Elvis Has Not Left the Building, Page 4

  “How much to gush over me?”

  She ignored that. “You take painkillers to deal with your guilt.”

  “You’re good,” I said.

  “You want to stop the pain.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Very much so.”

  “Life is pain, Mr. King,” she said.

  “I’m not sure I wanted to hear that.”

  “Life wasn’t meant to be easy. At least, not at first.”

  “Not at first?”

  “Life is about living, and making mistakes. But more importantly, life is about learning from mistakes. With growth, mistakes are not repeated, and thus the path becomes smoother. You are stuck in a cycle of repeating your same mistakes.”

  “So what do I do?” I asked.

  “It’s time to learn from your mistakes, Aaron. It’s time to grow up.”

  “I’m too old to grow up,” I said.

  She smiled and might have gushed a little. “You’re never too old.”

  Chapter Ten

  Although not pink, I do drive an old Cadillac. Granted, it’s not the ideal vehicle for a part-time private investigator, but the windows are tinted and it’s roomy enough—both key ingredients to a successful surveillance. And for picking up chicks.

  I parked along a curb in front of a massive colonial home. Next to the curb was a sign that read: Tow Away After 8 p.m. I checked my watch. 2:33 PM. I liked my chances.

  The home was near the Sunset Strip, just around the corner from a night club called the Key Club. Been there a few times myself to watch some of the local rock bands. You can take the man out of rock, but you can’t take the rock out of the man. Sometimes on Monday nights, from the back of the club, nursing a beer, I watched the lead singer of Metal Skool entertain the frenzied young females with his gyrating hips. There was a time when I would have been arrested for such gyrations. He could thank me later.

  The morning sky was overcast and threatened rain. Perhaps the sky would have felt more threatening if this hadn’t been L.A. I’ve lived here for nearly thirty years and still can’t get used to the perpetual sunshine. Granted, I liked the sunshine, and it had done wonders for my health, but I was still a sucker for some good old-fashioned gray skies.

  The colonial house, complete with Corinthian pillars and alabaster lions, was massive and brooding. The front lawn was manicured to perfection.

  As I approached the house, a deep-throated dog began barking. And with each step that I took, the dog’s barking grew louder and more frequent. As if on cue. I looked around and didn’t see any dog—nothing in the front windows, and nothing along the side of the house. Maybe it’s inside and can sense me. Or smell me. Either way, it sounded big and vicious and I kept my eyes peeled.

  As I crunched up the crushed seashell drive, apprehension crackled through me, and it had nothing to do with the dog. Indeed, it was an old fear born from years of living in hiding, or living on the run, so to speak. Would this be the person who finally sees through my disguise, see beyond my reconstructed face, and sees the real me? Would this be the moment when my cover is finally blown?

  Crazy, I know, but the fear was real, and it lived within me.

  The drastic plastic surgery was, of course, nearly foolproof. Nearly. Still, the apprehension persisted.

  And so what if I was found out. Would that be so bad?

  Probably not. After all, wouldn’t I then be able to see my baby girl again? And why should she want to see you? You faked your death, split, and left her behind.

  Could I make her understand my motives? Hell, did I even understand my motives? And what about the embarrassment of being discovered? Especially the embarrassment of being discovered living in near poverty?

  Jesus, it would be off the charts.

  Anxiety gripped me again, completely. My throat constricted. I paused there on the driveway and forced myself to take a deep breath. My chest expanded out against my red Hawaiian shirt. I continued breathing deeply, in and out. The faux dog continued barking a steady staccato. I sensed someone watching me through the big bay windows in the front.

  In and out. Deep breaths. Better, better.

  Heartbeat slowing. Another breath. Calmer. Good, good. It’s going to be all right, big guy. No one’s seen through your disguise yet.

  But what about the package yesterday with the Elvis watch?

  At the thought of the package, my heart rate picked up again. Blood pounded in my ears. I felt like turning around, going home, and crawling into bed with a six pack of Newcastle. Someone out there knew, and they were toying with me.

  I hate when that happens.

  I looked at the massive home in front of me. A stiff wind rustled my thinning hair. A girl was missing. A young starlet. She needed help. Her family needed help.

  Could I be of help? Wasn’t I just a washed-up old man?

  Yes and no. I had been working as an investigator for many years now. I specialized in finding the missing. I had helped many, many people.

  I’ll deal with whoever sent the package later. Hell, it’s not the first time I’ve dealt with a stalker. Granted, it’s been a while; still, this will be no different. Okay, maybe a little different. There was a lot more on the line this time: My reputation. My identity. My everything.

  Deep breaths, big guy. It’s going to be okay.

  I was going to be okay.

  Breathing. Lungs expanding. Heart rate lowering. And the more I was able to control my breathing, the calmer I became.

  The sun was shining. The dog was barking, and I was moving forward once again, with some degree of confidence. My disguise would hold and I would see about helping these people and their missing daughter.

  I stepped onto the wide wooden veranda and knocked on the front door.

  Show time.

  Chapter Eleven

  The door opened almost immediately, and a tall woman holding a glass tumbler materialized in the doorway. She was wearing a terrycloth robe and pink slippers.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “You’re the investigator, I assume?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re awfully polite.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Where you from?” she asked.

  “The South, ma’am,”

  “Ah,” she said, nodding, as if that explained everything.

  She was standing in the doorway with her left arm tucked under her right. Her glass tumbler dangled from her right hand. Something clear was inside it, mixed with clinking ice. Lean bicep and tricep muscles rippled under her paper-thin skin. Veins undulated in places most women did not have veins. At least, not in my day. She was tanned beyond reason. Welcome to Hollywood. Somewhere in the massive edifice behind her I heard a vacuum cleaner running. Other than that, total silence. At least the dog had stopped barking.

  She continued standing in the doorway. She wasn’t sure about me and wasn’t sure she wanted to hire me. I knew the drill. I was old. And, in her mind, no doubt too old to do the job. I was used to the drill, and wasn’t offended. Well, not that much, anyway.

  “You don’t really have a dog, do you?” I said.

  “What an odd thing to say.”

  “Only odd if it’s not true.”

  She studied me a moment longer. “It’s motion-activated. A security measure installed by my paranoid husband—God rest his soul—a few years ago. It drives me ape shit. How did you know?”

  “Because it was driving me ape shit, too.”

  She smiled. Ah, camaraderie. She was quite a beautiful woman, actually. About twenty years my junior. Her long, slender nose was red. Her cheeks were red. Everything on her face was red and swollen and puffy. Days of crying. Actually, she looked a little like me after days of drinking.

  Still, she wasn’t impressed enough to let me in. “Clarke said you find missing children,” she said.

  “I do my best,” I said.

  “Even adult missing children?”
r />   “Yes,” I said. “Even adult missing children.”

  “Do you have any of your own?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know,” she said. “Or, you can imagine....” her voice trailed off.

  “Yes,” I said. “I can imagine the hell you are going through.”

  “Will you help me find my daughter, Mr. King?”

  “I will do everything in my power, ma’am. I promise you. No stone unturned and all that.”

  She looked at me some more...and a weak smile appeared. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

  “I get that a lot. Most people say I remind them of their grandfathers.”

  “Yes, maybe that’s probably it.”

  “May I come in, ma’am?”

  “Please, call me Dana. And, yes, of course, where’s my manners?”

  She stepped aside and I was finally permitted entry. She closed the door behind me and I followed her through an ornate foyer and into a massive sitting room. Nice place. Back in the day, I could have lived quite well here, thank you very much.

  “Would you like something to drink, Mr. King?”

  “Coffee would be fine.”

  She showed me into the sitting room before stepping through an arched doorway and down a hallway. Her feet padded for a while along the polished wooden floor. Long hallway.

  The sitting room was cozy. A central hearth dominated the room, surrounded by an elaborate wrought-iron grate in a creeping ivy design. With this being southern California in late March, there was, of course, no fire. But if there had been, it would have been damn cozy. I moved around the room, lightly touching the fine furniture as I went. I stopped in the far corner at an ornate, and slightly abused, Steinway piano. The keys were exposed and I pressed one or two, each sound sending a thrill straight through my soul. My God, I loved music. I believe it’s the closest thing humans have to real magic, and I was happy to have contributed to it.

  “My mother gave me that piano,” Dana said. She was standing in the doorway, holding a silver tray of steaming mugs. “It’s been in the family for nearly eighty years. I know it’s an eyesore, but I still play it.”

  “Oh, really,” I said, genuinely intrigued. “What can you play?”

  “Anything, really. But mostly songs from the fifties and sixties, from my teens.”

  Do you know any Elvis? I wanted to ask, but didn’t.

  She set the tray down on the coffee table, then crossed over to the piano, where she sat on the bench. She motioned for me to sit next to her and I did. She absently pressed one or two keys. Somber notes. Our legs touched.

  “Do you play an instrument, Aaron? I’m sorry, may I call you Aaron?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Please, call me Dana.”

  “Yes. You said that.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not thinking straight these days,” she took in some air, doing her best at small talk, “You’re from the South, you say?”

  “Near there, yes.”

  “So you’re a true Southern gentleman.”

  “I try.”

  “And do you play an instrument?”

  “Yes, a little guitar.” I said, then admitted to something I hadn’t admitted to in nearly thirty years. “But mostly I used to sing.”

  “Oh, really? Where?”

  Now my heart was really pounding, but, dammit, it felt good talking about singing again.

  “You know, mostly church choir stuff.”

  “I bet you have a beautiful voice.”

  “Had. That was long ago.”

  “Perhaps you should take it up again,” she said, pressing more keys. “You’re never too old, you know.”

  I smiled. “Perhaps.”

  Chapter Twelve

  We moved over to the couch, where Dana told me more about her missing daughter, Miranda.

  Mother and daughter were inseparable, closer than best friends. Miranda was a rising film star and had just wrapped shooting her fourth movie in New York, which should be out in time for summer. She had lived a charmed life up to this point.

  “Do the police have any suspects?” I asked.

  “None that I’m aware of. You’ll have to ask them.”

  Dana picked up a metal picture frame and handed it to me. It was her daughter, and she was gorgeous. A spitting image of her mother, only younger and more vibrant. She instantly reminded me of my own daughter.

  “Describe the day she went missing,” I said to Dana with-out taking my eyes off the picture. “What were you doing?”

  “I was home painting, which I do as a sort of hobby, although sometimes I sell them on eBay.”

  I nodded politely. People ramble, especially under stress.

  “Miranda was in and out all day, as usual. Tanning salon, shopping, grabbing some food. I was happy to see it, because she had been moping around here for the past few days prior to that. After-filming blues, I figured, as the movie had wrapped a month or so earlier and I think she was feeling lonely and out-of-touch. The last time I saw her—” Dana paused, sucking some air, willing herself forward, “The last time I saw her she had popped into my art studio upstairs and asked if I wanted anything from Trader Joe’s. I barely looked up. I told her no, and then she was gone. Outside, I heard her car start up and leave and I haven’t seen or heard from her since.”

  I nodded sympathetically, looking away from the picture. “When did you suspect something was wrong?”

  “I called her two hours later. We almost always keep in close contact with each other, like an old married couple. But she didn’t pick up. I tried again twenty minutes later, and then kept on trying until I thought the worst. I think I called the police sometime in the middle of the night.”

  I waited a few seconds as she gathered herself.

  “That was six days ago,” she said.

  “And what happens when you call her cell phone now?” I asked.

  “It goes straight to voicemail. Only now her voicemail is full—mostly with messages from me, sounding more and more hysterical, no doubt.”

  “Does Miranda have a boyfriend?”

  “No, but she had been texting one of her co-stars in her new movie. They seemed to have hit it off rather well.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “New York.”

  Dana looked like she was on something, and she probably was, and I didn’t blame her one bit. Anything to get through this nightmare.

  “How long have you been a private investigator?” she asked.

  “Thirty years or so.”

  “What did you do before?”

  “Oh, I was in the entertainment industry.”

  “My daughter’s in the entertainment industry.”

  “I know,” I said, and thought: So is mine.

  “You are older than the other detectives,” she said.

  “I’m older than most.”

  She grinned. “But maybe that’s a good thing, maybe you can bring your experience to this. Yes, I like that. Instead of worrying about your age, I can focus on your experience. Maybe your age will, in fact, be an asset.”

  “Sure,” I said gently.

  She was nodding vigorously, as if she had just discovered the key that could unlock this whole investigation: an older PI with years of experience behind him.

  “Will you help me find her, Mr. King?”

  “So I’m hired?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then, I will do everything in my power to bring her home,” I said.

  Her emotions reversed on a dime. Now she sank in on herself. Literally. She instantly looked deflated and withered, like a plant without water. A mother without her daughter. She sat there on the couch looking at me, her chin pressing against her sternum, her head too heavy to support.

  “I’d like to see her room now,” I said.

  Dana nodded and showed me the way up.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I followed her up a wide curving staircase, moving past a great exp
anse of wall which was covered in family portraits. Ever alert for clues, I studied closely as we ascended.

  There was a wedding portrait of a younger version of Dana, looking beautiful and radiant and far too tan. She was hanging happily onto the arm of a dark-haired, bright-eyed young man dressed to the nines in a spiffy tux. I assumed this to be her deceased husband. More pictures of the newlyweds and some family members no doubt long since departed, and then the upper half of the wall, as we continued up, was completely dominated by Miranda in various stages of growing up. There was Miranda missing a tooth, with eyes so big to seem almost unreal, and one of the cutest, roundest faces I’d ever seen. Destined to be a star. Miranda in the Girl Scouts. Miranda riding a horse. Miranda on a class field trip, already head and shoulders cuter than any of the other kids. Miranda in junior high and beginning to look like a young lady. Miranda in high school, but now the cute little girl was gone as she began blossoming into the striking woman she would soon become.

  The pictures tapered off, and we presently reached the upstairs landing. Dana led me down a surprisingly narrow hallway, made even more narrow by the placement of bookshelves and small ornate tables. Expensive-looking vases filled with fresh flowers adorned the tables. Or rather, upon second glance, they had been fresh a few days ago. Now they were wilted. She stopped at the last door to the right.

  “Here it is,” she said. “Take as long as you need.”

  “Has anyone else been through this room?” I asked.

  “Yes, the police.”

  “And no one since?”

  “No.”

  She looked up at me some more, her eyes searching my face, and I saw the profound depth of her desperation and pain. She nodded for reasons known only to her, then turned and went back down the hallway and on down the stairs.

  I let myself into Miranda’s bedroom.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fresh air and warm sunshine poured in through the open bedroom window. The room itself was large and bright and cheery. No clothes were strewn across the floor, no jeans draped over the backs of sitting chairs. Nothing was knocked over or spilled. Someone had tidied the place up. I had known a few starlets in my day. Their rooms didn’t look like this.