Perchance to Dream

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE

From the office, I called Jaime Reyes, a Detective III at LAPD Robbery-Homicide, and my former partner when I was with LAPD. Reyes was always happy to put the full resources of the department at my disposal whenever I had a case and needed help from the police.

When Reyes answered the phone, I said, “I need a vehicle entered in CLETS pronto.”

“If you have a legitimate reason to have a vehicle entered in CLETS, I suggest you call or visit Hollywood Community Police Station. We don’t do that here at RHD. We investigate robberies and homicides.”

“There is far too much specialization in police work these days,” I said.

“We live in a technological age,” Reyes said. “Specialization is the most efficient use of limited resources.”

I said, “It’s only an overdue motorist entry. All you have to do is make a quick call to the communications division.”

“I know how it works, bro,” Reyes said. “An overdue motorist entry? What am I, Travelers Aid?”

“If you will have the vehicle entered for me, I’ll buy you a case of Dos Equis Amber in the recyclable bottles. You can even keep the deposit when you recycle the empties.”

Reyes said, “Are you attempting to bribe a police officer?”

“Yes.”

After a loud sigh into the phone, Reyes said, “Okay, give me the information.”

I gave him the license plate number and vehicle description along with the names of Sienna and Bailey Reid as the vehicle occupants. For the reporting person, I gave him Adrian Reid’s name and contact information. Reyes put me on hold to use another line. He came back on the phone a few minutes later.

“Okay, they have entered it in CLETS,” Reyes said.

I said, “Thank you, podjo.”

“You’re welcome. When do I get the beer?”

“Soon as I finish work this evening, I’ll drop it by your crib, pal,” I said. “You come pretty cheap when it comes to bribes.”

“You have no idea,” Reyes said. “You could have had me for a six-pack, but I took you for a whole case.”

“Live and learn,” I said. “See you later.”

I hung up and looked over the list of names I’d written in my notebook that Tracy Reid had given me. Sometimes when people gave you a list of the names of friends and relatives, they unconsciously prioritize them by perceived importance. For that reason, I figured the people most closely associated with the Reid sisters were at the top of the list. That’s where I intended to start. I’d work my way down the list of names from there. The first name on the list was Michelle Crawford.

Rule three from the private detective’s handbook said when in doubt, get out of the office and knock on doors. Rule four said when you had no leads, get out of the office and knock on doors. I didn’t know what else to do, and I had no leads to the whereabouts of the Reid girls. So, I left the office to look for some doors to knock on.

The drive back to Brentwood was easier than the drive over that morning. The traffic was lighter, relatively speaking since it was L. A. traffic. It took me nearly forty minutes to get to Michelle Crawford’s family home on Parkyns Street. The house was a massive Mediterranean-style estate that took up most of the corner of the block at Parkyns and North Rockingham Avenue. I parked the car in the circle drive out front and went to the front door. I rang the doorbell.

I spoke to the maid who answered the door for about five minutes. The maid told me in a mixture of Spanish and broken English that Miss Crawford was out of town. She wouldn’t tell me where or when Miss Crawford was expected back. After a while, the maid wilted under the steady pressure of my not inconsiderable interrogation skills and told me Miss Crawford was on vacation with her mother and sisters in Honolulu. But, she refused to give me a phone number where I could reach them there. I left the house wishing I could have had five minutes with that maid in a room with a bright light and a thick telephone directory in my hands. Then I could have made her talk. The problem was there were no printed telephone books anymore as phone directories were all online now. That was a real shame.

From the Crawford place, I drove over to a Best Buy store on West Pico Boulevard and found Colin Pope, the second person on my list. All Tracy Reid had had on him was a phone number. When I’d called it, Pope told me he was at work but would talk with me if I wanted to drop by. Colin, a blond-haired surfer type with good manners, was very willing to help me. The only problem was he wasn’t a smart guy, and he knew nothing about the whereabouts of the Reid sisters. Because Colin wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, it took him a long time to tell me so. All I learned from him was that he and Sienna were in a few of the same classes when they had attended high school together. He was a nice young man but provided nothing relevant to my investigation.

In a talent agency office on the twenty-third floor of an office tower on Wilshire Boulevard, I found the next person on my list—a sleek, stylish, well-mannered young man in his late twenties wearing expensive clothes. His name was Serge Kardashian, no relation to the famous L. A. socialite sisters. He told me he became acquainted with the Reids at a popular under twenty-one dance club they all frequented on Sunset Boulevard. He became friends with them, and they sometimes partied together with others in their common social circle. I learned nothing of value from Serge.

I drew more blanks from the list: “Out of town,” “At the mall,” “I don’t know where you can find her.” Then, at last, I found one of Sienna’s friends at home before I was ready to call it a day. Her name was Audrey Ryan. She lived on North Rockingham Avenue in an upscale neighborhood with tree-lined streets close to the Reids. The residence was a sprawling, ultra-modern white stone-and-glass house. Ryan was a willowy, tall young woman about Tracy Reid’s age. She had bobbed brown hair with blond highlights, and wide blue eyes that made her look honest and candid despite what was really going on behind them. Audrey told me she had been two years ahead of Sienna Reid at Colonnades Charter High School, but they had met and become friends when they had played on the varsity soccer team during Sienna’s sophomore year.

Unlike the others on the list I’d already interviewed, Audrey Ryan wasn’t single. She told me her husband, Darren Ryan, was a hedge fund manager. Since it seemed unlikely a guy in his twenties would be running a hedge fund, I assumed Audrey, like Tracy Reid, had married an older man. Young as she was, Audrey sounded like she knew what she was talking about, that she knew about hedge funds.

“I haven’t seen either Sienna or Bailey in ages,” Ryan said in answer to my question. “Not for at least two weeks or more.”

I noticed a little flicker in her blue eyes when she had answered the question. Uh-oh, I thought. I didn’t know what was behind the flicker, but I was sure that Ryan’s answer was at least partially false.

“At the time, the last time you saw them, did either mention anything about going away?” I said.

There was another flicker in the eyes, but Audrey shook her head. “No,” she said.

Her eyes were wide and frank, but her upper lip twitched a little when she’d answered the question.

“Any idea where they might have gone?” I said.

“No idea.”

Audrey looked down, and her fingers picked at imaginary lint on the black track pants she had on.

“Have you heard from them since you last saw them?” I said. “By phone or a text?”

“No, I haven’t.”

She had moistened her upper lip with the tip of her tongue when she said it.

“Will you give me the names and addresses or phone numbers for the people you know who the Reid girls also associated with?” I said.

“Look, Mr. Malone, I really don’t feel comfortable doing that,” Ryan said. “They’re my friends. I don’t want them hassled.”

“There’s a chance that some of them may have seen Sienna and Bailey more recently than you,” I said. “Maybe even since they disappeared Saturday. I will not hassle them. I only want to ask them the same questions I’ve asked you.”

Audrey picked up her phone off the coffee table. With reluctance, she gave me a dozen names. All the names were already on my list. Twice while paging through the list of contacts on her phone, she had hesitated as if about to speak a name. But each time it seemed she had decided against naming someone. Her eyes stayed on mine, still wide and honest. Her fingers, no longer picking at the imaginary lint, nervously fingered the hem of her blue silk top.

There was something not quite right about Audrey Ryan and her answers to my questions. She was lying to me or at least holding something back. But I couldn’t think what it might be. I didn’t believe her, but I had nothing substantial to justify calling her out on her lack of candor. Instead, I left her with a promise, one she might have taken as a threat.

“Thanks for your time and cooperation,” I said. “I know it’s hard to remember things exactly. If I should run across anything from interviews with the others on my list that might help jog your memory, I’ll circle back to you and let you know.”

“What—? Oh, yes. Please do.”

Walking away from the house, I turned my head to look back just as a window curtain swung back into place. My watch told me it was six-thirty, too late to run down any more of the names on my list. I went to a supermarket on San Vicente Boulevard to buy the case of Dos Equis I’d promised Reyes. Then I drove over to his house to deliver it. On the drive to Reyes’ place, I was thinking more about Audrey Ryan than about the Reid sisters. She seemed worth further investigation.