The Adjal of Jimmy Temple

Chapter One

Chapter One

I was locking my office door when her perfume hit me. My back still to her, I said, "Chanel Five."

"Opium," she said.

Now I turned to her. Tall, early to mid twenties, black hair set in an aristocratic updo framing a face that could launch a thousand ships, and probably had. Eyes, emerald-green, the kind that could shred a man's soul. The voice, low and sultry and filled with self-assurance, was a perfect match.

"I drove here all the way from Malibu. I'd appreciate a few minutes of your time."

To Bel Air, "all the way from Malibu" is at worst a journey of some twenty miles, so right away I knew I was dealing with someone not exactly moored to reality. I unlocked the door and gestured her in. It was after seven on a hot July Friday and I had turned off the air conditioner for the weekend. The room was so quiet you could hear a heart break. Broken hearts are my specialty.

My agency finds lost lovers. He, or she, for whatever reason has slipped out of your life. You haven't forgotten, you never will. That's where I, Jimmy Temple, come in. You give me two hundred dollars and if the lost light of your life is in California I'll find him or her. Out-of-state, I charge five hundred. Seven-fifty for those of the same sex, only because their closets are occasionally so tight. I call my agency "Soul Mate Search Inc." I'm in the Yellow Pages, and on dozens of Google references, and on Facebook. I take Visa and MasterCard.

My office is on the second floor of a two-story wood frame building that houses a pet groomer, a drycleaner, a coffee house, and some half dozen boutique enterprises. The parking lot, between my building and Bel Air Foods, is usually filled with late model Mercedes, BMWs, and Jags. Today, as though to deliberately make those pricey cars look ordinary, there was also a Lamborghini GTR. It was carmine red and had Malibu tags.

I walked over to the redwood picnic table I use as a desk, sat down, and waited for her to join me. She had followed me in but then, as though having second thoughts, abruptly stopped. She stood there in the middle of the room, her to-die-for body silhouetted against the white California clouds in the blue sky behind her. The sun flashed silver off her watch band, which with a small solitaire ring and tiny pearl earrings was her only jewelry and which to me spelled taste, capital T.

"Please, " I said, pointing to my genuine pine Captain's Chair, a forty buck garage sale item, "estate sale" as it's called in Brentwood. After a moment's hesitation, she sat, and for yet another moment remained silent as we briefly studied each other, she with a level, almost challenging gaze that I suppose was meant to arouse my curiosity. Arouse something. Those emerald eyes were like banked fires.

"My name is Wanda Kincaid."

I nodded politely.

"Does the name mean anything?"

"Should it?"

"Jack Kincaid was my father."

The memory button buzzed. A construction magnate. Rich and ruthless. They threw him an emperor's funeral, one that I'm sure was attended by every last CEO in that business.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I said. "A little a while ago, wasn't it?"

"One month, one week, and three days," she said.

"Yes, I remember reading about the accident."

"He was murdered."

Her not being moored to reality now seemed an understatement, not to mention that I had to wonder what, if anything, this had to do with finding a lost boy friend or whoever she wanted to find. I leaned back and made a steeple with my fingers, the bland pose that I like to think makes me look cynical, like Bogart or Dick Powell in their great old private eye movies.