Ultimate Thriller Box Set (103 page)

“She really likes a man in uniform.” I smiled.

“Think she’d go for a lot more man in a lot more uniform?”

“I hope not.”

Clay gave me a jolly slap on the back as he stepped out of the shack. “See you tomorrow, stud.”

As soon as he was gone, the first thing I did was rewind the tapes from the gate’s surveillance cameras until I came across Lauren Parkus returning home.

I froze the tape on her Range Rover going through the gate. According to the time code, she drove in at four seventeen, not even an hour after I last saw her.

That meant she drove straight home. She couldn’t have stopped anywhere between Santa Barbara and the gate in that amount of time.

I fell into the chair and nearly cried with relief.

I had a second chance.

***

Cyril Parkus drove out of the community and up to the shack around seven thirty in the morning.

“So?” he asked.

I gave him my handwritten report. “She had coffee, took a walk on the beach, and came home.”

Parkus didn’t look up from the piece of notebook paper, as if staring at it real hard would reveal new details even I had missed.

“She didn’t see anybody all day?” he asked.

“Not unless you count the guy who served her coffee.”

“I see you noted the seven dollars you paid for parking,” he said. “That would be one of the expenses you were talking about.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The one hundred and fifty dollars a day doesn’t cover parking?”

I couldn’t tell if he was playing with me, or just being cheap. He didn’t wait for me to answer, he just handed the paper back to me.

“Thanks, Harvey,” he said. “Keep up the good work.”

And with that, Cyril Parkus drove off, the smell of leather upholstery lingering in his wake.

He didn’t even say anything about how lousy I looked. Maybe I really was ultra-fresh. Or maybe he just didn’t give a damn.

Sergeant Victor Banos showed up a few minutes later, and he made up for Parkus’ oversight regarding my appearance. I won’t share all the snide remarks he made, they really aren’t pertinent to the story. Needless to say, I got out of there as fast as I could, returned to my Sephia, and changed into my new clothes.

I’d just got my pants on when Lauren Parkus drove out of the gate. She was getting a very early start. I turned the key in the ignition, hit the gas pedal in my stocking feet, and followed after her.

Lauren didn’t make it difficult for me this time. She went right down to the freeway and headed south. We hit the tail end of rush hour traffic, so keeping up with her was easy, though my Sephia struggled mightily going up the Conejo Pass between Camarillo and Newbury Park. The car was such a little shitcan, I was afraid if a bug slammed into the windshield the car would be totaled.

She took me across the San Fernando Valley to Studio City, where she got off at Coldwater Canyon and headed south towards the Hollywood Hills.

I stayed one car behind her on Coldwater and tailgated the guy in front of me. I was afraid of another intersection mishap like the day before. If this guy raced into the intersection on a yellow, I was going too, hanging right onto his bumper. We crossed Ventura Boulevard without incident, but the guy in front of me got spooked and made a sharp, last-minute right turn onto a side street.

I bet the idiot thought I was following him.

She led me up Coldwater and I relaxed a bit because I had a general idea where we were headed. Coldwater weaves through the Hollywood Hills and is basically used as a shortcut between the Valley and Beverly Hills.

So I settled back and enjoyed the drive. We passed one big mansion after another. They aren’t so much homes as they are billboards. The only reason anybody that wealthy would want to live on a busy, narrow street like that is to show everybody how much money he has.

So for the opportunity to brag, these rich-ass people get to breathe exhaust fumes and listen to traffic going by all day.

In other words, they’re paying millions to experience what it’s like living in a cardboard box beside a freeway.

Just because the rich have money, it doesn’t mean they’ve got brains.

I followed Lauren Parkus across Sunset, where Coldwater becomes Beverly Boulevard and widens quite a bit. The houses are every bit as expensive and just as showy. You’ll also find a lot more of those mysterious stone lions.

She crossed Santa Monica Boulevard and entered the fancy shopping district known in all the tourist guides as the Golden Triangle, which sounds like a sleazy euphemism for a woman’s crotch. Based on the name, you’d expect to find topless bars and nudie shows instead of Ralph Lauren, Gucci, and Tiffany’s. Then again, the most famous street in the area is Rodeo Drive, but you won’t find anything that even remotely has to do with rodeos, cattle, or cowboys. So right away you know nothing in Beverly Hills is what it says it is, or appears to be.

Lauren drove into one of the city-owned, valet parking lots. I pulled in a couple of cars behind her, then ducked down to put on my shoes as she walked past me. When I gave my keys to the valet, he looked like I dropped a turd in his hand.

I walked about a half-block behind Lauren and carried my Kodak disposable camera out in the open, figuring that way I’d look like a tourist and wouldn’t raise any suspicions if people saw me taking pictures. Not that anyone was going to notice me with so many boob jobs walking by.

These tomatoes were mostly plastic fruit. The women here seemed to be walking around for the sole purpose of modeling their new hooters. I wondered how many of them would sleep with me if I had white hair and white eyebrows. They’d probably just run screaming. I gladly took in the show, but was careful not to let my attention stray too long.

Besides, it wasn’t like watching Lauren was painful on the eyes. She was wearing trim, black linen pants and a sleeveless, white top, and I found the aggressive, don’t-give-me-shit way she was walking down the street incredibly sexy. Gone was any of the pensiveness she seemed to have yesterday. Today she seemed pissed off and in a hurry.

I liked it.

Remember how earlier I was talking about what a woman was? Lauren Parkus was a woman. No doubt about it.

She marched up to the door of Beverly Hills Collateral Lenders and hesitated. Just for a moment. Like she’d changed her mind. She made a quarter-turn in my direction, and that’s when I snapped a picture.

I only saw her face for an instant, but I thought I saw fear, anger, and sadness all mixed together. I felt the surprising urge to hold her. Not for sex, either, which was the most surprising part about it. In the time it took for the shutter to click, whatever doubts Lauren had disappeared and she went inside.

I stood where I was and took a good look at Beverly Hills Collateral Lenders. There were no windows, just a sign in elegant script and a door squeezed between a clothing store and an overpriced muffin place. Although I couldn’t see inside, I could guess what she was doing and it made me angry.

I bought a five-dollar cranberry muffin and a two-dollar cup of coffee, sat down at a table out front, and waited to see what happened next.

Chapter Six

“Collateral Lender” is just a fancy way of saying “Pawn Shop.”

I know a few things about pawn shops. I’ve never been inside one myself, but my father was a regular customer and that’s how I acquired my knowledge and a healthy hatred of the places.

My father, Kingston “King” Mapes, was a gambler. I tell that to most people, and they imagine some suave guy in a tuxedo, striding into a ritzy casino. Or they think of that Kenny Rogers song.

He was nothing like either one, and I suspect that’s true of most people who play cards and call themselves gamblers like it’s something to be proud of.

I suppose I should have been angry about paying seven dollars for a muffin and a cup of coffee, instead of things that happened in the past. I was stuck with the past, I couldn’t do anything about that, but I certainly wasn’t going to patronize that muffin place again. You could get two big breakfasts at Denny’s for the same price.

Like I said, rich people sometimes aren’t very bright when it comes to spending what they’ve earned. It’s a good thing I was on an expense account.

I glared some more at the Beverly Hills Collateral Lenders sign and wondered what Lauren’s problem was. Maybe her lover needed some quick cash. Maybe it wasn’t a lover, maybe it was drugs. Or maybe she was a gambler like my dad. If she was, pretty soon Cyril’s house would be stripped clean of anything of value. When I was a kid, my dad once stole my watch and clock radio while I was sleeping. I woke up one morning and they were gone. That’s why, to this day, I sleep with my watch on.

After staring at the building for a while, it occurred to me I hadn’t seen her go in carrying anything but her purse. Maybe she wasn’t there to hock stuff, maybe she was there to buy things. Could be I’d totally misjudged her. Could be she was actually being a crafty shopper. The goods here had to be better than the stuff at your average pawn shop.

That thought made me feel a lot better, until she walked out ten minutes later, empty-handed. Lauren stood outside the door for a minute, looking kind of dazed. I took a couple pictures. I didn’t want to hug her any more. I wanted to slap her. But I didn’t have to call Dr. Laura to know I really wanted to slap my father.

I could slap him any time I wanted. He’s in his sixties now, living in Palm Springs, near the Indian casinos. I actually visit him sometimes, in his crummy little bachelor unit at the Tropic Palms apartments. He likes to call me Prince.

I’ve never slapped him, but my sister Becky once slapped me when she found out I went down there. I don’t think she was slapping me, really, but maybe I’m over-analyzing things. People who know my father and me, and there aren’t many, say I look just like him.

But none of this has anything to do with Lauren Parkus, or the terrible things that happened later, and that’s what I’m supposed to be talking about.

Lauren walked slowly back to her car. Whatever was pushing her along before was gone. I think she didn’t want to go back. I took more pictures. It was really just an excuse to look at her some more, like I’d be able to understand her better through the lens than with the naked eye. Which was stupid. It was a disposable camera, not a fucking microscope.

She paid the valet, got in her car, and drove off. I did the same.

***

Lauren Parkus got back to Bel Vista Estates before lunchtime. I parked in my usual spot alongside the embankment, where I was out of sight of the guard shack but could still see if anyone left or entered the community.

After about two hours, I slid over to the passenger seat, opened the door a crack, and pissed onto the street from a sitting position. I didn’t want some homeowner driving by and seeing me taking a leak; that would get me fired for sure. So there I was, in my Sephia, sitting there pissing out the door, which isn’t as easy as you might think if you don’t want to wet yourself or the car.

Being in that vulnerable position, I was certain that’s when Lauren would decide to leave again, but she didn’t. I didn’t know it then, but I was in for a long, boring afternoon.

I listened to Dr. Laura, reread my two-line report a few times, ate a box of Ritz Crackers, a bag of beef jerky, and a package of Ding Dongs, and tried hard not to fall asleep.

I’d been up over twelve hours already and hadn’t had much sleep the day before, which was when I really could have used it, after that accident and all.

At five o’clock, I decided to leave.

Now that might not sound very professional to you, but here was my thinking: Her husband usually came home between six and eight, and occasionally later, so she wasn’t likely to run off during that period. The only risk was that she would sneak out in the hour between five and six.

But I needed to get my film developed, and most of those one-hour photo places closed by six or seven. I also needed to get my uniform cleaned and pressed and go home for a nap, a shower, and fresh clothes.

And I was exhausted and felt like shit.

All things considered, I was willing to take the risk.

Maybe Spenser wouldn’t do it, but he has Hawk to help him out. It’s easy to be a complete professional when you’ve got some big, black muscle to back you up with the unpleasant and tedious aspects of the job.

***

I dropped off my film at the Thrifty near my house, and my uniform at the dry cleaner next door, then went into Ralph’s and browsed through the magazines while I waited for both items to be ready.

The photos were done first, so I took them with me over to Fat Burger for a quick dinner. I was careful not to dribble anything on the pictures as I looked through them.

The first thing that struck we was how her eyes blazed, even in a photograph. The moment was frozen but her eyes were alive.

I felt the irrational fear that she might actually be able to see me and then I found, weirdly, that I wished she could.

I attributed the feelings to hunger and lack of sleep, because otherwise they didn’t make any sense.

I studied the pictures, first because I thought she was beautiful, and I was surprised that a cheapo camera like the Kodak disposable managed to capture the darkness of her hard nipples under her blouse. But then I studied the pictures for another reason. Something had changed about her over the two days, and I couldn’t figure out what it was.

Her clothes were different, of course, and the expressions on her face covered a lot of emotional range, but otherwise I couldn’t tell what had changed. But I knew something had. I could feel it.

I finished my burger, and went back to Thrifty and bought a magnifying glass before picking up my uniform next door.

When I got back to my car, I hung my uniform up in the backseat, got inside, and looked at the pictures again, this time with the magnifying glass. I had no idea what I was looking for, but it seemed like the professional thing to do. I figured there must be a reason why the magnifying glass is the universal logo for private eyes.