Susan rescheduled her patients for the next week, and she and I flew back to LA the next day. After checking into our hotel, she went shopping while I went over to Hank Summers' house in the Valley. It was in a gated community, but when I stopped at the guard station, my name was on the list and a key to Summers' house and the code to his alarm system had been left in my name. I smelled the influence of Weatherwax and Son, and maybe even Mr. Milo.
The house was huge, and it was clear to me that the wrong Summers had come out ahead in the divorce settlement. The living room alone was bigger than the entire ground floor of Joyce's house in Sunnydale. I found Summers' phone in the living room with caller ID going back to about a month. As I'd hoped, Summers did not check his messages at home as often as he checked his messages at his office. The last fourteen messages hadn't been listened to, which went back about eight days.
I listened to the messages, and for the first time heard the voice of Buffy Summers.
The first message:
"Dad, it's me again. I've got a job now, and a place to stay. Why aren't you checking your messages? Guess I'll try you at your office again. Love you, Dad."
The second message:
"Dad, don't you check your messages at all? I'll call you again tomorrow at eight. Please be home or in your office. I need to talk to you. Love you, Dad."
The third message:
"Dad, are you OK? Do you need help? Tell me and I may be able to help you. You might be surprised at what I can do. Love you, Dad."
After listening to the messages, I briefly considered flying back to New York and strangling Hank Summers. But then I'd have to shoot Jackie and Junior Wax, and that just seemed to be too much trouble to take on account of a guy like Hank Summers.
The first and the second message were dated seven days ago. The third one was from six days ago. The calls came from different numbers, all identified as pay phones, but from the same area code. I checked the phone book and identified the area code as associated with Hollywood.
I sat in the dark in Summers' huge living room and thought. I thought about Buffy and Dawn growing up here amidst the chrome and white carpet. I thought about Joyce and Hank and Hank and Heather. I thought about the headache I was getting. Then I thought about Vincent del Rio, who was a very big crook I knew in LA.
I called his Bel Air home and got a guy, who when I gave him my name put me on hold, then I got another guy, and when I gave him my name he put me on hold and I got another guy. This happened six times before Vincent del Rio picked up.
"Senor Spenser," he said. "A day without hearing from you is a day like any other."
"Si Jefe," I said. "How's the family?"
"Daughter is in UCLA. She wants to be an Evolutionary Biologist."
"What's that?"
"Beats me. What business do you have with me?"
"I'm looking for a seventeen year old girl, ran away from home. The last calls she made to her father came from a Hollywood area code."
"That is not good," del Rio said.
"No, it's not. I'd like to talk to someone influential in the, ah, companionship industries about getting me in contact with some chickenhawks."
Del Rio chuckled. "Senor Spenser, you are showing your age. They haven't been called chickenhawks for some time. We call them recruiters."
"I'd like to talk to some recruiters then. I figure one of them, perhaps several, tried to recruit this girl."
"Tried?"
"Yeah, she's good looking."
"She white?"
"Yes."
"Uh huh. By any chance is she blonde?"
"Yes."
"Then probably you are looking for a recruiter who has succeeded."
"Actually, I'm looking for a recruiter who got damaged."
Del Rio was quiet for several moments.
"Spenser, this is optimistic even for you. Give me your number."
I gave him Hank Summers' home phone number. Then del Rio hung up and I hung up and I waited. About twenty minutes later, the phone rang again.
"Hello," I said.
"Is this Mr. Spenser?" a male voice said. The voice was low and cultured and the enunciation was flawless.
"It is."
"A gentleman of mutual acquaintance telephoned me and asked me to assist you. This gentleman is a very prominent member of the community and I wish for a continued good relationship with him. He tells me you are looking for a runaway."
"That's correct."
"I will not tolerate disruption of my business, Mr. Spenser. Our mutual acquaintance told me that you tend to blunder around in other people's business until you find what you are looking for, and you are difficult to dissuade. But, since no single item in the product line is indispensable you are welcome to conduct an escorted search of relevant establishments until you locate the individual you are searching for."
"I appreciate the offer, but I suspect that won't be necessary. I am almost certain that the individual I am looking for will not be found in what I presume would be open air establishments on corner lots."
"Then I can arrange for tours of other establishments, if you can call them that. I warn you though, I can not guarantee my influence with their owners and managers, and many of the facilities are quite poor."
"And how are your facilities? Better street corners?"
My nameless conversational partner chuckled. "You would probably describe most of them as merely poor."
"Like I said, I don't think I will find who I am looking for in an 'establishment' answerable to you or anyone else."
"Then what are you looking for?"
"Recruiters."
"You mean chickenhawks?"
"So, you're a traditional guy too."
"Pardon?"
"Yeah, I'm looking to talk to chickenhawks, recruiters, or blood sucking vulture bastards or whatever else you want to call them. Particularly anyone with black eyes, swollen faces, or broken limbs."
"Is this some sort of prank, Mr. Spenser?"
"Do you think our mutual acquaintance would have you call me over a prank?"
"No, he is a serious businessman, as am I. Do you know the Water Grill?"
"I do."
"When can you meet me there?"
"Two hours at the most."
"Very good, I will make reservations under your name. Our mutual acquaintance said that you would pay."
"Thoughtful of him."
Gulp.