The Private Concierge. Suzanne Forster
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of his mind that a meeting with Black was inevitable.
Rick figured Black relied on the local paparazzi for pictures and salacious tidbits, but he had to be getting the more personal details from an inside source. A family member, friend or employee were the obvious ways, but given the nature of a concierge service, it only made sense that considerable client information was stored away somewhere, which had Rick wondering if TPC had a mole, someone intent on extortion as Ned’s card had suggested. If clients confided in their private concierges the way they did in their hairstylists, there should be plenty of blackmail material to go around.
Still, drug busts? Child porn? That wasn’t info you confided to anyone.
TPC had branch offices in San Francisco and Las Vegas, and according to the Web site they would soon be expanding across the country, but Rick was only interested in their corporate offices here in L.A. He’d found an employee tree with the names of some of the company’s key players, but rather than run a background check on each of them, which would probably yield nothing, he’d decided to stake out Black’s place to see who showed up. Even if the inside source wasn’t a TPC employee, he was curious, especially about the mysterious Giant Killer. And Rick was betting that some of the really juicy stuff was hand-carried to Black since everyone knew that e-mail was no longer secure for anyone, including the country’s chief executive.
Rick took a swig from a can of Coke that had gone flat. His last serious attempt at eating had been the Chinese takeout that morning, and he hadn’t thought to bring any food with him. Maybe that’s why he was perspiring and dizzy. It was warm outside, and hotter in the car.
He patted the front pocket of his jeans and realized he’d left something behind this morning, a bottle of prescription pills. They were probably sitting on the nightstand at his place. He forgot them half the time anyway, and when he did take them, he felt like shit, worse than before. He ought to flush them down the fricking toilet, but he couldn’t. He was dead without them. Well, dead sooner.
He shook off the morbid thought and focused on Black’s place. There were still no signs of life, so to speak, but Rick had planned for that. He’d brought a five-by-seven envelope, addressed to Black, in case he needed a reason to go to the door himself.
He grabbed it and let himself out of the car.
Whoa, something was wrong. The cracks in the sidewalk appeared to slide back and forth as he approached the four-story apartment building, causing him to weave like a drunk. He stopped to get his bearings, and as he glanced up, he saw the mail slot open on Black’s door. Someone was peeking through it from the other side, Rick realized. The slot was nearly at eye level and large enough to get a glimpse of a man’s face.
Rick rushed over to the stoop. “Mr. Black! Seth! I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.” The slot banged shut and Rick heard the scrape of a sliding bolt, which meant there must be some way to lock it. He pounded on the door, hoping if he made enough noise Black would be forced to answer. He might not want his neighbors calling the cops, especially if he was trying to keep his work location a secret. There were also zoning laws.
Finally, the slot popped open and a gun barrel poked through. “Shut up, you fucking loony, or I’ll shoot you!” Black hissed.
Interesting approach, Rick thought, moving out of Black’s line of fire, which was severely limited, as was his intelligence, apparently. Rick decided to appeal directly to the man’s entrepreneurial instincts, otherwise known as greed.
“I’m willing to pay for information,” Rick said. “Any price you want.”
“Yeah?” The gun barrel disappeared, replaced by eyes as black and beady as the suicidal mouse who’d taken over Rick’s kitchen. “What kind of information?”
“Are you Seth Black? Can I see proof?”
“You aren’t seeing anything until I know who you are and what you want.”
Rick slipped a fake business card through the slot. It identified him as an IRS agent. There was a cell-phone number and an e-mail address, both of which were accounts in the fake name on the card.
“What do you want to know?” Black asked after he’d looked at the card.
“I want whatever information you can get me on a Century City company called The Private Concierge, and I’m particularly interested in its president, Lane Chandler.”
“Is she in some kind of tax trouble?”
“I want to know about Lane Chandler’s dark side and what’s really going on in that concierge service. You call me with that kind of information, and I’ll tell you what kind of trouble she’s in. Share and share alike.”
“You’re crazy, man,” Black grumbled.
“Maybe,” Rick said, “but I pay well.” He drew a hundred-dollar bill from the envelope he carried, which had four more of the same denomination inside. He slipped the bill and the envelope through the slot. It was all part of the cost of doing business.
“Geez,” Black whispered, but with far less irritation in his voice. “Yeah, maybe. We’ll see. If I get something on her, maybe I’ll call.”
“You call, I pay. No maybes.”
The slot closed and locked. Rick smiled. No one wanted trouble with the IRS. It was always easier to cooperate, just in case.
As Rick took a shortcut across the lawn and started back to his SUV, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Through a gate that led to the back of the building, he saw a shrouded figure flit out of his line of sight and disappear down an alley. Rick guessed it was a male by the height, and he’d just come out of the apartment building.
The rusty latch was jammed. Rick forced the gate, butting it hard with his shoulder. It flew open, and he broke into a sprint. When he hit the alley behind the building, he was already laboring. He stopped to scope the area out and catch his breath. Whoever he’d seen had a good head start. If he couldn’t catch him, he might be able to ID his car, get the license-plate number. It was worth a try.
The block had several apartments, and the alley was covered parking with mostly empty stalls. Broken-down cars filled the remaining spaces, and debris from the Dumpsters stuck to Rick’s feet as he ran, searching the shadowy crevices at the same time. A couple of tenants, trying to jump-start a car, turned to see who was coming by this time, and what the rush was.
Tenants or car thieves? Rick didn’t stop to find out. Nor did he ask for directions. He’d learned from his years as a cop that they would almost certainly point him the wrong way.
The alley emptied into a quiet backstreet. Rick had no clue which way to go, and his vision was playing tricks again. He could see a small pack of dogs, probably trailing a female in heat, and some skateboarders on the opposite sidewalk, but there was no sign of a fleeing man in a hooded tunic and dark colors head to toe. Could it be Jack the Giant Killer he was after?
He headed east on a hunch and heard the roar of an engine. As he turned, a gleaming black car careened from out of nowhere and roared straight at him. It jumped the curb and grazed him, knocking him over the bumper before it tossed him to the ground. He hit, tucked and rolled, going with the momentum of the impact. He flipped at least three times, still doubled up to protect his head and his vitals. Jesus, what a day.
He forced himself to get up the second he stopped rolling, but the car was gone. No license number. He wasn’t quick enough for that, but from the chassis it had looked like one of those expensive new luxury hybrid cars. Jack the Giant Killer was environmentally aware? A Jolly Green Giant killer? And wealthy at that.
Ah, life in southern California, Rick thought, groaning as he bent to dust himself off. He would have some bruises, but otherwise, he was okay, relatively speaking.
Lane glanced at her watch. It was 9:00 p.m., and she’d had a carnival ride of a day. Her triumphant walk on the Avenue of the Stars was over the moment she got back to the office. The police were waiting for her in the reception area,