Driven

By James McGuffey

A well-known, investigative documentarian named Iona Black is kidnapped off the street in Los Angeles. Her companion, Laura Richards, barely escapes. The police find no physical evidence and Black's agent in New York say she has not been in LA. Dejected and scared, Laura walks into the office of private investigator Mike James seeking protection. This sets off three days of action-packed effort to find the truth. James can put together of a team of experienced, ex-army veterans and CIA retirees who have the skills to unearth the facts. Together, they work to expose an evil birthed in LA years ago, shrouded and protected by wealth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350920550

Book preview

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Author’s Note

The events depicted in this novel are set nominally in Los Angeles (LA); however, the place settings are fictional and not meant to be a description of actual places or locations in LA. Rather, they are inventions by the author to enhance the character of the protagonists and as comments on life in ever-changing large cities.

Driven

©2023 James McGuffey

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

print ISBN: 979-8-35092-054-3

ebook ISBN: 979-8-35092-055-0

Contents

Introduction

Day One: What Do We Have Here?

Day One: First Confirmation

Day One: More than a PI

Day One: Research

Day One: Lois Reports

Day One: Maria and Mike

Day Two: Field Operations

Day Two: What Are We Getting Into

Day Two: Worries Surface

Day Two: The Real Milton Stirling

Day Two: The Night Before

Day Three: The Extraction

Day Three: Iona Black

Day Three: Things Don’t Always Go Well

Day Three: Looking the Devil’s Helper in the Eye

Day Three: Prepare for the End

Day Three: Darkness Inside

Day Four: The Morning After

Day Four: There Is No Return to Normal

Two Weeks Later

Four Months Later

Introduction

Laura Richards entered the coffee shop at seven, glad to be out of the early morning chill. She wore a teal blue straight dress with thin shoulder straps and a light matching scarf suitable for the high-end restaurant where she enjoyed dining the night before, but it was out of place in the early morning. She felt people staring at her, but the barista filled her order without a blink or any expression of interest and with a seen-it-before attitude. She chose the small table in the corner beside the window for what could be a long wait, staring at the sign across the street: Mike James, Private Eye, Walk-Ins Welcome, Help Available. No hours were posted. After moving into her late aunt’s condo, she had walked down this block many times in the past month and always felt intrigued by a private eye being located in an old retail store along an avenue full of art galleries, bars, bistros, record stores, and bookshops. She had seen a few people going in and out, but never anyone she pictured as Mike James.

She stared at the sign and breathed deeply. Help available. Her fear and panic were just below the surface. The incident last night made it the worst day of her life—almost the last. How had she become so alone, so separated from friends, that she placed hope in a sign with the name of a person she had never seen?

Her childhood, growing up in the Great Central Valley of California, had been difficult, being the late, unplanned child of a farm couple, with two brothers, fifteen and fourteen, when her parents brought her home from the hospital. Laura’s mother existed to care for the men and felt, like they did, that Laura was a nuisance intruding on a long-organized routine, but her Catholic faith required her to carry the unexpected baby to term. The saving grace for young Laura was an aunt, her mother’s sister, who lived in LA. Starting since her early teens, frequent long visits in summer when school let out became the norm. Aunt Daisy worked as a secretary for a film production company, a job she loved. She was enamored with movies and movie stars and took Laura to all the new films. They bought books on filmmaking for them to discuss when together and email when Laura was in school.

At home, Laura stuck to her room and studied, becoming the star pupil at her high school, and a favorite teacher helped her apply to colleges. She won a full scholarship to the University of Southern California where she majored in documentary film studies. During the second semester of her senior year, her mother died. Her father told Laura that her mother had been proud of her but did not say he was. He told her that with her degree, she could find jobs. He planned to leave the farm to the boys, who knew nothing else.

Laura’s best friends at USC had connections in New York. They all wanted to go East, and she went with them. Manhattan had a different vibe from LA, but she mixed well with people in the documentary film business and got a string of short jobs as an assistant. One mentor, a well-known investigative documentary producer named Iona Black, used her as an assistant on several films and put her name in the credits of one. They became friends outside of work.

Laura’s aunt visited her several times in New York, and they even took a week in Paris, visiting all the museums and frequenting cafes and bistros. The visits were great fun for both of them, but her aunt always urged her to come home to LA. After four years in New York, her prospects were not improving and she was unable to find funding there to turn her small films into finished products. Many of her friends drifted out of the business and moved out of New York and Iona, now her closest friend, was not in town. Rumors said she was working on a major project.

Then her aunt died. Laura flew to LA for the funeral and found that her aunt had left her the condo she had visited many times with enough money for taxes, fees, and upkeep. The will contained a condition that she live in the unit. For the first time, Laura realized that her aunt had been deeply hurt by her move to New York. The condo’s comfortable furnishings and books, well remembered, occupied the same places. She felt she should come back to LA. She could not make it in New York. Laura’s aunt was saving her. Laura cremated her and placed the ashes on a bookshelf with her favorite books.

Now, a month later, Laura sat alone at this coffee shop. During the first few weeks in LA, she had walked over the neighborhood pondering over her future. Then a week ago to her surprise, Iona Black showed up at her condo. Laura was happy to see her. Iona asked her to help shoot some background scenes for her project, and it drew her out of her solitude. She started to think about her future, but last night changed everything.

Day One:

What Do We Have Here?

When the tall, attractive woman walked through the door at 9:00 a.m. dressed for a night on the town, Mike James knew his day was going to be different. He saw a slender woman with thick brown hair falling to her shoulders. Regular features kept her short of movie star beauty, but she would catch a lot of second looks. His initial thoughts were about a long party night, but any watchful person could tell something else was wrong. She seemed slightly frazzled, her eyes wide with uncertainty in her mien, but somehow, he felt she conveyed a sense of purpose.

Are you Mike James? she asked, looking directly at his face.

Yes, private detective as on the sign. He didn’t want to ask questions because she seemed on edge and he didn’t know which way she might go.

They were in a reception area with one bare, somewhat shabby desk, filing cabinets, and a poster of Yosemite National Park. He gestured to a room with a glass window behind the reception area. Come into my office, and you can tell me why you are here.

She followed him into a larger space that contained a desk, bare except for a desk pad with only a notebook and a lonely pen in sight. A few file cabinets stood along the wall to the left of the desk, and two framed Edward Hopper prints hung on the walls. She recognized one as Nighthawks. Two straight chairs faced the desk, and he offered her one and walked behind the desk to his chair, sat down, and set the coffee container he carried on the desk. Sorry, I can’t offer you a coffee. I get mine at the shop across the street.

She hesitated a moment and then sat down on the front of a chair, straight up, not relaxing, ankles and knees together, not giving away anything yet. I saw you in the coffee shop, except I didn’t know that was you. I had been sitting by the window since it opened at seven, watching for someone to come in here. I live not far away and have walked by many times, noticing your sign. I thought it strange having a private eye office on this block with the types of businesses along the street. Her mouth twitched a little like a smile could form, but then her eyes took an inward look and tension returned.

I own the building, and I like the neighborhood. There is dead time in this job, and the bookstores, record shops, and art gallery shows fill time. A lot of interesting people work in these types of businesses.

Her eyes had steadied now and she looked at him directly. But you don’t have any art from the local galleries. Just these Hopper prints.

Film noir. Do you think I’ve overdone the spare, slightly seedy look?

That did not bring a smile, but she sat back in the chair, sizing him up. He felt she must have undergone some traumatic event that had scared her, but he thought she still had her wits about her.

She saw a forty-something man, maybe pushing fifty, with short, thick hair with some gray, athletic built, sharp features, and a beard stubble that he trimmed carefully. He carried a certain aloofness and sad loneliness that made her wonder if his thin-lipped mouth ever broke into a smile.

Have you been a private eye for long?

Just four years.

Is it a midlife crisis hobby? She worried her question might offend him.

No, and I’m not a voyeur either. I was in the army for more than twenty years, and this fit my skills. A lot of people need help.

She crossed her legs, took a deep breath, and relaxed slightly. My name is Laura Richards, and I’ve had a long night. After I left the police station, I had nowhere to go and spent the night in an all-night coffee shop near USC until I thought of your sign. I don’t have many options. I’ve been in LA for only one month, no close friends here. I’ve got a story to tell, and then you can give me advice, help me, or send me on my way.

She paused for a minute. Bear with me. I work in documentary films. It is my occupation, and I know how to lay things out and provide detail. I need to give a little background before I start on last night.

He leaned back in his chair. Go ahead. I’m a good listener.

I attended USC and majored in documentary film studies. I worked in New York for four years. One of the filmmakers I worked for as an assistant was Iona Black, a well-known investigative documentary maker. You may know of her.

Yes. I have seen several of her documentaries and like her work.

She nodded and continued, "Just over a month ago, my aunt died and left me a condo a few blocks from here. I decided to move back to LA. A week ago, Iona showed up at my condo building. I had not talked to her during my last six months in New York and had not been able to say goodbye because she was out of town, maybe working on a project. I don’t know how she got my address, but investigative reporters have ways. She seemed excited, but would not tell me anything about what she was working on; however, she did ask for help with background shots and I said yes, of course. This consisted of outside shots of mansions around the city, a warehouse near the port, and screen background setting things like the Hollywood Sign and the Beverly Hilton.

"Two days ago, Iona asked me for a favor. She said she needed to store copies of documents in a safe location in case she became ill or had an accident and wanted me to open a safety-deposit box. These documents were so important that she wanted them to go to major investigative journalists if something happened to her—I would find instructions with the materials. She always kept the work close and used no associates during her research phase, so I did not think it odd that she asked me at this phase of her project.

"Of course, I wanted to ask questions, but Iona has a strong personality and framed her request in an ask-no-questions way. Yesterday morning, we went to a bank close to my condo, and I went in alone with an attaché case and did what she asked. That was just before noon. She then said she would take me out to dinner at a nice restaurant, which is why I am dressed up.

"The restaurant is only about six blocks from where I live, so I walked there to meet Iona and we enjoyed a wonderful dinner recalling old times. It was a wonderful night. I thought she would give me some hints as to her plans, but we talked only about friends in New York and current politics. After dinner, we decided to walk back to my condo.

"The condo is on a quiet street about three-quarters of a block off the boulevard. At nine thirty, the area was still busy with couples around the restaurants, bars, and shops. My block though was quiet. The people who live there were still out or already locked in for the night. We turned off the boulevard and were almost to my building when a white van came fast toward us. The driver slammed on the brakes just as the van reached us with the side door open. Iona yelled at me to run. I ran track in high school and still jog regularly, so I ran faster than Iona, who is almost sixty. I heard footsteps coming after us and the van coming up the street. Iona was just behind me. I heard a popping noise, and suddenly, she yelled, ‘I’m hit!’ I looked back and saw her fall. I cut sharply across the street just in front of the van and onto the sidewalk on the other side where a row of trees gave cover. As I passed a tree, I heard another pop and a soft thud. I made the boulevard and ran for another block. I saw a police car coming down the street and ran out in front of it, waving my arms and screaming.

"Of course, I was frantic, gasping for breath and barely coherent. They must have thought I was having a bad reaction to drugs. It took some time for me to calm down and explain. The police put me in the car and called in a possible shooting on Maple Street. They drove to my street and put their floodlights on. Another police car came from the other direction and did the same. The officers got out and stood behind the car doors with their guns until another car pulled up behind us and an officer got out and took charge.

"We looked down the street. Nothing. No van. We were only fifty feet from where Iona had fallen. No Iona. Nothing! The supervising officer stood with me as the other officers carefully walked down the street and looked in every shadow. I told him what happened. After they gave the all-clear, we walked down and I pointed right where Iona went down. They shined their lights around. No blood. No marks. No debris. Nothing.

"A pair of plainclothes detectives showed up. They ordered a careful search of the block and then took me down to the police station to give a statement. One of them kept going out of the room and then coming back and asking the other one to step out. A lieutenant joined us and asked many of the same questions. At the end of my statement, they said the search yielded nothing and my neighbors had heard nothing. One of the servers at the coffee shop on my corner did see me run by, which caught her attention, but she saw no one following me.

"By then, it was 4:00 a.m. The officers said they would take me to my condo, but I said no. I felt too scared to go where whoever did this knew where I lived. They asked if I could stay with friends or at a hotel. That’s when I went to the all-night coffee shop near USC. Close to seven, I called an Uber and went to the coffee shop across the street from your office to wait for you to open, and here I am.

There is one thing I did not tell the police about—the briefcase and safety-deposit box. Telling them would be a betrayal of Iona at this point.

Mike James listened attentively. She is thorough, he thought, but this was not the story he expected. When she came in, he thought of an abusive boyfriend, not the kidnapping of someone like Iona Black, a famous name. The police and FBI will be all over this. Why did they let her leave when she needed protection? Which policemen talked with you? he asked.

The detective who came to the scene was Scot Bowen. At the police station, Lieutenant Joseph Billings joined us.

Laura put two business cards on the desk. Mike picked them up. They called the lieutenant in right away. Billings must have called his captain. I know both of them. Why did they let you go? What did they say?

She looked at him with a defiant set to her jaw. There is one more thing I haven’t told you. The lieutenant left at about three and was gone for about an hour. He said they contacted Iona’s agent in New York, and the agent said Iona Black wasn’t in California. She said Iona was at her cottage in the Adirondacks, which is off the grid—a place Iona goes to escape from everything and refresh herself. The agent referred them to several other people who confirmed the same thing. Then he just stared at me. I admit I froze for a couple of minutes and then just rambled on about how I knew Iona well and that this had really happened. He said they were taking it seriously and sent me on my way.

She looked down at her hands and then back up at Mike. What I’ve told you is true, and I’m scared.

Mike leaned back in his chair. He thought the whole time that the story was wild. The way she told it was kind of pat, but telling a story in a coherent fashion is what documentarians do, and while she was narrating the story, he could read her stress. I will try to help you. I’ll look around this morning. Give me the address and keys to your condo. For now, you need to try to rest if you can. Come back here.

He got up, opened a door to the left of his desk, and led her back into a break room. There’s a refrigerator with bottled water and snacks if you are hungry. He opened a closet and got a pillow and a blanket. The sofa is comfortable. Try to close your eyes and wash it away for now. You are safe here.

He thought for a minute. Where is your cell phone?

It’s in my purse but turned off. I’ve read a lot of crime fiction, and it occurred to me that it should be offline. Whoever did this to Iona would want to find me.

Good thinking. Don’t use it. That call Iona made to you may be a key mistake she made. If someone with resources knew she was in LA, they would search her data for people she knew here. Even if she used a burner, they could have had a trace on your phone. While I’m out, I’ll get a burner for you so we can communicate and you can call friends. We must find out what Black was up to. I assume she has a lawyer who may know about any threats she received. I’m sure the police are checking that out this morning.

What about the briefcase?

I work for you. I’ll keep what you want me to as confidential. He led her back to the office and pulled out his basic contract from a drawer. "To make it official, sign this contract. I’m making the initial fee one hundred dollars, but you don’t need to pay me. I frequently work pro bono. We’ll discuss it when I come back.

First, I’ll go to the police station. I know contacts there who may tell me something about what the police think. I won’t tell them you’re here, but you might need them later, and then withholding the briefcase may look bad. After I come back, I may have information and we can talk things over better then.

Okay. Don’t tell anyone now. I need some rest to think clearly. She sat on the sofa and let her head fall back. She seemed smaller and thinner than when she came in. She understood her situation was bad.

Day One:

First Confirmation

Mike walked out into a beautiful day, cloudless with less smog than usual. The street had been part of an old, small town that suburban growth swallowed long ago. Old storefronts ran for five blocks. What had been hardware and clothing stores were now bookstores, coffee shops, art galleries, bars, and bistros. On second floors that had once hosted dentists, doctors, and accountants, there were now apartments, art studios, and yoga salons.

In the next block, he entered an art gallery, empty of patrons at 10:00 a.m. The bell above the door brought forth a middle-aged woman with thick, shiny dark-brown hair, in shape for her age, with a smile anyone would be glad to see.

Hi, Maria.

Well, hello, solitary man. I’m surprised to see you this time of the day.

He walked up and hugged her. Maria Esteban was a well-respected local artist who specialized in desert landscapes. When she first moved to this location, Mike was introduced to her by a friend and they made a connection. Maria had served a tour of duty in Iraq and knew of Mike, a career special ops leader with a legendary reputation. For four years, they had been lovers, going into the desert to camp out. She would paint during the day, and at night, they would make love under the stars.

Are your apartments available today? he asked.

Maria used two small apartments on the second floor of her building, where