For whom the telephone rings
I'm on a work call, so I let the random (818) number ring. When I finish my business, I check voicemail.
Three seconds, no message.
I could leave it at that, but you know the deal with the cat and curiosity, so I return the call.
Ringing.
It's probably one of those scammers. Somehow they spoof local numbers so you'll pick up. Then when you do pick up, you hear a pitch about raising the limit on a credit card you don't have, or buying a warranty on a car you don't own.
Ringing.
Once, I was bombarded with messages in Chinese. That mystery took some Googling to get to the bottom of. The pitch was this: provide your social security number to the Chinese consulate in exchange for a visa. The local NPR station did a story on it. Sure, it was a scam, but when I heard the story, I felt seen, damn it.
Ringing.
On the other hand, this could be legit. The caller ID says the number is in Burbank. I'm in Chatsworth. We're two freeways apart—take the 118 to the 5!—practically neighbors by Southern California standards. Maybe I set this game of telephone in motion. A political cause I gave money to? A local retailer? My dentist is in Burbank, could this whole thing be about a tooth?
Voicemail.
No outgoing message, so no clues there.
I hang up without leaving a message.
Case closed?
Thirty minutes later, the phone rings. Same number.
"Hello."
"Hello."
Two strangers fumble through preliminaries. Eventually, we establish our bona fides. He's David of Burbank. I am Michael of Chatsworth.
"Are you a distributor?" David asks.
"No, I'm a writer."
I'd like to know what David is distributing. Credit card offers, auto warranties, black market social security numbers that can get you a Chinese visa? But David, perhaps because he's more sales-driven than me, takes the initiative.
"What do you write?"
"Novels."
Time to turn the tables on David.
"Say, you don't distribute novels, do you?"
"No."
David doesn't take the opportunity to say what he distributes. Is he daft? David doesn't sound daft. He's a distributor. Those people are savvy. But why play coy? Probably drugs, I guess. At this point, I should assume the feds are on the line. Then again, didn't Snowden tell us the feds are always on the line? Just play it cool, I tell myself. Feel David out for information, but don't volunteer a thing. You got this.
"Any idea how you got my number, David?"
OK, that came off more direct than I wanted it to. This is what happens when you binge Bosch.
"Not a clue."
Drats! Stumped again. Get David talking. Share an anecdote. That usually works.
"You think maybe we've gotten caught up in some elaborate spoofing scheme?" I ask. "Maybe the spammers are using our numbers to call other numbers, only somehow we got connected. Maybe we're about to get to the bottom of this thing. We could be sitting on gold, David. We may have broken this caper wide open."
Silence.
Too much? Ferris Bueller was wrong; you can go too far. Now, David knows I'm paranoid. He can probably guess that I have a mild hero complex too. Broken this caper wide open. Who am I? No Harry Bosch, that's for sure. More like, Chatsworth's answer to Inspector Clouseau. There I go again. Delusions of grandeur. I'm just a damn writer playing phone tag when I should be writing. Better hit David with the facts.
"KPCC did a piece on Chinese scammers spoofing phone numbers," I say. "Really excellent coverage. A few poor bastards gave up their social security numbers. Turns out the Chinese consulate wasn't involved. This is probably one of those deals, only not in Chinese."
"Oh."
"Larry Mantle interviewed law enforcement along with some consumer rights advocates. Not much people can do, they say. Of course, what they don't say is that we pretty much took the hammer to spam, and that the only thing needed to take the hammer to these phone scammers is some serious effort from Big Telecom."
I let the promise of a deeper, dark conspiracy hang there in the silence.
David doesn't respond. I'm pretty sure he isn't a KPCC listener. He didn't say a peep when I mentioned Larry Mantle. That guy is a local treasure.
Anyway, we have bigger problems. David's return call game is on point. I'll bet he's never let a lead go cold. Maybe it's a stretch, but suppose I can deduce that David is one of those free market distributors. The invisible hand is all well and good when it's putting money in your pocket, but what about when it's dialing your number?
"I think we have a wrong number situation," David offers.
Sure we do. There are no accidents, no coincidences, and no wrong numbers. But keep telling yourself that, David. Keep insisting that the whole hill of beans doesn't add up to bupkis. Whatever gets you through the night, pal. Just don't ask me to go along with your unexamined life. I want answers, and I'm prepared to keep digging until I get to the bottom of this mystery, or my data plan runs out. Whichever comes first.
David gives a nervous chuckle, then offers a little small talk about what a crazy world it is. No argument there.
"You have a good day," David says.
The line goes dead.
I'd like to put the phone back on the receiver, but I haven't had one of those phones in years. In fact, I don't even need to hang up. No further action required. That's true for the mystery too—for now. No getting to the bottom of this one anytime soon. Nothing else to do on this investigation. It's officially a cold case.
But if I hear anything...
I have your number, David.