Page 22 of The Man I Hate

“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?”