An Object in Motion

  He gave me the name and directions and I agreed to meet him by seven that night. I hung up and went in to see Ruth.

  “You have plans to go out tonight?” I asked Ruth as she sat in her home office.

  “No,” she said without looking up from her computer.

  I had to give it to her, a lot of times we see actors and think that’s all they do but Ruth was in charge of her career. It probably made it harder on her not being able to control a stalker.

  “I’m meeting a cop to get some information,” I said. “You have my cell number if you need me.”

  She looked up at me. She was wearing glasses that I hadn’t noticed before and she looked like an intelligent business woman. She was twirling an ink pen through the fingers of her left hand.

  “Yes, I do,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  “No,” she said. “I mean for everything. The only way I’m able to concentrate on work is because I know you’re working to find this guy. I really appreciate that.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  Then I left. I didn’t see Will.

  10

  Marv was waiting in the parking lot standing next to a Silver Honda Accord and holding a large manila envelope. He was my height and thin with short dark hair and three day stubble. He was wearing a gray suit with no tie that looked as if he had slept in it. I was wearing a dark blue shirt with loose jeans and white Nikes with a blue swoosh and a blue Washington Nationals baseball cap.

  “Lieutenant Seville?” I said as I approached him.

  “Yeah,” he said looking me up and down. “You Rey?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  He swore and said, “You look like a gang banger.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” I said as we shook hands.

  “Spade says you’re okay,” he said.

  “Oh good,” I said, “I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

  “He also said you were a wise guy,” he said.

  I let that go and we went into the restaurant.

  It was small and clean and looked like every other small pizza place I’d ever been to. It wasn’t really crowded but not really empty either. There was low lighting and a small arcade area with outdated games.

  “Hey, Marv!” said the guy behind the counter who was refilling a napkin holder.

  “What’s good, Jimmy,” Marv said with a small wave.

  “I take it you’ve been here before,” I said.

  “Only when the wife is out of town,” he replied. “She’s under the impression that pizza three times a week isn’t good for me.”

  “You want to order?” I asked.

  “Large pepperoni with extra cheese,” Jimmy said as we walked up to the counter before Marv could order. “You gonna need a pitcher instead of one glass tonight?”

  “Yeah,” Marv said.

  “How much I owe you?” I asked Jimmy.

  “Marv’s money is no good here,” Jimmy said to me with a smile. “And any friend of Marv isn’t allowed to spend here either.”

  “Oh,” I said surprised. “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” Jimmy said. Then to Marv he said, “Grab your usual table and I’ll send the beer over in a minute.”

  “Thanks, Jimmy,” Marv said.

  He led us to a booth in the back near the big flat screen TV that was mounted on the wall. I slid in one side and Marv sat across from me.

  “Jimmy got robbed once when he first opened the place,” he said. “I found the guy and got all the money back and made the guy pay for the repairs.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “I try to watch out for the locals,” he said. “Plus like I said Jimmy had just opened up and his wife was pregnant, he couldn’t afford a hit like that. Didn’t do any paperwork because his insurance would’ve doubled.”

  I was impressed. Marv slid the manila envelope across the table to me.

  “When I first ran a check on Will he came back clean,” he said. “But I made some calls and got a cop down in Beverly Hills that remembered him.”

  “Why would he remember Will?”

  “Because someone got his record wiped clean.”

  “How does one get that done?”

  He shrugged and said, “Don’t know but he managed to find the original file.”

  I nodded.

  “Will Leismuller was busted in ’06 for steroids,” he said.

  “Using or selling?”

  “Both.”

  “Interesting,” I said setting the envelope to the side.

  “You’re not gonna read it?” he said.

  “I will, later.”

  “Glad I didn’t spring for the color copies.”

  A girl who looked to be in her early twenties brought over a pitcher of beer and two glasses and set them on the table between us and said, “Pizza in a bout ten minutes.”

  “Thanks, Liz,” Marv said.

  He poured beer into his glass then I filled my glass and took a drink. Budweiser. I always forgot how good Budweiser was.

  “So was Will convicted?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “There a reason for that?”

  “Had a really good lawyer provided by a Hollywood studio,” he said.

  “Interesting.”

  “Glad you think so.”

  “He stay out of trouble since then?”

  “Far as the courts know,” he said. “Of course we both know that doesn’t mean a whole lot.”

  “And he got his record cleaned.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What kind of pull does that take?”

  “The kind I don’t have, and I’m a cop.”

  That was major pull.

  “I’ve seen him recently and he looks like he’s still on steroids,” I said.

  “I saw him too with the break in at Ruth’s and I agree he’s still juicing.”

  The pizza came. It smelled good so I put a slice on the plate that Jimmy had brought with it and let it cool.

  “I saw Will in Oakland a couple days ago,” I said.

  “He didn’t strike me as the type to have friends in Oakland,” he said.

  I took a bite of the pizza, it was good.

  “That’s what I figured too,” I said then took a drink of my beer.

  “Think he was gettin’ ‘roids?” he asked around a mouth full of pizza.

  “Don’t know but now that I have some information on him I’ll be sure to ask.”

  “You do that.”

  I finished my pizza then headed home for the night. As I drove home I thought about Will. I wondered if he was in trouble because of the steroids, but why would he fake a stalker being after Ruth? There had been no mention of money. I was definitely going to have to talk to Will in the morning.

  11

  The next morning I drove out to Ruth’s house. She was in the shower but I was there to see Will anyway. I had a copy of the information Marv had given me. I handed it to Will and he looked it over while I stood in front of the window in the library looking out at the golf course. There were people out playing but they weren’t close enough to make out faces.

  “Where’d you get this?” he said tossing the envelope on the desk he was sitting behind.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s all right there,” he said nodding at the envelope.

  “All that tells me is that you were arrested and your lawyer got you off.”

  “That’s all you need to know.”

  “We both know you’re still on steroids.”

  “You’re crazy,” he said.

  I raised my eyebrows. He was going to say something but stopped and looked down at his chest.

  “Okay,” he said. “But so what, a lot of people do what they need to stay in top form. These lazy pretty boy actors have as much plastic surgery as the women and no one says anything to them.”

  “Although highly vain, plastic surgery isn’t illegal,” I said.
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  “It’s more dangerous than growth hormones.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Will, but you got caught selling them and that casts you in a bad light.”

  “What?” he said. “Wait, you think I have something to do with what’s happening? It’s a crazy fan, that’s all.”

  “So look at it this way,” I said, “you talk to me so I can rule you out as a suspect.”

  He leaned back in the chair and I questioned if it would hold his weight much longer. He was at least two and seventy pounds of solid muscle.

  “Okay,” he said. “Whaddaya want to know?”

  I wanted to know who got his record wiped but figured I’d lead into that question.

  “Who provided you with a high priced lawyer and what’s his name.”

  “I don’t know who paid for the lawyer,” he said. “He just showed up and said he’d been paid and I should shut up and let him do his job.”

  “You don’t know who paid for your lawyer,” I said making it clear that I didn’t believe him.

  “No,” he said. “He wouldn’t tell me. I’ve been involved with a couple of actresses so I figured it was one of them.”

  “What is the lawyer’s name?”

  “Mitchell, something,” he said looking at the desktop as if he’d find the name there.

  “Think Will.”

  “I’m trying!” he yelled.

  ‘Roid rage? Maybe.

  “McCallister,” he said looking up at me with triumph in his eyes. “Mitchell McCallister.”

  “Okay,” I said. “That’s a start. You remember what law firm he worked for?”

  “He didn’t work for a law firm,” he said.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “He owned it.”

  That would make it easier to find him.

  “This was in Hollywood?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “You gonna tell Ruth?” he asked.

  “You still selling?”

  “No,” he said.

  I actually believed him.

  “No need to tell her yet,” I said. “But you should know I’m going to go down to Hollywood and talk to Mitchell McCallister.”

  “Fine with me,” he said. “I got nothing else to hide.”

  I picked up my envelope and left.

  12

  After I left Ruth’s house I called a friend of mine down in San Diego named Roger Max. Roger and I grew up together in Oakland along with Sergio and my cousin and too many other people to name. Roger was the kind of person that got along with everyone and knew more people than the U.S. Government. I asked him to do some checking on Mitchell McCallister. While he did that I went online and looked up Mitchell’s law frim. I found it under McCallister, Durahm and Ayala, how ethnic. I called and made an appointment to meet with Mitchell at nine a.m. in two days telling him a former client was a suspect in a stalking case, it wasn’t a lie. Mitchell reluctantly agreed to meet with me if for nothing else than to make sure he was distanced from the nameless former client. About an hour after I hung up from setting up the meeting Roger called me back with some information on Mitchell that wouldn’t be available online. Some interesting stuff.

  I got Ashley to take a couple days off and go with me to Hollywood with the promise that we would spend one day shopping on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, hence the extra day.

  We flew out of Oakland International and into Burbank then rented a car and drove the five all the way to Beverly Hills to check into the Four Seasons Hotel. It was only ten in the morning when we checked in so we drove to Rodeo Drive.

  The stores were expensive and the people were not very nice, or real, but Ashley was happy. She tried on clothes that were priced way too high and modeled for me. That was fun. Then we ate a ridiculously high priced lunch at a ridiculously ostentatious restaurant. Everyone was dressed in expensive clothes and I was wearing a pair of black loose fit jeans with a black A’s jersey that had ‘Oakland’ written in script across the chest in green letters. My Nikes were new and white. Ashley fit in better than I did. She was wearing tight faded jeans with a light brown flowing blouse and fashionable light brown leather sandals that showed off her pedicure.

  “Do I embarrass you, dear?” I asked as we left the restaurant under the disapproving glares of the other customers.

  “Never, sweetie,” she said then she stopped at the entrance and turned to me and stood on her tip toes and kissed me lightly on the lips. “You can beat them all up.”

  “Not at the same time,” I said.

  “No,” she said still close to me. “But they know one at a time they don’t stand a chance.”

  I think she was right.

  I carried her bags back to the garage where the valet retrieved the rental car and we headed back to the Four Seasons. When we got to the room Ashley went to the bathroom and tried on the clothes she bought again while I sat on one of the two queen size beds, Ashley had on and I had on, and I flipped through the TV channels. Of course there was nothing to watch.

  “Do you like everything I bought?” she asked from the bathroom.

  “Yes.”

  “That was a fast answer.”

  “That’s because I didn’t have to think about it.”

  She walked out of the bathroom wearing the jeans and blouse she had on while shopping, but no sandals.

  “So you answer all my questions without thinking about them?” she said.

  “Just the ones that don’t require any thought.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and looked at me like a school teacher waiting for an answer to a math problem.

  “What?” I said.

  “I work hard to look nice for you and you can’t even take time to put thought into your answers.”

  “You dress for me?” I asked.

  “No,” she said with a little smile. “But I do care about your opinion.”

  “You once told me I have no sense of fashion.”

  “You don’t,” she said with a full smile that made me feel warm inside.

  “But my opinion matters to you,” I said.

  “Your opinion matters to me.”

  “Unless it differs from yours.”

  “Exactly,” she said walking away. “You do understand me.”

  13

  The next morning I was up at 7:30. I showered and dressed in a pair of black slacks with a dark gray button down shirt and black tie with my black leather rubber soled shoes.

  I was out the room by 8:01 a.m. while Ashley was still in her bed sound asleep.

  I got to the offices of McCallister, Durahm and Ayala by 8:42 and only got lost once because I didn’t have my GPS. I was becoming too reliant on that thing.

  The building was maybe a million floors and overlooked all of Hollywood and would have given King Kong a nosebleed. McCallister and company were located on the top floor, of course. The receptionist was a woman with dyed red hair who wore red framed bifocals and looked as if she had just bit into a lemon. The name plate on her desk read Mildred James.

  “I’m here to see Mitchell McCallister,” I said with a smile as I stood in front of her desk.

  Mildred didn’t look up.

  I waited. Two guys in suits walked past me and she looked up and smiled politely at them and said, “Good morning.”

  When they had gone past she put her face back down. I looked around and saw no one else around so I slammed my open hand as hard as I could on the desk in front of her and even I thought it might break. She almost jumped out of her chair and looked at me as if I were the problem.

  “May I help you?” she said.

  “You already know who I’m here to see, Mildred” I said with a smile in a low voice. “I have an appointment so get him on the phone, or email or however it is you get people before I kick the door down behind you and go in.”

  The color drained from Mildred’s face and I think she may have actually stopped breathing for a second or two. She reach
ed for the phone and dialed a number all the while never taking her eyes off me.

  “Mr. McCallister,” she said into the receiver, “Your nine a.m. is here. Yes. Yes.” Then she hung up.

  “You may go in,” she said. “He has a little time and can see you early.”

  I smiled at her but she didn’t smile back. The woman had the self control of a Nun because that was my good smile. I went in through the door and at the end of the long hallway I saw a sign on the door with McCallister’s name on it.

  “Come on in,” Mitchell said when I got to the door of his office.

  The office was the size of my room at the Four Seasons. There wasn’t a lot of furniture just a desk with a couple of flat computer screens and a brown leather couch that looked pretty comfortable and what looked to be a 64 inch flat screen TV mounted to the wall.

  “Come on in and close the door,” he said.

  Mitchell stood up and he was maybe 5’10” and weighed about a hundred and eighty pounds. His hairline was receding and his face was clean shaved and long.

  I introduced myself.

  “Yes,” he said. “We spoke on the phone. What was this business about a former client of mine being involved in a stalking case?”

  “Will Leismuller.”

  “I don’t recall that name,” he said a little too fast.

  “He was arrested for selling steroids back in ’06,” I said. “You got him off. You remember him, six-five and built like a truck.”

  He nodded and pretended to search his memory then said, “Yes, I do remember him. Did a favor for a friend. It was a weak case the police had against him, if I remember correctly. Entrapment.”

  “Who hired you?”

  “I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.”

  “You can talk to me or to the police but either way the information is part of an investigation,” I said.

  “Police investitagation?” he asked. “Oh, yes, I know you’re a Private Investigator and I also know that the case you’re referring to is in Northern California so the police have no jurisdiction down here.”

  “Want to know what I know?” I asked.

  “This should be interesting,” he said leaning back in his seat and lacing his fingers over his stomach.

  Mitchell was arrogant and I had no problem telling him what Roger had told me.

  “In ’01 Will had an affair with a married woman, her name isn’t important but what is important is that her best friend was a woman named Jessica Henry. Her husband is Judge Marcus Henry of the Supreme Court of the county of Los Angeles.”