Scavenger Hunt
Table of Contents
In memory of Jack Olsen
God better not have any skeletons in his closet
ACCLAIM FOR ROBERT FERRIGNO AND SCAVENGER HUNT
“Ferrigno has a gift for creating confrontations of high impact, and his dialogue bites hard. Like other inheritors of the Ham-met–Chandler–Ross Macdonald private-eye tradition, he balances the tough doings with a strong sense of moral outrage and compassion.” —
Los
Angeles Times Book Review
“More than the usual share of macabre fun
.
. . . As amusing as it is morally repugnant.” —The New York Times
“Every few years another writer is described as the next Raymond Chandler, but Ferrigno may be the real thing. . . . His [thrillers] keep blowing up in your face.” —
Entertainment
Weekly
“[The] master of hard-knuckled noir thrillers pens another winner.” —Seattle Post-Intelligencer
“Robert Ferrigno is one of a handful of talented authors who keep L.A. in its place for the rest of us. . . . Ferrigno knows his way around the traditional L.A. crime story, and he’s deft at leading the reader through a less-than-sunny world where image is everything and murder is an unfortunate byproduct of getting ahead.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“A gritty and realistic tour of Southern California, from drive-by shootings in Orange County to porn-shooting in the San Fernando Valley.” —
San
Jose Mercury News
“[A] dark, coked-up tale of Hollywood gone bad, an amusing ride with twists, turns, and stomach-lurching moments.” —
Seattle
Weekly
“Ferrigno drops you in the middle of the action so that the sweat plasters your hair to your scalp and you can’t catch your breath. ... A state-of-the-art whodunnit.” —Haddon Herald
“Ferrigno hits all the right notes. . . . The plot is a real work of art, an unpredictable roller-coaster ride. . . . Unique.” —
East
Bay Express
“With an Elmore Leonardesque knack for lean, mean prose and searing dialogue, Ferrigno looks at people on the edge and why they find themselves leaning over a precipice of life. Ferrigno knows how to keep the reader off kilter.” —
Ft.
Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“Hard to put down. This is the second story Ferrigno has described through the eyes of Jimmy Gage. One can hope more will follow.” —The Roanoke Times
“[
Scavenger
Hunt
] finds [the author] at the top of his game. Ferrigno’s plot is distinguished by a combination of caustic social commentary and black comedic irony.” —Book
“Fast-paced. . . . Populated with a seedy assortment of lowlifes and high-flyers; the plotting is intricate . . . and the tone darkly comical.” —BookPage
“Devastating—and entertaining. . . . A mystery of real complexity, involving all the baser motives. . . . A pleasure to read.” —
Publishers
Weekly
Acknowledgments
My appreciation to my editor, Sonny Mehta, for his clarity and insight, to Mary Evans, my agent, for her sharp wit and encouragement, to Kim Duddy of the King County Crime Scene Investigations Unit, for her forbearance and good humor in response to my many questions, and to James Crumley, a most excellent Halloween companion. I am also endebted to M. Lee Goff’s A Fly for the Prosecution, for its wealth of information about forensic entomology.
Prologue
“How did
you
get in here?”
Sugar stood in the doorway between the anteroom and her office, hands in the pockets of his blue suit jacket. “Gee, April, that doesn’t sound too friendly.”
“I was expecting you to call me with an update—you picked a funny time to come by in person.” April McCoy picked up the cigarette smoldering in the clamshell ashtray on her white desk and took a short tentative drag, then stubbed it out. The clamshell was filled with broken butts, their filters ringed with red. “Did everything go all right? I haven’t heard anything on the radio.”
Sugar surveyed the office. “I always wondered what this place looked like. It’s nice.”
April watched him from behind her desk, eyes narrowed, resting her bulk on her forearms—three hundred pounds if she was an ounce, but well groomed, powdered, and manicured, every frosted hair in place, her dress black and billowy. Nice to see a big girl with her vanity intact, particularly in L.A., where the women thought they had to be built like linguini. “Heather did what she was supposed to?”
“A real trouper,” Sugar assured her. “Just like you said.”
April relaxed slightly. “Heather’s young, but she has a good head on her shoulders, that’s what’s important. A lot of the young ones . . .” She dabbed at her lipstick with a fat pinkie. “I don’t need to bother you with my troubles.”
“Taking care of troubles—that’s my job
and
my pleasure.” Sugar ambled inside. He was a hefty boy too, not in April’s weight class, but a big and tall shopper, proud of his bulk, pleased with everything about himself, not in some loud and flashy way—he hated that—but he knew who he was. Too many people had to work at liking themselves, overspending, overselling, overmedicating. But Sugar—he had seen it all, and he measured up just fine.
It was almost midnight, the dingy office building deserted except for her office on the eighth floor. Sugar had taken the stairs, feeling his heart pounding as he took the steps two and three at a time, kicking up dust. Most of the lights in the hallway on the eighth floor had burned out. Sugar had moved quietly through the puddles of darkness on the balls of his feet, past the Asian food importer and the prosthetic limb supply company and the immigration attorney who had a lucrative sideline in slip-and-fall cases. The eighth floor smelled of sack lunches left unrefrigerated too long.
April lit up another cigarette, her many rings flashing. She blew smoke at him. “How
did
you get in here, anyway?”
Sugar shrugged.
Ashes tumbled onto the white surface of the desk, and April backhanded them, left a dirty smear.
Sugar stopped in front of her bookcase. There wasn’t a book in it, but plenty of photos: April with that black kid who was the white guy’s sidekick on a TV show that got canceled last year, April with that girl singer who was supposed to be the next Britney Spears but wasn’t. Lots of photos of April with shiny young men and women who he was probably supposed to recognize but didn’t. One of those fancy AM-FM radios was on the top shelf, tuned to a New Age music station, which was a waste of technology if you asked him.
“Were you able to take her home afterward?” asked April. “I know I’m just being an old mother hen—”
“You’re not old. Not by a long shot.”
April absently touched her hair. “So did you give her a ride home?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not
exactly
? What does that mean?” April’s voice croaked when she was nervous, which was not really a good quality for a talent agent or business manager or whatever it was she thought she did for a living. It seemed to Sugar that when you negotiated for your supper, it was important to hold something back.
“Not exactly means there were complications, but I took care of them.” Sugar’s own voice was warm and buttery, as soothing as prescription cough syrup. Good times and bad, his voice maintained its resonant timbre. A few years back he had broken his right leg in an auto accident on the 405, lacerated his scalp too, a flap of hair hanging over his ear. He didn’t remember much about the car crash itself, but he still could see the look on the firefighter’s face as he used the jaws of life on the crumpled Ford, the young fellow shaking as he worked to cut him free, disconcerted by Sugar’s easy manner, his bad knock-knock jokes and mock apologies for all the blood.
“Heather is a fine little actress.” April took another drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out. Judging from the ashtray, she never smoked them down past halfway—she probably thought that it was the last half that would kill her. “Heather—she knows what she wants, and she knows what it takes to get it. Knows how to keep her mouth shut too.” April’s eyes were hard behind the smoke. “A special girl.”
“Fresh off the griddle, that’s what I asked for.”
April lit another cigarette. “And that’s what I gave you. You remember that. One hand washes the other, Sugar.”
“Rub-a-dub-dub.” Sugar smiled, then walked to one of the large windows overlooking the street and placed his hands under the two handles.
“Don’t bother trying. That thing’s been stuck since Noah took his boat ride.”
Sugar lifted, putting his back into it. The window creaked, then slid all the way up, and he felt the breeze cool against his sweaty forehead, heard the hum of the freeway in the distance.
“Well, that’s a first,” said April.
Sugar looked out at the night. The surrounding buildings were dark, the street deserted. “It was getting hard to breathe in here.”
“Don’t you start on me.” April tapped out her cigarette after just a couple drags, then bent forward, coughing into her fist. “You remember what I said about one hand washing the other,” she warned. “Heather has a lot of talent, but we both know what that’s worth without the right connections. A good word whispered in the proper ear . . .”
“I hear you. If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your slice? Fifteen percent?”
April had lovely dimples. “Thirty-five.”
Sugar whistled.
April nodded toward the file cabinet. “Ironclad too. You’d be surprised at how many try to beat me out of my commission. It’s enough to shake my faith in humanity.”
“You have to trust people. Otherwise, what’s the point of living?” Sugar dimmed the lights, then tuned the radio to an oldies station, caught Aretha Franklin in the middle of “Chain of Fools.” He walked to the desk and held his hands out. “May I have this dance?”
April stared at him.
Sugar beckoned. “Come on, beautiful, don’t leave me out here all alone.”
“Are you serious?” April laughed, embarrassed. “You
are
.”
“Nothing wrong with a little celebration. You and me, we’re just little people, but look what we did tonight.” Sugar smiled at her and saw her doubts melt. It
was
a good smile, full of strong, white teeth and humor. “We made it happen, girl. We shook things up good. One way or the other, Heather is going to be famous.”
April hesitated.
Sugar folded his hands in prayer.
April got slowly to her feet, moved around from behind the desk. She looked toward the doorway, as though afraid they were going to get caught, then saw him looking and blushed. “It’s—it’s been a while since I’ve been asked to dance.”
“No accounting for taste, is there?” Sugar put one hand on her hip, the two of them swaying to the music, a little awkward at first, at least until she relaxed and let him lead, Sugar slipping his arm halfway around her waist, dancing closer now.
April giggled as he swept her across the carpet, amazed at his strength and poise, his deft moves. “You make me feel light as a feather.”
Sugar held her tight, effortlessly lifting her off her feet as they glided around the room. She was a big girl, but she felt small in his arms, and the sensation was like an electric current traveling between them, warm and intimate as a stolen kiss. “‘Chain, chain, chain,’” he crooned, “ ‘chain of fools.’ ”
April rested her head against his shoulder, inhaling his aftershave. “Aqua Velva,” she murmured. “It’s been a long time since I smelled that.”
“I’m just an old-fashioned guy.” Sugar nuzzled her hair as he danced her round and round the room, and she gave in to him too, letting him whirl her faster and faster until he lost his footing and the two of them stumbled toward the open window. He pulled her back just in time, her knee already on the low sill, caught her as she started to scream. “That was a close call,” he said, holding her tighter, his pulse pounding in his ears.
April disengaged herself, out of breath, shaking. She tried to close the window, leaning on the handles, tugging away without budging it. “S-sorry, Sugar,” she gasped, her face flushed. “I’m so clumsy—”
“It wasn’t your fault. I’m the one with the two left feet.” Sugar put his arms around her again. She tried to push him away, but he had the dancing fever now. “Let’s just finish out the song. Come on, beautiful, just this one song, and I’ll let you go.”
April stared into his eyes, searching for something, not sure what she was looking for. She finally nodded, giving in, but her body was stiffer now, her neck moist, and the moment of grace between them was lost.
Sugar moved to the music, trying to keep pace with Aretha’s soulful lament of helpless love. The song was almost over. “‘Chain, chain, chain...’”, he started.
“Did you remember to tell Heather not to contact me?” said April, trying to bring things back to business.
Sugar didn’t answer.
“Did you tell her?” April kept looking around as he danced her across the room in widening arcs, her hair flying like party streamers as he spun her off her feet again. “Sugar—” she gulped, eyes wild. “Sugar, I’m getting dizzy.”
“Shhhhhhhhhh,” he said, whirling faster now, a frantic pirouette.
“Sugar,
please
!”
Sugar pivoted on his hip and effortlessly tossed April headfirst through the open window. Nothing but net. An eight-story drop was hardly enough time to get out a good scream, but April gave it her best shot. He stood in the window, looked at her lying face-down on the sidewalk, one arm outstretched, reaching for the gutter, her rings gleaming in the streetlight. Rings on her fingers, bells on her toes. “Tell Heather, yourself.”
The wind caught April’s billowy black dress and hiked it up, exposing her pale thighs. If Sugar were a gentleman, he would have rushed right down there, tugged her hemline down, and maintained her modesty, but he stayed where he was, not moving until he saw headlights turn the corner at the end of the block. He stepped back into the room, pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, and went through the file cabinet. Heather Grimm’s contract was at the very front of the G folder. Such high hopes, it was kind of touching.
Sugar took one last look around. April had probably been coming into this office for years now, coming in every morning, working the phone all day behind that cheap white desk, dreaming of hooking the big one, sitting there year after year. You’d think that after all that time a part of her would remain, some kind of lingering aura. But Sugar couldn’t feel her presence, not at all. April had left the building. He was almost at the door when he turned around, went to the bookcase, and turned the radio back to the New Age station, wiping the knob clean. He could still hear her music playing as he walked down the hall, like an echo that April had left behind. It was something to think about on the drive home.
