Bad Moon Rising

“Jeep Wrangler. I’ll get you the tags and specs and email them to you. Its black, nothing fancy. Sylvia thought it would be better for Bodhi if she didn’t stand out, didn’t make herself a target because she was the daughter of Sylvia Artell.”

I said, “So Bodhi drives a Rolls Royce Wraith instead, in an effort not to attract attention.”

“You see it. Sylvia can’t say no to her. It’s one of the things that drove me crazy when we were married. Still does.”

“When was the last time you saw your daughter?”

“Couple of weeks ago. I saw her with some people down by the Venice pier.”

“How many?”

“Four, I think, or five at most, because a couple of people were standing near, but not in the bunch.”

“Did you talk to Bodhi?”

“No, I waved, and she smiled and waved back. The people she was with circled around her real close after that and they all left together.”

“What did they look like?”

“Like an eighties band that’s not doing too well. Long haired guys with a few arm tats and heavy eyeliner.”

“No instruments?”

“One of them had a guitar hanging over his shoulder on a strap.”

“Acoustic or electric?”

“Acoustic.”

“Was there anything else that would help us pick them out?”

“I can’t think of anything.”

“Okay.” Hondo gathered up several photos and the papers as I said, “We’ll see what we can do. You have our numbers.”

We left, and Hondo said, “You want to go straight to see Sylvia, or start on something else first?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Bodhi’s apartment, then to Venice Beach. See if we can spot the guyliner gang.”

~*~

Bodhi’s apartment was the second floor – the entire second floor, of a two-story building on Rose Avenue, not far from the Rose Hotel. There were probably twenty beanbag chairs scattered around the large living room, a large flat-screen television on the wall, a mattress on the floor in the single bedroom, and a clean kitchen.

The refrigerator contained two jars of Snapple Peach-Tea, several bunches of wilting kale, and four unopened cups of Yoplait blueberry yogurt. Nothing else.

I called to Hondo, who was in the bedroom, “Anything?”

“Come look.”

I walked in as he opened the sliding doors on one of the two closets. Full of clothes, for several sizes of women, and men. A lot of the clothing appeared a decade or so old and some of the jeans were frayed at the cuffs. He tapped a wire coat hanger against his thigh. “Think she got those at Goodwill?”

“She had a lot of people staying here.”

“The guyliner gang?”

“Be my guess.”