Smoke and Mirrors - Hollywood Knights One (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

At some ungodly hour the next morning, Lori and I
headed for the airport — Ontario, which was nearby, instead of LAX,
which might as well have been on the other side of the planet. We
went through the typical rigmarole and enjoyed a smooth flight (and
a brief nap) all the way to Chicago. When we arrived at O’Hare, we
went through more rigmarole, rented a car, and headed toward the
northern suburbs of the Windy City.

I’d been to Chicago a couple of times in the past,
during investigations, but it was obvious that Lori never had. She
stared out the window with wide eyes, trying to take in
everything.

Lori had grown up in a fairly rural part of Oregon,
not too close to the major cities but close enough to have visited
them some. She attended college for a while in the same smallish
city where she’d lived her whole life. Then she’d visited Los
Angeles and never left. Granted, where we lived in the sprawl
wasn’t really the same as being in the heart of the city, but
still.

It wasn’t the big city thing that had her attention,
but the newness. The sense of looking out on part of the world
she’d only read about. The adventure, the experience. I knew that
feeling well; experiencing it on occasion was one of the best parts
of my job.

I figured part of the city’s allure stemmed from the
face that Lori was a big fan of a series of books set in Chicago. I
myself couldn’t help thinking about that series and its characters
as we made our way north. Mostly, I found myself hoping we didn’t
end up in the same world of hurt that the main character always
landed in.

With the help of Lori and the navigation app on her
phone, I found the address I’d gotten from the record search. The
neighborhood seemed like a good one: well-kept lawns, late model
sedans, a playground on the corner, and nary a sign of peeling
paint or boarded windows. The Harvey house was a modest
ranch-style, newish, with tan walls and white trim. It didn’t look
like the home of a felon, but then thieves don’t steal in order to
live in the ghetto.

I parked the car on the street, and Lori and I got
out, moving almost as one. I paused for a moment, my eyes on the
small case sitting between the front seats of the rental car. After
a moment, I left it where it sat, locked the doors, and led Lori up
to the front door of the tan and white house.

We exchanged a look, and then I took a deep breath
and rang the doorbell. A riot of noise greeted the chime of the
bell: a small dog yapping, a young voice followed by an older,
louder one, then a muffled thump followed by a not at all muffled
curse. A moment later, a harried-looking woman answered the door. A
bright-eyed, preschool-aged girl peeked out from behind her.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked, pushing her
honey-blonde hair back out of her face.

I took a good look at her. She definitely looked
like the girl in the photo that Paul had given me.

“Mrs. Harvey?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m Jenny Marshall. I’m a private investigator.
Paul Reynolds hired me. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The woman’s brows furrowed in a little frown. Just
then, a very young, very insistent wail rent the air.

“Wait just a moment,” she said. She shut the door in
our faces. A minute or two later, the wailing stopped and the door
opened again. “Sorry. Stevie’s not too patient,” she said, patting
the infant on her shoulder.

“He’s so tiny!” Lori exclaimed.

Mrs. Harvey smiled, and then she stepped back. “Come
on in. If you don’t mind asking your questions in the middle of a
zoo, I’ll try to answer them.”

“Thank you.”

Lori and I followed Mrs. Harvey into the house. She
gestured toward the sofa, and we sat. She remained standing,
presumably because it was easier to jiggle the baby that way. I had
a little experience with infants, and I knew they tended to get
cranky when their caretakers did anything as unthinkable as sitting
down.

“Mrs. Harvey, do you know a man named Paul
Reynolds?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Is he someone my husband
works with?”

“He hired me to find his girlfriend, Sarah Matthews.
She disappeared a short time ago.”

Layla frowned again and shifted the baby on her
shoulder. “I don’t know these people.”

“Maybe you should,” I said. I stood and pulled the
photo from my back pocket. “Since you’re a dead ringer for Sarah
Matthews.”

Layla took the picture from me and looked at it. The
little muscles around her eyes and mouth tightened and she sighed.
She handed the picture back to me and then cuddled little Stevie
like she was drawing comfort from his tiny form.

“That’s not me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I really didn’t think it was,” I said. “You look
like her, but not exactly. You know her, though. Don’t you?”

She nodded and closed her eyes, turning her face
toward baby Stevie.

“Your sister?”

She nodded again. I wanted to ask questions, but I
had a feeling that if I just waited, she’d tell me what I needed to
know. I was right.

“I haven’t seen her in a couple of years. She still
keeps in touch sometimes, usually sending me postcards or emails
from whatever city she’s decided is the ‘best place she’s ever
seen’.”

“Have you heard from her lately?” I asked.

“She emailed me few days ago, actually. But she
didn’t say where she was.”

Lori chimed in then on a completely different
subject. “You don’t seem surprised that she’s using an assumed
name.”

Layla sighed. “Nothing she does
surprises me anymore. And honestly, she’s been in trouble with the
law so much, that an assumed name
really
doesn’t surprise
me.”

I took the reins again. “I know this might sound
like a really strange question, but could I see the email she sent
you?”

“Sure.”

She turned and headed down the hallway, trusting us
to follow. The preschooler scrambled out of her hiding place behind
the sofa and scampered after us.

Layla led us into what looked to be a home office
and craft room. She ‘woke’ the computer, pulled up her email, and
gestured me toward the office chair —all with Stevie on her
shoulder. Even vanillas have better superpowers than I do. It’s so
unfair.

I plopped down in the chair and went to work.

Most people don’t realize this, but it’s
ridiculously easy to find out the city and state where an email
originates. It doesn’t matter what provider the sender uses; the IP
address is captured, and if you know where to go, you can trace
that IP back to the general area where the sender was when the
message was sent. It isn’t foolproof, and there are services that
mask the IP, but the basic email user using a basic email service
is easy enough to track down.

And Layla’s sister was just such a person; thirty
seconds on the computer, and I knew where she’d been when she’d
sent the email.

I read the email, which didn’t give me anything more
to go on; it was just full of questions about Layla’s kids and
chatter about some TV show or other. I was about to close out of
the web browser when something about the email caught my eye. I did
a double-take and looked a little closer, and then all the spinning
tumblers in my head slid into alignment and clicked open.

My heart thudding in my chest, I did a quick web
search to confirm my suspicions.

“Oh my God,” I heard Lori say from somewhere behind
me.

“Yeah. Crap.”

Layla looked worried. “What is it?”

“I can’t be sure,” I said, “but I think my
investigation just became a case for the FBI. I think your sister
might be in a whole lot of trouble.”

Once I was sure that Layla wasn’t going to fall
apart —or try to contact her sister— Lori and I hightailed it out
of there. I paused outside to call Erica.

“Hey,” she answered. “I was going to call you a
little later.”

“To tell me that the Sarah Matthews case is yours
now.”

“Well...yeah.” She paused a second and then said,
“The social definitely belongs to someone who is not Sarah
Matthews. It actually belongs to a man named David Jones, of all
things.”

“I think I can help you with this case, but I need
something from you, too,” I told her.

“Hit me.”

“I want to be there. I know it’s probably against
nine kinds of protocol, but I don’t give a flying fuck about
that.”

Erica huffed out something like a laugh. “Never
have. You can’t be there officially, but if you happen to be in the
same place at the same time, I won’t make you stand on the other
side of the yellow tape.”

“Meet me in Houston tomorrow.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone, and
then Erica asked, “Texas?”

That surprised a laugh out of me. It may possibly
have sounded more like a snort, but it was definitely a laugh. “No,
Houston, Algeria. Yes, Texas. Can you meet me tomorrow?”

“I’ll be there.”

“I’ll call you later,” I told her, and then I hung
up without another word.

Lori looked at me with accusing eyes. “You said
‘me.’ Not ‘us.’ ‘Me’.”

“Yep. You’re going back to L.A., honey. Erica and I
have known each other for a long time, but she’s not going to just
let you in on an FBI case, not even with me vouching for you.”

She nodded, but she looked unhappy. “Maybe I
could—”

“You’re going back to L.A.” I squeezed her shoulder.
“Trust me, okay?”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she sighed and
nodded. “Okay.”

“Come on,” I said and headed around the car. “Let’s
find some good ol’ Chicago pizza and then curl up on in the beds in
our overpriced hotel room and watch a crappy movie.”

“Girl day goes on tour.”

“Damn skippy.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The next day, I got Lori on a plane to California
and then boarded one headed for Texas. Once I got through baggage
claim at the Houston airport, I grabbed a rental car and went to
meet up with Erica at her hotel room in the very heart of the
city.

I’d never been to Houston before, and I was
immediately struck by the openness of it. After months of living in
L.A. and dealing with roads that made me claustrophobic, the wide
freeways were a breath of fresh air. The air, however, was a
different story. The humidity was so thick you could cut it like
softened butter, making the warm October day feel like a sauna. I
kept the windows up and the air conditioning on ‘Arctic’ until I
was forced to find a parking space and hike to Erica’s hotel.

Bypassing the front desk, I headed straight up to
Erica’s room. I tapped on the door, and two seconds later she
opened it and let me inside. I barely had time to set my backpack
down on one of the beds before Erica pulled me into a hug.

“God I’ve missed you,” she said. “Remind me why I’ve
never talked you into coming to work for me?”

“Because you work for the FBI?”

She grinned. “Oh yeah.” Her expression shifted
toward serious, though there was still a warm little sparkle in her
eyes. “Speaking of which, you’re not here.”

“Got it.”

She filled me in on the game plan, and I nodded
where appropriate. When I got a chance, I broke in and said,
“That’s none of my business.”

“I thought you wanted to be in on this?”

I shook my head. “I said I wanted to be here.
There’s a difference.”

She sat down on the edge of one of the beds, and I
sat down on the other, across from her. Then I took a deep breath
and explained why I’d wanted to come. When I was done, Erica moved
to sit beside me and put her arm around my shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said.

“That makes one of us.”

Erica took pity on me and let me make use of her
hotel room for the day to try to catch a catnap. She headed out to
take care of business, and I remained behind, restless and worried.
I checked the time every two minutes, my mind unable to settle on
anything. Finally, I gave up on the idea of sleep and got ready to
leave the hotel room.

I dug my Sig out of the lockbox in my suitcase and
took a moment to load it and double-check that the safety was
engaged. The Sig went into its holster, and I buckled the gun belt
around my waist. Then I drew a turquoise hoodie from the backpack
and pulled it on the hide the gun. I made sure I had the special
laminated tag that Erica had given me, the one that would let me
get where I needed to in order to find her, and then there was
nothing else to do but wait. The hotel room walls were closing in
on me, so I figured I’d find somewhere else to do my waiting.

I got a little lost on my way to find Erica and
ended up taking the long way, driving around for twenty minutes to
get to a destination five miles from Erica’s hotel. I didn’t mind
all that much, though. Eventually, I got where I was going and
found a parking space that only cost a small fortune. The lot was
only a few blocks from my destination: a massive building teeming
with people. The evening was a little cooler than the day had been,
so the hoodie wasn’t as out of place or as stifling as I had feared
it would be. I figured those might be the only things that would go
right for the rest of the night.

I skirted the building until I found a door being
guarded by someone who looked like a Fed, and then I approached
him, the laminate Erica had given me held out like an olive branch.
He took the pass without a word, studied it and me for a moment,
and then said, “Agent Richards said to keep an eye out for you.” He
spoke into a two-way radio, and then we waited in uncomfortable
silence. A few minutes later, Erica opened the door and motioned me
inside.

“We got her,” she said. “She hasn’t confessed to
anything, but she gave herself away. It’ll be easy enough from
here.”