Robert Crenshaw was the attorney of choice for LA County’s upper crust. Professional sports stars, musicians, actors, movie producers and celebrities of all types utilized his services.
He rarely went to trial, but when he did, he embarrassed the opposition.
The epitome of good health and sound mind, he wore his age of sixty-two years extremely well. An intimidating man in and out of the courtroom, the mere mention of his name caused the DA’s office to cringe. His stature and the stern look permanently etched on his face caused everyone else to do so.
A small portion of his time was spent defending legal cases. The remainder of it was devoted to making problems disappear long before his clients were charged with a crime.
Facing the desk, Pratt stood in the far corner of Crenshaw’s office, attempting to peel the wrapper off a miniature sucker he’d received from a bank teller.
Seated in a chair at the opposite side of the office, I mulled over the proposed assignment.
Pratt pulled the sucker past his lips with a pop! “This is the same girl we picked up three or four years ago? Over and over?” He looked at the lollipop like he’d never seen one before. After a thorough inspection, he poked the blue candy sphere back into his mouth. “The producer’s daughter? Weinberg, or whatever his name is?”
Crenshaw diverted his attention from the stack of paperwork he held. “That is correct. Mica Weinberg.”
“She’s got to be, what, twenty-one years old?” I asked.
“Twenty-two,” Crenshaw replied, meeting my gaze. He seemed annoyed that I’d asked. “Why?”
The last time I’d seen Weinberg’s daughter she was seventeen years old.
The first time we found her, a San Diego Chargers VIP aftergame party had turned into a week-long session of her abusing drugs, screwing half the football team, and allowing them to record the events in a video. We removed her, the recordings, and her father’s wrecked Bentley from the estate.
Upon learning her age, we were both shocked. Lip injections, breast enhancement surgery, and an endless high-end wardrobe allowed her to pass for being much older.
At the time, keeping her whereabouts out of the news was her father’s main concern.
Three weeks later, we found her in the bed of an up-and-coming recording artist, naked. Her clothes, purse, and Maserati were nowhere to be found.
Three months later, a matter of weeks before her high school graduation, she’d disappeared again. Topless and sprawled out beside the pool of a professional basketball player’s Torrey Pines mansion, she seemed to be having the time of her life.
“The last time you had us pick her up, she was a senior in high school,” I explained. “Now, she’s an adult. She can do whatever she pleases. Weinberg might not like it, but he doesn’t have any say in the matter.”
Crenshaw set the paperwork aside and sharpened his gaze. “He certainly does have a say in the matter. He’s her father. He’s concerned with her coming in contact with someone who may be infected.”
“With what?” I asked.
“COVID-19, of course,” he replied.
Pratt glanced in my direction and raised his brows. I felt like laughing but refrained. I shifted my attention to Crenshaw. “COVID-19, of course.”
“Are we in agreement?” he asked.
“To what extent are we to encourage the boyfriend to keep his distance?” I asked.
Crenshaw locked eyes with me. “Whatever length is necessary.”
“Make it a hundred grand,” I said. “If this guy lives in Calabasas, he’s not some low-level thug. This won’t be a walk in the park. It’s going to take some planning.”
He shifted his gaze to Pratt.
Pratt pulled the sucker from his mouth. “It’ll be a bitch. Surveillance. Half a day of recon. One man extracts the girl while two or three others secure the residence and its occupants. Then, there’s the boyfriend. I don’t know the guy, but my guess is if he’s in some Calabasas mansion, he’s wrapped up in something illegal. Probably drugs. With dope, there’s always guns. The dope and guns mix means he’ll be crazy and armed. It’s not a good combination. He’s going to be pissed that we’re taking his flavor of the month. Violence and torture will be the only way to—”
“Stop!” Crenshaw raised his hand as if offended by Pratt’s theories. “I don’t want to hear the details.” He looked at me. “Fine. Return her to my office without harm. One hundred thousand.”
I stood. I tugged the wrinkles from the sleeves of my jacket. “I’ll be in touch.”
Calabasas was home to many who saw inner Los Angeles as overcrowded and violent. The city contained an eclectic mixture of properties. Modular homes in a mobile home park sold for $250,000, while golf community mansions were listed for $25,000,000 or more. Situated in a neighborhood on a hill, the boyfriend’s residence was a secluded home valued at $12,000,000.
The large trees and lush landscape filling the half-acre lot gave the owner a sense of separation from the remote neighbors. The dense foliage provided us reassurance that our actions weren’t going to end up recorded by a neighbor—and then appear on the six o’clock news.
Pleased that there wasn’t a gate to contend with, I eased my way up the palm tree-lined brick driveway. I came to a stop at the front of the sprawling Mediterranean residence no differently than if I owned the place.
Pratt methodically screwed the silencer to the end of his pistol’s barrel. He shoved the weapon into the holster hidden inside his name-emblazoned work coat. He reached for his utility belt. “I’ll follow your lead.”
I exited the vehicle and looked the place over. The landscape—and the home’s exterior—were meticulously maintained. I caught Pratt’s gaze and turned toward the house. Clutching an aluminum clipboard in his left hand, he accompanied me to the front door.
As I searched for the doorbell, the door opened. A lean twenty-something Latina female stood in the opening.
Loose-fitting gray sweats hung low on her shapely hips. A ribbed white tank clung to her unsupported breasts. Upon seeing us, she raked her fingers through the sides of her curly shoulder-length brown hair.
“Good afternoon.” Wearing an ever so slight smile, she alternated glances between us. “How can I help you?”
She had no discernable accent and spoke with humble authority. I wondered if she was one of the boyfriend’s many female companions.
I reached into my jacket and produced a business card. The official-looking ADT Security cards had proven useful on many previous similar occasions.
“We’re with ADT Security,” I said, handing her the card. “Can we speak with the owner of the home?”
She studied the card. Upon satisfying herself that it was legitimate, she met my gaze with a smile. “I’m Sophia Santos,” she said. “The homeowner.”
The home was listed as being owned by Samuel Santos. Instead of challenging her, I nodded in agreement.
“We’ve had a series of problems with the security systems in the area that were installed between 2005 and 2015,” I explained. “Sadly, the motherboard isn’t allowing the system to communicate with the main switchboard during an intrusion. We’re in the neighborhood this morning hoping to check the sequence numbers of all applicable systems. If it’s in need of replacement, we’ll get it scheduled for first thing next week with the repair division. May we come in? It should only take a few minutes.”