Private Vegas (Private 9)
“Please keep me out of this,” said Tong. “One of these insects set fire to my car. Next time, they could set fire to me.”
Chapter 74
JUSTINE PHONED CHARLES Boyd Jr., the first name on Peter Tong’s alphabetically organized suspect list. Boyd was seventeen, an A student, in the honor society, a math wonk. Tong had added a note next to the boy’s name: A vicious little centipede. A tease. A plotter. A bully. Smart, but also dumb. His parents donated three million—yes, three followed by six zeros—to the gym-renovation fund. They own strip malls.
The Boyd residence on Malibu Road was an impeccable, many-windowed modern beach house with an unobstructed view of the Pacific. The front gates opened for Scotty and Justine’s fleet car, and Scotty parked on the gravel near the entrance of the house.
Boyd had told Justine to just come in, and in fact, after ringing the bell a number of times, Scotty realized that the door was open.
The two investigators stood in the foyer taking in the drama of waves crashing ahead of them, right outside the living-room windows. Scotty said, “I’ve actually never seen anything like this. I don’t ever want to leave. In fact, I think I could live here and no one would even know.”
Justine laughed. It was breathtaking. It was as if there were no walls, just white sofas and exotic animal skins on shining hardwood floors that led out to a pool, a deck, and then the beach. The anthemic sounds of Florence and the Machine singing “Never Let Me Go” pounded over expensive, unseen speakers.
“Um. Let’s follow the music,” Justine said.
Following the music took Justine and Scotty through many splendid rooms, all of them empty until they reached the second floor and what was likely a bedroom. The music was turned to “deafening.” The walls vibrated.
Justine knocked on the door, calling, “Charles, it’s Dr. Smith.” But her voice was overwhelmed by the music. So Scotty beat on the door with the heels of his palms and yelled, “Charles, open the damned door.”
Florence and the Machine cooled their jets, and the door cracked open, releasing the heady aroma of pot.
Justine said, “Charles, I’m Dr. Smith. I called you, remember?”
The kid’s face was slack, his pupils the size of Frisbees in bloodshot eyes. He wore a stained school T-shirt and red plaid boxers. His room was a rich kid’s playpen, decorated by a pro and equipped with every favorite accessory of a teenage boy.
“Welcome to my abode,” Charles Boyd said, making a dramatic bow.
Behind him, a teenage girl wearing only sheer black panties laughed.
Chapter 75
THE TEENAGE GIRL sprawled across the California king. She was thin, with translucent skin and dark, messy hair. She raised herself on one elbow, looked sleepily in the direction of the open door, said, “Could you…turn up the music?”
The two kids were drinking and stoned, but still awake.
Justine crossed the room, opened all of the windows. Then she went to the side of the bed, picked up a cotton pullover and a pair of jeans from the floor, said to the girlfriend, “What’s your name?”
“Jess. Ica.”
“Jessica, put these on, please.”
“But. I just took them off.”
Charles Boyd lurched toward the bed and took a menacing stance between the girl and Justine.
“Leave her alone,” he said.
Justine gave Boyd a little shove. He lost his balance and toppled sideways onto the mattress. The teens giggled, clutched at each other, and rolled around, ignoring Justine and Scotty entirely.
Scotty said, “Are you guys insane?”
He picked up an open bottle from the floor, capped it with his thumb, shook it up, then showered the kids with beer.
The girl shouted, “Hey. What? Are you doing?”
Scotty plucked a blanket from the floor and tossed it at the girl, saying, “Cover up.” Then he brought a chair over to the foot of the bed and sat down.
“We’re not the police,” said Scotty. “We’re private investigators. If you help us, we’re gone. If you don’t help us, we’ll call the cops, who will charge you with possession. Then they’ll interrogate you for three days until they get everything they need to charge you with murder.”