The Private Concierge

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks must go to Sergeant Podeska of the West Los Angeles Police Station for sharing his insights about crime and punishment in the west L.A. area. Surely our one conversation set records for producing usable information. It was a pleasure—and if there’s an award for demonstrating grace with rapid-fire questions and patience with a few obtuse ones, the sergeant richly deserves it.

Also, my deep gratitude to the ace concierge team at the Hyatt Regency Century Plaza, who will forever remain anonymous to ensure their continued employment. With great good humor they endured my quest for information about the concierge field and everything else relating to Century City and its environs. Plus, they answered questions no concierge should ever have to. Their restaurant recommendations and directions were great, too.

Finally, to reference librarians everywhere, and in particular to the Amazing William of the Los Angeles Public Library, for help above and beyond. And while I’m at it, I can’t forget the entire reference staff at the Newport Beach Public Library, my hometown branch and personal hangout.

Thank you all!

Prologue

Cox, Lucy: juvenile unit, prostitution

Case File: COX022378 15 lapd.juv.dtb

Closed: March 3, 1993

Sealed by Court Order: April 10, 1993

H e removed the legal-size folder from the file cabinet and gave the label a moment of reflection before opening it. Fifteen years ago, he’d stashed copies of the contents of the original case file in this locked cabinet in his home office. It was enough security for his purposes, although he would bring serious suspicion on himself if the file was ever discovered. The case was closed and had been sealed at the request of the juvenile offender, and the L.A. County Courthouse had the only official copy.

But he didn’t work for the law anymore. He worked for himself.

He sat down at his desk, opened the folder and looked at the last entry he’d made in the file: February 23, 1993: She walks free today, her eighteenth birthday. God help the weak of will and the feeble of mind, especially if they’re male.

He almost smiled, remembering his supervisor’s reaction. He’d taken some flack for this case, enough to end his law enforcement career. But he could also remember a time when he’d been more concerned about her, Lucy Cox, than about any unwary man who might cross her path.

Not anymore. He reached for a black-ink ballpoint, the kind he’d preferred for making case notes when he’d been a vice cop in the downtown L.A. bureau. He considered assigning the case a new number, but decided to stay with the original, based in part on his theory that people, like lab rats, didn’t change, they just learned new strategies for getting what they needed. Cynical, maybe, but he had more reason than most men to be that way.

He clicked the push-button pen and began writing the first new entry in fifteen years. It was about her, who she was today and why she hadn’t changed, either. And it was in his own words, his own unfiltered thoughts, because he had every intention of destroying these notes when he’d done what he had to do. No one would ever read this file but him.

Case Notes: Wednesday, October 9, 11:00 p.m.

Her real name is Lucia Cox. She changed it to avoid any association with her criminal past. But she hasn’t left her past behind. She’s still selling what everybody wants. She’s just found a way to make it legal.

He paused, aware of his quickening pulse. This was getting to him, getting too personal. And that was the problem. It was personal. He set down the pen, unable to write as fast as his thoughts were coming. She’d had the power at fifteen when he put her in jail. She was thirty now. She’d been free and on her own since eighteen, and it wasn’t hard to imagine that she’d planned her steps carefully, including choosing the perfect profession. She had some of the country’s highest-profile people in her care.

It should have been a match made in heaven for all concerned, except that Lucy’s clients were dropping like flies, being brought down by scandal, innuendo, and now, death. And no one seemed to get the connection but him. Her clients moved in the special spheres of power and privilege, isolated from the real world and its rules, and from anyone who would dare to tell them the truth. When you were that isolated, who really knew you better than your hairstylist, your personal trainer…or your private concierge?

1

Saturday, October 5

Four days earlier

Ned Talbert hit the brakes so hard his Alfa Romeo Spider snorted and its wheels dug into the gravel like a pawing bull. The back end lifted as if the sports car was about to do a somersault, and Ned’s knees knocked against the dash.

Geysering pebbles splattered the windshield.

He heaved himself back, grunting as the steering wheel disengaged from his ribs. Amazing the air bags hadn’t inflated. He’d barely missed colliding head-on with the entrance gate to Rick Bayless’s cabin in the San Gabriel Mountains.

The gate wasn’t just closed, it was padlocked. Even in the falling light, Ned spotted the shiny new lock as he struggled to get out of the Spider. His legs were jelly. Padlocked? Rick never padlocked the gate—and it wasn’t even 5:00 p.m., too early to close up the place for the night.

Ned broke into a run and didn’t stop. He could see he wasn’t going to get the gate open so he coiled and vaulted the chain-link mesh, leaving a strip of his pant leg on the scrollwork, leaving the door hanging open to his obscenely expensive new car, leaving it all behind, and running like a madman up the road to the darkened mountain cabin a thousand feet away.

Bayless had to be in there.

Ned could have been running the bases at Dodger Stadium. He could have been in the heat of a playoff game, that’s how adrenalized he was. But he wasn’t going to make it to home plate this time. Not without his friend’s help.

It was getting dark, but no light glowed in the cabin windows. Rick’s Jeep Commander sat in the driveway. Maybe he was taking a nap. Ned took all three porch steps in one leap and pounded on the creaky wooden door. No answer. He kept hammering, using his fist and making the door buckle with each blow. How could anyone sleep through this noise? He wondered about the odds of Rick having a girl in there. Ned had never known him to do that, but the way Ned’s luck was going, this would be the time. He hated the thought of interrupting them, but he had no choice. His life was in crisis.

“Rick, you in there?” he bellowed.