Killer Ambition - [14]

“They ran the name, found an apartment address, a couple of credit cards, and a driver’s license with a photo that matches our guy, but the DOB comes back to a dead two-year-old in Utah. I’ve put an alert out for him and for any activity on his credit cards,” Bailey said.

“Did he have a car?”

“A white Toyota Corolla. I’ve got an alert out on that too.”

Bailey started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

“Did you have unis door-knock the neighborhood?” I asked. Any activity over the past few days at Russell’s house in the Hollywood Hills could provide a crucial lead.

“Yeah. No one heard anything weird. The closest neighbor’s assistant was home waiting for a FedEx package, and he remembered hearing car doors slam at the house on Monday morning, but no screams, no sounds of struggle. Nothing unusual.”

Damn it. We needed to catch a break here. We didn’t have time for these friggin’ dead ends. I tried hard to keep myself from imagining what might be happening to Hayley at this very moment. “What’s up with all these assistants?” I asked irritably. “Why couldn’t this neighbor just sign the notice and leave it taped to the door like the rest of us?”

“Yes, let’s blame the assistant for not breaking the case for us. That makes perfect sense.”

I hate being busted for irrational crankiness. I was about to come up with a suitably cutting remark when I noticed that Bailey was driving like we were responding to a robbery in progress. “Why are we heading back to Hollywood? Shouldn’t we at least stop by the Galleria while we’re out here and see if we can figure out where Brian works-or, rather, worked?”

“Because I’ve already got someone tracking down his employment records, and it occurred to me that it might be more important to hit his apartment first.”

She was right, so I shut up and tried to hang on to my stomach as Bailey flew down the winding Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Laurel Canyon climbs from Studio City in the San Fernando Valley up and over the ridge and snakes down the other side into West Hollywood. It’s a storied canyon that was once home to a variety of megatalents, like Frank Zappa, Jim Morrison, Steven Tyler, and Joni Mitchell, and currently home to my bestie Toni LaCollier, who lived at the top of the hill off Kirkwood-though in all honesty she couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Toni was already a Special Trials prosecutor when I got transferred into the unit. We’d bonded so fast we agreed that we had to have been sisters in a past life. Her tiny house in the canyon hadn’t been much when she bought it-a lot of the houses in the area had gone to seed-but Toni had the gift of artistry and style. Within six months, she’d turned the run-down “fixer” into a unique little gem.

The canyon retains a lot of bohemian-type charm-the Country Store, where everyone shops for munchies, still sports a hippie-style psychedelic sign-but the main canyon road, originally designed to handle only Sunday cruising, has become a primary artery for the burgeoning Valley population that travels into Hollywood. As a result, the road turns into a parking lot at least three times a day.

Luckily, we’d missed the morning-drive slog and Bailey made it into West Hollywood in less than twenty minutes. Brian’s apartment was in one of those typical nondescript buildings-a box with square windows in the heart of Hollywood on North Vista Street. The building across the road had tiny balconies where tenants grew plants and stored kids’ toys and bicycles, evidence that humans lived there. Brian’s building didn’t have any of that. The only visible signs of individuality were the differing curtains, and one hanging crystal ornament. It probably made a nice rainbow when the sun hit it. I miss unicorns.

Brian’s landlord was frowning suspiciously at the uniformed officers who’d shown up to secure the place. He was short, and his wifebeater T-shirt strained to cover a paunch that looked like a second-trimester pregnancy. The plaid Bermuda shorts and black socks with slippers completed the look nicely.

“If Drew knew about the hunks you ran into on the job, he’d go out of his mind,” I said.

“Yeah, I’ll bet Graden would lose a lot of sleep too.”

Bailey introduced herself to the landlord and held out her badge. He took it and squinted for a moment, then pulled a pair of filthy glasses out of his shorts pocket, put them on, and scrutinized the identification before handing it back to her.

“And you? Who are you?” he asked me in a heavy Middle Eastern accent.

“Rachel Knight, deputy district attorney. I’m a prosecutor in the Special Trials Unit.”

“Easy to say. Let’s see some ID, Ms. Special Attorney.”

“Look, Mr.-,” Bailey began, her voice showing the strain of holding back words she’d regret.

“Gardanian. And I own the building, so I have the right-”

In no great mood to begin with, and out of patience, I brandished my badge and held it under his nose, just to shut him up. He took it and gave it the once-over, then handed it back to me.

“Okay.” He waved us in, then shuffled back into his apartment.