IQ(19)

“Yes, but I did negotiate the fifty thousand dollars and I do deserve fifty percent.”

“The hell you do.”


By the time they got to Calvin’s crib, Isaiah had argued Dodson’s cut down to twenty-five percent and neither of them was happy. Calvin lived in Vista Del Valle, an exclusive hilltop development in Woodland Hills. A security guard at a kiosk checked them out and made a call before he let them through. The houses were massive, the lawns smooth as pool tables, luxury cars in the driveways. No one parked on the street. The only pedestrians were nannies pushing thousand-dollar carbon-fiber baby strollers.

“Look, when we get there let me handle things, okay?” Isaiah said. “This is what I do.”

“I know you got the detective part down,” Dodson said, “but customer relations at this level ain’t the same as finding somebody’s lost dog. You need diplomacy, finesse, and salesmanship. Qualities your surly unpleasant ass is sadly lacking. You lucky you got skills, son, ’cause if you had to survive on your personality you’d be working at the morgue with dead people.”

Cal’s house was a gigantic salmon-pink Mediterranean-style villa with palm trees and exotic ferns and a fountain with leaping dolphins spitting out streams of water. An equally gigantic Cape Cod shared the same cul-de-sac, the two houses like twins wearing different outfits. Isaiah parked the Audi in the circular driveway behind a Ferrari F1 convertible, a ’64 Chevy lowrider, an Escalade, and a Lexus IS 350.

Dodson checked out the Ferrari, running his fingers over the pearlescent black paint and the buttery leather upholstery. “You know what this reminds me of? Cherise after she puts moisturizer on her ass cheeks.” Dodson kept talking about the Ferrari while Isaiah’s eyes swept over the house. The ground-floor windows were leaded, the massive oak front door shielded by a heavy wrought iron security gate. A bullet cam was set under an eave and aimed at the cul-de-sac. Another covered the driveway and a dome camera was mounted over the entry. Small red-and-white signs were posted in the shrubbery that said ADVANCED SECURITY, a high-end company. Isaiah knew their work. If somebody broke into this house he knew what he was doing.


The rapper’s house was on the next hill over. The man with the dog had his hunting binoculars trained on the two guys in the driveway. The taller one was clearly in charge. The way he was standing there, not so much looking around as he was studying; taking his time, nodding when he made a mental note, turning from the house to the cul-de-sac and back again to see what was where. He had focus. Hadn’t said a word since he’d gotten out of his car. The little guy climbing around the Ferrari couldn’t stop blabbing.

The tall guy definitely wasn’t another rapper. He might have been a friend but that didn’t fit either. He was nothing like the people who went in and out of that house. None of that swaggering bullshit. He was probably IQ, the guy he’d been warned about. What a stupid f*cking thing to call yourself. The man thought about getting his sniper rifle out of the truck but there was no need for anything extreme at this point. The rapper would only get more reclusive, maybe even leave town. Anyway, what could this so-called IQ do? There were no clues to find, no evidence to follow. IQ. What a f*cking joke.

The dog growled and surged against the spiked collar. Some * with a German Shepherd was walking on the other side of the street. What’s with the look? Oh you think that mutt would stand a chance? You’re lucky I don’t turn my dog loose. Two minutes and he’d kill and eat you both. Wait, I don’t believe it. Did that * just smile at me? “Hold still, Goliath,” the man said. “I want to take off your leash.”


Dodson rang the bell, Isaiah still looking around. Something was wrong, something in the air, something in those hills on the other side of Ventura Boulevard. He got the same feeling when he drove through Loco territory. That eyes were on him he couldn’t see, that bullets were coming ahead of their gunshots.

“Welcome,” Anthony said as he swung open the door. “It’s good to see you, Dodson.” He sounded almost relieved, like he was being rescued. He shook hands in the traditional way, confusing Dodson for a moment, but he finally got the hang of it.

“Good to see you too, cuz,” Dodson said, meaning it. “It’s been a long damn time.” There was no family resemblance Isaiah could see. Anthony was good-looking in a collegiate, white boy kind of way. Soft features, nerd glasses, a close-fitting sweater with different-colored triangles on it, and peg-leg pants.

“You must be Isaiah,” Anthony said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Good to meet you, Anthony,” Isaiah said.

“Please, come inside.”

The foyer would have been a good-size room in anybody else’s house. An ornate gilded mirror and a white travertine floor reflected light from a huge chandelier, a dramatic marble staircase sweeping up to the second floor.

“You always keep an AK in the umbrella stand?” Isaiah said, looking at it.

“Remind me not to come over here when it’s raining,” Dodson said.

“It’s a long story,” Anthony said. “Part of the reason you’re here. Cal’s going to meet us in the game room.” Isaiah saw anger and exasperation in Anthony’s eyes like he’d been forced to work overtime too many nights in a row. Anthony led them through the house, walking fast like he was late for something, more chandeliers lighting the way. “In case you’re wondering, I’m Cal’s majordomo,” he said. “I deal with the lawyers, publicists, and promoters. I organize his schedule and run interference with his record label and whoever else wants a piece of him.”