Perchance to Dream

CHAPTER ONE The sun shone brightly through the east-facing window of Adrian Reid’s office at Brentwood BMW on Santa Monica Boulevard. It made a full yellow oblong splash on the beige carpet. Reid was the owner of the dealership, one of the largest luxury brand car dealerships in Los Angeles. That alone meant he had money, but the money hadn’t only come from running a successful upmarket automobile dealership. Reid came from a long line of wealthy Angelenos, a descendant of old California money. “We expected them home yesterday evening,” Reid said. “When they weren’t in their rooms when we woke up this morning, my wife called Sabrina Griffith. Sabrina said they had not been down there—she had not even expected them.” “Given what you’ve told me,” I said, “it seems your daughters, both adults in the eyes of the law, left on their own and are voluntarily absent from home.” Reid nodded in agreement. “It appears so,” he said. “That’s why I called you for help instead of going to the police.” “Not much the cops could do anyway until they’ve been missing for seventy-two hours,” I said. “Unless you have some reason to believe any circumstances exist that endangers either of them in some way.” “No, I haven’t any reason to believe that,” Reid said. “It’s just that this is so unlike them. I only want to make sure they are safe.” “They’ve never disappeared before?” “No, never. I’m sure you understand how young people these days sometimes behave irresponsibly. My daughters have sometimes exercised poor judgment, but neither has ever been in any real trouble. I allow them a good deal of independence without undue parental interference. They pretty much come and go as they please, though my wife and I have always known where they were, in a general sense. Nothing like this has ever happened before.” “Can you think of any reason they might have run away?” I said. Reid shook his head. “None.” “Everything all right at home, no recent arguments?” I said. “Everything at home has been fine,” Reid said, “nothing out of the ordinary. No arguments I can recall. Wait, now that you mention it. We had a minor disagreement Friday evening. I didn’t attach any importance to it at the time, and had forgotten all about it.” “Tell me about it,” I said. “What was the disagreement about?” “Money. We’ve never disagreed over anything else. It was only a minor thing.” I said, “Can you be more specific?” “I give each of my daughters an allowance—you might say a generous allowance. And I don’t keep them strictly to a budget. It isn’t unusual for one or both of them to come to me for more money. Friday evening, they asked for an amount that was both unusual and more than seemed reasonable to me. Also, they weren’t very forthcoming about why they needed such a large amount. I didn’t give it to them, though I ended up giving them a smaller amount. Things were a little frosty between us afterward, but I assumed they would get over it. You know how it is. Kids these days seem to have a sense of entitlement. They don’t like hearing the word no.” “Was it after the disagreement that they said they were going down to Laguna Beach to visit Sabrina Griffith for the weekend?” “Possibly,” Reid said, “though I’m not sure at this point. They had mentioned no plans to go to Laguna Beach until Saturday morning unless they had told my wife earlier. I can call her and ask if you like.” “You can’t think of any other reason they may have gone away?” I said. “No, none. I can’t imagine that our dispute over the money had anything to do with their disappearance. It’s not like it was unusual. I’ve told them no before when they have asked for more than seemed reasonable. In those instances, they pouted for a while then got over it.” “What does their mother think?” I said. “Their mother lives in Palm Springs,” Reid said. “We divorced years ago. My wife, Tracy, is their stepmom. She’s at as much of a loss to explain this as I am.” “Do your daughters and your wife get along?” I said. “Oh yes,” Reid said. “They get along very well. Tracy is only three years older than Sienna, my older daughter. I think the girls regard Tracy more like an older sister than a stepparent. They are like the three musketeers, one for all and all for one. They shop together, see movies together. You name it. I’m always the odd man out at home.” “Your daughters left home Saturday morning?” I said. Reid nodded. “At eleven or thereabouts. They said they were driving down to Laguna Beach for the weekend and left in Sienna’s car.” “What kind of car is it?” “A 2018 BMW, a 230i coupe. The color is metallic sunset orange. We gave it to Sienna as a graduation gift when she finished high school two years ago.” “Can you give me the license plate number?” I said. “Yes, I have the information here on my computer,” Reid said. He swiveled his chair to face the iMac on the wood table against the back office wall, typed on the keyboard, and then peered at the Retina display. He read the license plate number over his shoulder to me. I wrote it down in my notebook. “Does your younger daughter have a car?” I said. “Yes, but Bailey’s car is at the house in the garage. They both left in Sienna’s car.” “If you’ve no objection, I will have a friend at LAPD list the car in CLETS. It’s a law enforcement telecommunications database. That way, if any California law enforcement officer comes across the vehicle and checks the registration, they will see the vehicle has been flagged. The cops might find the car for us, and that could help us find your daughters.” “Can you do it without creating any publicity?” Reid said. “Here’s the thing. I’m running for the District 11 city council seat. The last thing I need is for this situation to show up in the Times or on the local news. A story about my daughters running away might not look so good to the voters.” “It won’t make the circumstances public knowledge,” I said. “The information will only be available to law enforcement. I’ll have the vehicle listed as an overdue motorist. If the police find the car, they will only check your daughters’ welfare and then call you.” “Very well, that’s fine then,” Reid said. “Go ahead with it if you think it will help. I just don’t want to air any dirty laundry in public about a private family situation.” I nodded my understanding and stood up. “I’d like to speak with your wife,” I said. “Is she at home now?” “Yes, I believe so,” Reid said. “I’ll call her and let her know you’re coming.” “Try not to worry, Mr. Reid,” I said. “It’s been my experience this kind of thing usually resolves itself. In the meantime, I will do my best to locate your daughters.” “Thank you, Mr. Malone,” Reid said, rising and reaching across the desk. We shook hands. I told him I’d be in touch and left his office. Driving away from the dealership towards Reid’s residence on South Bundy, I felt sure I’d just taken on a routine missing persons case. I suspected the circumstances were that a couple of spoiled rich brats had taken off for the weekend to register their displeasure after their father had refused to finance an extravagant shopping trip or some such. I half expected I’d get a call from Reid later in the day, telling me his daughters had returned home before I even had the chance to get started looking for them. That had been a reoccurring experience I’d had with runaways in my days with the LAPD. I figured Reid’s daughters would return home as soon as the money he had given them the past Friday ran out. If not, I believed I’d find the Reid girls without too much trouble.