deputy Chief Randy Tuttle.  Tuttle
worked Vice for a decade before moving up to head Robbery Homicide.  Travis
asked him if he remembered a pimp named Ernesto Sian. 

“Sure, he ran a string of young girls out of Hollywood about ten years
ago.  Used to pick them up at the bus station, get them hooked and put
them on the street.”

“You remember anything about his murder?”

“He was murdered?”

Travis laughed.  “Guess that’s a no.”

“I could pull the file, take a look if you like.”

Travis told him he wasn’t sure it was necessary at this point, but would
get back to Randy if he needed more help.

Travis didn’t believe in coincidences.  And Andrea Templeton’s
brother being found dead in the same room with a pimp who preyed on runaways
seemed like a big coincidence.  Travis went back to the Internet and checked
the date of the murders; November 16, 2003.  Just over eighteen months
after Syd ran away from Kansas City. 

Was Ernesto Sian waiting at the bus station the night Syd Curtis
arrived?  Could this decorated cop have actually been a hooker?

Had Eric Templeton somehow come between Ernesto Sian and Syd?  Was
he a client?  Had he met her professionally?

If Ernesto Sian kept his girls drugged up, Syd could have
overdosed.  If an ambulance was called, Eric Templeton could have responded.

Travis looked up the number for Fire Station 82, called them and asked
where they take drug overdose victims.  They told him St. John’s Hospital.

All Travis had to do now was find someone who knew someone at St. John’s
who would be willing to check the admittance files for the last quarter of 2003.
 If Syd Curtis had been brought in by Eric Templeton, he’d found his
connection.

Travis glanced at the clock.  Seven-thirty.  Probably too late
to follow up tonight; it would have to wait until morning.  In the mean
time, he owed his client an update.  He picked up his phone and dialed; he
was sure Anne would be fascinated by the new revelations about the increasingly
mysterious Syd Curtis.   Travis already had discovered enough to get
Syd kicked off the police department – lying on your Academy application
was cause for immediate dismissal.

But there seemed to be much more; Syd was a runaway, possibly a hooker
and corpses littered her past. 

Just the kind of dirt Anne was hoping for. 

Anne heard her phone vibrating in her purse but decided to ignore
it.  Ryan had just walked in and she didn’t want to give him the
impression that anyone or anything was more important than he was.

“Hey, Handsome,” she said getting up and hugging him.  She kept it
businesslike, no genital grind, hopefully that would come later.

“Trader Vic’s,” Ryan said, sitting down.  “I can’t believe you
picked Trader Vic’s.  I think I’m
still
hung over from that crazy
night.”

Trader Vic’s was a Polynesian-themed waterhole and restaurant famous for
lethal drinks and pupu platters.  It was attached to the Beverly Hilton
until a few years ago when the hotel relocated and downsized Trader Vic’s to a poolside
lounge.  But the garish decoration remained, as did the delicious but
deadly Tiki Bowl, Singapore Symphony and Rum Giggle.

Ten years ago Ryan and Anne came to Trader Vic’s to celebrate their
engagement.  They ordered a Scorpion Bowl, a vicious concoction of rum,
fruit juice and brandy, served in a bowl with a flower floating in the
middle.  The drink is so big it’s served with four straws, so a party of
four can share it.  Ryan and Anne liked it so much they ordered another,
and then a third.

By then they had invited everybody in the restaurant to their wedding, led
a
boisterous             
rendition of the Macarena, and to cap off the evening, made love in the middle
stall of the men’s bathroom.  Anne’s orgasm was so loud that Ryan and Anne
got a standing ovation from the crowd as they walked back to their table.

“We had fun, didn’t we?” she asked with a naughty smile.

Actually, the next morning Ryan was completely embarrassed by their
behavior.  He thought they’d been silly and obnoxious.  In fact, he
was surprised the other patrons had put up with their nonsense.  But over
the years Ryan had seen other
we’re-so-in-love-we can’t-stand-it
couples
make complete fools of themselves in restaurants and Ryan now understood what
was going through the other patrons’ minds:  Look how crazy in love those
two are, I remember feeling like that, God I
miss
feeling like
that.     

“We did have tons of fun,” Ryan said, smiling warmly at the memory. 
“But if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll stick to beer tonight.”

Anne laughed.  “Fear not, my Scorpion slurping days are behind me,
too.”   And as if on cue, a waitress arrived with a vodka tonic for
her and a Michelob draft for him. 

“I hope you don’t mind but I already ordered our drinks.”

“Not at all, thank you,” Ryan said.

“My pleasure.”  They toasted and drank.  Anne was pleased;
she’d chosen Trader Vic’s not for the drinks but for the memories, and from the
wistful look on Ryan’s face, it worked.  

It more than worked.  In fact, Ryan had spent the drive over to the
Beverly Hilton convincing himself that he was going to keep his relationship
with Anne strictly business.  He was in a relationship with
Syd.   Though he had feelings for Anne, she was the past.  Syd
was the future.  But looking at Anne now, remembering those heady days, his
resolve was melting.  Could you be in love with two women at the same
time, he wondered. 

And then he found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss Anne
again. 

Stop it!  You’re here for business he scolded himself.  “So,”
Ryan said.  “I don’t have a lot of time; anything I need to know before
the big presentation tomorrow?”

Like a fly fisherman stalking a wily bass, Anne felt Ryan slip the hook.   
No matter, she knew time was on her side.  “Okay, first things first; how
much of the thirty-four million do you want to put in the foundation?”

“Funny you should mention that,” Ryan said.  “When I first agreed to
take the money, I thought I’d put all the money in the foundation.  But
the more I think about it, the more I think I should keep some of it for
myself.”

“I agree completely,” Anne said.  We’re going to need a few million
to live on, she thought.   But she said, “Once the money is in the
foundation, you won’t be able to use if for personal use.  So if you put,
say, half the money in the foundation to get it going – seventeen million
dollars is an incredibly generous initial donation by the way – and kept seventeen
million for yourself, that would enable you to take time to assess your
personal needs, and if you decide you want to donate more to the foundation
later, you can.”

Seventeen million was a lot more than Ryan had considered keeping. 
But Anne was right; he could always donate more later.  “Tell you what,”
Ryan said.  “Let’s start with a twenty-million-dollar donation; it just
sounds better, you know, giving away more than half.  That still leaves fourteen
million for me, but I’m sure I’ll donate most of it to the foundation later.”

Not if I have anything to say about it, Anne thought.  But she said,
“Excellent idea.  And the press will eat it up.”  She dropped her
voice imitating a newscaster, “Cop donates tens of millions to charity.”

“I’m really not comfortable with the media,” Ryan said.  “They’re
not exactly a detective’s best friend.”

“But they’ll be the foundation’s best friend.   The more people
who know about the foundation, the more people you’ll be able to help.”

Ryan was very uncomfortable with his face all over TV, magazines and
newspapers.  A natural modesty was one reason, but there was also a
nagging concern about the tow truck driver.  He could see Ryan on TV,
remember him, remember losing his own Lotto ticket and realize the money is
really his.

It’s still not too late, Ryan thought.  Once he took the money, he’d
committed fraud.   For the rest of his life he’d feel guilty about
it.  For the rest of his life he’d be worried about a phone call from the
tow truck driver. 

Anne saw the sudden concern wrinkle Ryan’s forehead.  She knew what
that meant; he was worried about something, and for a righteous man like Ryan
it could only be one thing.  “Stop it,” she said.

“Stop what?”

“Stop over-thinking it, Ryan.  You’re worried about the tow truck
driver, aren’t you?”

Ryan nodded.

“First of all, he probably doesn’t even remember buying the damn ticket
much less losing it.  Second of all, even if he did, there is no way he
would have remembered you.  You were standing in line behind him. 
Third of all, even if he did remember you, he didn’t see you pick up his
ticket, because if he had, he would have asked you to give it back.  And
finally, there is no way he could know whether you bought your own Lotto
ticket.  He can’t
prove
anything.  He has absolutely no legal
standing.  Plus, remember, if you don’t take the money,
nobody
gets
it.  You’re going to do wonderful things with this money, Ryan.  So,
relax.  Enjoy Fate’s fickle finger.” 

Anne’s words soothed Ryan.  “I always knew you’d make a great
lawyer.”

Anne reached across the table taking Ryan’s hand.  “Reminds me of
what you said the first time you kissed me?  Remember?”

He smiled, remembering.  “I do.  I said, ‘I always knew you’d be
a great kisser.’”

Anne suddenly leaned across the table and kissed Ryan; a sweet, tender
kiss, short but full of promise.  “I’ve been wanting to do that since I
saw you yesterday,” she said, hovering, her lips inches from his, waiting for
him to make the next move.

“That bitch!” Syd said.  She was watching them through a pair of
binoculars from one of the hotel’s pool-facing rooms.  She couldn’t hear
what they were saying, of course; there’d been no way for her to plant a bug
with such short notice.  But she didn’t need sound to see what was going
on.  That bitch had kissed Ryan, whispered something to him and was now
waiting for Ryan to kiss her back.  “Don’t do it, Ryan,” she said to the
empty room.   

Syd had called her friend, Kevin Osaka, who was the Hilton’s head of
security.  Syd had led an undercover sting at the Hilton when she worked
vice.  A string of hookers were using the Lobby Bar as a feeding pool and
while the well-heeled male executives staying at the hotel appreciated the
convenience of free cable, wireless internet and plentiful hookers, the many
female executives staying in the hotel found the ladies of the night
degrading.  Or unfair competition.  Either way the hotel management
had to do something about it so the LAPD was happy to oblige.  Kevin and
Syd formed a friendship and when she called him a half hour ago asking for a
room with a view of the Trader Vic’s lounge, he hooked Syd up, no questions
asked.

Syd wasn’t surprised Anne was trying to seduce Ryan.  It’s what Liz
predicted, and from Syd’s limited exposure to Anne, what she expected.

This was the ultimate test, Syd realized.  She’ll finally find out
if Ryan really loved her.  She had her concerns.  From the beginning
of their relationship Syd had been the aggressor.  She’d jumped him in the
file room.  She was the first one to say I love you.  It took Ryan
another two weeks before he said those magic three words, two weeks filled with
Syd saying “I love you” followed by expectant gazes.   In a way she
felt she guilted him into it.  A feeling reinforced when Liz told her that
Ryan had trouble committing to relationships after Anne left him.

So, let’s find out where we really stand, Syd thought.  Okay, Ryan,
your move.

Ryan’s lips tingled.  His heart raced, his dick was rock hard. 
Jesus God he wanted to kiss Anne.  He wanted to ravage Anne.  Her
skin was so soft, her scent intoxicating.  A montage of images from the
hundreds of times they made love flooded his brain: fingers, feet, lips, the
nape of her neck, the sweet taste of her clitoris, her deep-throated orgasms,
the massage of a million small kisses, his explosive orgasms.  

Ryan’s eyes went from Anne’s big brown eyes to her full, luscious
lips.  For years Ryan had wondered what he had done wrong.  What had
he done to lose Anne?  He relived countless conversations looking for a
clue.  And he spent hours dreaming of a way he could win her back.  He’d
finally given up, feeling silly and juvenile. 

But deep down he’d always hoped for a moment just like this, another
chance to kiss her, another chance to make love to her, another chance to win
her back. 

And here it was. 

And though a fleeting image of Syd seared his conscious, the biological
beast that rules the subconscious blotted it out.  After all, it’s just
one kiss.  That can hardly be classified as a betrayal.

Just one kiss.

Ryan leaned forward, their lips met, and then their tongues.  
And she tasted just as good as he remembered.

“Oh, Ryan,” Syd sighed.    Syd lowered the binoculars,
heartbroken.  Syd knew that her world had just tilted; she didn’t know
what she was going to do about it.

Her cell phone rang.  She answered.  “Hello.”

“Alex Cortez, here, Syd, how you doing?”

“Fine, Detective,” Syd said, and her own problems vanished as she heard
the excitement in his voice.  “You’re calling me with good news, aren’t
you?”

“Does the name, Alice Waterman, mean anything to you?”

Syd ran it through her mental database.  “No.”

“Jonathan Battle, one of the names you gave me, was very helpful. 
He remembered this incident in high school, pictures of one of their classmates
emailed to hell and back.  The girl was naked making love to a couple of
guys.  You could only see her face, the men’s faces were never visible,
but Battle had heard rumors, rumors that Colin Wood was one of the guys
involved.”

“And Adam Devlin?  Were they both involved?”

“He couldn’t remember.  But he didn’t think so.”

“And Alice Waterman was the girl.”

“Yep.  Battle said she dropped out of school a few weeks after the
incident, doesn’t know what happened to her.  I ran her name but she’s not
in our system.  But I found out her parents still live in Santa Ana.” 

Syd had stuffed all her notes on the case into her backpack and brought
it with her.  She dug out the yearbook, found Alice Waterman’s
picture.  “I’m looking at Alice Waterman’s high school picture, Alex, and
I’ve got to tell you, this girl looks nothing like the Lady in Red.”

“People change,” Alex said.

“Maybe,” Syd said her excitement waning.  But a lead was a lead, and
Syd would run with it.  “Good work, Alex.  You got their address?”

“8276 Bella Vista.  I can meet you if you like, but my little one’s
got her dance recital tonight and I promised I’d be there.”

 “No problem.  My partner and I can handle it.  I’ll call
you with a full report.”

“Thanks, Syd.  Good luck.”  Cortez hung up.

My partner, Syd said to herself.  My backstabbing, bitch-kissing partner.  
She picked up the binoculars and looked, they weren’t kissing anymore, they
were talking again.

“Okay, that was a mistake,” Ryan said.  It’s not what he felt,
however; he felt like he wanted to kiss her again.  Right here. 
Right now.  But that would be wrong for so many reasons.  “Look,” he
said.   “I haven’t been completely honest with you; I’m in a
relationship.”