“I wish I could help you more, but Gabby quit working for me six months ago,” Nancy Sharp said. She was a trim, athletic-looking woman with premature silver hair, shoeless, in black yoga pants and a loose purple shirt that hit her right above the knees. Behind the door, dogs barked and made a lot of racket, Sharp having to shush them and push them back with her hands. Their names were Nanook and Willy.
“I’ll take what I can get,” I said. “Right now Nanook and Willy know more than me.”
“And her mother?” she said.
“Worried sick,” I said. “Can you help?” “Of course.”
She invited me into a classic 1930s Spanish bungalow with stucco walls and a barrel-tile roof. Outside, the landscaping was bougainvillea, lavender, oleander, and some interesting-looking big orange flowers. Some other stuff I could not identify, but knew would never make it through a Boston winter. West Hollywood seemed as exotic as a trip to Bora Bora.
As I entered, the dogs charged me and began to sniff my legs and hands. I got down on my knees and offered my hands, petting an old brown dachshund with a graying muzzle.
“That’s Willy.” “Hello, Willy,” I said.
Nanook was much more suspicious, a big Siberian husky with the trademark mismatched eyes, who stood on a couch, barking at me. It wasn’t a mean bark, just a courteous warning. I let her sniff my hand, too. Whatever my smell, it seemed to satisfy her as I took a seat nearby, Sharp still standing.
It was a pleasant little house with what looked to be original hardwood floors and a small kitchen with an arched entrance framed in Spanish tile. A cup of hot tea sat on a coffee table in front of the leather couch and a television showing the local news was on mute. A small wooden bookshelf overflowed with meditations on Eastern philosophy and best-selling self-help authors. A medium-sized gong had been situated before a large brown sitting pillow.
The room smelled like the inside of a Cambridge tea shop. “Her mother said Gabby mentioned you often.”
“I liked Gabby a lot,” Sharp said. “I’m sorry. Would you like anything to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“I have some good local beer.” “When in L.A ”
She walked off into the kitchen and returned with an Angel City IPA. She popped the cap and handed it to me. I could see why Gabby Leggett liked Nancy Sharp. The woman liked dogs and had a fridge full of good beer. I decided she was a good and decent person.
“What can you tell me about Gabby?” “What do you know?” she said.
“I know she worked as a model and wanted to be an actress,” I said. “She was beautiful and some say talented. And I know she has many fans on Instagram wondering why she hasn’t posted in a while.”
“How many is she up to now?”
“Forty thousand and some change,” I said.
“She only had about five or six thousand when she started working for me,” Sharp said, taking a seat by Nanook and tucking her bare feet up under her. “She’s moved up in the world.”
Sharp reached for the hot tea while I sipped the beer. On the television, the news headlines scrolled 4.0 quake strikes near alta vista.
“Did something change?”
“Gabby became a lot more aggressive with her social media,” she said. “She cultivated famous people to follow her and repost. She did a lot of stuff in bathing suits. Some seminude. Not that I’m some kind of prude. Lots of nice trips down to Mexico with beautiful friends and a beautiful life. Parties on the beach. Cocktails at the best clubs.”
“I often drink mimosas in a thong,” I said.
“Ha,” she said. “I bet. But for this generation, your life is not fully lived unless you’re sharing it with the world.”
“I prefer just to be.”
“Exactly,” she said. “I’d rather just experience what I’m seeing without a buffer, be in the moment rather than recording it for everyone else.”
“I only take pictures when people are doing very bad things.” “Cheaters.”
“Sometimes,” I said. “But I prefer to eschew divorce cases. Unless money is really low. Or the money they offer is really good.”
“And who hired you to search for Gabby?”
“Three days ago the police got involved, but her mother wasn’t satisfied with what they knew or had learned. She asked me to come out here.”“Her mother, Amanda,” I said. “Three days ago the police got involved, but her mother wasn’t satisfied with what they knew or had learned. She asked me to come out here.”
“And your services don’t come cheap.”
“Nope,” I said. “They don’t. Although I did fly coach.” “You look too big for coach.”
“Premium economy,” I said. “I need the legroom.”
“Have you been to Los Angeles before?” she said. She held the tea in one hand and brushed back her straight silver hair with long fingers. Willy pawed at her legs to get up on the couch, his diminutive legs not quite able to make the leap from the floor. She pulled him up and he found a comfortable place in Nancy’s lap. The two dogs continued to eye me with suspicion.
“A few times,” I said. “Know people?”
“A few,” I said.
“And do you fear the worst?”
“I don’t have much to go on,” I said. “But I’ve come across a few details that cause me some concern. Did she ever mention a boy named Eric Collinson?”
“I know Eric,” she said. “He was an agent of some kind at one of the big ones. ICM. Or maybe Endeavor. One of those Ivy League hipster types. Always backpacking in Argentina or heading up to wine country. He lives quite a curated, beautiful life, too.”
I named the agency and she nodded.
“I know they had a rough breakup,” she said. She had to lift her chin and hold her mug high as Willy tried to lick her face.
“Eric was completely obsessed with her and wouldn’t let her breathe. After they broke up, I told her to find a new agent.”
“And why didn’t she?”
“Apparently Eric is very good,” she said. “And very connected.” “Was he abusive?”
“Not that I know of,” he said. “But he called her all the time. She had to draw some boundaries between the personal and professional.”
“Eric let me into her apartment today,” I said. “I can’t say we hit it off. He was reluctant to discuss Gabby.”
“Eric was smitten,” she said. “Gabby was beautiful and very popular. She went from a gee-whiz kid from the East Coast to a big- time player on the party scene.”
“I doubt dog walking is that lucrative,” I said. “Even in L.A.” “She made a decent amount making commercials,” she said. “I
seem to recall something for Carl’s Jr. where she had to eat a cheese- burger in a string bikini.”
“We’ve all been there,” I said.
She laughed and reached over Willy to put down the tea. I smelled curry coming from the kitchen. Several brown bags of gro- ceries waited on a table near the stove.
“Did you know any of her other friends?”
Sharp shook her head. “Other than Eric, I couldn’t tell you,” she said. “When she was here I was at work. We had some pleasant conversations, but often just in passing or when I was paying her for watching these guys.”
“Where do you work?”
“I do on-set publicity for film and TV,” she said. “I volunteer a little for a nonprofit.”
“Eric mentioned she had a new boyfriend, but didn’t give me a name.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said. “Have you talked to her friends?”
“My associate is on that,” I said. I had drained the beer to the halfway point. “He has more cred with the young people.”
“That happens fast,” she said. “Doesn’t it?”
“‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light . . . ’”
“There can’t be that many literate detectives out there.” “Only one that I know,” I said.
“I guess you want to find the new guy?”
“Yep,” I said. “We’re going to a place called the Mirabeau to- night. Eric mentioned a friend of Gabby’s named KiKi worked there.”
“Are you on the list?” “Nope.”
“I can help with that,” she said. “One of the perks of being a publicist. I can open a few doors.”
I finished the beer and stood. I thanked her for her time, left the empty bottle on her kitchen counter, and bent down to tell Willy good-bye. I scratched his long, soft ears. Willy licked my hand.
“They’re good judges of character.” I smiled. “The best.”
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” “Thank you,” I said. “But duty calls.”
“Perhaps later, then?” she said. Sharp walked me to the door and leaned her bare shoulder against the frame. Like Gabby, she was quite lithe and had large green eyes.
“I would,” I said. “But my girlfriend and dog back home might get jealous. Especially the dog.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see a wedding ring. And you sounded like fun.”
“More than a barrel of monkeys,” I said.
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From Robert B. Parker’s Angel Eyes by Ace Atkins. Used with the permission of the publisher, Putnam. Copyright © 2019 by Ace Atkins.
