description.”
“What’s he done?”
“Not a thing. From what I was told, he picked up a young lady and ran out on her afterward.
She wants to get in touch with him, that’s all.”
He stood and looked at me. “You’re a private detective.”
“That’s right.”
He and the other fellow exchanged a look.
The fellow said, “Help the woman. This is great.”
The bartender shrugged. “Sure, why not? What’s he look like?”
The waitress paused, listening in on the conversation with interest.
I mentioned the first name and description Mona’d given me. “The only other thing
I know about him is he drives an old silver Jaguar.”
“Gage Vesca,” the other fellow said promptly.
The bartender said, “Yeah, that’s him.”
“You know how I might get in touch?”
The other fellow shook his head and the bartender shrugged. “All I know is he’s a
jerk. The guy’s got a vanity license plate reads STALYUN if that tells you anything. Besides that, he just got married a couple months back.
He’s bad news. Better warn your client. He’ll screw anything that moves.”
“I’ll pass the word. Thanks.” I put a five-dollar bill on the bar and hopped down
off the stool, leaving the spritzer untouched.
“Hey, who’s the babe?” the bartender asked.
“Can’t tell you that,” I said, as I picked up my bag.
The waitress spoke up. “Well, I know which one she’s talking about. That girl in the
green-sequined dress.”
I WENT BACK TO my office and checked the telephone book. No listing for Vescas of any kind. Directory
Assistance didn’t have him either, so I put in a call to a friend of mine at the DMV
who plugged the license plate into the computer. The name Gage Vesca came up, with
an address in Montebello. I used my crisscross directory for a match and came up with
the phone number, which I dialed just to see if it was good. As soon as the maid said
“Vesca residence,” I hung up.
I put in a call to Mona Starling and gave her what I had, including the warning about
his marital status and his character references, which were poor. She didn’t seem
to care. After that, I figured if she pursued him, it was her lookout—and his. She
thanked me profusely before she rang off, relief audible in her voice.
That was Saturday.
Monday morning, I opened my front door, picked up the paper, and caught the headlines
about Gage Vesca’s death.
“Shit!”
He’d been shot in the head at close range sometime between two and six A.M. on Sunday, then crammed into the trunk of his Jaguar and left in the long-term parking
lot at the airport. Maybe somebody hoped the body wouldn’t be discovered for days.
Time enough to set up an alibi or pull a disappearing act. As it was, the trunk had
popped open and a passerby had spotted him. My hands were starting to shake. What
kind of chump had I been?
I tried Mona Starling’s number and got a busy signal. I threw some clothes on, grabbed
my car keys, and headed over to the Frontage Road address she’d given me. As I chirped
to a stop out front, a Yellow Cab pulled away from the curb with a lone passenger.
I checked the house number. A duplex. I figured the odds were even that I’d just watched
Mona split. She must have seen the headlines about the same time I did.
I took off again, craning for a glimpse of the taxi somewhere ahead. Beyond the next
intersection, there was a freeway on-ramp. I caught a flash of yellow and pursued
it. By keeping my foot to the floor and judiciously changing lanes, I managed to slide
in right behind the taxi as it took the airport exit. By the time the cab deposited
Mona at the curb out in front, I was squealing into the short-term lot with the parking
ticket held between my teeth. I shoved it in my handbag and ran.
The airport at Santa Teresa only has five gates, and it didn’t take much detecting
to figure out which one was correct. United was announcing a final
“What’s he done?”
“Not a thing. From what I was told, he picked up a young lady and ran out on her afterward.
She wants to get in touch with him, that’s all.”
He stood and looked at me. “You’re a private detective.”
“That’s right.”
He and the other fellow exchanged a look.
The fellow said, “Help the woman. This is great.”
The bartender shrugged. “Sure, why not? What’s he look like?”
The waitress paused, listening in on the conversation with interest.
I mentioned the first name and description Mona’d given me. “The only other thing
I know about him is he drives an old silver Jaguar.”
“Gage Vesca,” the other fellow said promptly.
The bartender said, “Yeah, that’s him.”
“You know how I might get in touch?”
The other fellow shook his head and the bartender shrugged. “All I know is he’s a
jerk. The guy’s got a vanity license plate reads STALYUN if that tells you anything. Besides that, he just got married a couple months back.
He’s bad news. Better warn your client. He’ll screw anything that moves.”
“I’ll pass the word. Thanks.” I put a five-dollar bill on the bar and hopped down
off the stool, leaving the spritzer untouched.
“Hey, who’s the babe?” the bartender asked.
“Can’t tell you that,” I said, as I picked up my bag.
The waitress spoke up. “Well, I know which one she’s talking about. That girl in the
green-sequined dress.”
I WENT BACK TO my office and checked the telephone book. No listing for Vescas of any kind. Directory
Assistance didn’t have him either, so I put in a call to a friend of mine at the DMV
who plugged the license plate into the computer. The name Gage Vesca came up, with
an address in Montebello. I used my crisscross directory for a match and came up with
the phone number, which I dialed just to see if it was good. As soon as the maid said
“Vesca residence,” I hung up.
I put in a call to Mona Starling and gave her what I had, including the warning about
his marital status and his character references, which were poor. She didn’t seem
to care. After that, I figured if she pursued him, it was her lookout—and his. She
thanked me profusely before she rang off, relief audible in her voice.
That was Saturday.
Monday morning, I opened my front door, picked up the paper, and caught the headlines
about Gage Vesca’s death.
“Shit!”
He’d been shot in the head at close range sometime between two and six A.M. on Sunday, then crammed into the trunk of his Jaguar and left in the long-term parking
lot at the airport. Maybe somebody hoped the body wouldn’t be discovered for days.
Time enough to set up an alibi or pull a disappearing act. As it was, the trunk had
popped open and a passerby had spotted him. My hands were starting to shake. What
kind of chump had I been?
I tried Mona Starling’s number and got a busy signal. I threw some clothes on, grabbed
my car keys, and headed over to the Frontage Road address she’d given me. As I chirped
to a stop out front, a Yellow Cab pulled away from the curb with a lone passenger.
I checked the house number. A duplex. I figured the odds were even that I’d just watched
Mona split. She must have seen the headlines about the same time I did.
I took off again, craning for a glimpse of the taxi somewhere ahead. Beyond the next
intersection, there was a freeway on-ramp. I caught a flash of yellow and pursued
it. By keeping my foot to the floor and judiciously changing lanes, I managed to slide
in right behind the taxi as it took the airport exit. By the time the cab deposited
Mona at the curb out in front, I was squealing into the short-term lot with the parking
ticket held between my teeth. I shoved it in my handbag and ran.
The airport at Santa Teresa only has five gates, and it didn’t take much detecting
to figure out which one was correct. United was announcing a final
Similar Books
