“Justin,” Valerie nearly yelled, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I wanted you to meet an old friend of my family. This is Julian Wolhardt. Julian, Justin.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, extending a hand. His handshake was not limp but not strong either. He barely met my eyes.
“Nice to meet you too.”
“Julian had a question for you,” Valerie said, grinning. “I was hoping you could find somewhere quiet to talk.”
I looked at Valerie, trying to convey irritation without making it obvious to Julian Wolhardt. What was this? Some kind of setup? Is this why she asked me to come to LA? Or maybe part of it? Emilio had legitimately needed help but Valerie never wasted a stone on only one bird.
“Okay,” I answered hesitantly. “Would you like to step into the office for a moment Mr. Wolhardt? It’s quieter there.”
“Just Julian, please,” He answered. “Yes, quiet would be good. I’m afraid I don’t do very well in noisy environments.”
I looked around for Valerie but she had faded back into the crowd so I gave up and led him to the office near the back of the gallery. It was just a square of floor space that had been framed in and walled off from the rest of the open area. We had set up a cheap folding table, a couple of chairs and laptops, a printer and a file cabinet. I gestured to one of the chairs and sat in the other. Julian Wolhardt lowered himself slowly and sighed.
“Bad back,” he said, “been standing too long. Thanks for taking a moment to speak with me.”
“No problem. What’s this about?”
“I have a small problem.” He took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief as he spoke. “Valerie’s father was a good friend. He was a fan of my work. Not many of those! I believe he made her promise to check in on me occasionally before he passed away. She called me out of the blue two weeks ago just to say hello. The problem I mentioned had just occurred. I’m afraid I monopolized the conversation and might have sounded a bit unhinged. Anyway, when I explained the issue to her she immediately told me she had an acquaintance who might be able to help.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m mostly retired now but I wrote music for films.”
“I see. I imagine you must have lost something of value?”
“Yes, in a manner of speaking. Valerie said you specialize in recovering things for people.”
“I do.” I paused for a moment, calculating. I didn’t really want to get involved in another project at the moment but it couldn’t hurt to hear him out. I could always say no. I was exhausted though and needed to sleep. My mind wandered down random paths like it does when I’m overtired. “I’m wrecked right now,” I continued. “It’s been a long week. I need to go back to my hotel and sleep for about ten hours. Can we talk in the morning?”
“Yes. And if you could come to my house it would help. There’s a lot of material for me to show you that will help explain the situation.”
“Fine. I’m leaving tomorrow but my flight’s in the evening. That should work. What time? Ten AM maybe?”
Wolhardt nodded and pulled a business card and a pen out of the inside pocket of his blazer. I watched him write an address on the card. He handed it to me. “Ten is good. I’ll plan on seeing you then. Thanks again for considering this. Valerie said you’re very good at what you do.”
“I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to help. I’m willing to listen and think about it though.”
“Well, I can’t ask for more than that,” he said standing and offering his hand again. “Now I just need to see if I can find where I parked. Never come downtown anymore and it’s changed so much I barely recognize it.”
Chapter 4
Wolhardt’s Story
June 23: Culver City
I slept late, ate breakfast at the hotel, and was on the road by nine-thirty the next morning. The address Wolhardt had given me was in Culver City—a small, independent city geographically almost completely surrounded by Los Angeles and historically known as a hub of the motion picture industry as well as the onetime home of the Hughes Aircraft Company. Wolhardt’s house was only a few blocks from the old MGM lot—now inhabited by Sony Pictures—and was located on a quiet, tree-lined street of one story bungalows from the thirties and forties.
I parked in front of the house that matched the address and stepped out of the car. The temperature had risen to the mid-seventies and would probably reach the mid-eighties by afternoon. The sky spread cloudless above. Wolhardt’s dry lawn crunched underfoot as I crossed to the walkway leading up to his front door. A large window faced the street but curtains were drawn across it. A blue Subaru wagon was parked in the carport. At the door I paused, finger on the doorbell. I could hear piano music from inside but couldn’t tell whether it was live or recorded. The music was slow and processional, expressive and sad. I listened for a moment longer then pressed the button. A
