White Lies

By Brad Stratton

White Lies is a detective thriller concerning a beautiful missing woman, a compulsive boyfriend, a mysterious monthly $5000 payoff. Michael Chambers-cool, clever private investigator-has his work cut out for him with this case that takes him far away from his native LA and what seems at first to be a simple case. Fortunately, Michael manages to stay one step and a couple quips ahead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indigo Sea Press
• Release date: Dec 9, 2010
• ISBN: 9781935171027

Brad Stratton

Brad Stratton's writing has been inspired by his personal experiences in the motion picture industry.  His long term love affair with the private eye novel and with the city of Los Angeles, where the passing of illusion for reality is a staple of commerce.He divides his time between Southern California and the place of his birth, a small town in the Pacific Northwest, where he does his writing.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

It was the cold that woke her, though she tried, as she always did, to hover in that nether place between sleep and waking, more observer of her dream than participant. In the dream, she was running toward school, her feet crunching across a broad, snow covered field, friends standing by the entrance, smiling and waving her on before the bell. She was running hard and her breath was short, misting over in the cold, but try as she might, she couldn't seem to get any closer to her friends. She wasn’t wearing her mittens and the fingers wrapped around her textbooks were beginning to burn with pain. Finally, desperate, she dropped the books in the snow and ran for all she was worth. She ran until she couldn't run anymore and, still, she could get no closer. It was then, even before her eyes opened, that she began to sense something was wrong this morning, knew instinctively that things were not as they should be. The further she rose from sleep, the stronger the feeling of unease became. It wasn't just the cold; her mouth was dry, bone dry, and her head ached terribly, worse than she could ever remember.

When at last she blinked, that was when she knew. Dreams are never pitch black. She blinked again and turned her head, searching for the familiar glow of her bedside clock but found only darkness. Her first thought was that the power had failed but the moon had been nearly full when she went to bed and the light that should have been filtering through the curtains wasn't there. She raised her hand to her face and wiggled her fingers, trying to make them out. Nothing. I'll at least be able to see the stars, she thought, but when she reached to pull the curtain back, her hand hit something cold and moist and rough. She yanked it back as if she had been stung and an involuntary shudder escaped from a place deep inside her that, until now, she had never known existed. Everything was wrong: this wasn't her room, she wasn't in her bed and she had never known such darkness.

The fear nearly paralyzed her but eventually the need to know overcame the dread and her hand went out again, this time with infinite care. A silent litany went with it, "Please, God, I promise, I'll do my homework and clean my room and not be such a smart ass. I'll even call my mother and tell her I love her, just please, please, please, let this be a dream."

When she touched the wall again, it was the same and the shudder returned, more powerful than before. She tried to breathe but could only gasp and when at last she exhaled, it came out a long, low moan that ended in a scream.

1

By rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, he formed a tiny ball. When he had it the way he wanted it, he held it above his target, aimed carefully, and let go, watching intently as it drifted down through the thick, amber liquid. There was a miniature pyramid of little, white balls on the bottom now and it reminded me of the snow forts we built in my youth, stock piling our weapons for the war with the neighbors that was sure to come. In this manner, he had deposited most of his napkin, a piece at a time, on the bottom of the candle.

The ice in his drink was melting, the sun noticeably lower in the sky, and still, I hadn't learned the reason for his call. His name was Derek Wayland and he said he was an investment advisor, meaning he made his living at racetracks and casinos operating under the polite guises of The Chicago Board of Trade and The New York Stock Exchange. From his offices in Beverly Hills he managed large amounts of risk capital for an exclusive list of clients, one of whom had given him my number.

On the phone he had asked if I would be willing to meet him for drinks in Malibu after the markets closed and I told him I would be delighted. He wouldn't tell me what he wanted, preferring he said, to explain in person, but I didn't mind; any excuse to drive up the Coast Highway on a summer's day is a good one. If I got a new client out of it, all the better.

After we shook hands he asked a few questions about my background and seemed satisfied with the answers but, so far, had neglected to tell me why I was here. I tore off a corner of my own napkin, rolled it into a ball, and dropped it into the melted wax on my side of the flame. It was kind of fun. He looked up, startled and slightly embarrassed.

I've never done this before, he said.

I didn't know if he meant the snowball thing or talking to a private investigator.

Not many people have, I said.

Would you like another? It was the waitress. She surprised him and he jumped, glancing guiltily at the candleholder. If she noticed his handiwork, it didn't show. She was a superb beach specimen, outfitted in a powder blue T-shirt and snug white shorts that set off a smooth, cocoa butter tan. The restaurant logo was, I thought, tastefully displayed on the front of her shirt but difficult to make out because the design was stretched in ways the artist had never envisioned. To see it clearly required careful observation. She caught me looking.

Nice logo, I said.

She gave me a knowing smile, Thanks. I smiled back, Mr. Innocent.

Derek gestured toward my beer and I nodded. This looked like it might take awhile. If I had wanted to impress him, I might have frowned at my watch and said something like, 'I suppose I have time for one more.’ A shame I didn't wear one. Probably a shame, too, that I had all the time in the world.

He looked at his, a thin, gold Patek Philippe, and after admiring it for a moment, made a slight moue and said he would have another, as well. The waitress gave us a big smile, as if we were, by far, her favorite customers and bounced away with our order. I looked for a matching logo on her shorts but didn't see one. Derek was evidently looking for it too. She glanced over her shoulder and caught me again. I did a Groucho with my eyebrows and tried another smile. She shook her head and grinned.

We were in a window booth and outside, the blue Pacific stretched effortlessly to the far horizon and beyond, to a distant place where someone, perhaps not unlike myself, was sitting with a cold beer watching the waves lean endlessly into shore. I lifted my bottle to him or her in a silent toast. Below us the glare from the sand would have been blinding but the smoked glass reduced it to nothing and it was cool and comfortable inside. Under different circumstances, I would have been enjoying myself a great deal. Then again, I was out of the office and Derek was paying for the drinks. He followed my gaze and we sat that way for awhile, minding our own thoughts. Mine were mostly about the waitress.

On the Muzak tape, Jimmy Buffet was singing about Margarita Ville. After a little more staring, he said, You're right, I need to find her. Sometimes I miss her so much I think I'll go nuts but the not knowing is what's really killing me.

His mouth collapsed again and it was an effort for him to keep his emotions in check. He was a solid looking young man, not handsome exactly, but good looking in a prep school sort of way. His dark hair was just starting to pepper with gray and I guessed his age at maybe thirty-eight or forty. He was starting to go soft, probably a little too much of the good life, but his tailor made up for it; neither the shirt nor the suit had ever carried a price tag. I had on a pair of faded Levi's and a navy polo from Bullock's. My Reeboks were new but I wasn't sure he'd noticed. I thought the stripes coordinated nicely with the shirt.

Her?

Julie, my fiancé. She's missing.

Have you filed a report?

With the police? No. I don't mean she's missing exactly, she's gone. I don't think she's come to any harm but she left without saying anything. None of her friends have talked to her and her parents either don't know or won't say where she is. It's driving me crazy.

Sounds as if maybe she doesn't want to be found.

My response unsettled him but before he could reply, the waitress returned with our drinks and set them in front of us. I finished the Dos Equis I had been working on and handed her the bottle. Adios, amigo. She favored me with another smile, then put a pile of napkins down in the middle of the table with a mischievous grin and said, Extra ammo.

I started laughing and so did my potential new client but his grin had a sheepish quality to it. He handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change. If I had been paying, I probably would have too. Men are idiots. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her glance back again as she was walking away but I was looking at Derek. Was it my imagination or did her shoulders droop in disappointment? Jimmy Buffet began singing about changes in attitudes and changes in latitudes. Maybe this was the Muzak equivalent of an anthology.

Derek's face grew serious again, It doesn't make any sense for her to take off like this, not tell anyone where she was going.

She left without a word?

"Just a note with my secretary. It didn't say where she was going or for how long. All it said was that she had to take care of something and would be gone for little while. And that I shouldn't worry. Shouldn't worry. We're engaged for Christ's sake. It's been almost a week and I haven't heard from her. How can I not worry?"

Did you have a fight about something?

That's just it. We get along great, almost never fight. I'm as happy as I've ever been. She says she is too. That's what's so crazy.

What about her job?

"She's my partner, the company is half hers. I put on the dog and pony show, bring in the clients, do the baby sitting. Julie is the nuts and bolts: market analysis, systems evaluation, trading strategies, money management. I can do it but she's better. We made a good team . . . make a good team. Listen to me, I'm talking about her like she's never coming back."

How's business?

He sat back, took a sizable pull on his drink and gave me a speculative look. There was force behind his next words, "It's not like that. I can't say it wouldn't be better for business if she were here but I can handle the trading. I love her and I'm worried about her, I miss the hell out of her. That's why I called you, that and the not knowing. It's turning me into a basket case."

It would anyone, I said, anyone in love.

His mouth drooped again and he tried to hold my stare but couldn't. He leaned forward, dropped his head and hunched his shoulders, nodded once, and sat that way, his gaze fixed on the circle of his forearms. Love is a distaff canine.

I'll find her for you, I said.

He raised his head and his eyes were close to tears but the pain in them had turned to hope. Hope and a little fear. Maybe about what I was going to find.

2

Derek and I talked for a while longer and when I had learned as much as I could I walked him out to the parking lot. The valet brought up a British racing green XJ12 and left the door open. We shook hands and Derek got in behind the wheel, staring up at me with an expectant look on his face. I wasn't sure why. I had been on the case for fifteen minutes and, so far, hadn't found her. His look made me feel like I should have.

Concentrate on the business, I said, let me worry about where she is. Make sure she has something to come back to when I find her.

It must have been what he wanted to hear because his face brightened, he nodded and thanked me again for making the drive. I told him it was my pleasure. His head bobbed once more and he was gone. I bet he used that same look whenever he closed a sale. 'All we need to get started, Mrs. Warbucks, is a check and your signature here, and here, and here.' I bet most of them signed.

The valet asked if I would like my car brought around but I told him the most beautiful woman in L.A. was meeting me here for dinner. He looked me over and said, Sure thing.

The city makes cynics of us all. I went back inside, found a payphone off the entranceway and dialed from memory.

Anne Elyse, how would you like to drive up the coast and have dinner with me in Malibu?

Anne and I share office space. She is an attorney who specializes in environmental law and whose grandfather left her a modest trust fund and the converted two story home on Ocean Boulevard that serves as our offices, me upstairs and her down. From there she wages war on behalf of the planet and the disenfranchised. The suits hate her because she is a skilled litigator and a tireless advocate who can't be bought or intimidated, though some have tried. The first time it happened I paid the opposing side a visit and reasoned with them. When word got back to Anne she forbade me from interfering again unless she asked for my help.

It undermines my autonomy. The notion that I need Sir Galahad riding to my rescue is positively archaic. I can take care of myself. Besides, I would feel terrible if you got hurt because of me. When I asked if she really thought of me as Sir Galahad her reply had been, Yes, only older and with a smaller sword. Annie.

I still keep an eye on her but now I tell the threatening party that should word of my visit get back to Anne I will be forced to return, albeit in a much fouler mood. So far it has worked. She retains her independence, or at least the semblance of it, and I get to make sure nothing bad happens to her. Many successful marriages are based on subterfuge.

The house we work out of is surrounded by office buildings and is the last of its kind on Ocean Boulevard. She gets calls from real estate developers at least once a week offering her sums of money that would make The Donald salivate. Invariably, she turns them down and, thinking she is holding out for more, they come back a week later with a higher offer. What they never seem to understand is that it isn't about the money.

When Derek's call came in I was sitting at my desk cutting an article out of the Los Angeles Times with Anne in mind. It was an undercover series about an Arkansas poultry plant where the employee turnover rate is one hundred percent annually, which translated means, no health plan, no Christmas bonuses and no wage increases. Just a steady flow of unskilled, migrant labor recruited from as far away as Arizona, New Mexico and California, working in conditions so miserable not a single worker can stick it out. In this age of litigation overload and enlightened work place standards you had to hand it to those chicken pluckers in management, a hundred percent turnover and no state or federal intervention. The story sounded like something Anne would love to sink her pretty white teeth into.

Who's the new client? she said.

How do you know I have a new client?

Whenever you're feeling cocky, you use my middle name. And if you're inviting me to dinner in Malibu you've come into some money.

In another life you could have been a river boat gambler.

If I'd been a man.

True, but let's not let it spoil our evening. I'll tell you about it over dinner, I said.

Such confidence. It's hard to understand why you sit home alone all the time.

If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.

Sometimes you say the sweetest things. Who said that?

Oscar Wilde… and now me.

I can be out of here by 6:30.

What time is it now?

3:45.

Perfect. Derek had given me Julie Dempsey's address and a key to her front door. Three hours would be about right to go take a look and come back.

Are you picking me up or do you want me to meet you there?

I'm at the restaurant now.

What if I'd said no?

You can't be serious.

It's where you met the client isn't it?

What did I have for breakfast, you know that too?

Blueberry muffins, fresh fruit and coffee? Sumatran blend, with cream and honey?

Nobody likes a smart ass.

She held the phone away but I could hear her laughing. I was grinning from ear to ear. She does that to me.

Where am I meeting you, anyway?

I told her the name of the restaurant and it seemed to please her.

Mmmm. I love their blackened swordfish.

When were you here?

Oh, the occasion slips my mind.

Nothing ever slips Anne's mind. You can hear the groans all the way from the downtown high rises when they find out she is representing the plaintiffs.

It was with one of your tree hugger friends, wasn't it? Let me guess, a live bait activist. Flannel shirt, beard, leather wristband and pooka shells. Wore a button that said ‘Save the Worms.’

Her voice was all smiles, No pooka shells.

I've never hit anyone wearing sandals but I wouldn't rule out the possibility.

I just love a man who talks with his fists.

I may get drunk now.

"Wait until I get there.

And after you get here?

After, sweet cheeks, there will be no need.

There wasn't much I could say to that so I didn't. She told me to pace myself, thinking I was going to wait for her in the bar. I didn't disabuse her of the notion. Tough PI's have an image to maintain, just like everyone else.

3

Julie Dempsey's house was a fifteen minute drive from the restaurant, perched on the cliffs across the road from Big Rock Beach. The beach was named after a large boulder that once sat atop the cliff overlooking the ocean and the Coast Highway below. Every year the rains would wash away more of the hillside and concerns had grown that the rock would one day tumble down the hill and squash some unsuspecting motorists, or worse, one of the exclusive beach homes across the road.

None of the highway engineers had been able to figure out a safe way to get the thing down until a local surfer resting between sets suggested they wax it off the white, drop it into the black and let it wipe out on a reef. After finding an interpreter, they built a concrete retaining wall at the bottom of the hill and pushed. The wall was a little too thin, it turned out, but the rock stopped short of the beach homes, coming to rest in the middle of the highway. With the exception of some angry commuters, everyone thought the operation was a bitchin success.

A South Coast sculptor volunteered to haul the rock off free of charge and six months later sold it to some conglomerate for a million bucks, back when a million bucks was still money. It had taken him that long to carve it into a likeness of John Wayne's head, Stetson and all. Only in L.A.

Julie Dempsey's house was a stained wood split-level, set far enough back from the cliff to mute traffic noise and to keep it from tumbling down the hill like The Duke's head. It was small by Malibu standards but still, business must be good. A wooden footbridge led up to the front door, set over a shallow ravine lush with vegetation. Trees and plants were neatly trimmed away on either side of the footbridge but formed a canopy overhead where they were free to grow. Some of the cuts looked fresh, as if they had been made in the last day or so. I checked the mailbox but it was empty. When no one answered the bell, I used the key.

The entrance hall led straight into the living room and a sweeping panorama of the ocean. Someone had left the drapes open, presumably for the sake of the plants that filled every corner, and the view was spectacular. Beyond the patio deck there was only blue, the tones separated by a faint line where the water touched the sky. The room was centered around the windows, a puffy, white sofa on one side, floral print throw pillows arranged neatly at each end, and a matching love seat on the other. Between them a simple rosewood table supported a small Art Deco lamp. Contrast was provided by dark green drapes and a plush carpet the color of sea foam. There were several framed lithographs on the walls, mostly seascapes, limited editions by the look of them, but none by anyone I recognized. It was all pretty to look at but would be difficult to live in. You would have to pad around in your socks and always watch where you lay the newspaper or your gun.

I went over to one of the plants nearest the window and checked the soil. It was moist about a half inch down. My lone cactus needs water maybe once a month, somewhat limiting my expertise, but I was reasonably sure it had been less than a week since the last watering.

I wandered through the other rooms trying to conjure up the woman who lived here. She was feminine without being frilly, few knickknacks or adornments anywhere, and painfully well organized. The wall calendar by the kitchen phone was filled with neatly penned entries: doctor and dentist appointments, movie openings, lunch dates, dinner dates. A lot of D's I took to be Derek, quite a few S's, some L's and an occasional other.

The refrigerator was immaculate, all the condiments arranged by size and category. Anything perishable had been removed. There were no frozen food packages in the freezer, just a couple of steaks and something wrapped in restaurant foil. It looked like she cooked but not often and nothing too exotic.

The bathroom was as neat as the rest of the place, every drawer a small miracle of organization. The bedroom was more of the same. It wasn't until I opened the closet doors that I found anything amiss. A half dozen hangers were sticking up, as if what they held had been hastily removed, and several articles of clothing were hanging lopsided, held up by only one end of a hanger. A sweater had fallen on the floor and several pairs of shoes were lying askew. In anyone else's closet none of these things would have counted for much but compared to the rest of the house, it looked like Bourbon Street on Fat Tuesday.

If possible, her office was even neater, except for a corner of the desk where some of her trading charts and account statements had been stacked together with magazines, real estate brochures and a take out menu, like someone had straightened up but wasn't quite sure where everything went. I found the mail that hadn't been in the box outside in a plastic grocery bag hung over the back of the door. Someone besides Julie had likely put it there. I went through it but there was nothing of interest, mostly junk mail and magazines.

If I had to guess, I'd say she left in a hurry and the maid or a friend had come in later, watered the plants, picked up the mail, cleaned out the refrigerator and put things in order. I searched the desk drawers, looking for an address book but didn't have any luck there either. I tried the file cabinets next. One drawer was devoted to bills and each account had been given a separate color-coded folder. My own system is similar except that I use a single blue shoebox and combine the accounts. I removed the folder marked GTE and scanned the last three months. There were very few long distance calls and only a handful of repeats. Most of those were to Del Mar, where Derek had told me her parents lived. When someone is in trouble they usually call home and they talk for long periods of time. I couldn't see any change in her calling patterns over the past few weeks. Like everything else in her life, there was an uncanny order to them. I checked the calendar and determined that she always seemed to call home on Wednesdays and Sundays. There were other days, too, but over the past three months she hadn't missed a Wednesday or a Sunday.

This was her workplace and there was little of a personal nature in it except a picture of a smiling elderly couple, standing on a dock somewhere, dressed in resort clothes. There was another of Derek and an attractive strawberry blonde I took to be Julie. They were in formal dress and the lighting was good, like they had posed for a professional photographer at some gala event. Her eyes were alight with pleasure and there was no say cheese in her smile. She looked genuinely glad to be alive and it was easy to see why Derek might miss her.

I turned the computer on but it asked me for a password immediately. I typed in Derek and then Wayland. My third try was pork bellies and the words Warning - Unauthorized Access started flashing at me in sync with an irritating beep. Below the warning it said that any further attempts to access the system would result in immediate shutdown and on-line notification to some outfit named CyberTech Security. Hard not to miss the days when information was a lock pick away.

Downstairs were two small bedrooms, beds neatly made, and a small bathroom. The only items in either the drawers or the closets were freshly laundered towels and washcloths. In the medicine cabinet I found an unused tube of toothpaste and four unopened toothbrushes along with an assortment of over the counter remedies, all unopened. The downstairs bedrooms were strictly guest quarters and the lady of the house was a very considerate host.

I went back upstairs to begin my search in earnest. Everything was so ordered and meticulous that I hated to disturb it but there was no other way. I quickly confirmed that Julie Dempsey was a woman of intense focus. Almost everyone has a drawer or closet full of the detritus of their lives, the odds and ends accumulated from just being alive. There was nothing like that here. The silverware drawer contained eight matched place settings, not a spoon extra. Guest number nine would have to stick with finger food. All of the glassware matched perfectly, as well. There wasn't an orphan cup or jelly jar in sight.

The magazines were the latest issues, the books all on the current best seller lists. The only thing I found dated in any way was a small video collection that ran to classic romantic comedies like The Goodbye Girl and Breakfast at Tiffany's. Back in the office, I went through every drawer and cabinet, every file and stack of paper. I leafed through the books, most of them about market theories, trading strategies or risk management, some very technical. As with her other magazines, the trade periodicals were the latest issues. In one of her four file cabinets I found a drawer devoted to yellow highlighted clippings and answered the question about what happened to back issues. I didn't give the safe in the corner a second glance. One should know one's limitations.

In another cabinet I found a row of identical magazine boxes, one for each of the past seven years. I opened the most recent year and found neatly labeled bundles of receipts and canceled checks.

If I had money to invest, I wouldn't hesitate giving it to this woman. Her office was the organizational equivalent of an Agam oil painting, every detail arranged with excruciating precision. Taken as a whole, it was almost a work of art itself. If anything, it was too neat, perhaps bordering on compulsion, as if that first, orphaned piece of paper would mark the beginning of chaos.

I searched every corner of the office and when I came up empty I went back to the tax records. There were no returns in the boxes, just the receipts and canceled checks. The returns would be in the safe. I took the box for the most recent year back to the desk and began sorting. It looked like what you would expect from someone in her profession. A large number of restaurant receipts, used airline tickets to New York and Chicago, gas receipts, office supply receipts and so on. Near the bottom of the box I found a bundle of checks marked Misc and my pulse quickened. Miscellaneous wasn't a word in Julie Dempsey's vocabulary. I unwrapped the checks and spread them out on the desk. There were twelve in all, each of them written on the first day of the month. Nothing unusual in that except that all of them had been made out to cash and always for five thousand dollars, never more, never less. A lot of spending money for a single woman to have around. Poor money management, too. If she was as good as Derek said she was, she would keep that kind of money working in the markets. I turned them over. Every one of them had been cashed at the same bank in Deer Lake, Idaho, wherever that was. Curiouser and curiouser.

I went through the remaining six boxes and found a similar bundle of checks for the two most recent years. She had started writing the checks three years ago. Five thousand dollars a month for the last thirty-six months. One hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Every check had been cashed at the same bank in Idaho. I went back to the file cabinets and found six more checks, January through June of the current year. They were stashed in an unmarked file folder in the back of the drawer and I almost missed them. Something told me she hadn't forgotten to label the folder.

There were any number of reasonable explanations for the checks but I