Suzanne Forster - The Private Concierge

He scuffed his feet, and she looked up, eyes narrowing at the sight of him. “What in the H are you doing here, Bayless? I haven’t fired my gun yet this year. You’re going to make me break that record?”

It was her way of saying hi. Rick nodded, unsmiling. His way.

He braved her suspicious, get-out-of-my-space glare and walked to her desk. Conversationally, he said, “I hear you’re working with the Robbery Homicide Division on the Ned Talbert case.”

She slapped down her sandwich, yielding to his rude intrusion. “And Ned was a friend of yours, I know. I’m sorry about that, I really am, but I can’t tell you anything beyond what’s been in the news, and you know it.”

“So, you are working with RHD.” LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division often took jurisdiction when homicides involved high-profile individuals or special circumstances, even if the crime had happened within the jurisdiction of another bureau. Ned’s home was within the physical boundaries of the West bureau, which made the West L.A. station the occurrence division. So, fortunately for Rick, even if Robbery-Homicide was running the case, the West L.A. people would have been first at the scene, which meant Mimi may have had a near-virgin look at the crime scene.

“If I was working with them, that would be all the more reason I couldn’t help you. Sorry.”

“Who said I wanted help? Maybe I have some things to tell you.”

“Yeah? Like?”

“Like Ned may have joined a private-concierge service just before he died. And like several other high-profile clients of that service have been accused of criminal acts. Big names, major shit, and all of it recent, like within the last month.”

She glanced at the tabloid, which she so clearly preferred over his company. “What kind of criminal acts?”

“International drug smuggling and child pornography, for starters. Mimi, it may not be a coincidence that they all belong to the same service. It could be the link that connects them.”

“Connects them to what, a serial killer? Are they all dead?”

“Not dead. Caught. Snared. They’re all embroiled in career-ending scandals and most are looking at significant prison time if they’re convicted. Maybe Ned wasn’t supposed to die. Maybe he was supposed to have his career ended, too, and something went wrong. Someone should follow up on that. You, for example.”

This was the moment when Rick would have handed her the TPC card with the word Extortion? on the back in Ned’s handwriting, but he didn’t want to have to lie to her about where he got it. And he wasn’t quite ready to talk about the missing package, either.

“Where did you come up with this information? Do you know all these people personally?”

“Ned? Personally? I’ve known him since he was five, and he isn’t into whips and chains. He’s not a killer, and he wasn’t suicidal. He had everything to live for, as the cliché goes.”

“Did Ned tell you about this service? Did he have suspicions?”

Lie, Bayless. She’s never going to get the significance otherwise.

He drew Lane Chandler’s card out of his jacket pocket. “Ned was using this as a marker in a book he loaned me. Take a look at what he wrote on the back.”

She glanced at the question Ned had scribbled on the back, her lips pursing as she turned the card over and continued to scrutinize it. “Not much to go on, Sherlock.”

“Right, but Ned also paid me a visit at my cabin the night before he and his girlfriend were found dead. He said he was in trouble, that someone was trying to blackmail him. I had other things on my mind and sent him away. The next day, well, you know what happened.”

She closed one eye, squinting at him. “So, this is about your guilt?”

“It’s about follow-up, Mimi. Your specialty. You need to check this out—or get one of those RHD hotshots to do it.”

Her expression said gimme a fricking break, but he knew Mimi, and she wouldn’t have cleaned it up that much. “You know how they are, Rick. They’re gods. The stink of the O.J. case will never go away, but they still walk on water. What do you think my chances are of getting them to go along with this? They’ll laugh me off the case and loan me out to Palos Verdes.”

It was a credit to Rick’s years of practice that he didn’t smile.

She held out the card, which he pointedly ignored.

“It ain’t happening, Bayless,” she insisted. “From what I hear, the case is being written up as a murder-suicide, and the lab results aren’t even in yet. That’s how sure they are.”

Rick’s jaw clenched so tightly he could hear a click in his ears. “How sure they are? How could they be sure of anything at this point? Maybe it’s how anxious they are to be rid of this case. Did you ever think to ask yourself why, Mimi? Did it even occur to you that something else might be going on here?”

Mimi sighed. “I know cover-up is a buzz phrase these days, but it’s a little early for that, don’t you think? I was at the crime scene, and it sure as hell looked like a murder-suicide to me.”

That’s what Rick had been waiting to hear from her, but he didn’t want to look too eager. Better to continue his rant a little longer. “And isn’t that convenient for everyone concerned. They’re not even going to bother with the lab reports? Either that came down from above, which raises more questions, or these guys are lazy.”

Mimi shrugged, as if to say probably both. She peered at Rick. “If it were me, I’d write it off as a coincidence. Do you think it might be your history, not to mention animosity, toward the department that’s causing you to look for conspiracies where there are none?”

“My history is exactly why I can’t write it off.” With that, he changed the subject. “Take another look at that card. Do you recognize the name?”

“Lane Chandler?” She shook her head. “Should I?”

“We booked her for prostitution when she was a juvenile living on the streets—fifteen years old, to be exact. She was calling herself Lane Chandler, but her real name was Lucy Cox.”

Mimi rolled back in her chair, stunned. She stared at the card. “Holy shit, this is the kid that set off the firestorm. You might still be working in vice if not for her. Me, too, for that matter.”

“I never shed a tear about leaving vice. The point is, Lane Chandler has a criminal past, even if she was a juvenile at the time—and we need to know what she’s been doing since. Does she have an adult record, anything at all? I’d love to know how she ended up with clients like the CEO of TopCo and a hot commodity like Simon Shan.”

“She represents Simon Shan?”

Mimi’s eyes widened. Apparently Shan was a hot commodity. Rick didn’t keep up with celebrity gossip, but he’d seen enough of it on Gotcha.com to know that Lane’s service had become a lightning rod. The coincidence of so many clients in trouble at one company had not slipped Seth Black’s attention, either. Of the bunch, Shan had been cited as the one with the most to lose.

That was before Ned Talbert died under gruesome circumstances, but Ned wasn’t mentioned as a client of TPC, which meant the list had probably been made up before he joined—and Black had noticed the pattern even before Ned’s death.

Rick added some more names. “U.S. congressman Burton Carr and Priscilla Brandt, who’s hawking a book about manners. It’s quite a list.”

“Ms. Pris?” Mimi seemed impressed. “Still, the case is all but closed, and they’re not going to open it up again because Ned joined a concierge service whose clients are having a string of bad luck. So, what do you think is going on?”

“I don’t know, but I sure as hell wish I’d listened to what Ned was trying to tell me.”