The Big Keep: A Lena Dane Mystery (Lena Dane Mysteries) (13 page)

“No, I’ve been checking, but I haven’t been able to find any indication that this particular Jason Anderson was suspected or arrested for anything. He’s not in any of the databases. But of course, that might just mean—”

“He hasn’t gotten caught,” she finished.

“Right.” I reached back to fix the messy bun I’d thrown together before I’d left Chicago, and realized that Cristina was staring at me.
 

“What?” I said self-consciously.
 

“You,” she observed, “There is something different about you, what is it?”
 

I froze. I hadn’t actually been planning to tell Cristina I was pregnant. I knew she would very much disapprove, and I figured I’d just wait and show up in LA sometime with an adorable, easy-to-love baby, radiating competence and clearly unaltered by my new role as mommy, and she would fall in love with the kid and
not
spend the whole trip lecturing me about my career path. I held my breath while she examined me critically for another moment, but then Cristina finally laughed and snapped her fingers at me. “Your hair! Baby girl, it must be four inches longer! Don’t they have hairdressers in Chicago?”

“You don’t like it?” I reached up to sink my fingers protectively into my long blond locks. “I kind of dig it long.”

“Oh, it is good long,” she reassured me, and I relaxed infinitesimally. “But it’s so shaggy, it makes me want to trim it myself. Maybe you should get it done while you’re here.” She leaned forward and started up the car.

Half an hour later, we pulled into the driveway of Cristina’s opulent condo, overlooking PCH and the Pacific Ocean. Cristina’s interior decorator had managed to represent her client perfectly with the condo. It was all creamy carpets and black leather furniture, with splashes of exotic color covering the paintings, curtains, and tabletops. The whole place definitely had a flavor about it–an expensive flavor. Cristina’s father was a cop, but her mother came from money – art money, of all things. Cristina had chosen to join the LAPD, but she had never really needed to worry about making it on a cop’s salary, which must have been nice. Toby and I were finally in a great spot, financially, but I still remembered the years of Ramen and bunny ear television when I was starting the agency and he was working through law school.

I dropped off my bags in one of her spare bedrooms and changed into my nicest jeans, a button-down shirt, and a black blazer. I wanted to be at least a little professional while I was interviewing people, although the running shoes probably tempered the effect some.
 

Cristina tossed me the keys to the Volvo, her day-to-day car. She’d take her BMW convertible to work while I was in town, which meant I wouldn’t have to expense a rental car. Most PI’s charge a per diem rate when they travel, and a lot of them cheat—charging the client, say $250 a night for a hotel room, and then getting a room that only costs $150. I prefer to just keep receipts and charge for what I need, which meant that Nate and his stepfather wouldn’t need to pay me anything for a car or lodging, since I’d be staying at Cristina’s for free. Everyone wins. Well, except for maybe Cristina.

I thanked her profusely, made plans to meet her for dinner, and pointed the red Volvo in the direction of Jason Anderson’s last known address.

15. We Trust Our Residents

I followed my phone’s directions onto the highway, heading north on the 405 and then east toward Studio City. I’ve driven in Los Angeles before, once for a case and once on a personal trip for Cristina’s fortieth birthday. Every time I get behind the wheel in LA it’s the same thing: I think I’m doing such a good job, I actually congratulate myself on my cool and skill, and then when I arrive at my destination I realize I have to peel my aching fingers off the steering wheel, one by one. Driving in Chicago isn’t a picnic, either, but mostly it’s a crowding issue—many cars packed into a tight space. I can handle that. Being on the LA highways, though, involves lots of swooping around and cutting people off, like a video game. Only there are no extra lives.

Jason Anderson’s last known residence was a shabby three-story apartment complex just off the 110 freeway near Ventura Boulevard. I parked the Volvo on the street (miraculously) and squinted at the building through the afternoon sunshine. The big stucco heap was the kind of place that was sold on freeway access, an included parking space, and nobody asking very many questions. I went up the cracked sidewalk and rang the buzzer marked “Manager,” stretching my neck from side to side impatiently. After a few seconds I pushed the button again, and again, and finally a harried male voice barked, “Yeah, what?”

“Mr...” I peeked at the mailboxes, “Galecki, my name is Lena Dane. I’m a private investigator, and I’m looking for information on one of your former tenants.”

Now, in movies, whenever a PI shows up wanting to ask questions, the askee invariably either answers them or turns to run out the back door, thereby proving their guilt. In my experience, however, it rarely works that way. “You’re what?” Mr. Galecki said, sounding skeptical.

“I’m a private investigator.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true, sir. I have identification that I would be happy to show you.”

“Listen, lady, we get a lot of solicitors out here, and more than a few of those people that serve warrants. I can’t just let anyone come in and look around.”
 

“Sir, if you’re concerned about my identity, please feel free to call Lieutenant Cristina Guitierrez of the Los Angeles Police Department. She’s an old friend and can vouch for me.”

There was a long pause and then a long sigh. “Are you going to pester me until I let you in?”

“Yes, sir, I am.” That’s what I do: I pester.
 

“Urgh. Fine.”

He buzzed me through, and I stepped into the entryway. It was mostly just a mailroom, with a tile floor and metal boxes covering the walls, but someone had made an effort to dress it up with a floor-length mirror and a sad-looking ficus. The interior door swung open, and a short, very rounded, sixtyish man peered out of the doorway at me. I held up my ID and smiled winningly.

“Mr. Galecki?”

“Yeah.” He sighed like I was there to beat him with a bag of oranges. “You better come on back.” I followed him through the interior door and down a poorly lit hallway, industrial brown carpet beneath my sneakers. He led me into a small apartment, which was decorated to the teeth in Musty Old Man, circa 1978. I was betting my new friend Mr. Galecki had been here awhile.

He sat down on a worn velvet armchair, and gestured to the matching couch across from it. “Just who do you want to know about, young lady?” he asked sternly.

I perched on the edge of the couch.”A man named Jason Anderson, but he may have been using a different name – that was kind of his thing. He’s not in trouble, I just have an urgent message from his son.” I pulled out the picture of Jason and passed it to the wrinkled old man. “This is him.”
 

Galecki took the picture out of my hands and studied it. “I think I remember him,” he said reluctantly. “About two years ago?”

“Yes. Can you tell me what name he used?”

“I gotta go look,” he said sullenly. I waited while he shuffled into the back bedroom. A moment later I heard the sound of metal file drawers opening and closing file. “He was here as Jason August.” Galecki grumble-called.

August? That was a new one. “Would you have checked his ID for the lease?”

“We don’t do that,” he said defensively, returning to his chair. “We trust our residents, and we don’t bother with that credit check business. We take first and last month’s rent, plus a security deposit, and that’s it.”

That had to be a pretty hefty security deposit. “Did Mr. August leave any forwarding address?”

Still standing, he made a show of glancing down at his paperwork. “No.”

“Was anyone listed on the lease with him?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me
anything
about his life while he was here? Where he worked, what he did for fun...?”

Galecki snorted derisively at me. “None of my business.”

“Okay,” I said sweetly, undeterred. “Is there anyone else in the building who may have known Mr. August? Anyone who might still be here?”

He frowned, thinking it over. “There’s a couple in 3-A that’ve been here that long. Don’t know if they were friendly with August, but they were just down the hall from the guy.” He glanced at the clock over his heavy wooden TV cabinet. “The guy works nights, so he might be home.”
 

It was pretty obvious that Galecki was willing to sic me on anyone to get rid of me, but I could work with that.
 

I found the stairwell and climbed to the third floor. Some of the doors here had cheerful rugs outside them, as though the residents were bound and determined to make the most of their lousy living situation, which I appreciated. I’d done the same thing on my first apartment, a crappy walk-up that had been billed as a “one-bedroom haven,” but was really more of a “studio with aspirations.”
 

Apartment 3F sported a cheerful South American-looking woven mat, which made me smile. At the very least, nobody who owned a mat like that would be much like Galecki. I knocked on the door, and after a moment the light under the door shifted as someone stood directly behind it. I waved merrily at the peephole, and the door opened.

“Yes?” The man was in his mid-twenties, lean and bearded with sleepy eyes. I don’t mean like he had bedroom eyes, I mean he literally looked sleepy. He wore jeans and no shirt, and behind him the apartment smelled pretty strongly of pot. I backed up a scootch, away from the smell. Probably not great for the baby.

“Hi, my name is Lena, I’m a private investigator,” I recited. I showed him my ID and explained what I wanted. While I spoke a a dark gray cat crept up behind him and began winding itself around his legs. Aw, crap. I took a small step back. Cats give me the willies.
 

“Yeah, I remember him,” the guy said. “I’m Tomás, by the way.” He pronounced it the way it’s supposed to be said,
toe-maas
. “Uh, I’d invite you in, but the place is kind of a mess.”

I smiled amicably. “That’s cool, I only need a minute. Can you tell me what you remember about Jason August?”

“Yeah, man. I think you’re looking for Starla.”

“Who’s Starla?”

“His woman.” He gestured down the hall with his head. At the movement, the gray cat glanced up at me, peeled back a lip, and showed off some fang. Cats. “August’s, man. He was always with this girl, we’d bump into them in the hallway.”

“What did she look like?”

“Blonde.” He shrugged. “‘Bout as tall as you. No glasses or nuthin’. Uh...” He cupped his hands in front of his chest, expression awkward.

“With a shapely figure,” I suggested. He nodded, relieved. “Do you know Starla’s last name?”

“Naw,” he shook his head. “But my girl Luna talked to her in the laundry room once, and she said Starla’s a waitress at this cheesecake place.”

“The Cheesecake Factory?”

Tomás bobbed his head, paused, and then shook it in the other direction. “It’s like a rip-off of the Cheesecake Factory, you know? Like, they want everyone to think it’s that place but it’s really just some shithole.” Before I could ask about the name, he squinted hard at a spot on the wall behind me. I didn’t interrupt what was obviously a very laborious search of his memory.

“Cheesecake Company,” he said finally. “That was it.”
 

“Okay,” I said, eyeing the cat, who had sat down next to his owner’s feet and was simply staring at me, tail slashing the air. “Can you remember anything else about August or Starla? Even if it doesn’t seem important?”

“No, I just remember the cheesecake. She brought some over for Luna once,” he said, absently scratching his chest with one hand. “She seemed sweet. I never really understood why she was with that dude.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just that...” his hands waved in the air, gesturing for words. “She wasn’t real quick, but she was nice. He always seemed real smart, but like kind of a douche. Like he thought he was too good for her.”

I thanked Tomás, who would most likely not remember that I had been there, and turned to leave. The cat glared after me, clearly furious that it had missed an opportunity for disembowelment. Suck it, cat. This round to Lena.

16. Keeping it Big Time

Back in the car, I looked up the number for the restaurant and called to see if Starla was working that night. The hostess who answered took a minute to sort out which Starla I meant – only in Los Angeles would there be more than one Starla working at a given restaurant – and assured me that she would, in fact, be working the lunch shift tomorrow if I wanted her to be my server. I thanked her and clicked off.
 

I fought a wave of traffic back to Cristina’s, arriving just before five. I dropped my bag inside the door of the guest room, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed on the bed. As soon as I was still I could feel the churning, nauseous feeling that had been with me all day. When I was occupied and running around, the morning sickness hummed quietly in the background, like a slight headache that you could
almost
ignore. As long as I was still and not focused on anything else, though, it roared to life, and made me wonder how I could possibly have functioned all day with it parked it my stomach. I wiggled out of my jeans and blazer and crawled beneath the covers of Cristina’s enormous spare bed, unable to resist the pull of a nap.
 

Cristina woke me a little after seven, and half-coaxed, half-ordered me out of the bed so we could go out to dinner. She rummaged through my suitcase and pulled out a deep purple dress and the only pair of heels I own. Within ten minutes, we were on our way to Tamára, the Cuban restaurant managed by her newest boyfriend, Miguel.
 

Cristina valet-parked the BMW on Sunset and we walked—or wobbled, in my case—through the front door, where Cristina was immediately besieged by the gushing hostess. Suppressing one last yawn, I rolled my eyes and looked around. It was pretty obvious that Tamára was meant to be a slice of Miami, with its indoor palm trees, neon-colored spotlights, and vibrant Cuban music. Cristina, with her dark exotic looks and inherent confidence, was a perfect fit with the decor and atmosphere. I felt like a thirteen-year-old at a cocktail party.