Finding Wonderland

By R. G. Ryan

Simone Ducharme, a rising young star in the jazz world, is polishing up her vocals on the final track of her debut album in a legendary Hollywood recording studio—a studio that has been home to some of the most famous recording artists in history. But when she vanishes without a trace after taking a five-minute break, record producer Lonnie Falcon turns to the only man he knows who can solve the mystery of her disappearance—Jake Moriarity.

“Finding Wonderland” takes the reader on a fast-paced journey from the pristine recording studios of Hollywood to the gritty sands of Ocean Beach in San Diego where Jake is running out of time in a place that time has forgotten.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9780981758183

Book preview

Notes

Prologue

That was perfect! Let’s do it again.

The producer’s voice filled Simone Ducharme’s headphones causing her to smile at their ongoing joke—a joke that, at this point, wasn’t quite as funny as it had been four hours ago. Four hours! That’s how long she had been trying to get the performance just right on the final section of a song that had apparently become her metaphorical Mt. Everest.

I don’t know, Lonnie, she said in frustration, her light French accent sounding tired and flat. I’m just not feeling it, I guess.

Lonnie Falcon, a renowned jazz producer with numerous Grammy awards to his credit, came out of Studio 3’s control room and into the live room of SoundWest Studios where some of the greatest singers in history had made their most celebrated recordings. Falcon had chosen Studio 3 to record, "Finding Wonderland, Simone Ducharme’s inaugural album, believing in his heart that all of the Good Vibrations"—from the Beach Boys to The Mamas & The Papas—saturating the walls would somehow influence his young star’s performance. He realized that his belief was a weird blend of Zen with a sprinkle of quantum physics, but he unashamedly embraced the concept. Besides, there was just something about the room’s acoustics that seemed to enhance the naturally smoky texture of Simone’s voice.

Walking over to where she stood dejectedly behind a classic Neuman tube microphone, he found himself once again in awe of her beauty. At twenty-four years of age, she embodied a rare mix of genetics that modeling agencies dubbed racially ambiguous. Many in the industry had opined that she could pass for Esperanza Spaulding’s younger sister. But it wasn’t just this girl’s physical beauty that moved him, it was her sweetness, her intense spirituality as well as an innate understanding of how the music industry worked. In short, Simone had the whole package—a package her record label was banking on to sell a million copies or more of her first recording.

Listen, he said gently. You’re putting way too much pressure on yourself, Simone. Why don’t you take fifteen or twenty minutes and go crash in the lounge—grab some mineral water or whatever…we’ve got time.

She shook her head slowly, resolutely.

No, I need to get this done.

What if I pull rank and demand that you take a break? Lonnie asked with a smile.

She cocked one eyebrow and just stared in silence.

Lonnie held his hands up in surrender.

Okay, okay. We’ll do it your way. He turned and started walking toward the control room tossing a quick, Again! over his shoulder.

Simone pulled off her headphones.

"Well, now that I think about it, I guess a girl could use a potty break. But I’ll be right back. Just take five minutes, not a second more. Five. Minutes!"

Lonnie sat behind the large, Trident analogue console, donned his favorite pair of headphones and played back her last take. Neither he nor Simone believed in using autotune or any of the other myriad digital tricks available in modern recording. They were dedicated to capturing a performance old school and were therefore using forty-eight tracks of analogue tape and pressing the final product to vinyl. And if there were subtle vocal irregularities, it simply demonstrated the artist’s humanity. Or so they believed.

Having played through the section three times, he checked his watch. It had been twelve minutes. Standing up to peer into the live room, he craned his neck to see if maybe Simone had come back while he was focused on listening, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Huh! That’s kinda weird, he mused out loud.

Sitting back down, he decided to just wait it out. It was, after all, only twelve minutes since she very grudgingly agreed to take a five-minute break and not a second more!

But something was off. It just didn’t feel right.

Lonnie exited the control room and walked down the hallway toward the restrooms. Arriving at the women’s room, he hesitated, not wanting to alarm Simone if she was still inside.

But after a few seconds he knocked softly.

Simone? Hey, it’s been, like, fifteen minutes. You okay in there?

Nothing. Not a sound. No flushing, or water running in the sink. Just dead silence.

He walked quickly toward the large and creatively lit reception area and asked the blonde girl behind the desk if she could enter the women’s room and check to see if Simone was still inside. She agreed and accompanied him back down the hall. The young woman opened the door and entered while calling Simone’s name.

After a few moments she stepped back into the hallway.

I’m sorry, Mr. Falcon, but no one is there. I checked every stall.

Lonnie thanked her and walked quickly down the hall toward Studio 3’s lounge area. It too, was empty. Then he remembered that he and Simone were the only clients booked in the entire complex during that morning. He also remembered purposely booking the session for a Monday—when the studio had less traffic—so as to eliminate even the slightest possibility, virtually impossible though it may be, of audio bleed from the other two studios.

Try as he might to suppress it, the first icy tentacles of panic began snaking their way through his mind. Pulling his cell phone from its place in the left front pocket of his jeans, he pulled up the list of favorites and stabbed a trembling finger on her picture. Her phone rang a number of times and then went to voicemail.

Terminating the call he muttered, Dammit, Simone! Where are you? and tried the number again. This time it went straight to voicemail, as it did the next ten times he tried to call. And she wasn’t responding to text messages either. He walked quickly through the doorway that provided access to the small private parking area along the western side of the building. Her Mini Cooper was right where she had left it earlier that morning when she had arrived so full of excitement and determination. Re-entering the studio, he trotted down the hallway and past the receptionist, exiting through the main entrance along Sunset Blvd.

No sign of her on Sunset.

Perhaps Gordon St. along the eastern side of the building. Nothing! The only possibility remaining was that she had walked from the parking lot and into the back access alleyway. She wasn’t there either, although he did find the gate ajar.

This is just getting stupid! he mumbled under his breath as he ran back to the studio’s front entrance.

She has to be here somewhere, he said more loudly than he intended to the receptionist.

The girl stood.

Right! So, did you check Studio 3’s lounge?

Yes! Second place I looked.

Kitchen?

Looked there as well.

Well, she mused. She couldn’t be in any of the other studios because the doors are all locked, as is the archive area, equipment vault and microphone vault. She ticked each possibility off on her fingers. I’m sorry, Mr. Falcon, but if she isn’t in the restroom, lounge, kitchen or in Studio 3, there’s nowhere else in this building where she could even have access.

Huh! And you’ve been out here the entire time?

She thought for a few seconds.

Except for when Tony, one of the second engineers, gave me a FedEx package for the studio manager before he went home…something she had instructed me to take immediately to her office. But I couldn’t have been gone from my desk for more than two or three minutes.

Sweeping his longish, brown hair back from his forehead, Lonnie muttered, This makes absolutely no sense! Look, I know those rooms are locked, but could we please check them anyway?

Absolutely! she affirmed while opening the middle desk drawer and pulling out a set of keys.

For the next fifteen minutes they checked every room and every locked door in the entire complex.

Nothing!

You know, the receptionist suggested. She could easily have gone into the parking lot from the restroom without being seen.

Yeah, I thought of that, but I already checked out there and her car’s still where she parked it this morning. And the only other cars are yours and mine. Could we ask Tony?

Like I said, he’s gone for the day. I’m sorry, Mr. Falcon. I wish I could be more help. Do you want me to call someone for you?

No, thank-you. She’ll turn up in a minute. Probably just Simone being an eccentric artist, or something.

Lonnie thanked the receptionist and walked away having transitioned quickly from mere panic, to a growing sense of dread that was now barreling headlong into full-blown terror.

Something had happened to Simone.

Something terrible.

He couldn’t explain how he knew, but he knew.

Exiting into the parking lot, he walked toward the back alley. Suddenly, something caught his eye…something he had missed before. There on the ground was Simone’s trademark black knit beret, a gift from her grandmother. It was precious to Simone—something that she would never willingly surrender.

Picking it up, Lonnie Falcon ran his fingers over the interwoven yarn and came to a terrible conclusion: Simone Ducharme was gone—only not by her choosing.

She had been abducted.

Chapter One

Traffic was moving through LA at a pace roughly equivalent to that of a fifteen year-old tasked with cleaning his room on a summer Saturday morning.

Which is to say, not at all.

Vanessa, Cassie, Aaron and I were in my Range Rover heading for the Morgan Sommers Dance Academy in Hollywood where Vanessa was scheduled to audition at 1:15 p.m. for their Dance Theater Conservatory Program.

I know…it’s a mouthful.

Aaron was in his customary place in the front passenger seat with the girls curled up and sound asleep in the back. It was just as well, for there was nothing to see except acres and acres of cars, something those who frequent the LA freeways are used to seeing. But this was more along the lines of Carmageddon, long predicted, but never fully materialized.

Until now!

Or so I imagined.

We had departed from Cassie’s condo in Carlsbad at 7:00 a.m. on this beautiful, spring morning figuring that six hours would be more than sufficient to get us into Los Angeles in plenty of time to have a nice lunch and for Vanessa to spend some time going over her audition piece. But the way things were going we’d be lucky to make it to the academy in time for the audition. With LA traffic there is only one thing you can ever know for certain—it’s going to be bad.

And, no, I’m not being cynical. I speak from experience.

Lots of it!

Traffic inched forward a few feet and then stopped. A quick glance at the GPS map on the dash display revealed that we were still thirty miles short of our destination. It’s a terrible feeling, being stuck in traffic and realizing that there isn’t a single thing you can do about the situation. And so you sit. And sit. Then you move a little, and sit some more. Every once in awhile the mass of cars will surge forward for about a hundred yards and then come to a complete standstill.

Aaron reached over and tapped the in-dash video display to call up the problem areas on the LA freeway system. All routes were pulsing a claret red signifying that traffic in the entire Metroplex was, apparently, at a dead stop.

He said, Not to be overly dramatic, but I been driving up here for most of my life and I don’t recall ever seeing anything like this.

Me either. Makes you wonder what would happen should the occasion arise where people had to evacuate.

Aaron shook his head in mute contemplation.

That right there, bro, is a nightmare waiting to happen.

I should probably tell you that Aaron Perry, besides being my best friend, is unquestionably the most acclaimed and decorated jazz pianist on the planet. I still get a kick out of people meeting him for the first time. He doesn’t look like a musician.

He’s big.

Like NFL big.

He’s also highly skilled in martial arts, a skillset he was forced to acquire in order to survive on the harsh streets of Compton, arguably one of the deadliest neighborhoods in all of California. We’ve been best friends for more than a decade now. It remains a source of puzzlement to me that in this day and age there are still people who wonder how a black man and a white man can be best friends. Truthfully, it has never occurred to either one of us. We love each other and that’s that!

He glanced over his shoulder and inclined his dreadlocked head slightly in Vanessa’s direction.

How you think our girl is going to do today?

I gestured at the gridlock.

"Well, assuming we actually arrive on time, I think she will wow them just like she did at Pace."

That the place in New York?

Yeah. They really wanted her. Even offered her a scholarship, which rarely happens. But, she decided it was better to stay here.

I wouldn’t want to move three thousand miles away either if I was her. I mean why would she? Just having found a family with you and Cassie and all.

I said, You and Muriel are just as much a part of her family as we are.

No, I get that. But you’re primary—you the papa.

I thought about the events that had brought us together a little over eight months ago—events that were nothing short of extraordinary. Were one to believe in a higher power, one would be tempted to cite divine intervention. As for me, I’m not ready to go that far. I guess you could say I’ve got issues with God. Not that I disbelieve in His existence, it’s just that I’m not convinced He believes in me.

It’s a long story.

I heard Cassie stirring behind me and caught her image in my rearview mirror.

In anticipation of your question, we’re about ten miles further than we were when you fell asleep.

She stared through the front windshield in horror.

Holy cow! I’m not sure I’ve ever seen traffic this bad up here, and I’ve seen some really monumental tie-ups! Is there a sigalert or something?

Aaron pointed toward the dash display and its mocking rivers of red.

Sigalert? Yeah. On every single freeway.

Seriously?

Well, it’s not official, but I’d bet on it!

Vanessa opened her eyes.

Wow! Nothing has changed in—how long was I asleep?

About an hour, I replied.

An hour! That’s crazy!

No, that’s LA!

Are we going to make it on time? she asked nervously.

I looked at the mess before and behind us.

If there is anyone you can call at the academy and issue an appeal for a later time slot, this would probably be a good time to do it.

"No chance of that happening. The only reason I got this slot was because someone cancelled."

Cassie said, So we’re, what, thirty miles away?

‘Bout that, I replied.

Vanessa checked her phone’s display screen.

Well, we’ve still got an hour and a half to get there. That should be enough time. I mean, right?

Normally I’d say yes, but this… I gestured at the mess of cars hemming us in. …is unusual to say the least.

Carmageddon! Cassie intoned with a shake of her pretty head.

Chapter Two

I saw an opening in the next lane and deftly guided the Range Rover into position, thereby gaining a full car length. Oh, I know it’s ridiculous, but at least I’m ahead of the guy behind me.

Vanessa’s phone dinged.

Laurie wants to know where we are.

Well, I said while consulting the map. Through the magic of GPS, I can tell you with stunning accuracy that we are almost exactly one hundred feet closer to our destination than we were about fifteen minutes ago.

Cassie’s phone dinged.

It’s Muriel. She wants to know the same thing.

Tell both of them we’re still thirty miles away and stuck in traffic,

Vanessa nodded almost imperceptibly and turned her gaze toward a guy on a motorcycle splitting lanes and passing glibly through the traffic as if it didn’t exist.

I actively hated the bastard.

Cassie said, Are you nervous, Vanessa?

"A little. I mean it’s not Pace, but it’s still a big deal."

Aaron turned sideways in his seat in order to see her.

"And from what I hear, you nailed the Pace audition. Seems to me that there’s no way this will be anywhere near as hard."

The traffic suddenly and miraculously began moving at a speed somewhat above a crawl.

And the crowd went wild!

Maybe, Vanessa replied. "But overconfidence isn’t something I’ve ever been accused of having. Besides, it’s way more important to me that I get in to MSDA than it ever was to get in to Pace. MSDA means I get to stay close to you guys."

I caught her eye in the rearview mirror.

You’re going to blow them away, sweetheart.

If we ever get there! She paused for a moment and then added, I still can’t believe you’re coming with us, Aaron.

Wouldn’t miss this for the world, little sister.

Vanessa leaned forward and hugged him around the neck.

When I think about what has transpired in my life over the past eight or nine months since the trial ended, I am still blown away.

The trial.

It had been a big story—one that the national media covered copiously.

Crooked Las Vegas politician Harry Olivetti, and his son Collin, had been indicted by the Clark County, Nevada Grand Jury on two charges of first-degree murder, one count of attempted murder for hire and kidnapping in the first degree.

And Vanessa had been at the center of all of it.

Cassie said, So is Harry ‘O still a vegetable?

I nodded.

Yes, he is. I doubt if he even knows he’s serving multiple life sentences. To this day I still don’t know what he was thinking when he threw himself off that balcony holding on to Abby.

Abby is Vanessa’s almost seven year-old niece—daughter of her sister, Laurie and…wait for it…Collin Olivetti.

Aaron took off his black felt fedora and scratched the top of his head.

I mean who does that? Who tries to kill their own granddaughter just to, I don’t know, feel like they’ve won the game?

Harry is a classic narcissist, and so was Collin. To people like that, life is all about accumulating and keeping stuff. In their world, people have no value apart from being just more stuff. Add in the fact that a narcissist always has to win, and their actions become understandable on an intellectual, psychological level.

Without warning, and for no discernible reason, the traffic in front of us came to a dead stop. Happens all the time in LA and no one has ever figured out why. Probably a chain-reaction thing. Somebody saw a piece of paper at the side of the road and slowed down to take a closer look.

Something important like that.

Vanessa, who had been leaning forward, fell back heavily in her seat.

I still can’t believe that Collin is dead.

You ask me, Aaron rumbled, the boy got what he deserved.

Cassie said, I hear what you’re saying, but being beaten to death in the prison showers is a brutal and inhumane way to die.

Not in light of the abuse he subjected Vanessa to for six years, I countered.

Aaron added, "Besides that, he and his old man killed Vanessa’s mom, her best friend, and would’ve killed her if Jake hadn’t stopped them."

Hey, don’t get me wrong, Cassie interjected. I thought all along that he—actually, both of them—should’ve gotten the death penalty.

Vanessa stared out of the side window and said in a far away voice, I had so many plans for how I was going to kill Colin. It was going to be a very slow and excruciating death. He was going to cry and beg for his life for days and days…just like I had cried and begged him year after year to not hurt me any more. Turning her head back toward us she added, So I’m obviously not sorry he’s dead. I’m not even sorry he was beaten to death because I think at some point he embraced cruelty and brutality. He must’ve…because he certainly had a lot of practice on me.

Cassie reached over and hugged her.

And now you’re safe, thanks to Jake and Aaron.

Thanks to you and Muriel too, Cass.

I moved forward a full car length.

And I was thankful to do so.

Stuck in a mess like this, it’s the little things that count.

Vanessa continued, I want you guys to know that because of you I feel like I finally get to be who I was always been meant to be—to live the life I was always meant to live. I mean there’s a lot of hurt and baggage I’m still dragging around from the past, but for the first time in my life, I am so hopeful.

Aaron said, You part of our family now, Vanessa. And we take care of our own.

She laughed.

That’s one of the things I love most about all of you—the family connection. Especially the way you and Cassie have taken me in, Jake, and invited me to belong. And I love you for it.

Cassie and I have had ongoing discussions with Vanessa about me officially adopting her. It was a conversation that grew out of the intense circumstances that had thrown us together six months ago. I’m pretty sure all of us feel like it’s not only the right thing to do, but also what we want to do. Nevertheless, we’re not rushing anything. First things first, like getting Vanessa to her audition sometime in this century.

Chapter Three

Just as the traffic began inching forward Aaron’s cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID and smiled as he answered.

Lonnie Falcon. How’s my favorite record producer?

The smile faded from his face quicker than a summer tan. He listened intently without speaking for a long time.

Finally he said, Well, he’s right here. I can ask him now and then call you back.

He listened some more, nodding his head silently and then said goodbye.

What was that about? I asked.

It was Lonnie. Turning around to Vanessa he explained, Lonnie Falcon is my producer. Dude’s famous.

Vanessa asked, More famous than you?

Probably. Even though the boy can’t play a single instrument, he’s a genius in the studio.

As has been true with so many artists throughout the history of recording, Aaron’s success is due in large part to having acknowledged early on that he needed something more than talent. He needed that special individual who could hear within him things he couldn’t hear on his own, pulling out possibility and potential that otherwise might have remained dormant. In short, he needed a producer—that uniquely gifted individual who is equal parts seer, mentor and magician.

Aaron turned his attention back to me.

Lonnie said that he was working with a new artist yesterday over at SoundWest. Young girl named Simone Ducharme.

You know her? I asked.

Met her a few times, but Lonnie has really been keeping a tight lid on her exposure due to the fact that she could legitimately be the next big thing.

So why’d he call?

Well, it’s pretty sketchy, but it seems they had been working on a difficult section of a song and weren’t getting anywhere, so Lonnie suggested that she take a break. At first she didn’t want to stop, but then realized she needed a bathroom break. She walked out of the tracking room insisting she’d be back in five minutes exactly, and never came back—just up and vanished.

And I suppose he conducted a thorough search of the premises.

Yeah. Lonnie and the receptionist checked the restroom, lounge, kitchen…even the rooms that were locked and there was no one else even on the premises except for the two of them!

So, she just walked out, got in her car and drove away without saying anything?

Nope. Car’s still there. The only thing left behind was a beret she’s very fond of—gift from her late grandmother. Lonnie found it sort of crumpled up in the back alley.

Cassie leaned forward from the rear seat.

Aaron, why doesn’t Lonnie call the police or the FBI?

Because he’s not completely sure that her disappearance is due to an abduction, or whatever. I mean the evidence on hand certainly seems to suggest that possibility. Besides, he has more faith in Jake than he does in any arm of law enforcement. I told him I had no idea whether you even had the time, Jake. But he still wanted me to check. So I’m checking.

I actually did have time because I had cleared my schedule before making the trip.

So what does he want me to do?

He was wondering if we could stop by his place in Corona del Mar on our way back south after Vanessa’s audition.

Well, I said. Theoretically that’s a possibility, although given our present circumstances I have absolutely no idea when that might be.

"How about I call him back and tell him it’s a maybe and we’ll keep him apprised of our progress or lack thereof?"

"That’ll work.

Just then traffic started inching around a wreck blocking the two inside lanes. When one added a fire truck, paramedic ambulance and two Highway Patrol cars to the two cars originally involved in the collision, the traffic tie-up seemed completely justified. Once we got past the wrecked cars and emergency vehicles things began to immediately pick up and soon we were rolling along at freeway speed, or as it’s known in LA, fifty miles per hour.

Vanessa visibly relaxed.

Think we’ll make it now, Jake?

What, lunch?

Chapter Four

We ate at a Mexican/Salvadorian restaurant on Vine St. a few blocks from the MSDA campus, mainly because it was fast and Vanessa just