“So what happened?” Jessie asked, morbidly fascinated.
“Well, this went on for several years. Mr. Hemsley is a lawyer and he seemed to enjoy the endless court battles. But the law was on the side of the MBSHOA and he started racking up significant fines, which he refused to pay. That only increased the subsequent fines. Eventually he was over five hundred thousand dollars in arrears. That’s when the court told him he had to pay everything at once or have the home seized.”
“Did he pay?” Ryan asked, clearly as curious as Jessie.
“Eventually, yes,” Nancy said. “But not without strings. He ended up selling his house for well below market value and using some of that money to pay off the fines. It seemed he wanted to intentionally lower the property value. He also made sure to sell the home to people we later learned weren’t really Strand types. We would have tried to get them removed as well, if being nouveau riche social climbers wasn’t against the bylaws.”
Nancy shook her head, appalled at the very thought of the unpleasantness.
“So where is Hemsley now?” Jessie asked.
“He’s still in Manhattan Beach. But he’s moved slightly inland. Now he lives in Manhattan Township. Have you heard of it?”
Jessie and Ryan shook their heads.
“It’s a gated community,” she said with just a hint of superiority. “They have their own HOA, thank god. The homes are smaller and more tightly packed together. But they have excellent security. Frankly, I think he moved there just to create havoc for a new set of people.”
“Where is this place?” Ryan asked.
“Just off Marine Avenue. It’s about a five-minute drive from here. You shouldn’t have much trouble finding him.”
“Why is that?” Jessie asked.
“I suspect the guards will happily take you to him. I hear everyone there hates him too.”
*
Nancy was right.
The guard at the main gate to Manhattan Township turned up his nose at the mere mention of Barnard Hemsley’s name, though he had to fight off a slight smile when he learned the LAPD wanted to question him. He offered to lead them to the man’s house and they accepted.
As he drove ahead of them slowly, Jessie took in the homes in the neighborhood. They weren’t all that different from the houses one might find in any well-to-do, cookie cutter suburban community. There were only a few real distinctions.
One was that Manhattan Township abutted a major movie studio lot and a nine-hole golf course. They could see multiple soundstages in the distance when they crested the rolling hills and the fairway for the seventh hole when they descended. Another difference was that the entire neighborhood was completely enclosed, only accessible through manned security gates. Once inside, there was no way of guessing that they were in one of the most expensive zip codes in America.
The guard slowed to a crawl as they reached a house at the top of a hill, with a view in every direction. Ryan pulled up next to him.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” he asked.
“Are you kidding?” the guard said. “I already have to deal with that guy about twice a week. There’s no way I’m going to interact with him if I don’t have to, not even to see him brought down a peg. Besides, I think your badges will make more of an impression than any introduction from me.”
“Any advice?” Jessie asked.
The guard smile wryly.
“If you were a neighbor or delivery person or a new guard, I’d suggest take a Zen approach and say don’t let him get under your skin. But you’re cops, so I say do your worst. I’d love for him to try to resist you guys and pay the consequences. Good luck.”
He drove off, leaving them to deal with the neighbor from hell on their own. They parked on the street in front of his sizable home and walked up the cobblestone path to his front door. The sun was just starting to set and the orange-tinted light reflected off a small lake on the golf course below.
If not for the anxiety of the task at hand, Jessie might have wanted to linger on the moment. Ryan, who was focused exclusively on the task at hand, didn’t notice. Before she could mention it, he knocked on the door. While they waited, Jessie thought she heard the distinct sound of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” coming from somewhere inside. She hadn’t even met him and the guy was already a cliché.
After about thirty seconds without a response, Ryan rang the doorbell and knocked louder. Jessie was pretty sure that right after that, she heard the song volume go up. She glanced over at Ryan, who nodded to indicate that he’d noticed it too. They waited another thirty seconds, after which Ryan turned to her with that steely, severe gaze she never liked to be on the receiving end of.
“Two can play this game,” he growled. He began pounding on the door loudly and relentlessly, and then added, “You want to make sure that doorbell’s still working?”
Jessie knew what he wanted and pushed the button once, then again and again, until she lost count. It took another full minute before the door finally unlocked. They heard Barnard Hemsley before they saw him.
“Whose ass do I need to kick tonight?’ he shouted as the door swung open.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Barnard Hemsley was a mess of a human being.
Though he was only about five foot nine, he had to weigh at least 250 pounds. His thinning, clearly dyed black hair looked shaggy and wild, like it hadn’t been brushed in days. He wore cargo shorts and a bright pink, loose-fitting, short-sleeved button-down shirt that was open to his sternum, exposing his grayish, equally wild chest chair. He had on sunglasses despite the lack of sun and the fact that he was indoors. He looked to be in his late-thirties, though his doughy complexion, wrinkles, and blemish-covered skin suggested hard living well beyond his years.
His question about whose ass he needed to kick lingered in the air as he took his visitors in. Even with the sunglasses hiding his reaction, Jessie could tell that he sensed he wasn’t in the presence of just another neighbor couple.
“Who are you?” he demanded, his mistrustful voice mixing appropriately with the Metallica lyrics in the background, something about sleeping with one eye open.
“Are you Barnard Hemsley?” Ryan demanded, taking the initiative.
“What’s it to you?” Hemsley asked petulantly. The smell of bourbon on his breath was strong.
“I’m a detective with the Los Angeles Police Department. We have a few questions for Mr. Hemsley.”
“What if I said he wasn’t here?”
Just then, a ghostly pale, painfully skinny brunette wearing bikini bottoms and a half T-shirt with the phrase “my boobs are down here” scrawled across the chest appeared in the hallway behind him.
“Where did you hide the coke, Barney?” she called out before seeing they had guests and unconvincingly adding, “You know I like it better than Pepsi.”
Ryan looked at the guy with a mix of annoyance and pity.
“Barney,” he said calmly. “This can go smooth or bumpy. It’s up to you. Answer our questions honestly and we might be out of your…hair in a few minutes. Make things difficult and it could be a long night for you and your Pepsi-loving companion.”