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were on the screen.

Five
    C ampanile was a yellow stucco restaurant with Moorish arches and tiles, accented with sleek modern updates. Built in the 1920’s to house Charlie Chaplin’s production company, the Little Tramp was forced to instead surrender its ownership in the divorce from his second wife. Aside from its superb risotto, Matt also enjoyed its location on busy La Brea Avenue, straddling the neighborhoods of Hollywood and Beverly Hills. The only downside was their sluggish valet parking, which he found himself impatiently waiting for after lunch.
    He sighed, glancing at his watch. Nearly three o’clock. The repast had been leisurely, something that was necessary for Matt to woo the client he was entertaining. The restaurant had held its lucky streak for him, though. There was a contract with ink drying on it in the leather portfolio clutched in his hand.
    Just when he was about to complain to the head valet, his black Porsche Panamera swung into view. He could not help but smile upon seeing it. Despite appearances, most of Matt’s income went into IRA’s and savings accounts for Luke’s future. The Porsche was one of the few luxuries he permitted himself. It was one of his rare joys to push the fine-tuned engine to its limits on the city’s streets whenever possible, as evidenced by the pile of speeding tickets he had amassed since its purchase.
    The valet popped out from behind the wheel uttering profuse apologies. Matt muttered that it wasn’t a problem, handing the man a ten dollar bill. He climbed inside and shut the door. As he eased the shift into drive and pulled forward, he noticed something on the passenger seat.
    A small black gift box with a white bow on top.
    He stepped on the brakes, earning a honk from the Bentley behind him. Matt ignored it, clambering back out. Waving his valet down, he held out the box.
    “You must have left this in the car.”
    “No, Mr. Weatherly. Yours.”
    “It’s not mine. Maybe another customer’s?”
    The man shook his head again, reaching for the box. “Yours,” he said emphatically, revealing a folded gift tag half-hidden beneath the bow. It read, “Matt Weatherly.” The valet turned at his name being called, nodded to Matt and hurried away.
    Matt shook his head. Weird, he thought. Maybe a secret admirer? Perhaps that hostess he had dated briefly at Il Cielo had moved over to Campanile and had seen him. He lifted the top of the box and pushed aside the creamy tissue paper that lay beneath it.
    A slim silver cell phone was nestled inside. Something that appeared to be an iPhone but a bit longer. The front was a smooth screen of smoked black glass. Before Matt could investigate further, a series of honks pulled his attention. The Bentley driver was angrily gesticulating for him to get out of the way. Matt waved apologetically and climbed back into his Porsche while tossing the gift box on the passenger seat. Within a few minutes, he was cruising down Sunset Boulevard towards his office.
    The high-rise tower came into view just as his Blackberry rang. He thumbed it, shoving his Bluetooth into his ear.
    “Matt, are you on your way?” a female voice chirped with annoyance. It was his assistant, Eden, a bright and pleasant girl whom he had promised to show the ropes of the business to after she finished college this year.
    “I am, what’s up?”
“TekStar Media keeps calling and I don’t know what to tell them.”
    “Call Colin. It’s his account.”
    “I have, but he hasn’t answered my calls, emails, texts. I was thinking of sending smoke signals next.”
    “OK, fine. Tell TekStar I can do a conference call in twenty minutes. I’ll calm them down.”
    “Thank you,” Eden said, clearly relieved.
    “And find Colin,” he ordered before ending the call. He decided he would also make an attempt himself. It was not like his protégé to be absent or even late. Maybe he had caught a spell of the flu that Luke had been inoculated against.
    A couple of