Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(21)

She found a business card, took it from the album, and placed it in front of me.

“Speak with her. If Skylar returns anyone’s calls, they would be hers.”

The card showed a woman’s name in a classic font, an address in Canoga Park, and the usual contact info.

    Meredith Birch

The Birch Agency

Talent Management



I looked from the card to E. Claude Sidney.

“Her agent?”

“In Skylar’s former career, yes. My understanding is they still have business.”

E. Claude touched her throat again. Embarrassed. The careers of actors and actresses in the adult film trade were uncertain. Most performers made next to nothing, and most careers had the shelf life of a fish in the sun. More than a few gigged on the side as escorts.

I said, “I see.”

Meredith Birch was a pimp.

“And you know this for a fact?”

She nodded.

“Skylar is, perhaps, too open about such things.”

The name looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

“Could I ask you to call? As an introduction?”

“I’d rather not.”

“I understand.”

I tucked away the card, stood, and offered my hand.

“Thank you, Ms. Sidney. Josh’s mom thanks you, too.”

I left and drove to the Valley.





12





The Birch Agency was located in an upscale business park in Chatsworth at the western end of the Valley. Other tenants included personal injury Attorneys, family practice Attorneys, a couple of insurance brokers, and a marriage and family therapist. The therapist was probably slumming. Traffic moved well, but driving to the far end of the Valley was like driving to Mars.

The two-story black glass building was shaped like a U around a courtyard. The Birch Agency occupied a ground-level suite at the back of the courtyard with raised aluminum letters spelling out the agency’s name. I tried to enter, but the knob wouldn’t turn. A buzzer and a little speaker were beside the door, so I pressed the buzzer. A male voice answered.

“Birch Agency.”

“Elvis Cole to see Meredith Birch.”

“Who?”

“Cole. First name rhymes with pelvis.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, sir, I don’t. I’d like to speak with Ms. Birch about a client.”

“We don’t see anyone without an appointment.”

“I’m here. Could I make an appointment for now?”

“Gimme your number. We’ll get back to you.”

“Getting back to me implies you might not get back to me until some unknown time in the future, which means I would have to leave. Since I’m here, and we’re talking, let’s make the appointment now.”

“Getting back to you means we’ll get back to you whenever the fuck we get back to you.”

“This won’t take more than a couple of minutes.”

“Fuck off, asshole. Beat it.”

I pressed the buzzer again. This time he didn’t answer.

I pressed the buzzer again and held it.

“The fuck, dude? Knock it off.”

I pressed the buzzer over and over, bz-bz-bz-bz-bz.

The door flew open and a large guy with a square jaw and overdeveloped pecs filled the frame. He was three inches taller than me, thirty pounds heavier, and did his best to scare me. Too much spray tan made him look like a tangerine.

He said, “Beat it, or I’ll—”

I stepped close fast, hooked my right arm under his left shoulder, planted my right foot between his feet, and spun hard. He fell over my foot and stumbled into the courtyard. I stepped inside, shut the door, and locked it.

A woman said, “That’s enough.”

We were in a well-appointed outer office with pale blue wallpaper, a tufted leather couch for waiting clients, and an impressive desk for the lox in the courtyard, who was probably Meredith Birch’s assistant. Meredith Birch stood in the door to her office, pointing a slick little Ruger .380 at me. It was one of their fancy subcompact models with a bright pink nylon grip and satin aluminum slide. Ideal for purse or pocket.

I raised my hands and knew why her name was familiar. Skylar and Meredith Birch had been photographed together at Skylar’s opening. I’d seen the photo and her name on Josh’s website.

I said, “I give up. Also, I apologize.”

Outside, the big guy twisted and yanked the knob, and pounded on the door.

Meredith didn’t move. Neither did the gun.

“Accepted. Now get out. If you don’t, I will shoot you and call the police.”

“Five months ago, ClaudeSpace Gallery hosted a showing for Skylar Lawless. You attended. Do you recall Josh Schumacher?”

Outside, the big guy pressed the buzzer.

Meredith Birch cocked her head. A vertical line appeared between her eyebrows, but not because of the buzzer.

She said, “Skylar’s friend. With the podcast.”

“That’s right. He interviewed her before the show and promoted her work.”

The tiny pink gun dipped, but only a little.

“We spoke. A bit intense, but I appreciated the respect with which he treated her. I know Skylar did as well.”