Scavenger hunt

Chapter 24

Jimmy found Samantha Packard's red Jaguar-license plate number 863 YSA, according to the DMV-in the parking lot of the Santa Monica Pro Sports Club. He drove right past it and eased into a slot in visitors' parking.

Jimmy had called Packard's agent that morning hoping to get a home phone number, but Packard had been dropped two years ago, according to the receptionist. She directed him to a smaller agency. The agent there was giddy at Jimmy's interest, suggesting that the three of them sit down for lunch and talk about Packard's next project. Jimmy had told her that he was just quote-checking for a piece on Garrett Walsh's funeral. The agent shook off her disappointment after a suitable grieving period and gave him the number.

The two calls Jimmy made to Packard's house were a bust. The housekeeper answered both times, and when he asked to speak to Mrs. Packard, he was told to leave a name and phone number for a return call. He declined. Miss Chatterbox, the society editor at SLAP, had been more help, telling Jimmy that Samantha Packard worked out regularly at the Pro Sports Club.

"Can I help you, sir?" The tanning-bed Adonis behind the front desk looked like he had come out of some breeding program that had succeeded beyond its wildest expectations. His white polo shirt had Sandor written in small letters above his heart. "Sir?"

"I'm considering joining. I'd like a tour of the facility."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No."

"You should have made an appointment."

"I feel bad about that too."

Sandor didn't react. He stared at Jimmy and finally came around the back of the desk, replaced by a female of the same perfect species who appeared from a nearby alcove. For all Jimmy knew there were hundreds of them stacked up back there, an army of glorious beings in white shorts and polo shirts programmed to say "May I help you?" without really meaning it.

"Thanks," said Jimmy.

"You should have made an appointment," Sandor repeated as he sauntered past the marble entryway. He glanced over at Jimmy. "I can see why you're interested though. You have decent muscle bellies, but you're not doing anything with them."

"I know." Jimmy had no idea what a muscle belly was.

"The initiation fee is ten thousand dollars. Dues are four hundred a month," said Sandor. "You still want the tour?"

"Absolutely."

"Good for you. Fitness is the best investment a person can make."

They walked through the men's locker room, Sandor reciting statistics in a dry monotone: four single-sex Jacuzzis, two saunas, a private aromatherapy spa, and three hundred individual lockers. Jimmy noted four TVs in the waiting room, all of them tuned to business channels. No sports. He commented on that, but Sandor said he didn't understand what Jimmy's point was.

Sandor pushed open the doors to the locker room, almost knocked down an older man in a three-piece suit, and walked on without apologizing.

"This is the coed weight room," said Sandor, leading Jimmy through the large, well-lit, immaculate room filled with Nautilus, Hydro-Press, and every other form of resistance equipment made. The floor was deeply cushioned, and all the walls were mirrored. Jimmy showed interest in everything, looking around while Sandor continued his spiel. There were plenty of people in the weight room, most of them beautiful fit women in skimpy, high-fashion breathable fabrics, but he didn't see Samantha Packard.

They toured the tennis courts, the squash courts, the four swimming pools, and the six aerobics studios. No Samantha Packard. Jimmy was just about to ask Sandor if he knew her when he spotted her through a large widow, doing yoga asanas in a room full of other women. She was sweating. They all were sweating. The yoga mats were covered with thick towels, and the window dripped with steam. From the moment he walked into the Pro Sports Club, Jimmy had not seen anyone sweat-the air-conditioning was frigid. So why was Samantha Packard sweating?

Sandor tapped the glass. "Thermal yoga," he explained. "Thermostat in the room is set at a hundred and ten degrees. Keeps the muscles limber and pushes out the toxins."

"Must be a regular Love Canal in there."

"You need to bulk up more than you need yoga," said Sandor. "Let me show you-"

"I'd like to stick around here for a few more minutes and see what's going on."

Sandor checked his watch. "I wanted to show you the virtual-reality stationary bike stations. You can bicycle across the Alps or twenty different cities in the world."

Jimmy watched Samantha Packard bending backward, hands clasped over her head. Her leotard was soaked, her dark shoulder-length hair lank against her neck. He remembered his brother, Jonathan, doing yoga exercises in the ocean off Newport Beach early one morning, the water so cold Jimmy could barely feel his feet after walking out to him.

"We should move along," said Sandor.

"That's Samantha Packard," said Jimmy, pointing. "I think I'll stick around until the class lets out. I'd like to talk to her about the club, see how she likes it."

Sandor seemed uncomfortable. "That's not a good idea."

"It's all right. Samantha and I have met before."

"Then wait and meet her again off premises. We can't afford the liability."

Jimmy waved to Samantha Packard through the steamed glass. She pretended not to see him, folding her hands in front of her chest. Praying for a cool breeze, maybe.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Her husband shows up as soon as the class is over. He's very… protective. I try to stay out of his way. We all do."

"Really?" Jimmy pretended surprise. "Mick seems pretty relaxed to me."

"You know Mr. Packard?" Sandor squinted. "I don't think so. If you knew Mr. Packard, you wouldn't be waving at his wife."