Epigraph
"Upon the heath.
There to meet with Macbeth.
I come, graymalkin!
Paddock calls.
Anon!
Fair is foul, and foul is fair:
Hover through the fog and filthy air."
- Macbeth, Act 1, Scene 1
The line "fair is foul and foul is fair" is from the play "Macbeth" by William Shakespeare, and it means that what appears to be beautiful is actually ugly, and vice versa. The play centers around themes of deception.
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On an intellectual level, I was sure I'd long understood the meaning of the phrase, drop dead gorgeous. But when my office door opened that Monday morning and she walked in, I gained some real practical insight into the true meaning of the phrase. She was someone who was so stunning at first glance that it was hard to look away. Looking at her for the first time made my heart skip a beat and then beat faster. Time seemed to grind to a halt.
She said, "Mr. Malone?"
I tried to think of a witty reply but failed miserably. My mind had turned temporarily to mush. Instead, I flashed her a goofy grin and said, "Yes. I'm Malone."
Her golden blond hair contrasted perfectly with her cornflower blue eyes and porcelain skin. She was tall, very trim, and carried herself with an air of sophistication. She had on a short dark gray pencil skirt, black stockings, a white sleeveless silk blouse, unbuttoned to display just the right amount of cleavage. She wore black ankle strap heels. Her ears were adorned with small gold hoop earrings and around her neck was an impressive gold statement necklace that looked like it had probably cost three or four times what I'd paid for my car.
I stood up, gestured towards one of the client chairs positioned in from of my desk, and invited her to sit down. She had an elegant heel-to-toe walk that brought to mind a fashion model on a runway. She sat down gracefully in the chair and crossed her legs at the knee. She modestly tugged at the hem of her impressively too short skirt, but the effort didn't quite manage to conceal the darker colored top of the silk stocking covering her right leg. I liked the skirt. I liked it a lot. The skirt and the stockings emphasized her long, shapely legs.
I sat back down in my desk chair, almost missing the seat. I could tell she was giving me the once over, sizing me up. Probably mentally undressing me. I had that effect on women. She looked me over a little more before speaking.
"You're quite tall and muscular," she said. "Physically you appear quite capable."
"You betcha," I said. "Care to see me do a one-arm push-up?"
With a frown, she looked me directly in the eye and shook her head slightly from side to side. I felt a little relieved since I hadn't tried to do a one-arm push-up in quite a long while.
"Are you good at what you do?" she said.
"I am," I said.
"If I share a problem with you can I rely on you to be completely discreet?" she said.
"Of course," I said. "In fact, discreet is my middle name."
She looked dubious. To add emphasis to my claim, I touched my thumb and index finger to my lips and twisted as if turning a key to indicate my lips were sealed. She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow, suggesting she wasn't impressed with the pantomime.
"Mr. Malone, it's a very serious matter that brought me here," she said. "I need a private detective, not a stand-up comic. I'd very much like to hear a little evidence of your qualifications before discussing anything with you."
"I'm licensed as a private investigator by the State of California," I said. "I could show you my BSIS-issued photo ID card if you like. In the recent past, I was a Los Angeles police homicide detective."
She seemed satisfied, even without seeing my gun.
"Can you help me with a serious problem?" she said.
"I can't say until I hear what the problem is about," I said.
"I've got to trust you I suppose," she said. "I'm desperate for help. I have no one else to turn to."
"What is it you want, Mary?" I said. "What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word, and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down."
"Please don't make light of my situation with movie quotes, Mr. Malone," she said. "I have a serious problem that I need help with."
"What's the problem?" I said.
"I saw something that I shouldn't have," she said.
"What did you see?" I said.
"A crime," she said. "A serious crime."
"What kind of crime?" I said.
"A murder," she said.
"Murder certainly qualifies as a serious crime," I said. "Perhaps you should be speaking with the police."
"I can't go to the police," she said. "That's part of the problem."
"Why not?" I said. "Were you involved? Are you a fugitive from justice?"
"Of course not, try to be serious," she said. "I'm not a criminal, Mr. Malone."
"Then I don't understand your reluctance to go to the police and tell them what you saw," I said.
"Because the police would ask all sorts of questions about how I happened to be at the location where I witnessed the murder," she said. "They would inquire about my involvement with the victim. The press might get a hold of it. That would all be terribly inconvenient. I just can't afford to take the risk."
"If you're worried the killer would come after you, the police would protect you," I said.
"That's not my chief concern," she said.
"Then what is it?" I said.
"You said you were a policeman, Mr. Malone," she said. "I assume you're familiar with the term 'escort' and what that term entails."
"I assume you aren't referring to that awful Ford automobile model from several years back," I said.
Another raised eyebrow suggested she wasn't talking cars.
"Then if you mean escort in the sense of an upscale call girl, then yes, I am knowledgeable and conversant on that subject," I said.
"Being an escort entails a great deal more than just sex for money, Mr. Malone," she said. "But yes, essentially that is what I'm referring to. I'm employed part-time by an escort service. I don't do it to support myself financially. It's more that I'm pursuing a personal interest you might say."
"Always nice to have a hobby," I said.
She responded by raising another eyebrow. I found myself trying to mimic her. But I couldn't feel my eyebrows moving, certainly not one independently of the other. Instead, the effort only opened my eyes wider. I figured that probably made me look wild-eyed, like Charlie Manson, so I stopped.
"I take it your part-time employment explains your reluctance to go to the police," I said. "I'm quite certain they wouldn't be interested in prosecuting you for indulging your personal interest, as you phrased it. I also don't see much risk of you being exposed in the media."
"There is a little more to it than what I've told you thus far," she said. "There is another complicating factor."
"Which is what?" I said.
"I'm married to a rather wealthy and prominent man who is widely known in Southern California," she said. "I'm quite certain the revelation that his wife is employed by an escort service is something the tabloids would find newsworthy. If it got out, it would not only be a huge personal embarrassment for my husband and me, it could ruin him professionally. I'm not prepared to risk that."
"I assume your husband is unaware of your hobby," I said.
"Don't be foolish, Mr. Malone. Of course, he is unaware. While I feel no obligation to justify myself to you, I will explain to clarify things. My husband is quite older than I am. I am what some term a trophy wife. His work requires that he travel extensively. We spend a great deal of time apart. We haven't any children together. His children from his first marriage are grown. I didn't work until recently. I simply got sick of staying home all the time, spending all my time alone for the most part. I found something that interests me and that occupies my time. I find it satisfying."
"So what is it you expect I can do for you?" I said.
"I thought perhaps I could tell you everything I saw and that you could then go to the police in my stead with the information," she said.
"Sort of like a surrogate murder witness?" I said. "Sorry sweetheart, it doesn't work that way. Me telling the police what you witnessed wouldn't be very useful to them. It would be secondhand information, in legal terms, it's called hearsay. It isn't admissible in court. If I went to the police and told them your story, they would immediately press me to identify you so that they could speak with you directly."
"Couldn't you just refuse to identify me?" she said.
"No, I couldn't," I said. "Not legally. I'm not an attorney, journalist, or your priest. I have no legal exemption that would allow me to withhold your identity from the police. If I refused to identify you voluntarily, they would get a court order to force me to do so. If I continued to refuse, a judge would find me in contempt and have me thrown into jail until I decided to play ball."
"I see," she said. "So there is nothing you can do?"
"I didn't say that," I said. "I just can't go to the police as your emissary and tell them what you witnessed without identifying you. Tell me, if you don't want to risk exposure and embarrassment why do anything? Maybe you should just try to forget about it."
"I don't think I can," she said. "It seems unethical, for one thing. It doesn't seem right to let a murder go unpunished. Besides I'm not sure I could choose to do that anyway."
"Why not," I said.
"Because the killers saw me after I saw one of them shoot a client of mine," she said. "I'm afraid they will search for me. They might eventually find me."
"Are you certain you were seen?" I said.
"Yes, quite certain. They pursued me. I was fortunate to escape."
"And you're sure the victim is dead?" I said. "If he was shot but survived, you just witnessed an assault. Maybe they won't be concerned enough to come after you."
"Yes, I am quite sure he is dead," she said. "The murder was reported on the news this morning."
"That is a problem then," I said.
"Can you help me or not?" she said.
Suddenly she seemed terribly frightened and vulnerable like she might burst into tears at any moment. I wasn't sure I could help her, but decided I had to try.
"I can't just go to the police and tell them what you saw," I said. "But perhaps there is something I can do."
"Like what?" she said.
"Maybe I can find another way to bring the men you saw to the attention of the police and can implicate them in the murder," I said. "Maybe in a way that leaves you out of it."
"Could you really do that?" she said.
"I could try," I said.
"Please, would you try for me?" she said. "I'm so desperate."
The more I looked at her, those cornflower eyes, her full ruby-red lips, her pretty face looking so vulnerable, the more desperate I was starting feel for a little help of my own.
"Okay," I said. "But you need to tell me everything, where you were and exactly what you saw."
"It was last evening," she said. "It was a little before eight o'clock. I was at the Castillo Colina on Sunset Boulevard to meet a client. Are you familiar with the hotel?"
"Yes, the place where Belushi died of an overdose," I said. "I'm familiar with it"
Built in 1929, Castillo Colina was a very popular boutique hotel in Hollywood. Nestled in the hills above Sunset Boulevard like the mansion in "The Secret Garden" the posh hotel offered guests both privacy and exclusivity. It was a magnet for the rich and famous. It was a place where Led Zeppelin band members once rode their Harley motorcycles through the lobby and the place where Jim Morrison hurt his back dangling from a drain pipe while attempting to swing from the roof into his hotel room.
Hollywood legend had it that Humphrey Bogart once tended the gardens there before he made it big as an actor. Adjacent to the hotel, the Bar Colina was one of the hottest spots in Tinseltown, frequented by the likes of Johnny Depp, Winona Ryder, and Leonardo DiCaprio.
"My client had reserved one of the bungalows above the pool," she said. "I arrived a few minutes before eight last evening. I was walking to the bungalow from the patio side. The lights were on and the drapes behind the patio doors were partially open. I saw three men inside just beyond the doors, my client and two other men I didn't recognize. They seemed to be having a heated discussion."
"Since you recognized the client I assume there is some history there," I said.
"Yes," she said. "He had engaged me on previous occasions while in LA on business."
"Please continue," I said.
"I paused outside the patio doors," she said. "I assumed it was a business meeting that had gone longer than my client had expected since he had set our appointment for eight o'clock."
"What made you think it was an argument?" I said.
"The body language and the fact that voices were raised," she said. "I couldn't make out exactly what was being said, but the tone was definitely not conversational."
"What did the two men look like?" I said.
"One of them was very large," she said. "Not heavyset, but tall and muscular. Like you. The man was, also like you, mid-thirties I suppose. Short hair, a buzz cut. The other man was older. He was also shorter, under six foot, and thin. He had gray hair, about collar length, combed straight back. They both appeared to be foreigners, Slavic perhaps."
"Then what happened," I said.
"My client said something to the men and then pointed toward the patio doors," she said. "It seemed he was telling the other two men to get out. Suddenly the large man pulled a gun from inside his jacket. It happened so fast. It seemed as if one moment his hands were at his side, and the next he held a gun pointed at my client. He shot my client directly in the face. I saw it and I screamed. It was involuntary. It just came out. The men both whirled toward the patio doors and looked directly at me."
"What did you do then?" I said.
"I ran," she said. "I was wearing heels. I kicked them off, grabbed them up, and I ran for dear life towards the hotel lobby. I heard the patio doors open and heard behind me the footfalls of someone chasing me. I entered the hotel through the doors beside the pool. I ran through the lobby and out the front doors. I made it to the car, jumped into the back, and told Jackie to drive away immediately."
"Car?" I said. "And who pray tell is Jackie, your pimp?"
"Don't be crude, Mr. Malone. Jackie is one of the drivers for the service. The drivers take us to our appointments. They wait outside until we call them after meeting a client and tell them everything is fine. It's a safety measure. We are required to follow the procedure even with clients we have been with before."
"So the car belonged to your employer?" I said.
"Yes," she said. "We're picked up at home and driven to appointments. The driver returns and picks us up afterward."
"Did the killer see you get into the car?" I said.
"Yes," she said. "I turned and looked out the rear glass while Jackie drove away. The large man who shot Trevor, my client, was standing on the driveway of the hotel watching us drive away."
"That could be a problem," I said. "If he got the license plate number he may be able to trace you through your service."
"I thought only the police could get license plate information," she said.
"The information is out there," I said. "It's available to anyone willing to pay for it."
"Oh, dear," she said.
"Do you happen to know Trevor's last name?" I said. "And for that matter whether Trevor was a real name or an alias, considering the circumstances of your acquaintance."
"Yes, Trevor is or was his real name. His last name was Gladstone," she said. "Once when we were together he left his wallet on a table in the hotel room while showering. Out of curiosity I looked inside and saw his identification, a New York driver's license."
"Did you tell your employer about what happened?"
"No, I haven't told anyone but you," she said. "When I hurriedly returned to the car, Jackie asked what happened. I just told him there had been a problem but didn't give him any of the details."
"What's the name of your service?" I said.
"I won't reveal that," she said. "I don't want to involve them."
"They are probably already involved, assuming the shooter got the license plate number," I said. "They are entitled to know about this. The men you saw could show up there and ask how to get in touch with you."
"They would never disclose my private information," she said.
"Under ordinary circumstances perhaps," I said. "But these guys don't sound like nice men. It sounds to me like what you saw was a mob hit. Men like that won't ask your employer nicely for your information. Anyone can be made to talk if the pain gets bad enough."
"Oh my god," she said. "I never considered that. All right, the agency I work for is Discreet Encounters. The office is at 6311 Hollywood Boulevard."
"They have an actual office?" I said.
"Yes, it's where they do applicant interviews, answer the phone, and coordinate the appointments," she said. "Elle is the office manager."
"Cars all the same?" I said.
"Yes, black Lincoln Town Cars," she said. "It's part of the brand."
"I've heard your story and you know my name but I don't know yours," I said.
"I'd rather keep that confidential for now," she said. "This is a very sensitive situation as I told you."
"I've got to know where to send the bill when this is all over," I said. "I sort of expect to be paid for my time."
"Are you expensive?" she said.
"Not nearly as expensive as you, I suspect," I said.
That remark provoked another eyebrow raise.
"It doesn't matter," she said. "I need help. The cost is not a primary consideration. I'll give you a retainer up front."
She reached into her handbag and produced a bundle of currency enclosed in a mustard-colored paper currency band. She tossed the bundle onto my desktop. I saw that the bank notes were hundreds. I did a quick calculation. I knew that the ABA standard for currency bundles was one hundred bills.
The packet on my desk, while small enough to comfortably slip into my jacket pocket, represented ten thousand dollars. Probably enough for an evening or two of shamefully decadent fun with a woman like her, but a princely sum to a simple gumshoe like me. Minutes ago I had been wondering how I was going to pay my office rent at the end of the month. Now I was bucks up.
"Is that sufficient to start?" she said.
I played it casual. "Yes, it's adequate," I said. "But I expect you will want an accounting of my expenses so I still need a name and address for statements."
"My name is Evania," she said. "That's all the name I'm willing to give for now. When I require an accounting or progress report, I'll visit you here in your office."
I had a feeling Evania was her real name. While her English was impeccable, the lack of any detectable California accent and her features suggested that she might be of Eastern European extraction. I knew Evania was a common Czech, Russian, and Ukrainian female name. It was not so common a name for females born in the United States.
"I guess that will have to do," I said.
"Unless you have other questions, I suppose I should be going," she said. "I'll be in touch."
We both stood. She offered her hand and I took it. It was a surprisingly firm handshake for a female, but her skin was soft belying the fact she wasn't a woman accustomed to hard physical labor. At least not the kind that produced rough hands. I tried hard not to think about the kind of physical labor she was accustomed to. I was already feeling randy enough.
When she reached the door, she stopped and turned to look at me. "Will you get started right away?" she said.
"Right away," I said.
She smiled for the first time since she had walked in. She turned and walked out of my office, closing the door quietly behind her.
I stood at the window of my second-floor office, looking out on Cahuenga. I watched Evania get into a candy apple red BMW Z4 parked at the curb. She started the car and squealed away. The car rounded the corner at Hollywood Boulevard in a blur and then disappeared from view.
I turned and looked at the framed photograph of Sara Bernstein on the corner of my desk. It had been taken during a recent vacation to Hawaii.
"No worries babe," I said to the photo. "I have eyes only for you."
Sara Bernstein, the girl of my dreams, was in San Francisco at a psychiatric conference. We had met the previous year while I was still with the cops. I'd been sent to her by the department for psychiatric evaluation after a third officer-involved shooting in less than a year. My supervisors were concerned that I might be a homicidal maniac.
In the middle of the shrink sessions, I'd pressed her to go out with me. She had resisted at first on ethical grounds, but eventually, my rugged good looks and boyish charm had won her over. Or maybe it was my culinary skills. Or maybe it was because I wouldn't take no for an answer. At any rate, we started dating. We still were. I missed her a lot and anxiously awaited her return the coming Friday afternoon.
I'd promised Evania that I'd start on the case right away and I would. Right after I had coffee and some donuts from the shop down the block. After all, I was bucks up.
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Author's note: This book will be published in the Kindle store in late April or early May and will be enrolled in KDP Select. Due to Amazon KDP Select terms of service, I will only be able to publish a few chapters here as an excerpt. Just wanted to disclose that to avoid disappointing anyone. I'll be uploading the next chapter here on Friday, March 31.