which I tried to do most every day.
I grabbed a Red Trolley Ale from the fridge and collapsed on the sofa. A knot had formed in my stomach, and I didn’t like it. It surprised me that Marilyn hadn’t asked me how I had become an investigator, but I figured that would’ve been too much interest in me for her. She would’ve loved to hear how it took me six years to finish college, that I waited tables for two years after that until I’d spotted an ad in the paper for an insurance company looking to train an investigator. I liked the job, the freedom of the hours, the solitary environment. I didn’t like the reports, the suits I had to wear to the office, or the fact that I had a supervisor. I completed my hours, applied for my license from the state, and said adios. Not glamorous, not lucrative, but it had become my life and I had grown to appreciate it.
Marilyn probably would not, and that made me smile in the darkness of my living room as I sipped the beer.
4
I left the beer half empty on my coffee table, dug around in the piles of laundry for my car keys, and headed out to pay Randall Tower a visit.
I found my Jeep in the alley, turned down Jamaica, forced my way onto Mission, and settled in for the snaillike cruise up to La Jolla. The police had tried to crack down on the cruising by employing curfews, roadblocks, whatever they could think of. Nothing worked with any degree of success so the cops had become content with just patrolling, making sure all were behaving themselves.
I passed the Catamaran Hotel, moving into Pacific Beach. PB had recently moved itself into the upper class of San Diego beach communities, adding trendy restaurants and nightclubs to the beachfront hotels that sat between Grand and Garnett. The clothing switched from long shorts and T-shirts to polo shirts and sundresses, and the cars on the street increased in price.
The traffic lightened as I swung around the curve onto La Jolla Boulevard and into the area known as Bird Rock. The houses hung off the cliffs protected by elaborate gates and hedges. An elite area of rich people who didn’t like you to see them while they watched the ocean from their living rooms.
I moved through Bird Rock and parked at the very southern end of Prospect Street, near the Museum of Contemporary Art. If you lived in La Jolla, Prospect Street was downtown. Forget that the rest of San Diego referred to the harbor area about fifteen miles to the south with its high-rises and international airport as downtown. If I’d needed directions to the La Valencia hotel, Marilyn Crier would’ve said, “It’s right in the middle of downtown.”
A pink place of lodging sounds obnoxious, but the La Valencia was able to pull it off. The luxury resort took up half a block on Prospect, sitting atop the cove with sweeping northern views of La Jolla Shores and Torrey Pines. Charge three hundred bucks a night for a room and you can put polka dots on the outside and it will still be chic.
Two young high school students in tuxedo shirts, bow ties, and black shorts hustled around the valet stand, parking expensive foreign cars. I walked through the courtyard, wondering how much the meals cost that were being served on the outdoor patio. More than they were worth, I figured.
The front desk was a small, oak-encased area off the main hall. The door at the end of the hall was open, the Pacific sparkling out in the distance. Expensive perfume and cologne mingled in the air above the antique furniture in the lobby. I probably should’ve worn a jacket, but that would’ve looked silly over my T-shirt and shorts.
The gentleman behind the desk wore a dark suit and tie over a light blue dress shirt. His blond hair was slicked back off his forehead, and he didn’t cringe when I stepped to the desk.
“I’m here for Randall Tower,” I said, smiling.
The clerk managed to look me up and down before I realized he’d done it. “He’s a guest, sir?”
“That’s what I was told.”
He nodded, as if he already knew he was correct. “I can’t give out room information, sir.”
I nodded, as if I already knew that. “Can you ring his room?”
He thought about it, which I understood because it was a tough question. “Your name, sir?”
“Braddock.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“I have no idea. Possibly.”
His eyebrows arched, and I hoped he hadn’t pushed the secret alarm button beneath the desk.
“Sir, our guests expect a certain amount of privacy,” he began, sounding as if he were reading from a brochure. “If you’d like to leave a message-”
“I wouldn’t,” I said, cutting him off and smiling. “Please let him know a friend of his wife’s is here.”
Now the eyebrows knitted, concern frosting his eyes. He was clearly casting me for the jilted lover or other man, or some other figure in the dramas that play out in rich people’s lives.
“Sir, I really…” he began, puffing his chest out.
“Let’s not make this silly,” I said. “I’m here to help the guy, not cause trouble. So either you can ring his room and tell him Noah Braddock is here and wants to see him, or I can start going floor to floor, room to room until I find him.”
He bristled and lifted his chin. “Or I can throw you out of the hotel.”
I smiled. “You personally?”
His cheeks reddened slightly. “I meant, I would call the police and have you removed from the premises.”
“Right,” I said. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet, flipped it open to my license, and laid it on the counter. “Call the police. They’re friends of mine. I can give you a couple of names to ask for specifically. I’m sure they’d be happy to respond to a case where you simply wouldn’t dial a room number. I’m sure they’d see your side of it.”
The color in his cheeks brightened, and he pursed his lips, glancing at my license but not wanting to stare at it. He looked back at me, knowing he was beaten.
“Tower, you said?” he said, straightening his tie and trying to regain his dignity.
I grabbed my wallet and deposited it back in my pocket. “You got it.”
He picked up the receiver, punched several numbers on the console in front of him, and shook his head. “I hate this place.”
I smiled, feeling sorry for him. “You and me both, pal. You and me both.”
5
I was standing at the open back door of the lobby, admiring the sparkling black evening ocean when a finger tapped me on the shoulder.
“Mr. Braddock?” he asked as I turned around. “I’m Randall Tower.”
Randall was slightly taller than me, maybe six-four, and movie-star handsome. His thick, dark hair was cut stylishly short on the sides, a longer shock combed off his bronze forehead. Bright blue eyes rested above a very Waspy nose, thick lips, and a dimpled chin. A black cotton dress shirt and white linen slacks hung loosely on his thin frame. Black loafers covered his feet.
He offered his hand, and his grip was stronger than I expected.
“Noah,” I said.
He nodded, a small smile turning up a corner of his mouth. “Marilyn said I might be hearing from you.”
“That’s funny?”
He waved a hand in the air. “Marilyn said to watch out for ulterior motives. Those were her exact words, I believe.”
“I’m sure they were.”
He aimed a thumb back over his shoulder. “Buy you a drink?”
