The Detective & the Chinese High-Fin (2 page)

I
nside. An old-fashioned Beverly Hills mansion. Lots of beige and cream. A shiny, pristine piano in one room. A grandfather clock ticking loudly in another. Antiques everywhere. All the rooms we went through were clean and uncluttered and polished. But you got the feeling that no one had spent any actual time in them in years. And not just because there were vacuum tracks in the carpet. There was an eerie emptiness, a palpable stillness.

We got to a back room that most people would probably call the den. Peter went in first, I followed. The room was pretty small if you compared it to the other rooms we'd just walked through. But not small if you compared it to a similar room in a house in a neighborhood with a less desirable zip code. There was a large flat-screen TV
in one corner broadcasting a stock-analysis-type show, but with the sound off. Some more antique-type furniture was neatly positioned around the room. There were little tables with pictures in silver frames on them. An olive green couch that perhaps had never been sat on lined one wall. And in the corner farthest from the doorway, a comfortable-looking navy blue chair housed Muriel Dreen.

She wore eyeglasses, a burgundy dress, a white cardigan over her shoulders, and deep blue shoes that matched the chair. I'm pretty sure she got everything from the Talbots catalog, maybe even the chair. She had the TV remote in her left hand and a lit cigarette in her right. On a little table next to her: a mostly empty ashtray, a Bic lighter, and a just-opened pack of Carltons.

“Mrs. Dreen,” Peter said. “This is the detective. This is John Darvelle.”

Muriel Dreen switched off the TV. Then she gave me a big, charming smile and said hello. She knew how to engage someone quickly. She'd probably done it a lot at fabulous parties when she was in her twenties and thirties, two or three hundred years ago.

She told me to have a seat on the couch and charmingly dismissed Peter. Then she just kind of stared at me, her big eyes magnified through the lenses of her thick glasses.

She stabbed her cigarette out in the ashtray, then grabbed the pack and tapped out a fresh one. She went through a whole ordeal of lighting it. She held the lighter up to the end longer than she needed to, and then she puffed and puffed, creating a big cloud of smoke in front of herself and getting a bright orange cherry going.

I just watched. It was, I'd say, mildly entertaining.

Finally she took a long, full drag, exhaled a roomful of blue smoke, and stared at me some more, with those exaggerated eyes and that charming and, I could now see, manipulative smile.

Seeing that the show was over, I put my hands up and said, “So, what's up?”

Quickly she said, “One of my workers has stolen from me.”

“Okay,” I responded cleverly. “Stolen what?”

“My engagement ring. It wasn't even that valuable, not like the tacky rings girls want today. But it was valuable to me. And that Heather stole it. I'm sure of it.”

Man, that big, charming smile she'd shot me was gone. Her magnified eyes had narrowed to magnified slits, and her mouth had twisted into a viperlike sneer.

She continued. “Heather Press is her name. She tended to the plants before I fired her. A common little girl with a common little face. And a common thief too. She took my ring. I know she did. I filed a police report, and some policemen went over and talked to her, but they said Heather denied it and there wasn't anything else they could do. I don't think those policemen were very good at their jobs, because I know that common little girl took my ring. I
know
she did.”

Just like that, Muriel had riled herself up. She was breathing heavily. Shifting a bit in her chair. Maybe even starting to perspire. And showing me through all this involuntary agitation that it wasn't so much the ring that she was upset about. It was that someone had defied her.

“Okay,” I said. Man, I was really on a roll with the clever responses that day. “How do you know it was her? Don't you have other staff?” What I wanted to add was: Are you sure
you
didn't lose the ring? You know, because you're a hundred and twelve? I mean, look, Muriel—or Mrs. Dreen, as you prefer—I'm in my late thirties and I found my lost cell phone in the freezer the other day.

But I didn't add any of that. Instead I just asked the aforementioned, more respectable question.

She answered, “Because the rest of my staff has been with me for years, forever, so it had to be her. And it's not possible that I lost it, because I don't wear it. A few years after my husband, Inman, died—and Inman died ten years ago—I started keeping it in a box in a drawer in the dresser next to my bed. Close to my heart, you see. But not on my hand. So it's not as if the ring ever moved. It just sat in its box. Before it was taken—stolen, that is.”

Hmm. She'd addressed the question I asked and a couple I hadn't. Those being: Do you wear it? And: Do you keep it somewhere specific when you aren't wearing it? Sharp as a tack, this nonagenarian appeared to be.

Right then a thought occurred to me, and I'm a little bit embarrassed to share it, but I'm going to anyway. Here's what I was thinking: What the fuck is this case? I'm getting hired by a little old lady to find her stupid ring that her gardener took? Excuse me, but I've solved murder cases that the cops couldn't figure out. In Los Fucking Angeles, no less. I'm not Encyclopedia Fucking Brown. I'm John Fucking Darvelle. But then I realized that that attitude is terrible. That's arrogance. And arrogance is what gets you in trouble.
Arrogance isn't just ugly, it's stupid. Because right when you start strutting around like a peacock, spreading your feathers and claiming you're too good for things—that's just the moment when you get burned. And the sting hurts twice as bad because you said you were too good for the thing that burned you in the first place. I'll be guilty of arrogance again at some point in my life, for sure. Maybe even pretty soon. I hope not, but maybe. But right now? I'm not going to let it get the best of me. Look, I'm not dying to investigate this case. But, bottom line, I'm a detective for hire. I was hired at my rate. I accepted the case. And now I was going to find out what happened to that fucking ring.

I said, “All right, Mrs. Dreen. You seem like you've thought this through. Why don't I go talk to Heather Press. If you're right, if she took your ring, I bet I can get it back.”

“Oh, she took it, all right. You'll be able to see it written all over her common little face.”

“Does Peter have a picture? A phone number? An address where I can pay her a visit?”

“Yes, he does, Mr. Darvelle.”

Again with the “mister.” Again, I let it ride.

“Great,” I said. “I'll be in touch.”

I got up, and even though her right hand was free—she was no longer using it to handle her smoke; she'd housed it in one of the ashtray slots a few seconds ago—she extended her left hand. You know when people do that? Maybe they're holding something in their right hand, or even have an injured right hand? Except she wasn't holding anything, and she didn't appear to be hurt. Maybe it was her way of exhibiting refinement or charm or something. I didn't
know. Anyway, she held it almost like she wanted me to kiss it. I imagined myself getting down on one knee and giving her extended hand a soft, wet, almost erotic kiss. I have no idea why. Don't worry, I didn't do that. I just grabbed it and gave it a little shake. It was soft, fleshy, I could feel the loose skin under my thumb. And it was cold, just like those magnified eyes.

I walked out of the room and found Peter sitting in a chair just off the front foyer. He was looking out a window, trapped in some kind of daydream, I guessed. But then I noticed he wasn't daydreaming. He was looking at a squirrel nervously scurrying around a tree. The squirrel stopped on a dime—upside down, by the way, his claws stuck to the bark—and, while still sort of shaking all over, looked right at Peter. Did these two creatures see themselves in each other? Was Peter thinking, Man, my nervous disposition would sit better with me if I could just dart around a tree all day, collecting acorns? And was the squirrel thinking, Shit, sure I'm a trembling mess, but I could still get into the field of law with a specialty in estate management?

Peter, I think feeling my presence in the room, turned to look at me. Right then the squirrel, still upside down, craned its head up to look at me too.

I stood there face-to-face with not one but two shivering creatures, shivering like my cell phone earlier.

“Peter, I need a couple of things from you.”

Instinctively he stood up and said, “Absolutely.”

The squirrel took that as its cue to split, zipping down and out of my eyeline.

“Heather Press,” I said. “What does she look like, what's her phone number, and where does she live?”

H
eather Press lived not too far away, corner of Charleville and Elm, in a less high-dollar section of the Beverly Hills flatlands. Heather's section was rows of apartment buildings, eightplexes, tenplexes, twelveplexes, all packed in right next to one another just south of Wilshire. Still nice, treelined streets, not a lot of riffraff, very livable, just no mansions with white Rollses in their garages.

From Muriel Dreen's, I drove south down Rodeo Drive for kicks. I could have taken a less hectic street, but I wanted to look at all the spray-tanned, surgically altered people milling about, going in and out of the famous, fancy stores, dropping thousands. At one point I saw a lady walking along, with a little dog sticking out of her purse. Not so unusual for this crowd, but, thing is, the little dog
had its own little purse. I was still marveling at this sight as I veered left onto Wilshire Boulevard, leaving Rodeo in my rearview.

Three minutes later I was at Heather Press's place. Nice little eightplex on the corner. Probably had good molding and hardwood floors. The lawn in front of the building was well manicured, but underneath the front left bay window was a full-on garden. It contained some bright flowers I didn't know the names of and some sort of exotic-looking plants, even a little row of tomatoes. And at the end, right by the door, some flowers I
did
know the name of. Some California poppies. Those small yellow cups with a hint of gold that, while far from rare, are quite fetching and very evocative of California.

My detective's intuition told me that this little garden belonged to Heather, because, you know, she was a
gardener
. I was really earning my money so far. A redbrick sidewalk took you up to the central entrance to her building. I parked my car across the street and down a bit, got out, hit the sidewalk. The door at the end of this charming little walk wasn't locked, so I went right in. Inside was a dark, carpeted alcove with an apartment door on the left, one on the right, and two just like it down the hall, and, I guessed, four matching ones up the stairs right in front of me.

From Peter, I knew that Heather lived in apartment A, and I now saw that A was the apartment to my immediate left, the one with the garden. Hey, I was right. But I have to tell you, you do have to be careful, because it's just that kind of assumption that trips you up in my game all the time. You go, She's a gardener, so the place with the garden
has
to be hers. And then it turns out not to be. And then you go, Shit,
really
? But this time I had confirmation. All right, moving on.

I knocked. Nobody home.

I walked back outside. I put my face right up to the front bay window. Nice Crate and Barrel–type apartment. Nobody inside sitting there petulantly, refusing to answer the door. I walked around to the side of the building and looked in the bedroom windows. Had to look through a crack in the blinds to discover—drumroll, please—nothing. Nobody home.

I went back around front, got in my car, and sat there.

What to do? What to do?

Call her? Nope. Won't recognize the number. Won't pick up. And even if she did, she might not answer my questions. And even if she did answer my questions, I wouldn't be able to read her. Also, she might not agree to see me today, and I wanted to see her today. Wanted to try something on this one that I thought might work. No. Not calling her. Might have to call her later, if she doesn't show up eventually. But not now. Not yet.

And then I thought: I know, I'll go get some lunch, then sit here and wait. Now that,
that
, is a plan. I walked over to Beverly Drive—not Beverly Boulevard, which is also close by, but Beverly Drive. It's very easy to mix up the two, even if you've lived here forever. Yes, it's annoying. And confusing. But either way, Beverly Drive was two blocks away and lined with a bunch of coffee shops and lunch spots, so it was for sure the place to go to complete my mission. I walked over, hit a little deli, and picked up a turkey-
and-Swiss with spicy mustard, mayo, lettuce, and pickles and a cold, canned Fresca. I know what you're thinking. Seriously, I really think I know what you're thinking: Was it Peach or Original Citrus? It was Original Citrus, unfortunately. Still delicious, but not truly sublime. Not that mix of citrus and peach that somehow tastes, in the best possible way, like baby aspirin. My Original Citrus Fresca was, however, ice-cold, so that worked. I walked back over to my car, got in, and took down the sandwich and the beverage.

And then I sat there. And waited. I put my seat back a bit. Yeah, might be a long wait. Music. Time for some music. I put on Cheap Trick's first album. I listened to “Hot Love” twice in a row, with some volume, then turned it down a bit and let the album play. I was at ease, relaxing a bit while on the job, enjoying the comfort of my still-pretty-new car. I lease a new car every three years or so. I always get random, borderline-generic American cars that nobody really notices. Helps in my line. Really does. Thing is, the cars I lease are still pretty nice, and, like I said, comfortable. Right now I'm driving a 2014 Ford Focus hatchback. You've rented one. Mine's Oxford White, which in plain English means: white. The Focus also comes in White Platinum, which in plain English also means: white. For some reason I love the fact that it's a hatchback. I'm not sure why. And I
really
love telling people that it has five doors. That is the highlight of my day every time someone asks me how many doors my car has. Which is rare. But it does happen.

Two hours later a new pickup truck, with a woman
behind the wheel, drove right by me. The driver didn't notice me or my Oxford White Ford Focus. As the truck slid by, then disappeared into the alley behind Heather's apartment, I noticed some gardening tools in the bed of the truck. About a minute later, a young woman who looked an awful lot like the driver of the truck walked around from the back of the building and headed up the little path I'd been on a couple of hours earlier. She was wearing a white T-shirt, shorts, bright blue socks, and brown work boots. She had a backpack over one shoulder that made her tilt, just slightly, to one side. I liked her outfit, liked her style.

I quickly got out of the Focus and walked over.

When the woman had just about reached the main entrance I said, “Hello. Excuse me. Heather?”

She turned to look at me. She was probably forty, attractive, tan from working outside, dyed-blond hair tied up, and pretty, catlike green eyes. Her face held the emotional scars of a tough childhood, disappointment, parents who made her unsure and uneasy. It made her more attractive. Was it a common little face? A little, perhaps, but I realized now that that was just Muriel Dreen insulting Heather in a way that Heather couldn't really defend against. Muriel was wellborn and Heather wasn't. It was a fact, not defendable, really, so Muriel used it to hurt her. Bitch.

Heather said, “Yes?”

She was smiling. She wasn't worried. Maybe she was used to being approached as she worked outside, by people who wanted to hire her or ask her about plants. Or maybe she just wasn't that freaked out by a stranger saying hello. I hoped it was the latter.

“Hi, Heather. My name is John Darvelle. I'm a detective. I was hired by your old boss, Muriel Dreen. She thinks you stole a ring from her.”

Very quickly, almost without missing a beat, she smiled in a knowing way and said, “Oh god, this again?”

“Yes. This again. Except this time, it's not going to be a couple of tired cops looking through your drawers, not finding the ring, then closing the case. It's going to be me figuring out what happened.”

It came out hot. Which is what I wanted.

She frowned and shrunk into herself a bit and said, “What does that mean?”

It was a curious response. It wasn't: There's
nothing
to figure out. It was: What does that
mean
? It was a good question. I liked it.

I softened my tone and said, “I'll explain. But first, here.”

I took out my wallet. I showed her my detective's license and my driver's license. I handed them both to her. She looked at them quizzically and then handed them back.

I said, “So here's what it means. Heather, if you took that ring, I'm going to find out. If it's hidden around here somewhere, I'll find it. If you sold it, I'll figure out who you sold it to. But I doubt you would have done that. Maybe, but I doubt it. Too soon. Paper trail.

“Anyway, it's not going to be like when the cops came by. With a case like this, they just want to check a box and go back to the station house. With or without the ring. But more important, they have to play by rules that I sometimes don't have to play by. Like, I can break into your
house when you're not home. Or I can break into your truck when you're at Home Depot, buying some new gloves or something. And I would do that. I will do that. And then I have ways to make it look like nothing illegal ever happened. Or I'll just tell the cops—who I know, by the way—my version of the story. You know what I'm saying?
My
version of the story.

“But I don't want to do any of that. Because if I do, in the end you'll get in trouble. Maybe serious trouble. And I don't really want that. You seem like a nice person. I don't know, there's just something about you. I'm on your side. I'm not sure why, but I'm on your side. People do things they shouldn't do. Like steal rings. And sometimes—not all the time, but
sometimes
—those people deserve a pass. So if you did steal it, just give it to me. You won't get in trouble. I will make sure you don't get in trouble. I promise. Muriel Dreen won't even know you took it. But if you did steal it and you don't give it to me, I will find it. I
will
find it. And in this version of the story, you
will
get in trouble. I promise that too. Okay? I just want to be done with this. I want to go back to my office. I've got a Ping-Pong table in it, and some really good speakers. I like being there. And I want you to be able to go back to your job too. I want you to be able to go make some other mean old lady's yard look nicer.”

After a long pause she smiled and said, “You've definitely met Mrs. Dreen.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Then, after another long pause, perhaps she was thinking of her next move, she said, “I need to put this bag down.”

She took the backpack off her shoulder and put it on the bricks right in front of the main door. Then she looked at me again. Thinking. Thinking about what to do. I was pretty sure of it now.

I said, pointing to the California poppies in her garden, “Those are California poppies.”

She smiled and said, “Very good!” I think she was glad that I had a tiny bit of knowledge about her field, and that I was helping her kill some time. But I think, I really think, it was more the former.

“It's the state flower, right?”

“That's right. Do you know what the other yellow flowers are called, the ones with the black center next to the tomatoes?”

“I do not. I'm afraid I've given you most of my flower knowledge.”

“They're called black-eyed Susans.”

“I've known a few of those.”

“Ha,” she said. “They're pretty, but I like the name more than I like the flower.”

She kneeled down and adjusted a few of the black-eyed Susans. Untangled them a bit to make them look more presentable. Then she stood up and looked at me again. Thinking. Thinking again.

“The ring,” I said.

Without directly addressing what I'd just said, she asked, “Do you want to talk inside?”

“Yeah, sure.”

She grabbed her bag and we went in the main door. Outside her apartment door she said, “Do you mind taking off your shoes?”

“No problem.” I took off my brand-new black Adidas running shoes and put them by the door. She took off her boots and did the same. And we walked in. Her apartment was astonishingly clean. I mean absolutely perfect. And she must have done it herself. She wouldn't have a staff like Muriel Dreen.

She said, “Would you like something to drink?”

“Do you have any beer? Like, Bud Light? Coors Light? That type of beer?”

“Really?” she asked.

I couldn't tell if she was saying “Really?” because now this stranger in her house was asking for alcohol. Or because it was only about three in the afternoon. Or because of the kind of beer I preferred. Light, cheap, American. As opposed to, you know, a pumpkin amber ale with hints of pine made by a guy with a three-foot beard in his backyard in Portland.

So I just said, “Yeah.”

Heather walked from the main room through a little dining room, into her kitchen.

I sat down, carefully, on the very clean, cement-colored couch.

Heather reappeared with a bottle of Bud Light. Before, I had been pretty sure I liked her. Now I was certain. She sat down in a chair across from me.

I said, “This might be the cleanest apartment I've ever seen.”

“I like to clean,” she said.

And I thought: That really is the trick. Learn to like things you're not supposed to like. Learn to embrace them, enjoy them.

I took a big swig of the beer. It was cold, light, delicious. I wanted to have eleven of them and listen to Heather tell me more about her apartment-cleaning concepts.

She said, finally ready to talk, to address what I'd said, “I have a question. You think I took Mrs. Dreen's ring. Otherwise you wouldn't have said all that stuff. Why do you think I took it?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Why did you?”

“Ha,” she said, for the second time since I'd met her. “That's not what I meant. I meant . . . You know what I meant.”

I took my third sip of the beer, almost finishing it. “Truth is, Muriel's the one who convinced me. The ring doesn't move, so she didn't misplace it, and the rest of her staff has been there a while. Simple, but it makes sense. I think she's right. I think you took it.”