Short straw, all right, Jake thought, as he hurried up to Morrison.
“What’s your name again?” Morrison asked.
“It’s — ” Jake started to say, ready to give his undercover name, which was Gary Mazier.
“I’ll tell you what it is,” the director interrupted him. “It’s Drag Ass. Because you’re too fucking slow, Drag Ass.”
Jake’s hand inadvertently went to where his gun holster would be, the idea of shooting this little man-child blossoming in his mind.
Unfortunately, Jake didn’t find the gun. He handed the case of lenses to Morrison resisting the urge to clobber the Keebler elf over the head with them.
The little man snatched it from Jake’s hand and turned to the camera.
“Go away, Drag Ass,” Morrison said.
Jake walked back to his pile of light reflectors and stands and thought how glad he was Mary Cooper wasn’t around to hear this crap. God, she’d have a field day with it.
The thought of Mary made him smile. She was a handful. A smartass to end all smartasses. But she was his smartass, even if she didn’t want to admit it.
A lot of people failed to see through her shield of sarcasm, but he could. And he liked what he saw.
Jake opened the door to a storage room and was met by a big security guard. He put his hand on Jake’s chest and pushed him back out the door.
“No, no, no. .” the guard said.
“What — “ Jake said.
“Never mind. Nothing here for you to see.” Jake looked at the man’s T-shirt. It said “Venice Security.” Under that, was the name “Paolo.” Jake thought about it. He was here to ostensibly find out if this production company, which was really a compendium of different companies, might be using minors as on-camera talent.
Whatever might be behind storage door number one, he decided to let it go for now.
“Fine, Paolo,” Jake said.
“Any time, Drag Ass,” the security guard said with a smirk.
Jake walked back to his gear. He was really starting to hate this assignment.
3
Three
Mary tried Jake’s cell phone number again. No answer.
“Dammit!” she said.
He had told her he was going on a special assignment and that communication would be sporadic, but this was ridiculous. They hadn’t talked or texted in a week, and that was almost unheard of for Jake. He contacted her every day. And who could blame him? After all, she was pure sugar to men, highly addictive.
Yeah, right, Mary.
She set her phone back in the cup holder. She didn’t necessarily want to admit it, but she was worried. He was the responsible one. Always keeping his phone charged, his clothes folded and put away, paying his bills on time. Now that she thought about it, his fastidiousness was downright fucking obnoxious.
And yet at the same time, it was so damned cute.
She pushed away worries about Jake, closed the files on the Jenkins case, and left the office.
She left Venice and in a few minutes was in Santa Monica, pulling her Honda Accord into the driveway of the house where her Aunt Alice lived. It was a nice home, a little bigger than average for most houses in this part of Santa Monica. Alice Parthum had bought the house back in the 1950s with her husband and had kept it after he died. It was a neat little Mediterranean number with a tile roof and wood shutters painted green.
Aunt Alice had raised Mary after her parents died, and now that the woman was getting up there in years, Mary made a point to stop by every few days.
When Mary let herself into the house, she found her aunt in purple spandex, bent over, while a thin, dark-skinned man in tight shorts and no shirt stood behind her. He had long, black hair pulled back into a ponytail.
His hands were on her hips.
“And open yourself, Alice, wide open,” the man said with a thick Indian accent.
Mary raised an eyebrow as she watched the man stand fearlessly directly behind her aunt’s buttocks.
“Careful there, buddy, you’re in the blast zone,” Mary said.
From her bent position, Alice glanced up at Mary.
“If you want to make my pain go away, Sanji,” Alice said, her face red and voice straining. “Get rid of her.”
The man stepped back from Alice — a bit warily, Mary thought.
“I think we are done for today,” he said. “We seem to have lost our concentration.”
He picked up his yoga mat and walked past Mary, nodding to her. He let himself out through the front door.
“Nice going,” Alice said, slowly rising to a standing position. “You can even stress out a yoga instructor.”
Alice Parthum was around seventy years old, a short, solid woman with naturally curly, gray hair and bright-green eyes. She was in pretty good shape for a woman her age, and the tight-fitting yoga outfit actually flattered her.
“Since when do you do yoga?” Mary said. “You’re about as flexible as plywood. I haven’t seen you bent over that far since you saw a nickel under the couch.”
Alice plopped into a wingback chair and took a sip from a water bottle.
“Oh, I just wanted to hire a man to help me out physically,” Alice said. “You know, like you do for sex.”
She took a longer drink from her water bottle, and Mary heard the ice cubes rattle inside.
“Speaking of men, I can’t get a hold of Jake,” Mary said, plopping onto the couch next to Alice. “He’s not returning my calls.”
“Maybe he considers you a phone solicitor,” Alice said. “Everyone hates those people.”
“I thought yoga was supposed to make you more peaceful,” Mary said. “Nonviolent.”
“Once Sanji starts instructing me in more than yoga, then I’ll be very relaxed, trust me,” Alice said. She shot a wink at Mary.
“Way too much information,” Mary said. “No, Jake said he was on some sort of investigation and that he wouldn’t be in touch for a while. But still, I’m a little worried.”
She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair.
“So what the hell do you think he’s doing?” Alice said. “Or should we be asking who Jake is doing?”
“Your sensitivity is admirable,” Mary said. “He could be in a ditch somewhere with a closed-head injury, and you’ve got him in a condo in Vegas with a stripper.”
“He’s got a condo in Vegas?” Alice said.
“Figure of speech.”
Mary saw movement out of the corner of her eye and looked out the living room’s picture window as a guy on an old-fashioned cruiser bicycle rode by the front of the house.
“Look, Mary. Jake is a homicide cop with LAPD,” Alice said. “He carries a badge and a gun. I seriously doubt anything has happened to him. He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”
She looked at Mary.
“Except when it comes to women.”
4
Four
The official office of a private investigator was a place prospective clients feared. Mary guessed, if she had to put a number to it, about seventy-five percent of new clients requested an initial meeting somewhere other than her office.
Which sort of pissed her off. After all, she paid monthly rent on the little office in a swanky building that also housed a law firm, an editorial house, and some mystery businesses that had to be tax dodges because Mary never saw anyone coming or going from them.