Eve hadn’t, either, until last week, when her mother, Jen, a struggling actress, came down from Ventura and helped her choose the wardrobe for this assignment. “It prevents wardrobe malfunctions.”
That was something Eve never had to worry about before in either her professional or personal life. All of her clothes were practical, simple, and not the least bit flashy. It was a reflection of her life, or at least how she tried to live it. But that hadn’t been easy since she became the youngest female homicide detective in the history of the LASD, a promotion five and a half months ago that generated lots of publicity and that the rank and file, and Eve herself, knew she didn’t deserve. Her most recent case, only her second as a homicide detective, ended with the arrest of several deputies and the suicide of another, putting her in the media spotlight again, deepening the resentment toward her in the department. Duncan was one of three people with badges who she completely trusted.
Eve made a left onto Calabasas Road and headed through the center of Old Town Calabasas. The Leonis Adobe ranch house and the clapboard storefronts were authentic, harkening back to the mid-1800s, but it still felt like she was driving through a movie studio back lot. That feeling was especially strong today, since they were riding in a Rolls-Royce confiscated from a drug dealer, and pretending to be a couple, hoping to attract the gang responsible for a series of increasingly violent home invasion robberies.
“I should buy a couple of rolls of boob tape,” Duncan said, kicking off his shoes and running his toes through the furry floor mat.
“For your wife or for your daughters?”
“Are you kidding? I don’t want them walking around with everything hanging out.”
She glanced at him. “Then what do you want the tape for?”
Duncan patted his belly. “To hold this back and create the illusion that I have six-pack abs.”
“You should call David Copperfield instead.”
“Maybe I should,” he said. “Then we can take this show on the road.”
“Isn’t that what we are doing now?”
Over the last four days, they’d visited all the local grocery stores and shopping centers, making a spectacle of themselves—as an obscenely rich, hobbled old man and his much younger gold-digger wife—on the off chance that was how the robbers picked their targets.
“I don’t see the point,” Eve continued. “All of the homes hit so far were in one of the gated communities along Parkway Calabasas. A robber can’t just follow the victims home through the gate.” She’d made the argument before, and was overruled, but she was growing more irritated with the assignment as time wore on.
Eve stopped at the light at the intersection of Park Granada and Calabasas Road, facing the Commons shopping center on their left and the Courtyard shopping center on their right. The Commons was an upscale re-creation of an Italian village with a landmark clock tower topped by the world’s largest Rolex. The Courtyard was a mundane, architecturally forgettable collection of shops, fast-food restaurants, and banks, anchored by a Trader Joe’s. Eve and Duncan had performed their act at both shopping centers.
“The point, Grasshopper, is we don’t know how the targets are getting picked, or how the thieves are getting in or out of the gated communities,” Duncan said. “And when you don’t know shit, you try everything.”
Like luring the thieves to them rather than tracking the thieves down, which was why they were spending their days in a 4,500-square-foot furnished McMansion they’d rented in Vista Grande. It was one of the four gated communities built atop a ridge that overlooked Parkway Calabasas and the Calabasas Country Club’s golf course on the east side, the high-end dealerships along Calabasas Road and the Ventura Freeway on the north side, and Las Virgenes Road on the west, which snaked its way through Malibu Canyon to the Pacific Ocean.
“You should make a note,” Duncan said.
“Of what?” She made a right onto Park Granada, passing the side entrance to the Commons as she headed up the road.
“My little nuggets of wisdom. You’re going to miss them when I’m gone.”
“No, I won’t. You’re going to haunt me like Obi-Wan Kenobi.”
“Who the hell is that?”
She gave him a look, unsure if he was joking. “Why do you keep calling me a grasshopper?”
Now he gave her a look, unsure if she was joking. She wasn’t.
Duncan shook his head. “I feel so old.”
“You aren’t old,” she said. “You’re ancient.”