And then Travis knew. The stepfather was abusing Syd. He’d heard different versions of the same story so many heartbreaking times before. Abused by one parent, betrayed by the other, the only choice the child sees is escape. Some place different, any place different, no matter what the risk.
There was nothing more Travis needed from Amanda Stevens at the moment so he thanked her for her time and promised to let her know when the article would run.
Part one of the Syd Curtis mystery was solved. Syd ran away from home when she was seventeen years old and ended up in Los Angeles. Now most kids with the same resume end up on the streets or doing porn, drug addicted and all too often, dead.
But Syd Curtis ended up a cop. How did that happen?
The only lead Travis had was the woman Syd was living with when she applied to the Police Academy, Andrea Templeton. How did Syd and Andrea meet?
Travis went online and Googled Andrea Templeton. He wanted to review the articles written about Andrea after her death. And he found a clue in a Daily News piece about Iraq war vets killed on the streets of Los Angeles after surviving war in the Middle East. It mentioned that a brother and sister, both Iraq vets, were killed three years apart. Amanda Templeton, a cop, shot in the line of duty. And her brother, Eric, a paramedic, killed in a drug deal gone bad.
Interesting. So Travis Googled Eric Templeton, and found three pages of articles on Eric’s murder. Templeton was stationed at Fire Station 82 in Hollywood, and lived in an apartment nearby. He was found stabbed to death in that apartment along with another man, Ernesto Sian, who had been shot once through the head. No weapons were found in the apartment. The articles described Sian as a known pimp who had two prior arrests but no convictions. Eric Templeton had no police record. And as far as Travis could tell from the articles, no one was ever arrested for the crime.
Something didn’t sound right. What was Eric Templeton doing in the same room with a scumbag like Ernesto Sian?
So Travis called a friend of his, LAPD Deputy Chief Randy Tuttle. Tuttle worked Vice for a decade before moving up to head Robbery Homicide. Travis asked him if he remembered a pimp named Ernesto Sian.
“Sure, he ran a string of young girls out of Hollywood about ten years ago. Used to pick them up at the bus station, get them hooked and put them on the street.”
“You remember anything about his murder?”
“He was murdered?”
Travis laughed. “Guess that’s a no.”
“I could pull the file, take a look if you like.”
Travis told him he wasn’t sure it was necessary at this point, but would get back to Randy if he needed more help.
Travis didn’t believe in coincidences. And Andrea Templeton’s brother being found dead in the same room with a pimp who preyed on runaways seemed like a big coincidence. Travis went back to the Internet and checked the date of the murders; November 16, 2003. Just over eighteen months after Syd ran away from Kansas City.
Was Ernesto Sian waiting at the bus station the night Syd Curtis arrived? Could this decorated cop have actually been a hooker?
Had Eric Templeton somehow come between Ernesto Sian and Syd? Was he a client? Had he met her professionally?
If Ernesto Sian kept his girls drugged up, Syd could have overdosed. If an ambulance was called, Eric Templeton could have responded.
Travis looked up the number for Fire Station 82, called them and asked where they take drug overdose victims. They told him St. John’s Hospital.
All Travis had to do now was find someone who knew someone at St. John’s who would be willing to check the admittance files for the last quarter of 2003. If Syd Curtis had been brought in by Eric Templeton, he’d found his connection.
Travis glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty. Probably too late to follow up tonight; it would have to wait until morning. In the mean time, he owed his client an update. He picked up his phone and dialed; he was sure Anne would be fascinated by the new revelations about the increasingly mysterious Syd Curtis. Travis already had discovered enough to get Syd kicked off the police department — lying on your Academy application was cause for immediate dismissal.
But there seemed to be much more; Syd was a runaway, possibly a hooker and corpses littered her past.
Just the kind of dirt Anne was hoping for.
FORTY-ONE
Anne heard her phone vibrating in her purse but decided to ignore it. Ryan had just walked in and she didn’t want to give him the impression that anyone or anything was more important than he was.
“Hey, Handsome,” she said getting up and hugging him. She kept it businesslike, no genital grind, hopefully that would come later.
“Trader Vic’s,” Ryan said, sitting down. “I can’t believe you picked Trader Vic’s. I think I’m still hung over from that crazy night.”
Trader Vic’s was a Polynesian-themed waterhole and restaurant famous for lethal drinks and pupu platters. It was attached to the Beverly Hilton until a few years ago when the hotel relocated and downsized Trader Vic’s to a poolside lounge. But the garish decoration remained, as did the delicious but deadly Tiki Bowl, Singapore Symphony and Rum Giggle.
Ten years ago Ryan and Anne came to Trader Vic’s to celebrate their engagement. They ordered a Scorpion Bowl, a vicious concoction of rum, fruit juice and brandy, served in a bowl with a flower floating in the middle. The drink is so big it’s served with four straws, so a party of four can share it. Ryan and Anne liked it so much they ordered another, and then a third.
By then they had invited everybody in the restaurant to their wedding, led a boisterous rendition of the Macarena, and to cap off the evening, made love in the middle stall of the men’s bathroom. Anne’s orgasm was so loud that Ryan and Anne got a standing ovation from the crowd as they walked back to their table.
“We had fun, didn’t we?” she asked with a naughty smile.
Actually, the next morning Ryan was completely embarrassed by their behavior. He thought they’d been silly and obnoxious. In fact, he was surprised the other patrons had put up with their nonsense. But over the years Ryan had seen other we’re-so-in-love-we can’t-stand-it couples make complete fools of themselves in restaurants and Ryan now understood what was going through the other patrons’ minds: Look how crazy in love those two are, I remember feeling like that, God I miss feeling like that.
“We did have tons of fun,” Ryan said, smiling warmly at the memory. “But if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll stick to beer tonight.”
Anne laughed. “Fear not, my Scorpion slurping days are behind me, too.” And as if on cue, a waitress arrived with a vodka tonic for her and a Michelob draft for him.
“I hope you don’t mind but I already ordered our drinks.”
“Not at all, thank you,” Ryan said.
“My pleasure.” They toasted and drank. Anne was pleased; she’d chosen Trader Vic’s not for the drinks but for the memories, and from the wistful look on Ryan’s face, it worked.
It more than worked. In fact, Ryan had spent the drive over to the Beverly Hilton convincing himself that he was going to keep his relationship with Anne strictly business. He was in a relationship with Syd. Though he had feelings for Anne, she was the past. Syd was the future. But looking at Anne now, remembering those heady days, his resolve was melting. Could you be in love with two women at the same time, he wondered.
And then he found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss Anne again.