The Private Concierge. Suzanne Forster
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her a fortune, no matter what anyone said about it being the low-cost alternative to health clubs. She was paying dearly just for the privilege of living close enough to walk back and forth to work.
But who’d have thought she would ever have a fortune to pay. Not so terribly long ago she was penniless and homeless. She attended high school classes in juvenile hall and later tackled college on a scholarship, supplemented by multiple part-time jobs, one of which was helping a professor who’d penned a surprise bestseller and desperately needed someone to organize his life. He’d been so thrilled with her efforts he’d referred his entertainment lawyer to her, who’d referred more clients. It had started like that, a chain reaction. And then she’d dragged Darwin, kicking and screaming, into the fold, and he’d invented his crazy “electronic bodyguard” phone, as he called it in those days. Finally, after two years of abject toil, she’d bagged her first really big client, who’d become another source of referrals, and ready cash.
And she hadn’t stopped moving since.
Rick Bayless watched Detective Mimi Parsons take a huge bite of her PB & J on Wonder Bread, give it several distracted chews and then wash everything down with a slug of milk from a quart carton, which she’d probably swiped from the coffee room. She was glued to the tabloid magazine on her desk and hadn’t noticed him standing not six feet away, observing her and the otherwise empty police-station bullpen.
Everyone’s out to lunch, Rick thought, especially her.
At least she wasn’t into health food, like the rest of southern California. She had snack packages of potato chips and chocolate-chip cookies lined up for her second and third courses. Not into highbrow reading material, either. The article was upside down to Rick, but he could make out the title from where he stood by the door, and it had something to do with a transgender female prison inmate giving birth to a fur-bearing baby of questionable species.
Not much has changed, he thought, smiling to himself. Mimi was still a mess. Her desk was stacked high with case files, unfinished reports and research data. Her blazer jacket was wrinkled and too large on her petite frame, not that he was any expert on fashion. Most notably, though, she was completely tuned out to everything but what held her attention at that moment. That’s what had made her a stellar detective when they were partners, her avid, Peeping Tom–like concentration.
Rick had asked for Coop at the desk, but the clerk told him Don Cooper had been loaned out to the Palos Verdes Estates Police Department on a case. Rick figured that was apt punishment for Don’s loquaciousness. Not much to talk about at PVEPD. A big case there involved victims of rabid squirrel attacks on golf courses. Occasionally someone got nailed by a runaway cart.
Rick had done a little more digging with the clerk, found out that Mimi was peripherally involved in the Ned Talbert case, and used all of his considerable stealth to sneak in here and surprise her. He and Mimi had done their thing fifteen years ago, working juvenile vice out of the downtown L.A. bureau. A year or so after he resigned, in part because of remarks he’d made that were critical of the juvenile-hall system, Mimi had called and told him she was switching to homicide. She’d sailed through the requirements, eventually transferred down here to the West Side police station, and she’d been an integral part of their detective division ever since.
Rick had been instrumental in helping her get the job. She’d wanted out of the grinder, and he had pulled a few strings. Mimi actually did owe him for that, not that she’d ever admit it. Theirs had been a love-hate relationship, never romantic, sometimes trying, but always interesting.
He scuffed his feet, and she looked up, eyes narrowing at the sight of him. “What in the H are you doing here, Bayless? I haven’t fired my gun yet this year. You’re going to make me break that record?”
It was her way of saying hi. Rick nodded, unsmiling. His way.
He braved her suspicious, get-out-of-my-space glare and walked to her desk. Conversationally, he said, “I hear you’re working with the Robbery Homicide Division on the Ned Talbert case.”
She slapped down her sandwich, yielding to his rude intrusion. “And Ned was a friend of yours, I know. I’m sorry about that, I really am, but I can’t tell you anything beyond what’s been in the news, and you know it.”
“So, you are working with RHD.” LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division often took jurisdiction when homicides involved high-profile individuals or special circumstances, even if the crime had happened within the jurisdiction of another bureau. Ned’s home was within the physical boundaries of the West bureau, which made the West L.A. station the occurrence division. So, fortunately for Rick, even if Robbery-Homicide was running the case, the West L.A. people would have been first at the scene, which meant Mimi may have had a near-virgin look at the crime scene.
“If I was working with them, that would be all the more reason I couldn’t help you. Sorry.”
“Who said I wanted help? Maybe I have some things to tell you.”
“Yeah? Like?”
“Like Ned may have joined a private-concierge service just before he died. And like several other high-profile clients of that service have been accused of criminal acts. Big names, major shit, and all of it recent, like within the last month.”
She glanced at the tabloid, which she so clearly preferred over his company. “What kind of criminal acts?”
“International drug smuggling and child pornography, for starters. Mimi, it may not be a coincidence that they all belong to the same service. It could be the link that connects them.”
“Connects them to what, a serial killer? Are they all dead?”
“Not dead. Caught. Snared. They’re all embroiled in career-ending scandals and most are looking at significant prison time if they’re convicted. Maybe Ned wasn’t supposed to die. Maybe he was supposed to have his career ended, too, and something went wrong. Someone should follow up on that. You, for example.”
This was the moment when Rick would have handed her the TPC card with the word Extortion? on the back in Ned’s handwriting, but he didn’t want to have to lie to her about where he got it. And he wasn’t quite ready to talk about the missing package, either.
“Where did you come up with this information? Do you know all these people personally?”
“Ned? Personally? I’ve known him since he was five, and he isn’t into whips and chains. He’s not a killer, and he wasn’t suicidal. He had everything to live for, as the cliché goes.”
“Did Ned tell you about this service? Did he have suspicions?”
Lie, Bayless. She’s never going to get the significance otherwise.
He drew Lane Chandler’s card out of his jacket pocket. “Ned was using this as a marker in a book he loaned me. Take a look at what he wrote on the back.”
She glanced at the question Ned had scribbled on the back, her lips pursing as she turned the card over and continued to scrutinize it. “Not much to go on, Sherlock.”
“Right, but Ned also paid me a visit at my cabin the night before he and his girlfriend were found dead. He said he was in trouble, that someone was trying to blackmail him. I had other things on my mind and sent him away. The next day, well, you know what happened.”
She closed one eye, squinting at him. “So, this is about your guilt?”
“It’s about follow-up, Mimi. Your specialty. You need to check this out—or get one of those RHD hotshots to do it.”
Her expression said gimme a fricking break, but he knew Mimi, and she wouldn’t have cleaned it up that much. “You know how they are, Rick. They’re gods. The stink of the O.J. case will never go away, but they still walk on water. What do you think my chances are of getting them to go along with this? They’ll laugh me off the case and loan me out to Palos Verdes.”
It was a credit to Rick’s years of practice that he didn’t