Ryan Lock 04.5: Lock & Load (2 page)

Ty pulled up in the rental car, a black Range Rover while Lock helped a taxi driver with Carrie's luggage and kissed her goodbye. He waited until the cab was out of sight, put Angel in the back, and clambered in next to Ty who took off at speed as they headed for West Hollywood.

Three

IT WAS ONE
 in the afternoon and the pool of the Chateau Marmont was crowded with hip, young Hollywood player types and girls sporting bikinis that seemed to barely qualify as clothing. Down the years the Chateau had been the bolt hole of choice for Hollywood's elite when they wanted to escape without actually leaving town. It oozed class, discretion, and money. As the old saying went, if you had to ask what it cost to stay there, you probably couldn't afford it.

   Lock had Angel on the lead next to him and was wishing he'd brought a spare, complete with shock collar, for Ty.

   "Eyes front, Tyrone," said Lock as they skirted round a pair of sun loungers that appeared to come complete with their own Victoria's Secret model. "We're now officially on duty."

   Ty's neck swiveled round, and Lock saw himself reflected in the mirrored lenses.

   "How you know what I'm looking at? I'm wearing shades, dawg."

   "That's how I know. If a man doesn't want anyone to know what he's staring at, he wears shades. Now, can you focus? This is business."

   Ty gave a dismissive tut, clearly yet to be convinced that there was any gravity to this particular job. "This movie dude's like five four in his high heels. We're window dressing."

   Lock was starting to get irritated at his partner's casual attitude. There was a free table with a couple of chairs. Lock pulled one out and motioned for Ty to take a seat beside him as they waited for their meeting.

   He opened the client/principal folder and produced a photograph. "Window dressing, huh?"

   He placed the photograph on the glass surface of the table and slid it over to Ty. It showed Summer's neck after the last assault by her former boyfriend. Red welts from where his fingernails had dug into her flesh blushed scarlet against her pale skin. Given how close she had been to a complete blackout, she was lucky to be alive.

   Ty looked at it. He grimaced. "Like to see him try that shit with me," he said, taking off his sunglasses and putting them in his shirt pocket, the point clearly taken. He glanced back at the photograph. "She file a complaint?"

   Lock shook his head. It wasn't unusual for victims of domestic violence not to file a complaint or press charges. The usual dynamic was that if they, or a neighbor or relative, called it in, then by the time the cops got there the worst part was over and the perpetrator was busy promising their victim the earth if they just gave them another chance. Then the whole thing started up all over again until either the victim got out or got killed. At least in this case Summer Clements had done the smart thing – got the hell out.

   "She didn't want the publicity. And we have to bear that in mind. This isn't some regular person we're dealing with here. There are all kinds of other aspects to a job like this."

   "Such as?" Ty asked.

   "Such as making sure that she retains her dignity through all of this. And that starts with her calling the shots. Not us. You got me?"

   "Still like to snap that Aussie mofo's neck."

   Over Ty's shoulder, Lock could see the young actress walking towards them. She was flanked by the head of her management team, a grey-haired man in his fifties called Frank Bernstein, and her publicist, a heavily made-up Puerto Rican woman called Paula Francis. In contrast to the bikini-clad girls draped around the pool, Summer was wearing jeans and a shirt with the name of an LA punk band,
Neighborhood Watch
, splashed in blood red across the front. A scarf covered any lingering bruises.

   "Oh my God! What a cute dog." She bent down to pet Angel who wagged her tail and licked at Summer's hand.

   Ty got some extra chairs and everyone sat down. Anywhere else in the country, the young starlet's arrival would no doubt have drawn a small flock of autograph hunters. In LA such behavior marked you out as either a tourist, or worse, as what people in the entertainment business scathingly referred to as 'a civilian.'

   Introductions complete, her manager, Frank Bernstein, began the meeting. "Mr. Lock, we're very grateful that you could make yourself available. Obviously discretion's an issue for us, which is why we wanted to go with someone from out of town. And your reputation precedes you."

   Lock smiled. It was cards on the table time. A couple of dead Neo-Nazis had probably cemented what people euphemistically referred to as his reputation. "We're happy to be of service," he said. "Now beyond ensuring your client's day-to-day safety, which is no doubt something that I'm sure any number of private security operators in Los Angeles could do adequately, what outcome do you want to see from us?"

   Since she had sat down, Summer's fingernails had been tapping out an anxious drumbeat on the glass. Either she was on something or she was stressed.

   "I want to get my friggin' life back. That's what I want," she said.

   Paula the publicist reached out a comforting hand and rested it on the actress's hand. Summer batted it away.

   What some might have seen as a display of bratty petulance, Lock recognized as a young woman under incredible stress. He met Summer's gaze. "As far as your line of work allows for it, that's something we can achieve. You go about your life as you would normally and if there is a situation where you are made to feel uncomfortable in any way, or a situation where either Tyrone or I perceive a threat to your safety, then we'll deal with it."

   There was something hanging in the air unresolved and Lock thought it best to get it out of the way before they went any further. "Have you given any thought to applying for a court order against Mr. Durham?"

   Summer blew a stray strand of hair away from her eyes as her publicist took that one. "Summer doesn't want to be painted as a victim in this," said Paula.

   Lock didn't know what other word applied to someone who'd almost been strangled to death by an asshole boyfriend but he knew what they were saying.

   "Mr. Lock," said Bernstein. "This town is all about image. Right now Summer is seen as a strong young woman, a role model to other young women, someone who is in control. She doesn't drink. She doesn't take drugs. She's not only a very talented actress, she's also a consummate professional. That's why she commands the kind of money from the studios that she does. We don't want anything getting out there into the public domain to tarnish that perception, either with the public or with the people who employ her."

   "I understand completely. Since the last incident, has Mr. Durham been in contact?" asked Lock.

   Bernstein and Paula traded a look that said yes.

   "He won't stop," said Summer. "He hasn't even left my house. That's why I'm staying here."

   Lock smiled to himself. He knew there had to be a catch when the young actress's people had offered him and Carrie Summer's Malibu beach home to stay in. They were hiring close protection but they wanted him to throw in a free eviction service.

   Summer picked up on his silence. "Don't worry, I plan on staying here. Traffic from the 'Bu's a bitch. But if you could persuade him to leave."

   "We can do that," said Ty.

   They'd thrown him a curveball right out of the gate but it could work to his advantage, Lock thought to himself. It would give him a chance to see just what kind of asshole he was dealing with. Lock suspected that Ty was right, that a guy like Jason Durham might not be such a tough guy after all. But he wanted some first-hand knowledge before he made up his mind.

   "I have some contacts at the Malibu Sheriff's Department," offered Bernstein. "I'm sure they'd be happy to accompany you."

   "That's very kind of you," said Lock. "But that may just draw more attention to the situation. If we need them, we can always give them a call. Can you handle things here while I take care of it?" he asked Ty. Ty nodded a yes. Lock looked back at Summer. "Anything else?"

   Paula answered for her. "Summer's at the Chateau because she has to do some press here in the morning."

   There was an edge to how she said it that deepened Lock's confusion. "Makes sense."

   Bernstein coughed into his hand. "It's for the movie she did with Jason," he said, lowering his voice.

   Lock caught the look on Ty's face. "He's going to be here?" Ty asked.

   "It's in both their contracts," said Paula.

   "As I said, we don't want this current unpleasantness going public," added Bernstein.

   Lock looked from the manager to the publicist and then to the young actress. She nibbled at a nail with a trembling hand. He got to his feet. "Let me go talk to Mr. Durham for you, make sure he vacates your property and that he's on his best behavior tomorrow."

Four

SUMMER'S BEACH HOUSE
was in the Big Rock area of Malibu. It backed directly on to the Pacific Coast Highway, or PCH as it was known by the locals. The front faced out across the Pacific. Like the rest of Malibu it was a quiet community, although a little more diverse than somewhere like the Colony with its private gated access. Here there were people who made less than a million dollars a year.

   As he rounded the bend just before Big Rock, Lock passed a Malibu Sheriff Department's patrol car. It was empty, a decoy to dissuade commuters from the San Fernando Valley from speeding. The house was up ahead, just past a rack of stop lights. Summer had already provided him with a breakdown of the layout. There were two entrances on either side. They opened onto side decks, which in turn led to glass security doors and finally to doors that opened directly into the house.

   Summer usually used one of the two-door double garages, opening them electronically with a clicker and driving straight in. The garage offered direct access into the ground floor of the house via two doors, one of which opened directly into the kitchen, and another that led into a large open-plan living room.

   Decks wrapped around three sides of the property. The two side decks were little more than walkways. The one on the southern side had steps that led down to the beach. There was a large upstairs deck and a smaller porch-sized deck downstairs.

   Lock had a clicker for the garage but the noise of the door rolling back up would alert anyone inside the house to his arrival. Neither did he want to approach via the two doors which faced PCH.

   He drove past, the house on his left, turned around at the Moonshadows bar and restaurant, and parked the Range Rover a little further down. He got out and walked down to a series of steps which offered public access to the beach. He'd made sure to time his arrival for low tide. He took off his shoes and socks and went for a stroll, his plan being to access the house directly from the beach. Summer had already furnished him with the numbered code for the external glass doors and a set of keys. This way if he came face to face with the tough-guy actor it would be just the two of them.

   It was a beautiful day as he strolled down the sands. A couple of people were out walking their dogs but otherwise the place was quiet. The houses sat on pylons. At high tide the Pacific would run directly under them and the beach would disappear entirely.

   Sunlight shimmered across the water. On the Big Rock itself sat a dozen or so pelicans. On a smaller rocky outcrop a herd of seals caught some rays. Even the wildlife looked super relaxed out here. It wouldn't have surprised him to see them sporting sunglasses. He expected Jason to be less laid back when he found out that Lock was here to evict him.

   Lock took the set of narrow wooden steps leading up to the house two at a time. Like any good intruder who wanted to go unnoticed the key was to look like you belonged there. He pulled himself up and over the gate, landing with a thud on the other side. Two sets of steps stretched up towards the house.

   About one third of the way down them stood Jason. He was wearing red board shorts and black deck shoes. His hair was wet and he had a towel draped over his shoulders. In his hand was a Smith and Wesson Colt 45.

   "You've got two seconds to tell me who the hell you are and why I shouldn't blow your head off," said the actor.

Five

THE COLT 45
 likely had a trigger pull of around six pounds. But it took a whole lot more than six pounds of pressure when there was a real living human being in your sights rather than a paper target at the other end of a firing range. Lock knew that better than most. He had pulled the trigger of a gun more than once. When the situation called for it, he had taken life. There was a better than even chance he would be called upon to do so again over the course of his career.

   Jason had killed too of course; cyborgs, vampires, zombies, extra-terrestrials. Hell, just the other month, millions of people around the world had watched him, kitted out in full tactical gear, jump from a Blackhawk and rush a compound to deliver the fatal shot to Bin Laden. And he'd almost killed Summer.

   Lock waited. Nothing happened. Jason stared at him. Lock stared straight back. With every second that passed the chances of Jason actually using the gun diminished.

   When Lock had decided that enough seconds had gone by, he spoke. "My name is Ryan Lock. Summer asked me to come by and speak to you."

   Jason eyed him warily, and didn't lower the gun. "Why didn't you just ring the bell?"

   "For one, that would have decreased the likelihood of you speaking to me. Secondly, there's a paparazzi parked just down the way."

   Both points were true. Directly across PCH and up the slope was a rehab center that catered to the rich and famous, which in turn meant that the paparazzi staked out this small stretch of highway hoping to long-lens some unfortunate celebrity.

   Lock continued. "I didn't think this would be a conversation you'd want to have standing out there in your shorts. Or with one of your pals at the Malibu Sheriff's Department for that matter."