by Tripp Ellis
It sounded reasonable, especially after several drinks and some great sex.
"This is a nice place," I said.
"Thank you. It's not very large, but it's my favorite of all my properties."
"How many do you have?"
"I have a few investment properties here in Monaco. One in London. One in Barcelona. One in Paris. And a condo in New York."
Suddenly, I felt poor.
“So, tell me what was it like?”
“What was what like?”
“Killing Bree Taylor.”
My face twisted. “I didn’t kill her.”
In a seductive voice, she said, “It’s just us. I won’t tell.”
She dropped to her knees and was quite persuasive in her attempts to extract a confession.
Words became difficult as she distracted me. Was this some type of weird role play? Should I play along with it? “Doesn’t the thought of being alone with a potential killer frighten you?”
“It turns me on. Danger is stimulating, don’t you think?”
Katya was seriously bat-shit crazy. But that made it all the more fun.
Stimulating indeed.
13
I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I didn't notice someone following me at first.
I had left Katya’s apartment with mixed emotions. She made no bones about the fact she just wanted to sleep with me because I had been on TV and was the guy who had been having an affair with Bree Taylor. It would be a conversation piece for her at cocktail parties.
I sort of felt bad about taking advantage of my newfound celebrity, but not that bad. She did, after all, give great headspace.
It was shortly after midnight, and I walked down Rue Grimaldi, heading back to the Hôtel Impérial. The night air was cool, and I wished I had a light jacket when the breeze picked up. The leaves of the trees rustled in the wind. The street was desolate and covered with long shadows.
The last few days had been a whirlwind. I could see how this lifestyle would seriously mess with someone's head. I was nobody, and still people wanted something from me.
I was a novelty.
Something to gossip about.
I couldn’t imagine being in the public eye 24/7. I hoped it would all die down soon. Though the attention wasn’t all bad.
It didn't take long for me to realize the person behind me was drawing closer. I looked over my shoulder and saw a shadowy figure.
I stopped and turned around. I was in no mood to play games. That's when I saw the blade glimmer, reflecting the street light that hovered high above.
"You killed her!” the figure shouted.
I squinted my eyes, trying to see into the shadows. I wasn't particularly nervous. It was a girl with a knife. I could handle a knife. A gun, not so much.
She stepped forward, and the street light illuminated her face. I recognized her instantly. "Carolyn?"
Her face was red, and tears streamed down her cheek. Her fist clenched the handle of the knife. Rage boiled under her skin.
Okay, now I was a little nervous. Crazed, psychopathic stalker with a knife—a little more unpredictable.
"Carolyn, I didn't kill anyone."
“Bree didn't drown!" she said with conviction.
"Just put the knife down. And tell me why you think that. I don't think she drowned either."
The knife trembled in her hand.
"Carolyn, you don't want to hurt me. I was Bree's friend. I'm trying to find out what happened to her."
Her face crinkled with confusion, not sure what to do.
"I'm not the bad guy. Just put the knife down."
After a moment her grip slacked, and the knife clattered against the sidewalk. She broke down in jerking sobs.
I moved toward her and kicked the knife away. Then I put a delicate hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort her. "It's going to be okay."
"It's not okay. Bree is dead. And she's never coming back!”
"Are you here in Monaco with anyone?"
"No," she sobbed. "I'm by myself."
I didn't know how stable this woman was. Did she just have a fixation with the celebrity? Or was there some type of deeper neuroses?
I wanted to think she was harmless, but this was twice that I had seen her clutching a knife.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I don't know what came over me. I'm just so mad.” She wiped her eyes. “What happened?"
"I wish I knew."
"Bree couldn't have drowned," she said. "She was on the swim team in high school, and she almost made the Olympic team. There's no way."
"The authorities are saying she hit her head. She was probably unconscious when she was in the water." There I was, playing devil’s advocate again.
“Someone hit her in the head," Carolyn said. The muscles in her jaw flexed.
I tended to agree with her. "Where were you the night she died? What did you do after you left the Silver Screams?"
“I went to After Hours. Had a few drinks. Met this guy, and we ended up back at his place.”
“And this guy will verify this?”
Carolyn nodded.
“I’ll need his name and address.”
“I don’t remember the specific address, but I think I can find his apartment again. His name was Sebastian.”
14
“Have you lost your goddamn mind?” JD hissed.
“I think she might be able to help us,” I said in a forceful whisper.
I had brought Carolyn back to the hotel. She waited in the hallway just outside the door.
“That chick is certifiable,” JD said. “She pulled a knife on you twice, and your dead girlfriend had a restraining order against her. I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, but even I know that’s a red flag.”
“She knows everything about Bree. And she doesn’t think it was a drowning either.” I told JD that Bree was damn near an Olympic swimmer.
That didn’t seem to make much difference.
“I don’t think she’s really dangerous,” I said, tentatively.
“Okay, great. If you say so. But if you wake up with your balls in a coffee cup on the nightstand, don’t come crying to me.”
“I’m not sleeping with her,” I muttered.
I let out an exasperated sigh, then moved to the door and invited Carolyn into the room. JD flashed a nervous smile as I introduced her. I shot him a look that said behave.
“Carolyn is going to help us solve this case,” I proclaimed.
“Are you two like, detectives?” she asked.
“We’re Deputy Sheriffs in Coconut Key,” JD replied.
“Oh,” Carolyn said, meekly. “I just want you both to know, I will do anything to help bring Bree’s killer to justice.”
“We appreciate that,” I said.
“She was really… special… to me.”
“Did you two know each other?” I asked. “I mean, on a personal level?”
“Well, I’m obviously a huge fan. The first time I saw her in a movie I was blown away by her performance. She’s magnetic. Was magnetic.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I can’t believe I have to talk about her in the past tense.” She wiped her eyes and sniffled.
“When did you start…” I tried to think of a delicate way to put it, “focusing on her?”
She fidgeted, looking at the floor, embarrassed. “I know, I have a little problem with fixation. If you haven’t noticed, I’m a little obsessive.”
“No,” JD said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I hadn’t noticed that at all.”
I shot him a look.
“I know, it’s a problem. I’m in therapy, if that’s what you’re worried about. But, I just felt like from the moment I saw her, there was a connection between us. Our lives were destined to intertwine at some point. I’m not really psychic, but I get these feelings. You know, it’s like I just know when something’s going to happen.”
“Can you tell me the lotto numbers?” JD asked.
/>
Carolyn’s eyes narrowed at him. “It’s not like that.”
“What’s it like?” I asked.
“Like the night she died. I just knew something bad was going to happen. That’s why I came to the boat to warn her.”
JD glanced to me and made a subtle motion that he thought this woman was cuckoo.
“Supposing she was murdered, who had motive?” I asked.
“Savannah Skye,” Carolyn said. “Without a doubt.”
I met Savannah at the party, and I knew she didn’t think too highly of Bree. She was on my short list of suspects as well.
“It was just announced in the trades today that she took over Bree’s role in David Cameron’s new film.”
“I’d say that’s motive,” JD chimed.
“I’d like to know if she has an alibi,” I said.
“Good luck talking to her?” JD said. “She’ll be surrounded by publicists and bodyguards, and I’m sure she won’t say a thing without a lawyer.”
“She has a film premiering at the festival tomorrow night,” Carolyn added.
“It looks like we’re going to Cannes,” I said.
I sent Carolyn home, and JD locked the door behind her, flipped the deadbolt, and attached the chain. He wasn't taking any chances.
The next day we took a helicopter to Cannes. It was €160 each. The ride lasted a few minutes, and the helipad was a short 10-minute walk from the Palais.
I had never seen anything like it. There were movie stars everywhere, and gaggles of paparazzi followed them around, flashing their cameras. There were hordes of fans. Luxury yachts filled the harbor. It was a Who's Who of Hollywood. All of Los Angeles had been transplanted to the south of France for a few weeks.
I figured it must have made the traffic back in LA almost bearable.
JD and I weaved our way through the hordes of fans toward the red carpet, but we couldn’t get close. The wall of photographers blocked access.
A limousine pulled to the curb and Savannah Skye stepped onto the red carpet to the roar of starstruck fans. She basked in the adoration, like a vampire bathing in blood. She sauntered down the red carpet, escorted by a man in a tuxedo. Questions were thrown at her about Bree's death, which overshadowed inquiries about her current film screening at the festival.
She maintained a fake smile and repeated the same answers over and over again. “It was such a tragedy. I’m heartbroken. We were such good friends. I will do my best to honor Bree’s memory as I assume her role in David Cameron’s film, UltraMega.”
It was enough to make me sick listening to it.
She continued down the red carpet, stopping for interviews, posing for pictures. My plan was to get access to her later, at the after party.
JD and I left the Palais and walked down to the harbor. There were mega-yachts as far as the eye could see. They were full of revelers and tanned topless beauties catching the last rays of sunshine.
Someone came up to JD and asked for his autograph, mistaking him for an 80s rock star. He puffed up with excitement, more than happy to take on the role.
Within moments, a crowd had gathered around him, and JD signed autographs for the next 20 minutes.
“Vince," a man in a suit shouted. He plowed through the crowd and extended his hand. “Pete Mitchell, Inventive Artists Agency. We met a few years ago at Sandra Pollock’s party.”
Jack nodded, pretending to remember.
Pete was 35 with short curly blonde hair, and a fashionable amount of stubble on his chin. He wore a gray Oberto suit, a white button-down, and Prada sunglasses. "Are you here for the screening of Savannah’s film?”
"Sort of," Jack said.
"Me too. But I can never sit through these things.” He leaned in and spoke in a hushed tone. "Besides, I saw a rough cut a few months ago, and between you and me, it wasn’t very good. I'm just gonna show up at the after party and tell Savannah how wonderful I thought her performance was."
"You and I are on the same wavelength," JD said.
"Listen, I'm having a little gathering aboard my yacht. I'd love it if you'd join us for a few minutes. We can pre-game, then head over to the after party."
"I believe that would work," JD said with a grin.
He introduced me to Pete, and a faint glimmer of recognition flickered in his eyes as he tried to place my face. He pretended that he knew who I was and smiled as we shook hands.
We followed him down the dock to his yacht. It was a 103 foot SunTrekker™ named Eye for Talent. The main deck aft opened into a luxurious salon with the staterooms below deck. It wasn't quite as nice as the Silver Screams, but it was no slouch.
Music pumped through speakers, and topless girls bounced around.
JD could barely contain himself.
Two girls were snorting lines off a glass coffee table.
It was that kind of party.
"Welcome aboard," Pete said. "Make yourself at home. Feel free to indulge your desires.” Pete suddenly remembered something. "Oh, wait. You're clean now, right?"
JD nodded, assuming the role of a rehabbed, clean and sober rock star. "I swore off the hard drugs, but I won't turn down whiskey."
Pete looked to me, taking my order.
"Same."
He spun around and shouted to a waiter who hurried over with three glasses of fine whiskey.
Pete lifted his glass. "Too good times."
We clinked glasses and slugged the amber liquid down. It was smooth and sweet. Not too dry.
"If you’ll excuse me, I need to mingle with my guests."
Pete smiled and drifted around the salon. He sat on the couch and did a bump with the girls.
“Who is that guy?” I whispered.
“Who the hell knows?”
"How long before he figures out you're not who he thinks you are?"
JD shrugged. “Let’s drink up while we can.”
15
Be Someone was an upscale bar not far from the Palais. JD and I walked with Pete and his bevy of coked up beauties a few blocks to the exclusive after party. Pete was on the guest list, which gave us access as part of his entourage.
Dance music pumped through speakers. There were fresh hors d'oeuvres and an open bar. The place was elegant and modern. JD and I made good use of the free drinks. You couldn't take a step without bumping into a celebrity.
It was starting to become normal.
We mixed and mingled, and Savannah finally arrived an hour later. She was swarmed by colleagues offering praise and congratulations. Despite Pete's dismissive comments, the film had received a warm reception at the festival, and the critics had been kind.
The club was dim and had a cozy vibe. Her publicist brought Savannah a drink, and she socialized for a while. I waited for a break in the action to approach.
"Outstanding performance," I said.
"Thank you. What was your favorite part?"
I hesitated a moment. "It's hard to choose, really. You are so mesmerizing on screen, I enjoyed all of it."
"You catch on quick," she said, well aware I was bullshitting. “You'll do fine in this town."
This town was a reference to Hollywood, and it didn't matter our geographical location.
She looked at me with her sultry eyes. "So, did you do it?"
She didn't seem the least bit intimidated or concerned.
"No. Of course not. Did you?"
She scoffed, acting like it was the most preposterous thing she'd ever heard. "Why would you even ask?"
"I gathered you two weren’t the best of friends."
She gave me a fake smile. "Whatever gave you that impression? Bree was like a sister to me."
"I'm sure,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
She took another sip of her drink and glanced around the club, looking for someone.
"What time did you leave the boat that night?" I asked.
She arched an eyebrow at me. "You can't be serious? Are you really asking this?"
"Satisfy my curiosi
ty?"
"I know that Joel is trying to set up a deal for you around town. But get this straight, if you use my name or likeness, or disparage me in any way, I will sue the pants off you."
"Are you trying to get me naked again?"
"You wish."
"So, your offer’s not on the table anymore?"
"Which offer?" she asked, pretending to forget.
She knew damn good and well what she offered me that night on Bree’s boat.
Savannah’s eyes found her publicist across the room and she flashed her a look that said save me.
"So, I take it you don't want me to write a part for you."
Her eyes snapped back to me. That piqued her interest. "What part?"
"I'm still tossing around ideas. I don't quite have the ending yet."
Her publicist stormed to us, knowing that something was wrong. She had sandy blonde hair and wore a pantsuit and thin wire-frame glasses.
She was all business.
She grabbed Savannah’s arm, gently, and started to pull her away. "Please excuse us, she has many guests to speak with."
"We were just talking about the night Bree was murdered,” I said.
That stopped her in her tracks.
The publicist forced a smile. "Yes, such a tragedy. Savannah is very broken up about it."
"I can see that."
The publicist’s eyes narrowed at me. "She wishes she could have been there to save Bree and regrets leaving the party. She had another engagement to attend to. You can imagine how difficult that must be, knowing your best friend died shortly after you left her in the company of a strange individual."
"I can imagine,” I said. “What engagement did Savannah attend afterward?”
The publicist answered sternly. “Savannah was at a party aboard De Campo’s yacht. There are plenty of witnesses that can corroborate her appearance there. If you have any further questions, please feel free to contact my office, or Savannah’s attorney.”
The publicist ushered Savannah away and spoke to a security guard. Within seconds a big bouncer hovered over me. He was damn near 7 feet tall and twice as wide as I was. He had a low booming voice that rumbled my chest when he spoke, even over the music. "You're not on the guest list."