She’d excitedly told Elizabeth all about Randal, and the paintings he’d purchased, and his interest in including her work at an exhibition in New York.
“New York!” she’d squealed. “Can you believe it?”
Then she’d shown Elizabeth the photos of the gallery on the website, and her friend had tried to look pleased for her but Laurie could tell there was a hint of envy behind the smile, and she’d felt bad for bragging, knowing Elizabeth had endured a disappointing fair with almost no sales.
Randal had written his cell phone number on the back of the card he’d given to Laurie, and they had texted and emailed several times since their first meeting.
A few days ago, he’d told her he was planning another trip to Los Angeles and wanted to come down to Venice and visit the gallery space she shared with Elizabeth, to discuss potential pieces for the exhibition.
She’d made a date in her diary for Monday at noon. Today was Friday.
Randal smiled reassuringly. “Nope, you didn’t get the days mixed up. There’s been a change to my schedule, which is why I came looking for you. Do you have any plans for this weekend?”
“Nothing important. Why?”
“Fantastic. I have an exciting proposition for you.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
“Oh, it is. It involves your best paintings, a road trip, and this.” He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a neon wristband and handed it to her. “It’s going to be lots of fun—and very beneficial for you.”
Laurie took the wristband and read the words printed on the soft fabric. Her eyes widened when she saw what it was for. “Are you serious? This is for me?”
“It sure is. It’s where all the action will be happening this weekend and I’d love for you to be there to meet some people I know. Some very influential people. It’ll be a great chance to show them how talented you are. Trust me, they’re already interested.”
“I don’t know what to say.” She regarded the wristband again. “These things are definitely not cheap.”
“Just say yes. It’s my treat.”
Laurie smiled. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” Randal said. “Although I do think it should be our little secret for now.”
9
CONNOR
Victor Heights was a small obscure corner of LA comprising a bunch of hilly residential streets hidden between Echo Park and Chinatown. So obscure that it wasn’t found on Google Maps and Connor had never heard of it until today despite living in the city for the whole of his forty-one years.
After finally losing all faith in his Ford pick-up’s GPS to find the address scribbled on the yellow Post-it stuck to the dash, he pulled over and asked an elderly Chinese man for directions. Connor was beginning to wonder why an ambitious career girl like Amanda Meyers would choose to reside in such an esoteric little neighborhood when he turned onto her street and immediately knew the answer. Stretching out majestically before him from the peak of the hill was the most magnificent view of Downtown, rivaling even that of the vista from his seat at Dodger Stadium. So taken was he by the dramatic and unexpected appearance of the city center skyline, that he didn’t notice the sudden flash of color until it was almost too late.
Connor slammed on the brakes.
The truck screeched to a halt.
For the second time in the space of a few seconds, he was stunned by what he saw in front of him. He leaned on the steering wheel and peered through the windscreen, his mouth hanging open.
“What the . . . ?”
There, in the middle of the street, stood a peacock, its long tail fanning out behind in a blur of blue and green and turquoise. It appeared to stare back at Connor for a long moment, before unleashing an almighty squawk and continuing on its journey. He watched in amazement as it strutted down the side of a fourplex and disappeared round the back.
Connor shook his head with a laugh and restarted the truck. He found Amanda Meyers’ old apartment complex—a three-story putty-colored building with a red stucco-tiled roof—a half block away and parked up outside.
He quickly ruled out calling on whoever now resided in her old apartment on the basis that they’d be unlikely to know anything about the previous tenant or her disappearance. He made his way up to the top floor and knocked on the doors of Amanda’s two nearest neighbors instead and completely struck out. No answer from either apartment. It was mid-afternoon and Connor figured the occupants of both apartments were probably at work. Not the best time of day for an impromptu canvass of the neighborhood.
He took the stairs down to the middle floor and banged on the first door he came to. Was just about to give up and move on to the next apartment when he heard a shuffling movement from inside. The door opened to reveal a young skinny guy with mussed-up hair and boxers and a creased t-shirt. He looked like he’d just woken up. The hallway behind him was dim and he squinted in the light from the landing.
“Yeah?”
Connor didn’t know if the guy was a stoner or a student or a night-shift worker trying to grab some sleep.
“Sorry to bother you. I’m looking to speak to someone who might be able to tell me about Amanda Meyers. She used to live upstairs.”
The guy pressed the heel of a hand into his eyes. Blinked a couple times. “Uh, she’s the chick who went missing, right?”
“Right.”
“Must be, what, a year ago?”
“Two years.”
“Whoa. Really? Time sure flies, man.”
“It sure does.”
The guy suddenly seemed more alert, much more cautious.
“Hey, you’re not a cop, are you?”
Stoner, Connor decided.
“No, I’m not a cop. I’m a private eye, looking into her disappearance.” Stoner’s eyes narrowed and Connor added quickly, “I’m not looking to cause any trouble for anyone. I’m just after some information on Ms. Meyers.”
“Look, dude. I wish I could help but I didn’t really know her at all. Not even to say hello to. I offered to help carry her groceries upstairs once and she looked at me like I’d just grabbed her ass.” Stoner shook his head, his expression a mixture of hurt and confusion. “Man, I was only trying to help. Be courteous, you know?”
“That sucks big time, bud,” Connor agreed. He gestured vaguely in the direction of the other doors. “Is there anyone else likely to be around right now who’d be happy to talk?”
Stoner shook his head. “Nah. Not in this building anyways. You want information on what goes on around here, you’ll be wanting to speak to Mrs. DuBois. She’s the block captain.”
“Block captain?”
“Yeah, it’s a Neighborhood Watch thing. Means she gets to spy on folks all hours of the day and night and it’s legit somehow because she was voted in or something. I even heard a rumor she uses binoculars.” Stoner laughed and it turned into a wheezy cough. “Can you believe that shit, man?”
“Is that so?” Connor had to stop himself from punching the air. Neighborhood Watch. The best friend of the private eye. “Where exactly do I find this Mrs. DuBois?”
The answer to Connor’s question was right across the street in an ivy-covered Spanish-style bungalow. A red-and-white Neighborhood Watch sign starring “Boris the Burglar”—a shady noir villain silhouette—was nailed to a streetlamp outside. Connor thought he saw the curtain in the big front window twitch as he approached the front door and, again, had to suppress the urge to punch the air.