Different Circles

They arrived home at 9:45. The house was dark except for the security lights that clicked on as they made the trip from the gate to the garage. There were a few lights on in Elsa’s quarters. This was the usual situation. Elsa’s bedtime was generally 10:00 PM and she would wake up at 6:00 AM, whether it was her worknight or not—and tomorrow and Sunday were her days off.

They made their way into the house and Laura went immediately to the kitchen so she could pop her 7-11 burrito into the microwave and get it cooking. Jake went to the entertainment room and turned on the lights. He began to construct a Captain and coke at the bar so he could mellow a bit for the start of his weekend off. Just as he was putting the bottle of Captain Morgan back in its place, he heard the sound of a key turning in the lock at the side door that led from the outside into the kitchen. A moment later, the alarm panel inside that door began beeping its countdown while it waited for the security code to be input. The code was put in quickly, which meant that it was Elsa who just entered the house and not some deranged fan who wanted to kill them all with a kitchen knife.

He carried his drink back to the kitchen, where Laura was just sitting down in the nook to eat her burrito and drink a large glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade from the large pitcher of it that Elsa always kept in the refrigerator since Ziggy had decided that was her favorite beverage. Elsa was there, dressed in her sweatpants and an oversized pullover shirt that fell to her knees.

“Hey, Elsa,” he greeted. “What’s up?”

She was standing next to Laura and only a few feet from Jake. Jake saw that her nostrils were flaring a bit and that a knowing look was in her eyes. Oops, Jake thought, a little embarrassed. I guess we probably smell a little strongly of sex right now. Hopefully she won’t guess that Celia was involved.

But Elsa made no mention of their odor or what they might have been doing to acquire it. “Sorry to disturb you,” she said, “but the Los Angeles Police called this afternoon.”

Jake sighed. “Again?” he asked.

“Again,” she confirmed. “It was Sergeant Cranston, the same one who called on the other occasions.”

Jake nodded. Sergeant Cranston was a supervisor for the LAPD’s Community Resource Team, a hand-picked group of officers and civilian workers who, among a few other things, were assigned to deal with most of the minor issues involving celebrities who lived in the Los Angeles city limits. And since Matt had moved into Jake and Laura’s Granada Hills house, which was inside those city limits and under the LAPD’s jurisdiction, he had talked to Cranston on three occasions now. The first had been the day Matt had moved in and the neighbors, seeing the scrungy, long-haired and tattooed man moving things in from a Maserati, had called the police and reported a burglary. The second time had been a few days later when they saw Jim, Matt’s paramedic, set up residence in the house as well (Jake reluctantly allowed Jim to stay in one of the guest rooms, though he was still not really sure what the relationship between those two was all about—other than it was not a sexual one). The third time had been when Jim and Matt had been using the pool one night after rehearsal and playing Metallica’s Master of Puppets CD at ear-shattering volume.

“Did he say what the issue was this time?” Jake asked Elsa now.

“He did not,” Elsa replied. “He did ask that you give him a call on his department phone on Monday morning to discuss the situation. I have written the number down and placed it on the office desk.”

Jake sighed. “All right,” he said. “Thanks, Elsa.”

She nodded, flared her nostrils one last time, cast one more knowing look, and then retreated from the house.

“What do you think he did this time?” Laura asked as she poked at her burrito to feel if it had cooled enough for human consumption.

“God only knows,” Jake said. “I guess I should give him a call.”

“He’ll be drunk,” she said.

“And stoned as well,” Jake said, “but at least he’ll be in a reasonable mood.”

He left Laura and Ziggy to their burrito and made the walk into the office with its security camera monitors and the computer. Out of habit, he took a glance at the screens, seeing that all were showing the night vision view and that everything appeared to be in order. He then sat down at the desk and took a look at the note that Elsa had left. It listed Sergeant Cranston’s name, title, and phone number in Elsa’s disturbingly neat handwriting. He pushed it to the side and picked up the phone, dialing the area code and the number for the Granada Hills house from memory.

A male voice picked up on the third ring. It was not Matt. “Kingsley residence,” the voice said politely, though with an obvious slurring of speech.

“Hey, Jim, it’s Jake,” Jake said. “Is Matt around?”