A CHANGE OF SCENE

Santa Monica is up against the ocean. Five miles or so to the east, you'll find Westwood, and in Westwood you'll find UCLA and a lot of movie houses. Between the two is Brentwood, where the rents are more reasonable than Westwood or Santa Monica. That was why I was looking for a place to rent in Brentwood, while I tried to adjust to the fact that, big as New York was, I kept bumping into Lisa when I was there. Really, really awkward. At our wedding, lots of people kidded us about a marriage between a freelance investigator (me) and an artist (Lisa) being an odd-couple type of arrangement. Maybe it was too odd, as we were now separated.

I felt I could use a change of scene, and L.A. is a definite change of scene from New York. At this moment, I was eyeballing a little guesthouse just behind a typical California hacienda off San Vicente north of Wilshire. For those with long memories, that's the general area where O.J. Simpson also had a guesthouse, but O.J. would have turned up his nose at this one — maybe not now, as he was doing a stretch in a Nevada jail, but back when he had money. A rather dilapidated sign declared that it (the guesthouse) was for rent. The sign was dilapidated, but the guesthouse looked okay.

I rang the doorbell and was soon confronted by a casually dressed guy in his late twenties, about six feet two, and a little pudgy. Not everyone in California spends their lives in health clubs. In a pleasant voice with a slight trace of a southern accent, he said, "What can I do for you?" That's one difference between L.A. and New York, where they say, "Yeah, waddya want?" Or just, "Waddya want?" Or just, "Yeah?"

"My name's Freddy Carmichael. I'm thinking about renting your guesthouse," I replied.

"I'm Pete Lennox." We shook hands. He rummaged around and got a key. "It's a nice place, and the location's good." As we traipsed through the main house toward the back, I had my first take on Pete. A sports junkie. Probably a sports bettor. Most of the former over age 18 are the latter, and probably more than a few under age 18 as well, thanks to offshore betting sites.

I didn't have to use any investigative skills to work out Pete's passion for sports, for I'd been in enough man caves. In fact, I'd even had one before I got married. The house was bristling with the latest electronic equipment for viewing, receiving, and recording sports events. A dish antenna on the roof was big enough that it could probably pull in live telecasts from NASA Mars rovers. Tables and chairs were littered with racing forms, sports newsletters, and all the usual paraphernalia that can be found in the home of a typical sports addict. There were mementos of everything from the Kentucky Derby to the Rose Bowl. I saw baseball gloves, tennis rackets, hockey sticks, and basketball jerseys on the way from the living room to the kitchen and out the back door — some autographed, some not.

The environment in which Pete wanted to live was his own affair, but I couldn't help feeling sorry for the goldfish. There were tanks of them all over the place. At least, I assumed they were goldfish because the tanks looked as if they hadn't been cleaned out since Obama was inaugurated. I caught an occasional flash of orange when a fish swam by one of the few places in the glass that wasn't completely clouded over with algae and other things that accrue when an aquarium isn't cleaned regularly. It was a smoggy day in Los Angeles, as it was hot with Santa Ana winds, and the pollutants that had been generated in the L.A. basin had no place to dissipate. Nonetheless, it was a lot better than a hot and muggy day in New York. I had a brief, bizarre thought, wondering if extraterrestrials peering through the gloom for a sight of the Angelenos felt the way I did about the goldfish.

One look at the guesthouse, and it was love at first sight. It had a living room, a den, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a kitchen. And an old-fashioned fireplace! I'm a sucker for old-fashioned fireplaces, but I wouldn't have thought that Los Angeles ever got cold enough to need one. There were a few logs, some kindling, and old newspaper to use for tinder, as well as fireplace tongs and a box of really long matches, so I guess it wasn't just for decoration.

I'd have to clean everything up some, but I didn't mind. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I'm a neat freak, but you get a definite feeling of accomplishment when you bring order where before there was only chaos.

A world-class negotiator would have pointed out the guesthouse's defects, but I just wanted to see if it was in my price range. It probably would have been three thousand-plus in Manhattan, depending on where you found it. Of course, there aren't any guesthouses in New York — and this place also had a lawn. And trees. And flowers. There were roses in the garden. Wow! The only time I ever see roses in New York is when I walk by a florist shop — and they cost an arm and a leg if you actually want to buy them.

"How much are you asking?" I inquired.

"Two thousand a month. I'll take care of the utilities."

I may not be a great negotiator, but in New York you never take the first offer. "That's a little steep for me. How about seventeen hundred?"

He looked at me, or rather, he studied me. I'd seen eyes like that before. Mostly on Wall Street traders, or gamblers. Neither friendly nor hostile, just assessing what the market will bear. Evidently he thought that the market would bear a little more, for he countered with, "How about splitting the difference?"

"As long as you'll still take care of the utilities."

Either he wasn't out for the last dime, or he just didn't feel like haggling any more. "It's a deal. I've got a contract back at the house." I forked over the traditional first and last month's rent, went to my car (I had rented one for house-hunting purposes), and started to unpack and move in.

Whenever you make a move, it takes life a little while to get back to normal. Your friends and business contacts have to be given your new address, and you have to decide on whether to get a landline in addition to your cell phone. I thought about just keeping my cell phone, but I'm a little bit hard of hearing, and I can hear better with a landline. Besides, there's a certain amount of prestige associated with a Westside 310 area code.

I called Allen Burkitt, owner of Burkitt Investigations, the agency for which I had done some work in New York. I didn't know whether he would have any assignments for me, but I wanted him to know I was available — sort of. I lifted the phone to call Lisa and had punched the "1-212" part of the number when I got cold feet. What if a guy answered? Deciding that if ignorance wasn't bliss, it was at least better than bad news, I handled the problem by sending her an e-mail with my new address and phone number.

I had actually accomplished the impossible by saving some money while living in Manhattan, and so if I wanted to take a few months off, I could certainly afford it. I spent a couple of days acquiring a flat-screen TV, a set of dishes, a new computer, a few prints for decoration, and some L.A. clothes. They dress different out here, and I thought I'd try to blend in. Pete and I had bumped into each other a few times, and he had offered to let me use his spare microwave in the house when he didn't need it. The main house had one of those fancy built-in microwaves, but Pete had a spare microwave and obviously some experience as a single guy. As any single guy knows, the microwave is the greatest of all kitchen appliances, if for no other reason than you can heat leftover takeout food.

Before microwaves, if you had leftover hot and sour soup from a Chinese restaurant, you had to dump it in a pot, heat it, pour it into a bowl (unless you drank it from the pot, which my mother would have frowned upon), and after you consumed it, you had to wash both the pot and the bowl. Now, you just had to heat the microwave-safe container of soup from the Chinese restaurant — which I had just finished doing when the phone rang. It was clearly the house phone; my cell phone has a different ring tone. I left the soup in the microwave to answer my first phone call in L.A.

Maybe it was Lisa! Despite the fact that we were separated, I was still carrying a torch. The adrenaline — possibly mixed with some other biochemical — had started my heart pumping, and my hand was trembling a little as I reached for the receiver.

My adrenaline count went back to normal. It was Allen.

"Freddy?"

"Yeah, Allen. What's up?"

"Welcome to L.A." He paused, but not for long. Allen never forgot that time was money, especially when it was his money. "Listen, Freddy, I could use some help. It shouldn't take more than a day, and there's a thousand in it for you."

I don't know about you, but I'm not in the habit of turning down jobs that offer a thousand dollars for a day or so's worth of work. That's more than two weeks' worth of rent.

"What have you got, Allen?"

"There's a leak in the upper echelons of a corporation. They were about to pick up some valuable West Coast property cheap. You know how the real estate market's been depressed there."

"Yeah, so I've heard. It's depressed everywhere. There's a recession on, in case you haven't heard."

"So they say. Anyway, one of four executives is selling out and is planning to meet a contact from a rival firm out in L.A. and give him specifics of the deal. I've got a man working on the inside who gets pieces of the puzzle. He'll let you know what he's got." He paused for a moment, probably to take a bite of one of those big greasy pastrami sandwiches to which he was addicted.

"And then what?" I prompted him.

"All four executives are heading for L.A. to close the deal. The word is that the one who's selling out will be met by the contact when he or she arrives. I want a description and a photo of the contact, if possible."

"I can guarantee the description. Photos in crowds are iffy, Allen."

"I know it. Just do your best, Freddy. Let me tell you about the possibles."

I grabbed a piece of paper, a pen, and started writing down the names and descriptions of the four executives. Allen could have sent me an e-mail, but he had this thing about e-mail. Someone once told him that the government has a record of everything that goes out, even if you encrypt it, and Allen was old-fashioned enough to think there should still be some privacy in the world. I once told him they probably had a record of his phone calls, too, but he felt it was harder for people to analyze spoken records than written ones.

Anyway, here's the dramatis personae as Allen described them. He told me that Google had fairly recent images of all of them. It helps to have height and weight, though, as from a distance you see outlines rather than faces, and it's hard to get up close to arrivals nowadays with all the security. Of course, you need faces for a positive ID, but occasionally two people with roughly similar faces will be in your field of view, and you can sometimes distinguish them on the basis of such features as height and weight.

Mel Hazlitt. A vice president of some sort. About forty, five-eleven, 180 pounds. Thick black hair, strong jaw, and tortoiseshell glasses.

Don Burns. Head of the legal department. Somewhere in his late fifties, short (five-six) and squat (200 pounds or so). Bald as a doorknob, and not bothering to conceal it.

Vinnie Rossetti. Comptroller (I hated to confess it, but I'm never sure just what a comptroller is). Late thirties, very tall (six-three, 170 or so pounds), receding brown hair. Always looks like he needs a shave.

Elaine Westover. Head of sales. Five-six, 120 pounds, middle thirties (I was impressed — head of sales in her middle thirties). The description Allen gave me was long blond hair, blue eyes (thanks, Allen, you know you never get close enough to see their eyes), smart dresser.

The last item of information was that Arnold, Allen's man on the inside, would call me on Friday with whatever information he had. I was to do the best I could. I always do, I told him.

Friday morning dawned, still smoggy, and I made myself a cup of coffee as I reviewed the pictures I had found on Google. Just as I was finishing the coffee, I got my first call from Arnold. He talked in a whisper, sounding as if he was worried someone might overhear. "Freddy? It's Arnold. Hazlitt is arriving at LAX at about seven this evening, and Burns is coming by train to Union Station. If the contact doesn't meet with Hazlitt, he'll meet with Burns. Got it?" Obviously, he didn't care whether I had it, for he slammed down the phone.

An hour later, the phone rang again. Arnold, whispering even more softly, and even faster. He seemed under a lot of stress. But then, most people in New York are.

"Freddy?" I grunted an affirmative. As soon as he recognized my grunt, he continued, "Westover is arriving at Long Beach around five. If the contact meets with her, he'll meet with Burns as well, possibly to cover up meeting with Westover."

"Then how can I tell which one is selling out?" I asked reasonably. But not sufficiently quickly, for Arnold had hung up.

I made myself another cup of coffee and settled in the armchair by the phone. Shortly afterward, it rang again. Rossetti would be landing at Burbank around six. I could say one thing for Arnold, he didn't spend a whole lot of time on extraneous details.

I wrote down Arnold's latest sound bite and examined my rapidly expanding list of instructions. While I was trying to make heads or tails of them, the phone rang again. Needless to say, I was expecting Arnold. I was wrong.

"Freddy, it's Pete. The built-in microwave just died, and I'm starving. Sorry, but I need my microwave back."

"Sure, I was probably going to get one eventually, anyway. Listen, I've got a little bit of a problem. I'd bring your microwave over to you, but I'm getting some instructions for a job I'm doing, and I need to stay by the phone. Could you come over and get it?"

"I'll be right over." The line cleared. A good thing, too, because almost instantly the phone rang again. Maybe I should get call waiting. This time, though, it really was Arnold.

"Freddy? You remember what I told you about the contact meeting Burns if he doesn't meet with Hazlitt? I got some bad dope, and that's totally wrong."

I was getting writer's cramp. "Yeah, I've got it. But I'd appreciate it if you could simplify things for me."

"No time. I think they're on to me. My battery's low, too." He hung up even faster than before. It didn't sound like I'd be getting any more calls from Arnold.

I contemplated the list of instructions I had, which now covered almost an entire page. What a mess! The four execs had managed to pick locations that were all far away from each other. They were arriving at about the same time, so I couldn't cover all bases. There wasn't any time to try to get anyone else to cover the bases that I couldn't. Finally, I had absolutely no idea who the contact was meeting.

The door opened, and Pete ambled in. I had learned by now that amble was about Pete's usual speed. He picked up the microwave, then came over to where I was sitting and looked at the list of instructions I had compiled. "What's that?"

I briefly outlined the situation. "I can't make any sense of these instructions. Got any ideas?"

He put down the microwave and looked at my sheet of paper for a moment or so. "It doesn't seem too difficult. Just go to Burbank and see who meets Rossetti."

I eyeballed him skeptically. "How did you come up with that, Pete?"