Driven (eBook)

Day One:
What Do We Have Here?

When the tall, attractive woman walked through the door at 9:00 a.m. dressed for a night on the town, Mike James knew his day was going to be different. He saw a slender woman with thick brown hair falling to her shoulders. Regular features kept her short of movie star beauty, but she would catch a lot of second looks. His initial thoughts were about a long party night, but any watchful person could tell something else was wrong. She seemed slightly frazzled, her eyes wide with uncertainty in her mien, but somehow, he felt she conveyed a sense of purpose.

“Are you Mike James?” she asked, looking directly at his face.

“Yes, private detective as on the sign.” He didn’t want to ask questions because she seemed on edge and he didn’t know which way she might go.

They were in a reception area with one bare, somewhat shabby desk, filing cabinets, and a poster of Yosemite National Park. He gestured to a room with a glass window behind the reception area. “Come into my office, and you can tell me why you are here.”

She followed him into a larger space that contained a desk, bare except for a desk pad with only a notebook and a lonely pen in sight. A few file cabinets stood along the wall to the left of the desk, and two framed Edward Hopper prints hung on the walls. She recognized one as Nighthawks. Two straight chairs faced the desk, and he offered her one and walked behind the desk to his chair, sat down, and set the coffee container he carried on the desk. “Sorry, I can’t offer you a coffee. I get mine at the shop across the street.”

She hesitated a moment and then sat down on the front of a chair, straight up, not relaxing, ankles and knees together, not giving away anything yet. “I saw you in the coffee shop, except I didn’t know that was you. I had been sitting by the window since it opened at seven, watching for someone to come in here. I live not far away and have walked by many times, noticing your sign. I thought it strange having a private eye office on this block with the types of businesses along the street.” Her mouth twitched a little like a smile could form, but then her eyes took an inward look and tension returned.

“I own the building, and I like the neighborhood. There is dead time in this job, and the bookstores, record shops, and art gallery shows fill time. A lot of interesting people work in these types of businesses.”

Her eyes had steadied now and she looked at him directly. “But you don’t have any art from the local galleries. Just these Hopper prints.”

“Film noir. Do you think I’ve overdone the spare, slightly seedy look?”

That did not bring a smile, but she sat back in the chair, sizing him up. He felt she must have undergone some traumatic event that had scared her, but he thought she still had her wits about her.

She saw a forty-something man, maybe pushing fifty, with short, thick hair with some gray, athletic built, sharp features, and a beard stubble that he trimmed carefully. He carried a certain aloofness and sad loneliness that made her wonder if his thin-lipped mouth ever broke into a smile.

“Have you been a private eye for long?”

“Just four years.”

“Is it a midlife crisis hobby?” She worried her question might offend him.

“No, and I’m not a voyeur either. I was in the army for more than twenty years, and this fit my skills. A lot of people need help.”

She crossed her legs, took a deep breath, and relaxed slightly. “My name is Laura Richards, and I’ve had a long night. After I left the police station, I had nowhere to go and spent the night in an all-night coffee shop near USC until I thought of your sign. I don’t have many options. I’ve been in LA for only one month, no close friends here. I’ve got a story to tell, and then you can give me advice, help me, or send me on my way.”

She paused for a minute. “Bear with me. I work in documentary films. It is my occupation, and I know how to lay things out and provide detail. I need to give a little background before I start on last night.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Go ahead. I’m a good listener.”

“I attended USC and majored in documentary film studies. I worked in New York for four years. One of the filmmakers I worked for as an assistant was Iona Black, a well-known investigative documentary maker. You may know of her.”

“Yes. I have seen several of her documentaries and like her work.”

She nodded and continued, “Just over a month ago, my aunt died and left me a condo a few blocks from here. I decided to move back to LA. A week ago, Iona showed up at my condo building. I had not talked to her during my last six months in New York and had not been able to say goodbye because she was out of town, maybe working on a project. I don’t know how she got my address, but investigative reporters have ways. She seemed excited, but would not tell me anything about what she was working on; however, she did ask for help with background shots and I said yes, of course. This consisted of outside shots of mansions around the city, a warehouse near the port, and screen background setting things like the Hollywood Sign and the Beverly Hilton.

“Two days ago, Iona asked me for a favor. She said she needed to store copies of documents in a safe location in case she became ill or had an accident and wanted me to open a safety-deposit box. These documents were so important that she wanted them to go to major investigative journalists if something happened to her—I would find instructions with the materials. She always kept the work close and used no associates during her research phase, so I did not think it odd that she asked me at this phase of her project.

“Of course, I wanted to ask questions, but Iona has a strong personality and framed her request in an ask-no-questions way. Yesterday morning, we went to a bank close to my condo, and I went in alone with an attaché case and did what she asked. That was just before noon. She then said she would take me out to dinner at a nice restaurant, which is why I am dressed up.

“The restaurant is only about six blocks from where I live, so I walked there to meet Iona and we enjoyed a wonderful dinner recalling old times. It was a wonderful night. I thought she would give me some hints as to her plans, but we talked only about friends in New York and current politics. After dinner, we decided to walk back to my condo.

“The condo is on a quiet street about three-quarters of a block off the boulevard. At nine thirty, the area was still busy with couples around the restaurants, bars, and shops. My block though was quiet. The people who live there were still out or already locked in for the night. We turned off the boulevard and were almost to my building when a white van came fast toward us. The driver slammed on the brakes just as the van reached us with the side door open. Iona yelled at me to run. I ran track in high school and still jog regularly, so I ran faster than Iona, who is almost sixty. I heard footsteps coming after us and the van coming up the street. Iona was just behind me. I heard a popping noise, and suddenly, she yelled, ‘I’m hit!’ I looked back and saw her fall. I cut sharply across the street just in front of the van and onto the sidewalk on the other side where a row of trees gave cover. As I passed a tree, I heard another pop and a soft thud. I made the boulevard and ran for another block. I saw a police car coming down the street and ran out in front of it, waving my arms and screaming.

“Of course, I was frantic, gasping for breath and barely coherent. They must have thought I was having a bad reaction to drugs. It took some time for me to calm down and explain. The police put me in the car and called in a possible shooting on Maple Street. They drove to my street and put their floodlights on. Another police car came from the other direction and did the same. The officers got out and stood behind the car doors with their guns until another car pulled up behind us and an officer got out and took charge.

“We looked down the street. Nothing. No van. We were only fifty feet from where Iona had fallen. No Iona. Nothing! The supervising officer stood with me as the other officers carefully walked down the street and looked in every shadow. I told him what happened. After they gave the all-clear, we walked down and I pointed right where Iona went down. They shined their lights around. No blood. No marks. No debris. Nothing.

“A pair of plainclothes detectives showed up. They ordered a careful search of the block and then took me down to the police station to give a statement. One of them kept going out of the room and then coming back and asking the other one to step out. A lieutenant joined us and asked many of the same questions. At the end of my statement, they said the search yielded nothing and my neighbors had heard nothing. One of the servers at the coffee shop on my corner did see me run by, which caught her attention, but she saw no one following me.

“By then, it was 4:00 a.m. The officers said they would take me to my condo, but I said no. I felt too scared to go where whoever did this knew where I lived. They asked if I could...