Donald Moffitt - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 57, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2012

Time to pull out the charm. I applied the old giggle-and-wiggle, which is something I really hate to do, but I had to get down to this guy’s level if I was going to get anywhere.

“I don’t know if I should tell you,” I said. “You’re probably going to think it’s really stupid.”

The smile came back in full force. He seemed to like stupid, oversexed girls.

“Let me be the judge of that,” he said, suddenly all sophistication.

I shrugged. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. About a week ago this guy hits on me and my girlfriend in the bar at Vu?” This is about the chichiest restaurant in the marina, which I certainly couldn’t afford even if I hung out in bars, but Brent wouldn’t know that. He was more your imported-beer bistro type. “He’s like getting totally hammered and he’s all, “I work on this awesome boat, wanna check it out?’ Like we’re going to leave with a guy like him. Anyway, he says he’s stepping out for a cigarette, and Becca, she’s my friend, she bets he’s a Marlboro Lights man, but I think he’s like more, pretentious? So I go, “He’s probably lighting up a Sherman’s or something.’ She says no way, and now there’s a round of Cosmos on it.”

“What if you’re both wrong?”

I giggled again. “Then I guess the bet’s off.”

“Sorry. Camels.”

I looked skeptical. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy?”

“Clint Roland, the assistant engineer on the Chengfeng. Buys ‘em by the carton.”

“Oh,” I said, crestfallen. I shrugged. “She probably won’t believe me.”

“Tell you what. Vu’s a little out of my league, but I know a great little place in Santa Monica, no cover and they make a killer Cosmopolitan. I could meet you and Becca there and she could hear it from me.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“Why don’t you give me your number? I can call and give you directions.”

The moron hadn’t even asked my name yet and already he was trying to get my phone number.

“Sure.” He gave me a blue Bic and a scratch pad and I scribbled down an alias and the number to a gay escort service I had memorized for just such an occasion.

“Jeri,” he read. “Cute name! I’m Brent.” Like I couldn’t read, but then again, most of the girls this guy hit on probably couldn’t. He grinned. “Call you tonight?”

“Kewl!” I fluttered my fingers at him in farewell and bounced out. Pinhead.

I didn’t worry too much about my humiliation after leaving, though. On my way out of the marina, I was followed again, and this time it wasn’t the humongoid truck.

Note to file: It’s just about impossible to lose a tail in Los Angeles when you’re driving an exotic sports car. The Tesla has an advertised max speed of a hundred and twenty-five mph, but try finding a clean stretch anywhere in town where you can push it past forty-five for more than five seconds. The traffic is just too congested. And the Tesla isn’t exactly what you’d call inconspicuous.

Not that it would have helped even if I’d been able to open her up because, as it turned out, my shadow could have topped one fifty. (Later I learned it was a 650i model BMW coupe. I figured I’d better learn something about makes and models if this was to become a common occurrence.) It had illegally tinted front windows, which usually means some undercover cop or gangsta at the wheel — somebody who doesn’t want to be recognized. No such thing as a legit unmarked police Beamer, not given budget shortfalls and the heart attack-inducing size of the sticker. Gangbangers got the cash, but they prefer rides that can seat more than two homies — extra firepower for when they pepper the tract homes of their rivals’ moms. So I had absolutely zero idea who it was. But this time, I had a plan.

Instead of getting off the 405 onto the 10 and heading directly back to the McKinley Building, I kept going north and exited the freeway at Sunset. Lots of twisty residential streets in the neighborhoods around there, you see. But then I had second thoughts. If I didn’t lose the rolling surveillance right away in the suburban labyrinth, he’d definitely figure out I was onto him.

So Plan B: Find a public parking structure with more than one exit. A mall would be perfect. There I’d have a couple of options. I could probably shake him or I could park the car and pretend to go shopping. Maybe he’d follow me on foot as I walked into the mall, and then I might be able to identify him. If he didn’t get out of his car, I could ditch the Tesla, take to the sidewalk and catch a bus — didn’t think he’d expect that — or I could start the whole merry chase all over again, maybe heading up into the Hollywood Hills for a spin on Mulholland.

Since I had already gotten off the San Diego Freeway, the Galleria in Sherman Oaks was out. That left Beverly Center in West Hollywood.

He kept with me past the winding rollercoaster heights of Bel-Air and the flat civilized stretch of Beverly Hills, all the way to the gaudy club-strewn Strip, discreetly keeping his distance, and followed me when I turned south on La Cienega. I still hadn’t made up my mind what I was going to do when I arrived at the mall. I drove in, keeping half an eye open for a space.

Luck was with me. By the time the BMW could follow me in, I had slipped the noose. He’d have to search all eight floors to find me. I wouldn’t be there.

I exited and headed west on Beverly Boulevard, doubling back toward Beverly Hills, then turned left on Doheny Drive and scooted down to Wilshire. From there I leisurely ambled downtown, as free and footloose as a Venice Beach sidewalk skater. I was pleased with myself: Erica H. Wooding, P.I., sexy and tough and smart, and completely at ease in a completely bitchin’ sports car. Take that, ye minions of darkness.

Wrong. By the time I got to the McKinley’s garage, he had already parked in a guest spot and was waiting for me. Different suit, same lustrous black hair and wide shoulders. He leaned his tight buns against the back of the Beamer, arms across his chest, and watched as I parked in my reserved space.

I stepped out of the car and stared at him staring at me. Finally he shifted off the car onto his feet and dropped his arms to his side.

“You could have just told me that you were a private investigator yourself instead of giving me that song and dance about coffee with a girlfriend,” he said.

“So you looked up my license with Consumer Affairs,” I said. “Maybe I should be flattered, but I don’t think so. I shouldn’t have given you my real name.”

This was met with a short, sarcastic laugh. “So you really are Erica Wooding — good to know. But it wasn’t your license I looked up, honey. It was the license plate on the Tesla — amazing what you can do with a smartphone and a good app, even in traffic. Registered to Fowler Investigations.”

“The Fowler Investigative Analysis Team,” I corrected him.

“Whatever you say. It might have occurred to you that we’re on the same side.”

“Really? I thought we were rivals.”

“What for? I’m on salary, get paid either way — and I’m ineligible for the reward, because I work for the company offering it. So I won’t stand in your way. Hell, I might even help you collect.”

“What reward?” I asked, as nonchalantly as I could.

“The two hundred fifty grand for finding the Chengfeng, as if you didn’t know. But even if you didn’t, you can bet your precious Miss Enola does. How else do you think she pays for that penthouse?”

Now this was a very good question, but when embarrassed I’m least likely to back down. Sexy and tough and smart? Yeah, got that covered, but only when I’m not being sticky and stubborn and stupid.