“He did, with the LAPD, but didn’t pass the tests. Some people just aren’t good at them. But he won’t have to worry about that with the sheriff’s department, not with that medal around his neck.”
It was true, Eve thought. Lansing would love the PR aspect. Grayson would have a charmed career. “But you hired him anyway.”
Dryer shrugged. “Our requirements aren’t as rigorous as the LAPD’s and the job isn’t nearly as tough. Our guys sit in guardhouses at businesses or gated communities, or stand in stores as a deterrent to shoplifting, or respond to home alarms, which are mostly set off accidentally by the homeowners themselves.”
“Don’t you also do private security for celebrities?”
“For that stuff, we hire ex–law enforcement officers like you.”
“I’m not available.”
Dryer looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup. “Yet.”
Now his desire to reboot their relationship, as he called it, made more sense to Eve. He wanted to recruit her.
“Do you know something I don’t?”
Dryer took a sip of his coffee and smiled. “I’m always looking for good people. But the kind of Hollywood job you might get when you’re ready to leave LASD, producing a TV series about yourself, is more attractive than the Hollywood job I could offer you.”
“Babysitting celebrities and getting them out of trouble?”
“Somebody has to do it.”
“Talk to Stan Garvey. It’s a job he might enjoy.” And, in her mind, he was already doing it.
“He’s on my speed dial.”
“I’m sure he is.” Eve was almost finished with her maple pecan bar. “How come you couldn’t keep Justin Marriott out of trouble?”
“He’s not one of our clients.”
“But if he was, I’ll bet his Ferrari wouldn’t have had a scratch on it when our detectives showed up at his door.”
“You’ve misjudged me, Eve. I’ll protect a client from embarrassment, but not from a felony. Once a cop, always a cop,” Dryer said and she got the feeling he actually meant it. He just went up a notch in her judgment. “That’s how I know that, once you leave the sheriff’s department someday, you won’t be satisfied producing a TV series about yourself.”
That was probably true, Eve thought, scooping up the crumbs of her maple pecan bar with her sticky fork. Nothing was going to waste on this plate. “What will I do? Become a PI?”
“Like Kinsey Millhone? No,” he said. Wow, she thought, a reader, too. He was full of surprises. “But you could lend your name to a security service.”
Ah-ha, she thought. So he wanted to leverage her reputation someday to offer bespoke security and investigation services to celebrity clients, the way he’d used his experience at the LAPD to open Big Valley.
“It’s something to consider,” he said. “And having the right partner would allow you to get up and running immediately.”
It felt good to be right. It should also have been a comfort, Eve thought, knowing she had two avenues for income to pay her legal fees or to support herself if she got thrown off the force. It was a wealth of opportunities. But somehow, it only made her feel icky. So many people out there were ready to profit from her fortune or misfortune and had no real interest in her. And that included her own parents.
Was it Hollywood that did this to people or something else?
But Eve set aside her reservations, told him she’d keep the offer in mind, and left the restaurant. She was eager to get back to her room and read the Ronin script.
Eve emerged from the elevator at the Hilton and saw a maid’s cart a few doors down from her room. That changed her plans. Her room was a mess, smelled like pizza and dirty socks, and desperately needed to be cleaned. She’d have to quickly straighten up her room so it wasn’t an obstacle course for the maid and then go read the script in the lobby to get out of her way. Daily maid service, along with fresh towels and sheets, was a luxury she’d definitely miss when she moved back to her condo.
Eve hurried into her room and began by gathering up all the fast-food containers and stuffing them into the ridiculously small trash can. That done, she picked up yesterday’s clothes off the floor. When she scooped up her jacket, several sheets of paper covered in handwriting tumbled out of the inside pocket. She snatched up the loose pages. It was the list of license plates for the vehicles that left Oakdale on Tuesday, the day of Priscilla’s disappearance. Eve had given the list to Clayton, and he’d returned it to her with the owner information listed alongside the license plate number and time code showing when the vehicle appeared on the gate video. The list was irrelevant now, but she set it on her laptop to put in the McCaig murder book, the complete record of the case, when she went back to the station tomorrow.