I watched, bewildered, from the edge of my eye as I turned the car toward Sepulveda. I glanced into the rearview mirror to ensure Lexie seemed comfy in the backseat. She sat staring, tongue hanging out as if she laughed at what had been said.
“Do you know what that means?” Hillary continued. “It was a popular term before either of us was born.” I guessed she was nearly fifteen years older than me, but her statement was still most likely correct. “It’s used in a lot of old movies—good old black-and-white gangster ones, with Edward G. Robinson and all.”
“I understand the word,” I said, knowing that my confusion seeped from my tone. “It means someone who’s a mark. A chump or scapegoat. The term’s familiar . . . but I don’t follow why you’re applying it to me.”
She pulled a lipstick from her Louis Vuitton handbag and applied it liberally, then made a kissing-sound moue with her mouth to ensure the bright crimson color spread equally. She didn’t act like someone heartbroken over the possible loss of prized pets, but maybe Edmund wore the animal-lover’s pants of this esteemed family. I’d mostly dealt with him when hired to help look after the fauna of the house. He’d been referred to me by another, happier client.
“It’s like this, Kendra.” Hillary turned back toward me. “Someone is always after Edmund and me in some bizarre way to try to get money. Usually, it’s solicitation for some outré charity—helping to find a cure for a dread disease like plantar warts or whatever. Now and then it’s threats against us, or even our kids. Obviously, some nasty sort learned that Edmund and I were going out of town and decided to take advantage by grabbing our poor pets while our security staff was so minimal.”
“You had security staff around?” I asked incredulously. If so, no one had told me to watch for them. Worse, they hadn’t been diligent enough to detain me, or even question my presence on the Dorgan property.
“Of course, and they knew you’d be around, too. We instructed them to let you alone to perform your services. Apparently they took that to mean they shouldn’t stop anyone who appeared to be handling pets in our absence. That’s a lesson they won’t forget soon. They’ve cooperated with the police, at least. But Edmund is interviewing new security companies by e-mail, even as we speak.”
“I see,” I said, certain instead that I saw nothing at all sensible in this situation. Except the road. I was about to turn off La Tijera Boulevard onto the 405 Freeway heading north. “Does that mean you have security cameras on your property? Are there possibly pictures of whoever stole Zibble and Saurus?”
“Yes, and unfortunately no. The cameras are well hidden. And they apparently aren’t plentiful enough. The police reviewed their footage with our disgraced security company and found nothing at all helpful. You’re in a lot of them from the day in question, though, Kendra.” She aimed an almost pleasant smile in my direction, as if in an unsuccessful attempt to soften any unintentional accusation.
I hoped suddenly that the 405 would be traffic-free so I could leave this lady’s company as swiftly as possible. Client or not, victim of having her pets swiped or not, I had concluded I really didn’t like her much
But wishing for a traffic-free San Diego Freeway, especially near evening rush hour, was like praying for three feet of snow in greater L.A. It resembled wishing for hell to freeze over, which some people would deem an apt analogy. We were practically at a standstill from the moment the Beamer’s tires touched the freeway’s surface.
I determined to make the best of the situation and extract any useful info I could. “I’ve no doubt that people as much in the public eye as Edmund and you run into all sorts of kooks, but in this case—well, this was the third pet-napping I’m aware of over the last couple of weeks, and there might be others I haven’t heard of. You might not have been singled out as targets, but the thief knew you had someone watching your pets.”
“Could be,” Hillary said thoughtfully. “But how would that person know if they didn’t have us under observation?”
I didn’t want to publicize my concern that PSCSC sitters might be the specific targets, so I said simply, “Could be they’re casing pet-sitters as much as their clients.”
“Maybe . . .” She drew out the word, and I heard some kind of contemplation in the extension. “Someone targeting pet-sitters? Or at least using that as an excuse? Hmmm . . .”
“Did that give you an idea who it might be?” I asked with interest. Maybe I was missing something here.
“Not at all,” she said with irrefutable finality, bursting whatever bubble of hope I’d begun to inflate.
Still, one more little thing I needed to learn. “Do you happen to know Nya Barston? She’s also a pet-sitter.”
“No, we’ve never used her. Did someone steal pets on her watch, too?”
“No, but . . . well, you wouldn’t have heard of it since you were out of the country, but she was killed at the home of a client of one of my counterparts.” I explained the tenuous connection with Tracy Owens and hastened to say I didn’t believe my friend had anything to do with harming Nya.
“How interesting!” Hillary actually did sound so interested that I darted another glance at her. Her enhanced hazel eyes were so aglow inside the Beamer that I confirmed that the interior lights were off. She explained almost immediately. “I’m a screenwriter, you know, Kendra. That’s how Edmund and I got together in the first place. This whole pet-sitter situation could make a rather exciting idea for a suspense film.”
Really? I didn’t think so, but what did I know?
Which was exactly Hillary’s next thought. “You’re not in the business, are you, Kendra? I mean, you’re not thinking of using this yourself? And you’re not doing research by having a friend snatch the pets? Or maybe that friend who was killed—”
“Now, wait a minute. Are you accusing me?” We were going slowly enough in the parking lot that was this friggin’ freeway that I had time to aim an angry glance at my passenger.
“I’m not implying anything,” she said equably, “but I’d hate to see us compete over the same idea. Since it concerns my pets, I’ll use it.” She seemed to dare me to deny it. “And I’ll do a damned wonderful job. Get one of the world’s biggest box office draws to star—not mentioning any names now, you understand. Get a major studio so excited that the execs pee their pants. Edmund will produce, of course. It’ll make millions!”
Can anyone say “inflated ego”? Not that I said anything aloud, other than an admittedly weak, “Sounds wonderful.” But I had to draw her back to the subject. “Wouldn’t it go better with a happy ending? Like, the return of your own pets first?” As well as a solution to poor Nya’s demise.
“Well, of course.” She sounded as aghast as if I’d suggested she couldn’t add one million plus two million. Or was that one hundred million plus two hundred? “And I’m willing, within reason, to pay the ransom and get dear little Zibble and even that odd-looking Saurus back.” Obviously Zibble was her darling, while the iguana was more her spouse’s sweetheart. And when she said “within reason,” I was certain that her reason was a heck of a lot higher than mine would be. “But one thing we have to do here first, dear.”
I was afraid to ask what that one thing was. And I was hardly her dear. Even so, I ventured, “What’s that, Hillary?”
The frozen look she aimed at the side of my face suggested I had erred in the subservience department by failing to call her Mrs. Dorgan, and I realized I’d never before dared to address her by name. Oh, well. It wasn’t like I expected I’d lose extensive pet-sitting fees by insulting her now. She wasn’t likely to hire me again for those sorts of services—unless, perhaps, she needed a pet-sitting expert as a consultant to her film. And if she did, I felt sure she’d find someone other than me to feed her exactly what she wanted to hear.
I doubted she even knew—or cared—that I was also a lawyer, so the likelihood I was shoving lucrative potential legal fees out the Beamer’s side windows was equally slim.
“We need publicity.”
She hadn’t even started on her screenplay and she wanted to publicize it? How bizarre! How . . . Hollywood!
“Well,” I said extremely slowly, “That may be a good idea, since the film concept sounds really interesting, but . . .”
“Not the film,” she inserted irritably. “We need it to get the pet-napper to show his hand. Send the next ransom note or whatever. We must get Zibble and Saurus back.”
This was the first sensible thing this silly showbiz woman had suggested since I’d picked her up. “Great idea! Only . . . well, the idea of publicity might upset the pet-napper even more than the fact the authorities are now involved.” I explained how the ransom note had said to keep the cops out. “Of course, in the other two cases the ransom notes said not to tell
anyone
.”
“See,” Hillary crowed triumphantly. “Whoever this insidious person is, he or she wants publicity now. Craves it. Who, in L.A., doesn’t?”
Me, I considered shouting, but I didn’t. Could Hillary be right? Damned if I knew, but any damage had already been done when I called in the cops. Why not give it a try? “Does your studio have any trusted media contacts?” I asked her.
“Oxymoron, my dear—trust and media in the same sentence. I have a couple of ideas, of course, but—”
A thought crossed my crazed mind. “If you don’t know of anyone specific, I have an acquaintance who’s been relatively straight with me in other crime-type situations—Corina Carey.”
“I’ve seen her on TV. Do you suppose Ms. Carey would like an immediate media interview with Mrs. Edmund Dorgan?”
“Count on it,” I said and groped behind the seat for my purse. I got a lick from Lexie before I found, and extracted, my cell phone.
Call me a glutton for media punishment, but since I had gotten Corina’s assistance in a murder matter in the past, her cell number was programmed into my phone.
I’D BEEN CORRECT, of course. Corina was crazy about the idea of an interview over this odd pet-napping situation—especially since Edmund Dorgan’s prized animals were the nappees. Her show, National NewsShakers, was a tabloid sort, although she also joined legitimate journalism with her freelance articles for the likes of the
L.A. Times
. My proposing an interview with someone as illustrious as Hillary Dorgan justifiably got Corina jazzed, and she promised me scads of airtime.
She and her cameraman reached the Dorgan home within minutes of our arrival, almost as if she had been hovering nearby in hopes of the opportunity.
Leaving us in the landscaped backyard near the empty iguana habitat, Hillary excused herself to change clothes, which gave Corina and me a chance to discuss the situation—not exactly alone, since the camera guy set up his equipment while the formerly discreet or missing security staff suddenly hovered as if we were expected to pilfer the eucalyptus leaves or rose petals. Even Lexie seemed sedate, sitting at my feet as if she were one really well-behaved dog.
“Anything here about Nya Barston’s murder?” Corina asked. She wore a bright burgundy pantsuit that set off the darkness of her pixie-styled short hair, as well as that attentive cameraman who now appeared to be her constant accessory to any outfit, though she’d filmed her own stories in the past. Her large brown eyes that suggested some trace of Asian ancestry regarded me with interest and near-fondness, since this time I not only hadn’t run her off a story that concerned me, but actually contacted her.
“Not directly. I don’t think Ms. Dorgan was even aware of it until I asked her.”
Hillary reappeared shortly thereafter in a silky blue blouse and even more makeup. The interview went amazingly well— maybe because Hillary’s on-camera presence as she answered Corina’s questions was all anyone in Hollywood could wish for. She was low key when needed, dramatic otherwise, and teary-eyed when begging for the return of her family’s beloved pets.
I stayed out of the way, although I observed with keen interest. And when the interview was over, both interviewer and interviewee sought out my assessment.
“Looked good to me,” I said.
“That damned thief has got to see this,” Hillary snapped. “When will the interview air, Corina?”
“We’ll give it a lot of airtime in the next day or so,” Corina assured the film mogul’s publicity-hound wife. “With any luck, that will mean the news at five—well, it’s too late for that now. How about six and ten tonight, morning, noon, evening, and night tomorrow? Plus, most other stations are copycats. You’ll hear from them, too.”
“How wonderful!” Hillary sounded as if she might swoon from the excitement. She came swiftly to her senses under Corina’s sharp stare. “The more publicity we get, the more someone is likely to recognize Zibble and Saurus and report any sightings to the authorities. As long as the pet-napper doesn’t panic and harm them . . .”
“Unlikely,” Corina assured her. “Not since you made it clear that price is no object in getting your beloved pets ransomed and back home.”
“Almost no object,” Hillary contradicted.
“Right,” Corina said.
In any event, the interview was done. But whether it would actually help in the hunt to get the missing pets home again safe and sound . . . well, that I didn’t know.
And I wasn’t about to wait to find out.