She described Derek Jarvis.
The cop looked at her, then glanced at the woman next to him.
“And what do you need to see him for?” he asked.
Bingo, Mary thought.
“I’m a firearms instructor he’s hired for his team. I came by because he forgot to sign a release that I absolutely have to submit today in order for the exercises to begin next week. He asked me to come by today for the signatures.”
The cop looked at her, looked over her ID, then buzzed her through the security checkpoint.
“Have a seat,” the cop said.
Mary glanced at the magazines on the table. Travel & Leisure. Cigar Aficionado. And Golf Digest. The trifecta of mayoral duties.
A door to the left of the entry way opened, and Derek Jarvis stopped when he saw Mary.
“Well, hello there,” Mary said. “Glad I was able to catch you at work.”
His face set into a mask before he was able to muster a slick little smile. He said something into a microphone on his lapel, and soon, two more security guards were behind Jarvis.
“I’m afraid you have me mixed up with someone else,” Jarvis said. “Let me escort you safely from the building.”
By now, the people surrounding the entry had joined the party.
“You’re not going to follow me around some more?” Mary said. “Demand information about Nina Ramirez?”
Mary placed a lot of volume behind the girl’s name.
“Let’s move,” Jarvis said. He came at Mary with his two goons.
“What? I don’t get to meet the mayor?” Mary said. “That sucks!”
She let the group push her back toward the door. Her work here was done. She’d established Jarvis’s real role in the case, and she’d delivered a message.
“If you ever come back here, you’ll be arrested,” Jarvis said.
“Oh, I’ll be back,” Mary said. “But when I do, I have a pretty good feeling I won’t be the one getting locked up.”
38
Thirty-eight
Mary knew from news reports that Mayor Baxter had chosen not to live in the official home of the mayor — Getty House in Hancock Park.
Like many other Los Angeles mayors, he had chosen to stay in his original home so that his children could attend the same schools.
Mayor Baxter lived in the Mt. Washington neighborhood, an upscale group of homes just north of the city.
Mary knew the address because she had once been invited to a cocktail reception at the home by a grateful client. Her client had been a successful movie producer whose gay lover had disappeared. Mary had found the wayward man in the Caribbean, simultaneously doing daily truckloads of cocaine along with several native island men.
As part of the deal, Mary had agreed to be the client’s beard for one night. Mary had suffered through it, although the champagne had been top-notch.
Now, she found her way to the house again. It was hard to miss. A giant Tudor built in the 1920s, it was the centerpiece of the street.
Mary knew this might be a bit tricky. She doubted the mayor would be there. In fact, she hoped that would be the case.
Mary parked and approached the house. There was a black, wrought iron fence running around the property. The main entrance was gated, with a small intercom next to it. Mary tugged on the gate’s door, just to make sure it was locked.
It wasn’t.
She debated for a moment, then pushed her way through. She walked up the sidewalk to the front door. Before she could ring the bell, she heard footsteps behind her.
“Freeze,” the voice said.
She did.
“Turn around.”
Mary did, and she faced a man in a black suit, but it wasn’t Derek Jarvis.
The door opened behind her, but she didn’t turn.
“I’m here to see the mayor,” Mary said. “I have an appointment.”
“No she doesn’t,” the voice behind her said.
This time, Mary glanced over her shoulder. It was the driver of the Tahoe, the one she’d hit with the seven iron.
“The cops are on their way,” he said. “We followed her from downtown.”
The guy in front of Mary lifted his chin toward her. “Put up your hands,” he said.
“I’ve got a handgun in a shoulder holster,” Mary said. “I thought it matched my blouse perfectly.”
“Looks like we have an assassination attempt,” the guy behind her said, with a stupid grin.
They took her gun and looked at her private investigator’s license, then cuffed her and moved her to the front of the security gate.
Another Tahoe pulled up, along with an unmarked police car. From the Tahoe, Derek Jarvis exited.
From the squad car, out came someone else she recognized.
Lieutenant Arianna Davies.
“Well, this is going from bad to worse,” Mary said.
39
Thirty-nine
Jail was not Mary’s favorite place to be. In fact, it wasn’t even in the Top Ten.
They had thrown her into an interrogation room and let her sit for several hours. The least they could have done was ask some questions, but Mary had a feeling they knew it wouldn’t be worth the effort.
Score one victory for her.
So now she was back in a holding cell, examining stains on the concrete floor, trying to guess which type of fluid had caused each of the marks.
One of the stains was shaped like the state of Idaho, and Mary had narrowed the probable fluid down to blood or Diet Coke when the frizzy hair of Joan Hessburg, attorney-at-law, appeared over the top of the door.
Mary could not have been happier.
Hessburg was a tall, severe woman with a pinched face and highly brusque manner, but she knew her stuff.
“Let’s go,” Hessburg said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Mary said.
They walked out past the holding pen. Davies was waiting.
“You are withholding information, Cooper,” Davies said.
“Prove it,” Attorney Hessburg said.
“Prove you’re not a robot while you’re at it,” Mary said. “And why don’t you take a look at Derek Jarvis instead of me?”
“Let’s go,” Hessburg said to Mary.
“Because you always seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, Cooper,” Davies said. “Haven’t you ever noticed that?”
“Don’t answer,” Hessburg barked at Mary. They left the building and walked outside. Hessburg turned to Mary.
“Call me if they come after you again,” she said.
“They will, and I will,” Mary said.
“You look tired,” Hessburg said.
“Thanks for the compliment,” Mary said. “It’s my sexy new look. Men are totally attracted to women who appear fatigued. Less resistance that way.”
Hessburg left, and Mary took a moment to feel the warm sun on her face. Did she look tired? Hell yes — getting arrested and sitting in jail isn’t exactly rejuvenating spa time.
“Cooper!” a man’s voice called out from the street.
Mary looked and saw a limo parked in the no-loading zone. The driver was standing by the front passenger door.
Mary walked down, sensing it was another Derek Jarvis ambush. The nerve, right in front of the fucking jail.
“Funny, I don’t remember calling a car,” Mary said. “Are you with the Playboy Mansion? Does Hef have my room ready?”
The driver ignored her.
The windows were all privacy glass so Mary couldn’t see inside the limo. But the rear window slid down.