Suzanne Forster - The Private Concierge

Rick rushed over to the stoop. “Mr. Black! Seth! I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.” The slot banged shut and Rick heard the scrape of a sliding bolt, which meant there must be some way to lock it. He pounded on the door, hoping if he made enough noise Black would be forced to answer. He might not want his neighbors calling the cops, especially if he was trying to keep his work location a secret. There were also zoning laws.

Finally, the slot popped open and a gun barrel poked through. “Shut up, you fucking loony, or I’ll shoot you!” Black hissed.

Interesting approach, Rick thought, moving out of Black’s line of fire, which was severely limited, as was his intelligence, apparently. Rick decided to appeal directly to the man’s entrepreneurial instincts, otherwise known as greed.

“I’m willing to pay for information,” Rick said. “Any price you want.”

“Yeah?” The gun barrel disappeared, replaced by eyes as black and beady as the suicidal mouse who’d taken over Rick’s kitchen. “What kind of information?”

“Are you Seth Black? Can I see proof?”

“You aren’t seeing anything until I know who you are and what you want.”

Rick slipped a fake business card through the slot. It identified him as an IRS agent. There was a cell-phone number and an e-mail address, both of which were accounts in the fake name on the card.

“What do you want to know?” Black asked after he’d looked at the card.

“I want whatever information you can get me on a Century City company called The Private Concierge, and I’m particularly interested in its president, Lane Chandler.”

“Is she in some kind of tax trouble?”

“I want to know about Lane Chandler’s dark side and what’s really going on in that concierge service. You call me with that kind of information, and I’ll tell you what kind of trouble she’s in. Share and share alike.”

“You’re crazy, man,” Black grumbled.

“Maybe,” Rick said, “but I pay well.” He drew a hundred-dollar bill from the envelope he carried, which had four more of the same denomination inside. He slipped the bill and the envelope through the slot. It was all part of the cost of doing business.

“Geez,” Black whispered, but with far less irritation in his voice. “Yeah, maybe. We’ll see. If I get something on her, maybe I’ll call.”

“You call, I pay. No maybes.”

The slot closed and locked. Rick smiled. No one wanted trouble with the IRS. It was always easier to cooperate, just in case.

As Rick took a shortcut across the lawn and started back to his SUV, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Through a gate that led to the back of the building, he saw a shrouded figure flit out of his line of sight and disappear down an alley. Rick guessed it was a male by the height, and he’d just come out of the apartment building.

The rusty latch was jammed. Rick forced the gate, butting it hard with his shoulder. It flew open, and he broke into a sprint. When he hit the alley behind the building, he was already laboring. He stopped to scope the area out and catch his breath. Whoever he’d seen had a good head start. If he couldn’t catch him, he might be able to ID his car, get the license-plate number. It was worth a try.

The block had several apartments, and the alley was covered parking with mostly empty stalls. Broken-down cars filled the remaining spaces, and debris from the Dumpsters stuck to Rick’s feet as he ran, searching the shadowy crevices at the same time. A couple of tenants, trying to jump-start a car, turned to see who was coming by this time, and what the rush was.

Tenants or car thieves? Rick didn’t stop to find out. Nor did he ask for directions. He’d learned from his years as a cop that they would almost certainly point him the wrong way.

The alley emptied into a quiet backstreet. Rick had no clue which way to go, and his vision was playing tricks again. He could see a small pack of dogs, probably trailing a female in heat, and some skateboarders on the opposite sidewalk, but there was no sign of a fleeing man in a hooded tunic and dark colors head to toe. Could it be Jack the Giant Killer he was after?

He headed east on a hunch and heard the roar of an engine. As he turned, a gleaming black car careened from out of nowhere and roared straight at him. It jumped the curb and grazed him, knocking him over the bumper before it tossed him to the ground. He hit, tucked and rolled, going with the momentum of the impact. He flipped at least three times, still doubled up to protect his head and his vitals. Jesus, what a day.

He forced himself to get up the second he stopped rolling, but the car was gone. No license number. He wasn’t quick enough for that, but from the chassis it had looked like one of those expensive new luxury hybrid cars. Jack the Giant Killer was environmentally aware? A Jolly Green Giant killer? And wealthy at that.

Ah, life in southern California, Rick thought, groaning as he bent to dust himself off. He would have some bruises, but otherwise, he was okay, relatively speaking.

Lane glanced at her watch. It was 9:00 p.m., and she’d had a carnival ride of a day. Her triumphant walk on the Avenue of the Stars was over the moment she got back to the office. The police were waiting for her in the reception area, and they’d wanted to talk about Simon Shan, specifically his whereabouts at various times. Lane had insisted that TPC’s client information was confidential. They’d finally gone, but she had a horrible feeling they would be back with a court order. Worse, she’d been accosted in front of prospective clients. A husband and wife real-estate-development team had arrived for their appointment while the police were still there, trying to intimidate client information out of Lane.

Little chance she’d see the couple again.

What she really wanted to do now was assume the fetal position and maybe suck her thumb. But she didn’t have time. She had one last task, and it had become a religious ritual, possibly because it gave her a feeling of control, however illusory. Every night before closing up shop she used her cell phone’s voice-activated recorder to review the important events of the day and update her to-do list.

Somehow, she would get through that ritual tonight, but first, she needed to breathe. She found the universal remote hiding under a stack of papers on her desk. The remote coordinated most of the electronic equipment in her office, and she used it to turn up the mood music playing on her sound system. The bluesy songs of heartbreak and loss soothed her for some reason, especially when she was stressed and overworked. But their magic wasn’t working at the moment.

She scooped up her cell, left her desk and fell into the room’s upholstered chaise, exhausted. No matter what she did to block out the whispering voices of doom in her head, she couldn’t escape the fear that her company was under siege. And if it was, who was going next?

There were people who might want to harm her, enemies from her past, but she wasn’t a threat to them now. If she’d meant to name names, she would have done it years ago. Surely they knew that. Now she had too much to lose herself. But the real question was why. If they did want to hurt her, why would they do it this way?

The Priscilla Brandt situation had deteriorated even further this afternoon. Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised Lane that an advice expert wouldn’t take advice from anyone. Lane had urged her to consult an attorney, which had infuriated her. Apparently all of Pris’s advisers had suggested the same thing, and now she wasn’t taking anyone’s calls, including Lane’s. Lane had been trying to reach her all evening.

Some people created their own problems, and Pris might be one of them. Lane heaved a sigh and pressed the microphone icon on her cell phone’s digital display, activating the system. Maybe she’d feel better once the record keeping had been taken care of.