Jonathan Kellerman: Silent Partner

“Robin can’t make it. Out of town.”

“Business?”

“Yup.”

Pause.

“Listen, D., if you’re tied up, I understand.”

I thought about it for a moment, considered another lonely day and said, “No, I’m free, Larry.”

And set the gears in motion.

Holmby Hills is the highest-priced spread in L.A., a tiny pocket of mega-affluence sandwiched between Beverly Hills and Bel Air. Financially, light-years from my neighborhood, but only about a mile or so due south.

My map put La Mar Road in the heart of the district, a winding bit of dead-end filament terminating in the rolling hills that overlook the L.A. Country Club. Not far from the Playboy Mansion, but I didn’t imagine Hef had been invited to this bash.

At four-fifteen I put on a lightweight suit and set out on foot. Traffic was heavy on Sunset- surfers and sun-worshippers returning from the beach, gawkers headed east clutching maps to the stars’ homes. Fifty yards into Holmby Hills everything went hushed and pastoral.

The properties were immense, the houses concealed behind high walls and security gates and backed by small forests. Only the merest outline of slate gable or Spanish tile tower floating above the greenery suggested habitation. That, and the phlegmy rumble of unseen attack dogs.

La Mar appeared around a bend, an uphill strip of single-lane asphalt nicked into a wall of fifty-foot eucalyptus. In lieu of a city street sign, a varnished slab of pine had been nailed to one of the trees above the emblems of three security companies and the red-and-white badge of the Bel Air Patrol. Rustic lettering burned into the slab spelled out LA MAR. PRIVATE. NO OUTLET. Easy to miss at forty miles per, though a blue Rolls-Royce Corniche sped past me and hooked onto it without hesitation.

I followed the Rolls’s exhaust trail. Twenty feet in, twin fieldstone gateposts tacked with another PRIVATE ROAD warning fed into eight-foot stone walls topped with three feet of gold-finialed wrought iron. The iron was laced with alternating twenty-foot sections of vines- English ivy, passion fruit, honeysuckle, wisteria. Controlled profusion masquerading as something natural.

Beyond the walls was a gray-green canvas- more five-story eucalyptus. A quarter-mile later the foliage got even thicker, the road darker and cooler. Mounds of moss and lichen patched the fieldstone. The air smelled wet and menthol-clean. A bird chirped timidly, then abandoned its song.

The road curved, straightened, and revealed its end point: a towering stone arch sealed by wrought-iron gates. Scores of cars were lined up, a double file of chrome and lacquer.

As I got closer I could see that the division was purposeful: sparkling luxury cars in one queue; compacts, station wagons, and similar plebeian transport in the other. Heading the dream-mobiles was a spotless white Mercedes coupe, one of those custom jobs with a souped-up engine, bumper guards and spoilers, gold-plating- and a vanity plate that said PPK PHD.

Red-jacketed valets hopped around newly arrived vehicles like fleas on a summer pelt, throwing open car doors and pocketing keys. I made my way to the gate and found it locked. Off to one side was a speaker box on a post. Next to the speaker were a punch-pad, keyslot, and phone.

One of the red-jackets saw me, held out his palm, and said, “Keys.”

“No keys. I walked.”

His eyes narrowed. In his hand was an oversized iron key chained to a rectangle of varnished wood. On the wood was burnt lettering: FR. GATE.

“ We park,” he insisted. He was dark, thick, round-faced, fuzzy-bearded, and spoke in a Mediterranean accent. His palm wavered.

“No car,” I said. “I walked.” When his face stayed blank, I pantomimed walking with my fingers.

He turned to another valet, a short, skinny black kid, and whispered something. Both of them stared at me.

I looked up at the top of the gate, saw gold letters: SKYLARK.

“This is Mrs. Blalock’s home, right?”

No response.

“The University party? Dr. Kruse?”

The bearded one shrugged and trotted over to a pearl-gray Cadillac. The black kid stepped forward. “Got an invitation, sir?”

“No. Is one necessary?”

“We-ell.” He smiled, seemed to be thinking hard. “You’all got no car, you’all got no invitation.”

“I didn’t know it was necessary to bring either.”

He clucked his tongue.

“Is a car necessary for collateral?” I asked.

The smile disappeared. “You’all walked?”

“That’s right.”

“Where d’you’all live?”

“Not far from here.”

“Neighbor?”

“Invited guest. My name is Alex Delaware. Dr. Delaware.”

“One minute.” He walked to the box, picked up the telephone, and spoke. Replacing the receiver, he said “One minute.” again, and ran to open the doors of a white stretch Lincoln.

I waited, looked around. Something brown and familiar caught my eye: a truly pathetic vehicle pushed to the side of the road, away from the others. Quarantined.

Easy to see why: a scabrous Chevy station wagon of senile vintage, rust-pocked and clotted with lumpy patches of primer. Its tires needed air; its rear compartment was crammed with rolled clothing, shoes, cardboard cartons, fast-food containers, and crumpled paper cups. On the tailgate window was a yellow, diamond-shaped sticker: MUTANTS ON BOARD.

I smiled, then noticed that the clunker had been positioned in a way that prevented exit. A score of cars would have to be moved in order to free it.

A fashionably thin middle-aged coupled climbed out of the white Lincoln and were escorted to the gate by the bearded valet. He put the oversized key in the slot, punched a code, and one iron door swung open. Slipping through, I followed the couple onto a sloping drive paved with black bricks shaped like fish scales. As I walked past him, the valet said, “Hey,” but without enthusiasm, and made no effort to stop me.

When the gate had closed after him, I pointed to the Chevy and said, “That brown station wagon- let me tell you something about it.”

He came up next to the wrought iron. “Yes? What?”

“That car is owned by the richest guy at this party. Treat it well- he’s been known to give huge tips.”

He swiveled his head and stared at the station wagon. I began walking. When I looked back he was playing musical cars, creating a clearing around the Chevy.

A hundred yards past the gate the eucalyptus gave way to open skies above a golf course-quality lawn trimmed to stubble. The grass was flanked by ramrod columns of barbered Italian cypress and beds of perennials. The outer reaches of the grounds had been bulldozed into hillocks and valleys. The highest of the mounds were at the farthest reaches of the property, capped by solitary black pines and California junipers pruned to look windswept.

The fish-scale drive humped. From over the crest came the sound of music- a string section playing something baroque. As I neared the top I saw a tall old man dressed in butler’s livery walking toward me.

“Dr. Delaware, sir?” His accent fell somewhere between London and Boston; his features were soft, generous, and pouchy. His loose skin was the color of canned salmon. Tufts of cornsilk circled a sun-browned dome. A white carnation graced his buttonhole.

Jeeves, out of central casting.

“Yes?”

“I’m Ramey, Dr. Delaware, just coming to get you, sir. Please forgive the inconvenience, sir.”

“No problem. I guess the valets aren’t equipped to deal with pedestrians.”

We stepped over the crest. My eye was drawn toward the horizon. Toward a dozen peaks of green copper tile roof, three stories of white stucco and green shutters, columned porticoes, balustered balconies and verandas, arched doors and fanlight windows. A monumental wedding cake surrounded by acres of green icing.