Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(22)

The buzzer buzzed. The big guy pounded.

“Josh is missing. My name is Elvis Cole. I’m a private investigator. His family hired me to find him.”

“And you’re here why?”

“It’s possible you can help.”

She suddenly lowered the gun, went to the big guy’s desk, and spoke into a call box.

“Everything’s fine, Randall. You can come in.”

She pressed a button to unlock the door, and Randall rushed inside. He glowered like a bull about to charge.

“Meredith, are you okay? Want me to throw his punk ass out?”

I said, “It didn’t work out so well the first time, Randall, did it?”

“I wasn’t expecting it!”

Meredith said, “Shush. We’ll be in my office.”

I followed her into a larger, more spacious version of the outer office, with the same blue wallpaper and tufted leather couch. A wall-to-wall tinted window gave her a view of the parking lot, but it wasn’t an unattractive view. Neither was my view of Meredith Birch. She looked to be in her fifties, with good arms, a trim build, and the tight calves of someone who worked at it. She closed the door behind us, offered me a seat on the couch, and leaned against her desk.

She said, “All right. I met Mr. Schumacher the one time at Skylar’s showing. How could I possibly help?”

“I have reason to believe Skylar has knowledge of his whereabouts.”

“If so, I’m sure she’d be happy to help. Why come to me?”

“She hasn’t returned my calls. Her friends tell me she might be away on business. They suggested you might be able to reach her.”

Meredith Birch shifted against the desk.

“I’m simply her friend now, Mr. Cole. I have nothing to do with art.”

“I’m not talking about art. A different business. Possibly business arranged by you.”

Meredith Birch raised her eyebrows.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Forgive me for being direct, but you do. You’ve arranged such business in the past.”

She smiled. It was a pretty smile, but sharp at the edges.

“I represent actors and actresses in the adult entertainment industry. My business is legal and licensed by the state of California. I have no other business.”

“My mistake. Thing is, Skylar herself has described your relationship. In detail, and to more than one person.”

Meredith Birch crossed her arms.

“I’m not here to make trouble, Ms. Birch. My only interest is finding Schumacher.”

“Hence, you want to speak with Skylar.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her gaze was cool, as if she was deciding what to say.

“I do arrange personal appearances for certain clients, but if they choose to break the law, I am not party to it. I certainly don’t condone it.”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t assume otherwise.”

“Having said this, I don’t know where she is. I haven’t spoken to Skylar in weeks.”

“Is it possible Skylar arranged an appearance for herself?”

Meredith Birch pursed her lips.

“Possible, but I would know. She’s always told me where she would be, and with whom, even if I were not part of the transaction.”

“Always?”

“Mr. Cole, women—and men, mind you—who place themselves in such positions require what we call a safety, even when their clients are well-to-do people. I am her safety.”

“A safety?”

“A person who knows where she’s going, who she’s with, and when she expects to return. In case.”

In case.

She uncrossed her arms and went behind her desk.

“You say you’ve left several messages?”

“I have.”

“She doesn’t know you. Perhaps she’s ignoring you.”

“An all too common response.”

Meredith scooped up her phone and punched in a number she knew by heart. A moment later, she left a message.

“Hey, hon. Please call. It’s important.”

She put down the phone and came from behind the desk.

“Leave your number. When she calls, I’ll ask about Mr. Schumacher.”

I stood and gave her a card.

“Please let me know either way.”

“Of course.”

She walked me out through the outer office to the door. Randall sat at his desk, sulking. He glared as we passed. I glanced at him, and leaned close to Meredith Birch.

“About Randall?”

She glanced at Randall, too.

“What about him?”

“You could do better.”

Randall said, “You suck.”

“A lot better.”

Randall was still sulking when I left.





13





Facing tiny pink guns required sustenance. I stopped for tacos in Winnetka at a taqueria the size of a closet. The pollo proved best, but the asada and carnitas were excellent. I ate in a parking lot crowded with firemen, construction workers, and Ukrainian plumbers. The little taqueria was making a mint.

Josh and Skylar were either with each other or not, and, together or singly, somewhere on the planet. Skylar being away didn’t mean she was away with a client. She might be in Vegas with friends or at Disneyland. My lack of hard information was impressive, second only to my lack of clues.