THE MOVIE PRODUCER LIVES ON A QUIET cul-de-sac above Beverly Hills, close enough to the action to see office towers, far enough away to run into the occasional mountain lion. Beverly Grove Place winds into a canyon shaded by eucalyptus trees; the neighbors are entrepreneurs, hedge-fund investors, heiresses, studio executives, actors, and the actors' agents. Their multimillion-dollar homes, like the producer's, have high gates and plenty of cameras.
One such home, a four-bedroom, sixbathroom at the end of a long driveway, is even more hidden than most. It had been on the market, sitting empty for months, when, in October, the producer spotted a car in the driveway. He didn’t think anything of it until more started showing up almost nightly. They clogged the narrow road, blocking the producer’s Bentley. Then heavy bass began pumping from the backyard pool area every night, the beat ricocheting around the canyon. People would arrive—tumbling out of Ubers, teetering up from the base of the street. Early one morning, two young-looking women in spaghetti straps carrying sparkly little purses rang the producer’s doorbell. “I’m about to climb this ho,” one said, looking at the gate. She pushed her mouth onto his Ring camera to kiss the lens.
People who could afford to buy a house on the cul-de-sac didn’t throw parties like these. After a few weeks, the producer called the real-estate agent on the listing for the empty mansion, 1316 Beverly Grove Place. No one had bought the house, the agent said. Whoever had moved in did not belong there.
Who the fuck are these people, the producer wondered, squatting in the most exclusive Zip Code in America?
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