A/N: Many thanks to the lovely clockadile for the art for this one.
1. The Missing Boy Wonder
In which a Mr Gold appears, and Killian takes a case.
"I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I needed a vacation, I needed a home in the country. What I had was a coat, a hat and a gun."
- Farewell, My Lovely
It was Valentine's Day in Los Angeles, and Killian Jones was halfway to glorious inebriation when he heard the man with the cane stop short outside his office door.
He hadn't been expecting anyone. His landlord had already been by that morning to deliver his customary threats, and walk-ins weren't all that common since he stopped shelling out for the billboard space. He didn't keep an appointment book anymore, but if he did, there wouldn't have been anyone penciled in for this particular rainy Tuesday afternoon. Valentine's Day was great for florists. Likewise candy sellers, fancy hotels. They all made their cut. For them, love was a many splendored thing. Bankable. Exploitable.
But for a private detective? Love was bad for business.
Happiness wouldn't pay the bills. He needed to wait until things went sour again. It wouldn't take long. By tomorrow all those promises renewed under the influence of champagne and obligatory marital relations would already be starting to fray at the edges. Passions would wane. Old resentments would resurface. Jealousy, his old friend, would return as he always did, and Killian would go back to catching out spouses with their pants around their ankles and their hands in the cookie jar.
So he hadn't been expecting company when he'd broken into his mistakenly-delivered Valentine's Day gift basket, using his letter-opener to pry the cork off a bottle of Merlot. It had been a liquid lunch, and now his gut roiled at the prospect of receiving such a visitor without full use of his faculties.
The man in the hallway didn't knock, not immediately, but Killian could see his silhouette outlined against the frosted glass. And he could hear the tap tap tap of the cane as it skittered across the linoleum. There was only one man Killian knew who habitually carried a cane, and he was the last man in the world who would be coming to him with women trouble.
Resigning himself to the inevitable, he tipped his head back and poured the rest of the wine down his throat, before stashing the empty bottle in his desk drawer. While he was at it he pulled out his gun, and checked the chamber.
Drawing it under the desk, he called out, "The door's open."
After a lengthy pause, the doorknob began to twist, and Killian's fingers flexed against the grip. With the squeak of unoiled hinges the door opened and the man appeared in the doorway, attaché case in one hand, the other leaning heavily on his cane.
"Well, if it isn't Mr Gold," Killian drawled, feigning surprise. His posture in his chair relaxed, his grip on the gun did not.
The new arrival gave the decor a cursory glance, his lips forming a sneer. Killian couldn't entirely blame him. What with the peeling yellowed wallpaper and distinct lack of windows it was a glorified janitor's closet, with barely enough room for his desk.
"Bit of step down from your former premises, wouldn't you say?" Mr Gold remarked unkindly, with a click of his tongue. It was the kind of question which didn't dignify an answer, and Killian didn't give one.
"Close the door," Killian said gruffly.
His guest smiled then, a twisted thing, as if pleased he'd managed to get under his skin, but he took two steps forward anyway, pushing the door closed behind him with his cane. The soles of his shoes squeaked against the linoleum as he moved, a testament to the deluge outside. He'd evidently parked on the street, then, rather than the paid undercover parking, with the closed circuit security cameras, his desire to remain inconspicuous overriding his desire to stay dry. Which was fine if it was discretion that he was after, less so if it was trouble.
"There's no need to be testy," Mr Gold began, spreading his arms wide in a show of good faith. "I didn't come here to dredge up old resentments. On the contrary, I came to offer you a deal."
A deal. When it came to Mr Gold, there was always a deal. He was a ten percenter, but not the usual model. His words weren't delivered in that slick Hollywood way. This was not a man who possessed a spray tan, or dental veneers. He didn't have a wheatgrass habit, or a personal trainer on speed dial. Not even close.
Mr Gold was a slight grey-haired man with crooked teeth and a rasp in his throat. His accent was foreign, though that wasn't so strange. Barely anyone you encountered in LA these days had actually grown up there, Killian least of all.
But Mr Gold? Nobody knew for sure, but the accent suggested Scottish. Glaswegian, most like. A rough and tumble kind of place, Glasgow, full of rough and tumble kind of people. If the accent hadn't given that away, the steely glint in his eye might have done it. The limp was something else altogether. Maybe he'd spent some time in Belfast. Maybe it hadn't worked out too well for him.
Killian didn't like to speculate. He didn't know much, but he knew that suit had cost the man who wore it a pretty penny. The accent might have been working class, but the man was anything but. Not anymore. Every accruement, every accessory was a status symbol, from the gold Rolex which peeked out from under the right sleeve, to the gold-tipped cane, to the shiny Italian loafers.
They were snakeskin, Killian thought. Maybe crocodile. Something cold-blooded and predatory, like the man himself.
"And who exactly stands to gain the most from this so-called deal, Mr Gold?"
No need to beat around the bush, Killian had been around long enough to know how this worked. The thing about Mr Gold was that he always delivered on his promises. He'd built men into titans, and women into their own fucking constellations. He had the power, nay the leverage in this town to raise anyone up to dizzying heights, and make their greatest dreams come true.
What they never bothered to consider, was the price of it all. And in Killian's experience, the old adage rang true; the bigger they are, the harder they fall.
Some of the humor seemed to slip from Mr Gold's smile. "Not in a very trusting mood, Mr Jones? I assure you it will be worth your while."
"And maybe if I was some impressionable lass from the Twin Cities with stars in her eyes, that would be enough for me. As it stands, trust is earned. And you and I have not had the most encouraging start."
Gold considered him carefully for a moment, before he shuffled forward to the single vinyl chair intended for visitors. "May I?"
Killian nodded, and waited for the older man to get himself situated, case tucked under the chair, his cane coming to be propped against Killian's desk.
"One of my clients is missing," Mr Gold stated simply, as if he was ordering from a wine list, and not announcing the disappearance of one of his prize cash cows.
"That sounds… remarkably like you're trying to hire me."
"Ah, there are those keen detection skills I've heard so much about," Mr Gold replied dryly. "Yes, I wish to hire you, for thrice your usual rate, if that's acceptable to you."
"Just a moment," said Killian, scuffing his chair forward to disguise the sound of his desk drawer swooshing open as he returned his gun to its usual place. Killian didn't live by too many hard and fast rules, but shooting clients was frowned upon. "Don't you have people for these kinds of things? Former special-forces types with zero human compassion and affinities for too-small T-shirts?"
Fixers, they went by. Kilian had run afoul of a couple in his time. In a city where image was everything, most bigwigs kept one or two on staff to tidy up any… loose ends.
Mr Gold frowned. "Ordinarily, yes. However, of late there have been a number of… incidents. Confidential information spread to the media despite taking all reasonable precautions, and I've come to suspect the problem may be an internal one." A dark cloud descended over his face as he said this, the kind of look which almost made Killian pity the idiot who thought he'd get away with playing both sides.
"Alright," said Killian, leaning back on this chair. "So you need someone who won't sell you out to TMZ. You know I'm not exactly the gossiping type. That I understand. But that can't be all there is to it, or else you wouldn't have framed this little transaction as a deal. So what else is there?"
Mr Gold looked pleased at the question, as thought that was what he'd been waiting for all along. "I mentioned the hole in my security. As it stands, I'm in the middle of recruiting an entirely new team. I'd like you to lead it. I know we've had our differences before, but your work has always been satisfactory. This case would merely be a…" He searched for the right turn of phrase. "… A try-out," he finished, smiling at the Americanism.
Killian had to pause a moment to check this wasn't all a merlot-induced daydream. But when he pinched himself on the arm, all he got for his trouble was the makings of a new bruise. Mr Gold still sat before him, his expression expectant. "You wish… me to be your new head of security?" he clarified, unable to keep the incredulity from his voice.
Killian was beginning to understand how those starry-eyed girls from the Midwest had felt, fallen under the thrall of this man with his shiny, shiny promises. A job like that, well, it sure beat day-drinking in a failing private detective agency with no windows. It might even be worth giving up one's better nature for.
"Yes, that was my nefarious ulterior motive for this charming little visit," Mr Gold admitted, with generous dose of snark.
"And the catch?" Killian asked, not quite willing to dive into shark-infested waters just yet.
"I wouldn't call it a catch," Mr Gold replied with a small shrug of his shoulders. "A caveat, perhaps. This is time-sensitive. The client has to be found and returned to a suitable state by Saturday, without the press getting wind of it. Or the deal is off."
"I take it from that little proviso you haven't bothered filing a missing person's report with the police?" Killian asked, ethically obligated to pose the question, even if he was already sure of the answer.
Mr Gold made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat, almost a laugh.
"So…what?" Killian counted on his fingers. "Three days to find a wayward celebrity? That hardly seems sporting. What if they've fled the country?"
"My contact at Homeland Security assures me that isn't the case." Naturally. Because who didn't have a servant of the Federal Government on speed dial?
"That's assuming they'd be stupid enough to travel under their own name..." Killian pointed out.
"Trust me, Mr Jones, my client is hardly inconspicuous. If he'd left the country, someone would have noticed."
"He?" Killian grinned at the slip. "Alright, supposing he is still Stateside, three days isn't much of a window. Not for someone who doesn't want to be found. And especially not for someone with means, conspicuous or not. What happens if I don't find him by Saturday?"
Mr Gold shrugged. "Then you can treasure forever those three days where you earned triple your worth, before I hand the matter over to the police. Perhaps you'll even be able to stave off bankruptcy for another month. Two, if you're feeling particularly frugal."
Killian's eyes narrowed at the implication Mr Gold had looked into his finances. How tempting Killian must have seemed to him, up to his neck in past-due notices and operating out of a windowless closet in Hollywood. How exploitable. The perfect pawn.
How he hated to play right into his slimy hands. How he hated that he inevitably would, if he ever wanted to face his landlord again.
"Do I at least get the name of this mystery client that I'm supposed to be finding for you?"
Mr Gold clicked his tongue. "That's rather sensitive information. I think you can understand that without a non-disclosure agreement in place-"
"I'll take the damned case," Killian interjected. "You know I need the money. So how about let's stop with this game of Guess Who, and you tell me who I'm looking for."
He didn't miss the triumphant smirk on the man's face. Nor did he miss the way the attaché case had instantly found its way to Mr Gold's lap, hands already grasping for the files inside.
"You'll be charged with finding one Peter Pan. I believe you're familiar with the name?"
There wasn't a soul in the western world who wasn't familiar with the name, no matter how much they might wish otherwise.
Peter Pan.
The teenage singing sensation. His story was legend, his album sales record-defying.
Discovered after posting a video of himself singing in his bathroom onto YouTube at the tender age of twelve. Elevated to super-stardom with the assistance of a few famous mentors, and launched into the stratosphere with four seasons of his own reality show.
A lad who'd gained a legion of dedicated fans who followed his every move to such a disturbing degree that they actually referred to themselves collectively as "Pan's Shadow."
Killian prided himself on eschewing popular culture at every turn, and yet, he could rattle these facts off as easily as he could events from his own autobiography. They were the inescapable factoids that crawled between the edges of modern life. It was practically a national pastime, watching young Peter Pan grow up.
Though maybe "grow up" wasn't really the right way to phrase it, what with the way the lad was turning out.
Like a veritable raft of child stars before him, he hadn't taken the transition from tween sensation to young adult all that well. First had come the drastic haircut. Then the radical sonic shift on his latest album. Before anyone knew it, he was firing his entire support staff, and being photographed falling down drunk outside every venue in town. There were surely only a matter of weeks before the inevitable DUI, or the sex-tape leak after a romp with a Victoria's Secret model. In Killian's experience, there was a certain pattern to these things.
It was little wonder the name Peter Pan was fast becoming a byword for any person corrupted by the hedonistic pleasures of fame.
"Peter Pan?" Killian repeated weakly. "He's your missing client?"
"Presumed missing since Sunday," Mr Gold responded matter-of-factly, pushing a sheaf of papers across the desk towards him. "Non-disclosure agreement," he said by way of explanation, pointing at a spot marked with a cross on the last page. "Sign here."
Feeling a little like he'd jumped headlong out of a plane without a parachute, Killian scribbled his signature on the dotted line, and leaned back.
"Alright, so what's Saturday? Why the deadline? Does Boy Wonder have a date with the VMAs? A photo shoot with Rolling Stone? A hot yoga class?"
"A concert," Mr Gold corrected, ignoring Killian's inane suggestions entirely. "The first date of his upcoming World Tour, in fact. A sold-out engagement at the Hollywood Bowl. I don't think I need to tell you that rescheduling the tour would be a logistical nightmare, and insurance does not pay out simply because the talent gets bored and goes on a vision quest."
"The Hollywood Bowl? In this tempest?" Killian might not have had a room with a view, but he surely wasn't the only one to notice the sun hadn't made an appearance any time in the last fortnight. Whoever had said it never rained in Southern California had clearly never heard of El Niño.
Mr Gold gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Our meteorologists have given me every assurance this last storm cell will dissipate by Friday."
Show business. Not even the meteorologists were safe.
"To be clear, when you said vision quest…?"
"I was being facetious, though the boy has demonstrated some… bohemian leanings in the past," Mr Gold said, as though repressing a shudder. "And a predilection for recreational substances to match. But I'm sure that's something you can look into."
For $600 a day plus expenses, Killian would certainly give it a shot.