Drumroll, Please: A Lou Crasher Mystery

By Jonathan Brown

Drumroll, Please is a P.I. novel featuring Lou Crasher; a Los Angeles drummer turned P.I. What starts out as a simple hunt for a missing stud dog gradually heats up to the point of gun play, dangerous dames, rock gigs and more. With the help of his business partners Oliver and Xavier Lou just might survive the chaos…so long as he keeps his wise cracks and cocktails to a minimum.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9780988544222

Book preview

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

"

ROMO! G ET IN HERE, DOG! " Frank called.

Frank Shay wore blue-and-white-striped baggy pants, a throwback to 1980s weightlifter fashion. A dingy white wife-beater tank clung to his big frame as he sat at the end of his workout bench. In a moment, he was going for a personal best: three forty-five-pound plates per side held by a forty-five-pound barbell. Three hundred and fifteen pounds all in. And not once—that was years ago. Frank was going for eight reps. He was good at bench press. He had this, no problem.

Romo was short for Romulus. He, too, could bench.

And why shouldn’t they be good? For, aside from a few bicep curls, bench press was all the Shay brothers did. Chicks liked a man with a big chest and nice guns, period. No guy ever got laid for having nice legs. That’s just the way they saw it. That’s just the way it was.

Frank unscrewed the caps to both Gatorade bottles and drank a third off each.

Romo!

I’m coming, shot back Romo, annoyed.

Bring the fifth o’ Lizzard with ya.

Lizzard wasn’t cheap vodka like some people said. To the brothers, it was economical. I mean, if getting drunk was the finish line, why spend a high buck getting there?

Romo handed his brother the fifth and sat beside him with a smile. Frank was a friggin’ mixologist as far as Romo was concerned. Frank unscrewed the vodka and filled the Gatorades bottles up to the lip. After resealing the bottles, he stood poised with one in each hand while Romo counted backward from five. When Romo reached zero, Frank shadow-boxed as fast as he could: jabs, uppercuts, and swooping haymakers. Twelve seconds later, it was over. Breathing heavily, he tossed the bottles to his brother and they traded places. Frank cheered Romo on as he took his turn.

Kick his ass, bro. That’s it, yeah! Kick his ass. Uppercut. Now hook. Yeah, bro.

The bottles were now officially shaken. After Romo’s twelve-second pugilist impersonation, caps popped and the brothers took five long pulls each, ending with harmonized burps. Frank slid under the barbell. The vinyl bench had a ten-inch-plate-sized rip in it, where Frank placed the center of his shoulder blades. The sweet spot.

This is for the comeback, bro, he said. I’m going for eight.

Shoot for ten, bro. You hit nine and then you can tell eight to fuck off.

Nice. Ten it is, dog, Frank said with a no-bullshit stare.

Yeah, go, bro. Go, go, go.

Hell, yeah!

Frank gave it his all and barely managed seven. Fuck!

Dude, bro, dude, don’t worry about it. Seven is awesome, especially after a night like last night. Don’t kid yourself, bro-dog. Romo worked his brows into a sympathetic furrow.

True. That’s true. And that’s what I want to talk to you about. The chicks last night, the band, and the booze—we can have that every night if we want. We deserve it. Frank was still catching his breath. And this little payday action tonight—

Oh yeah, Frank. We’re totally back.

The Shay brothers were about to make three hundred bucks from some idiot named Skip. Easy gig, too; all they had to do was snag some twerpy mutt. They’d tried for four hundred, which is more easily divisible by two, but Skip wouldn’t go for it. Ah, who cared? The Shay brothers were back. Truthfully they hadn’t really been gone from any great place of notoriety: they’d simply lost their driver’s licenses. They’d landed DUIs in the same week. But now, twelve grand, traffic school, and nine months later, the state of California was giving them back their driving privileges in three days time. They were back.

The ultra-sad part was that Frank and Romo had been popped not only five days apart, but at the same checkpoint. This, they never spoke of. They especially never spoke of Frank’s infamous last words moments prior: No chance they’d set up a roadblock in the same spot, bro. No way. Cops are creatures of variety. We’re good to go. Then, sure enough, around the next bend…

Well, lookie here: Stankie Frankie and Romo the Homo. Sheila Shay, the boys’ thirteen-year-old sister stood inside the doorway with her hands on her hips. "Are you serious? You guys are drinking and working out? Losers." She shook her head.

Get your little freckled ass outta here, Sheila, Frank growled.

Freckled ass? Oh, because I have freckles. Wow, you guys are really clever. Let me try: Why don’t you two keep your retarded asses here?

Frank guzzled the remains of his drink and threw the empty at his sister. She held her spot and rolled her eyes as the bottle flew a good six feet away from her. She walked out on her own accord.

Forget her, dog.

Forgotten, Frank said, getting up and trading spots with his brother. But it pisses me off how she thinks she’s so damn smart.

She’s a straight-A student, bro.

That one quieted Frank.

"Well, it’s bullshit how she says we drink and workout. It’s like she doesn’t know. I mean, vodka and Gatorade is not drinking."

Preaching to the chorus, bro.

Choir, Romo; it’s choir. ’Cause, like, Gatorade keeps the electrolytes up and the vodka, which is made from potatoes, gives you carbs. Gives you edge. I damn sure don’t want to toss this kinda weight around without an edge, right?

I know, right? Romo echoed. He attempted six reps and nailed them. This fired Frank up. He resumed his spot on the bench and with a deep exhale said, We’re badass and huge.

Yeah, man! Romo agreed, pumping up his older brother. We’re badass and huge.

The mantra continued back and forth, growing progressively louder. Frank barely managed to squeeze six and a half reps.

Fuck! he shouted.

Chill, bro-rock, we’ll mix up another bench-press enhancer and you’ll go again, Frank. Come on.

"Fuck yeah, I’ll go again! I’m badass and huge. We are badass and huge."

Yeah, we are, Romo said, handing the mixologist two new Gatorades.

CHAPTER 1

THE NAME’S L OU C RASHER . I’ve hung my hat in Los Angeles for just over three years. Many arrive by Greyhound, starry-eyed and hopeful. Not me. I flew in, coach—the civilized way.

I wasn’t always a P.I. In fact, I’m still fairly green at the enterprise. My original intention was to play drums for anyone who would expand the dimensions of my wallet. But toss in dames, booze, and some action, and sometimes a fella tumbles into the investigation business.

So that’s me: the Crasher of Mortimer-Crasher, with my partners, Oliver and Xavier, twin brothers with a combined weight of over five hundred pounds of British muscle and proper etiquette.

Most of the work that comes through our door is of the infidelity nature. I call them cheater gigs. Wives, husbands, boyfriends, and girlfriends, gay and straight—they all want proof of what most of them already know: that their partner is not holding up their end of the exclusivity deal.

As it turns out, people—at least cheaters—are easy to follow. Certainly people look left and right, and occasionally up and down, but they always look for someone they know: either the cheatee or a potential rat known to them. At times, this drumming investigator could’ve walked right up to the target and said a cheery hello. Of course, I’d never chance such a thing; it’s always the cocky guy in the movie who gets made.

The big screen also tells us that P.I.’s hate this type of drudgery. Not me. At least not so far. Not being a thrill-seeking adrenaline-junkie starved-for-a-firefight kind of guy, I relish the ease of snooping on the unfaithful. I own a musician’s heart and if spying on horny housewives keeps me in drum sticks and snare drums, then let’s roll, Bubba.

It was business as usual one early morning as a few scattered clouds fought a losing battle with the sun. A potential client who obviously marched to her own drum stepped through our office door. I smelled her pungent peach-lavender perfume long before anybody threw any dialogue.

Chubby fingers rested around the silver doorknob as she briefly held her threshold position. Her skin was smooth, and ten bucks said weekly tanning spa visits enhanced her color. I’ll refer to her as plus-size, as I was raised to speak with polite tongue, especially where women are concerned.

The twins and I took to our feet in keeping with gentlemanly custom.

We learn as we go in life, and I knew I needed practice in gathering details. I let my eyes drift from hers to scan her, ah, eccentric attire. What jumped out first was the lengthy feather boa, a shade of purple deeper than her heavily shadowed eyelids. Marlene Dietrich herself would have envied this woman’s drowsy bedroom eyes. The dark pantsuit with the barely visible gold pinstripes was Donna Karan; I had seen it once on an attractive mannequin…if a mannequin can be referred to in such a way. Anne Klein put her name to the woman’s delicate silver watch bracelet, and both Dolce and Gabbana claimed manufacture rights to the gold fake-diamond-bedazzled sunglasses that dangled from a matching fake-gold chain.

Leaving the door open, the woman moved with burlesque ease to her chair of choice and crossed her legs. Being a relative babe to the P.I. game, I was unable to get the shoe brand, but noted that it was loafer in nature. Being nearly as out of jibe with her getup as the boa, I guessed they were a choice of comfort over style. Regardless, it was no question this woman had been a real looker in her day. Now, in what I guessed to be her late fifties, she still had it going on.

The woman loosened up her boa while catching her breath. I handled the closing of the door, as one must earn his keep.

Afternoon, fellas, she said after Oliver greeted her. Holy diddle, it is hot enough to fry an egg on Sunset Boulevard! She had a booming voice that not only originated from the South, but also had more than a few years of theater training to it. I’d bet my drum kit on it. If you’re wonderin’ why the boa in this heat, you’ll just have to be satisfied that it’s one of them things, fellas. Just one of them things.

Certainly, Oliver smiled. Now, what can we do for you, Ms….?

Doppelganger, Desiree. It was Doppelgunter when my great, great somebody-or-other came over here, but it became Americanized somewhere along the way. My guess is Doppelganger looked better on a job application or something. She fingered her boa. The name evokes a lot of bad jokes and dumb-dumb quips, but such is life—am I right? My word, it’s so hot even the desert lizard is searching for shade! And now to the reason I’m here. Drumroll, please…

She paused for an effect that was lost on us, save for she already had our undivided attention.

I’ve misplaced something of value, she finally said. And I need to get it back.

She looked around mischievously.

What is this ‘something of value,’ Miss Doppelganger? I responded first.

Well, now… She uncrossed and recrossed her legs. "You with the pretty eyes are easy on my eyes."

Thank you, Miss Doppelganger. I mock-bowed. "But it is my eyes that are the victor, what with this vision."

Young Louis, please! Oliver scolded.

The potential client shifted back to face Oliver. The boa was now completely off and draped over the chair back.

Fellas, I’m missing a fur suit full of semen. Ah, that is to say, sperm.

Xavier, who had been nursing a cup of black tea, spat up a portion of it while his brother uttered Good heavens with wide eyes. I merely grinned, as I’m more accustomed to the peculiar Los Angelino—even if they are from one of the Carolinas, would be my guess.

Take it easy, fellas, she said. I’m talking about Boots, my grandson’s Chihuahua.

Oliver cleared his throat. Ms. Doppelganger, what would possess you to refer to the animal in such brutish terms?

The big woman was holding court and enjoying it. His name is Boots and he’s a stud dog. That means that once a month he gets a three-day weekend up at a ranch in Sunland. Once there, he gets to nail himself a bitch or bitches. Boy, that Boots has the world by the tail, don’t he? Can’t imagine how he could do it in this heat though. Holy diddle.

At the twins’ dumbfounded expressions, I attempted levity. Kind o’ gives new meaning to the phrase ‘a dog’s life,’ doesn’t it?

Miss D. smiled. Pretty Eyes, I like you. How do you feel about older broads?

Feel? I said. Why, I feel them every time they let me, Miss Doppelganger.

Xavier gave me his disappointed-parent eyes.

Oliver, an animal lover down to his very bone marrow, had steam coming out of his ears.

Right, that’s enough! he said. Madam, what I believe you are referring to is backyard breeding—a practice I vehemently oppose. When I think of all of the strays out there that would cherish a loving home and— He stopped himself. All right, you know what? I’m afraid we cannot and will not be able to assist you, Ms. Doppelganger.

Xavier raised a soothing hand. Steady, brother. Let us remember our manners. Perhaps with a few more details, we might be better able to assess the situation. With upturned palms and one raised brow, Xavier faced his twin. The dog may be in trouble, dear brother.

I could have thrown a phone book at Xavier; for, his last sentence was said in the worst John Wayne impression ever. He’d been trying it since I’d known him, and it was getting worse.

Oliver swiveled his chair to the window and threw a mean pout at the world outside. Easily amused, I smiled dumbly.

Can I lay it out for you fellas now, or—

Please go ahead, I said, dumb smile replaced by business and concern.

Okay. My grandson, Edmond, is out of town on business…in Vegas of all places. Boots is his, but he didn’t want to kennel the little bugger—as if any kennel would want the hellion. Sakes alive! The ozone layer has left Los Angeles, I’m telling you. She fanned herself with an expensively manicured hand. So, where was I? Oh, yeah. Dear old Grandma, me, agreed to let Boots flop with her. I needn’t mention that I’m the one footing the bill for his little Vegas excursion, too. What kind o’ business trip needs funding from Grandma?

I’ve always loved it when people mention the things they claim they need not mention…as they mention them.

I agreed to take Boots because his stay with me would be broken up by his visit to the doggie brothel. She chuckled at her choice of words. So…Heidi Fleiss—just kidding; Heidi Jones is her name—comes by and picks up the little sperm bank. She’s the gal who takes him to the doggie—Anyway, a day later—ah, yesterday—she calls and tells me she thinks the pooch has been pinched. I asked if maybe he could have sorta slipped away, but she says no—he’s been stolen.

Xavier went for a second tea bag and scowled into the empty tin.

So now, here we are. Now, don’t go suggesting I buy another dog and swap it; that stuff only worked in sitcoms in the early nineties.

Actually, it never worked in those sitcoms, but now was not the time to tangle with a potential client over bad television.

Oliver’s face was knockout rose red. An angry speech was coming as to how we would never do this and never do that.

I believe you like to stir things up, Miss Doppelganger. I cut him off at the pass. I won’t fault you for it; I’m a bit of a card myself. The boys down at the lodge think I’m a scream. Your case is certainly within our scope, so I suggest Xavier go over our fees and policy, et cetera, with you, while Oliver and I get some air. I shot Oliver a calm down expression. We’ll need to contact the Heidi Fleiss lady, I added with a wink. Any problem with that?

No problem with me at all. She returned the wink. Oh, and Pretty Eyes, I’ll leave my private number with John Wayne here in case you need to go over anything…like me, for example.

Why, Miss Doppelganger, I am absolutely crimson behind this sweet African-Canadian-mocha complexion.

I tipped an imaginary hat at her and headed for the door. Xavier told us kids to play nice and to purchase tea bags—again, as John Wayne.

Our office conveniently sat two doors down from Ida’s breakfast, lunch, and coffee shop joint, a small-time spot owned by Ida and her husband, Harry, a happily transplanted couple from Michigan, both in their early forties. I was particularly excited that it wasn’t any of the big chains. Give me the Mom and Pop anytime.

Hiya, boys. One tea, one coffee?

Espresso for me please, Ida.

Oh, the hard stuff for the Canadian, eh?

I’m a hard man, Ida baby, I said.

It’s a good thing, Lou, because life’s hard. We smiled at each other. Life’s hard, she repeated.

Must you two always carry on in this foolish way? Oliver butt in.

Ida raised her brow. "Who left his crumpets out in the rain?"

Ida offered to make the espresso a double, but I held with the single. I waited for the drinks while Oliver grabbed a table. He chose a circular number by the restroom, away from prying ears.

Bloody small table, he said once I was seated, but what can one do?

I bet a cageful of Chihuahuas would fit here comfortably, big Ollie.

Don’t start, Louis. He stared at me down his nose. I don’t know about this Doppelganger business. I mean, I am drastically opposed to this sort of backyard breeding for purebred money bollocks, but—

You mean purebred bread, don’t you? I quipped.

Huh? Oh, bread being money. Ha, bloody ha! As I was saying, I don’t like this nonsense. However, I will not be able to rest knowing that some ruffian or god-knows-what has kidnapped an innocent pooch.

Exactly, I prompted. Remember the Michael Vick story with the dog fights?

But those were pit bulls, I’m sure, young Louis.

I paused. Yes, but what do you think they fed those pit bulls? Yup, Chihuahuas.

Oliver’s cheek quivered and his left eye squinted shut. With the quickness of Bruce Lee in his late teens, he reached across the table and put a huge hand on my forearm. My arm felt as though a bench vise was closing around it.

Master Louis, I tolerate your attempts at humor because we are business partners, but that comment I will not stand for.

I left my arm exactly where it was as Oliver pulled away. I locked eyes with him. Touch me again like that, Oliver, and I’ll stick you in a burlap sack and dump you in the L.A. River. A moment passed before the real pain set in. Oh, sweet Jesus, that hurt, I said, rubbing life back into my forearm.

We sipped our drinks. I was here to convince Oliver to take the case, but I could tell he was already there. An averting of the eyes, frequent sighs, whispered Bloody hell’s, fingers drumming the tabletop…

Finally, I interrupted the episode. When we do rescue Boots, you and your brother are going to have to do a DNA test on the sperm to make sure we have the right dog.

A couple of teenage girls heard me and giggled. Oliver was mortified.

Damn you, Louis! I shall beat you to the point that when the paramedics arrive, they shall simply throw up their hands in defeat.

I now giggled along with the teenagers. Oliver made a sad attempt at an apology-slash-explanation to the girls, which brought more laughter. Eventually, he joined the merriment.

All right, enough of this! We shall take the case. And in my mind, I will approach it as a rescue mission. And no more flirting with the bloody clients, you…you whelp. He sighed. I need more hot water.

And don’t forget tea bags for the Duke, I reminded him.

CHAPTER 2

HEIDI J ONES LIVED IN A TWO-STORY APARTMENT in Silverlake, about a quarter mile from the reservoir. Unlocked glass doors opened into a tiny courtyard, which was probably never used but did add a pleasing aesthetic to the otherwise plain eggshell building with gray trim. The registry told me her suite was number seven, which had me traverse the length of the yard. In the back of the complex, shaded by two tall palms, was her door. The blinds of the large window beside the door were open. Heidi and I stared at each other briefly before I put a giant smile on my face.

Ms. Jones, I’m Lou Crasher. I called about the missing dog, Boots.

You’re missing some boots?

No, no, the dog—the Chihuahua named Boots.

Heidi finally opened the door, so we no longer had to talk like a cat and fish through the fishbowl glass.

Sorry, I should have done that sooner—duh. So, you’re here about Boots. Crazy stuff, huh?

May I come in?

Of course. Have a seat anywhere.

Anywhere was one of two places: A narrow two-seater with a red slipcover inundated with animal hair or an old rocker with identical cover, which I wasn’t convinced would hold me. I eased onto the hairy couch.

Heidi was a slender girl of about twenty-five with straight, thin black hair. She didn’t wear makeup, or at least hadn’t applied any yet today. I believed her constant smile; she was genuinely happy.

So, are you friends with Miss Doppelganger or do you work for her? she asked.

Work for her at the moment, I said, but a future friendship isn’t out of the question. You never know.

Oh my god, you’re funny! she said. You know, I feel so bad about Boots. Any leads?

Well, why don’t you tell me what happened when Boots got snatched.

Oh, okay. She sat up straight. Wow, snatched sounds so…like a kidnapping.

Dognapping.

Oh my god, you are funny.

Each time she told me I was funny, her voice dropped a half-octave deeper with the word funny. She got up from the rocker and came and sat beside me. Dust and fur floated into the air as she plopped down.

Well, that night I was doing laundry.

Is your washer in the apartment, or—

Is that a hint that you want a tour of my boudoir?

Unless I missed my guess, she was attempting to be coy, which in truth didn’t really suit her.

No, Ms. Flei—er, Ms. Jones. I ask because if your laundry facilities are outside the apartment, then that may have been when Boots got pinched. You know, when you went to change a load.

"Oh my god, that is exactly what happened! I went down for another load and I left my door open. Not like, wide open, but unlocked. And when I came back, my door was wide open and Boots was picked…or pinched, I mean."

Did you notice anything else missing? Jewelry, cash, anything of value?

No, unless you want to call my last two pieces of pizza valuables.

You don’t think Boots ate them?

Definitely not—they were in the microwave. Even if the microwave door was open, it’s too high for Boots to reach.

I scribbled this down in my notepad. I wasn’t trying to appear overly officious or anything; I merely have a musician’s memory. I can remember songs, segues, and solos, but doggie details? Yikes.

I left the top flap of my book open and raised my eyes to meet hers. It was now time to check out Ms. Jones. I had to see if she was in on the pinch, if I may.

So, Miss Doppelganger—

Feather-boa lady.

Yes, her. She tells me that you usually pick up the dog and take him to a place where Boots gets his groove on, correct?

So funny. You are so fun-ny! And yes, Boots has sex with other dogs so that purebreds can be made. It pays a pretty penny, too.

How do you feel about this practice? I mean, I assume you’re an animal lover. I thought you folks would frown on this sort of thing. Are you not the pet-rescue adoption type?

Are you stereotyping me, Mr. Crasher?

"I haven’t stereotyped since season one of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. But do tell."

In case I’d missed it the first three times, she marveled yet again at how funny I was.

Well, at first, she said, yes, it did bother me. And I in fact do volunteer at the PetSmart pet adoption. But I don’t know. It’s not a perfect world.

Meaning, you have a boudoir and a girl needs to furnish it, I said.

Don’t judge me.

No, ma’am. I apologize.

"No need to apologize. You’re right: I do do it for the money."

My guess was that in her mind, her volunteer pet adoption stuff canceled out the stud-dog routine—a sort of doggie tit for tat. I flipped to another page in my pad.

Who would have known that you had Boots here, aside from feather-boa lady.

She let out a cackle normally emitted by larger women and slapped my thigh.

I smiled at her laugh. Keep her talking, Lou. That’s it.

Let’s see…obviously the people in Sunland where I take him, Miss Doppelganger, and my girlfriend Chloe. She and Boots really get along—which reminds me I need to call her. She’ll be so upset! God, I’m so scattered over all of this.

She put an index finger to her bottom lip like a toddler does when about to invent a story.

Have you spoken to Miss Doppelganger’s grandson? I asked. Ah, Edmond? He’s out of town, but—

Grandson? No. She looked like someone having difficulty grasping a concept. But a beat later, her shoulders rose to her ears and she smiled like a kid at a parade.

Heidi Jones wouldn’t give me Chloe’s phone number until I agreed to tour her boudoir. The apartment revealed nothing other than a few doggie beds and cat-scratch posts, along with various food bowls, chew toys, and cat toys. Heidi was the messy type who probably knew exactly where everything was. Her bedroom was in such a state, I asked if maybe she thought Boots put up a struggle before being nabbed. From blushing cheekbones, she informed me that Boots hadn’t been in this room and that she’d been meaning to clean it up…maybe Tuesday.

For my records, I concluded that Ms. Jones smiled a lot, which made her a suspect in my book (or notepad), that she was messy, and that she had not yet grasped what a boudoir is.

Back at my car, I opened my vintage flip-phone—the one even casual onlookers can’t help but comment on when I pull it out—and called Chloe. She agreed to meet with me to discuss Boots. I didn’t get into any details because I wanted to save the bulk of the dialogue for the face-to-face. Besides, I had no doubt that Heidi would call Chloe while I was on the drive over and clue her into the scene.

After this, I called the lads.

Ollie, old boy, it’s Lou. Anything stirrin’?

Stirring? Not exactly. Your end?

I’ve just spoken with Heidi Jones.

And?

She’s seduced me. We’re running away to Catalina Island to raise Chihuahuas and hairless cats.

Oliver gave me silence.

What? Nothing? I spent twelve seconds writing that one. You twins need to start hanging out at comedy clubs; then you’ll appreciate how funny I am. Hell, the guys down at the lodge—

Have you anything to report, young Louis? Anything of merit? His sigh was deafening.

Yup, she’s guilty. Well, a suspect anyway. I need to check out her girlfriend, a dame by the name of Chloe Tsiropolous. Surname is Greek, I believe.

To be sure, but must you refer to women as dames? Oliver sounded perturbed.

Let me guess: you think the only dame in this world is Dame Judi Dench. Come on, big Ol’. Anyway, do you want to meet me at her crib? She’s not far from the office.

I gave Oliver the address and he told me that one of them would rendezvous with me at her apartment. When I asked him to wear a carnation behind his ear so I’d know which twin he was, he hung up on me.

CHAPTER 3

CHLOE T SIROPOLOUS LIVED IN THE CITY of Sherman Oaks, which, like Studio City, sits in the San Fernando Valley. Both sides of the street were jammed with apartment buildings, few of which had underground parking. That meant that it took me nearly ten minutes to find a parking space. Oliver beamed ear-to-ear as he saw me walk the entire block to Chloe’s. Not only had he snagged a spot directly in front of her place; he also knew how much I despise parking-spot hunting.

Everything all right, Master Louis?

The bigger they are, the harder they fall, Ollie. Remember that.

At six-foot-four and nearly two hundred and sixty pounds, Oliver chuckled at my threat. As we walked up the four steps to a far-too-decorative gate, we decided that I’d take the lead.

A large pool sat in the middle of the complex, flanked by a half-dozen units on either side. It reminded me of a cheap motel. It may have been one back in its day.

A bikini-clad woman emerged from her unit, paperback in one hand and drink in the other, beelining for the pool. When she glanced toward us, I pictured this woman to own the voice I’d heard on the phone.

Steady, young Louis, Oliver whispered. This is an investigation.

I’m a taken man. I returned the whisper. Not to mention a professional.

We intercepted her at the chaise she was about to flop on.

Oh, hi. Are you Lou?

Yes. Hi, Chloe. This is my assistant, Oliver. I felt the need for revenge after Oliver’s enjoyment of my parking-spot hunt. He shot me a glare.

Chloe and I shook hands and she flopped. Oliver and I brought over two deck chairs and joined her.

I’m sorry. I should have asked if you wanted a drink before I sat. She rattled the ice cubes in her glass and raised her eyebrows.

What are ya having, Ms. Tsiropolous? I asked. Am I saying that right?

Close enough. This is the world’s best Long Island Iced Tea. Any takers?

Maybe just a short one for courage, I responded.

Ah, ah, ah! We’re on the clock, Ms. Tsiropolous, Oliver countered. We’ll run through a spot of questions and then we won’t trouble you any longer.

"Some set of balls for an assistant," Chloe said.

True, I replied. And sadly I have to let him go at the end of the day.

She raised her eyebrows. You, my friend, are a troublemaker. So, you’re here about precious Boots. I was there when it happened, you know.

I won’t even pretend to know. And clearly she hadn’t mentioned it to Heidi—not before I’d talked to Heidi, anyway. Suspect Number One, no question. Would you mind—

Okay, so I left Heidi’s and then came back because I thought I forgot my phone at her place. I got halfway to her courtyard when I found the phone in my purse. When I returned to my car, I saw these two guys sprinting to their car with a small animal carrier. It seemed suspicious.

She took a tiny sip from her drink. Oliver was leaning almost as far forward in his chair as I was. What a pair of slick P.I.’s we were.

Obviously, I didn’t know at the time that Boots was being stolen, she went on. But today I get a call from you, I get a call from Chloe, and here we are by the pool. She opened both her drink-hand and empty hand wide.

Bloody hell! Oliver blurted. Did you see the faces of the abductors? Did you get a glimpse of a license plate?

Should I answer both questions? And if so, in what order?

Ha, call me a troublemaker! This dame was cheeky.

I apologize, Ms. Tsiropolous, he said. I am a tad anxious and—

A tad anxious? She raised an eyebrow. I thought you investigator guys were meant to stay detached. Cool customers. Are you guys new at this?

No flies on you, Chloe. I needed to save Oliver. But let’s just see how new at this we are: Take a beautiful girl of Greek descent, hang a sweet bikini on her, put a cocktail in her hand, and lay her on a cheap chaise. I paused. "And that’s you: another Los Angeles beaut without a care in the world. You put people at ease with your sweet voice and drink offerings, but you are no joke, Ms. T. You’re a smart cookie and not just because you’re reading philosophy. You hear every word and you know what to do with it. This is a rare quality in a Los Angelino. This tells me you weren’t