Gone at Zero Hundred 00:00 (7 page)

“It’s a private, invitation-only club for college students.”

“Oh. Well, what exactly does private, invitation-only, mean?”
I hope I wasn’t sounding too naive.

“Invitations are sent out. If an individual wants to be a
member, they need to submit an application along with their picture. If their
financials meet with the president’s goals, they would be invited to a social
gathering to see if they were deemed worthy of a second interview.”

“Is it co-ed?” I said while contemplating what
deemed
worthy
meant.

“Guys become members. Women apply for the exclusive social
gatherings. I help set those up.”

“So, it’s like Hookup.com, a place where guys and gals can
hook up?” Hookup.com is a new online dating forum.

“The Devil’s Door is exclusive,” she said with another
exasperated sigh. I got the impression I was starting to annoy her.

“Hookup.com is not exclusive?”

“Hookup.com is free. I mean, we are more selective.”

I think she just slipped up and admitted you have to pay to
be a part of the club. “Oh, well, I don’t know why I would have called a
private club.”

“Maybe you were looking for a date,” she replied with a
snippy attitude.

Normally I would have said something in return, but it
wouldn’t be nice, so I held off. I said, “Thanks for your help.”

I may only be eighteen, but I picked up some street smarts
during my childhood escapades and working with my mom, so a question hit me immediately.
Why would the financials be important for admittance to a private club where
college-age was the target? Students heading off to college were usually broke,
and bogged down with student loans, or were living off their parents. What
financials do they have? There must be more to it. Were they targeting the rich
and privileged kids? That would be something to look into if The Devil’s Door
became a factor in my surveillance of David Klein.

SUMMER ALSO gave me David’s work address. The law office
where he worked was just over the city limit into Los Angeles. I made a quick
call to find out if he kept a steady schedule. That would give me an idea of
when I would be starting surveillance. I dialed the number on the card, and
asked to speak to the office manager. A friendly voice came on the line.

“This is Molly, how can I help you?” 

“Hi Molly,” I said. “How are you?” My mom always said: be
nice to secretaries and office managers. They ccould be a good source for
information, or they could keep you from getting anything at all.

“I’m fine, thank you for asking,” Molly answered.

I said, “I’m calling from Caulfield’s Florist. I have a
delivery for David Klein. Could you tell me what his daily schedule is?” I
assumed she was in charge of the employees for the law firm. I couldn’t divulge
my identity for obvious reasons, so I lied.

“Let me check for you.” After a moment, she came back on the
line. “David is free of appointments this week. His lunch is twelve to one, and
he leaves the office around five-thirty.”

“Thank you Molly, that’ll help to schedule the delivery.”
After I disconnected from the call, I wondered if Molly would call Caulfield’s
when a floral delivery didn’t arrive.

A short time later, I figured I should probably head to the bank
and deposit the check from Summer. When that was done, I could drive to the
office where David worked and start the time-consuming surveillance. After all,
that’s what I was being paid to do. Before I left the firehouse, I fired off a
quick text to Cody:
Dude - strtd new case. Will fill u in l8tr. Depositing
$$$. Cu @ park for kickboxing
!

The minute I hit send, my cell phone vibrated indicating I
had an incoming call. I hit the talk button.

“Hello,” I said.

“Syd, it’s Carter.”

“Hey. What’s up?”

“Listen,” he said. “I got the name you were looking for.”

I perked up. “…My father?”

“Of course, your father...”

I was speechless, and suddenly, very nervous. After my mom
was murdered, I was even more intent on finding out the identity of my father.
Carter was hesitant to help me at first. He made a promise to my mother. But,
when another check arrived, with no name and address attached, he gave in.
Besides, my arguments were legitimate. One, I was an adult, and had a right to
know. Two, my mom was killed, my world was ripped apart, and he was my only
living relative, at least that I knew of.

“His name is Jake Logan.”

“Jake Logan.” I repeated the name to myself.

“He was in the military when they met. You were right about that.
They met during one of his brief stints at home.”

“So I’m the product of a one-night stand?”

“I’m sure it was more than that, Syd.”

“Then why?

“Why wouldn’t she tell you about him?”

“Well, yeah…”

“That’s a question I can’t answer.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I do, and I don’t.”

“What does that mean?” I could tell he was hesitant to open
up that can of worms.

“According to my source, he’s in Afghanistan. I’ve got
friends over there, so they’re helping me out. But, it’s a slow process.”

“This is the 21
^st
century. It should be easy to
track him down if he’s in the military.”

“I said he was in the military when they met. I don’t have
his exact status right now. It just means you’ll have to be patient a little
while longer. At least we know who he is. I’ll keep you posted when I hear
anything. Just know that I’m on it.”

I sighed. “I’ve waited eighteen years. I guess I can wait a
little longer.”

“Do you want to get some dinner? Talk about it? I’m still
frazzled at the station, but I can make the time.”

“No, I’m okay. I got a new client today, so I have some work
to keep me busy.”

“You got a new client?” he said, somewhat surprised. “I
didn’t know you advertised yet?”

“We didn’t. She just walked in.”

He was quiet for a moment. “What kind of case?” He asked with
a voice filled with suspicion.

“She’s a model. She said her step-brother is stealing from
her. She wants to know who he is hanging out with, that kind of thing.”

“Hmmm, should be simple enough.”

“Hey, it’s a paying client, so I’ll take it.”

“Well, let me know if you need anything, or if you need to
talk.”

“I’ll be okay.” What else could I do, get on a plane and fly
to Afghanistan and show up at a military base in the desert?

“Hey, I’m looking for my dad. His name is Jake Logan. He may
not know about me, but then again, maybe he does, since I suspect he’s been
sending checks for the last eighteen years…Tell him I’m his long-lost
daughter.”

I WALKED to the nearest Sutter Beach Bank ATM machine to deposit
Summer’s check, and withdrew twenty bucks in cash. I can’t predict how long
surveillance will last - look at me talking like I’ve been doing this for years
- but a girl’s gotta eat. Twenty bucks could go a long way if you know how to
conserve. Peanut-butter M’M’s have the necessary ingredients to keep me going
through the day, so I stopped at the corner store for those, and a bottle of
water. Hey, peanut butter is protein, and the chocolate will give me energy. I
headed back to my pickup, hopped in and cranked the engine.

I drove west on Sailor’s Way; then drove over the two-mile
stretch of sandy beaches we traveled for my mom’s funeral and crossed over into
Los Angeles. Avenue of the Americas is lined with contemporary skyscrapers and
four-star hotels. I pulled into the underground parking garage of the building
where David Klein worked, retrieved a ticket and drove around until I located
the red convertible Porsche with H-O-T-B-O-D-Y on the license plate. I parked a
few cars away, ready to follow when he turned up.

Twenty minutes passed before I spotted him walking toward his
car. He looked different. In the photo, he looked like a clean-cut yuppie. In
person, he looked like one of those guys who partied at the underground raves.
He was dressed in black jeans, black t-shirt with neon skulls and a pair of
leather boots. His hair was longish, and he looked like he hadn’t shaved in a
few days. Being a process server, I guess there was no dress code. He was okay
looking, but I wouldn’t agree with the title on his license plate. I grabbed my
camera and took a few photos.

I heard two beeps, and realized he had a car alarm on the
Porsche and used a remote to turn it off. He walked around to the passenger
side, opened the door and dropped his leather bag on the seat. Two minutes
later the convertible top was down, and he was speeding out of the facility,
waiving his key-card at the electronic machine on the way out. Since I didn’t
have a key-card, I had to stop and pay the attendant, but keep my eye on the Porsche
at the same time.

Moments later, I caught up with him and tailed him from two
cars behind. I didn’t think he would catch on. He was rapping to the tunes from
his stereo that was amplified loud enough to be at a rock concert. We traveled
back toward the harbor, and drove past
the Sutter Beach Marina, where rows and
rows of sailboats and Yachts were docked. Then, he turned onto Stone Castle
Glade, a cobblestone street lined with pubs frequented by fishermen and
longshoremen who work at the harbor, and The Toscana - the trendy hide-away-pub
where Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton-type celebrities, were known to hang out.

His
Porsche cut down a back alley, and pulled to a stop behind an old brick building
that looked like it has been around since the beginning of time. Pigeons
flocked the area looking for scraps of food. I hung back in the pickup, and
zoomed in on David through the Porsche window with the lens of the camera.

Snap!
Snap! I took several shots. He put the convertible top back up, stepped out of
the car, and walked toward a large black door. He looked around, as if wary of
being followed; then used a key to open it and disappeared inside.

I drove
around to the front of the building, parked a couple blocks away and took in
the scenery with the camera. The place made me curious from the start. The
brick building was an old movie theatre, and looked like it was built in an
earlier century. Black lampposts were situated on the corners of the location,
and the fog that usually drifted in from the ocean, seemed to settle right
there. The Devil’s Door was engraved on an antique wood door, just to the left
of the old ticket box. The cobblestone street, and the image in front of the
brick building, reminded me of a scene in the movie:
Interview With a
Vampire
. It had the same eerie feel. I kept getting the feeling a vampire
was going to appear out of nowhere.

The
number on Summer’s phone bill came from The Devil’s Door. Did they take the old
movie theatre, and turn it into a private club? Was David a member? She said he
was a process server. They don’t make that much money. I was curious to say the
least.

Butt numbing surveillance was about to begin.

***

As early evening turned into night, I couldn’t help but be
amused. The paparazzi were on the street, hiding out in their SUV’s, snapping
photos and trying to be incognito from the young celebrities hanging out at The
Toscana. Why hide? Celebrities want to be seen. They pay their publicists big
money to keep their faces in the limelight.

Another thing my mom used to say: celebrities that were
frequently depicted on the cover of the tabloids were the ones with the best
publicists. Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton had some good publicists. I’m
thinking Lady Gaga and the Kardashians had the all-time best. Their faces
always glorified the front covers.

When the sun disappeared from sight, the activity picked up
at The Devil’s Door, as well. A large number of guys and gals showed up at the
same time. I guessed their ages to be about eighteen to twenty-five. I could
tell the guys came from wealthy families. They all showed up in expensive and
exotic sports cars - like you would regularly see driving down Rodeo Drive in
Beverly Hills. I saw an AudiR9, several BMWs and Porsche 911s, a Shelby GT500,
a couple Lamborghini’s and many others. That was some big money. A couple guys
that showed up were dropped off in stretch limousines. Was the private,
invitation-only club having one of their exclusive social gatherings? I snapped
photo after photo. When the front door opened, I saw a dark-haired girl sitting
on a stool behind a reception desk, with two buff guys acting as bouncers. Most
of the guests forked over a wad of cash to get inside.

Then, I noticed something interesting. When certain guests
arrived, instead of rolling out dough, they stepped up to an ultraviolet light
on the desk and placed their right wrist underneath it; then were given a nod
to go through. I zoomed in close with the camera lens. When the light hovered
over the skin, a tattoo of the face of a devil showed up on their wrist. Did
that mean the guests with a tattoo were official members of The Devil Doors?