We wove through block after block of gated estates, trying to avoid the morning rush that clogged the main streets. Eventually, Jendrek made it up to the famous road that ran along the top of the Hollywood Hills like a highway in the sky. We turned west and I caught glimpses of the smog-covered San Fernando Valley between the houses.
Jendrek slowed the old Jag, annoying the cars behind us, as he tried to find the address. With only two lanes, Mulholland could back up bad, and quick.
“I think you’re irritating the rich folk.” I glanced in the side mirror to see a bright yellow Humvee riding our ass, the driver shrugging at us and yelling something we couldn’t hear.
Jendrek checked his mirror as well and smiled. “It’s good for him. That’s what he gets for driving such an obnoxious car.”
Two houses later we turned into a sandstone driveway that opened on to a large courtyard and a massive Spanish style stucco mansion. There were clusters of people standing around and yellow police tape was strewn across a walkway leading down the left side of the house. A single police car sat at the far side of the driveway. Two guys in dark suits stood next to it having a heated discussion.
There were people coming and going from the side of the house where the police tape was, and the whole place had the look of an aftermath. There had been a lot going on here only a few hours before, and these were just the tired stragglers left behind to clean up.
“That must be the wife.” Jendrek motioned with his chin as he parked the car. I looked up at the top of the wide stairs leading into the house and saw a nearly perfect blonde woman wrapping herself in a long, terry cloth robe. She hugged herself against the November morning chill, which only emphasized the curves beneath the robe.
I scanned the paper again. “Says here Vargas was sixty. She doesn’t look half that.”
Jendrek smiled as he opened the door. “Like I said, I think that’s his wife.”
We must have looked liked lawyers because a guy came from the inside of the house, somewhere behind the woman in the robe, and descended the stairs with his hand out. “Mr. Jendrek?”
“Mr. Vargas?” They shook hands. Then Jendrek motioned my way and said, “This is my partner, Oliver Olson.”
I smiled and shook the man’s hand. It amused me when Jendrek referred to me as his partner, because he meant it only in the most general sense. We worked together. I got paid. But we weren’t partners in the way law firms usually used the word. There was never any question that Jendrek ran the show.
The young Vargas couldn’t have been much more than thirty, barely older than me. He had that thin but muscular Hollywood look, like he spent all of his time in a gym. A cardio and low-carbs kind of guy. A diet rich in protein and cocaine. He was still wearing the remnants of last night’s costume: a bellhop uniform, the jacket now unbuttoned and the bowtie hanging loose. I wondered whose bags he carried in real life.
“Eddie Vargas,” he said, and nodded at me. As I let go of his hand I noticed the thick Rolex on his wrist. Expensive and flashy, it didn’t go with the costume. It told me that this was a guy who liked to impress people.
He moved in and stood close to us, speaking in a quiet voice. “I really appreciate you guys coming so quickly. I figured it was important to get someone on this as soon as possible.”
He scratched the back of his head and glanced back over his shoulder. The woman at the top of the stairs had not moved. She looked far too young to be a widow, and her expression only confirmed that fact. She had a face too young to know the expression for grief. After a few seconds of gawking, Ed Vargas said, “The goddamned cops have been here all night, poking around, asking questions like we were the fucking criminals. A couple of them are still over there.”
He motioned with his head toward the two guys at the far end of the driveway by the car. One of them stopped talking when he noticed us staring at them. Then the other one stopped and both of them stood quietly, staring back at us.