Gone at Zero Hundred 00:00, page 4
“It’s what my mom would want.”
He gave me a warm hug. “Well, I think you and Cody got the goods. Why don’t you pack it in? You know the crazies come out at night here in Sutter Beach.”
“But we’re a couple of hotshot sleuths,” I joked.
“Yeah, didn’t you hear the teaser?” Cody added.
Carter gave us an amused look. “Just get going, will ya’. The neighbor sounds like the nosey type. She’s liable to call in the F.B.I.”
Cody and I loaded the Canon and tripod into the case; then all three of us walked back down the grounds to where my pickup was parked. We hauled the camera case into a compartment in the back of the vehicle, under the retractable truck-bed cover. Underneath was an elaborate book-shelf. It looked like a small library with all the legal books, research materials, and an impressive collection of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. I built a shelf system all around the sides. The shelf rotated on the push of a button built into the panel on the inside of the bed.
Carter let out a whistle. “That’s impressive. Did you build it?”
“Yeah. Woodshop class my sophomore year. It helps to keep things organized.” I retrieved a file credenza filled with daily journals, separated by different colored tabs with titles in alphabetical order. I pulled out the one with ‘Surveillance’ listed on the tab, wrote a quick notation with the date and time, slipped it back into place and closed the door.
“You definitely are your mother’s daughter,” Carter said. “I’ve never met anyone who was so organized.”
I glanced at him for a moment. A feeling of pride washed over me. I never thought I would ever hear anyone say I was like my mother. I always thought we were as different as night and day. She was the gorgeous model-look-alike with brains and confidence to do almost anything, and I am the tomboy who struggled just to get through high school.
“Hey, thanks for cuttin’ us some slack,” I said. “If it was any other officer that found us up here, he probably would have demanded we get a permit to film.”
“Don’t sweat it, kid,” he said, as he headed toward his vehicle.
I stepped up behind the wheel of the pickup, while Cody hopped into the passenger side; then I cranked over the engine and we followed the Charger down the hill.
“Does he always call you kid?” Cody said.
“Yeah,” I said, and a warm smile spread across my face. Cody didn’t know that his simple question would have me yearning for a time in my life that I wished I could have back for a redo….
NINE
AS A young child growing up in Sutter Beach, I sort of earned a reputation with the cops, long before my mom became an investigator. Oh, stop judging. It’s not like I was a criminal, or anything. It’s just that I sort of had a case of adventure-itus, at least that’s what I prefer to call it. I learned of the ailment for the first time when I was five-years-old, and snuck out of the house during a rain storm. Hours later, Officer Carter - he was a rookie back then - found me hiding in a dog house with a puppy cradled in my arms. He got the call when a resident complained of a prowler climbing the six-foot fence into their yard. Yeah, this wasn’t the first time I was referred to as a prowler.
My adventure-itus struck again when I was seven. School had just let out for the summer, so I was bored. My mom was at work at a big-city law firm, and the babysitter was on the phone with her boyfriend, so I slipped out the back door. This time, I was found at a market several miles away from home. Officer Carter got the call, again. When he walked in the store, I was sitting on the counter eating a peanut butter sandwich, reading ‘The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn’, and regaling the store owner with my own tales of adventure. Ironically, that one also happened during a storm. Whoever said it never rains in Southern California has never been here during the month of February.
The adventure I planned when I was ten-years-old is the reason my mom ended up quitting her nine-to-five job at the law firm, opened up shop as an investigator, and put me to work as her apprentice. She was worried one of my adventures would end with me winding up in Juvie Hall. She was probably right, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. Every little girl yearned to know who their father was, don’t they? I mean, it was common knowledge that moms doted on their sons, and dads thought their little girls were pretty little princesses. Right? Otherwise, why would they have those silly father/daughter dances at school?
Unfortunately, in my little-girl mentality, I kept sneaking out because something was missing in my life, and I was trying to find it. I assumed the thing that was missing, was my dad. When I saw the movie What a Girl Wants, with Amanda Bynes, - for like the hundredth time - I came up with the hare-brained idea to do the same thing. Look for my father. I knew it was just a movie. But don’t things like that happen in real life? They had to, because this is my life, and it is real.
A few days later, I left home with my backpack and twenty dollars I took from my mom’s drawer. Hey, don’t wig out, I left her an I.O.U.
Unlike Amanda Bynes in the movie, I didn’t know where my dad was. All I knew was that he was in the military when he met my mom, only I didn’t know with a hundred-percent accuracy, that he still was, in the military, that is. I was going on instinct. I mean, it made sense. I was the product of two people, two gene pools. Up until I was ten, my mom was a stable fixture, with a normal job. She didn’t yearn for big adventures. She wore skirts, makeup and looked like a girl should. I definitely didn’t take after her. She carried a gun because she had to, not because she liked them.
As for me, I was always on the move, could care less about looks, and was more comfortable rolling around in the mud in a paintball war with my buddies, and role-playing an action flick. I had an entire collection of guns. Okay, they weren’t the real thing, but I loved them. In my ten-year-old thought process, I concluded: The person whose genes I stemmed from also must have been suffering from adventure-itus.
The military travels the world, so…
Since we lived in Sutter Beach my entire life, I decided my dad must have come from one of the military bases. I came up with the plan to sneak onto the naval base to find out. Guess what happens when you attempt to sneak onto a military base? They call the cops, and if they deem you to be a terror threat, NCIS. The fact that I was carrying a paintball pistol made me questionable. If it had been NCIS, I was sure some scary-looking guy would have shown up to interrogate me, and it wouldn’t have been Gibbs or DiNozzo. Gibbs would have given me a head slap for sure. Lucky for me, it was Carter who showed up, again.
He strolled into the sterile interrogation room - where I was sitting on a metal chair, alone and scared, shook his head and smiled.
“Hey kid,” he said without even one-iota of anger or disappointment in his voice. “Want to blow this joint and get ourselves a chocolate-mint Frappe?”
I couldn’t help myself. I ran over to him, and wrapped my arms around him and held on tight. He didn’t hesitate to hug me back.
As you might have guessed, I developed a relationship with Carter through the years. He has always been there during my unusual escapades - and I’ve only told you about a few of them. Carter and my mom would warn me of the dangers of the streets. He played the role of the concerned father. Then, he would leave, because he wasn’t really my father. My mother would do her thing, and I would go to my room and immerse myself in the life of Huckleberry Finn, which meant, inevitably, plotting my next adventure.
TEN
I DROPPED Cody off so he could begin editing the footage; then get the teaser up on a new site and forward a copy to the insurance company. Hopefully, they would like our initiative, and decide to give us a chance. Then, I drove to Walmart to pick up some large Rubbermaid containers and headed back to the firehouse. I sat down at my mother’s desk and looked around. Today was the day I had to face the mess. Manila folders were yanked from the filing cabinets, strewn around the room and piled high on the floor
I carried a container over to the stack on the floor. There were dozens of folders with client names listed on the labels. Most of them were stamped with ‘case closed’ on front. I put those folders in the container. They could be put off to the side. I found a couple of files the task force missed. I glanced through them to see if there was anything important, but the paperwork was way over my head, so I put those off to the side to give to Carter later.
Then, I came across a folder with the name Tamara Marquez on front. It wasn’t stamped so the case was still open. I walked back over to the desk to sit down. The file indicated she was eighteen-years-old. That surprised me. I couldn’t help but wonder why someone my age would need an investigator. Could her life have been changed by events that were out of her control—just like mine? My mom had a hand-written note inside indicating the information was stored in the files on her computer. I opened the laptop and turned it on, and was just about to search through her private files, just as a young woman walked through the firehouse door.
“Can I help you?” I said, surprised. People don’t usually come to the firehouse unannounced. I stashed the file and laptop in my backpack for the time being.
I pegged her to be early twenties - not too much older than me. She had a Kim Kardashian look, with long, dark hair and violet eyes that looked like they could have been contact lenses. She wore a designer skirt and a pair of Manolo Blahnik leather boots with three-inch-heels. The shoes, alone, were probably worth more than my entire wardrobe. I could tell she was rich by the size of the rock on her necklace.
“I was looking for McSwain & Beck,” she said as her eyes roamed the office with an obvious look of disapproval. I guess she didn’t like our choice of firehouse decor.
“I’m McSwain,” I said. “Beck is not in at the moment.
She glanced at the various photographs on the wall. Some of them were of my mom and me. Others were of Jaden, Cody and I doing some of the things we enjoyed: kickboxing, four-wheeling on the beach, or getting down to business in the Tactical Paintball Shooting competition. She walked up to get a close-up of one of the photos. My mom was standing in front of a packed room of high school teenagers giving them a speech on personal safety. I could have sworn she smirked while looking at the photo, but it had to be my imagination. Why would she do that?
She approached me at the desk, and offered her card. “My name is Summer Klein. I need help with a personal matter.”
I looked at the card. It indicated she was a model.
“Cop a squat,” I said.
She gave me an odd look. “Cop a squat?”
“Sorry. I meant, have a seat.” I pointed at a chair opposite the desk. I forget girls don’t always speak the same lingo as I do. That’s from hanging around Cody and Jaden most of my life.
She sat down, and put the expensive handbag she was carrying on her lap. “I need someone to investigate my step-brother. I’m afraid he might be involved with some bad characters. All he does is party lately, and I think he has been stealing from me.”
“Your step-brother…?” I said, somewhat surprised. “Why do you think he has been stealing?”
“Because money keeps disappearing from my bank accounts,” she said, and she looked at me like I was somewhat naïve. She reached into the handbag, retrieved a letter-size envelope and handed it to me. “The phone bill from our house is inside the envelope. I circled the numbers I’m not familiar with. Maybe they would be useful.”
“Your step-brother lives with you?”
“Yes. My father married his mother a few years ago. They died in an auto accident the same year, and he has been living with me in the home ever since.”
I glanced at the bill. They were all local numbers. “You already seem to know, what would you like me to do?” I know, stupid thing to say considering I need to make money.
She shrugged. “Follow him. I want to know who he is associating with, and what he is spending my money on.”
“That could mean hours of surveillance…”
She sighed with exasperation. “Do you want the job, or not?”
“Well, yeah, sure. We require a retainer,” I said. This was the first time I have asked a potential client for money. It wasn’t as hard as I thought. I mean, she was asking me to provide a service, right? My mom made mucho bucks. Novices like me and Cody have to charge a lower rate. Still those time-consuming stake-outs can add up, right?
Without hesitating, she pulled out her checkbook and wrote out a check. “Three days should be enough, right?”
I glanced at the check. It was written on her personal account in the sum of four-hundred dollars. I nodded, but tried to keep my look of surprise in check. “I’ll keep you updated.”
She handed me a few other items. “Here is a picture of my brother and his work address. He is a process server for a law firm. His name is David.”
In the photograph David was lounging on a private yacht docked at the Sutter Beach Marina. He looked a little younger than her. He was dressed in a polo shirt with a sweater draped across his shoulders and white deck shoes, a yuppie.
Summer said, “I have a modeling gig, so if this is enough to get you started…”
“I need the make and model of his car.”
She smirked. “He drives a red convertible Porsche Boxster Spyder—license plate is H-O-T-B-O-D-Y.”
It was pretty clear she didn’t like her step-brother. “We’ll start right away.”
“Thank you,” she said, and she got up and started toward the door. Then she stopped and looked back at me. “You have no idea how hard this is for me. We’ve never been close, but … well, we just chose different paths, I guess.”
“I understand.” Being an only child, I really didn’t, but it was the polite thing to say.
As she walked out the door, I couldn’t help but wonder how she heard about McSwain & Beck. Cody didn’t have time to get the website up and running, yet. Oh well, I shouldn’t complain. I texted Cody right away: “We have a paying client!”
A few seconds later, he texted me back using his favorite slang word: “Suuu-weet!”
ELEVEN
SO, NOW you know how Cody and I ended up in this line of work. I have a license - having aced the test after putting in the time required when I was working for my mom. The State of California required three years of working under a licensed investigator. I have been working two days a week with my mom since I was ten. You, do the math. Our goal was to help those that were in unfortunate situations, and willing to pay a couple of eighteen-year-olds to look into it.
Oh, and the State of California said I could have a permit to carry a gun—my mom’s Smith & Wesson—but they preferred I abide by the law and wait until I turned twenty-one. I don’t know what the big deal was. I’ve been shooting guns since I was a kid. Okay, so I started with paintball guns—I have a huge collection—but still. Since a gun was the weapon used to take my mom from me, I was okay with keeping it locked up for now. Logically, I knew it took a human to pull the trigger, but I still needed time.
Cody didn’t carry a gun, either. He carried a laptop, various USB cords, a portable printer, and a Canon EOS Rebel T3i Digital Camera. Along with being a wisenheimer and flirt, he was also a wannabe filmmaker. But, I think I told you that, already. No matter where he was he could fire up the laptop, do some computer hacking, or film a cool scene and edit it when he was done.
Before my mom died, she tried to convince me to stay out of this line of work. Even though she was good at it, she wanted me to find another path, something that would keep me from dealing with the scumbags of the world. Those were her words. She said it wasn’t as glamorous as they portrayed it on TV. She gave me and Cody a lot of the grunt work, because she was trying to show us it wasn’t such a fun job. But honestly, we didn’t think it was so bad. It beat pouring coffee, or sitting behind a desk answering phones all day long.
Summer gave me her phone bill and circled the numbers she didn’t recognize. Cody was the computer buff so we agreed he would handle most of that, but this seemed simple enough. I opened the laptop and did a Google search for the reverse phone directory. It could provide information attached to the numbers. Two of the numbers circled came up as unlisted, but the prefix indicated they were local numbers in Sutter Beach. You needed connections to get info on unlisted numbers, or someone like Cody who relished in invading people’s privacy, but it was too early to get involved in computer hacking.
The last number was listed to a place called The Devil’s Door with no address listed. It sounded like the name of a nightclub, but what do I know? I picked up my cell phone and punched in the number. After two rings, a female picked up the phone, “The Devil’s Door”.
I said, “Who am I speaking with?”
There was an exasperated sigh on the other end. “My name is Tracy,” the female replied.
“Tracy, what kind of business is The Devil’s Door? The number is on my phone bill, but I can’t remember why I called.”
“It’s a private, invitation-only club for college students.”
“Oh. Well, what exactly does private, invitation-only, mean?” I hope I wasn’t sounding too naive.
“Invitations are sent out. If an individual wants to be a member, they need to submit an application along with their picture. If their financials meet with the president’s goals, they would be invited to a social gathering to see if they were deemed worthy of a second interview.”
“Is it co-ed?” I said while contemplating what deemed worthy meant.
“Guys become members. Women apply for the exclusive social gatherings. I help set those up.”
“So, it’s like Hookup.com, a place where guys and gals can hook up?” Hookup.com is a new online dating forum.
“The Devil’s Door is exclusive,” she said with another exasperated sigh. I got the impression I was starting to annoy her.
