Gone at Zero Hundred 00:00, page 5
“Hookup.com is not exclusive?”
“Hookup.com is free. I mean, we are more selective.”
I think she just slipped up and admitted you have to pay to be a part of the club. “Oh, well, I don’t know why I would have called a private club.”
“Maybe you were looking for a date,” she replied with a snippy attitude.
Normally I would have said something in return, but it wouldn’t be nice, so I held off. I said, “Thanks for your help.”
I may only be eighteen, but I picked up some street smarts during my childhood escapades and working with my mom, so a question hit me immediately. Why would the financials be important for admittance to a private club where college-age was the target? Students heading off to college were usually broke, and bogged down with student loans, or were living off their parents. What financials do they have? There must be more to it. Were they targeting the rich and privileged kids? That would be something to look into if The Devil’s Door became a factor in my surveillance of David Klein.
TWELVE
SUMMER ALSO gave me David’s work address. The law office where he worked was just over the city limit into Los Angeles. I made a quick call to find out if he kept a steady schedule. That would give me an idea of when I would be starting surveillance. I dialed the number on the card, and asked to speak to the office manager. A friendly voice came on the line.
“This is Molly, how can I help you?”
“Hi Molly,” I said. “How are you?” My mom always said: be nice to secretaries and office managers. They ccould be a good source for information, or they could keep you from getting anything at all.
“I’m fine, thank you for asking,” Molly answered.
I said, “I’m calling from Caulfield’s Florist. I have a delivery for David Klein. Could you tell me what his daily schedule is?” I assumed she was in charge of the employees for the law firm. I couldn’t divulge my identity for obvious reasons, so I lied.
“Let me check for you.” After a moment, she came back on the line. “David is free of appointments this week. His lunch is twelve to one, and he leaves the office around five-thirty.”
“Thank you Molly, that’ll help to schedule the delivery.” After I disconnected from the call, I wondered if Molly would call Caulfield’s when a floral delivery didn’t arrive.
A short time later, I figured I should probably head to the bank and deposit the check from Summer. When that was done, I could drive to the office where David worked and start the time-consuming surveillance. After all, that’s what I was being paid to do. Before I left the firehouse, I fired off a quick text to Cody: Dude - strtd new case. Will fill u in l8tr. Depositing $$$. Cu @ park for kickboxing!
The minute I hit send, my cell phone vibrated indicating I had an incoming call. I hit the talk button.
“Hello,” I said.
“Syd, it’s Carter.”
“Hey. What’s up?”
“Listen,” he said. “I got the name you were looking for.”
I perked up. “…My father?”
“Of course, your father...”
I was speechless, and suddenly, very nervous. After my mom was murdered, I was even more intent on finding out the identity of my father. Carter was hesitant to help me at first. He made a promise to my mother. But, when another check arrived, with no name and address attached, he gave in. Besides, my arguments were legitimate. One, I was an adult, and had a right to know. Two, my mom was killed, my world was ripped apart, and he was my only living relative, at least that I knew of.
“His name is Jake Logan.”
“Jake Logan.” I repeated the name to myself.
“He was in the military when they met. You were right about that. They met during one of his brief stints at home.”
“So I’m the product of a one-night stand?”
“I’m sure it was more than that, Syd.”
“Then why?
“Why wouldn’t she tell you about him?”
“Well, yeah…”
“That’s a question I can’t answer.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“I do, and I don’t.”
“What does that mean?” I could tell he was hesitant to open up that can of worms.
“According to my source, he’s in Afghanistan. I’ve got friends over there, so they’re helping me out. But, it’s a slow process.”
“This is the 21st century. It should be easy to track him down if he’s in the military.”
“I said he was in the military when they met. I don’t have his exact status right now. It just means you’ll have to be patient a little while longer. At least we know who he is. I’ll keep you posted when I hear anything. Just know that I’m on it.”
I sighed. “I’ve waited eighteen years. I guess I can wait a little longer.”
“Do you want to get some dinner? Talk about it? I’m still frazzled at the station, but I can make the time.”
“No, I’m okay. I got a new client today, so I have some work to keep me busy.”
“You got a new client?” he said, somewhat surprised. “I didn’t know you advertised yet?”
“We didn’t. She just walked in.”
He was quiet for a moment. “What kind of case?” He asked with a voice filled with suspicion.
“She’s a model. She said her step-brother is stealing from her. She wants to know who he is hanging out with, that kind of thing.”
“Hmmm, should be simple enough.”
“Hey, it’s a paying client, so I’ll take it.”
“Well, let me know if you need anything, or if you need to talk.”
“I’ll be okay.” What else could I do, get on a plane and fly to Afghanistan and show up at a military base in the desert?
“Hey, I’m looking for my dad. His name is Jake Logan. He may not know about me, but then again, maybe he does, since I suspect he’s been sending checks for the last eighteen years…Tell him I’m his long-lost daughter.”
THIRTEEN
I WALKED to the nearest Sutter Beach Bank ATM machine to deposit Summer’s check, and withdrew twenty bucks in cash. I can’t predict how long surveillance will last - look at me talking like I’ve been doing this for years - but a girl’s gotta eat. Twenty bucks could go a long way if you know how to conserve. Peanut-butter M’M’s have the necessary ingredients to keep me going through the day, so I stopped at the corner store for those, and a bottle of water. Hey, peanut butter is protein, and the chocolate will give me energy. I headed back to my pickup, hopped in and cranked the engine.
I drove west on Sailor’s Way; then drove over the two-mile stretch of sandy beaches we traveled for my mom’s funeral and crossed over into Los Angeles. Avenue of the Americas is lined with contemporary skyscrapers and four-star hotels. I pulled into the underground parking garage of the building where David Klein worked, retrieved a ticket and drove around until I located the red convertible Porsche with H-O-T-B-O-D-Y on the license plate. I parked a few cars away, ready to follow when he turned up.
Twenty minutes passed before I spotted him walking toward his car. He looked different. In the photo, he looked like a clean-cut yuppie. In person, he looked like one of those guys who partied at the underground raves. He was dressed in black jeans, black t-shirt with neon skulls and a pair of leather boots. His hair was longish, and he looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days. Being a process server, I guess there was no dress code. He was okay looking, but I wouldn’t agree with the title on his license plate. I grabbed my camera and took a few photos.
I heard two beeps, and realized he had a car alarm on the Porsche and used a remote to turn it off. He walked around to the passenger side, opened the door and dropped his leather bag on the seat. Two minutes later the convertible top was down, and he was speeding out of the facility, waiving his key-card at the electronic machine on the way out. Since I didn’t have a key-card, I had to stop and pay the attendant, but keep my eye on the Porsche at the same time.
Moments later, I caught up with him and tailed him from two cars behind. I didn’t think he would catch on. He was rapping to the tunes from his stereo that was amplified loud enough to be at a rock concert. We traveled back toward the harbor, and drove past the Sutter Beach Marina, where rows and rows of sailboats and Yachts were docked. Then, he turned onto Stone Castle Glade, a cobblestone street lined with pubs frequented by fishermen and longshoremen who work at the harbor, and The Toscana - the trendy hide-away-pub where Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton-type celebrities, were known to hang out.
His Porsche cut down a back alley, and pulled to a stop behind an old brick building that looked like it has been around since the beginning of time. Pigeons flocked the area looking for scraps of food. I hung back in the pickup, and zoomed in on David through the Porsche window with the lens of the camera.
Snap! Snap! I took several shots. He put the convertible top back up, stepped out of the car, and walked toward a large black door. He looked around, as if wary of being followed; then used a key to open it and disappeared inside.
I drove around to the front of the building, parked a couple blocks away and took in the scenery with the camera. The place made me curious from the start. The brick building was an old movie theatre, and looked like it was built in an earlier century. Black lampposts were situated on the corners of the location, and the fog that usually drifted in from the ocean, seemed to settle right there. The Devil’s Door was engraved on an antique wood door, just to the left of the old ticket box. The cobblestone street, and the image in front of the brick building, reminded me of a scene in the movie: Interview With a Vampire. It had the same eerie feel. I kept getting the feeling a vampire was going to appear out of nowhere.
The number on Summer’s phone bill came from The Devil’s Door. Did they take the old movie theatre, and turn it into a private club? Was David a member? She said he was a process server. They don’t make that much money. I was curious to say the least.
Butt numbing surveillance was about to begin.
***
As early evening turned into night, I couldn’t help but be amused. The paparazzi were on the street, hiding out in their SUV’s, snapping photos and trying to be incognito from the young celebrities hanging out at The Toscana. Why hide? Celebrities want to be seen. They pay their publicists big money to keep their faces in the limelight.
Another thing my mom used to say: celebrities that were frequently depicted on the cover of the tabloids were the ones with the best publicists. Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton had some good publicists. I’m thinking Lady Gaga and the Kardashians had the all-time best. Their faces always glorified the front covers.
When the sun disappeared from sight, the activity picked up at The Devil’s Door, as well. A large number of guys and gals showed up at the same time. I guessed their ages to be about eighteen to twenty-five. I could tell the guys came from wealthy families. They all showed up in expensive and exotic sports cars - like you would regularly see driving down Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. I saw an AudiR9, several BMWs and Porsche 911s, a Shelby GT500, a couple Lamborghini’s and many others. That was some big money. A couple guys that showed up were dropped off in stretch limousines. Was the private, invitation-only club having one of their exclusive social gatherings? I snapped photo after photo. When the front door opened, I saw a dark-haired girl sitting on a stool behind a reception desk, with two buff guys acting as bouncers. Most of the guests forked over a wad of cash to get inside.
Then, I noticed something interesting. When certain guests arrived, instead of rolling out dough, they stepped up to an ultraviolet light on the desk and placed their right wrist underneath it; then were given a nod to go through. I zoomed in close with the camera lens. When the light hovered over the skin, a tattoo of the face of a devil showed up on their wrist. Did that mean the guests with a tattoo were official members of The Devil Doors?
When the clock struck twelve, the partiers started to file out and staggered to their respective vehicles. I figured they shut down early to stay off the radar of law enforcement. Even though a good number of them were underage, it was clear they did some heavy partying inside. The guys that went in alone came out with a pretty girl on their arm. I guess they also ‘hooked up’ inside.
A few minutes later, bouncers, waiters, and the girl who sat at the reception desk, left the building. Then, David Klein walked out the back door, and locked up for the night. He hopped into the Porsche, so I followed him up to Sutter Canyon - a windy road that led up into the hills above Sutter Beach. It was pretty clear he had too much to drink. He was swerving in and out of the lanes. I was worried he was going to have a head on collision, but he finally pulled into the driveway of a two-story home. On the mailbox, it said David and Summer Klein. Once he staggered inside, I headed home.
All I knew about him so far was; he liked to party, and was heavily involved in a private, invitation-only club that threw exclusive social gatherings where having money was a major requirement.
THIRTEEN
WHEN MY mom started renovations on the living quarters of the firehouse, it had a huge kitchen, bunkrooms and showers. The construction crew knocked down the walls to expand the kitchen, and wood-plank floors were put in. A bearskin rug was placed under the sectional leather sofa and flat-screen TV. The shower room was turned into a full-size bathroom, and the bunk room was split into two separate bedrooms.
The fire pole remained.
I was restless, and feeling anxious about the possibility of meeting Jake Logan, the man I thought might be my father. I was also filled with doubt. If he was my dad, what if he didn’t want to meet me? A cashier’s check came every month, like clockwork. But no name or address, other than the bank employee who signed it. I could tell from my mom’s evasive answers through the years that the letters she received were from the man whose genes I came from. Why the secrecy? Was it because he didn’t want to be involved in my life? Have I wasted all these years, yearning for a guy who wanted nothing to do with me? I didn’t want to accept that. But, would I have to?
Curiosity overcame me. I opened my laptop, and did a Google search of the name Jake Logan, just to see what would pop up. The name was a popular one. A slew of links came up. Jake Logan, the main character in The Fringe. Jake Logan, the pen name for an author of Slocum. There was the CEO of a financial corporation, and several Facebook and Linked In pages. None of them could be him. I checked. Then, I found a link that showed the name, but nothing to identify it. I clicked on the link. All of a sudden, my laptop went crazy. Little squiggly lines ran down the computer screen. What the heck. I hit control-alt-delete to restart the machine, but nothing happened. I pressed the on and off button until the screen went blank, waited a few seconds and powered it up, again. Whew! Everything booted up fine. I shut it off again. The last thing I needed was to mess with it and come across a virus. I didn’t have the money for a new laptop. I set it down on the coffee table.
I knew if I went to bed sleep wouldn’t come, so I put on some sweats and plopped down on the sofa to watch a little TV. I flipped through the channels, avoiding the news. My mom’s murder was no longer the ‘story of the month’, but now I had an aversion to negative news reporting altogether. At that hour, all I could find was a rerun of Covert Affairs. It was the episode where she had to save her sister, and realized she had feelings for Auggie. I’ve seen it already, but I could sit through it again.
I started to dose off three-quarters into the show, when I woke up at the sound of the house phone ringing. For a minute, I thought I might be dreaming. The clock said it was three-thirty in the morning. And nobody ever called on the firehouse phone, except for my mom’s clients.
I reached for the phone on the end table, but knocked it off the table by mistake. “Crap!” I scrambled to the floor, and finally got a handle on it. “Hello,” I yelled into the receiver.
I heard a frightened voice on the other end. “Anna McSwain?”
Oh my. I was suddenly filled with emotion. Tears welled up in my eyes. It was somebody looking for my mom, somebody who didn’t know she passed away. How could they not know, it was all over the news? “I’m her daughter, Sydney,” I said in a shaky voice. “I’m afraid my mother is … unavailable.” I didn’t feel comfortable telling the person the truth. I had no idea who she was.
“Oh no,” the girl cried, “I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to call.” She spoke with a slight accent.
“Who are you?” I said.
“My name is Tamara Marquez,” she stammered. “Anna was going to help me.”
Tamara Marquez? That was the name listed on the file folder I found. “Maybe I can help you. I’m working on some of her cases.”
She was quiet for a moment, as if she was debating what to do. “Did your mom get my package?” She finally asked me after a few seconds.
“Package? What package?”
“We need help,” she continued, “and we’re running out of time.”
“Okay. I’ll do what I can.” I had no idea what she was talking about, but I could tell by the catch in her voice, that she was scared, and what did she mean by, we?
“Do you know where Danny’s Coffee Shop is?”
“Yes.” It’s not too far from The Devil’s Door, the place I just staked out.
“Can you meet me there?”
“Um, I guess so,” I said. “But, why don’t you just come here, to the office?”
“No, no, no…I need you to meet me in the alley, behind the coffee shop where no one can see. I’ll be there tonight at midnight. Can you be there?”
“At midnight…?” This was crazy. I started to pace around the room. She wasn’t making sense.
“Please, I don’t know who I can trust, and we are running out of time. Will you please be there?”
“Yeah sure, I’ll be there.”
“Oh God, they’re coming. I have to go.” Then the line went dead, and all I heard was the dial tone.
