California Dreaming

Chapter 10

It may be three hours earlier for Jack, but Azra is considering calling it a night when he calls. A yawn interrupts her greeting. "Long day?" he inquires.

"About the usual, but we've had something new pop up, and the powers-that-be called extra meetings."

"I may have had something pop up too," Jack responds, "tied to the big explosion here in L.A."

"Then that is interesting," Azra responds, "because the excitement around here also concerns L.A."

"You first," Jack suggests.

"We don't have a lot of intelligence yet, and I might not be able to share it if we did. But from what we have so far, there's trouble in paradise at the Kremlin. Since the collapse of Petrovitch's little empire, the oligarchs have been jockeying for favor. We have some indication that one of them enlisted outside forces, nasty ones."

"And would 'nasty' imply human trafficking, as in slave labor for drug production?" Jack inquires.

"We didn't get anything that explicit, but it's possible," Azra concedes. "What are you thinking, Jack?"

"That explosion was set off by overheating of chemicals used to make drugs. From what I've picked up, that's already been confirmed. Someone on the outside deliberately caused the temperature to rise. And before it happened, the L.A.P.D. conducted a raid in which no fire was exchanged, and apparently, no one resisted. Are you getting my drift?"

"That no one put up a defense because they were glad to see the cops. That would fit with your trafficking theory. Have you heard what any of them told the police?"

"It hasn't been on any feed I could pick up. The only thing I've got is that the L.A.P.D. is having trouble finding a translator."

"That's odd," Azra considers. "L.A. isn't the tower of Babel New York is, but last time I heard, over 180 languages are used there. What do those unfortunate souls speak?"

"I'm not sure," Jack admits, "but from the little I have, I'd guess Uyghur."

"That would make sense. It's spoken in spots along the Russian border, and Uyghur speakers could be recruited in multiple hotspots. I can get along pretty well in Uyghur. Given the current concern with new Russian activity, I may be able to pull a few strings to fly out there and help. My cover as a State Department translator should get me in the door."

Jack's exclamation cracks his characteristic calm. "That would be great! And maybe you can help me figure out my more personal mystery."

"We'll talk about that when I get there," Azra promises.

John is trying to work up enthusiasm for watching yet another primetime cop show when his cellphone chimes. "Officer Nolan, This is Lara Rodriguez from Fashion Angels. I'm sorry it took so long to get back to you. It's been crazy since the explosion. Our clients from the area are scattered all over the place, and we've been trying to make sure they have what they need. Some of our people thought you might have been at the scene. Are you all right?"

"I was there, but I'll live," John responds. "And I'm trying to figure out what led up to the events. I was wondering if any of your volunteers had interactions with the people who were working at the site."

"Not that I know of. Keely, who I believe you've met before, told me that when she saw them herded into the building, they spoke a language she didn't recognize. And she recognizes a lot of them. But that's about all I've heard about that group. Do you know how they're doing?"

John decides he can pass on what he heard from Lucy and Jackson. "They're in L.A.P.D. custody, but as I understand it, as victims, not suspects. An advocate from Victims' Services is watching out for them."

"That's good. We have more than enough suffering out there. Take care of yourself, Officer Nolan. We want to keep you around."

"I want to stay around too. Thanks, Lara. You and the Angels really are a godsend. And I'm not the only cop at Mid-Wilshire who thinks so."

"Thank you, Officer Nolan. And be well. Don't disappoint the clients who tell me they have you in their prayers."

"I'll give it my best shot," Nolan promises. The homeless are praying for him, he muses silently, hanging up the phone. That's a frighteningly beautiful gift.

Terence Adler plops a pile of documents in front of Liz and signals for her to distribute them. "You're getting a treatment of 'Storming the Walls,' based on our previous meetings. We can go through it together and discuss possible revisions."

Rick quickly scans his stapled ten pages. "So you've got both Storm's boss and a terrorist leader as villains of the piece. If you have two alpha's joining forces, you're bound to have, to put it mildly, disagreements. I don't see any suggestions of that here."

"We considered that. But the studio is in negotiations with bankable stars. Depending on who we get, we'll adjust the story accordingly. We may even eliminate one of the roles. And before you ask, we are looking into the casting of the secular worker at the orphanage. Your suggestion may bear some fruit."

Rick flips back a page. "So how is Storm taken down so easily by just two men? If you've read the stories, you know he presses 400 pounds."

Adler shakes his head. "Perhaps he's weakened by a previous event. We'll look into that too, but adding personnel to fight scenes gets expensive."

"So who's writing the script, the people here or the beancounters in the front office?" Rick demands.

"It's not like writing a book, Rick," Liz explains gently. "In your stories, you can create any scene you want without spending a dime. We're not that lucky, and we're not alone. My brother is a chemical engineer. And he's always telling me that if you can't afford it, you can't make it. Movies are like that. The product is what you can pay to put on the screen."

"No wonder so many people complain that movies are never as good as the book," Rick grumbles.

"Except for all the ticket buyers who only see the movie," Adler inserts. "That's usually the majority of Q-Line audiences."

Rick sighs. "All right. But let's do our best to transform budget-consciousness into Rotten Tomatoes gold. "About the opening montage…."

"I don't know why I ever thought it would be great to write a movie script," Rick declares, slamming the door of the hotel suite behind him. "In books, the author speaks. In Q-Line's movies, it's the bank."

"Sorry, Babe. I know you thought working on a Storm movie would be more fun. But I know something that should cheer you up. John called. He's been cleared to go back to work. And he wants to talk about the scenarios you two were running about the explosion. He invited all of us to his house for dinner tonight. He told me he bought it out of foreclosure as a wreck. He seems pretty proud to show off what he's done with it."

"Wow! I have a brother who's handy with a tool. Um, I mean like a hammer or screwdriver. Oh, never mind. He can build stuff. Nice to know we have that kind of talent in the family. Dinner at his place should be interesting."

"Glad you think so," Kate responds. "Because I already told him we'd come. And we're picking up dessert on the way."

Rick grins. "I'll call the concierge. He should know where we can get bacon brownies."