Sid said, "They find out they're related to Jodi Taylor, they might take advantage." He rubbed his thumb across his fingertips. Money.
Jodi Taylor was still with me, her eyes locked on mine as if this was the most important thing in the world. "Do you swear that whatever you find will stay between us?"
"The card says 'confidential,' Ms. Taylor. If I work for you, I'm working for you."
Jodi looked at Sid. Sid spread his hands. "Whatever you want to do, kid."
She looked back at me, and nodded. "Hire him."
I said, "I can't do it from here. I'll have to go to Louisiana, and, possibly, other places, and, if I do, the expenses could be considerable."
Sid said, "So what's new?"
"My fee is three thousand dollars, plus the expenses."
Sid Markowitz took out a check and a pen and wrote without comment.
"I'll want to speak with the attorney. I may have to discuss what I find with her. Is that okay?"
Jodi Taylor said, "Of course. I'll call her this afternoon and tell her to expect you. You can keep her card." She glanced at the door, anxious to leave. You hire the detective, you let him worry about it.
Sid made a writing motion in the air and the waiter brought the check.
The woman with the pale hair looked our way again, then spoke to her husband. The two of them stood and came over, the man holding his camera.
I said, "We've got company."
Jodi Taylor and Sid Markowitz turned just as they arrived. The man was grinning as if he had just made thirty-second-degree Mason. The woman said, "Excuse us, but are you Jodi Taylor?"
In the space of a breath Jodi Taylor put away the things that troubled her and smiled the smile that thirty million Americans saw every week. It was worth seeing. Jodi Taylor was thirty-six years old, and beautiful in the way that only women with a measure of maturity can be beautiful. Not like in a fashion magazine. Not like a model. There was a quality of realness about her that let you feel that you might meet her at a supermarket or in church or at the PTA. She had soft hazel eyes and dark skin and one front tooth slightly overlapped the other. When she gave you the smile her heart smiled, too, and you felt it was genuine. Maybe it was that quality that was making her a star. "I'm Jodi Taylor,' she said.
The overweight man said, "Miss Taylor, could I get a picture of you and Denise?"
Jodi looked at the woman. "Are you Denise?"
Denise said, "It's so wonderful to meet you. We love your show."
Jodi smiled wider, and if you had never before met or seen her, in that moment you would fall in love. She offered her hand, and said, "Lean close and let's get our picture."
The overweight man beamed like a six-year-old on Christmas morning. Denise leaned close and Jodi took off her sunglasses and the maltre d' and two of the waiters hovered, nervous. Sid waved them away.
The overweight man snapped the picture, then said how much everybody back home loved Songbird, and then they went back to their table, smiling and pleased with themselves. Jodi Taylor replaced the sunglasses and folded her hands in her lap and stared at some indeterminate point beyond my shoulder, as if whatever she saw had drawn her to a neutral place.
I said, "That was very nice of you. I've been with several people who would not have been as kind."
Sid said, "Money in the bank. You see how they love her?"
Jodi Taylor looked at Sid Markowitz without expression, and then she looked at me. Her eyes seemed tired and obscured by something that intruded. "Yes, well. If there's anything else you need, please call Sid." She gathered her things and stood to leave. Business was finished.
I stayed seated. "What are you afraid of, Ms. Taylor?"
Jodi Taylor walked away from the table and out the door without answering.
Sid Markowitz said, "Forget it. You know how it is with actresses."
Outside, I watched Jodi and Sid drive away in Markowitz's twelve-cylinder Jaguar while a parking attendant who looked like Fabio ran to get my car. Neither of them had said good-bye.
From the parking lot, you could look down on the beach and see young men and women in wetsuits carrying short, pointy boogie boards into the surf. They would run laughing into the surf, where they would bellyflop onto their boards and paddle out past the breakwater where other surfers sat with their legs hanging down, bobbing in the water, waiting for a wave. A little swell would come, and they would paddle furiously to catch its crest. They would stand and ride the little wave into the shallows where they would turn around and paddle out to wait some more. They did it again and again, and the waves were always small, but maybe each time they paddled out they were thinking that the next wave would be the big wave, the one that would make all the effort have meaning. Most people are like that, and, like most people, the surfers probably hadn't yet realized that the process was the payoff, not the waves. When they were paddling, they looked very much like sea lions and, every couple of years or so, a passing great white shark would get confused and a board would come back but not the surfer.
Fabio brought my car and I drove back along the Pacific Coast Highway toward Los Angeles.
I had thought that Jodi Taylor might be pleased when I agreed to take the job, but she wasn't. Yet she still wanted to hire me, still wanted me to uncover the elements of her past. Since my own history was known to me, it held no fear. I thought about how I might feel if the corridor of my birth held only closed doors. Maybe, like Jodi Taylor, I would be afraid.
By the time I turned away from the water toward my office, a dark anvil of clouds had formed on the horizon and the ocean had grown to be the color of raw steel.
A storm was raging, and I thought that it might find its way to shore.
CHAPTER 2
I t was just after two when I pulled my car into the parking garage on Santa Monica Boulevard and climbed the four flights to my office there in the heart of West Hollywood. The office was empty, exactly as I had left it two hours and forty minutes ago. I had wanted to burst through the door and tell my employees that I was working for a major national television star, only I had no employees. I have a partner named Joe Pike, but he's rarely around. Even when he is, conversation is not his forte.
I took out Lucille Chenier's business card and dialed her office. A bright southern voice said, "Ms. Chenier's office. This is Darlene."
I told her who I was and asked if Ms. Chenier was available.
Darlene said, "Oh, Mr. Cole. Mr. Markowitz phoned us about you."
"There goes the element of surprise."
She said, "Ms. Chenier's in court this afternoon. May I help?"
I told her that I would be flying in tomorrow, and asked if we might set a time for me to meet with Ms. Chenier.
"Absolutely. Would three o'clock do?"
"Sounds good."
"If you like, I can book you into the Riverfront Howard Johnson. It's very nice." She sounded happy to do it.
"That would be great. Thank you."
She said, "Would you like someone to meet you at the airport? We'd be happy to send a car."
"Thanks, but I think I can manage."
"Well, you have a fine flight and we'll look forward to seeing you tomorrow." I could feel her smiling across the phone, happy to be of service, happy to help, and happy to speak with me. Maybe Louisiana was the Land of Happy People.
I said, "Darlene?"
"Yes, Mr. Cole?"
"Is this what they mean by southern hospitality?"
"Why, we're just happy to help."
I said, "Darlene, you sound the way magnolias smell."
She laughed. "Oh, Mr. Cole. Aren't you the one."
Some people just naturally make you smile.
I dialed Joe Pike's condo and got his answering machine. It answered on the first ring and Joe's voice said, "Speak." You see what I mean about the conversation?
I told him who we were working for and where I would be, and I left both Sid Markowitz's and Lucille Chenier's office numbers. Then I hung up and went out onto the little balcony I have and leaned across to look into the office next door. A woman named Cindy runs a beauty distribution outlet there, and we often meet on the balcony to talk. I wanted to tell her that I would be gone for a few days, but her office was dark. Nobody home. I went back inside and phoned my friend Patricia Kyle who works on the Paramount lot, but she was in a casting meeting and couldn't be disturbed. Great. Next I called this cop I know named Lou Poitras who works detectives out of the North Hollywood division, but he wasn't in, either. I put down the phone, leaned back in my chair, and looked around the office. The only thing moving besides me was this Pinocchio clock I've got. It has eyes that tock side-to-side and it's nice to look at because it's always smiling, but, like Pike, it isn't much when you're trying to work up a two-way conversation. I have figurines of Jiminy Cricket and Mickey Mouse, but they aren't much in the conversing department, either. My office was neat, clean, and in order. All bills were paid and all mail was answered. There didn't seem to be a whole lot of preparation necessary for my departure, and I found that depressing. Some big-time private detective. Can't even scare up a friend.