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                                            CHAPTER SIXTEEN

                                                Opening Night

9:20 p.m.

Applause sprinkled the auditorium and faded quickly as the lights dimmed. The smattering of people exited the warmth of the theater to the cool outdoors of Santa Monica. Afraid that he'd run into Dutch doing the intermission business necessary to owning a theater, Joe stayed seated, perspiring. The first act hadn't gone well. The actress who played the prostitute Doris was too aware of the audience and allowed her nervousness to interrupt her concentration. She'd flubbed lines left and right. Thrown Dutch off several times. Forgot an entrance that left Dutch improvising about the pain of being a writer, which was what his character Felix was. Someone dropped something heavy backstage during a moment of soft dialogue and caused the actress playing Doris to jump and tangle her foot with a table leg and knock over a lamp.

Joe's mind floated on a shallow pool of memories. Of one hot summer in a desert oasis called Paley, a kind of blue-collar Palm Springs. In an old black Camaro, he and Dutch had followed the ex-wife of the mayor's nephew. They wanted to capture something dirty on video. Something that would help Dan Birdforth, the mayor's nephew, to gain full physical custody of his son. But she'd been an angel. It had been hard, fruitless work. But exciting. The town was so small it was hard not to be noticed. During the summer, there were few tourists. Only an idiot went there that time of the year. There was something eerie about the place. Architecturally, it had a Knotts Berry Farm look, but he got the feeling there that the commercialism was about as sincere as the town got. Everybody smiled at you. Like it was their job. An amusement park smile.

"Excuse me," someone said. He looked up. A young man wearing glasses asked him: "Mr. Cox?"

"Yes."

"Dutch wants you backstage."

Oh, boy, here it goes, he thought. Ready with the complimentary platitudes. He followed the man backstage to a door grandly marked "Dutch Youngblood." Joe tapped on the door and entered. Dutch had his shirt off, and his face and hair were wet. Either his face was flushed red or the light reflected from the goblet of rose wine in his hand. He shook his head and opened his mouth, but he didn't say anything. He turned away and slammed the glass of wine on the vanity, a feminine piece of furniture painted pink and green, with a dainty oval mirror centered between twisted pine posts.

"Hey," Joe said calmly, "opening night jitters."

"Tell me about it. She's a damn wannabe with no talent." He jabbed a chunk of sponge in pancake and brushed it around his forehead and temples. "Air conditioning blows, props drop. Jesus, it’s a disaster." He paused, set down the sponge and said to Joe in the mirror: "Isn't it?"

Joe didn't want him to lose his confidence; he'd worked hard to make this happen. Long hours, lots of money. "Show looks fine. I don't think the audience notices a tenth of what you do. I know I'll forget about it." He grinned sheepishly.

Dutch sipped his wine. And then uncertainty left his eyes. He stood up, his face glowing with concern. Joe turned around. Her face was white, her eyes black holes. Her chin quivered before she spoke.

"Sorry to bother you now," Teddi Weldon said from the door, wringing her hands. She was trying to be strong, but Joe could tell her calm exterior was only the tail of an emotional beast. She'd been crying. Exhaustion appeared to have taken the place of whatever had caused the trauma seen in her face.

Dutch led her to an overstuffed chair next to an army cot. He glanced at Joe.

"What happened?" Joe asked.

"She...she didn't come."

"Teddi, I'm sorry."

"Barstow bus arrived at seven-fifteen, but she wasn't on it." Tears welled up in her eyes; she pressed her lips together to keep from crying. A large tear escaped down her face. She caught it and wiped it on her pants. "Damn it."

"Did the driver say she'd gotten on in Barstow?"

"He said she didn't."

"Did she take the bus to Barstow from Paley?"

"She called this morning again and said she was taking a shuttle from where ever she was– she wouldn't say where–to Barstow, but I don't know if she–" She put her hand to her mouth.

Joe touched her shoulder with his hand. "What do you want me to do?"

It didn't take her long to decide. She sighed deeply.

"Find her. Bring her home."

Joe nodded. "I'll leave tomorrow. I'll find her."

Her sigh wavered. A relieved smile brushed her lips apart. She patted Joe's hand, still resting on her shoulder, stood, taking his hand in hers. The fear seemed to return to her face. She wouldn't cry. Joe hunched over slightly to get at eyeball level with her.

"I said I'll find her."

Dutch assured her that Joe would do what he said he would do. Which brought Joe's attention to a significant detail he'd overlooked upon Teddi's first appearance: how did she know he was here?

The young man, who was probably the stage manager, poked his head into the dressing room. "Five minutes, Dutch."

"Thanks, Tim." He glanced at Joe, then turned to Teddi. "By the way, I'm Dutch. Sorry I can't stay, but I have a second act to do. I'll talk to you later, Joe. And I hope everything works out for you...." Dutch waited for her name.

"Teddi."

"Joe's the man for the job, Teddi."

She nodded, looking uncomfortable. When he'd gone, she said:

"Well, I'll let you get back to the play."

Joe said: "How'd you know I was here?" She looked down. "What's going on, Teddi?"

Looking him in the eye, she replied: "Oh, shit. I own half this joint."

"You? Dutch? Partners?"

"I’m not supposed to say anything–maybe you should talk to Dutch."

Something slithered around Joe's stomach. Joe's anger at being left out of the truth by his best friend surfaced and, although he tried not to take it out on Teddi, the anger came through in his voice. "You tell me what's going on."

She put her hands on her cheeks and said: "Joe, forgive me, I didn't want to keep it from you, but...he said–"

"Forget what he said," Joe snapped back quietly. "What else don't I know?"

She sat down in the overstuffed chair again, and, taking a deep breath said: "I knew Dutch had been a detective, and when Jackie ran away I asked him to help me. He made a couple inquiries, but then he said he wasn't equipped and didn't have the time it would take to do it. He gave me your number, but he didn't want me to tell you we knew each other."

"Why?"

"He said he was embarrassed. About having to have a partner–you know the way he is–everything has to be done his way, he has to be in charge, total independence."

There had to be another reason. Hiding the fact he had a partner wasn't enough. What inquiries had Dutch made? And how much did he know before he sent Teddi to hire him to find Jackie?

"Joe, I'm sorry, I'm really, really sorry. I should have told you."

"How long have you known Dutch?"

"Over two years. An actor friend of mine referred him to me. He was working on a show in Orange County and needed a trained dog. We met, talked about things and I mentioned I'd come into a settlement with a cage manufacturer and had a few thousand dollars to invest."

"And you invested in this," Joe said, fluttering his fingers in reference to the theater.

She nodded. "Silent partner. Not anymore, I guess. I'm sorry, Joe."

"No more apologies. It's not your fault. Let's just...get on with finding Jackie. Okay?"

Teddi stood up and hugged Joe. It startled him at first, but he wrapped his arms around her and even managed to squeeze her a bit. "Thanks," she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

* * *

Joe didn't stay for the second act. As he sped north on Woodley, in the shadow of the Sepulveda Dam, his car phone tweedled.

"Yeah."

"Service just put Melissa Catlin through to me at home." It was Leah. "Where are you?"

"Headed home to pack. Teddi Weldon re-opened tonight."

"We don't have to give back the money then," she said excitedly. "Melissa wants to meet with us. Robbie’s gone. I offered to come by in the morning, but she's pretty adamant about meeting with us tonight."

"What can we do tonight?" Joe said, yawning.

"Nothing you'd think of, but a little support wouldn't hurt. Police are treating it like a runaway–"

"Which it probably is."

"I said you'd be there by ten-thirty."

"Gee, thanks. I'd appreciate making my own appointments."

"She's bringing a retainer, Joe."

"So a little support's in order, huh?"

"Don't be like that. Be there." She hung up.

Deja vu, he thought, throwing the BMW sideways, yanking up on the handbrake and completing a neat 180 turn–life imitating fiction.

* * *

Melissa Catlin wore a cowboy shirt and tight jeans. The Reeboks killed the western-woman look she was trying to capture, but Joe could only stare at her wonderfully sculpted face. She sat in the vinyl upholstered chair in front of Joe's desk, which was still cluttered with things he hadn't put away yet, looking more angry than worried. Redness around her eyes gave evidence of her real concern. Leah sat in the chair beside her, back straight, one leg crossed over the other, her hands folded in her lap. Her vision of professionalism.

"Thanks for coming so late," Melissa said. She glanced at her hands then at Joe. "I wasn't very nice to you yesterday. I know Robby was probably more to blame for everything."

"He's a smart kid."

"Too smart."

"Does he get in trouble?"

"Doesn't do drugs or steal, if that's what you mean."

"Grades?"

"Pretty good. He's had a few problems at school–behavior problems."

"I thought he was very polite."

"Yes, he's been taught to be polite. But he's...like his father. When he decides he's going to do something, there isn't anything that'll change his mind. Like this detective stuff. A few days ago he suddenly decides he wants to be a private eye. I made the mistake of telling him to find out about the business before he made any decisions. He goes to you."

Joe took his eyes off her lips long enough to say: "Sorry."

"I didn't mean it like that." She spoke softly: "I'm already having a hard time talking to you. You aren't making it easier by staring at me like that."

He was speechless–and just a bit embarrassed at getting caught. Leah smiled. Joe pretended not to see her.

"I'm sorry," Joe said defensively, "what part of your face would you prefer I look at?"

Melissa turned to Leah. "This guy's a good investigator?" Leah nodded, throwing her discontent in Joe's direction. "I can't hire anybody who can only think about–." She didn’t finish, but he knew what she was going to say. How’d she know? he thought, feeling self-conscious.

"He's good," Leah said firmly. "I checked him out before I invested."

"What is this?" Joe complained, looking between them, appalled at Leah's disclosure, however complimentary it sounded. "Mrs. Catlin, I said I was sorry. And I'm not in the least afraid of honesty. I find you...very attractive. Okay? There."

"Surprise, surprise," Leah mumbled.

Joe hesitated. "But, uh, you aren't the first attractive woman I've worked for. This is very personal, I know. Your son means a lot to you. And to us. My relationship with a client is strictly business. If we accept the assignment, it'll be conducted professionally. Leah will assist me."

"At being professional?" Leah asked him.

"No! With the investigation."

Leah suddenly became extra alert. Melissa Catlin seemed to study his face. Her expression softened.

"I like honesty."

"Me, too," he said and smiled in a very serious, professional manner. "So let's talk about this. Why did Robby run away?"

"We had a fight. Not the first. He got a job working in your building for Kanawyer this morning. Maintenance. I told him until I saw his first semester grades, I didn't want him working. And he thinks I treat him like a child because I don't let him run all over town with his friends. He has a friend named T.J. who got a new car recently. Kid's a year older than him. Anyway, Robby's sensitive about the way he looks. He looks younger than his age–he'll be sixteen in November. Lately, it's been the main topic of our discussions. Discussions that more and more lead to some of the worst arguments I've ever had in my life–with anyone. My ex and I never argued like this. A year ago, Robby wouldn't have raised his voice to me. Now, he screams at me that I'm to blame for making his father leave and all kinds of other things. I don't...I don't know what happened. He's...growing up, I guess–but I don't remember it being like this for me."

"You weren't a boy who thought he was more grown up than his mother would admit."

"Don't take sides," she lightly warned.

"I'm playing devil's advocate. Comes with the service–no extra charge."

Melissa managed a sigh and a grin that came and went before he had a chance to enjoy it.

"Let's go back," Joe said, holding down another yawn. "Where would he go? Who are his friends?"

"He really doesn't have a lot of friends."

"What about this T.J.?"

"He's probably Robby's best friend. They've known each other about a year. I called T.J.'s parents. They said T.J. was going on a camping trip. They're very liberal. Think T.J.'s incapable of doing anything wrong. You know the way some parents are? Anyway, T.J.'s hyper–can't sit for five minutes without wanting to do something."

"Where did he go camping?"

"Believe it or not, his parents don't know. He's supposed to be back in two or three days. I think Robby went with him."

Joe thought it was very likely, but he shrugged, not wanting to make hasty suppositions at this point.

"When did you last see him?" Joe asked.

"This afternoon. About four-thirty, five. He was being a stinker. I grounded him for the weekend. Then I went to rehearsal."

"Rehearsal?"

"I'm a singer. Radio jingles, back-ups. Studio work mostly. He's left at home a lot. Takes care of himself." Her eyes darted to Leah then back to Joe. Defensively, she explained, "When I'm home with him, we do things together. I make his meals. I like him around the house, watching TV, playing gin rummy, whatever, just so we're together like a family."

"Maybe," Joe said cautiously, "Robby wanted some time to himself. You won't let him work, school's going to start soon. He feels like he's got nothing really going for himself and–"

"How do you know?" she broke in.

"I was a sixteen-year-old boy once. I remember thinking like that."

"And to punish me, he scares the holy crap out of me?" Joe shrugged. "That isn't Robby. He respects me more than that. He knows what it did to me when his father left me. Put me in therapy for almost a year."

Melissa appeared very nervous suddenly, as if she had unintentionally disclosed something. She fumbled through her leather purse.

"I brought my checkbook," she said absently. "How much do you need to start looking for him?"

"Maybe you should wait," Leah suggested. "He might call."

"He didn't even leave a note," Melissa replied testily.

"Give it the weekend," Joe added, wondering how he and Leah could handle two runaway cases at once.

"I don't want to wait," she said, pulling out her checkbook and reaching over and taking Joe's pen out of a cup. "If he can be this irresponsible, he can damn well do something dumb enough to get himself in trouble–or worse." Her eyes watered, but she stared straight into Joe's without blinking. "If anything happens to him, I'll...." She couldn't finish. She didn't need to. "And what if...." Again, she didn't finish. Joe imagined the ugly visions beaming through her brain. Visions of darkness, danger and...a boy having some fun at his mom's expense.

"Little chance," Joe said, and bravely reached across the desk and placed his hand on hers. He held it there, wondering why he'd done it at all. He'd never put a comforting hand on the hand of client before. First he hugs Teddi Weldon. Now this. Leah glanced at their hands openly. Joe didn't move. Either did Melissa. In fact, she didn't seem to notice at first. Then she rotated her hand under his hand and grasped it firmly. He hoped it was a sign that she'd resolved any reservations she had about him.

Melissa wrote a check for a thousand dollars, thanked them again for coming to the office so late and promised to call them if she had any contacts with Robby. She left T.J.'s parents' address and phone number and a short list of boys Robby ran around with, before leaving at eleven o'clock.

Joe ignored Leah's comments about the touchy-feely episode and arranged for her to meet him at his apartment in the morning to talk about the Weldon case. He told her he'd direct her in what to do to begin looking for Robby before he left for the desert. When she bounced out of the office ten minutes later, she was a very happy yogurt queen.

He turned off the lights in the receptionist's office. Standing in the waiting area, preparing to leave, he noticed the glow of the small green light on the copy machine in the receptionist's office that indicated it was still on. In the darkness of the room, he couldn't see anything unusual at first. He turned off the copy machine. From his past experience with leaving the last document in the machine, he raised the lid. On the glass, face down, was a single sheet of paper. He slid a nail under a corner and turned if over. It was a Case Information Sheet from a file. He couldn't read it. He stepped out into the light of the waiting area. The name at the top of the page lit up:

On it was all the information he'd taken from Teddi Weldon Thursday morning. The file wasn't near the machine. It wasn't on the reception desk. He went to his office, turned on the light and scoured through the mess on his desk. He found the file under two blank note pads. The Case Information Sheet had indeed been removed.

Who made a copy of the sheet? Leah? Then he noticed that the prongs of the clasp holding the papers in the file were folded inward instead of outward. Leah had insisted on outward. If Leah didn't copy the sheet...who did?